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 Foolishly, perhaps, but for perfectly solid reasons of my own, I have deserted Maryland for Massachusetts. Geography is my topic and I have recently learned many secrets of state and regional identification which I am willing, reluctantly, to divulge.
I am sorry to say that, compared to my new home, Maryland is not doing well. Over the past three seasons, I have heard dozens of people say hundreds of times, "Welcome to New England!" In all the time I lived in Maryland, some twenty-nine years, never once did I say or hear anyone say "Welcome to the Mid-Atlantic States" or "Welcome to Maryland". The most that anyone ever said was "Here, Hon, have a crabcake." "Welcome to New England" is always said with a rueful shake of the head, indicating "You're crazy to live here, but then, so am I" and is generally said when a glacier has wiped out the turnpike. I am sure that if I were to find myself upside down in an avalanche, my neighbors would shout, "Welcome to New England!" before digging me out. Furthermore, the more Northerly you are, the more, it seems, you are entitled to a top-of-the-tree attitude. Anyone born further South than you were can be overtly regarded as lacking essential hardihood, no matter how many blizzards they have weathered. You can gain points just by camping a few miles up I-95. Your previous home base is, quite fairly, subject to gentle derision. Unfortunately, most travellers to or through Maryland think of it as a sibling of Delaware if they remember it at all. "Maryland? That's pretty far South, isn't it?" This phrase is uttered by folks who openly believe that Connecticut has too many palm trees and lagoons to be included in New England. As far as I can tell, my neighbors think I emigrated from somewhere near Louisiana. Heaven knows where they think Virginia lies. I think Maryland ought to fight back. My former state needs a plan of action, and it isn't a minute too soon to start. First, they ought to look over their rocks and start giving them names. The New Englanders are goofy about their pebbles and Maryland has rocks every bit as cute as the Northern variety. They just don't have names. Every time you wander out into the woods around here you run into a boulder named something like 'King Phillip's Rock" or "The Devil's Cobblestone" or "Biggest Durned Stone in the Woods". There are busy trails to and from these pieces of granite, and tourists gaze at them in wonder. Even moderate hills are called Monadnocks and signs on each and every one of them claim that on clear days, you can see New Hampshire. A few signs and a couple of moderate rocks and Maryland would be in business. Pretty soon tourists would be thrashing around in the brush looking for West Virginia and natives could sell them crabcakes and lemons with peppermint sticks, way better than the beef jerky, dried codfish and other dried, pressed, seriously peculiar trail stuff that the New Englanders try to pass off as food. Even in the middle of summer, they tell me, you are supposed to carry the most bizarre edibles along with you, just in case a snowstorm blunders over from Canada and traps you under a fallen log for six or seven months. Still, all this fuss makes a person feel honored just to be allowed to take up space here. And it takes a lot of equipment to be a New Englander, too. Big waterproof gloves, polartec socks, silk longjohns, firewood, matches in waterproof cans, boots the size of, and resembling, little dogs. Snowshoes. Maryland doesn't seem to require any special equipment, and therefore, lets its citizens get away with forgetting where they are. Perhaps my slightly Southern ex-home ought to promote the wisdom of owning a hatchet, a straw hat and a pair of gummie sandals. Whatever. The gear makes the man, and Maryland doesn't really have a good, clear rig. Hence its unfortunate resemblance to Delaware. Time to getting moving, Maryland! Point to your foliage with pride! Invite tour buses to wander through the woods looking at the dogwoods and tulip trees! Practice saying "Welcome to the Mid-Atlantic States" with a sly smile and a shrug. The tourists will be enchanted. In the meantime, I have to go out and buy a pair of huge, waterproof gloves. Mine were eaten by a moose. |
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 Jean Blake White is a regular contributor to The Meadow.
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