Free On Little Wings by Regina Sirois

recklessly close to the almost shoulder-less road as if they wanted to stroke the car as it careened by. Meandering in an organic path, the small highway followed the lay of the land until it seemed as natural as the thin rivers that snaked in and out of view along the way. I couldn’t refrain from pointing out what must have been second nature to Sarah: the murky marshes ringed with cattails, the plaques on homes bearing impressive dates like 1790, the smooth forest floor covered in orange pine needles.
    The hour passed like minutes until the road, twisting ever more drunkenly as we went, stumbled to a halt at a Stop sign. “Almost there,” Sarah announced. “These are the first inland homes in the town, but Main Street is farther down. And Shelter Cove is a mile past that, on the bay.” She paused the car at the empty intersection to let me soak in the sight.
    There wasn’t much I wanted to soak, quite truthfully. The tiny, decrepit houses leaned wearily. Several lay in a tattered row, with no garages or sidewalks, and only a few weedy flowers for adornment. The towering trees blocked out the sun, casting the already dismal sight in deeper gloom. “They get prettier,” Sarah promised. “The hired hands without boats of their own used to eke out a living here from pocket change and fish scraps. These were built in the Depression. This is Langston Street, but for the last seventy years no one has called it anything but Shanty Street. Let me show you the real town.”
    The car creaked gently as it rolled slowly down the street littered with loose rocks. True to her promise, the homes began growing, both in size and cleanliness as we moved toward the town. A tiny sidewalk appeared, followed by old fashioned street lights. Soon garages and porches and trellises burdened with fat flowers came into sight. And then, with no transition between residential homes and businesses, a hardware store with a large burgundy awning stretched along the street, its goods spilling onto the sidewalk. Several more homes followed, two story with delicate stained glass in their narrow upper windows, each painted at least four different colors.
    “It looks like a postcard,” I said, gawking at the detailed, geometric carvings at the top of a porch post.
    “That might look like a postcard, but that looks like a poem.” Sarah pointed out her window as the car followed a wide turn. We broke free of a stand of trees and the docks of Smithport bustled into view. I pushed the button to roll down my window and with the first sweep of wind into the car burst the mingled smell of fish and salt and sea spray. Large rusted boats docked beside larger, rustier ones, with a mess of cranes, nets, cages, and crates littering the scene. One syllable shouts burst into the air like shots fired all around me. “Oy, Off, Down, Ho!” They really said Ho! Not to mention some other one syllable words that aren’t repeated in polite company. “They’re getting ready for dinner,” Sarah explained. “In the summer they take their catches across the harbor to the tourist towns and sell directly to the public. Put on quite a show, too.”
    Above the disorganized docks three wooden buildings crowded together on a stony rock ledge where two restaurants with small patios shouldered brutally against a general store, each pushing for a view of the water. I could see the waves bobbing and dying far on the horizon, but the current rolled in gently here, sheltered by the distant, rocky arms of land fending off the determined ocean.
    “Is this where my grandfather worked?” I asked as I watched the men in thick yellow overalls loading their boats as they called directions. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the scene fifty years ago. All I had to do is switch out the cars for older models and put the women in dresses.
    “Often. But usually he took his catch to the canning facility in Anchorton. They canned sardines. It closed ten years ago, but it did well in its