This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter from his archives. Read the previous post here.

I have many times been struck by the irony of the raucous and even violent end that so often befalls what, up to the final moment, was a quiet and humble existence, whether it be that of a man, a tree or just simply a lonely place. It is that aspect of reality that brings us up short against the random, rough hand of fate.

I remember as a teenager the first time I had dwelt on this line of thought. I had cut down a big maple tree in the woods. For the better part of a century, I knew, this gnarled old giant had stood swaying in the winds of seasons long forgotten, laying on wood year after year, casting deep shadows under its leafy green canopy. And yesterday had been one more day like all those before.

Then I came along with my power saw. The silence became a roar, and white wood chips flew. In a few crashing moments it was over, and there I stood, in full sunlight, where none had been before for longer than anyone could remember. The end for this maple now lying on the ground was sudden and wild, a swirl of confusion. I thought a lot about that, and it occurred to me maybe that was how endings were meant be – not always, of course, but more often than not.

At about that same time in my life, I was to witness a powerful scene that drove home to me and this “blaze of glory” notion. Up the street from our house was a big old place with a barn attached at the back. It was very ramshackly and run down, and though it must have been painted at one time or another, there was not a flake of paint left anywhere. The clapboards were so weathered they were nearly black with age. The shutters hung in pieces; the grass was tall right up to the side of the house; a tree of heaven grew against the foundation, rising to clack at the dark windows and to claw at the shingles on the roof.

This brooding presence stood ageless, haunting, always the same, and while my imagination had at one time willed it be just frightening enough to quicken my pace when I walked past, I knew that somewhere within lived a very old woman, Miss Wilson, and her cats. Never a sign of habitation showed itself however – no clothes on the line, not a curtain, not even a light in the night. She was just there, in that house . . . for years. People spoke of her and worried how she was getting on.

Then one day Miss Wilson was gone, passed away. The old house idled on alone in its quiet way, much as before. Years more went by. The scene remained undisturbed, nothing changed, as in a painting.

So, when the fire trucks rumbled up the street on a Saturday afternoon in spring, I never imagined the old Wilson place was in flames. But it was, I heard. I went there to see for myself.

The air was damp, and the smoke hung low like ground fog, making black silhouettes of the still naked trees. For the first time ever in my memory, there was a commotion at that house. Shiny, red, blinking trucks and fat weeping hoses filled the yard. Volunteer fireman and boys on bikes were everywhere. It was a total violation of the solitude that had always existed there.

There really wasn’t much they could do to save the place, and people mostly watched as the orange flames billowed like flags of death from the windows, then from the roof. And when at last the whole structure collapsed on itself, I knew the end was at hand and that whatever charred secrets had not fallen into the cellar hole would soon float off into the mystery of the still evening air.

As I turned to leave, the setting sun glowed round and pink through the grey smoke hanging in the trees where the house had stood. This ending had been unexpected and seemed too terrible, too sudden, and yet I somehow felt that it was meant to be. I remember thinking that.

Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.