L’Esprit de L’Escalier N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 8 6 5 courtesy photo Borders Intrigue rustles on both sides of a curtain. I read a story in a women’s magazine–once so prominent in my previous lifetime. It was Woman’s Day or Family Circle. It might’ve been Ladies Home Journal. All of which were fodder for ridicule by my high school English class teacher during the hey- day of the women’s movement—a movement for some women but not all women. Women’s magazines were “dowdy-in-action.” What this teacher didn’t know, nor did she ask, was whether or not hav- ing magazines to read in a household of our diverse, culturally- French group represented anything innovative or revolutionary. Nor did she understand the importance of the crafts, recipes, pat- terns, and fiction in these magazines, all which presented examples of creativity for us. So much for the upward mobility of the work- ing-class’ attempts at fine-tuning life in a middle-class-mindset women’s movement of the 1970s—backdropped by the French cul- tural diversity that was sitting north of us, in an officially bilingual country, Canada. The story I read told about a woman who lived in a farmhouse beside the railroad tracks separated by a field. Each day when the train passed, the woman and the train conductor would wave to each other—a daily noon ritual that lasted years. One day after the conductor had retired, he decided to visit the woman at her home. The two had been living in an extended greeting. Perhaps it was time to meet. He knocked on her door, but when she answered she didn’t recognize him. He explained who he was—the man who waved to her every day from the train. But the up-close-and-per- sonal encounter didn’t go well. She became flustered, upset that he’d come to find her. He left regretting the decision to come face- to-face with the woman who’d been such a friendly, daily encounter each time he’d passed in the train. Lesson learned—leave the spac- es where they are, or were, between strangers. This story has always stuck with me. There’s something about crossing borders or bound- aries that leaves a mark. When we lived in northern Maine, I ordered special curtains from the Sears catalog. They matched the incredible wallpaper in our living room depicting Colonial scenes and a sign reading “Rob- bins,” our last name, which once hung over a general store. The cur- tains were dark chocolate brown with eyelet lace, full of ruffles with matching tiebacks—a drapery luxury for a family living on a teach- er’s salary. They were the epitome of fine taste and a joy to look at, hanging in all their glory across our living room windows. Such decorations touch the dreams of the women who live on the border and have an attachment to deep, vibrant colors, and they express that in their homes. Once when driving the four hours from northern Maine to visit family living in central Maine, I spotted a house with a red roof and three windows across the front. The same dark chocolate-brown, eyelet-lace curtains hung in the windows. I watched those curtains and knew that the woman inside shared my sense of interiority. To me, this was an outstanding bit of intel between women via decor. We understood immediately that the dark chocolate brown cur- tains represented something innovative. I often wanted to stop and compliment her on her choice of curtains, but then I remembered the story I read about the train conductor, so I kept my private ad- miration to myself. Instead, I imagined a story of the woman’s life—maybe she was of French heritage like me. One thing that does remain is the life we lived in Presque Isle on the border between Maine and New Brunswick, Canada—the duality of languages. Today as I drive by this same house, I have difficulty seeing the windows, as the trees are blocking the view. Time has passed, and the curtains no longer hang. My curtains are also long gone, given away, yet their dark-chocolate lace remains present in my mind and keeps me wondering about their matching pair. What we almost had, and what we’ve lost. The shared border between Maine and Canada is a constant, but it’s not seen often by many. It’s out of view—as were those who lived in the red-roofed house, even though we had something distinct in common. Pull back the curtains, and you’ll find the French-heri- tage people who live in Maine are your window to look in. n By Rhea Côté Robbins