The Frost Line


  Shawn Keller




I never saw any children there; just the two of them

already old, when I was young. A sliver of wood

smoke from a chimney in winter, and in the summer,

a collection of farming artifacts, car parts, windows,

screen doors, tires and rotting pallets. The hoarded

effluvia of a life close to the edge of the wolf at the door;

a transmittal from the nineteenth century, these two, atop the hill.


Where have they all gone? These mudsills; these clay-eaters,

these hillbillies, these rednecks? This white trash?

They roamed the landscape of a Maine past, a bison herd

of humanity, filling in every crack of this rocky Earth:

Marginal people pulling life from marginal soil  –

And they are dying. This is an extinction event.


The Germans called it the “Völkerwanderung“; the Greco-Romans,

simply “the Barbarian Invasions”,  – but what you need know, is

the Earth  was cooling; the Rhine froze solid and Alaric, stood in Rome.


Call it the frost line.


The edge of winter travelling ever south, each season pushing

further, across the British Isles and Scandinavia, and into central

Europe, like the water edge as the tide comes in.

And in front, a storm surge of humanity, picked up like

chaff, and clung to the south. The Romans didn’t know what

to do with these climate change refugees; these Visigoths,

so she ceded the dream that was Rome: Pax Romana broke apart

overwhelmed. Europe stumbled into the Dark Ages,

not to recover for another 600 years: When the Rhine froze.

The New Englanders called it the “Year Without A Summer“ and “1816-

And-Froze-To-Death“, the Gulf of Maine froze two miles out to sea and

a Vermont farmer died in his meadow, caught in a blizzard white out.

In June.


And the first migration began, to Ohio, to Michigan, to California

to anyplace green and  fertile, anyplace without these damnable rocks,

anyplace not New England, anyplace not Maine. And these mudsills,

these clay eaters, this white trash filled in abandonded land. Outcasts all.

My people all; taking this hardascabble land and making hardscrabble people.

We remain tied here, wearing our residency like a badge. Everyone else is

From Away.


Not to be trusted.


You may call it gentrification, but I call it the frost line.

Now pushing back, to the poles. The Earth is warming and the

people will wander once again. Up through York and Cumberland,

through hipster Portland, Yarmouth, Freeport and now to my mudsill hovel;

this Methamphetamine Kingdom. This Brunswick.

They are beautiful, these new Barbarians, these new Visigoths, and I adore them,

wish to be of them. I once tried to ape their mannerisms, but they know a fraud

when they see one. I will never be of them,  soon be pushed away  further

north, or east – by this frost line. This land, worthless to America for nearly three

hundred years, taken over by the gentrified as she blooms in the fertility of

temperate climate once again.


She died first. Then he.

No one claimed their little weathered home, and it sat empty, beginning

the inexorable return to earth, the back sinking first, pushing the house

prow up, revealing the stone of the foundation.

Walls freed themselves from floors, the iron door latches oxidizing,

the wood of the shingle sides drying out and cracking

with the seasons.

The roofing sagging, pushed down by the autumn leaves and the

snow. Until the day she folds up into the soil once again, leaving

only a depression in the Earth: Like the Chicxulub crater in Mexico

where the meteor fell, killing the dinosaurs.


A quiet monument to the end.






Photo credit: Author. “The Cottle House, Manchester, Maine”.





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