There I was at the Caribou Performing Arts Center totally immersed in the program before me; nearly forgetting to breathe as each competitor performed for the title of “Northern Star.” Beside me sat a newspaper reporter snapping photo after photo; her enthusiasm infectious. I found myself lost somewhere between budding stardom and genius rendition as I toyed with the notion of leaping to my feet; announcing to the universe that northern Maine and our dear Canadian neighbors were overflowing with unearthed talent of the very highest caliber. It would be a nearly impossible task to choose one performer over the other.
I was surrounded by people I have known for most of my life and I find great comfort in familiarity. We were mesmerized; our feet dancing in place with our jackets snugly wrapped around our seats or draped over our laps. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and various shades of green decorated the venue in honor of the Irish holiday. It was bitterly cold outside with sporadic bursts of tired snow, but we were oblivious to the elements. We clutched our programs tightly in our hands, checking the lineup from time to time or leaning toward our companions with a smile or a comment as each act concluded.
One vocalist in particular tugged at my woman’s heart until I felt it would crumble in my chest. Hers was a timeless tale; heavy with both bliss and sorrow. The tenderness of her voice pushed against the walls of the auditorium, sweetly swaying the burgundy velvet drapes. The design of the Performing Arts Center is nearly identical to the theatres I have visited on Broadway. I settled back, allowing every note she sang to weave itself into the strings of my own heart. From time to time, she would caress the microphone with a timid hand, her eyes nearly closed and her head slightly tilted. As she reached down into the depths of her soul, I became her biggest fan. This was no longer a talent show. This woman was telling the age old story of unrequited love and I was right there; aching with her.
Because it is rare these days for me to wander far from my path of doctors’ appointments, work, and much needed rest, this day was blessed. The energy in the auditorium was strong medicine and powerful therapy for me! Upon leaving, I welcomed the quick brush of shoulders, handshakes, and enthusiastic hellos. “How are you doing, Belinda?” I answered with genuine enthusiasm, “Great! How are you?” I squeezed one gloved hand after the other, my cheeks aching from my unwavering smile. I was reluctant to leave, yearning for even more human touch and verbal exchange.
Settling behind the wheel of my car, I opened my window just a bit to invite even more conversation. Once the parking lot began to clear, I drove slowly away, calling Dale via On-Star to let him know I was on my way home. “Did you have fun?” Dale asked. “It was way beyond fun,” I answered. “It was spectacular! I will tell you about it when I get home.”
I turned my CD player on, inviting Adele to join me. Together we sang our way carefully down the snowy Van Buren Road and right on into my garage. I sat there in the silence for just a little while; thanking God for the day, the new memory, and my life.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
