NEW PORTLAND’S 200th
ANNIVERSARY
We’re gathered here together
on this night of cold and snow
To celebrate a town ‘twas born
two hundred years ago.
The town’s name is New
Portland. To some, it’s all they’ve known.
It’s where they’ve loved and
laughed and cried; it’s where their seeds were sown.
Like most small towns up here in
Maine, it had a humble start.
A man named David Hutchins
arrived to do his part.
He cut some trees and bushes,
and built a cabin crude…
Commenced to clearing farmland,
to feed his growing brood.
As is the case, quite often—soon
others followed suit.
These rolling hills and valleys
proved fertile to their roots.
Small families did homestead,
and strangers became friends.
The young-folk, they did
marry—built homes on rivers’ bends.
Three waterways ran through this
town, ‘tis life’s blood that they bring.
The biggest, Carrabassett, with
ice jams every spring…
A village grew upon its shores,
simply called “The East,”
It’s one of three in number, but
in no way the least.
Where Lemon Stream meandered,
there “The West” began.
What seemed a minor flowage,
‘twas all year-round it ran.
And finally, there’s Gilman—a
pond’s fresh overflow.
Along its birch and alder banks,
the village “North” did grow.
Three tiny little hamlets
together make one town.
It’s peopled by the “good
folks,” both up the streams and down.
Within each noble hamlet some
industry was born.
There sprouted up a cannery,
preserving farmers’ corn.
Mills were built on riverbanks,
to harness water’s flow.
The power from these waterways
did cause the town to grow.
A wire bridge suspended, the
building of some schools…
For no town that was thriving
desired to raise fools!
New Portland’s history is rich.
Old family names abound.
There’s Hutchinses and Lovejoys,
and Peases still around.
What keeps the Hills and
Hendersons, why did the Emerys stay,
When sawmills and those
canneries packed up and went away?
What did the Fosses see here?
The Chipmans and the Coles?
When fires gutted industries and
left wide gaping holes?
The Taylors and the Newells—just
why did they all stay?
As did the Reeds and Stricklands,
the Mortons and Millays?
Why did the Atwoods stick it
out, once lumber wasn’t king?
How come the Willses still are
here, with budgets on a string?
Nearby, you still find Dyers,
and Handrahans and Tripps,
Williamsons, and Walkers along
our hills and dips.
There’s Chicks and Clarks and
Archers, the Dunphys and the Burns’
Around each wooded corner,
beyond each rugged turn.
These families remain here,
though fortune wax or wane…
For herein lies the essence of a
country town in Maine.
Communities are not made up of
big box stores or mills,
But rather—what remains inside
our hearts when we are still.
Our village is quite tiny, but
our spirit is immense.
It’s family that matters, when
backed against the fence.
New Portlanders do realize, like
life’s own ebb and flow—
Two centuries of history will
show both highs and lows.
But what is most
important—regardless of our size—
It’s strength of character that
counts. That is the greatest prize.
I dare say there’s not one of us
whose neighbors are not there
To help us when we need it, to
show how much they care.
This town was built by mighty
folk, and mighty folk still rest
Amid this town’s own
borders—north, east, and south and west.
Two hundred years have shown us,
through drought and fire and flood,
Despite frost heaves, and
ladybugs, and gravel roads of mud,
That what we are, is noble; our
ties are those that bind.
A village like New Portland…
well, it’s the greatest kind.
So “Happy Birthday” to our
town. Two hundred years have passed!
And here’s to many, many
more—even better than the last.
