Northbound on Boutilier’s Way

by Charles C. Cole

Ward Boutilier had been laid off. Again. The Greater Maine Turnpike Association, a private enterprise, had unceremoniously sacked all its toll collectors and then outsourced the exact positions through an employment service at a discounted hourly wage and without any insurance benefits. It was a sign for him to take control of his destiny, to create his own business, but what? After a couple of dark weeks, he had an inspiration.

Boutilier was driving to Lovell to visit his cousin, for a little stress-relieving target practice in the old sand pit, when he encountered an unexpected tollgate being run by the local police as a fundraiser for the Little League. Donations accepted, but not required. How do you say no to the police? He gave a dollar. And, though he was struggling financially, he thought: “It’s only a dollar. Anyone can give a dollar.”

His father had always said, “We got two seasons in Maine: winter and road construction.”

Summer meant temperature-raising congestion from tourist vehicles aggravated by temporary traffic patterns through and around extensive annual repair work, repairs which couldn’t be done during the long, cold months. Electronic signs were posted just down the hill from his neighborhood: “July 17-28 expect delays.” The good news: he had nowhere to be.

Boutilier, a private bachelor, was land-rich and cash-poor. He’d inherited 100 acres of undeveloped, swamp-adjacent pineland. Until 1949, his gravel “driveway” had been a section of the original Route 302, before it was retired and deeded to his family because they owned the land on both sides. Because, as his father put it, “Politicians with special interests laid a bunch of logs down in the swamp and covered them up to make a new road” on otherwise worthless land sold to the state by the then-mayor. The new road was wider, straighter and more level, but it seemed to need more routine upkeep, to keep it from sinking.

Ward owned a dependable John Deere tractor and an old metal bed frame which, after a particularly nasty pothole-producing hurricane, he’d drag behind him to “grade” his washed-out drive. Now was as good a time as any to give the irregularities another going-over. Maybe even go the whole length, something he rarely did, as his house was barely 200 feet from his end, near the public street. If he didn’t have to drive a car along the old road, why waste the time and effort? Unless someone else was going to drive on it!

The day before construction began, Ward coordinated with the Grange Hall on the corner of Anderson Road and Route 302, where his father had been president for almost a decade, to let him put a sign in front: Private Detour, Cash Donations Accepted. Drivers would simply take a left off the main drag, before the construction, and take the very next right up into the woods.

By modern standards, and with no shoulders, the driveway was wide enough for only one lane, so northbound traffic only. Then exit through the neighborhood, go a block, and arrive at Route 302, the other side of the traffic jam. An easy solution to a modern problem, a solution that only he could offer.

“One buck?!” complained a bearded carpenter in a rusty truck stopped at the toll, with seven cars behind him.

“Private land. Beats construction. I use the money to maintain the road. This is a driveway, and we’re not used to all this traffic.”

“Fine.”

Except for a few sour customers, the plan was working. Until the police visited. He closed down at night. That’s when a squad car pulled in.

“Problem?” he called out as the uniformed officer approached.

“Never been on this road before.”

“Because it’s private. Just me the whole length of it.”

“Must be pretty quiet.”

“Usually.”

“Not lately,” said the officer.

“Nope. Doing my part to keep the out-of-staters happy. Tourists got places to go and only so much time to do it.”

“Got a permit?”

“For being a Good Samaritan?”

“Did you consult your neighbors?” asked the uniform.

“Thought about it, but I ran out of time.”

“The town manager was one of your customers recently,” said the trooper.

“He must not have introduced himself.”

“He said you did a good job. Saved him from being late to a meeting.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” offered Boutilier.

“We don’t want to fight you.”

“But?”

“We think you need a safety officer, to monitor things. This is a lot of traffic.”

“Way more than I expected.”

“And we need you to carve out a couple of places on your road where cars can be pushed out of the way, if they break down. We don’t want tourists stuck in the woods.”

“Sounds fine,” said Boutilier. “The town doesn’t want to buy the road back?”

“Needs too much work, from what I hear.”

Two days later, Branson Seward, 77, of the north end of town, suffered a major heart attack, his second in five years. The responding all-volunteer ambulance raced him to the hospital for treatment and to stabilize his condition. They did NOT take “Boutilier’s Way,” but they were very grateful others did; they could only have imagined getting through the cars and trucks and construction.

The town manager stopped by that night. “Brandy Seward is an institution in this town. Scout leader, basketball coach, town counselor, all-round inspiration.”

“Glad I could help.”

“But we’re closing your road when the construction’s done.”

“Always my plan.”

“It’s not up to code. And I’m tired of getting calls from Mrs. Collins, worrying about her dog.”

“The one she won’t put on a leash?”

“I didn’t know.”

“On the up side, one of our road crew is retiring and moving to Florida, so we’re offering you a job. It’ll help pay the bills. You obviously have some experience. Stay until you find something better.”

“And next summer?”

“We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”