![]() ![]() “They’d come in with their tennis racquets, and I would want so much to be friends with them,” she said. Strout longed to be one of them-these people who were free to experience the world beyond New England. I think my mother felt like the person was . . . “And this woman came by, and she goes, ‘Oh, you’re so cute! Can I take a picture?’ My mother was furious. “I remember sitting on the front porch eating a lollipop,” Strout, who is sixty-one, said one damp day in March, as she drove past. It passes clapboard houses and mobile homes, stands of red-tipped sumac and pine, a few farms, a white Congregational church, and the Harpswell Historical Society, which used to be Bailey’s country store, when the writer Elizabeth Strout worked there as a teen-ager. ![]() Just outside the town of Brunswick, Maine, the Harpswell Road runs along a finger of land poking into the ocean. Photograph by Joss McKinley for The New Yorker “I often felt that I had been born in the wrong place,” Strout says. ![]()
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