If you head westish out of Lincolnville Center, Maine, as I did today, you’ll run into a place named “Slab City” on the map. As you can see from the photo I snapped over an open field, it’s not really a city and I couldn’t find anything like a slab. This whole part of Maine has been quarried in the past, which possibly might explain the historical relevance of a name like “Slab City,” but I struggle to associate the stark name with the lush, overgrown summer scene of woods, farms and the very occasional house I encountered.
I couldn’t find a soul in Slab City to explain how the name got matched with the place. All I heard was the wind beating against tall grass as a thunderstorm rolled in.