Lucky enough to own a Maine farm. But don’t live in the home that sits smack dab in the middle of the collection of buildings.

All New England white. Insulated, wrapped, surrounded by 300 acres of land. If I find the right fit, match for a renter, the home place I grew up in front door is opened. Come on in and make yourself at home happens.

A surgeon, his wife and their dog Lucy, a springer spaniel with lots of personality are holding down the fort.

Neat people. Working vacation gypsies that have stints here, there. Hanging the infection fighting mask, matching colored garb booties in different operating rooms around the country. Living currently at the home west of Houlton Maine on US Rt 2. That always was called the County Road until someone at 911 said let’s shake up the road names. And redraw from a hat blindfolded. So everyone, locals and new to the area folks alike can be confused in the event of an emergency.

Smyrna Road or outer Smyrna Street is the new address name to remember. For now. Until it changes again. And everyone has to order new return address labels for their Christmas cards. Other correspondence using the US mail server. Which is pretty top notch in Northern Maine.

The farm in Maine needs to be snow plowed out during, again after a storm.

Last night after listing a really neat log home in the foothills of Oakfield, it was slower going down Interstate 95 in the jeep. The storm predicted for days had arrived. Was unpacking its bags slowly. When it was lights out last evening in town, there was no telling how much snow accumulation would be blanketing the ground this morning. Epic storms predicted that never happen, or peter out to sea make Mainers suspect.

I opened my eyes at 5am. Removed what the Sand Man had left overnight. Wandered downstairs to peer out. See how much snow had been delivered. And to determine the need to plow or not to plow. Sometimes it is better not to if only a half inch. To avoid tearing up the lawn, even with care in raising the snow plow a few inches. Thinking ahead about spring patching, repair grass seed sowing. Fixing the bald spots scalped by the bright yellow angled Fischer snow plow in too big a hurry. Hooked to the 1999 Dodge Ram pickup with only 11789 miles on it.

She’s a rig too good for service exclusively as just a snow plow.

But diligently, without sulking, whining stored quietly without fanfare in the long, dark machine shed. With only a Super M 1953 Farmall tractor for company. To chat with, to break the silence. Accepting her limited role. Not very social and unregistered, unlicensed. Sneaking to town once a year in the cover of darkness. To refuel. For an oil change. And then disappear again into the snowy darkness to return to the Maine farm to plow snow. She is a one trick pony.

Sitting, waiting, on hold most of the year. For the sound of a low, muffled rumble of a Jeep engine to be heard. Clipping right along. With momentum to avoid getting stuck in the newly deposited, unplowed snow. The jeep to be parked. Moments later the long machine shed door slid sideways to the north. The ignition key to the burgundy ride with the V8 twisted to starboard.

Radio, lights turned on. Fresh black coffee working its magic, activating in the veins. The Phish song “Chalk Dust Torture” fires up with Trey in rare form. And plow angled, transmission engaged to move forward. To begin the process of redistributing the new fresh snow out of the circular Maine farm home driveway. Creating banks. So the surgeon renter can hop in his Toyota four wheel drive pick up. And head to his job of cut, remove, stitch needle point. The kind with all the paperwork, signed releases, expectations clearly discussed before the new zipper is made in the birthday suit.

The roof orange revolving light plugged into the power outlet that replaced the cigarette lighter to make the surgeon general happy.

And in about an hour, the snow which measured a foot tall but lacked substance or weight was escorted to, packed in the traditional spots. With a return date in the cards after the Maine snow storm to tidy up. Do a little more outdoor housekeeping to make sure all is clear.

The in and out at the Maine farm happens easily to avoid vital, important surgery delays. That could amount to the difference of life or death. You may be thinking geesh Andy, slow day in the blogging topic department? I’ll try to come up with something more exciting, tittilating, life changing the next time I sit down to hunt and peck. The urge hits to recycle some electrons for the Me In Maine blog. Watch a real Maine snowstorm, a blast from the past.

I’m Maine REALTOR Andrew Mooers, ME Broker
207.532.6573
info@mooersrealty.com