The way we talk, what you are expecting to hear when a true Mainer (pronounced MAIN-ahhhhh) meets and greets.
Shoots out, extends a friendly hand Chummy. Just as you cross the big green iron bridge to the south. The one with the slight rise in the center and windy curve to the right. As you cuff along. Bee line, bomb in from the granite state. Whew. You made it and see the blue Welcome to Maine sign. The announcement we are full throttle, wide open for business let me tell you Bub. Isn’t that cunning.
But the way we shoot the breeze down at the corner Mom and Pop convenience store.
Where we get our fix of freshly squeezed local and national. The in between news news too strained, filtered through the Maine grapevine. Dressed comfortable.
Never to impress in Maine but warm, layered. Giving freedom. The ability to move freely pretty much unrestricted in our work and play recreation. When are lucky as all get out to be spending, logging hours in Maine.
Unplugging to recharge. Gain perspective away from all those friggin’ people in your face and what what what? Wanting something that somehow you are sole responsible for holding them up to get. Honking horns, making not so G rated hand gestures. Sputtering, foaming at the mouth and hold your ears subsonic shouting. Majorly ticked off and don’t care who knows it. Stress kills, robs the moment, is just not fun. Not like Maine.
Unwrapping, gnawing on a pumpkin chocolate chip whoopie pie.
All mutant, the size of 55 gallon drum or manhole covers. Made with boat loads of love poured, stirred into the batter. And pretty much near as big as your head size wise. Generous helpings to nibble on. As you slurp tons of coffee.
Getting wired to almost levitate levels. And hear other locals chew the fat. Sling the hash about this and that. Things and stuff don’t you know.
Hey, got your next year’s winter wood all in I see. You really put that wood splitter through it’s paces this past weekend. Notice you on the sling shot trip buzzing by your property to the hardware store. Prowling, hunting down stove bolts, lathes, my plastic rolls of house banking.
Your brother in laws, the cousins, all the kids, wives and girlfriends bundled up. Caught in the act. Pitching in for the many hand, community woodpile production.
Stacked BTU’s of maple, beech, ash, birch, elm 4x4x8 packages. Nice and neat, done up slick as a whistle. Ready for old man winter’s appearance. Nice. Wicked nice. Pretty decent. Bet you’re some kind of glad to have that geezly process behind you for another year no?
In Maine it is always hard telling without knowing.
Because you have to racket it back a notch or two. Slow down, listen good and come up with the logic between the lines. Of what is actually being said around you. In a state where the awareness meter pegs. Way over and bent sideways. Slammed to the right like no tomorrow. Up against the post.
Because everything is kept simple. Tests positive for pure, natural, real. Down to Earth friendly. And sometimes nearly raw, cool pink in the center. Grilled to perfection in the sizzle on the outside. Like the meat served up with laughter, the cribbage board slid to make table room.
As the cards get put away from the 15-2 pegging the lanes at a deer camp. Pass that Uncle Henry’s will you Sparky? Gotta head to the little shack out back for some quality time alone for a spell. If you get my drift. To see a fella about a horse.
Easy, not complicated. Not because Mainers themselves are simple, but the lifestyle and traditions they maintain is easy does it. All over that balance, moderation. Live life, don’t race through it. Kept and preserved that way with respect for nature. Enjoying life, the drop dead gorgeous surroundings that wrap around and help us stay insulated. From the rat race roller derby that is not Maine. It is not like this many other places just so’s you know.
And boy do we know and appreciate what we have in Maine.
When the “back in Jersey, back in Jersey” transplant makes us wonder. Scratch our head when it is always talking about “back in Jersey”? Why did you come and when are you going to turn the corner and talk about how lucky you are to live in Maine?
So Maine, what to say and how to speak the language? For starters, not everyone lives Downeast. The coast with the clam diggers, herring chokers, berry of blue rakers is one pocket of characters. We have lots more in the deck. Travel further… like Anthony Bourdain who has done time, logged days in willy wags of Maine. Lucky he did not get seriously dismembered, stove up his ice rocket on the trails around Milo Maine.
The ice is out, the local small town Maine sports team is heading to the big city.
We only have a handful of those in Maine. We are survivors and don’t need a large stash of cash to pull it off. Because the volume on spending is turned way down. The one labeled with laundry market on duct tape reading “Lets Play Outside” is turned all the way up. To the far right. The knob ripped off, thrown in the corner. Like a cork plucked from a bottle of something to celebrate an event that will never be recapped. Make it back for the tight fit.
The talk is local in Maine and the way we do it creative. One of a kind home made, colorful lingo like the state, the people.
Formed inside from a different angle. As we twitch line choker cable a bundle of horizontal long wood. Heading, goosing it down the skidder winding trail. Sliding in the fresh, dank smelling muck toward the yard.
To prune the limbs before the grapple operator is tapped, gets the nod. We describe the process from first hand experience. Our work is sacred. We strive to be the best on all levels and to be never called lazy. Well now. That is hitting below the belt.
Call me crazy, a loud mouth, a horse thief, anything but that “L” word in Maine.
Don’t label me, saddled me with that toxic low blow label.
Or the guys, gals down at the paper mill toting fully loaded dinner buckets and are all smiles. When a new owner breathes fresh air into an old closed up idled factory. Or you hop out of a cab over Freightliner, Pete, KW or Western Star ay Dysarts. Swing from the door grab rail. On the rig that is lit up like a Christmas tree with glowing amber and red marker lights. Chrome wheels blinding as the tractor jake brakes to a stop hauling the flat bed of lumber, the stainless reef full of God knows what 53′ long box. Hey, how’s my driving? Call 1-800-let-know.
All spiffed, shined up pretty as a Maine smooth as glass, like a bottle misty morning lake.
(Cue the Maine loon call Sport will ya right about now? Appreciate it. Owe you one.) Wearing the chain drive wallet. Some girlfriend or kid’s names on the side of the sleeper in vinyl lettering to match the rig’s color scheme. Kicking, clubbing all 18 of the wheels and checking the fifth wheel pin still done by hand. That’s a big ten four.
Fresh powder snow to snow sled, ski across or carve long deliberate turns down a challenging Maine hill.
The expressions seem foreign without adding a lot of spin because the way we live is so different, strange sounding to someone without all this space. Cities have little. Life is noisy and man made smells, of industry, of fear, of watch out where you move next. Use that deadbolt and slide the chain. Fire up the cameras to protect the perimeter around you in the concrete jungle.
Maine, the “wurds” we use when we have “idears” are all about the accent.
You can tell right away where this cat or dudette is from as soon as the trap opens. The words come out. Folks from outside are hard for us to understand too. Talk like a Mainer when you are lucky enough to hang your hat here Slim.
You’ll find your groove, we won’t have to draw you a black and white picture Darlin’. Once you do some time in Maine. And we’re not talking making lobster plates down at the state pen. Hey, we getting low on the Allen’s coffee brandy? Better pick up an extra jug, gallon with the can and bottle money we turn in from the empties piling up out in the shed.
Maine, whole new angle on getting more out of life. Not for everyone but the ones that discover her inner beauty, are hooked for life. She grabs your heartstrings. Tugs, playfully yanks and you know there is no other place you need to go.
I’m Maine REALTOR Andrew Mooers, ME Broker