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Buckling Down In Small Maine Towns.

Revenue sharing trickling back to small Maine towns, the faucet quickly turned off.

Tightly Squeezed In, Rode In The Back Of A B-24 Bomber, In The Twin 50 Caliber Tail Gunner Slot.
Shut down. Funds to write grants, compete for becoming scarcer by the day. The incline racketed straight up. An extremely competitive, time consuming process. Shrinking ROI return.

So what do you, the small Maine town do if the future shows to expect more of the same reductions in funding?

Knowing full well that this is not a momentary blip on the radar. But something to get used to more of the same coming down the pike for years to come?

You shrink, you belt tighten, get creative. Today.

Stop the bleeding today. Take those steps. Strong bold ones to make hard decisions. Seeing it will only be a bigger blood bath if put off racketing it back drastically for the small Maine town, the economic region. If you don’t take action early. All along the way. Especially if the small Maine town’s population is dropping numbers too when they do a head count every decade. See the red flags dropped, white ones waving.

Start with small Maine town duplication of layers. Or you could take the tack that let’s raise property taxes to keep the status quo. Jack up user fees, licenses, permits which are already too high. The last thing you should be doing for a healthy environment for the local businesses, individuals you want to have stay around in your small Maine town. For young folks to find their way back after college, the service, stretching their legs out of state.

Keeping things the way they are, always were.

You don’t have to know Latin to sense there is work to do. It’s not status quo. Different tack needed. Plenty of adjustment much like when the captain of the commercial plane comes on the overhead speaker. And says don’t mean to alarm you folks. But there is a mountain range coming up and we are not going to clear it unless the aircraft is lightened up. Suddenly you are not worried about the inflight movie. The peanuts and soft drink. The who’s your ride after touch down where you thought you were landing today.

My Dad was a tail gunner on a B24 Liberator during World War Two with the pilot announcing one run this same head’s up warning.

Shot up pretty royally after a German bomb run. Trying to just limp away from the anti aircraft 88’s pointing, pumping a steady, deadly accurate shrapnel ordinance stream skyward.

The guy upfront wearing the silk scarf, same 15th Army Air Force patch on his leather bomber’s jacket with sheep skin collar trying to make the point quickly. Not candy coat it. Assess the situation, relay to the crew the limited options. As the plane’s alarm bell starts ringing, flashing interior lights pulsate on and off. And altitude is dropping as the rest of the squadron leaves the lone plane behind like it was standing still. As night fall approaches for the ten man crew all by itself still over enemy air space.

The crew to survive, ends up flying with one last engine.

Due to fire, blown out missing sections. Or plain drained, bone dry on critical oil in the other three. Feathered, shut down one by one. As bad moves over, making way for worse. Crippling the tattered winged war bird’s efforts to flap it’s way, to get back to home base in Italy. The crew pitched in, heave ho’ed interior bomb racks, anything with weight knowing their life depended on it. Or parachuting out the bomb bay doors the only other option on the table, being discussed.

The back of the above photo has my Dad’s handwritten inscription. “The smiles are real, after forced landing.” The ecstatic crew kneel, kissed the ground, literally. When touching down at a forward coastal English base airstrip. Picked up three days later to be assigned another bomber with a different half dressed beauty painted upfront on both sides. Sporting an exotic, racy name underneath to continue making the bombing milk runs. Dropped on strategic daylight targets to win the war. And lose half the planes in the process to get back to a stateside peace time way of life.

The overhead of small Maine towns needs more than eagle eye line item study.

There was not the waste to trim from previous year’s scrutiny for cutting around the edges.

The same level of service across the board is not a tab the local property tax payers, small business owners can afford to shoulder. And a five year, longer plan needs to be rack focused quickly to dove tail reductions in over spending, overhead.

With painful but necessary surgery, an all on board direction, concensus. That no one in the room enjoys, wants to take. But to miss that approaching mountain range called over spending money you don’t have if you don’t Jack. Just as serious a situation as the fly boy GI’s found themselves in. Signed on for to win the war. Small Maine towns, what makes one great?

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

February 10, 2014
The Yearly Habit Of Heading To Helen’s Restaurant For Summer Maine Blueberry Pie.

Once a year, behind the wheel of a 1953 356 Porsche, shifting gears manually, plying US Rt 1 rapidly.

Get Maine Pie Downeast Quicker Using A Porsche.
The five foot, low to the ground, vertically challenged Houlton Maine woman left town. Pointed her car south. Covering ground quickly on her mecca, bee line to Washington County. In search of pie the annual mission. A slice of fresh, native Maine blueberry pie.

Riding with the driver of German descent a local girlfriend along for the jaunt in shot gun position.

Both wearing seat belts. The pair hankering, equipped with the same sweet tooth. DNA gene passion for Maine wild barren berries. Helen’s in Machias Maine the destination marked by the red map push pin. To end up sliding into a booth for two plates of heated dessert and coffee.

The only son and sole child gets a phone call from the Washington County Sheriff’s department.

The conversation starts with do you own a Porsche? Yes, the answer, but not me personally. My mother does. Is your mother there, could you hand the phone over to her sonny? No, she’s somewhere between here and the coast of Maine, Downeast. What’s the problem, what’s up officer?

Silence. The son thinks the worst. Starts to sit down, as he cradles the phone between his neck and shoulder. Mind beginning to race reaching out for a kitchen chair from the ready and waiting half dozen. Stretches the call cord tether, locates, takes a seat. Prepares for whatever comes next.

Seems Mom had outrun the Washington County Sheriff’s patrol. Left them behind, pulling away from the pursuing cruiser at a high rate of speed. But not before the highway patrol scribbled down the Maine three digit plate number. Screwed, secured on the sloped sleek shiny polished back end of the European roadster. Outside, over the louvered trunk hood where the twin carburetor high output engine called home. Lived, produced, churned out plenty of horsepower.

The Porsche designed with plenty of get up and go for the sky’s the limit speeds on one of Hitler’s better visions, the Autobahn.

Not Maine’s US Rt 1 twisting country lane highway. The challenging ribbon that snakes along the rock bound, craggy, jagged Vacationland coastline.

The mother with the metal to the pedal, working the brake, clutch, steering. Aware of tachometer RPM levels, gravity and the forces of the other laws of physics. Working, demanding much from the syncromesh transmission with the gear stick sequence lower to higher on straight aways. Vice versa downshifting the other direction into the curves, dips, hills. Nimbly evading police before sirens, flashing lights, any of pull over devices even thought of being toggled. Turned on, even activated. It was brief, happened so fast. Was over.

Clocked at speeds of 110 miles per hour and climbing.

Before the guys with star pointed badges, a holster with 32 special Colt firepower and dressed for the part shook their heads in disbelief. As they lost sight of the Porsche. She was gone, history. The son explained that what Mom did was wrong. But said he had just one question for the Washington County Sheriff’s department. The patrol car was unmarked correct? Well, yes. Yes it was. No gum ball machines perched on top. Or black and white color scheme to help Mom obey the posted speed limit. Why was that distinction important, pertinent to explain the outrunning the long arm of the law?

The son explained that whenever the Porsche was taken for a spin in the Houlton Maine area, repeatedly local teenagers, drivers with high powered American made Maine muscle cars had Mom’s Porsche in their cross hairs. Wanting to race. The sweet taste of winning a quarter mile or longer Aroostook County course too hard to pass up.

Mom was used to seeing the approaching challenges in her rear view mirror. Wore her German honored heritage of fierce love, the proud reputation for finely engineered auto performance from Germany. But she did not realize it was the police, probably running scared to stay ahead. It was fear doing the AJ Foyt, over the top, a perfect ten driving display. Like the rabbit when the fox with the tongue hanging out trots near. Fight or flight. She reached for the latter, the walnut knob stick. Down shifted, studied the tack swing. Quickly the needle dancing into the red line region. And got to work. Telling her co pilot to hang on to something.

The knee jerk reaction to the unmarked police cruiser did not hurt their sting, but explained why the high speed, short and sweet race.

Mom sensed, never backed down from a challenge when she knew the racers in her hometown. Rose to the occasion out of habit. The son was told to warn his Mom when she spun in to the driveway, returned home safe and sound to cool her jets. To never pull a stunt like that again. When the urge for wild blueberry pie at Helen’s struck her fancy again. And a quick trip Downeast to Machias behind the wheel of the Porsche to enjoy a summer day in Washington “The Sunrise” County was in the travel plan cards.

How does this story end?

Mother passed away as they all do, like the rest of us. The car sold to a Blue Hill Maine lumber yard owner along with a trunk full of duplicate imported parts. With a note signed by the new owner on the dotted line. That “Mother” as the son called the car, would be cared for, respected. And not being bought to flip, for profit. But for he and his wife to enjoy, hang onto and keep preserved as they motored around the scenic highways of Maine. Displaying especially good driving manners. Obeying laws in particular when in Washington County. Where the car has a reputation in police circles, around water cooler conversations.

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

February 8, 2014
Tourism In Maine, Think Small, Local, Special.

If you asked someone to spit out the first thing that pops into their head.

When the word is “tourism” or “vacation” uttered. One of the Disney amusement parks may top the shout out survey results list. Tourism can make you think of pulling one arm bandits at large gambling casinos like Vegas, Foxwoods, Atlantic City resort venues. Sturgis for wild hogs riding on rubber, wearing do-rags, leather, tattoos, piercings.
Waving, Saying Hi. Being Friendly. The Maine Wildlife Want You To Visit.

Or to zero in on the historical sites of a Washington DC, Philadelphia PA.

Maybe it’s the Big Apple that never sleeps for a Broadway play, musical show for you Mamma Mia.

Bright lights of New York City. Or heading to the other coast, LA CA (Not Lewiston Auburn) is what you want to do on vacation. To capture the snap. Get a Hollywood sign in the background. For this year’s look where we’ve been Christmas picture of your tribe.

Myrtle Beach for golf. Red Rock for outdoor music. Or don’t miss the American Folk Festival in Bangor Maine. Or if you can’t break away to the Rockies, Colorado, then Sugarloaf USA Maine snow skiing memory making.

But when I think tourism in Maine, it’s meeting the neat people in the small towns.

Experiencing what makes their area special at state agricultural fairs. The unique opportunities to enjoy nature, wildlife, the waterfront without man made interference. Missing the high cost. To heft, flex, sport a fat wallet or heavy purse. Lugged in to open wide for the parking, lodging, ordering, eating, tipping and tickets for the hoopla. Everything you attend.

In Maine, it’s simple. Less fanfare. You are part of the landscape. Star of your own show. An active participant without the crowds. Just you kayaking, hiking, biking, hunting, fishing. Snacking, packing picnic lunches. Cooking your other meals outdoors back at the simple woods cabin, or peaceful lake cottage setting.

Keeping the fire burning after grilling. Stoked for nightly chilling. Outdoor camping talks, like wagons in a circle important with your favorite cold refreshments. Maine lake loons, crickets providing the background music. The fragrant smell of wild pine trees that add a whisper. The sound of the wind in their vibrating needles.
Float Your Boat In Maine. Get Here Anyway You Can.
To enhance, tap all the senses. Remind you where you are lucky to be. In Maine, not any where near the Bronx Expressway. The Combat Zone of Boston.

The vacation in Maine that you are more active, involved, play a major part. Than in those hanging out at the “herd them in” resorts. That are some kind of busy, noisy, expensive. All about the money.

Winter ice fishing, snow sledding and renting a cabin or staying at a motel right off the Maine snow sled trail.

Maybe you can not get away from your out of state job during the summer so the solitude of winter in Maine is the attraction. The crunch of snow under the boots as your pull your wool hat down snugly. Zipping up that winter jacket. To head out through a woods trail on practically flying over drifts in four wheel drive snowshoes. Or after waxing the boards, strapping on cross country skis.

Seeing countless tracks of Maine woods inhabitants crisscrossing your path. Critters of all sizes. Doing the same journey into the wilds of Maine as you. But you are just visiting, this is their home surf and turf. The routine everyday in Maine for natives. Who get to unplug, recharge next to the woods and water.

Maine tourism fits the budget, no matter what season, reason you head to Vacationland.

Many rumbling in lanes up and over the big green bridge from the south end. But lots coming across from the east through Canada. Over the New Hampshire White Mountains. Or by sea via the 100 cruises ships that ply the coastline. Dropping anchor, harbor here and there to ferry the passengers ashore. Where you could bring your horse on vacation to Maine. To discover like early settlers what an unspoiled natural jewel Maine really is. Don’t keep her waiting. I think you are way way overdue. What are you doing this weekend? Dig out the calendar and flip ahead. When is your next trip, low cost vacation in Maine?

See, Hear, Visit A Maine Lighthouse Right Now Video

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

February 5, 2014
If You Had To Pick A Favorite Slice Of Maine Pie…. Blueberry?

Maine is famous, unique for a lot of things and native wild blueberries for a slab of pie might get your vote.

Home Made Maine Pies, What’s Your Favorite Kind?

When
it
is
high
time.

For
pie
time.

But
no.

Wait.

Just
take
it
slow.

Very,
very
slow.

Calm
down
here.

Fresh, homemade, piping hot apple pie. With a slice of stinky cheese, parallel parked on the same plate. Some hand churned vanilla ice cream, two scooped and riding on top. Drizzling, oozing down over the sides. Soaking, saturating the pie crust. That could be a strong slice consideration for the coin toss pick too huh?

Sometimes your pie preference is fueled from strong memories of the kind served up, enjoyed during Maine holiday family gatherings. From a life long enjoyment of whatever a family member’s favorite kind was. Their pie pièce de résistance as it were became your sweet addiction. Gram made you a particular flavor pie junkie for life.

How about when you are out to eat, the restaurant has a pie carousel spied with your little eye on the way in?

Hanging up your coat. Crying out to you like the Sirens as you sail on by. Are there kinds you always or never pick, ask for, order? Is there no in between in the black and white, love hate pie piece discrimination?

Maybe the eenie meenie miney moe when they all look good, ends up with you saying “I do” to mince meat, gooseberry, graham cracker, lemon meringue. Or do you live on the wild side, walk the crazy line of a blend? Like the vicarious thrill when strawberry and rhubarb hold hands. Climb in together. Slipping under the covers of the pie crust.

The one with the venting slot or fork pattern herring boned, tattooed on top. That trademarked your Mom’s favorite pie line.

Do you remember being able to pick hers out of a table full line up with ease as a kid during a family reunion? Because you watched her as she rolled out the made from scratch dough. Sliced, diced, doctored the special seasoned filling. Crimped, rolled up the rim to win the hearts of the family members with her crowd pleasing meal finale fireworks favorite.

Pumpkin pie during Thanksgiving.

Is it a given it will be among the flavors sampled? Raspberry, banana creme. But whoa, who eats butterscotch pie anyway? Pass the chocolate creme please. Or to fit in with the locals when vacationing in Key West Florida, sure. Hit me with the key lime pie, why not? Or is that peach over there, pecan or cherry I see too? Better wait a minute for me to digest all these choices. Should only be sampling one right?

Here’s one top ten America’s favorite pie charts. Gonna hit you again, with another visual graphic to make your mouth water over pie picks. Did any one say coconut creme or custard was what they preferred? Your order is here. More coffee?

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

February 3, 2014
Maybe We’re A Little Too Trusting In Small Maine Towns.

Your town in Maine has a few local car dealerships.

Most of the community knows each other.
Horsing Around, There Is A Limit Before It Borders On Petty Larceny.
And one vehicle showroom gets a visit from a lady who is looking for the cracker jack star salesman. That just left five minutes ago to bee line to lunch.

She announces she has the cash. Wants to test drive that red Buick. Is ready to buy today. She tells the others in the dealership Zeke called her this morning. Said “come on down” today to take a spin.

He’ll be working up the papers. To put the deal through to not hold her up.

So here are the keys, knock yourself out, put your next car you’re buying through her paces.

The place is busy. Sounds like a sale is in the wind and the lady slides behind the wheel. Heads out for a test drive. Several hours later, someone says hey, that lady never returned. Zeke did though. But scratching his head. Not sure who the lady is that he supposedly called earlier today to invite up to kick some tires.

The Maine state police Troop F gets a jingle. Good news or bad news first? Which do you want? Well, found your vehicle, the lady too that has no license, zip for insurance. But the real bad news is no one is going to be buying it, it’s totaled. Played bumper car with some guard rails in Mars Hill Maine and the police let the dealership know the lady has a reputation, habit of telling the same tall tale. You are not the first to give her a set of keys to take a joy ride. To drive off into the sunset. Never to return. The dealership “ate” that demolition derby like, racked car unit.

Or a call comes in from a local homeowner who asks the Maine oil company how much of a discount can I get if I buy 2000 gallons?

Let’s cut to the case. Not a puny minimum 100 gallon nickel and dime transaction. Looking for a deal. Gives impression I will be taking that much. Have a 2000 gallon buried tank, time to fill up. So the pencil is sharpened, the figures are massaged and voila, this much off if you buy that bulk oil gallonage.

Send up the truck for the first installment load, 200 gallons to this address. Fill pipe is on the driveway side of the home by the tiger lilies. The owner says never mind on automatic fill up. (He dug up the buried 2000 gallon tank a dozen years ago.) And I burn a little wood. Will ring you up when needing the rest of the Texas tea. Never calls back for any more oil. Does not ding ding ding guzzle up the other 1800 gallons as promised to get the near rack price discount. That first, last, only oil truck load will last a couple years. Where wood is the primary heat source now in the Maine home.

Back to the car dealership, one of many in the small Maine town trying to eek out a living selling more units.

The lady of the house announces honey, let’s take a ride to Bangor two hours away. And instead of saddling up, cinching the girth on the family sedan in the yard, let’s go up to Cracker Jack Auto dealership. Tell them we are ready to buy, want to test drive that swanky Darth Vader black Mercury with all the bells and whistles. The husband says we are? She smiles. He gets her drift. Kids are watching and learning too.

It’s a picture perfect nice day and that Mercury one step down from a Lincoln. Comfortable, spit polished leather seats, premium sound system and moon roof open wide would make an excellent car to take to get out of town for the day. To impress her sister living in Bucksport Maine she plans to try to make drool over the car she has no intention of buying, can not afford. And it has more room for the four kids to stretch their legs. To hide the happy meal wrappers, garbage stuffed under the seats. Way cleaner, better smelling their their old worn out ride with bad tires.

When picked up is full of gas. When the car returns over four hundred miles later, she’s parched, bone dry.

Rolls in on vapors. And a quick “guess not, don’t like the way it handles” said snarkily without eye contact happens. As the keys get thrown on the front desk. The Mrs. leaves in a huff. Acting disappointed, annoyed like she is in no mood for questioning. But secretly with no notion in the least of ever being in the market for a new car. Which they told the dealership salesman when the whole family crammed in. It was picked up as soon as the dealership opened. Returned as the place is shutting off the lights. Everyone working there is putting on their coats.

When you would never do something, it does not always show up on radar, get felt down in your gut that someone else is about to pull a fast one. Who is thinking you never know what you can get away with until you try. We’re trusting, kind, considerate and want to help. Make things easy. To not be difficult or insinuate, announce that something smells, is rotten and devious about to take place. To stop it. But small towns in Maine, anywhere are places where the same stunt is not pulled again. People talk. But there are other dealerships to try your luck at if you are so inclined to horse around.

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

February 1, 2014
Maine Woodstoves, Especially The Ones For Cooking Are Near, Dear.

When winter happens in Maine, the locals take it all in stride.

It is just another of the four seasons. And preparing for winter, a season ahead. With wood delivered tree length out back like giant pretzel stick mountains. Piled high, processed slowly.
Baked Bread & Beans Inside. Frying Pan & Singing Tea Kettle On Top.

What can go wrong cutting your Maine woodlot? If you don’t take the annual mecca, trek. To hardwood trees gathered directly from the Maine woodlot you own.
What’s Cooking Inside That Door While The Maine Woodstove Heats The Kitchen?
Where chainsaws buzz, whine and cut down low. The word “timber” hollered. The butt ends latched on to, yarded out, twitched to landings by yourself happens too.

Before the snow flakes blanket the lawn in white fluffy storm layers. Prepared for winter means buttoning up the house with banking. Storm doors and windows. Beefing up the attic insulation thickness, chimney cleaning. Checking the stove pipe between your trusty wood heater and the tile lined flu. Maybe metalbestos shiny, mirror polished silver. Or the black, dull silver galvanized tin stove exhaust connector.

Kitchen cook stoves, combination wood heaters become part of Maine day to day living. When the mercury dips, sinks low in the tube.

Counted on, liked old trusted friends. Relied upon to keep your toes from freezing. Water lines from becoming stuck, stopped, frozen, bursting. And heat in the Maine home to make it a cheery place to retreat to from blustery weather working or playing outside during a Maine winter. Any of these antique wood cook stoves images look familiar, remind you of anyone ?

My Dad and Mom had a Jotul 404 mini wood cook stove from Norway in the Maine farm house where their four boys grew up. Has an oven, 2 burners, an ash box. Mine now to cherish. The small but mighty unit wood stove is highly efficient. Cranking out the heat. There was always a kettle of hot and ready water for tea time on top waiting for someone’s reach. These wood heaters, cook stoves dynamic duos used to bake beans, potatoes, casseroles, bread, pies, cookies. Whatever is in the frying pan up top for the approaching Maine farm house meal. For that a strong bond attachment grows.
Often The Primary Heat Source, The Wood Cook Stove Keeping The Kitchen Hot. Family Fed.

In house sales in Maine, often what looks like a simple wood heater, cook stove is more than that to the owners who used it. Depended on it daily through many a Maine winter.

To remove the chill in the Maine home in early spring, late fall too. And the owners don’t leave them in house sales. Are pretty attached at the hip to them.

Take them with them. Or the wood burning units stay in families. Get passed on. Moved to the children’s homes, their woods camps, lake cottages. Pellet stove heaters have fondness from their owners. But not as strong as the wood heaters, cook stoves. That have years of daily use, long history, interaction in the home going for them.

Yes you could just go out and buy a new replacement one but it is THIS one that is the target of all the affection.

Because it was rock solid dependable to provide heat, in some case to help prepare, bake, fry the food. And was a vital part of provide comfort in the simple run Maine home’s lifestyle routine. It was a life saver, stoked through out the day. Took care of you if you did your part to clean, tend, feed it wood.

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

January 30, 2014