The best time to wander into Maine if you are one of the unlucky ones forced to be on rations of vitamin “V”.
Vacationland when the dose is only a week a year, a long holiday weekend stint fix is just a tease. Does not begin to knock down the addiction and only serves to feed it really.
So the best time to come to Maine? When you need the change of scenery most. Space is the big attraction. Which causes all the other life blocks to fall into place. For a feeling of peace. Surrounded by all her natural splendor awe. But the real beauty of Maine beams, originates from the friendly small town centered hardworking people.Cooler Nights, Warm Days Start Up The Maine Fall Color Machine.
So instead of ordering off the menu, trying to figure out how you think you should spend your limited time here on the Vacationland planet, just reach out, ask them.
Close the four color glossy tourist flyers. Stash, slide, put ’em away. And don’t just do what you did last year, the one before that. No no. Shake it up. Throw yourself a curve.
Ask the locals what’s good here?
What’s the special of the day or what would, do they do if they have time off? Were all caught up with their daily chores and obligations. They head out to where? Tell me about those special haunts, places off the beaten tourist industry pathway. But vow, pledge, raise your right hand. To keep it a secret.
Not let the cat out of the bag to maintain a level of trust too. So on the return, more adventures await you because you are inside the circle of trust. Don’t get hung up on how you dress, the color scheme or if everything matches or not either. The locals don’t… Fresh Air, Clean Water, Wildlife Not People. That’s Part Of Maine’s Secret Beauty.Just put on the correct application for the journey you embark on. Clothes that fit the particular day, season activity.
To many the ends of the tourist seasons are the sweet spot.
To find their happy place. The locals are a little more relaxed, the turn the corner is close. To roll in the new backdrop, slide the current one the other way to dove tail underneath. Preserved for the next rotation three seasons away.All Year Long, Maine Is Outdoor Living.
What to do for fun, recharging a weary overworked mind and body.
To collect some magic moments in Maine for those “ah ha” light bulb illuminating times in your life. Maine’s magic is often getting lost, freed up and letting go. When hypnotized, put under her spell.
Tractor beamed into the drop dead gorgeous 360 degrees that wraps around you. As she tugs at all of your heart strings at once. And you stop fighting it, admitting to yourself you are in lub dub love.
Why don’t you take a hike. Ahhh, just go jump in a lake, get lost in Maine. Or do one of the slew of other outdoor, low or no cost activities you decide are just what the Doctor ordered.
Get away, beeline to Maine. She is your best friend, a healthy addiction, make her your habit for life.
You know the feeling of being on the road, thinking snackage.
Crossing Maine, even at 75 miles per hour on the Interstate 95 system takes time to cover ground. Hungry, stopped at a gas station to fuel up the whatever you drive has to happen. The wheel you twist, turn. Iron you push up and down the highway. No restaurant options in many parts of our rural state. White Capped, Snowy Much Of The Year, Mt Katahdin At Baxter Park And thinking just stay on task. Get back on the road but still gee, I’m hungry.
Partly out of boredom. Not really starving.
Or half crazed thinking about eating a horse. But also because the clock says it’s here. The three sided triangle hanging on the porch of the Maine farm house kitchen is mentally ringing louder and louder.
Answer the call. The magic slot of the three or more opportunities in a day to strap, slide on the feedbag has arrived as if you were home. Not moving, becoming velocitized.
Something solid to go with all that coffee, energy, juice, soft drinks or just good old bottled something wet water you swill down.
You scan the C store glass wall to wall with door handles. Just barely off the Interstate exchange in pretty much the middle of nowhere. Podunk, Maine USA. MMMmmmmmm, saran wrapped or rigid plastic see through container pre-made sandwiches. Not like Mom, Grammy made. The morgue like lighting eerily cast on the dining selection makes your stomach queasy, uneasy. How many days ago were they assembled? Yesteryear, One Row Horse Drawn Maine Farm Machinery.
Don’t do it says one of the voices in your head. The one fatigued from traveling and just wanting to get home. But a snack, to eat on the run. Revolutions of the noggin on your neck shows no apples, bananas, or anything fresh. Dried out pizza slices on a carousel, hots dogs rolling for days on warming station stainless steel cylinders under the sneeze guard. Life is like that too in other ways.
What you snack, graze on and put into your system.
Not just open wide and down the gullet. But what is fed into your senses. Is it a current, fresh, real, raw and in the moment experience? Just plucked off the vine and succulent? Or pretty much like high quality vending machine food? Looks like food, tastes like cardboard, straw, nothing. Without a lot of dipping sauce.
Ordered up because not so handstand happy about it. But all there is for dining options, fast food, on the run. Maybe living in gentile poverty clears the table to prepare for the feast of life in other ways. One Potato, Two Potato… Three Maine Potatoes Heading To Market, Winter Storage.
Maine is all about slow food. Take your time.
Quality experiences with home grown, all natural and take your time preparing it. Savoring it, enjoying it fully. Eating with an easy does it mindset. Slow down. The simpler living approach to life means being, staying in the moment. Being grateful for what you have and not lamenting what you don’t. Making the most with what is around you and not living life with an “if” attached. That involves something missing, but not needed anyway.
Maine is not “I’ll be happy if, when” this or that takes place.
That is in the future. Robs today and may not pan out like you wished for or hoped. Delayed, put off is not smelling today’s roses. Or just plain in season Maine wild flowers. The lupines, brown eyed susans, forget me nots. All arranged outdoors sans vase, four walls by Mother Nature. For a limited time that cycles in four seasons. But requires focusing on today. Or miss the Maine slide show.
Lop off that “if”. Just shorten it to “I’ll be happy.”. “I am happy”. Or without words, thoughts, just smile and radiate an inner joy. That telegraphs to man and animals around you this cat is content, at peace, in Maine. Get here quickly. Don’t you hear her calling your name? Don’t stand her up, keep her waiting.
The boy was from a Maine family of three kids, his mother passed away from cancer at thirty one years of age.
His Dad was a cook in the army. But you would not know it from the menu selection served up, brought back stateside. The TV dinners, frozen pot pies and never ending supply of morning cereals of shredded wheat, corn flakes, puffed rice kept them fed. No Thumb Warmers, Heated Radiators Under Your Feet. Tinker For Two, Ride For One Hour. Helped Teach You Survival Mechanics.
The oldest and only son decided he would be a self taught cook.
Reached, tied on the apron at meal time. And appreciated his Dad of thirty two taking on the solo responsibility of raising he and his two sisters. A year later the father married a much younger gal, a waitress he connected with at coffee.
In her early twenties, the marriage did not last long.
The son figures because his Dad was still married to a ghost, his deceased Mom. That he never truly got over to move on and begin again to be in love. Make a life to share with another, beyond just his young family.
Working for the public works department in 1964, the pay was not going to make you land on the Forbes top one hundred wealthiest. He was rich, grateful in other ways. And over the childhood moving five times. From rent to rent. Getting the kids raised the best the Dad could in a small Northern Maine community. Where the village all pitches in too. This son’s little league team was O’donnell’s Express and his uniform was more man than child sized.
The son with the cook’s apron on figuring better cuisine started and ended with his stepping up to the plate.
Lamenting his pot roast did not begin to compare with his Mom’s meal time entry. But there was no contest with his baked beans. Which over the years became his signature meal time offering when the dinner bell sounded. Cooked to perfection. To die for meal offering that his stomach roll over the cinched up belt proves hit it’s mark with deadly accuracy. Growing Up In Maine, The Fun Home Made, Outdoors.
Soaking the pretty white and splashed with maroon colors Jacob’s Cattle variety. For the bean pot last night as the beat goes on. Memories linger. The years pile up and the seasons change with a sense of urgency. But you gotta eat right?
One Christmas, the corner decorated tree was very sparse in the present department.
The three kids went to sample the sugar plums, get prepared for the roof landing of the red velvet, white fur clad sleigh and flying deer pilot. Not expecting much due to the missing cargo usually already arranged under the colored lights, tinseled trees of past by this late date on the holiday calendar.
The next morning the mood was vastly different. Happy, smiling kids bounding down the old farm house 2nd floor stairway on the Hogan Road spying a tree. Loaded with pretty papered wrapped gifts. Flowing like lava out from under the tree, flooding into the room. Leaving little floor space for the opening family ritual to begin. Starting with the oldest first or was it the other way around? Who’s turn in rotation again?
A pink ribbon guided the way, created a path. From the living room, through the dining room, across the Maine farm house kitchen.
Out into the attached, unfinished back woodshed. The place where periodic discipline was administered. Or just threatened, hinted at would do the trick. Because of success reining in an out of control child with an attitude, nose out of joint early on. Not waiting. For perspective, to bring them back into line to keep the family home happy, calm, quiet. Look For The Sunshine. Unplug, Recharge In Maine.
Parked in the center of the shed was a brand new 1964 Ski Doo or called then Bombardier snow sled. Ten horse power under the bright yellow cowling, perched above the narrow ski stance.
Ready for the recoil to receive a yank. Strong tug from a youngster barely able to pull hard enough to start the snow sled. The machine high school skinny, not barnyard wide for a reason. Because groomed, marked Maine snow sled trails and bridges over, spanning water hazards were not yet invented. Not in vogue.
It was necessary to being a skinny profile in snowmobile width. To squeeze, needle through forest trees. To get anywhere beyond the just the pretty predictable, round and round back yard.
Learning to lean into corners, sledding on one knee standing up. To move and groove, shift weight and guide, throw the light weight sled through new fresh white powder. To keep from becoming bogged down, bogie wheels buried and causing a winter field exhaustive work out. Digging out of a deeper hole the harder you tried to throttle your way away from the stall in the outdoor fun. Settling into quick sand. The new fluffy powder snow as you lose steam heading up a hill incline.
The sled described this morning at coffee at a corner store pit stop, fuel up I can see clearly.
Even though a Snow Jet blue snowmobile experienced driver, my Aunt Ruth had a boyfriend, Freeman Taylor had one that was souped up, modified to churn out twenty two horsepower. Which was pretty unstable at the higher speeds than any stock machine produced. For the narrow stock ski stance unlike snow sleds of today. Where they are sit, point, steer, hang on. Go very fast on the ice rockets on well groomed, marked ITS trails.
No doubt this Christmas snow machine from Willy Lynds was not many if any serial number digits away.
From the one on Freeman Taylor’s yellow winter big boy toy. The fellow with the loud memorable, infectious laugh. The habit of a steady, slow drip of Schaeffer warm beer flowing into his system. Who did his best to keep all the neighborhood kid’s snow machines of all sizes, colors, kinds and ailments moving up and down the local trails.
The best Christmas ever, the Dad went all out. And scratching his head, looking back on what his father, the sole breadwinner did not bring home weekly for wages, the son wonders how he did it. Made the Christmas to remember for he and his two younger sisters as a single parent, a Mister Mom.
Maine is Vacationland, the folks at the department of motor vehicles, licensing remind each and everyone one of us with that one word declaration.
Along the bottom of the Maine license plates. So when you are lucky enough to be here in Maine for a weekend, one of the longer, extended ones, what to do?Maine, One Blue And Green Dream. Wake Up, Get To Vacationland.
Well for starters, you don’t need a lot of money if you think off road. In the woods, on a Maine lake, river and it’s camping.
Tenting under the stars. Wearing a back pack during the day. Nightly cooking on an open fire. Simple outdoors fun in Maine is low cost. If you stay clear, veer far away from the expensive tourist traps along the coastline.
You are not here for a long time, but a good time. Don’t want to spend it in line. Elbow gnashing or shoulder to shoulder with others all just hankering a little Maine too right? Maine is not in your face, a lot about being by yourself. Getting away to spend some time with me, myself and I. Figure things out, mentally sort and organize your thoughts. The direction your life is headed that is good. The areas where dialing in, a tad of adjustment is needed.
Hiking is what Maine was made to do. Exploring, walking, talking, gawking. And the food outdoors, the work up an appetite, hunger makes the dining taste improve a hundred fold.
Biking in Maine, sometimes it involves ferry rides to an island. Simple, Stunning, Real, All Natural. Maine.
The best part of being in Maine is the outdoor space, natural setting.
But start venturing closer to the tight knit communities. To meet, greet, sit with the locals at a church bean supper.
To chew the fat at a state fair, talking about an interest the other side of the conversation is already put in motion.
Comparing notes, what he would have done different. What by accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Vacations in Maine are highly educations, two way communicating easy to strike up.
Mainers share, care and are a talkative bunch.
Unless you start the dialogue drop in statement, remind of “back in Jersey”. That cools the mood, causes a little more space to happen. In the inching away, still smiling but just not as warm and fuzzy. Moo Yourself. Don’t Happen To Have An Apple, Carrot, A Little Grain?
Bring your walking shoes, hiking boots, camping gear. Travel light, explore far and wide. But you won’t need a lot of money once you find yourself inside the boundary dotted lines of Maine.
Happy Labor Day faithful readers, followers of the Me in Maine blog posts. Gulf Hagas is on the radar for this hunt and peck, beginner wordsmith.
One only one of the many neat, memorable, healthy options when time is short. For the what to do for fun when on vacation in Maine.
And as you travel the side roads, or hike up trails, you see “volunteers”.Maine Blueberries… Show Up Single File Here And There As Volunteers.
Not the two legged kind. That pitch in and many almost have personal ministries run behind the scenes. I know of three ladies that all they do year round is knit.
Really neat hand made mittens, warm hats for winter use. And they deliver the year long fruit of their labors. To local schools and ask the teachers to make sure they get to where they belong.
On the hands, heads of kids that come to school with neither. Neat habit to pearl one and knit two when making wool hand and head coverings of all colors. To match the multitude of personalities of the new owners these born to knit ladies never get to meet.
No, the volunteers today Me In Maine blog post fans are the ones that spring up, grow in the oddest places.
Or are like kids that lose both parents, have no brothers, sisters, grand parents or aunts, uncles. On their own. To raise themselves.
Beyond the tree line of easier growing conditions. The kind you see climbing Mt Katahdin. In a nook and cranny of rock, not so hospitable growing conditions. Blueberries happen. Scrub pines, firs too. But all very hardy, resilient, determined. Weathering the harsh growing, weather surroundings and standing out because they are armies of one. Lone wolf plants, trees for hikers to enjoy. But that live here through wind chills of winter, rains of the spring, all that can come at you for weather in Maine. See What Is Out Of Place, Does Not Really Belong ?
In Maine potato lingo, “volunteers” are spuds that grow up next year in a neglected field. That were not planted new, visited by the equipment that always annually shows up in spring with new seed.
But that just show up. Seemingly on their own, raised by themselves. In a rag tag collection of other regenerated seed, left overs from something hanging around from last fall’s harvest. That froze, sunburned, was not field gleaned. Eaten by man or beast. That made it to plant itself after a blanket of frost, white fluffy ground covering.
There is a life lesson sermon in that pick yourself up by the bootstraps for another blog post.
Today coming in from the lake getaway, preparing to fuel up on black fresh hot coffee at Cameron’s Market (that Bangor Metro says has the best pizza in all of Northern Maine), something caught the corner of the eye. I thought of the kid’s educational game “One Of These Things”. That is not like the others. See the sea of green? Spot it Bert, Ernie, Prairie Dawn in the audience? Raised In A Maine Potato Field, Orphaned But Adopted By Hills, Rows Of Spuds.
The corn stalk that BOINNNG.
Sprung up taller and towering over the Maine potato plants that are inching closer and nearer to a fall spud harvest.
Did Lilley Farms in Smyrna Maine who run a spread of black and white milkers plant the fodder corn seedling? As a fellow grower playful joke, diversion?
Or looking closely, hey wait a minute. Looks organic, like Nature’s Circle…Dick, Sue, Meg, Lowell and the neighborhood farm gang have a hand in this. Or was the single corn seed air lifted by a pair of feather wings?
Drilled in the fertile, tilled soil by a bird? Who air dropped the kernel on the way by overhead? When bomb bay rear doors opened, surrounded by some natural fertilizer to give it a start occurred?
Brought in from a neighboring field where the black bird stopped for a snack. That went from stem to stern. Through his system naturally. In a place where all you could see in any direction was corn planted. No potatoes trespassed. Just long ears, darkening white to brown silk. Spilling, sprewing out the tops corners of each green covering of yellow rows protected inside.
The single corn stalk.
That a raccoon or black bear already sampled it’s production. In a late night snack. The corn that somehow drifted into this New Limerick potato field of Buzzy and Andrea Nightingale. All fertilized by what the potato plants dine on for a 3 number cocktail side dressing. Or bringing covered dish, it’s own wrapped container of nutrients. To assure success out of the gate last spring?
Or was subject matter, topic selection for this blog post pretty meager today? It happens. You decide and thank you for following our Maine blog post collection faithful reader.
Be honest, when you stop and think about it is there really anything you actually need when birthday, an anniversary comes around?
When you have logged a few trips around the annual race track of life and have passed the accumulation stage? So when it is time for gift giving, so the receiver knows lots of thought went into this purchase, Maine home made, hand made items score huge. The Unique State Of Maine Hand Drawn, Creatively Depicted.
Because they were not mass produced.
Plucked off the shelf of a big box, Wally World from rows and rows of a sea of samness. And the chances of duplicate gifts being opened by the receiver are scant. Pretty darn slim. Maine Made is one site with lots of variety when hunting down the just perfect gift for someone special.
Or what the heck.
Don’t wait to receive something that excites you. Hope someone gets the elbow nudge and springs for something that catches your fancy. If you spy with your little eye something in a quaint Maine shop, in an online “boutique”, buy it.
Life is all about small pleasures. And who better than you to know what pulls at heart strings… yours.
Have a youngest son who’s girlfriend Cindy is an artist.
Just got a job in the Raymond Maine area as an art teacher. And here is a shameless plug for Cynthia Taylor, an up and coming side artist that has launched a side cottage industry like business. How To Get To Houlton Maine. Follow The Threads.
Offering online items with an extra helping of Maine theme.
That continue to grow in type, selection now that she lives in the Pine Tree State. The items that make excellent Maine gifts.
Local art hand made and not found at retail chains.
Don’t we all want something not like what everyone else has that is pretty unique?
Like music. I liked Billy Joel even more before the rest of the World discovered him after Cold Spring Harbor.
Played at the right speed, not the chipmunk sounding sped up master that slipped out into record stores, radio stations near you.
Back in the day. When black vinyl, big and little platters of it were spun for entertainment. In the “playing what you’re saying”.
Stacks of wax used to entertain.
Some going gold, selling a million copies or more. Kids saving up and buying an 33 and a third album, a 45 rpm single. To add to the meager, handful of artist collection. With neat cover art, the lyric sheets tucked inside.
Before today’s 3500 digital not analog songs on an ipod to select from, hokey pokey to on the go. Home Made, Special, Here’s One Recipe.
New, up and coming, creative artists in Maine, there are plenty to reach out and connect with thanks to the Internet.
The leg up it gives aspiring artisans in Maine where the wide open space, all this fresh air and clean water, rolling wooded land is the perfect backdrop. To let loose and fashion something special, memorable, lasting.
