Low And No Cost Fun In Maine. Getting The Entire Family Out For Sunshine, Fresh Air And Scenery.,
Maine is more fun when it is just you in the surroundings.
To explore, discover without lots of tourists, with cameras, chatter. Sometimes being in a small Maine harbor town is more fun out of season. When the streets are not crowed, bursting, bustling. Don’t get me wrong, there is an energy with people. The sound of cash registers and credit card swiping helps the economy. And you meet interesting tourists to talk with, converse about their part of the world. To compare notes on life, hobbies, passions and a common, shared interest in Maine.
But when the Maine beauty, natural setting does all the talking.
Not shared by many. Has a solo without the background chatter of the tourist. When she gets your undivided attention and you can look out. Develop a 1000 yard stare. Detach. Deactivate. To truly relax, and let your senses overload with the sheer surroundings Maine is over flowing with…whoa. That is special. And when you live in Maine, you can tap into those settings year round. Not rely on one weekend or string of week days once a year to satisfy the urge, yearning. Tide you over.Bring your camera. Lock and load. For some shock and awe. To shoot, bag some scenery. Capture some live never fade memories.
Come to a Maine seacoast tourist attraction before the busy season starts.
Maine Is Many Seasons, For Many Reasons. Don’t Forget Her. Spend Time With ME. Or before, after the busy couple months at the peak of tourism in Maine. When not all the shops, stores, restaurants are open. Sidewalks and streets a little bit under used than what you are used to. But the folks that are open for business, that stuck around and did not become snow birds are all are a little more calm. Less hurried. The tail ends, beginnings can be the best part of your outing in Maine.
The Maine shop, diner proprietors can sit down and talk.
Time to turn around and think. To socialize a little because they are not all out straight. Like when the short but lucrative tourist season hits like a tidal wave, flood of people from all points. All everyone is just after a picture of a Maine lighthouse. A Maine moose. To eat a lobster, baked potato from Maine. Enjoy a slab of fresh blueberry or strawberry rhubarb pie. And eat up the local community flavor, without sharing what shines locally with all those out of state license plates. Folks from all over the globe after the same thing. A piece of Maine. Water Views… Maine Is Famous For Them.
Maine, there is not bad time to visit. Don’t keep her waiting.
Taking Freight To The Market Place, Lonely Driving On The Open Road.
When the long haul, over the road truck driver piloted a single screw, gas job tractor trailer combination.
Drove long hours without a record keeping log book. And not on an Interstate but through all the twisting, curving, climbing, dropping back roadways. When the map did not have all the roads plotted. Did not call for I-this butt Rt or US Highway that. Pulling a lone 38′ dull aluminum box on one set of wheels. Not 53′ long shiny, quilt look fancy stainless steel with multiple axles to disperse the load weight. One smoke stack, no sleeper bunk, not even an eight track player. Only an AM radio for company besides a thermos of what at one time was hot fresh coffee. But not anymore.
The one man owner operator of the big rig does not have a refrigerator on board.
May be missing a wife and kids when he gets home from the six days on the road fatigue. No power outlet strip to run a big and flat screen television, or DVD or video games to chase away boredom. When not behind the wheel of the automatic transmission. No no, shifting gears. A lot. Like life when everything is not so smooth, easy, predictable. Double clutching, dropping gears. More rapidly depending on the weight of the load, the degree steepness of the mountain or hill. The weather and blowing snow, black ice, stalled vehicles.
The fifth wheel, with red licorice like strings of ooey gooey grease to make the connection. The contact smooth, fluid and lubricated lever that’s locked, released manually. The drivers right hand denim coat sleeve streaked with a rainbow pattern of lubricates. That hitched a ride. Causing stains that will never be shouted out, removed. When after the box landing gear is fully hand cranked down, the driver reaches into the tight dark slotted space.
To grab, pull the release, let go or get dragged to happen.
To unlock the keeper, hook so the trailer pin could stay behind. To donkey off, high tail it. To go down, up and under another bill of laden cargo box or flatbed. The joining of tractor and trailer not done in the cab over with the flick of a switch. No no, scrambling, hopping down over the side saddle fuel tanks. The ones filled with gas not diesel. Out of a pretty basic truck with a few vital dash board engine only monitoring devices. No bells, buzzers and whistles. Not out from behind a vast curved instrument panel row of brightly LED lighted rocker switches, gauges, buttons. Not sitting on a little black box that records every angle of the trip.
New wiper blades for the mechanical ones sweeping the small windshield. Basic boy scout be prepared stuff. Making sure the fuel was free of water with deicer. Same with the air lines that hooked along with the electrical pig tail socket. That umbilical cord combination tag team of air and juice. That kick started the dead, dark, sitting trailer into life to head down the open road with the broken white center line.
Keeping track of where the driver was on the route came from word of mouth or a quick static land line phone call made from a greasy spoon diner.
With a set of fuel tanks out back. Before CB radios and have you got your ears on good buddy. Before GPS satellites and a strangely exotic, just a smidgen of Australian or New Zealand origin voice guides the way. Not with hollering or annoyance shown when you miss a turn. But a matter of fact, that’s okay “recalculating” announced. As she does, and you do too. When Bonnie reminds Clyde to take the next u-turn as soon as he can. But please avoid a head on collision. She matter of factly provides the new course coordinates. Because she is a whiz is ever there was in geography. Won her school assembly bee growing up year after year.
When the truck breaks down and it will. Oh will it ever. Millions of miles means lots of set backs like life. Time spent with the hood open, in the ditch. The cab tilted forward. Depending on is the truck a conventional straight job or a the ride up over the engine compartment. But instead of a tow truck dispatched, rather than a large collection of tools and repair shop devices ambulanced to the scene of the breakdown, the young technician travels light. Comes with all he needs tucked under one arm. While the driver listens on his I-pod to Hank Snow’s “I’ve Been Everywhere Man”. Or Red Sovine’s “I’m A Truck” to kill the inflight time of the techie, clean cut grease-less monkey.
From three hours away and toting only a lap top.
That gets tethered to the electronic module of the sleeping, hibernating engine that passed out. Refuses to start, won’t even turn over. No part unbolted and replaced. All in the code. Diagnostics needed to determine what circuit gets a reset routine performed. What piece of bracketed, no language you or I recognize code got garbled, broken. Caused the cousin of the Hal 2000 to forget his mission, purpose in life. And the turbo charged Cummings, CAT, Detroit, Mack, or whatever Asian, German, Swedish or American power plant is fired up. Wakes up and starts sucking four miles per gallon of diesel cocktail.
All systems go. That’s a big 10-4. To be one the road again as Willy sings. Pulling the load. Headed to market. In the air conditioned over-sized, brightly colored snazzy cab. With cell phone plugged in the hands free speakers, the XM playing oldie goldies. But digitally cleaned up and enhanced for better than the real thing first time performances available for your listening pleasure round the clock. For a monthly fee.
The thought you should have had an electronic chip on your K-9 if he or she gets lost is a little late after MIA happens.
Lucy, a spring spaniel was out with his “mother” who was enjoying Maine light fluffy white snow. In the back field of a Maine farm. And then spotted a rabbit, failed to come back when called.
Lucy used to staying close, not venturing far.
And best focused on a shrill whistle which her “mother” could not do, perform. And even though usually a shadow, suddenly deviates with the smell of a rabbit. Something that makes, propels the four legged dog to bolt north. To seek a smell, follow a scent, tracks in the snow.
The dog’s owner called me in desperation. Her Lucy has gone in to the woods. And did not come out. Waiting but no Lucy. Time passed, shifting from heel to heel killing time on the cross county skies. Still no dog.
The closest house to look for Lucy, where she could have headed is skied to and a dog is heard barking inside. Looking through the side glass door window reveals a dog who is a spring spaniel. And at first glance Lucy’s owner thinks it is her, the fugitive dog being hunted. Black and white not brown and white. Drats.
I get a call as the landlord, for help and assistance as the local for out of state renters.
What to do? I call the owner of the springer in the house. Leave message we are putting out a neighborhood APB for Lucy. Pass it on. And assure Lucy’s upset mother that in time she will end up at the local humane society. That Lucy will show up, not to worry.
Lucy ends up going through the woods and up onto Interstate 95, and almost gets flatten by a car. That stops, opens the door and she hops in. The couple from Island Falls Maine are dog lovers. They deliver the K 9 to the Callaghan Road animal shelter but have to kill an hour before it opens.
Lucy’s owners call to see if they have seen a spring spaniel. The shelter front desk says they have seen a male, black and white but not a female. No Lucy.
The owner pleads for them to check again for a name tag with Lucy on it and they do. Expecting confirmation that the dog at the shelter is a male but whoa. She is a female. She is Lucy.
The couple nice enough to stop from Island Falls Maine are paid a visit, a gift certificate for appreciation is left and all is good. In the same day Lucy is lost, she is found. And a chip to tract her whereabouts is being injected to make any future loss shorter. More predictable to track.
Maine, the living is simple, the people are helpful, real, down to Earth.
When You Live In Maine, Everything You Need Is Right On Your Back, Carried With You Daily For Skills, Talent.
When you live in a small rural state like Maine, super specialized and narrow, just one trick pony is not so common.
Jack of all trades and master of none happens. But still pretty capable just the same. I’ll give it a whirl the attitude. Willing to learn, have to try.
Has to be that way. Digging deep for inner resourcefulness a given in Maine for survival. Because not a state flush with cash. Not populated shoulder to shoulder with a gazillion people. And greater fulfillment results when you one by one add skills. Hone the talent. Develop a passion for start to finish in many areas of your life in the Pine Tree State.
The problem with highly specific tasks, careers where you only are responsible for one element of the bigger picture is disconnect.
Hello? Does Johnny know what Jane is up to and how his actions, decisions affect her and the greater good of the project?
Unless a pretty responsive template is hammered out to round up the players in a task, a rudderless ship without a captain can be spotted on the horizon in the hour glass. Chaos can happen. No one knows what really is going on with the patient. Red flags spring up and go unnoticed. Unaware how your role dove tails, weaves into the tail feathers of others on the same team.
Yes, doing your little part of the job pretty efficiently.
Getting a gold star for the day. Hey. But not cross trained. Not staying on board to monitor the process. To be ready to anticipate problems ahead from experience. And to detour, to swerve. Miss by a whisker obstacles when on a collision course. Expensive delays, set backs because no one out on the cold frosty deck and iceberg night watch. Or misreading what’s up ahead. No one else to compare notes, put your head together with and join forces to correct the flawed compass heading.
All because you yourself did not do the hands on, the A to Z. Start to finish and the cast of players each with a specific assignment. Just one or two pieces of the puzzle busy work to chisel and shape. Everyone involved is just not so well connected, in touch constantly. Not in tune or sharing the same vision. Not all bosom buddies either.
Working for the same greater good not an underlying, guiding principle. And maybe egos are inflated, the individuals on the so call team a tad competitive. Out to advance their own career, not yours along the way with their efforts. Their personal goals and not the group assigned the task get in the way. Help create the vacuum. Stall the process in the middle of red tape quicksand.
Because the list and sell process is home made, personal, not farmed out. Hands on from the photo taking, the property detail note scribbling, the video shooting and editing. The full throttle marketing. To create the total picture of the local area the property listings I shepherd, market, sell to make a living is up to me, myself, I. Okay, I have an assistant that I tell people is really my boss and I work for her. Robin is a twenty year veteran right along side for support in the Maine real estate trenches. And like Radar on Mash, knows what to do before it is needed. And has a sixth sense of the who, what, when, how and why. She makes me look good. Cues, directs, reminds oh so well.
The satisfaction of being present from the birth to the end of the marketing life and subsequent Maine real estate closing is rewarding.
Because I don’t cloverleaf in and out to just do one part of the process. It is something new and different every day because the tasks change in the process to get from “A” to “B”. To set expectations for the real estate buyer and seller. And then go about making sure everything is seamless, smooth, educational, fun and rewarding for both parties.
Real estate is an emotional process dealing with settling estates, messy divorces, tragic job loss, health declines and drama. Because we deal with the public that can get feisty, cranked up and snarky. Especially when no one is providing them with service, answers, needed attention.
All the auxiliary players directly and indirectly involved in the process of Maine real estate selling, buying kept abreast of developments too.
Banks, lawyers, employers, insurance agents, appraisers, home inspectors, tradesmen and plenty more involved in the real estate process. The being David not working in a highly impersonal, pushing shoving environment of an urban real estate quagmire of Goliath’s is so reworking as a lone wolf. An small army able to do amazing things with the marketing sling shot.
Maine, big state, drop dead gorgeous and the people are real, friendly, fun.
Hard Job To Determine The Winner When Judging The Maine State Jazz Festival Musical Performances.
Sunday after church in Maine, my Dad would crank up the big band sound.
On the stereo in the front room with the Sunday weekend paper or while reading a classic. He played the clarinet in a band with Rod Palmer who was the leader in a lot of local musical groups. Folks danced, enjoyed music and the World War Two era band sound really hit me during the Maine State Jazz Festival in Houlton Maine recently.
Check out the trombone player in the video linked above.
When you see, hear, feel the music being made it is a neat experience. His face contorts, expressions pour out. His body moves to the groove, locks on the beat. His feet can not stay planted on the floor. One leg lifts, flares sideways as he works the slide. Leans, bobs, weaves and tilts to find just the right note. Blast off. He has left the room. The judges notice his spark, his talent.
Maine State Jazz Festival Finals Video, Houlton ME
Not just playing any old note but finding a certain sound.
The Maine school jazz players in their tight knit groups are not just dead pan creating the notes. No no… all having over the top fun making the music. That kind of musical entertainment is memorable, lasts and you want more. And it is not one way, because the audience responds. Feeds, coaxes, teases the players just as much as the other way around. They need each other. Go together like peas in a pod. Just like momma always said. Along with other wisdom, something to do with a box of chocolates.
Music or anything made in life with passion, it is what practice does and sheer love for music can create for others to enjoy.
These 1940’s songs in particular hit me during the recent state musical competition. Because had heard the tunes before. A lot. Just not recently. But bang. Saturated, infested in a good infectious way inside the four walls all comes back. The entire household affected with it growing up on a Maine farm. So this week have dialed in on XM the big band sound. Have a renewed interest in that genre for now. All due to working the jazz festival with a slew of other music boosters last weekend.
Television took its strangle hold. And move over. The couch and clicker became more popular than dance music. The time spent cutting the rug on the dance floor with live music and the big band sound and your favorite gal not the norm any more. There was always a dance some where close to hit. And as a kid remember the parents, grown ups and family that got together every Sunday afternoon talking. Me listening as a little grasshopper when they took turns on who’s house to visit this weekend.
Family arriving with car loads of laughing, animated kids with imaginations. And sometimes the parents if you could get close enough to eavesdrop with tales, pretty wild stories about dances. Ones up country, over the border into Canada. Out to Nickerson Lake.
There was always a dance some place if you could drop everything and say sure, let’s go when the call from your friends came in on the party line.
People danced to live music. Boy is it fun. And good exercise inside and out. The songs keep playing. In the shower you do your version humming, singing and hey no one’s looking right? A little dancing. Because you can not help it. When the intensity of the songs that get turned up high, loud enough. To cause the sway, movement, stir. Can’t help it. Why would you want to try to contain it? It opens up all the windows and doors inside. You let go. The sun shines brightly, goes in the eyes and ears. Then radiates outward like true joy.
Nickerson Lake had a pavilion. A big resort building called Crescent Park with a bowling alley, concessions, and dances. A fun spot where some folks leaped from the second floor into the lake because I guess the music just got too hot. To cool off from all that tuneage and dancing. Laughing, enjoying the music that was made from scratch from local musicians. Not “B 7” clicked on the Wurlitzer or Seaberg juke box. And stacks of wax. Playing what you’re saying for golden oldies.
Music was everywhere.
Someone in your group knew how to play at least one instrument according to my parents. Just a given. There were also cottages, camps for vacation week rentals around the Pavilion at Crescent Park in New Limerick Maine. The building a place now just in memories but long gone, torn down that was on the gravelly north shore of Nickerson Lake. Wonder where there is a dance tonight with live music?
Maine, big state, less people, more natural and simple.
New Snow In Maine, A Blanket That Deadens Sound, Creates A Private Island. For A Short Time.
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.
