Maine has it all. Or a lot of stuff anyway.
Ayuh. It’s time for summer vacation.
Living as I do here in the metropolis, I seldom encounter many of my fellow Mainers. When I do, there are the usual formalities — Where’re you from? Do you know so and so? When’d you get out? — as each of us tries to suss out what caliber trailer park the other sprang from, whether we might be related and which details of our personal/family history need to be glossed over. Having established one another’s bona fides, a good natured conversation usually ensues, more often than not with both of us lapsing into the native dialect, which almost invariably leads to general hilarity, and eventually, plans to hit the local watering hole for a couple of pops as soon as schedules permit.
There’s always a certain camaraderie in shared origins, and this is especially true if the family homestead happens to be in a place as weird as Maine. The particular language, common references, mutual food preferences and suchlike provide a solid foundation upon which many lifelong friendships are based, often much to the bemusement of outsiders, or as we tend to call them, flatlanders.
So as I contemplate my annual pilgrimage back to the land of my ancestors, I find that once again I’m looking forward to a little immersion in the cultural
sesspit pool from which I emerged, mostly because Maine people are really, really funny. There’s a certain dryness of delivery that is difficult to convey in print, so I won’t even try. And then, there’s the accent. After a few cocktails, I have been known to offer a reasonable interpretation, but even without the accent, Maine humor is pretty SHAHP in large part because of its unique linguistic quirks.(If you’re one of my sensitive, caring readers — though I’m pretty sure I scared the last one away months ago — you might want to stop reading here. It gets fairly offensive fairly quickly.)
Beans: As I have already chronicled, Saturday night beans are a tradition in Maine, and much of northern New England for that matter. Besides feeding the soul, the baked bean supper provides ample fodder for standard flatulence jokes and many more. For example:
Question: What do you get when twelve locals gather in Jonesport for a bean supper?
Answer: A full set of teeth!
Log skidders: Everyone born in Maine enters this world knowing two things: where to get a steamed hot dog at any hour of the day or night and what a log skidder is. Now, lest you think the state is one giant logging camp, let me tell you that there are in fact thickly-settled, cosmopolitan areas of the state where Bean boots are worn only after Labor Day and plaids are mixed exclusively on formal occasions. But even in the swankiest corner of Downeast, everyone knows what you’re talking about when you refer to skidders, which together with their accoutrements can figure in a variety of contexts; for example, in discussions of the BMW (Big Maine Woman), as in “Jesus H. Christ, Merton, if the old lady’s arse gets any bigger I’ll have to use my skidder to drag her out of bed in the morning.” Or, “By the Jesus, Vinal, one more beer and I’ll need my grapple and choke chain just to get off this barstool.”
Fat/Crazy/Ugly: Though Maine is the home of LL Bean, Acadia National Park and the Allagash Wilderness, most of its people are not exactly the outdoor fitness loving let’s-take-a-hike-and-paddle-that-kayak cover models you might imagine. As noted previously, there is a preponderance of largeness, madness and just plain ugly (much of it with a direct bloodline to yours truly), and sad though that is, Mainers find colorful ways of describing the aforementioned afflications.
My friend Janet once reported hearing the following description of a particularly wide backside: “Looks just like two pigs fighting in a sack.” As an image it’s quite vivid, isn’t it?
The craziness, in my opinion, stems largely from the endless, frigid soul-destroying winters. After about three days of sitting around the trailer, walking in straight lines and waiting for the power to come back on people begin to come unhinged, and it sticks. They do, however, come up with some entertaining descriptors. My personal favorite is crazier than a rat in a tin can, with crazy as a shithouse rat running a close second.
Equally colorful are the terms for the less splendid among us, the guys and gals least likely to be crowned at the prom or featured on the cover of Field & Stream. I recall one of these unfortunates referred to as a “double bagger — you put a bag over her head then one over yours in case hers rips.” Not very nice, really, but if you’d ever passed an evening at a bar in Millinocket, you’d know what I’m talking about.
Of course none of this really interferes with the basic human need for companionship. I once heard a youngish fellow sum up his dating standards thusly: “Eight or eighty, blind, crippled or crazy, it don’t matter. If they can’t walk I’ll drag ’em.” At the time I thought he was kidding.
- Wicked means extremely, as in wicked good (see above). In this, we once again see the pervasive influence of those crazy-ass early Puritans who clearly felt that anything good had to be sinful.
- Honkin‘ means extremely, as in “That’s one big honkin’ log skidder. You could probly haul at least three BMWs with it.”
- A skrid is a small piece or amount, or the opposite of big honkin’, as in “You already ate half of the pie; another little skrid won’t make no difference.”
- Rack of pounders (pronounced rackapoundiz): A six pack of sixteen ounce cans of beer, or as we call it in my family, breakfast. See also rack of beer, pronounced rackabeeah.
- Stove up/stove in: Crushed, bashed, ruined, broken, bent or all of the above. To wit: “Junior Varney’s truck got all stove up when he run into that barn yestiddy. Christ almighty, he’d drunk up about a rack of pounders before he even got out of bed.”
- Spleeny: Cross, cranky, a childish pain in the ass, as in “My kids was so spleeny today I hadta crack a rackapoundiz before lunch just to stay in the trailer with ’em.”
- Puckerbrush (pronounced pukkabrush): Wild, thorny scrub, of the sort small boys love to run through so as to achieve optimal scarring and scabbing.
- Redundancy is a good thing, as in “I wouldn’t eat at that clam shack. It’s filthy dirty.” Not merely filthy, or dirty, but filthy dirty, as in wicked gross.
- Metaphors are embraced: As in “He ain’t even smart enough to pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written right there on the heel.” Though what the urine filled boot symbolizes I cannot say.
- Similes can be confusing, but use them anyway: “Shee-it, he’s number than a pounded thumb.” Last time I whacked my thumb is hurt like hell.
- When in doubt make up your own verb conjugation. Elsie: “Why warn’t you to home last night, Earl?” Earl: “I warn’t home ’cause I knew you’d a been there, ferchrissakes.” Where to even begin?
So there you have it. Everything you need to know to successfully communicate in the Pine Tree State. If any of you are considering a trip to Vacationland in the coming months (September is by far the best time to visit, by the way), may I suggest you consult the archives for my handy tourism guide?
Head north, intrepid readers. Head north.
Posted on July 25, 2012, in Commentary, The Slattern Speaks and tagged Acadia National Park, Humor, Maine, Maine tourism, Millinocket Maine, Vacation. Bookmark the permalink. 43 Comments.
I read this in the company of the Pierce boys — while consuming a rack of pounders — and we were all doubled over in laughter. Just sorry we weren’t able to see the little Slattern.
So sorry I wasn’t able to crack a pounder with you. Hoping to be up in July AND August next year and to introduce those gorgeous little Pierces to life on the coast — starfish, lobsters and lazy days in the hammock.
I am reblogging this and giving you credit just as soon as I can. This is wicked smaht.
Your sista from New Hampsha
I keep telling anyone who’ll listen that I ain’t so bad for a dumb girl from Maine. Thank you for the validation. Given our shared heritage, I’m having thoughts about a tag team series entitled “What the hell’s the matter with the rest of New England, ferchrissakes?” Topics such as Mass-holes behind the wheel (though I believe you may have already explored that), why Connecticut isn’t really part of New England, and where the fuck is Rhode Island anyway.
SIGN ME UP! I did a brief overview a while ago, maybe you saw it. It could definitely use some expanding:
Great post! Oh HE, I love the Dropkicks! As soon as I sober up, I’m going to get a proposal together.
Hey if Connecticut wasn’t down here Mass would slide into Long Island Sound and all the New Yorlers would spend more time in Maine. Rhode Island is there to keep the Atlantic from washing CT away. Maine keeps us from rising up into Canada.
Tom, YOU ARE RIGHT. I stand corrected.
Last night, a friend shared a story about an optometrist from Maine who travels down to Guatemala each year to work with the less fortunate. Unfortunately, he speaks Spanish in a Maine accent. Though I don’t know the Spanish words used, apparently his accent is so unusual that when he was asking some of the Guatemalan patients to rest their chin on a machine so that he could conduct a glaucoma test, his accent led some to believe that he was asking them to spit on the chin rest…and they complied with his request.
I have a feeling I’m going to have nightmares about that old dude in Pet Semetary all night long. Wicked good post!
At least they didn’t think he was there to give proctology exams. A little spit? No harm no foul. Though I’m told a little saliva frequently comes in handy in these situations. OK, I’ll stop now.
Okay, I really NEED a drink now.
Had you but taken up my invitation to visit, you’d have had enough to drown a beaver by now.
Was the invitation time-stamped? Has it run out? Is there not yet time?
I’d say this evening is probably out of the question as things are getting a bit ragged at the portable bar, and I daresay I’ll be under it sooner than later. I’m free tomorrow, however…
Thank god you can drink at brunch!
Technically you can drink at breakfast, but that so often leads to having to stop altogether that I can’t recommend it.
Are you telling me that I can’t have a mimosa or two with brunch? That’s just uncivilized.
Love the lingo!
Great opening image…I almost spit out my coffee!! There are a lot of XXXXL people here in Wyoming as well, though we assume it has to do with the preponderance of the poor quality level of food and long winters. My desk is currently right by a window looking out at the pool and every day I wish I hadn’t looked to my right.
As my Grandpa used shake his head sadly and say, “The things you see when you don’t have a gun.”
Love this, although my experience isn’t with Maine but Wisconsin. Totally stuck in 1984 but still this awesome place nevertheless. I’ve been meaning to write a post about that great state, but my summer cocktail schedule keeps getting in the way.
Actually, as long as the writing doesn’t get in the way of your summer cocktail schedule, you’re way ahead of the game.
By gorry, we keep trying. Thanks, K!
I’m contemplating the wicked relationship between fudge and restrooms. But, I’m actually too frightened to go there.
As well you should be.
My wife and I vacationed in the 90s nearly every year in Maine. We loved Rockland, Owls Head, and Port Clyde. We never had to be worried about being bothered by the locals; sort of unfriendly. We had heard Vinalhaven was a friendly place to visit; the only thing colder than the ferry ride in October was the local merchants. My wife and I are pretty understanding and as long as we know the rules going into it, we’re fine. The bottom line is now that I live in the west we miss Maine. We considered moving there after my retirement. We found that once the people know you they are incredibly warm and friendly.
As long as you’re not from New York, they get used to you eventually.
I must confess that we Canucks also use “wicked” and “honkin'”…must be a mutated gene exclusive to the north. I love your native state though, especially Bar Harbor. Wickedly funny post! You have one honkin’ huge sense of humour.
Nothing like a few years in the puckerbrush to put an edge on your humor, I guess.
Really? Maine? Wow!
Puckerbrush? And to think, I first read it as Puckerbush. Sighh….more wine, please.
I drank up all the wine, but I’ve got a sixteen ounce can of Bud if you’re still interested. 🙂
I’m glad I warnt to bed. This hear post was wicked funny.
Ayuh. Glad you dropped in!
Wouldn’t miss a trip up north, even if I could get Sox box seats. Drove up there with my first car on a whim, ate a lobster and hauled ass back to CT. Loved the post. We New Englanders should get a tax break for putting up with New Yorkers. They visit you, they move into CT and think we’re trying to soak them. Hell if you show your money off somebody’s gonna take it.
Reminds me of a plaque in my grandmother’s garage. There’s a picture of a wide mouth bass and the caption reads, “Even a fish wouldn’t get in trouble if it kept its mouth shut.”
I like the way you think, Tom.
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