Living in "The County"

One thing you all should know about living in Northern Maine is that people (for the most part) are proud. They're proud they live here, and proud they're from here. Don't ask me why. Littletown is located in the heart of Aroostook county, otherwise known as The County. According to Wikipedia, it is the Northernmost county in the state of Maine, the largest county in the state, and the largest county in the country (East of the Mississippi). The population is around 71,000 which seems absurd to me. Mostly because I can't imagine that more than 10 people would want to live here, nevermind 71,000 of them. 

The County is known for, as we know, potatoes and farming. And who knew farmers could be so conservative?! Apparently The County has certain priorities, which include rejecting same-sex marriage and promoting pot-use. Facts that boggle my mind as to why I still continue living here. But that is tangential to my point. Another interesting tidbit is that since the 90's, the people of Aroostook county have wanted to secede from the state of Maine and make The County its own state. I really wish you could see me rolling my eyes as I'm typing this, dear reader. 

The County is not diverse. At all. "The racial makeup of the county was 96.80% White, 0.38% Black or African American, 1.36% Native American, 0.47% Asian, 0.03% Pacific Islander, 0.17% from other races, and 0.80% from two or more races. 0.60% of the population were Hispanic or Latino of any race"(Wikipedia). I know those are a lot of numbers, but to sum up: there is no sort of cultural diversity here whatsoever. Which, to me, is boring and sad. 

What else is boring and sad, you ask? The fact that very few people here have left the area. Some people have never left the state of Maine, or even left The County. Others have never left these United States. A few people of my acquaintance have stated that they have no desire to live, travel, or vacation in a place that is not in Maine. No desire to explore the United States, or the rest of the damn world. Personally, I cannot wrap my mind around this. I have been lucky enough to be able to visit many places in and outside of the U.S. I have been exposed to different cultures, food, music, religion, and so on. I've seen amazing architecture, ruins, priceless works of art, and breathtaking landscapes. From all of these things, I've been able to expand my mind and learn things I never would have in school or online. 

What I don't understand is, how can someone be satisfied by being in the same place for their whole life? How can a person not want to see the world and all the variety and beauty it offers? All I know is that I could never live here forever. I'll shove off from this conservative, monotone, potato-filled island and sail on to a place where there is civilization. But until I do, stay tuned for more "From Away: An Outsider in Northern Maine".

Farms Are Fun! (depending on who you are)

This time of year, the one thing on lots of people's minds is potatoes. Not just because they are delicious (especially when baked and paired with sour cream) but because they're money. Potatoes are a big industry here in Northern Maine. It seems like everywhere I look there are potato fields, potato harvesters, and potato houses. In fact, I live right next door to a potato house!

In Autumn, the potato harvest happens. This means that lots of farmers go out into the fields and dig 'em up. Apparently this requires a lot of loud machinery. Also, it requires a lot of help. For example, here in Littletown and Biggertown, it is possible for teenagers in the local high school to skip out on classes in order to pick potatoes. Sometimes the kids are absent from school for up to a month. But it's cool, because they're getting paid. 

You may be wondering, "what does one do when working the Great Potato Harvest?". Well, I can speak from experience. First of all, you get up early. At 5 am. Don't forget to dress warm, because it will be freezing out. Layers are your friend. Then you drive to the potato house, where all the exciting work will happen. Once you are located within said potato house, the fun will commence! A very large potato truck (think dump truck, but filled to the brim with taters) will back into your area, and a conveyor belt will then transport the potatoes to your general direction. 

Here is the best part. You will stand next to the conveyor belt (all day) and watch potatoes (all day). Your job is to "pick rocks". That is a non-fancy way of saying that you leave the potatoes alone, and pick the rocks off of the conveyor. You will do this all day. After a few hours, the tips of your fingers will start to hurt. Then they will go numb. Either from the cold, or the fact that you have been hitting them on rocks (all day). When 8pm comes around, you'll be done. And that's it, ladies and gents. 

I only did the Great Potato Harvest for a day. People, I am not made for manual labor. I made $100, and couldn't eat potatoes for months. But heck, if you love taters and don't mind finger-numbing work, come up to Northern Maine. You can have all the potatoes you want (mashed or fried). 

Can you repeat that?

No matter where one travels in the United States, one will invariably encounter new words. Every city and state has it's own language. I remember when I first moved to North Carolina, I couldn't understand what anyone was saying. But that was mostly because of the accents. Well, the same thing happened when I moved to Maine. I found myself constantly thinking to myself: "what the heck does that mean?". I would constantly have to ask people to repeat themselves. And then explain it to me. 

One piece of language that I will never forget is a derivation of the word "vehicle". You know, as in a car. I suppose it is more of a mispronunciation. I was having a conversation with a girl my age, mid-20's, and she was telling me about her car troubles. 
Hav'ta get 'er inspected. 
Rusted panels. 
Should'a never bought tha damn veericle in tha furst place.

I had to pause. Veericle? Surely you jest. 
But sure enough, that was what she meant to say. It's easy, just take the "h" out, and put in an "r". And there you go. This has been your first lesson on how to speak like a Mainer. 

Another juicy little nugget, and your second lesson, is the word "garage". Now you may be thinking to yourself, "how could you possibly make this word sound any weirder?". It's simple...add an "r"! And, like magic, you have "gararge". By the by, it's pronounced like: garahrge. Tricky, I know. 

Then of course we have the saying "you're gonna think so". Used mostly to reprimand, this statement can be used in all types of situations. For example, say your friend has placed a ladder precariously. It is bound to tip over! You might say to your thoughtless friend, "you're gonna think so when that thing tips over and you bust yer head!". Or perhaps you are a small child and have damaged your dad's most prized possession (I'll leave that part up to your imagination). Your mother is livid! "You're gonna think so when your father gets home!", she'll say. 
And that, reader, is our third and final lesson for the day. 
Stay tuned for more crazy colloquialisms and more on "From Away"! 

Where Am I?

See those mountains? That's Canada. This is the view from my front yard; I could walk to Canada if I wanted to. But I digress...

I live a small town in Northern Maine. Very small. Let's just call it Littletown. Littletown is very little. There are no stores, no gas stations, no stop signs, and no traffic lights. Driving at the speed limit, 55 mph, one can drive through Littletown in a matter of minutes. Made up of mostly forest and greenery, my place of residence is microscopic. 

When I first arrived here, I was at a loss for words. "These people can't be serious", I thought. Well, they were. The closet town, Biggertown, is about a 10 minute drive away from Littletown. There isn't a Starbucks. There isn't a mall. For God's sake there isn't even a Target! Although Biggertown lacks much of what I am used to, it does offer a unique variety of shopping venues. There are two grocery stores, one pharmacy, three gas stations, KFC, McDonald's, Burger King, a movie theater (two screens) and...wait for it...Wal-mart. 

Now, Wal-Mart is a busy place. Probably busier than any other Wally World you've ever been to. It is the "place to be", or "bees knees" if you prefer. For the locals, Wal-Mart is the place to socailize. Droves of Littletowners and Biggertowners flock there to catch up with friends, relatives, and acquaintances. They stand in the aisles, conversing about their weekend "out to camp", or their recent problems with diabetes. Flannel patterns intermingle until your vision is obscured by plaid upon plaid upon plaid. 

Not only does Wal-Mart offer foodstuffs, generic clothing, and socialization, it is also where the yung'uns strut their stuff. In Biggertown, Wal-Mart is to the teenagers what The Mall was to me when I was in high school. "Put your best outfit on and do up your face! We're going to Wal-Mart!" The teenagers are easy to pick out: Hollister jeans (flares are out, duh!) and Abercrombie & Fitch sweaters (American Eagle is acceptable, too). There are the occasional interesting and divergent fashion choices, but this is rare. It is more difficult to be different here in such a small and rural area. It appears that it is easier to conform; for teenagers, at least.

 Man, I'm glad I'm not a teenage girl anymore. 



Thanks for reading, and stayed tuned for the next episode of "From Away: An Outsider in Northern Maine". 

Introduction

I grew up in Southern Florida. A small town, but not too small. I always had my head in the clouds and my feet in the sand. Florida's a great state, but it has its bad points. Snow birds, elderly drivers who can't reach the gas pedal, sunburns, sweat stains, etcetera. Now that I think about it, all that stuff makes Florida more interesting. 

Anyway, after living there for 20 years, I moved to Maine. First for a job, but now I find that I have a small family here. It mostly consists of my boyfriend, my cat Whisper, and his two dogs Liquor and Blue. So...now I'm ensconced. In Northern Maine. Where there's snow, and lots of it. 

Life here is so much different than it is in the south. People are...well, really different. There's different slang, terminology, culture, thought processes. Since I now reside in such a small town, everyone and no one knows who I am. They know me as 'the girl from away'. And reader, anyone who isn't from here is from away. An instant outsider. 

I feel like an investigative reporter. Jotting down notes on this strange and perhaps primitive culture. "See how they all flock to the truck pulls!" and "Carhart clothing seems to be a status symbol here in the North, and Hollister jeans instantly make teenage girls into leaders of the pack." Well, I guess it sounded funnier in my head. 

Life is so curious here. Immensely opposite to what I am used to. But that's what makes it fun.