Great Moments in Maine Real Estate Seis

I’ve long since adapted my way of thinking to the Maine life. Nary a hint of Massachusetts left in it. In order to demonstrate how fully I’ve become acclimated, let me list all the furniture and other items currently on display in our living room:

• A large, very old couch, heavily frilled at the edges by multiple cats, covered with a dropcloth because I’ve been patching the ceiling
• An orange five-gallon pail filled with sand I swept out of the road last fall because who pays for sand?
• A roll-around office chair I don’t like
• My thirty-year-old work boots, which have a hint of Chaplin about them
• A bolt cutters (don’t ask)
• Four, seventy-five-year-old postcards I found behind the heavy oak baseboards when we removed them
• A pair of children’s metal craft scissors I found inside the wall when I rewired an outlet
• A snowblower
• A gray cat, looking at the snowblower, and wondering if it’s nuttier than the tree we dragged in there last month

So I’m obviously “getting there” as far as Maine life goes, although I can’t bring myself to put the couch on the porch outside and finish the effect. A Portsmouth Bridge Too Far, that is. But I’m starting to feel like I can make the rounds of Maine real estate with more affection and sympathy than a regular flatlander could. So let’s try to all get in the spirit of the thing, and enjoy another blast of Great Moments in Maine Real Estate.

 

Whoah. I can hear you now. “Sippican, you’re losing a little off your fastball. How are we going to make mordant remarks about this cabin getaway?” Well, you’re partially right.  The partial Typar siding effect is nothing special in Maine. A house on stilts holds no terrors for folks from Baton Rouge or anything. The rich, red stain has a pleasing effect. That porch is as pleasant a place to slap flies on your neck as you could wish for. Why single this place out as notable, you’re wondering.

Because it’s in Moxie Gore. No shit, really; there’s a place called Moxie Gore in Maine. I want to write a potboiler novel with a crime-fighting sexy female lumberjack named Moxie Gore. Admit it. Maine is cooler than wherever it is you live, because we have a Moxie Gore in our state, and you don’t. Also, it’s January, so Maine is so much cooler already than most everywhere else.

But don’t cry for us, Argentina. Mainers know how to deal with the cold. We have numerous large dogs and even larger girlfriends, and we sleep cozy every night. If that fails, and she leaves you for a totally different trailer park beau, and takes the dogs with her, we also know how to install radiators to keep us warm. And stay in the corner with all the heat to ourselves, away from whatever left that stain on the floor there.

Let’s talk about this room. No, really, talk. Oh, you’ll talk. No matter how long we have to keep you in here, you’ll talk. And if the ransom doesn’t come through, well, I don’t have to tell you what the snowblower in the living room is for, do I?

Hulk no like bath, Hulk-mom. Hulk no like shower either. Hulk no happy. Hulk smash bathtub. Hulk happy now.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone here, people. This is a very expensive house by Maine standards. It has indoor plumbing, for instance, and lots of it. But the builders still had the common touch. No matter how swanky the customer, we’ve all been in the same boat at one time or another: Just grabbed a quick bite in a Chipotle. Bombed through the drive-thru at the Taco Bell. Got the bucket of chicken so big at a Colonel Sanders joint you could wash a toddler in it when you’re through. That’s when you’re grateful for a contractor who knew that sometimes, you need a “two-hander” after you finish up. Nothing less will get the job done.

I always thought it would be a sweet gig to work for the paint company and name the colors. You know, instead of calling the colors j26-589, they have names like Periwinkle Heaven or Madagascar Sunset and stuff like that. I think I’d be good at it. For instance, I think the paint in the last photo should be called Subterranean Homesick Blues. But that sort of approach would just invite lawsuits, I guess, so I know I’ll never get the job.