Maine Blizzard of the Century

In late December 1962 the perfect storm of the century hit Maine with 6 feet of snow in places, and 20 foot drifts. Normally Maine snowplow drivers can keep up with heavy snowfall by driving non-stop day and night, but not this time. This storm was a nor'easter, and she won the battle as the blizzard of the century closed down the entire state.

My job was to shovel out the car which was parked in the yard. First I had to find it. Before that I had to go upstairs because the only exit was through a bedroom window on the second floor and onto the shed roof. Next, I stepped off the roof, or perhaps I should say up. It sure wasn't down because drifting snow was up to the second floor.

With broom in hand I began poking the handle into the snow until I heard a clunk. Continuing along, no clunk meant I found the edge of the car, and within 15 minutes I had a perfect outline poked in the snow. The next step was shoveling out about a foot from the outline, and then 6 feet down to get to tire level. An hour or so later I was done for what it was worth. It would be a few days before roads were clear to go anywhere.

Back then Derby had a post office, and a zip code. Both are gone, so today Derby will be found under Milo, and if you plan on a visit don't bother searching for a Holiday Inn. Anyway, back to the storm... the post office finally opened and to enter you stepped down into a 6 foot square hole to get to the door.

Someone in my family must have that photo of our porch from the 1962 storm. The main door was through the porch, and the entrance was a tunnel, and in one photo of my Mom it looks like she's crawling out of an igloo. Ayuh. That was a good'un.

TAGS: Maine stories blizzard

Ballfield Mystery in Derby Maine

During our early teens in Derby, Maine, a friend and I encountered 2 youngsters during an incredible and scary sight. On the way to the iron bridge over the Piscataquis River, we took a shortcut through the old baseball field rather than take the railroad tracks. That day was clear and unusually hot pushing 90 in the shade.

The ball field was long abandoned and grown over in many places with very large patches of sand in the infield. It was in a remote spot at the end of town, and the open field was hidden back 50 feet behind some trees. As we rounded a corner into the opening, there they were.

Two boys, probably 8 or 9 years old, were crawling very slowly across a stretch of sand, and gasping. They barely moved. From the trail left in the sand they had crawled a good 10 yards at least. Running up for a closer look, we asked what happened and were they all right. One turned slowly as if in agony, coughed once or so, and then gasped "We're... okay. We're... playing desert." We left 'em crawling. The desert adventure and pantsload of sand would have to wait for another day.

Reflecting on moments like that make me wonder about childlike imagination. A few years later I had the pleasure of crawling in sand through barbed wire with 50 caliber machine gun fire whistling overhead. Those boys had it made.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby adventure

Old Lady and Her Roof Pigeons

One summer day in the late 1950's, a dear old lady on Railroad Street in Derby, Maine decided the roof pigeons had to go. Her afternoon naps were interrupted listening to constant cooing while an army of tiny footsteps scratched around on the roof. Throughout the entire day antics included coordinated flights of a couple dozen pigeons flap-flap-flapping coming and going. Droppings were another nuisance.

It was time for action. Stepping outside and back a few yards, she let loose with a pistol and fired off 4 or 5 shots trying to at least scare if not kill a few of the rascals. Ayuh, it worked. They were gone in a flash as a few feathers went flying, and after a wide sweep around the block the entire flock returned back to her roof. Each was unscathed and fearless. Unfortunately for the widow, she missed the pigeons completely but managed to aerate the roof with 5 holes that leaked like the dickens come next rain.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby

Maine Exile Mugs Have Arrived

Being away, but not from away, discovering the Maine Exiles page was a treat. I ordered 2 mugs as shown in the photo and kudos to the team for quality and service beyond my expectations. Their banner reads "Loving Maine... Living Away".

The package arrived last week, and it took this long to finally take photos and crop the background to create the graphic shown. Besides a confirmation email on the day they were mailed, the box arrived well protected with extra packing material and contained the 2 mugs, the invoice, and a Maine post card with a handwritten personal note.

Visit the Maine Exile Products website to see the selection of exile gifts to send to all the Mainers you know who are away. My site stats show many of my blog readers are away and visiting this site anywhere from New Hampshire to California, and places in between.

Quality and service with a personal touch reminds me of the way life should be. I sense a great state slogan somewhere in there.

TAGS: Maine stories souvenir

Finn’s Friday Fry by Mainard True

Guest contributor: Mainard True, Black Fly Blog and Laugh Maine (Wicked Humah)

Heino, a Finn from Oxford County in western Maine, was an older, single gentleman who was born and raised a Lutheran. Each Friday night after work, he would fire up his outdoor grill and cook a venison steak.

Now, all of Heino’s neighbors were Catholic… and during Lent they were forbidden from eating meat on Fridays. The delicious aroma from the grilled venison steaks was causing such a problem for the Catholic faithful that they finally talked to their priest.

The priest came to visit Heino, and suggested that he convert to Catholicism. After several classes and much study, Heino attended Mass… and as the priest sprinkled holy water over Heino, he said, "You were born a Lutheran and raised a Lutheran, but now you are Catholic."

Heino’s neighbors were greatly relieved, until Friday night arrived, and the wonderful aroma of grilled venison again filled the neighborhood.

The priest was called immediately by the neighbors and, as he rushed into Heino’s yard, clutching a Rosary and prepared to scold Heino, he stopped in amazement and watched.

There stood Heino, clutching a small bottle of water that he carefully sprinkled over the grilling meat, and spoke:

"You were born a deer, and raised a deer, but now you are a walleye!"

Written and contributed by: Mainard True

TAGS: Maine stories humor

The $200 a Pound Fish

This photo (left) shows the before dream fish and the other (right) is my $200 a pound reality fish. Ayuh, the fake version was what I imagined before going ocean fishing on a party boat. The real version weighed in at around a quarter pound, so divided into the cost of the trip, this beauty was $200 a pound and worth every dime. Time well spent is priceless.

Growin' Up in Maine and 50 miles from the ocean, my life experience fishing was brooks, ponds, streams, and an occasional lake. Before the party boat, my first shot at ocean fishing included the best gear and $5 lures as I tried my hand at surf casting from the beach. The difference between a 6 foot rod for fresh water and a 10 footer was immediately apparent as the first toss was dang near 100 yards.

I was impressed. As I checked the tip of the rod for a twitch and ready to set the hook, imagine the surprise seeing 2 feet of line flapping in the wind. I donated (launched?) several lures before deciding to retire. Time spent in this case would have been more priceless giving away $5 bills outside the IGA.

TAGS: Maine stories fishing

Ancient Balancing Act in Maine

Imagine staying put for 20,000 years without budging. Balancing Rock on Jo Mary Lake in Central Maine and just south of Millinocket has been teetering in place since the last ice age 20,000 years ago. Glaciers formed many of the lakes in the northern USA, and rocks like the one shown in the photograph were left behind as the receding edge of the glacier fell apart and melted.

This area of Maine was one of my parents favorite camping spots. Only 10% of the pristine lakeshore has actual camp sites, so the rest is pure wilderness. Photos of Balancing Rock are featured on post cards sold at the camping center, but until you actually see the rock in person the size is left to the imagination. The model aka spouse here was dropped off by boat and then I took the photo from 20 feet away. Tip: Act quickly to rescue the model. The fuse is short when stranded 50 yards from shore; humor may not be appreciated if they are from away.

The second photo is my dog at Jo Mary Lake with Mt Katahdin in the background. If you are considering a day trip to visit and look around Jo Mary Lake, go on a Wednesday. For less than the cost of a fast food meal the evening beanhole suppers are incredible. Cooking the secret recipe begins the day before in cast iron beanpots buried underground to simmer 24 hours on natural wood coals.

Although the lake is only about 1 mile wide, don't make the same mistake as one unfortunate couple. 90% is wilderness, and 10% is swampy bogs with muck 'n' mire. Thinking a trip around the lake is a 3 hour tour? Think Gilligan's Island. Tired, wet, cold, and muddy, the couple mentioned was rescued in the middle of the night. In addition to getting lost, they learned about our famous Maine blackflies the hard way.

TAGS: Maine stories Mt Katahdin

Mike Bordick and Mike White from Maine

Anaheim, CA, Sept 7, 1992 - Mike Bordick from Maine, and golden glove shortstop for the Oakland A's, hit a blazing line drive foul ball into the left field stands into the waiting hands of Jim Degerstrom, also from Maine. Degerstrom's claim of catching the foul ball was later corrected by his lovely wife "You didn't catch it, or you'd be missing a finger or two. You retrieved it after it flew by like a rocket, bounced off an empty seat 20 feet away, ricocheted back in a high arc, and dribbled up and down right under your chair. Still sitting, you bent over and picked it up."

The wife is always right. I've never caught a foul ball.

Here's a photograph of the baseball obviously rubbed by the pitcher in red dirt, and still waiting almost 15 years later for a Mike Bordick autograph. That's the game ticket next to it. Any readers who know Mike or how to reach him please email me. An autograph would be a great final touch to this momento. If you live in Maine you probably know Mike Bordick, or so some people would think. Please continue.

Now on to Mike White. In 1968 I was away and having a casual conversation with a guy in New Jersey. When I mentioned that I was from Maine, he asked "Do you know Mike White?". Huh? What do people think!!? I was too dumbfounded to speak at first and just froze with eyes glazed over and my mouth wide open. I recovered and replied "no", and went on to explain the population of Maine is, was, and will probably stay around 1 million. Double that during tourist season and I never met Mike White.

TAGS: Maine stories Mike Bordick baseball

Water Skiing Like a Submarine

Learning to water ski at age 30, my Dad proved just why Swedes are known for being stubborn. Most of our family vacations were within 20 miles of my home town of Derby, Maine, and the photo here was on Sebec Lake. One year my father decided to give her a try.

He got into position with his signature King Edward's cigar hanging from one corner of his mouth, and sat back with the tow rope between the 2 tips of the skis. Giving the thumbs up, off he went, or almost. For whatever reason he went under as the boat took off, and was completely submerged and plowing water. Being tough and stubborn, he wouldn't let go and was dragged about 15 feet like a submarine, and then popped up skiing like a champ.

After a few loops around the lake the boat finally made a swing near the shore. To our surprise, the stubborn rascal still had the cigar.

TAGS: Maine stories water skiing

Best Dart Tosser in the State of Maine

As a youngster Growin' Up in Maine, I once witnessed a sports challenge with bragging rights and a lifelong lesson. As adolescents, 3 male friends and I were comparing notes on sports heroes like Mickey Mantle, and arguing like the dickens. It was a gorgeous summer day in Derby, Maine, and the topic suddenly turned when throwing darts came up. The shortest of our group decided to pump up his reputation and blurted out "I am the best dart tosser in the State of Maine". The raised eyebrows, a few nyuk nyuk nyuks and then total silence demanded a comeback, so he added "...and I can prove it!".

Being the best in Derby, population 300, or even just Piscataquis county would have been enough, but the entire State of Maine? What happened next was one of those unforgettable moments of small town living. The dart tossing jock called out to his 10 year old sister who was playing not far away, and she came running. To our surprise she immediately complied when told to stand up against the barn door and spread out her arms. She never flinched as he lined up his aim from about 15 feet away while holding the first dart next to his nose.

Our doubts began to melt away. Perhaps the spectacle of a future champion dart tosser was in the making, and only his sister knew the secret. As the champ reared back and let loose, the quiet tension broke as little sister took a dart straight to the shoulder and ran home with a steady blood curdling scream. Don't try this at home. It wasn't fatal, dumb maybe and stuck solid, just not fatal. For the sake of decency and a matter of pride, names have been omitted.

TAGS: Maine stories darts

Tips for Shooting Moose in Maine

Guest contributor: Brenda Marcotte, Moose Bog Blog and Maine Moose Tours

Shooting Tip 1: Use a Camera, by Brenda
Moose Tours are many things to many people. For one young mother and her five year old son, it was a morning's adventure, their first moose, and some quality time alone (daddy stayed home with the 8 month old baby sister). This day I thought was going to be my first time being skunked while driving a tour. I told her "I never give up until we are back in town" and assured her there were a few more "holes" to pass on our way back.


Within minutes they were staring with wide-eyed wonder at their first moose, a magnificient bull with a huge rack. He was standing in a small boggy area, (let me get this right...) rear end to the road less than 20 feet from us when I stopped. He turned and looked at them while I reminded her "take a picture!" She had totally forgotten the camera in her hand and fumbled with it momentarily. The moose took time to put his head down for another drink. Lifting his regal dome again, he looked back over his shoulder, right into her eyes, posing for a quick snapshot before walking into the brush! For me, the moose tours are pure joy.

I love what I am doing and feel privileged to be able to share these wonderful experiences with people.

Shooting Tip 2: Use a Camera, by Jim
For those who thought this story involved bullets, here's one that does as told from personal experience by one of my uncles who lived in Bangor, Maine, God rest his soul. During the depression in the 1930's he was not adverse to jacking moose to keep food on the table for his family, and he had perfected his technique. The nighttime excursions took him to an island on the Penobscot River by wading out with his horse, who came along to carry the carcasse if they got lucky.

On one occasion after tying up the horse, my uncle had to wait some for cloud cover to block the moon, and then he began wading knee deep along the shore of the island stalking his prey. Shining the flashlight to find his way and hopefully to temporarily blind a moose, within 45 minutes he lit up a pair of eyes and hunter and hunted froze in their tracks. Pulling the barrel up to hold with the same hand as the flashlight he squeezed off a shot. They ate horsemeat that winter.

P.S. Thank you for sharing your wilderness experience, Brenda, and especially your great photos!

TAGS: Maine stories moose

You Can't Get There from Newark

Get 500 miles or so from Maine, and dang some people are hard to understand. On leave to return home from Fort Dix in New Jersey back in '68, I had a wicked time getting a bus ticket to Newark to catch a plane for Bangor. Replying to "What is your destination?", I said "I'd like a tick-it to Noo-ahk." You can 'magine the puzzled look.

Asked again "What city?", I replied in perfect English "Noo-ahk." Then it started getting difficult. Speaking slower than molasses in Fort Kent in February she says "I'm sorry young man, but do... you... want... to go... to Noo York?". "Nope" says I. "I'd like a tick-it to Noo-ahk." I can't really say who was more frustrated at the moment yet the line was beginning to back up some and no translator handy.

Then she has the nerve to ask "Well, son, I'm having trouble understanding; can you spell that?". Insulted, it was time for a little dry humor, so I replied "Ayuh" and cut her off with a moment of dead silence to let it sink in. She didn't get it. Happy ending was when I conceded and wrote down N-e-w-a-r-k and the light bulb went off. On the return trip I already had Fort Dix written down. Last thing I needed was "You can't get there from Newark."

TAGS: Maine stories Bangor humor

Maine Turnpike Sight Gag

My sister Carol is a well known crafter Down East, and on one of our return visits to Maine she gave my wife a 4 foot fisherman that she created. Before leaving I made up the cardboard sign shown in the photograph, and then my wife and I had some fun with it on the Maine Turnpike.

Heads turned as we passed cars and we could tell the real Mainers because they knew the meaning of "from away" and enjoyed a chuckle or two. A few sped up for a second look! Born in Maine, I can never be "from away" (although my wife is), yet despite the out of state plate and suspicious sign we were never pulled over and made a clean getaway into New Hampshire.

As a reminder, visitors are welcome to submit photos and stories of Growin' Up in Maine for consideration.

TAGS: Maine stories crafts humor

Main Street Milo Maine 1922

From Derby, Maine to Milo was practically a stone's throw and by comparison Milo was huge with a population of 2500 when I grew up there in the 1950's and 60's. The photo here shows Main Street in 1922 which is about the time both my parents were born, Dad in Derby and Mom in Levant.

Since this photo was taken which shows they had electricity or at least the wiring in 1922, one traffic light has been added. Not much else has changed as far as lifestyle except there are very few dirt roads now. The grandparents on my father's side had 15 children, and Mom and Dad had 8, plus the maternal grandparents had close to 10, so you couldn't go far without running into a relative.

Main Street in Milo was a favorite on weekends and I recall movies at the theater for a quarter and below that a bowling alley that youngsters were not allowed to visit. I can only guess that drinking, smoking, and swearing went along with bowling. I never asked and no one offered details, so I'll never know. Both the theater and bowling alley are gone now, but not all the fond memories of Growin' Up in Maine. Small town living in Maine is still my ideal and something I miss.

TAGS: Maine stories Milo

Life on the Farm in Monson Maine

Life in Maine at the turn of the century was hard. I don't mean the latest century, but from the 1800's into the early 1900's. The homes shown in the photographs below were built by Lars Fredrik "Fred" Degerstrom, my great grandfather, who emigrated from Sweden in 1881 with his siblings, wife Matilda, children, and parents Nils and Maria. Matilda was pregnant with my grandfather, Oscar, born soon after arrival and the first ancestor born in America.

Fred built all 3 homes, and the family group (lower right) pictures 7 of his 11 children. The first house (upper left) was known for having the largest barn in Monson. The home was struck by lightning and burned flat.

Fred rebuilt a smaller house across the road (upper right). Years later it was struck by lightning and burned flat. By this time the children were grown and gone, so Fred and Matilda abandoned the homestead and lived in Dover with their eldest daughter, Edna. In time Matilda was homesick for the farm, so Fred built the third very small home (lower left) where they lived until his death in 1938.

Ship records show the family left Malmo, Sweden for Bangor Maine on September 15, 1881. The very ship that brought the last of the Degerstrom family from Sweden to America sank on the return trip and all persons aboard perished in the Atlantic Ocean.

That last fact came from an incredible source. My grandfather Oscar died in 1953 at age 72. During a Swedish event in Monson in 1996 people were invited to speak, and I told about my family history research and the Monson connection. I was told a "Degerstrom" was in the nursing home in Dover Foxcroft, and we found her later that day.

Gladys Degerstrom turned out to be Oscar's sister, still living 43 years after his death. Born in 1900 and very sharp at 96, she provided many details of life on the farm in Monson, Maine, including the ship that sank and the names of the two horses in the upper left photo, Betsy and Doctor. Another photo of Gladys (center and front in the group of 4 above) and stories she told may be added later. Incidently, she outlived her children and some grandchildren!

TAGS: Maine stories Monson

Tracking Down Family Ancestors

In the 1990's I began a quest tracking down family ancestors, and I discovered some were practically in our back yard. The extended family of relatives I knew in the 1950's were mostly within 5 miles. My parents were strapped raising 8 kids, so without an automobile our travels were mostly walking distance. The Degerstrom grandparents lived next door, and the Parkman set were within 2 miles.

While studying the genealogy of my Degerstrom surname I discovered my great grandfather lived within 50 miles of my home town, Derby, where my Dad was born and raised his family. The ancestors emigrated to Monson, Maine from Sweden in 1881, and as shown in the photograph here the street they carved out was eventually named Degerstrom Road. More amazingly, my great great grandfather and his wife emigrated with them. These facts were not known by my Dad who may have met his grandfather once as a teenager in the 1930's.

The distance from Derby to Monson may as well have been 1000 miles. With the help of my brothers and contacts in Sweden, we eventually traced the family name back to the year 1560. Before coming to America more than 10 generations lived as farmers in Northern Sweden in the village of Ranea, and very close to the Arctic Circle.

TAGS: Maine family stories Derby

Old School, Derby Maine Style

The kindergarten to grade 5 old school at the foot of Derby Hill in Derby, Maine is gone. The style of the bulding was pre-1900 with a huge bell as barely shown in the photograph here. When I attended in the 1950's, recess ended with one happy kid yanking on the thick rope upstairs while children rushed to line up according to grade at the entrance. The rope yanking bell ringer was selected moments earlier by either the principal or recess monitor.

Things began to change in the 1960's. Derby was a railroad town and depended on the demand for rail transportation (and, yes, passenger service) for sustained growth. The post WWII economy with affordable cars plus modern methods of shipping were the beginning of the end. Aging boomers kept the population of Derby steady at around 300 while fewer children meant the schoolhouse wasn't cost effective. The school was demolished in the late 1960's not long after I moved away, and students were bussed to Milo Elementary.

Graduation from the 5th grade in Derby meant going to Milo and joining a much larger group of unfamiliar faces. Derby graduates spent the first year in the Milo Elementary School feeling like you were from outer space. Next came 2 years at Milo Junior High, a building about the size of Derby Grammar, and the circle of friends began to grow. Finally you arrived at Milo High School where most of us graduated 4 years later.

Coming from Milo and rounding the top of Derby Hill to descend into the village just isn't the same with the old school gone. My Dad attended the same schoolhouse and both parents graduated from Milo High School. As of 1968 it's gone, too, although it survived and was converted to a senior citizen home.

TAGS: Maine stories school Derby

The Swimming Hole Down Back

This is the old swimming hole located Down Back on the Sebec River in Derby, Maine as viewed looking upstream. As youngsters my 4 brothers and I with many of our friends used to spend most summer days like Huck Finn swimming, fishing, or rafting in this spot.

The term "Down Back" predates my birth and I'm not really sure of the origin except in order to find the old swimming hole you needed to go "down" and "back" some to get there.

This photograph shows several of the named rocks that have withstood 3 generations of the Degerstrom family without being renamed. My Grandpa and Dad each taught their youngsters how to swim at the old swimming hole. Having left Maine in my early 20's, I have at least brought my son back to build a cedar log raft and go for a dip.

The foreground rock is "diving rock", and because of its position a sandbar extends from the edge out into the river. At times there was less than 18 inches of water, so the diving technique required the right angle and a touch of insanity.

Next back is sucker rock (close to shore to the left and not shown) and then sliding rock. The large round rock is sunfish rock, and barely visible upstream is bass rock. Beyond that the river bends to the right, and about 1 mile further is Milo, Maine.

Down Back will be one of the feature locations for many of the stories about Growin' Up in Maine.

TAGS: Derby fishing Maine Milo rafting stories swimming

Introduction to Growin' Up in Maine

Old timers from Maine may have trouble recalling the fine details of moments experienced 40, 50, or 60 plus years ago. For some reason I recall preschool stories in detail that amazed a few of my 7 brothers and sisters. Fishing, hunting, swimming, rafting, camping, ice skating, church, holidays, vacation, playing games, or just exploring in the woods Down Back are all fond memories.

Here's a photograph taken back in 2000 of a few of the family members at Jo Mary Lake campgrounds in Central Maine which is located between Millinocket and Milo.

No doubt my home town shrunk, or perhaps my legs got longer. Visiting now as an adult, all the vast expanse of 4 square miles that seemed like the universe back then makes me realize how little it takes to be truly happy.

Derby, Maine, estimated population 300, was and continues to be a microcosm of rural life in America. I wouldn't exchange a single moment in that small hick town for all the potatoes in Aroostook County.

TAGS: Maine stories Derby