My paternal grandparents

John Clark remembering an endangered species. They can’t be manufactured, nor imported, and definitely cannot be bred in captivity. When I was a kid back in the 1950s, they were abundant and I doubt anyone even entertained the thought that they might someday be as rare as an honest republican. In fact, many back in the day were in that party and I suspect they’d roll over in their grave (or bed at the nursing home) if they could see what passes for such these days, but I digress..

I’m talking about that phenomenon we here in Maine, know as the Real Maine Character. I don’t make the cut, having only been here since 1949, but I can spot them wicked easy. Most are reticent to the point where unwary flatlanders think them a bit on the slow side, but that’s a huge error, one that often comes back to bite said outtastater in the ass. Most have a sense of humor so dry it would stop basement mold in its tracks. They tend to look askance at anything that hasn’t been around for half their lifetimes (think debit cards, cell phones, electric cars, etc.) They favor pick-up trucks and like my RMC friend Vaughn from Skowhegan and love to dicker, even when the other fella is also an RMC.

They’re pretty solid in dietary habits, too. Bean suppahs are a good place to spot both genders of RMCs. In fact, I’d venture that damn near every pie served at such an event was made by an RMC lady. They populate Maine fairs in droves. Look for them around the horse and tractor pulls, making spare bets at the ever-decreasing harness races and the female RMCs aren’t above one-upping each other when it comes to competing in the canned, pickled, and hand sewn categories in the exhibition halls.

They know where the best trout holes are and scorn folks who hunt with fancy high-powered rifles, preferring ones like a lever action 30-30. They also have been known to hunt near one of the famed Maine Pine Apple Trees. They’re also easy to spot at town meetings, just listen when the school budget articles come up.

My grandfather, Dr. Arthur H. Clark was one, as was my favorite relative, my great uncle Leland Look from New Vineyard. Doc was perhaps the last circuit-riding and barter dentist in the state. He traveled between offices in Bingham, Kingfield, Rangeley, and his house in West New Portland. During the depression, he often traded dental work for firewood, venison, or furs. Uncle Leland was postmaster in New Vineyard for many years, ran a trap line into his 80s, cut and split his own firewood and raised the best dinner plate dahlias I’ve ever seen. He was a man of few words, but I still remember him fondly and often. Another great Uncle, we called Cleba (his full name was Grover Cleveland Harville), lived with Aunt Lottie in Skowhegan. They had a cistern built into a small pantry off the kitchen that never stopped fascinating us when my sisters and I visited. He made his living as a chauffeur for rich people, but his side hustle was more unique-he was the unofficial fiddler for Somerset County.

They weren’t the only RMCs I’ve known. They were abundant when I was growing up in Union. Among the ones I remember most vividly are Arlo Wadsworth who was around my age and famous for offering ‘real cash money’ whenever he wanted to buy something. Bill Keene was a truck driver of few words who wore the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen. Henry Hills, who lived next door, distinguished himself by saving two kids when his gas torch set off an explosion underneath the trailer they lived in while repairing pipes. Even with half his face blistered, Henry remained cool and got the kids and their mother out before things got ugly. If I remember correctly, Henry, a bachelor in his forties, married the woman not long after.

Two more come to mind. One was Raymond Feyler who everyone called Jumbo. His claim to fame was going to the movies in Rockland every Friday and buying a big container of popcorn that lasted all through the movie. The last was our up the road in Appleton neighbor, Hilda Stockbridge. She was a hard worker, raising three sons by herself. She loved to talk, but had a partial paralysis of her vocal cords that made doing so a challenge. One summer afternoon, Hilda had the windows in her living room open while vacuuming during a thunder storm. (We used to have some doozies that followed the Georges River down from Liberty back in those days). The story goes that a bolt of lightning came down, ricocheted off a boulder, came in one window, flew past her and out the other side. Poor Hilda was so shocked, she couldn’t utter a word for at least a week.

Uncle Leland with his sister Della who was my grandmother. The kid in the photo is the famous Kate Flora.

I’ve met a lot more RMCs, particularly in my roles as a mental health professional and public librarian, so many, in fact, that I have no problem taking bits of several to create a new character when writing stories set here in Maine. What are your memories of RMCs?