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Maine History Volume 23 Number 3 Article 2 1-1-1984 Maine Folklore and the Folklore of Maine Some Reflections on the Maine Character and Down-East Humor Edward D. Ives University of Maine Orono Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.umaine.edu/mainehistoryjournal Part of the Oral History Commons, and the United States History Commons Recommended Citation Ives, Edward D.. "Maine Folklore and the Folklore of Maine Some Reflections on the Maine Character and Down-East Humor." Maine History 23, 3 (1984): 111-132. https://digitalcommons.library.umaine.edu/ mainehistoryjournal/vol23/iss3/2 This Article is brought to you for free and open access by DigitalCommons@UMaine. It has been accepted for inclusion in Maine History by an authorized administrator of DigitalCommons@UMaine. For more information, please contact [email protected]. EDWARD D. IVES Maine Folklore and the Folklore of Maine Some Reflections on the Maine Character and Down-East Humor* When I moved to Maine twenty-nine years ago, I did not come unprepared. Back in the early thirties, my sister Ruth attended Concord Academy and fell in love with her roommate’s brother. Since that family had a summer com pound in Maine, it followed naturally that my sister spent parts of several summers there. What did not follow naturally was that twice Ruth took her little brother along, but that’s the kind of wonderful sister Ruth was. I sailed and hiked and rock-climbed and swam and walked on the beach for two wonderful weeks each time, returning home with a suitcase overladen with shells and striped stones and a head spinning with love and enthusiasm for a place I hardly knew. Years later I was a counselor at a Maine camp and came to love the Maine woods as much if not more than I loved the coast. And back home or away at school in Massachusetts there were always people who had places in Maine or who had visited there, and we would talk and remember — each of us sure we loved Maine the most, each of us finding the other’s love a little suspect, true lovers all. But, speaking for myself, what I loved was a place — rocky coast, white pine, blue water, and all they imply. I had hardly met or spoken with anyone who lived in Maine. *This paper was delivered as a public lecture, first at Bowdoin College, October 27, 1980, and subsequently to the Islesboro Historical Society (July 29, 1981), the Deer Isle Historical Society (August 21, 1981), and as part of the Sweetser Lecture Series, York-Dyer Institute, Saco (September 28, 1982). Since it is presented here as it was conceived — as a public lecture — I have kept footnotes to a minimum, citing for the most part only those things that as a folklorist 1 feel might otherwise not be entirely clear to the readers of this journal. MAINE FOLKLORE Not that there were no people in this land I loved. They were there all right. I knew that because I had seen them, hauling traps, mending gear down on the wharf — and espe cially one old farmer whom I and my campers helped get his hay in and another man we’d bought lobsters from. I’d even met a Maine guide briefly. Not only had I seen Maine natives, but I had heard them talk, and I knew that they were just right on all counts, because back home I’d heard stories about them and had them described to me for years and years. Some of my family’s friends, in fact, were accomplished storytellers and were frequently called on to tell us a story about old Will or whoever it was. 1 remember Charlie Hester for one, who used to tell stories about a man named Jake. He’d tell them in dialect, and it got so that we could ask for particular stories by name. “Oh Charlie,” my mother would say, “tell us that one about Jake and his daughter,” and Charlie would oblige with something like the following: Well, you know Jake had this daughter that was rather fat and homely, and I never thought she was very intelligent. But for some reason she had to go up to Bangor. Well sometime after that, I asked Jake how his daughter’s trip had gone and this is what he said: "Oh good, real good. I’d warned her, you know, about talkin’ to strangers in the city and to be careful and all like a that, and she said she would. And you know, she was waiting f or the train there in the depot in Bangor and this fella come up and sit down next to her and she says he said 'Good day, miss,’ and she said good day. Well he says ‘Is this your first trip to Bangor?’ and she said it was. ‘Well,’ he says, 'would you like to see the sights a little?’ and she said no. ‘Well then,’ he says, ‘Could I buy you a soda maybe over at the lunch counter?’ and she said no she didn’t want no soda. ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘1 guess maybe you’d just as soon I’d go away,’ and she said yes she’d just as soon. And he got up and went away and didn’t bother her no more. “Now want that quick wit of her?’’ 112 MAINE FOLKLORE And then we’d all laugh and shake our heads and tell Charlie he really had that accent down, and for just a moment we were all back in that place we loved called Maine. Even my mother, who had never been to Maine at all. All of these impressions were reinforced by my reading, too. There were frequent stories in Field and Stream, which I read religiously, and I remember I had to read Sarah Orne Jewett’s “The Courting of Sister Wisby” in high school, which surprised me, because I enjoyed it in spite of my deep-seated prejudice against any thing I was told was literature. It was Maine again, and I loved it. Rocky coast, white pine, and blue water — yes, that was the place all right, and it was a place denizened by a crusty race of quaints who, if you added all the stories up, were indepen dent, conservative, delightfully behind the times (our times), and simply brimming with wry native smarts. After such knowledge, what forgiveness? I moved to Maine in 1955, and it’s been downhill ever since. That’s not quite right, though. Weekends I could still travel down to the coast or visit a lake to see the Maine I remembered, and while Orono is not exactly the scenic center of the state, I still found it far better than New York’s Riverside Park, which was my immediate comparison. Occasionally I would see and even meet people who seemed “typically Maine,” and that was nice, but the longer I lived here the more I saw that by and large Maine people were not much different from New Yorkers or (my next most immediate comparison) people from Jackson ville, Illinois. They told the same stories, laughed at the same cracks (both dry and not-so-dry), sang most of the same songs (when they sang at all), used many of the same figures of speech, wore the same clothes, were equally talkative and taciturn, were just about as up with and behind the times, and had even elected and were to reelect a Democratic governor. As a folklorist, I at first thought that I had to get by all I’d learned as a youngster. I saw it as false, as a caricature that obscured the reality of Maine. However, as I went along, I saw that that view was as narrow as the other, and equally false. The truth is that there were two realities and two traditions, 113 MAINE FOLKLORE each of them rich and worthy of study in its own right, and neither of them making entire sense without a knowledge of the other. Call one of them the folklore of Maine, the other Maine folklore. It doesn’t really matter which is which, but the one I want to discuss here is the one I grew up with, the one represented by Charlie Hester’s story, because of the two traditions it is both the better known and the less well under stood. Simply as an exercise, I always ask the students in my Maine folklore course to shout out adjectives that seem to them to best describe the Maine character, and almost inevitably the first shout will be “independent,” followed by some or all of the following: taciturn, understated, old-fashioned, quaint, rural, conservative, versatile, self-sufficient, crusty, out spoken, wry, thrifty, droll, witty, sharp, old, and (though properly speaking it is not an adjective) distrusting of strang ers. In addition there is an emphasis often not only on a lack of formal education but a certain practical contempt for too much of it, and there is the general recognition that the Maine character “talks funny” or “has an accent.” I then ask those who were born in Maine to raise their hands if they feel that these words accurately describe them and, as you may imag ine, no hands go up. “Well, then, do they describe your parents?” Again, no hands. “How about your grandparents?” Now I begin to get a few hands, but even here only a few, and it is not unusual for the mood to get a little tense at this point, as though I were attacking something they should be ready to defend.