Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Theme Week Eight
A life within the Army is a life that is exciting and full of so many new experiences. I started out in the Army as a eighteen year old high school senior. I went to Basic training in the summer of 97 and experienced so many things that I never knew existed. I met people from many different cultures and backgrounds. The summer of 97 daily routine consisted of four am wake up calls with Drill Sargent's yelling in my face. Then it went to the physical training for at least two hours. The rest of the day was taken up by weapons training, road marches, and drill and ceremony marching. In the evening we spent our time shining shoes, pressing uniforms, and yes more physical training. By the time we actually hit the pillow it was ten pm at the earliest. Then we had to look forward to the next day of doing it all over again. For over three months this went on with the only rest day being Sunday if we chose to go to church that is. I chose to go to three services on Sunday. One for the Baptist service, one for the Baptist service in Spanish, and one for the Catholic or "nap service." Day after day I was beat down just to be built back up. And I thought that when it was over I would have some huge ceremony that would make me put my nose in the air and think that I was better then everyone else. I was wrong! The ceremony consisted of Drill and Ceremony marching and then we got a piece of paper and went home with our families. I went home to my senior year in high school and that was when I got my gratification... My nose was in the air and I was better than everyone else. I had this new body and new look on the world. I had accomplished something that most of the people I went to school with would never have made it through. This was huge for me to have on my side. That is why I feel I went from small (basic training) to big (snobby high school kid).
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Theme Week Seven
No matter where I have traveled or where I have visited I have heard the term “redneck.” In the dictionary “redneck” is a despairing term for a member of the white rural laboring class, in the southern states. Living in Maine my entire life I have learned that a redneck is not just found in the southern states. I have found that at least a third of the human population in Maine is “rednecks.” I am of course being modest about the state I grew up in: Maine may actually be two thirds human population of rednecks. I have learned that there are three factors when determining if someone from Maine is a redneck.
First of all I can pick a redneck out of a crowd by listening to how he talks or the terms he may use in conversation. For some reason a Maine redneck forgets to pronounce the er, ar, and or at the end of some common words. Instead a Maine redneck will replace the ending of a word with ah or just add ah onto the end of a word. For instance the word car usually sounds like cah and the word yes usually comes out to sound like yesah. My father uses the term yesah on a daily basis in place of the word yes. A Maine redneck also has a different kind of accent. This accent is sometimes referred to as the Downeast accent. The Downeast accent from a Maine redneck is used by lengthening the vowel sounds of a word. Such words as camp may sound like caaamp. My uncle uses the word alright and it sounds like iight. The last way I can pick out a Maine redneck is by listening to some of the words he uses and the content the word is used for. I will never hear my father say that he was driving fast, instead I will hear him say that he was “boookin it”. My Uncle Steve always uses the term um yup, but it sounds like iiuut. The word wicked is used to describe almost anything in Maine. A younger Maine redneck may use it like “wicked cool” where as an older Maine redneck may use it like “Wicked nice.” In basic training I was picked on by many drill sergeants about the over use of the word wicked. When I had my first child my grandfather’s first statement was “he’s wicked cunnin.” My grandmother’s first statement was “he’s wicked smaaaht.”
Second of all Not only does a Maine redneck have a unique way of speaking but he also has a unique way of living. Anyone who has driven through Maine can agree that a Maine redneck is not the most elegant decorator. I usually see at least one broken down car in the yard of a Maine redneck. Even though the car has not run in five years, it still sits in the yard waiting to be fixed. Sometimes the car is also used as a stand for holiday decorations or even parts from another car. The holiday decorations are up all year round and a redneck will have Christmas lights on in the middle of June. I will see the dog staked out in the middle of the lawn. The dog, usually a beagle or another kind of hunting dog, has made a complete circle in the brownish grass from testing the boundaries of his chain. A Maine redneck never seems to finish what they start. A large majority of Maine rednecks homes are only half done. The siding is only on three sides of the house, usually leaving just the tar paper visible. This is where I believe the term “tar paper shack” comes from. The porch never got railings added; instead there are boxes and junk all over the porch creating just a path to the front door. The windows are missing the trim so I can see all the insulation around the edges of the window. The insulation is usually covered in the blackish colored mold that would make any normal person sick for weeks. The mold has built up so much that if anyone ever wanted to finish the trim around the windows they would have to reinstall a brand new window. The last thing I have seen at a Maine rednecks home is that in the summer the grass can sometimes get to be two feet high before it gets mowed. My dad always says he let the grass get so high to hide the broken down car he forgot to fix. The grass also hides the many lawn ornaments. The lawn ornaments have been out so long they are faded to the point that I can’t tell what they are anymore. My grandmother has the black bear ornament that looks like it is climbing the tree. Although after about thirteen years the bear has become a disgustingly brownish gray and has some sort of moss growing all over it. My grandmother also has a wooden light house that my grandfather painted to match the color of the house they live in. The light house was put on the lawn in the 1970’s and is only pieces of rotted wood that now forms the shape of a volcano rather than a lighthouse.
Last of all a Maine redneck is not only noticed by his decorating but also by the clothing that he wears. First I can spot a Maine redneck at any time of the year wearing nothing but hunting camouflage. I was once told that there is a huge difference between regular camouflage and hunting camouflage. During hunting season a Maine redneck wears the hunting camouflage but it usually has some blood on it from his last kill. He will always be wearing a hat, and if it is not camouflage it has either a beer logo or a NASCAR logo on it. He won’t cut his hair in the winter because it keeps his head warm while he is out hunting. A Maine redneck will wear a brand new pair of Carhardt trousers that he got from Christmas a few weeks earlier. But for some reason the trousers will never completely cover his ass. He will bend over to pick something up and show the world what his hairy ass looks like. I usually refer to this as plumbers crack. In my house it is also referred to as the Soper crack because my fiancé and all the men in is family show their ass on a daily basis. By the third wear of those same pair of trousers, there is grease stains down the front of them, usually a hole in the seem on the rear, and the bottom of the pant legs are all worn off form scuffing them across the ground when he walks. A Maine redneck will wear a pair of work clothes for at least three days before he throws them in the dirty laundry hamper. As far as shirts go, a Maine redneck has only three types of shirts in his closet. The t-shirt, that is worn out, which contains NASCAR, beer, or hunting logos on it. These shirts make the best night shirts for the rednecks significant other. The button up shirt that is for dressing nice, but it is always camouflage. And the ripped up work flannel that is plaid and has been passed down through generations of redneck men. My fiancé has three of the generation shirts that I tried to throw away until my life was threatened. It seems a Maine rednecks shirt is almost as important as the size of the deer he shoots each hunting season.
I personally live with a Maine redneck and I am raising a Maine redneck in training. To me a Maine wouldn’t be the wonderful place it is if we didn’t have the Maine rednecks. I think even tourists visit just to see Bah Hahbah and its Maine rednecks. So the next time you need to determine whether someone is a Maine redneck just remember the three major factors I have discussed. The speech and vocabulary, the way of living and decorating, and the choice of clothing and wearing of clothing.
First of all I can pick a redneck out of a crowd by listening to how he talks or the terms he may use in conversation. For some reason a Maine redneck forgets to pronounce the er, ar, and or at the end of some common words. Instead a Maine redneck will replace the ending of a word with ah or just add ah onto the end of a word. For instance the word car usually sounds like cah and the word yes usually comes out to sound like yesah. My father uses the term yesah on a daily basis in place of the word yes. A Maine redneck also has a different kind of accent. This accent is sometimes referred to as the Downeast accent. The Downeast accent from a Maine redneck is used by lengthening the vowel sounds of a word. Such words as camp may sound like caaamp. My uncle uses the word alright and it sounds like iight. The last way I can pick out a Maine redneck is by listening to some of the words he uses and the content the word is used for. I will never hear my father say that he was driving fast, instead I will hear him say that he was “boookin it”. My Uncle Steve always uses the term um yup, but it sounds like iiuut. The word wicked is used to describe almost anything in Maine. A younger Maine redneck may use it like “wicked cool” where as an older Maine redneck may use it like “Wicked nice.” In basic training I was picked on by many drill sergeants about the over use of the word wicked. When I had my first child my grandfather’s first statement was “he’s wicked cunnin.” My grandmother’s first statement was “he’s wicked smaaaht.”
Second of all Not only does a Maine redneck have a unique way of speaking but he also has a unique way of living. Anyone who has driven through Maine can agree that a Maine redneck is not the most elegant decorator. I usually see at least one broken down car in the yard of a Maine redneck. Even though the car has not run in five years, it still sits in the yard waiting to be fixed. Sometimes the car is also used as a stand for holiday decorations or even parts from another car. The holiday decorations are up all year round and a redneck will have Christmas lights on in the middle of June. I will see the dog staked out in the middle of the lawn. The dog, usually a beagle or another kind of hunting dog, has made a complete circle in the brownish grass from testing the boundaries of his chain. A Maine redneck never seems to finish what they start. A large majority of Maine rednecks homes are only half done. The siding is only on three sides of the house, usually leaving just the tar paper visible. This is where I believe the term “tar paper shack” comes from. The porch never got railings added; instead there are boxes and junk all over the porch creating just a path to the front door. The windows are missing the trim so I can see all the insulation around the edges of the window. The insulation is usually covered in the blackish colored mold that would make any normal person sick for weeks. The mold has built up so much that if anyone ever wanted to finish the trim around the windows they would have to reinstall a brand new window. The last thing I have seen at a Maine rednecks home is that in the summer the grass can sometimes get to be two feet high before it gets mowed. My dad always says he let the grass get so high to hide the broken down car he forgot to fix. The grass also hides the many lawn ornaments. The lawn ornaments have been out so long they are faded to the point that I can’t tell what they are anymore. My grandmother has the black bear ornament that looks like it is climbing the tree. Although after about thirteen years the bear has become a disgustingly brownish gray and has some sort of moss growing all over it. My grandmother also has a wooden light house that my grandfather painted to match the color of the house they live in. The light house was put on the lawn in the 1970’s and is only pieces of rotted wood that now forms the shape of a volcano rather than a lighthouse.
Last of all a Maine redneck is not only noticed by his decorating but also by the clothing that he wears. First I can spot a Maine redneck at any time of the year wearing nothing but hunting camouflage. I was once told that there is a huge difference between regular camouflage and hunting camouflage. During hunting season a Maine redneck wears the hunting camouflage but it usually has some blood on it from his last kill. He will always be wearing a hat, and if it is not camouflage it has either a beer logo or a NASCAR logo on it. He won’t cut his hair in the winter because it keeps his head warm while he is out hunting. A Maine redneck will wear a brand new pair of Carhardt trousers that he got from Christmas a few weeks earlier. But for some reason the trousers will never completely cover his ass. He will bend over to pick something up and show the world what his hairy ass looks like. I usually refer to this as plumbers crack. In my house it is also referred to as the Soper crack because my fiancé and all the men in is family show their ass on a daily basis. By the third wear of those same pair of trousers, there is grease stains down the front of them, usually a hole in the seem on the rear, and the bottom of the pant legs are all worn off form scuffing them across the ground when he walks. A Maine redneck will wear a pair of work clothes for at least three days before he throws them in the dirty laundry hamper. As far as shirts go, a Maine redneck has only three types of shirts in his closet. The t-shirt, that is worn out, which contains NASCAR, beer, or hunting logos on it. These shirts make the best night shirts for the rednecks significant other. The button up shirt that is for dressing nice, but it is always camouflage. And the ripped up work flannel that is plaid and has been passed down through generations of redneck men. My fiancé has three of the generation shirts that I tried to throw away until my life was threatened. It seems a Maine rednecks shirt is almost as important as the size of the deer he shoots each hunting season.
I personally live with a Maine redneck and I am raising a Maine redneck in training. To me a Maine wouldn’t be the wonderful place it is if we didn’t have the Maine rednecks. I think even tourists visit just to see Bah Hahbah and its Maine rednecks. So the next time you need to determine whether someone is a Maine redneck just remember the three major factors I have discussed. The speech and vocabulary, the way of living and decorating, and the choice of clothing and wearing of clothing.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Theme week Six
When I was growing up in Bucksport Maine my family lived next door to what we called the Woodman Estate. Oh what a sight the Woodman Estate was. It was a place that really made an awful statement and I would never have gone there if not for my best friend Betty. There were three main sections to the woodman Estate, the huge garage, the very unique house, and the jungle backyard.
The woodman Estate had a very large tar papered shack that doubled as a garage. It sat about ten feet from route forty six. Within that ten feet was a mildewed, moldy, rotting canvas fence that was held up by logs that had been cut down when the Woodman’s were clearing the land for the backyard. All around the perimeter of the large structure were rusty, old junk cars. Approximately twenty five cars were around the garage, most of which were Chevrolet. There were hundreds of tires strategically placed around the cars. One of the tire towers looked like it could have been infinite in height. There were piles of what I can only assume were old broken car parts. At one time I could have sworn that I saw a human arm sticking out of one of the piles. I never really did find out what it was and I was too scared to ask anyone about it. Inside the garage I would always find Mr. Woodman and his friends. I’m not sure if he ever actually left the garage. Mr. Woodman was a scary sight to say the least. Grease from head to toe, only about two teeth (I never got close enough to count), and hair that had not been brushed in at least thirty years. He always had a couple of friends in the garage tinkering on things with him. I would watch people go into the garage looking half way decent and come out looking like Mr. Woodman’s twin.
The house wasn’t much different from the garage, except that the other three members of the family (Mrs. Woodman, Travis Woodman, and Betty Lou Woodman) lived inside. The house looked exactly like the garage on the outside. My father always told me that the Woodman’s were keeping with a theme. As I would make my way up the through the path of junk on the front deck to the door, I felt like I was being watched. Then when I turned around I would see the twelve hunting Beagles in the large, hand built kennel on the left side of the deck. The smell of dog shit would make me gag, and the sight of the dirty, nasty dogs made me sad. The dogs were covered in their own feces that had dried to their fur and caused it to look like they had chunks of hair missing. The dogs were well fed and when it was extremely cold out, the Woodman’s would place the dogs in the heated barn that use to be used for their three horses. I would knock on the door and almost immediately a raspy deep voice would yell “Come in God damn it.” The scary part was that the raspy, deep voice came from Mrs. Woodman. The only thing Mrs. Woodman would do is sit at the table smoking one cigarette after another, and stare out the window. The kitchen table held all the old mail from the past year or so and anything Mrs. Woodman had forgotten to throw in the trash can that was only three feet to the left of the table. I never even saw her get up to go to the bathroom. I never stayed inside long enough to find out. She would always tell me that I didn’t have to knock and to just come in, but I was to scared at what I might find if I didn’t knock. As I walked into the kitchen I would see dirty dishes piled up in the sink that had a garden hose for a faucet. The stove that they used for cooking was actually their woodstove they used as a heater. To my immediate left was the kitchen table where Mrs. Woodman sat with a lit cigarette in one hand and the rest of the carton on the table in front of her. I would walk through the kitchen to the living room where I would usually find Travis Woodman. Travis was a very nice boy that was about a year older than me. I’m embarrassed to admit it now (knowing how he turned out), but I had a bit of a crush on him as a child. As I walked through the living room I would see piles of dirty laundry in the right corner of the room. There was an old brown rug that got vacuumed about once a month. In the center of the rug was a grease stain from when Travis was trying to rebuild an engine in the living room. Next I would go through the second door on the right, into Betty Lou Woodman’s bedroom. I always made sure not to take the first door on the right. The first door led to what they called the bathroom. The bathroom contained the litter box for their twenty plus cats. I don’t think it had ever been changed since it was overflowing with cat shit and stunk so bad that they had to keep the door closed and add a pet door to try to contain some of the odor. Betty is the only reason I ever attempted to enter the house. Betty’s room was not at all like the rest of her house. Her clothes were always clean and folded neatly in her drawers. Her posters on her bedroom wall were always straight, and any picture frames she had were dusted daily. She made her bed as soon as she got up every morning and placed her stuffed animals in the same place on her bed everyday. I use to tell her that someday she would have the biggest beautiful house in the town. Boy was I wrong, she is actually now living in that same house that she was raised in. She did however clean up the yard, plant some grass for a lawn, and put siding on the house. From the back sliding glass door of the house, Betty and I would walk out into the back yard. We called the back yard a jungle. The jungle consisted of more junk cars, trees that had been cut down and left where they had fallen and a home made ropes course that looked like a monkey habitat at the zoo. It was the best place to play hide and seek. The back porch went from one side of the house all the way to the other side of the house. This porch was huge in size, but held so much junk you couldn’t tell how big it really was. I would walk down the four rotted, wooden steps into the jungle. The first thing I would walk past was an old Chevy Camerro that had been there since before I was born. The Camerro was originally red and had a tee top. At some point the tee top had been cut off from the roof of the car with a chainsaw. The Camerro became our art work. We spray painted care bears all over the hood and a rainbow on the left side. Just beyond the Camerro was an old Chevy pick up that doubled as an oversized trash can. Inside the pick up were beer bottles, cans and bags of trash that never made it to the dumpster. About two feet past the pick up were three huge trees lying on the ground. The trees had been cut down but never cut up for fire wood which was the reason for cutting them down. To the left of the trees was the home made ropes course that Betty, Travis, and Mr. Woodman built three years prior. The ropes course started out with a cargo net and went into a high rope that led to a tree platform about twenty feet away. From the tree platform the triangular rope pattern led to another junk car. The ropes course didn’t get used much after the first few months it was there. Travis had fallen off the triangular section of the course and broke his arm, preventing us from being allowed to use it anymore.
The woodman Estate had a very large tar papered shack that doubled as a garage. It sat about ten feet from route forty six. Within that ten feet was a mildewed, moldy, rotting canvas fence that was held up by logs that had been cut down when the Woodman’s were clearing the land for the backyard. All around the perimeter of the large structure were rusty, old junk cars. Approximately twenty five cars were around the garage, most of which were Chevrolet. There were hundreds of tires strategically placed around the cars. One of the tire towers looked like it could have been infinite in height. There were piles of what I can only assume were old broken car parts. At one time I could have sworn that I saw a human arm sticking out of one of the piles. I never really did find out what it was and I was too scared to ask anyone about it. Inside the garage I would always find Mr. Woodman and his friends. I’m not sure if he ever actually left the garage. Mr. Woodman was a scary sight to say the least. Grease from head to toe, only about two teeth (I never got close enough to count), and hair that had not been brushed in at least thirty years. He always had a couple of friends in the garage tinkering on things with him. I would watch people go into the garage looking half way decent and come out looking like Mr. Woodman’s twin.
The house wasn’t much different from the garage, except that the other three members of the family (Mrs. Woodman, Travis Woodman, and Betty Lou Woodman) lived inside. The house looked exactly like the garage on the outside. My father always told me that the Woodman’s were keeping with a theme. As I would make my way up the through the path of junk on the front deck to the door, I felt like I was being watched. Then when I turned around I would see the twelve hunting Beagles in the large, hand built kennel on the left side of the deck. The smell of dog shit would make me gag, and the sight of the dirty, nasty dogs made me sad. The dogs were covered in their own feces that had dried to their fur and caused it to look like they had chunks of hair missing. The dogs were well fed and when it was extremely cold out, the Woodman’s would place the dogs in the heated barn that use to be used for their three horses. I would knock on the door and almost immediately a raspy deep voice would yell “Come in God damn it.” The scary part was that the raspy, deep voice came from Mrs. Woodman. The only thing Mrs. Woodman would do is sit at the table smoking one cigarette after another, and stare out the window. The kitchen table held all the old mail from the past year or so and anything Mrs. Woodman had forgotten to throw in the trash can that was only three feet to the left of the table. I never even saw her get up to go to the bathroom. I never stayed inside long enough to find out. She would always tell me that I didn’t have to knock and to just come in, but I was to scared at what I might find if I didn’t knock. As I walked into the kitchen I would see dirty dishes piled up in the sink that had a garden hose for a faucet. The stove that they used for cooking was actually their woodstove they used as a heater. To my immediate left was the kitchen table where Mrs. Woodman sat with a lit cigarette in one hand and the rest of the carton on the table in front of her. I would walk through the kitchen to the living room where I would usually find Travis Woodman. Travis was a very nice boy that was about a year older than me. I’m embarrassed to admit it now (knowing how he turned out), but I had a bit of a crush on him as a child. As I walked through the living room I would see piles of dirty laundry in the right corner of the room. There was an old brown rug that got vacuumed about once a month. In the center of the rug was a grease stain from when Travis was trying to rebuild an engine in the living room. Next I would go through the second door on the right, into Betty Lou Woodman’s bedroom. I always made sure not to take the first door on the right. The first door led to what they called the bathroom. The bathroom contained the litter box for their twenty plus cats. I don’t think it had ever been changed since it was overflowing with cat shit and stunk so bad that they had to keep the door closed and add a pet door to try to contain some of the odor. Betty is the only reason I ever attempted to enter the house. Betty’s room was not at all like the rest of her house. Her clothes were always clean and folded neatly in her drawers. Her posters on her bedroom wall were always straight, and any picture frames she had were dusted daily. She made her bed as soon as she got up every morning and placed her stuffed animals in the same place on her bed everyday. I use to tell her that someday she would have the biggest beautiful house in the town. Boy was I wrong, she is actually now living in that same house that she was raised in. She did however clean up the yard, plant some grass for a lawn, and put siding on the house. From the back sliding glass door of the house, Betty and I would walk out into the back yard. We called the back yard a jungle. The jungle consisted of more junk cars, trees that had been cut down and left where they had fallen and a home made ropes course that looked like a monkey habitat at the zoo. It was the best place to play hide and seek. The back porch went from one side of the house all the way to the other side of the house. This porch was huge in size, but held so much junk you couldn’t tell how big it really was. I would walk down the four rotted, wooden steps into the jungle. The first thing I would walk past was an old Chevy Camerro that had been there since before I was born. The Camerro was originally red and had a tee top. At some point the tee top had been cut off from the roof of the car with a chainsaw. The Camerro became our art work. We spray painted care bears all over the hood and a rainbow on the left side. Just beyond the Camerro was an old Chevy pick up that doubled as an oversized trash can. Inside the pick up were beer bottles, cans and bags of trash that never made it to the dumpster. About two feet past the pick up were three huge trees lying on the ground. The trees had been cut down but never cut up for fire wood which was the reason for cutting them down. To the left of the trees was the home made ropes course that Betty, Travis, and Mr. Woodman built three years prior. The ropes course started out with a cargo net and went into a high rope that led to a tree platform about twenty feet away. From the tree platform the triangular rope pattern led to another junk car. The ropes course didn’t get used much after the first few months it was there. Travis had fallen off the triangular section of the course and broke his arm, preventing us from being allowed to use it anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
