I didn't invent the name Cow Sh*t Corner.

That name existed in reference to a small part of Newcastle, Maine long before I came to the state. How that designation came to fruition...well, I'll assume you can figure it out.

But the place does exist. The sign says so. (So if anyone's sensibilities are irreparably offended, please contact the townspeople of said location.) Were it up to me, I'd have named the place "Nature's Gift Grove" or "Bountiful River Region" or something sweet and innocent like that. Because that's just how I think: sweetly and innocently.

But there are, unfortunately, persons out there who find humor in potty talk. Highbrow intellectuals (such as you and I, my fine-thinking friend) are defenseless against it.

So Cow Sh*t Corner it is. And a pal of mine just happens to reside there, down a single-lane road that cuts off from another long and winding road that connects to a similarly quiet and rural road not too far off from Route 1 in Wiscasset.

The place suits Kate, what with her four wheelers and dirt bikes and snow mobiles and whatnot. She keeps a handgun on her dresser, too, which I'm only allowed to look at.

And even though it's only about an hour from Portland, Cow Sh*t Corner feels altogether different. So a couple of times a year Kate invites everybody out - to bonfire, to grill, to drink and to abuse her collection of expensive outdoor toys.

We had planned on just such an evening this past Friday. The excursion was planned in conjunction with a trip to the nearby Montsweag Roadhouse in Woolwich. Another friend was schedule to perform her acoustic wonders there.

But then there was that whole ice storm nonsense, followed by power outages, business closings and canceled gigs.

Too bad.

But who needs the Montsweag when you have a working generator and a well-stocked wood stove in Cow Sh*t Corner?

So Andrea brought the music to Kate's dining room while the rest of us lounged on the floor in front of the wood stove, alternately drinking and singing along.

Not a bad way to spend a blackout.

The next morning (after warming our clothes in front of the stove) we made our way to the Alna General Store. The small shop is good for bread and beer in a pinch and also serves a pretty fine breakfast. (With real hash browns! Praise heaven! No offense home fries, but you simply can't compete.)

Saturday morning the locals were comparing notes regarding the storm's aftereffects: who had power, who didn't; who had a generator, who was still half frozen from a night in a cold house.

On his way out the door with a hot cup of coffee, one fellow turned back to the rest of us and said, "If anybody needs anything, or needs help with anything, you just give me a call."

Kate turned to me and said, "See? That's how it works in Cow Sh*t Corner."

"Hey," I retorted, "I checked on my neighbors too." [Insert pause] "OK, that's a lie."


Newcastle's not an altogether ugly place either, if you're into that unsullied nature-at-its-best kind of thing. Songwriter Steve Jones even gives a nod to the spot in a song (aptly named "Cow Shit Corner").

I tried to look up a few additional tidbits about Newcastle/Cow Sh*t Corner for your learning pleasure (much like I did for Bangor). But alas, "Cow Sh*t Corner, Maine" isn't to be found on Wikipedia and "Newcastle, Maine" didn't uncover much.

But the area does boast the jolly figure looming just off Route 218, constructed mostly from a old wheel barrow, who stands perpetually happy and waving to passersby.

It's no Paul Bunyan, but it's something.