Acoustic in Cow Sh*t Corner

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.

Roadside Maine: Now that's using your headstone

This time of year brings the leaf peepers in droves. Maine roads are congested with distracted drivers and swerving vehicles. And I don't blame them. Heck, I think I'm one of them.

But even after the leaves let go and the trees stand naked and cold across the state, there's still plenty to see on Maine's roadsides.

There are still the oddities: The random displays, the signs, the artwork, the woodwork, the painted houses, the junk made into something other than junk.

My coworker Wendy introduced me to Long Island's curiosities this summer, which include a parade of Barbie cars, a row of branch people sporting swimsuits and a large tree decorated with hanging bicycles.

And there's the roadside traffic jam, instigated by lady duck. Looks like somebody spent the night flashing her breasts for beads and is having trouble dealing with the shame and the hangover. You're angry at yourself, duck, stop deflecting your hostilities on other drivers.

[Wendy's Raising Maine entry on Long Island]

I appreciate homeowners who go out of their way to create some front-yard spectacle simply to entertain passersby.

Of course, then there are the roadside oddities that aren't intended to be roadside oddities. But there they are, on the road, being odd.

Like this innocuous monument company in Sanford. If you drive by, your peripheral vision might only register an array of granite and marble headstones, statues and the like. Things you won't (hopefully) need anytime soon.

But if your eyes are trained to spot the strange...or if you have a bad habit of not watching the road when you're driving (because houses and trees and signs are honestly way more entertaining than asphalt)...then you might notice something interesting.

A headstone. A loveseat. Both.

It makes sense, after all, that while you take the ultimate, eternal rest, your friends and family should be able to take a temporary load off too.

Maybe it's a ploy to encourage people to visit, like that kid in grade school who no one wanted to play with until the summer his parents installed a swimming pool.

I pondered what unique headstone I'd choose if I were trying to lure my friends and family to hang out at my grave site more often.

Marble ottoman? Maybe a granite sundae bar. Or a prehistoric pool table cut from stone.

I'm not coming up with anything too extraordinary yet. Let's hope it's a decision I won't have to make for a good, long time.

The Forks: The lesser-known perks

Checked another "must do" off my list this weekend: Tackle white water rafting (even better, survive with my limbs, my skull and my pride in tact).

I went into the venture embarrassingly over-anxious. Having never done anything of the sort, I could only imagine the worst - and "the worst" got worse with each passing hour.

There's nothing scarier than the unknown (particularly when your cohorts insist on telling you stories about massive rapids, sinister guides and near drownings).

But the adventure up north was an overwhelming success and all in my party survived. I'm holding off on saying more, though, until I get my hands on some footage from the river.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to highlight the lesser-known perks of The Forks. Sure, the rivers are stellar and the view is okay, if you're into that pristine nature kind of thing. But there are so many other things to appreciate.

Top Six Completely Underrated Perks of The Forks (and thereabouts) that I had Corresponding Pictures For

1. The fate-tempters. At Moxie Falls, there's always that one guy who insists on relaying the dangers of the unstable rocks and the powerful current, who then climbs over the railing and sits precariously on the edge to "wow" the onlookers.

2. The unorthodox drinks. Here, you don't hide your penchant for tequila and pickle juice. You celebrate it. It's considered a staple at Northern Outdoors - the result of having tequila and nothing else to mix it with...but wait, there's a lonely pickle jar filled with juice in the fridge. Drink it.

3.The near-completion Appalachian Trail hikers. What they lack in antiperspirant (and toothbrushes and combs), they make up for in good old hippie altruism.

4. The wildlife. Up close and personal, sharing your beverage whether you invited them or not. Depending on your exhaustion/slap-happy level, such creatures can capture your unwavering attention for 30 minutes or more. Just a bug, you say? You try and look away.

(On a side note, we're all still perplexed as to what kind of insect that actual is. If you know, please share.)

5. The acceptance. You don't have to choose between your God and your gun. Around here, they go handgun in hand.

6. Wild Bill. He's a local. He's a hunter. He's a quotable compadre. He may also be looking to lure humans to his remote property in hopes of hunting them for sport.

Wild Bill-isms:

On hunting: "If it's brown it goes down."

On life's tribulations: "Issues are like tissues. They just keep popping up."

On himself: "I've been all over the world. I've been shot. I've died twice. I've met Satan and he ain't [censored]. The only thing I fear is God in Heaven. I fear no man."

So go thee to The Forks. Raft away. Enjoy the views. But keep your eyes peeled for those lesser-known joys that make such a trip all the more memorable.

Roadside Maine: Mmm, lobsers

Drive Forest Ave. much? If so, this parked truck and its fine sign may look familiar to you.

Not being one to pay attention to the road while I'm driving, I've stared this sign down repeatedly. But it wasn't until my most recent rendezvous down 302 that it really caught my attention. "What? Does that sign say 'losers'?"

No, that was low self-esteem talking. But then, what's a 'lobser'?

Perhaps you highly attune sign readers out there noticed the misspelling (or is it...?) right away. But it reminded me of an e-mail forward I've gotten at least a half-dozen times -- the one that shows how the human brain can gloss over misspellings as long as the first and last letters are in the right spot.

Prvonig, ocne agian, taht proepr spleling is oevrrtaed.