"Frroonzis"

Many of you know that I am spending a week in Maine helping out my friend Bill H. (a fellow high school Math teacher) his wife Amy and their three sons, in age order, Max, Ezra and Amos on their blueberry farm in Maine. There will be a posting in the days to come about life on the farm and blueberries (like huckleberries in Montana) are coveted like and illicit drug by those who know about this organic blueberry farm and its product.

Instead, this posting is about my experiences with native rural Mainers. A few days ago Bill and I drove down the road to his neighbor George's to deliver some blueberries in return for George helping Bill and his wife bale hay earlier in the summer. Bill warned me for the experience, to speak slow and to listen closely. As we're driving down there is a car at the side of the road just sitting there. I get out and ask the woman if everything is ok. She says that her car keeps stalling but that she'll keep trying. I tell her that if we see her on our return that we'll help her out.

Bill and I deliver the blueberries to George, who greets us in his yard with his son Alvin. They have just installed a new motor in Alvin's truck. Bill and George start talking farm stuff so I am there chatting with Alvin. I literally have NOTHING in common with this 20 year old. We end up talking about the barn on their property that they rent to some person who houses 10,000 chickens within its huge metal walls. However, this took me some three minutes to get this information as I need to keep asking questions of Alvin to try and figure out what he's saying, while not asking him to repeat himself. There I am going, "so you say that there are birds in that building?"

Our business time with George and Alvin comes to an end and so we hop back in the truck to drive back to the farm and the car on the is still on the side of the road. Bill hops out, tries to get it going and it keeps stalling. No dice. He and I decide to pop her car into neutral, tie a rope from his truck to her car and tow her to her destination. However, this requires me to get into the car with the older woman, who we guess has only seen an Asian person on television but not in person. I am going to steer the towed car.

There's your picture. Myself and an older native rural Maine woman in the passenger seat. We first try and find the emergency blinkers, we are successful. However, the two of us are unable to communicate how to figure out how to turn on the defrost as it's starting to steam up in the car. No, there was NO hanky panky, but for some reason the windows kept fogging up. I try and start a conversation with her by asking her name. Her reply, "Frooonzis". I say, "what?"

Now, make your mouth into a sphere and put your tongue at the top of your mouth. Pretend there are marbles between your tongue and the back of your throat. Now say the name, Frances. Say it OUT LOUD. DO IT. That's what I heard.

Frances is wearing hot pink sweat pants and doesn't carry a cell phone and turns out when we see her get out of the car, doesn't really walk well. My mind thought about what she was going to do if we didn't help her out. She just sat there, seemingly totally at peace and without any sense of distress.

Bill and I towed her the mile to her destination, which apparently was the family of her son's girlfriend. They came out of their trailer, yes, I said trailer. Three of the men were shirtless and had body types that did not allow them to see their feet. The women were wearing sleeveless shirts and were not the most efficient of walkers.

Bill untied the truck from the car and pushed the car into a logical spot while I finished my steering duty. Frances got out the car as fast as she could, before I had even finished turning off the car. One of the men said thanks to us and we went on our way.

Bill chuckled in the truck on the way back stating that I had truly had a Mainer experience.

Addendum: The next day, Bill, the boys and I were driving to go swimming and saw a boat trailer that had been towed apparently blew out a tire because we say the gouged swerve of the blown tire (and now rim) in the dirt road. Where did the new rut end? At the trailer where we had dropped off "Frroonzis." Where else?