TIME IMMEMORIAL – Red Paint People and Ice Age Hunters
Of course, the first things in Maine were Rocks and Lobsters. And Rock Lobsters.
Then came Indians, who quarried the rocks and created the hobby of rock stacking. They also ate some of the lobster, as a culinary experiment.
These first people to live in Maine were known as the Red Paint People. They were called this because they were quite the partiers, and were infamous for painting the town red at the drop of a hat.
Their presence was felt throughout the country for centuries, as they were the ancestors of Red Barber, Red Skelton, Redd Foxx, Red Schoendienst, Eric the Red, Redbeard, Willie Nelson, Carole Burnett, and Panama Red, among other less desirable types.
These first inhabitants did not spring up out of nowhere, of course. They were descendants of Ice Age hunters. These Ice Age hunters hunted for the Ice Age, but never found it. They did get quite chilly at times in the winter, but they found that when Winter came, Spring was not far behind, and thus they could not really call it an “Ice Age,” as it was just a season, not an age.
They did find the Ice Age Trail, but they had to walk all the way to the Mississippi River for that:
The Mainiacs (residents of Maine) were surprised to find that there were rocks by the Mississippi River, too
1604 — First European Settlement in Maine
Predating the founding of Jamestown in Virginia (1607) and Plymouth in Massachusetts (1620) was a European settlement on St. Croix Island, which was peopled by a French group of adventurers headed up by a French guy named Sammy the Chaplain, in 1604.
These French vagabonds named the area Acadia because they didn’t know how to spell Arcadia (being French, they were stuck on their own lingo, and didn’t know English all that well).
Sammy the Chaplain could have just as well been called “Sammy the Cartographer,” because he hand-drew this map of the settlement after going aloft in a warm-air balloon lent to him by his friend Jules Verne:
The inscription in the upper left reads, when translated, “Habiliments of the first Croissant” which refers to the toppings the gourmands who lived here put on their breakfast rolls. What these were, exactly, is not mentioned, but they were probably something outlandish, as is the case with so much French food
1607 — British Colony in Popham
Always at odds and competing with the French, the British started a colony of there own, at a place they named Popham. Who else but the British would name a place “Popham”?
As proud as they were of the place’s name, the residents only stuck around for a year. Then they gave up on ever getting good tea and crumpets there in their lifetimes, so they left. Stiff upper lips can only take you so far.
Copying the general “look and feel” of the Tower of London, the Brits did leave behind a fort they built there in Popham:
Fort Popham was meant to be the Stonehenge of the New World, but the laborers who worked on the place (who had experience helping to construct the old Roman Amphitheaters and Coliseums) kept confusing the cardinal directions, and ended up with a circular enclosure, which told them nothing, meteorologically speaking.
Picture made available by jrizor8504
1620 – Samoset Meets Pilgrims
When the “Pilgrims” (foils and “straight men” for John Wayne) landed on Plymouth Rock in 1620, they were surprised to have an Indian walk into their camp and greet them in English (asking for ale, inquiring as to the Queen’s health and welfare, &c).
This interesting fellow was named Samoset. He said he was from Maine, a journey of five days by land or one day by sea (provided there was a strong wind blowing southward).
The painting below, by Grandma Moses, is the first rendering of a resident of Maine extant:
That’s Samoset on the right, shaking hands with one of the pilgrims, who has been practicing for an upcoming role in a John Wayne movie (“The Sons of Katydid Elder”)
1642 – The First Incorporated City
York became the nation’s first incorporated city in 1642. This is where Peppermint Patties are made.
The town was built atop a bluff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean (for those with excellent eyesight and good jumping and orientation skills).
Here is the location, prior to any homes being built there:
A scene of much controversy, as both Yul Brynner and Television “Telly” Savalas adamantinely contended that the place was named for them
1674 — Dutch Conquer Acadia and Re-brand It
Unable to stand the place being named Acadia any longer, the Dutch “took the lobster by the horns” and conquered the place in 1674, renaming it New Holland.
Holland is another name for Never-Never Land; also, for Dutchland. Although their dominance of the area was brief, New Holland is still around, selling heavy equipment and such nonsense.
This is the flag the Dutch came up with, wanting it to be plain just what the future economy of the region would revolve around:
These crustaceans are on the lookout for blueberries. They are kookoo for blueberries. If not for their pilfering of the blueberry fields (much like Peter Rabbit with Mr. McGregor’s carrots), Maine would produce 100% of the blueberries in the Ewe-Knighted States, not just 99%
Image provided by SanSilva
1775 – First Navel Battle of the Revolutionary War
The first navel battle of the Revolutionary War was fought off the coast of Machias. British warships shelled Falmouth, a place named for its early residents, who were rather “salty” in their speech.
During this silly contest (to ostensibly determine who had the better-looking navels, the U.K. British or the Colonial British), Benedict Arnold marched at the head of a ragtag bunch of revolutionaries through Maine, in what turned out to be a failed attempt to capture British strongholds in Canada (or northern Maine, depending on your point of view).
Arnold blamed this failure on the refusal of the Maine farmers to provide he and his men with Blueberry Pancakes and Lobster Thermidor. This is what made him so mad he got red as a lobster, and switched allegiances.
The French got involved in this, too, thinking their navels were far more comely than any that a Britisher might proudly present.
Here’s one of these in full sartorial splendor:
Note that this recruit is wearing his hat sideways to offer a clear view of the clothespin he has ingeniously attached to his headgear to keep the part he glued from flopping around until the glue dries
1816 and 1817 — “Ohio Fever”
Privations caused by the War of 1812 (which lasted until 1814) and an unusually cold summer in 1816 brought on a case of “Ohio Fever” for many Mainers (no, they are not really called “Mainiacs,” that was just a cheap joke).
“Ohio Fever” was a desire to relocate to the west (not necessarily to Ohio). In fact, many of these Had-Enough-Of-These-Cold-Summers-And-I-Don’t-Like-Lobster-Much-Anywayers moved to the heavily-timbered states of Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota.
These states don’t have much lobster. People there eat Wolverines, Badgers, and Gophers instead. With cranberry sauce, in some cases.
1820 – Statehood
When Maine became a State in 1820, it was the first to give suffrage and school privileges to all residents. This means that all were allowed the same opportunity to suffer, and everybody had to go to school, so long as they paid their lobster tax to defray expenses. That was not a hardship, as lobsters grow on trees in Maine.
1839 — Aroostook War
At well over six thousand square miles, Aroostook County is larger than the States of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined.
Thinking the Mainers didn’t need all that, Canada tried to take it away in 1839. This led to the “Aroostook War” over this land bordering Maine and the Canadian Province of New Brunswick.
Not exactly a geography whiz, the Governor of Maine declared war on England, rather than Canada, over this. I guess he was just looking for an excuse to foment another war with England, he being nostalgic for the War of 1812 and such.
The moose in the area, which far outnumbered the people (and even the lobsters), didn’t care who won this “war.” They just preferred to be left alone to eat their herbage and wade into the blueberry bogs for dessert.
Here’s one of these Moose, named Bullwinkle:
“Hey, Rocky, watch me pull a pail of blueberries out of that there bog over yonder!”
1863 — Chamberlain at Little Round Top
During the Polite (“Civil”) War fought between the North and the South, an officer by the name of Joshua Wilt Chamberlain happened to be stationed at Little Round Top, in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, with a bunch of other men from his home State of Maine.
They spent most of their time there picnicking and talking about lobsters. Then, disaster struck: Owing to an oversight on the part of the quartermaster/supply clerk, Chamberlain’s men ran out of cash to buy hot dogs and marshmallows with.
Joshua’s solution to this problem was to commandeer these necessary ingredients from the PX. He told his men to “fix bayonets and charge.”
What he meant by “fix bayonets” was that, because they used their bayonets to spear their hot dogs and marshmallows with when they were having their noonday picnics, and some of the marshmallows had cooked so long that the bayonets had become hot enough to bend, fold, spindle, and become mutilated, they needed to be fixed before they could continue safely serving as cutlery.
What Chamberlain meant by “charge” was, since they had no cash, they could use their company credit cards to purchase and pay for any necessary items (blacksmith fees, franks, marshmallows, firewood, and such).
Chamberlain, due to his motherly and tender care of his men (which he demonstrated by his assuring them of keeping warm and well fed), was so popular in Maine after the war that he became a four-term Gubernator. A “Gubernator,” as you probably know (I’m putting this explanation in for the lamebrains out there, so you can ignore it if you are not in that category) is someone who has run for Governor and won.
For those interested in etymology: The word “Gubernator” means, literally, “goober nature,” which signifies the responsibilities a Gubernator has, to wit: To eat goobers (peanuts) in nature. In other words, a Gubernator is to spend his days laying on the ground in a peanut patch, ingesting these legumes (shelling optional). This helps keep them (the governors, not the peanuts), and the State where/which they serve, out of trouble.
Chamberlain is portrayed in the movie Gettysburg by Jeff Daniels (Charlie’s brother).
Here’s the gang back together again for a picnic at their old stomping grounds twenty-six years later, in 1889:
That’s J. Wilt Chamberlain reclining to the left of his wife in the middle of the picture (photo by Matthew Brady, of course). They are waiting on the hotdogs and marshmallows to cook, which this time is a catered affair
1964 — “King of the Road”
Oklahoma genius songwriter Roger Miller wrote and recorded his song King of the Road in 1964. In it, he name-checks Bangor:
Third boxcar, midnight train, destination, Bangor, Maine
This refers to the time when Miller was hoboing around with his old pal John Chaney (better known as Jack London) after they had gone AWOL from the army together.
As you can see below, the song was a smash hit, and was produced by John F. Kennedy prior to his finally giving in to his father’s wishes and going into politics:
Jack London claimed to have been a co-writer of the song. Relations between he and Miller were noticeably cooler after that; you might even say “strained”
. . .
Each Saturday and Tuesday an excerpt of one State’s (satirized) history will be posted here, in alphabetical order (from Alabama to Wyoming).
For “the rest of the story,” the (32-page) complete book “The New All-too-True-Blue History of Maine” is available here.
The regions of the U.S. have been combined into volumes, too; Maine is included in the volume The New All-too-True-Blue History of the American Northeast
You can listen to this excerpt here:
Blackbird Crow Raven is also the author of the book “the Zany Time Travels of Warble McGorkle”