The Old Mainer

The temperatures in Maine in the month of January are frigid. That’s the best way to describe bone-chilling cold that seeps through the layers that we throw on to keep it away from our bodies. Winter in Maine is not for the faint of heart but it is for the Old Mainer.

I met him at the Irving rest stop in Augusta on my way to work when I stopped to fill my tank. It was three below zero and the wind was whipping at a good fifteen miles an hour. I had on my knitted hat, my LL Bean mittens and winter boots because it had snowed almost two feet the night before. Under my heavy fleece jacket were the layers of long sleeve shirt and bulky sweater. I was warm but it was one of those mornings where the wind pushed through everything and you just felt cold.

He pulled up a few pumps away in an older white Mercury sedan about the same time. I watched him get out. My guess was he was at least eighty years old. His skin sunk in a little around his cheeks and was wrinkled. He wore a clean pair of Levi’s, LL Bean duck boots, a white t-shirt and a buttoned blue flannel shirt. He had on his weathered brown Carhartt jacket and a baseball cap covered what little white hair remained on his head. He walked into the store at a leisurely gait with cash in his hand to prepay for his gas.

When I started to fill my car, a newer, black Ford F-150 pulled in a few pumps away on the other side. The man in his thirties jumped down from the lifted truck, pulled out his debit card and started pumping gas. He looked at me and said “Man, it’s cold this morning.” I replied that was pretty chilly. He left the truck and the pump running, did a big shiver, pulled his knit cap a little lower over his ears, shoved his gloved hands into the pocket of his puffy coat and hurried to the store.

The old Mainer was on his way out and held the door open for the young man as he rushed over the threshold.  He walked to his car and proceeded to fill his tank. While it was going, he used the squeegee brush to clean his windshield and his headlights. I notice his hands had no gloves. There was no protection from the wind on his ears.  

The younger man rushed back to his truck, took care of the nozzle and drove away.

The wind picked up and I started to shiver as the handled clicked and told me my tank was full. As I got into my car and prepared to leave, I decided to sit and watch him. He saw me and he gave me a small wave and I waved back and smiled. He finished with the gas cap, got in his car and proceeded to drive away. His license plate was in support of agriculture.

The cold didn’t faze him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He was like many of his generation that adapted to the unpredictable weather in Maine. Two feet of snow? It’s just a dusting. Three below zero? It’s a bit chilly. Here was one of the last of a dying breed of men and women who went about their business, minded their own and complained not of the temperature but adapted to the situation around them and carried on. Here was a man who was helpful to the next generation and polite to those around him. All good lessons you can learn from an Old Mainer.