Five Things That Prove You Grew Up In Downeast Maine During The Sixties

Yeah, it wasn't really an outhouse because it was actually attached to the house, but it was cold out there in that back room, and also very uncomfortable when Grammy sat down next to you.

Your dad and uncle Clive would load all the kids into the back of the truck for a big night out shooting rats at the town dump.  And yes, it was an honest to god town dump.  A big smelly, muddy, heaping pile of waste that is more than likely still there, ten feet underground.  It was especially fun watching and listening to dad and Clive hoot and holler when they "got one."

The perfect weekend afternoon was spent with the family at the old quarry.  Dad would start a fire to cook hot dogs on a stick, and mom would spread a blanket over the rocks.  All your friends and family were there, jumping off the rocks and into the dark water.  Nobody tried to think much about what was lurking sixty feet down, and mom wouldn't let you near the highest jumpin' stone.

Everyone in the family hopped into the 1961 Chevy Impala for the sixty mile trip to the "big city."  It may have been for a doctor's appointment or to visit a relative, but you knew better, it was to eat at that shiny new restaurant with the golden arches on Broadway in Bangor. That tasty cheeseburger was only 20 cents, the fries 12 cents, and that thirst - quenching Coke sat on the glove box door.

You wouldn't go to Ellsworth for days.  There was no need when there was a town store with everything a few miles down the road.  You could pick up a new pair of pants, a pound of ground chuck, a dog leash, a box of bullets, and a six pack of Schlitz.  The guy who pumped your gas was the same guy who had just ground up your beef, and he was smoking a cig.