Maine Women

I am a Mainiac, a product of rural Maine. All Mainiacs are taught the principles of rugged individualism although many may never have read Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay, "Self-Reliance," that describes us. For some reason, Maine women have the reputation of being even more ruggedly individual and self-reliant than Maine men as the following anecdote sent to me by my brother, Keith, who still lives in Maine, indicates:

Three men were sitting together bragging about the obedience and care-taking of their wives. Each strove to show the other that he had given his new wife duties that were greater in number and more complex in difficulty than those of the other men.

The first man had married a woman from Arizona. “I told her that I expect her to do all the dishes and all the cleaning,” he said. “Well, it took a couple days, but on the third day when I came home from work, the dishes were done, and house was spotless.”

The second man had married a woman from Louisiana. He smiled. “That’s small potatoes. I told my wife the same thing. I also told her that she had to do all the cooking, as well. Like you, on the first day I didn’t see anything. The second day, though, things were better, and when I came home on the third day, the house was spic-and-span, the dishes were clean and in the cupboard, and on the table was a marvelously delicious supper of blackened catfish and vegetables.”

The third man had married a woman from Maine. He began his tale. “I told my new wife that her duties include cleaning galore—the house, the dishes, everything. I also told her that I wanted the lawn mowed, the laundry washed, and hot meals every day.” The other men allowed as to that being considerably more than they had asked of their wives.

The third man continued, “On the first day, I didn't see anything. On the second day, I didn't see anything, either. By the third day, though, most of the swelling had gone down, and I could see a little bit out of my right eye, just enough to fix myself something to eat, load the dishwasher, and call a landscaper.”

I suppose the best comment on that poem is the one that my brother made when he sent it to me. "Gotta love those Maine women," he wrote.