“I was right out straight, drove right up.  Liked to kill myself with all that work, had to sit down and rest a spell.  Come to find out I sat down on this book, see?  Turns out it was written by some guy lives downeast.  Turned the page and the cussid thing grabbed aholt of me and I had to glob around for hours till I got to the end.”

“What was it that got you so engrossed?”

“You got all these folks telling other folks how to live, like they got the super-secret, like they got the only book of rules to live by, but don’t seem nobody’s got it just right.    You got the lobsterman, quite a rig, fighting off this glomming neighbor fisherman, then it gets all spleeny and shit happens, don’t you know?  Then you got those that have, and those that don’t.  Story might rile up some folk but no one never died from a dooryard scrape, ‘cept maybe in a book.”

“You think the book will upset some readers?”

“No telling who the sensitive ones are, get all bent out of shape.   You got this group that looks down on that group, who looks down on those that are looking down on them – understand?”

“You mean people like me?”

“Ayuh.  You’re from away, but you ain’t all that pushy.”

“Well, thanks for that, I guess.  Is this book, Vacationland, written in Maine-speak?”

“Lordy no, it’s written so’s even you can understand.  Let me tell you.  It’s a story, finest kind.   I was you, I’d buy the book.”