A Maine Tall Tale
You can talk ’til you’re blue in the face about the thickest of fogs in ye merry olde England, but I’m tellin’ you now, sure as I’m standing here, that England’s fogs don’t hold nothing over them thick fogs which roll in over the Bay of Fundy here in Maine. These ain’t your little pea soupers, you can betcher life. These fogs is so thick you can drive a nail into them and hang yer hat on it. It’s the honest truth.
One of my neighbors works a fishing boat, but he can’t do nothin’ when a Maine fog comes rolling into the bay. He always saves up his chores for a foggy day. One day, the fog came rollin’ in overnight, and my friend knew there wasn’t to be no fishin’ that day. So he decides his roof needs shingling. He got started at the shingling right after breakfast, and didn’t come down ’til dinner.
"Maude, we got a mighty long house," he told his wife over supper. "Took me all day to shingle."
Well, Maude knew right enough that they lived in a small house. After all, she’d been cleanin’ it for nigh on twenty years, so who would know better? She went outside to take a look. And I’ll be jiggered if she didn’t discover that my neighbor had shingled right past the edge of the roof and out onto the fog!