Every owner of a Maine country store hears numerous stories, and Gilmore Hilton is no exception. He is good at repeating narratives, and his audience stays attentive. His listeners anticipate light-heartedness and lore without too much fabrication.

I was in his store when he began one such story. Gilmore leaned back in his chair, stroked his three-day stubble, furrowed his brow, offered a slight smile and began: “It seems that H. Mortimer Kennedy, a former New York City investment banker, retired to Wiscasset, bought a coastal home, and tried to become grounded in Downeast culture.

“On his fifth day in town he offered imported French Brie and a bold dark wine to a clam worm digger, but that went over like a pregnant pole vaulter.

“He failed miserably at developing a Maine accent – he even pronounced all three syllables in ‘Saturday.’ He shot an Irish setter instead of a deer, pruned his apple trees in August, couldn’t grow corn, refused to bait his own hook, crashed his new pickup truck, threw away the tomalley from a lobster, and tapped an oak tree for maple syrup.”

While Gilmore was speaking, none other than H. Mortimer Kennedy burst into the store.

“Gilmore, what am I going to do? I put out several lobster traps yesterday, and I went out to pull them this morning. Suddenly, a lobster boat came by and a man fired three shots into the water near my boat. I got out of there fast. Gilmore, what should I do?”

Bradford Davis, a respected local attorney who was known for his common-sense approach to the law, took the floor.

“Mr. Kennedy, men and women who make their living by lobstering do not take kindly to those who do it for a hobby. There is an easy solution to your dilemma. Stop lobstering. Case closed.”

I heard last week that H. Mortimer Kennedy sold his home in Wiscasset and was moving back to New York City. Experientia docet.

Morton Soule teaches Latin at Cape Elizabeth High School.