I went clammin' once. With Mrs. Paul's help, I'll never have to again.

It was when we first moved to Maine, 43 years ago, that the ill-fated clamming expedition occurred. While waiting to see what church in Maine would actually want this youngster right out of his preaching studies to stand in front of them to make sure they got their Sunday-morning nap, we stayed with a family in Wiscasset.

Wiscasset had -- and has -- a fair amount of ocean frontage, and some clam flats.

The two men who took me clamming shall remain nameless, primarily because I've forgotten their names. We took one of their pickups to the scene, where we proceeded to don rubber boots and semi-wade into the mud to dig up those delicious morsels hiding there. Unlike this lengthy, cold, snowy winter, which still has us in its grip although it's spring, this expedition was in July -- Maine's time of heat. The time of year the tourists show up to enjoy those fresh, cooling sea breezes.

But I wasn't a tourist, and I was kind of stuck in the mud. The mud made it unforgettable. I wear glasses, and when I would perspire it would tend to drip onto my lenses. This, of course, I normally ("normally" meaning any time I wasn't clamming) could take care of with a swipe of a hand or handkerchief -- or facial tissue. (I can't remember when my nasal and other dampness problems started being solved by paper instead of white cotton, which would go into my pocket after each use and stay put, full of all sorts of goodies until wash day.)

But on that clamming occasion, I remember wiping my wet face with my hands and each time finding mud on my glasses. It's kind of hard to chase those elusive little critters hiding in their muddy little holes when you can't see because mud is spattered on your glasses.

After a sweaty while, we decided enough was enough, and we mucked our way back to solid sand and the pickup, loaded our cargo of probably unhappy clams into the back, traded our boots for our shoes, and headed back to Wiscasset. On the way, we made another decision -- one that turned out to ruin clamming the rest of the way for me -- that we were hungry.

We pulled into one of those hamburger-frapp* places, where the waiter/waitress comes to your vehicle window so you can order and then brings your grub to you on a tray, which fits onto the window sill.

The waitress, in that case, wore a nice brief skirt, making the stop even more pleasant, at first.

Hot, thirsty, and happy with our salvation of food and beverage, we sat back to enjoy our burgers and frapps. I was in the middle seat, the advantage of being the new guy in town and state. The driver somehow bumped the tray just the wrong way, and we were suddenly sloshed with chocolate frapp.

This was my final clamming expedition.

Which leads to why I don't eat lobster -- known in a phony way on signs and bumper stickers as "lobstahs," I suppose because those who make signs and bumper stickers are spelling impaired.

Actually, I've eaten lots of lobster. I've never bought one. The first was when I was in the company of my daughter and her future husband, who was "from away" and so had to have a lobster -- your fellow diner's having to have a lobster is a good way to know he/she is a "from awayer." We had our lobster dinner (in Maine past the noon meal was historically known as "dinner" and the evening meal was called "supper.") that noon at Beal's Lobster Pound in Southwest Harbor, right on the dock.

It was okay, but I didn't understand why folks raved over it so much nor why it cost so much to crave, eat, and finally brag about. During my years as a news reporter, I was treated to countless "luncheons" (fancy dinners at noon) and dinners (the contemporary word for suppers) with lobster as the main course. Again, it was okay, maybe a little light tasting and bland, nothing to write home about -- unless you're a "from awayer."

Way back, so far back I was teaching school, I got into the pleasant chore of teaching Maine History, which was when I learned Lobster History. Here's what I learned, and in recent years I've heard it from others, including "from awayers," so it must be true.

A lobster's favorite dinner or supper cry is, "I must have garbage that is resting in the mud." I believe that's true of all lobsters, whether Maineiac or "from away."

They began their rocky Maine coast career as junk food. In the Colonial days, residents picked them from the rocky shoreline because they were inexpensive and plentiful. Then, when New York and Philadelphia wealth brought "summer people," those people, as we all know, built "cottages" that were in fact mansions. But to save money, they fed their hired slaves -- no, no, I mean help -- lobsters, because they were so cheap. (The second "they" in this sentence can refer to either the lobsters or the wealthy summer people.)

Similar to how in my other life I bought hot dogs, which I hated, and macaroni and cheese that was then twenty-five cents a box for our brood of bread snappers. Hey, it was food and it was cheap. I wasn't cheap. I was financially challenged.

That's how the wealthy summer folk considered lobster for their hired help; hey, it was food and it was cheap.

I hope someday someone clues me in on who the genius was who turned lobster from junk food to fine fare for today's I've-got-to-have-lobster less-extravagant tourist crowd. On my Island Explorer bus, they ask, "Where can I get lobster cheap?"

My answer should be, "In Maine of the 1850s."

But they'd want to know which bus goes there.

So, now we have the lobsters "we" all crave and for which "we" are willing to pay high prices -- the same lobster who still crawls around in the mud of the ocean floor and dines on garbage.

Want to take me out to dinner -- the evening dinner, of course? Fine.

Want me to eat lobster? No thanks.

I don't eat lobster, and I don't go clammin'.

I do drink a good frapp if I can find one.

*Having been raised in Pennsylvania, where a man was a man and a milkshake was made of milk, syrup, and ice cream, I had never heard the word "frapp" until my 1965 pilgrimage to the Pine Tree State. At that time, milkshakes were called frapps in Maine. In Maine, a milkshake was just that, milk and chocolate shaken up and kind of light to the taste buds. Now, thanks to what we call "progress" and fast-food restaurants, I doubt if any but the oldest Maineiacs would have any idea what a frapp is -- or was. I'm not even sure of what a "shake" is composed. I'm fairly sure I don't want to know.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.