Dolores and I have been thinking about writing A Guide to Good Old Boys' Restaurants in Maine. But I’ve been advised that to be politically okey dokey, it would need to be A Guide to Good Old Persons' Restaurants in Maine.

We don't feel totally comfortable with that, so it may have to wait awhile.

But yesterday morning on my way to the Maine Appalachian Trail Club annual meeting in Farmington, I found a new one in Norridgewock.

The weather was miserable, rain, sleet, cold, and when I entered Route 2 from Route 139 I saw a sign that read 'Restaurant.' Alongside it was another sign, that read 'Public Parking.' I knew I was not a resident of Norridgewock, but I suspected I qualified to be part of 'public,' so I parked and went into 'Restaurant.'

I noticed a group of good old boys at a table, and when I asked the waitress -- who also turned out to be owner and cook -- where it would be most convenient for her (as in close, so she wouldn't have to walk 20 feet one-way to bring my breakfast) for me to sit, one of the good old boys spoke.

"Sit here with us," he invited, interrupting a story.

"No thanks," I replied. "My sore leg needs to stretch out, and I don’t want to kick any of you, so I'll sit by myself. But please speak loud enough so I can hear the rest of that story."

He did, and it brought a chuckle from a depressed, weather-oppressed traveler from Downeast.

The veggie omelet was great! It was loaded with veggies, more kinds than I knew existed. The home fries weren't burnt, and the thick slices of toast were apparently home-made.

I walked around, admiring about 50 old black-and-white photos on the walls of scenes no longer seen in Norridgewock. When was the last time you saw a steam locomotive working a train through Norridgewock? Or a corn mill with horses and wagons approaching and leaving it? Or dirt roads as the main drag, assuming Norridgewock has a main drag?

One of the good old boys told me the photos had been enlarged from somebody's old album.

As I stood and chatted with them before leaving, I admitted to being a 'from awayer,' having moved to Maine from Pennsylvania 42 years ago never to look back. I asked why I couldn't be a Maineiac after 42 years.

"You have to be here 15 years and buy a pickup," one of them explained.

“I've been here over 15 years, have bought a chainsaw, a gun, and a canoe, but never a pickup," I said.

"Well, there's the reason," the good old boy said.

Learning that I had been raised in Pennsylvania, one of the good old boys asked, "Do you know why it's called the Keystone State?"

I gathered he knew the answer, and it was a favorite question to ask when he wanted to pass the time of day.

"No," I replied, "and I don't care."

"It's because it was the center colony of the original thirteen colonies," he said.

Now I know. I still don't care.

"I've got two questions for you," I said. "What does 'Norridgewock' mean, and how do you spell it?"

I added, "And don't tell me it means 'the place where an Indian maiden dipped water,' because my reading of John Gould tells me that's what most place names in Maine are supposed to mean."

"You spell it like it sounds," the good old boy answered.

Now I knew.

He then explained that 'Norridgewock' means 'the still place between the waterfalls.' He said there is a waterfall downstream along the Kennebec at Skowhegan. I don't recall where he said the upstream waterfall is, possibly at Madison.

As I left, they invited me to visit them at the garage across the street and up the road a piece.

"We all hang out there, tell stories, and drink beer," one of them said.

I had told the waitress, owner, and cook that her restaurant was so good and so much fun I'd find a reason to come back.

I've found it.

Hope they save me a beer.

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