In the late ’70s, as a struggling young illustrator, I was happy to secure a paying job doing the cover art and illustrations for a book written by (of all people) my former high school English teacher Gerald E. Lewis.

Besides being a genuine quirky, colorful “local Maine character” himself, Gerry was a successful regional author. Possessed of bone-dry wit and a native Mainer’s ear for local and regional dialects, he was an excellent choice to author a handy reference guide to New England speech.

Our publisher, the late great Phillips A. Treleaven, figured that this modestly priced paperback would help his fledgling Thorndike Press gain market share by tapping into the public’s endless fascination with Maine lingo. When it came to marketing (and a bunch of other stuff) Phil really knew his business.

Arriving in bookstores “just in time for holiday giving” with an under $2 cover price calculated to convert the tightest of Down East tightwads into impulse buyers, our little book practically flew off the shelves. By the time the holiday ornaments had been packed away, we’d shifted close to 50,000 copies!

Although we had every intention of providing our readers with a good laugh, we also managed to generate quite a few for ourselves, especially regarding the etiology of some of the quirkier “Maine-isms” on our list.

A case in point; Gerry wondered aloud how the completely inoffensive hake managed to wind up as the brunt of a particularly mean spirited phrase. However it happened, the hapless hake was clearly considered the “school” dunce. (Ouch! Sorry about that.) How else to explain the pejorative phrase “numb as a hake”?

I was equally mystified by the nearly ubiquitous use of the phrase, “Hold ‘er Newt!” Although it’s fallen somewhat out of fashion since then, when I was a kid, echoes of “Hold ‘er Newt!” could be heard from Kittery to Fort Kent. Wherever workmen were engaged in hard physical labor, hand-hauling heavy fishnets, cutting and stacking tree length timber, hoisting heavy loads onto barge, railcar or flatbed truck, it was just a matter of time before somebody hollered “Hold ‘er Newt!”

The meaning was always the same. Loosely translated it meant: “Just hang on awhile until we can get this situation under control.” If a gang of men was lifting a heavy load and it suddenly began to shift dangerously to one side, somebody would yell, “Hold ‘er Newt!” signaling the crew to stop and maintain a steady pressure (hold her) until help arrived.

I’d heard this phrase, used in exactly this way, ever since I could remember. But, what baffled me was the fact that I actually knew “Newt” personally! It hadn’t taken me too long to figure out that the Newt I knew couldn’t possibly be the same fellow who had inspired the phrase, which had been in common usage for over a century. On the other hand my Newt sure fit the job description.

If you were looking for someone to “Hold ‘er!” in a dangerous work situation, Maurice “Newt” Newell, head welder at my dad’s shipyard, was the right man for the job. Newt wasn’t a tall man. Built along the lines of a cast iron fireplug, and mild mannered nearly to the point of shyness, Newt nevertheless radiated a palpable aura of physical strength that was impossible to ignore.

Once, during noon lunch break at the yard, Newt walked up to the old metal soda machine, dropped his dime in the slot and retrieved an ice cold Coke. This was long before twist off tops, and though there was a bottle opener on the front of the machine, Newt never used it. In a move worthy of Popeye the Sailor Man, he simply held the bottle in his big fist, popped the cap with one flick of his heavily callused thumb and took a drink.

Another time I saw several workmen struggling to measure a length of heavy anchor chain, which was draped across a pile of junk at the end of the pier. The workers were having little success climbing around attempting to measure the twisted coils of chain using a stiff metal tape measure.

Sizing up the situation, Newt motioned for the men to step aside. Then, reaching down, he grasped one end of the chain in his two powerful hands, pinned it to his chest, stood up and edged slowly backwards until that massive anchor chain was stretched taught as a banjo string.

After rapidly measuring the chain the workmen stepped back and nodded to Newt. When he released his grip the massive anchor chain clattered back down onto the deck and I found myself thinking, “That’s it! Hold ‘er Newt!”