Uncle Henry's in Maine down?

I still like the paper version.
Connecticut has this:


Funny story: a million years ago, my father (a mechanic by trade, whose day job was with a local dealership) would buy old cars, give them a fix-up, and sell them for cash usually to a carload of Puerto Ricans from Bridgeport. (Seriously: they'd come down the driveway, pile out of it like a clown car, pay him $$$, get the title, then half would pile back into their ride out and half into the new-to-them ride.) This was the 70s and was done principally via the Bargain News.

Fast forward a couple decades. My folks are divorced, my father's a long time out of the house, and one day the phone rings. "I'm looking for the number for the BAAARG-in NOOZ." Excuse me? "I'm looking for the number for the BAAARG-in NOOZ!"

It was an older woman - no Spanish accent, surprisingly enough. After a little discussion, I was able to ascertain that (1) her son bought (or at least looked at) a car from my father... fifteen to twenty years before, and (2) she had something she was looking to sell, and wanted to place an ad to do so. Why she didn't simply call 411 I couldn't tell you, so I looked it up myself, and gave her the number for the Baaarg-in Nooz.
 
In “down east” Maine, a group of colorful locals known as “dickerers” live on their own terms–no time clocks, no bosses, no rules. How? By scouring Uncle Henry’s, a local magazine filled with classified ads, and wheeling and dealing their way through its pages of odd jobs, crazy barters, offbeat goods and other jaw-dropping ways to make a quick buck.
They've even got their own island.
 
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