This New England trip has definitely been adventuresome, eye opening, and fun. I’m writing from Lexington, Mass., home of the Minute Man, home of “the shot heard around the world,” home of my daughter and her family.

My itinerary was packed: My grandson’s birthday dinner and his Spring Concert with a Boston area youth symphony. An afternoon visit with old friends and a weekend trip to Maine with really old friends. Our day trip to decorate the family graves along with a traditional stop for seafood at Plymouth harbor. An adventure-packed flick in a fancy cinema plus some over-the-top restaurant treats. Add the flowering trees, bushes, and flowers and I am on sensory overload. Yum.

Julie, my oldest friend, from high school, invited me for the trip to Maine. She spends much of her summer at their cottage in tiny Rangeley. A resort town, it is the center of the Rangeley Lakes Region in the mountainous western part of the state, near New Hampshire. It’s gorgeous, with many vistas reminiscent of Scotland. The population of under 1700 is divided into seven villages including Oquossoc, Mooselookmeguntic (really!), and Bald Mountain.

My thrifty pal, Julie, and her sidekick, Rachel, have a mutual hobby they pursue every Rangeley weekend: “The Rounds.” This is serious flea marketing by serious Yankees. Someone described the addiction as reverse snobbery – bragging about how little you paid for that sweater, dish, or table. Or easy chair, blender, or oriental rug. It was unbelievable.

We started in the basement of the Episcopal church. Their year-round weekend sales benefit their community outreach programs, so it’s a win-win for the town. The dedicated bargain hounds and volunteer clerks all have a jovial week-to-week running conversation.

I’m trying not to add anything to my household at this stage. But what are you going to do when the earrings that perfectly match your sweater are 25 cents? Two designer tops were $2, the newish curling iron was 50 cents, and the vinyl records were free. I surrendered.

Next stop was the Rangely town dump, known locally as the Rangely Walmart. The nearest real Walmart is in Mexico, Maine, 42 wooded, rugged miles away.

A regular at the dump, Julie has partially furnished their house, clad herself, and filled their bookcases. And the price was right. Everything in the dump’s sorting house is free. The walls are lined with shelves surrounding the display tables in the middle. I shopped the book section while the rain pounded outside and carried my huge stash out in a heavy plastic tote available on the adjacent table. I’m heading home with enough reading for a year. I looked longingly at the handsome sand cast lamp for the last time, but I refrained.

Back at their cottage, when I asked Julie “Where did you find this wonderful coffee table?” she just smiled.

“The dump? No, you don’t mean it!” was my response – all weekend long. I asked about a chair, a painting, a footstool. Again she smiled. Her Maine domain is warmly, comfortably furnished in almost-new down comforters, towels, and fry pans. I asked. She smiled.

Leaving the dump, we stopped at Rangeley Regional K-12 School. The gym housed a rummage sale and a crafts show. I behaved, smug with my El Cheapo goodies in the car.

Last on The Rounds is always the IGA for that one thing you need or to check out the specials. I bought a jar of olives for our evening cocktails. When I arrived at the register, the friendly woman in front of me was paying for her large order. She turned toward me, reached back into an open box of large caramels, grabbed two, and grinned sheepishly. I said, “I can’t blame you. They look delicious. How much are they?” The cashier said 50 cents each.

I decided to splurge for seven – one each for Julie’s dinner party that evening. As I counted them out, I watched the nice shopper hand some bills to the cashier. I didn’t think much of it, but wondered if they tipped cashiers in these hills. The cashier rang up my order and gave me a total 50 cents less than the olives. “I don’t think you charged for the caramels.” She replied that the lady before me gave her $4 to pay for them, and 50 cents were leftover.

W-h-a-t? I was stunned. I’ve only read about people like that. I finished paying then quickly checked the parking lot – but the lady was gone. That kindness seemed to be typical of the warm, easy people of Rangeley. They’re not super chatty – they’re New Englanders after all – but they’re just plain nice.

My afterglow from the unexpected gift carried me through dinner that night with old and new friends. It capped a perfect day in a tiny town with a big heart.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.