Travels With Becky

Shankins

Been on the road telling stories and so forth all over the place. In the last seven days I’ve been to North Conway to hang out with school office professionals—who know how to laugh at themselves! On to Cape Elizabeth, Maine, to the first annual Cape Elizabeth Children’s book festival. So many children carrying signed books as though they were treasures, which, of course, they are. Then to Canterbury, NH to talk about the mills of Berlin. Next, I popped down to Nashua to tell stories to Retired Educators of New Hampshire.  (Some of my high school teachers were present and accounted for, and said nice things about me.  How they remember after 41 (!) years, I don’t know. Maybe they got me mixed up with somebody else.) Today I’m at the Mountain View Grand Hotel in Whitefield talking about "Why Stories Matter" with members of the School Library Media Association. And looking forward to spending Saturday morning with the ladies of the Grand Lodge of the Masons in Manchester.

Which is why the only funny story I have for you is not a story at all, but a word. “Shankins.”  I thought it was specific to wood—as in the little bits of wood left at the bottom of the wood box. But yesterday, my mother described her horrible discovery of shankins in the dish towel drawer. Mouse shankins—left over from the great mouse invasion that occurred in November. We caught three of the little buggers. So now I know that shankins is a generic term for bits and pieces left behind.

You’re welcome.

This is me and Jennifer Thermes at the Cape Elizabeth Author Fest. With an apple.

 

Apples galore!

True story from Paul, who had a bit of a wild streak in his younger days. He and his buddies knew of a remote apple orchard in a year when apples were plentiful. They didn’t have a vehicle, and weren’t old enough to drive one anyhow, but had access to an old buckboard. So they pushed and pulled the buckboard to the orchard, spent the afternoon loading it up with apples in burlap sacks to be made into cider.

Unfortunately they stayed too long at the party and by the time they got back to town, it was dark. Somebody had brought a red railroad lantern (no word on why that was), so they hung it off the back off the buckboard so they wouldn’t get run into as they maneuvered through the streets to where there were headed.  

At the railroad crossing, the buckboard got hung up. There was a fracas as they pushed and pulled to get it off the tracks before the train came. Unfortunately, the town cop was sitting right there, and when they got the buckboard off the tracks, he put on his roof light.  

“What are you boys up to?” the officer wanted to know.

They explained.  

“Well,” he said, “I guess that’s all right. But next time get some headlights!”

I laughed the next day

 

Kenneth in Claremont told this true story:
    Fella had a skunk in the cellar and it refused to leave.  He called the game warden, who said, "Leave the cellar window open and spread a trail of bread crumbs leading outside."
    Fella did.
    Next day he had two skunks in the cellar.

    Also in Claremont, I heard a story about the Home Depot. Seems a fella went in looking for biscuits. The new kid on the job said, “This is the Home Depot. You need a bakery!”
    (I didn’t get it either until I looked up biscuits and found out it’s a kind of joinery used in making furniture. So, in the tradition of yankee humor, I laughed the next day.)

    Which reminded me of a Chatham story. Snowmobiler claimed the trails were so rough, “Mother almost bounced off the back of the snow machine.” Quickly adding, “I’m glad she didn’t; she makes awful good biscuits.”

    And in the tradition of yankee irony, a group in Claremont gave a fundraising dinner to raise money to preserve the wild turkey.  Main course:  Turkey.

How about a glass of screech?

It was a full-of-laughter afternoon with the Stratham Seniors, aka the 76ers since their club was founded in '76.  1976, I believe.

Among the stories:  Grammie was playing the board game “Game of Life” with her five- and eleven-year-old grandsons.  The younger boy said to his brother, “You’re going down!”

Grammie said, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

The little one said, surprised and delighted:  “We have chickens?”

Observed:  The humor of Newfoundland (pronounced New-found-LAND) is similar to yankee humor and probably has the same roots.  For example:

Two old guys in Newfoundland went ice fishing.  They worked hard chopping the holes.  In the midst of the activity, Joe headed for shore.  He knocked at the door of a neighbor’s house.  “Come on in, Joe,” the neighbor said.  “How about a glass of screech?”

Joe didn’t say no and enjoyed the beverage.  After awhile he allowed as how he best get going and could he borrow a rope. “A rope?” the neighbor inquired.  

“Yup,” Joe said, “Amos fell through the ice.”

One of the Pease Greeters (a group of folks who greet returning service men and women at Pease) told about a chat he had with a captain from Texas.  The Texan asked what that big lake was they’d just flown over.

The greeter explained that it was the Atlantic.

“Oh,” the Texan said, “I guess I don’t know my geography.”

Your Condolences

We had great fun at the East Kingston library swapping yarns.  One woman recalled inheriting some nice china and so forth from her favorite aunt.  One piece of willow ware in particular seemed to her might be quite valuable. So she took it to her local antiques dealer to see what it might be worth. 

She explained the situation and asked for an estimate on Auntie’s “soup tureen.”

The dealer said, “I hope you haven’t served any soup in this.  It’s a chamber pot.”

Do you know the difference between a soup tureen and a chamber pot?  Barbara learned that a tureen has a slot for the ladle.  Chamber pot, not so much.

Which reminded me of a great debate:  What’s the difference between a bucket and a pail?

Give up?  

A bucket is smaller at the bottom than the top.  A pail is smaller at the top than the bottom.

Now you know.

Barbara in East Kingston told about her husband asking her father’s permission to marry her.  “Sir,” the young man said, “I would like to marry you daughter and hope you will give me your condolences.”

What'd he say?

I enjoy a good saying. The pithier the better. At my “Moved and Seconded: NH Town Meeting” history program in Hebron, we were discussing town meeting characters.  Someone told of a local character—a foreigner with a thick accent, didn’t say what kind—who loved to comment on many articles.  In fact, it was hard to find an article he didn’t have something to say about.  One time he waxed particularly long and eloquent, prompting a yankee to demand:  “What’d he say?”

Later during the program, I read a quote from James Madison, goes like this: “In all very numerous assemblies, of whatever character, passion never fails to wrest the scepter from reason. Had every Athenian citizen been a Socrates, every Athenian assembly would still have been a mob.”  
 
Prompting a wise guy up front to say, “What’d you say?”

Touché.  Which is French for, “You got me!”

Speaking of sayings, recently there came into my hands (thanks, Ma) a copy of Abe Martin’s Back Country Sayings, published in 1917 by the Abe Martin Publishing Company. In it Kin Hubbard compiles sayings from the Indianapolis news. Generally, I stick to New England sayings. And Indianapolis is, far's I know, far afield from New England, but some of them cried out to be yankee-ized.

Here’s a sampling—observations as true now as they were a hundred years ago.

Stew Nugent has enlisted just to get the socks.

Mrs. Lafe Bud had to buy string beans at the grocery today, as she couldn’t find her garden hat.

Next to a bubble, there ain’t nothing that loses its pep quicker than a pair of white cotton stockings.

Mrs. Tilford Moots is confined to her front window with lard on the heart.

Always wait for the second thought.

Some people stick around just as long without a chair as if you’d offered them one.

Very often the quiet fellow has said all he knows.

It’s a fine thing to know when not to know too much.

Our idea of a pacifist is a fellow who says, “When my wife fixes carrots, why carrots are my choice.”

It’s pretty hard to put anything over on little children or dogs.

Talk is cheap or some folks would be broke all the time.

The hardest blow some folks ever get is when they finally realize that there are a few things they’ll have to miss.

In making a garden, first kill your neighbor’s chickens.

It’s all right to be poetic if you can spare the time.

What’s become of the old fashioned patriotic citizen who used to say, “Well, I didn’t vote for him, but he's my President just the same”?

You’re  never successful until you’re happy.

Yankee Frugality

This story from Orford (Awfid) is actually about Charlestown (not so far from Orford as the crow flies) that speaks to yankee frugality and persistence.  Here ‘tis:

For many years the bridge that connected Springfield, Vermont, and Charlestown, New Hampshire was a toll bridge. Gary remembered a cross-country family trek that took a good three weeks. They drove all over—to holes like the Grand Canyon and peaks like Pike’s. It was quite a journey in that old woody wagon with the three kids, including Gary, in the back.  After all that time on the road, the family was relieved to be almost home. It was nighttime when they approached the toll bridge. Wouldn’t it feel great to be in New Hampshire at last?  Only one five-cent toll separated them from the Granite State.

But there was a hold up. Gary’s dad stopped at the bridge behind a Cadillac with New York plates. The booth was lit and they could see the collector rummaging around in drawers for a few minutes. Then he left the booth and walked across the road to the house—presumably his. They saw lights go on one after another, room to room, upstairs and down, as he passed through. Ten minutes later, he emerged. Walked back across the road to the booth, and handed something to the driver of the Cadillac with New York plates. The Cadillac moved on, and Gary’s dad pulled up to the window.

“What was that all about?” he asked the collector.

“Well,” the old fella said, “that guy from New York handed me a hundred dollar bill. Guess he didn’t think I’d bother to make change.”

Don't know where I'm going, but it may be by boat

After an evening of stories in Orford, Dick Paulson was inspired to send me a couple of his family stories.  Thanks, Dick.  They’re corkers. 

First:

Both my father and grandfather were commercial fishermen. During WWII, my grandfather was given special permission to have a two-way radio on his ship, to notify authorities if he observed any German U-boat presence off the coast of Maine. But most boats were not permitted to have radios. I was at an auction one day and saw a large number of signal flags mariners use, that were up for auction. It made me wonder if my grandfather had learned the meaning of the different flags.

A few days after the auction, my grandfather was over for dinner, so I asked him if he had ever used the flags to communicate with other boats.

"No, I never did learn to read those," he said.

"Gee," I said, "I thought you must have had a whole set of those flags on your ship, so you could signal other boats."

"No, never did," he replied. "No point in hav'en 'em, if you can't read 'em." 
 
and:

A cousin of a friend of mine was at his mother's death bed. The family was all gathered around, and his mother's eyes were closed, resting.

The son held his mother's hand and was telling her what good times they had all had together, and what a good mother she had been. This went on for several minutes.

Finally, he said, "Mom, I just want you to know we're really gonna' miss you when you're gone."

With that, his mother opened her eyes and said, "Why? Where am I going?

The less said the better

These stories were told to me during my last visit to Storytelling Night at the Cornerhouse Inn in Center Sandwich.

The Yankee Sensibility

Dorothy told the story of a woman running into an acquaintance (with a yankee sensibility) after a long separation.  “How’s your wife doing?” she asked.

The yankee said, “Pretty good.”

“That’s good,” the woman said. “She was sick for so long.”

“Ayuh,” the yankee said. “She died.”


Hiding Out

Cousin Debbie was five and her little brother, Eric, three.  Debbie ran away from home and took Eric with her.  The whole neighborhood was out looking for them.  At last they were discovered, under the porch.

When asked what she’d learned from this Debbie said, “Next time, I think I won’t take Eric.”


More Hiding

Which reminded me of a wonderful story Tommy Makem used to tell at his concerts -- with his lilting Irish accent.

The phone rings and the little boy under the table grabs it from on top of the table and whispers, “Hello.”

The caller says, “Is your mother there?”

The boy whispers, “Yes, but she can’t come to the phone.”

“Is your father there?”

Whisper: “Yes, but he can’t come to the phone?”

“Who else is at home?”

Whisper: “There’s three policeman and two fireman and some of the neighbors.”

“My goodness, what are they doing?”

Whisper:  “Looking for me.”

Founder in the Ceiling: Messages from the Past

I met Arthur Jo-Jo Nadeau in Rye while giving a presentation on the Berlin Mills.  He told me this story.  And may I say, at the end, we both had tears in our eyes:

Arthur Jo-Jo Nadeau went to Doucetteville, Nova Scotia, to chase down his genealogy. As a child, Jo-Jo went to Nova Scotia when his parents vacationed there. He has gone now for the last 15 years or so as an adult. His grandmother Eliza Robichaud is from Doucettevile. His grandfather Walter Robichaud was raised in Weymouth. Walter was raised by his mother Ida and his stepdad Gus Bell. Gus's home was on the Sissiboo road in Weymouth, a seven- or eight-mile walk between the homes where Walter and Eliza were raised. Walter would tell Jo-Jo how he would walk to visit Eliza when they were dating. 

On one visit, Jo-Jo found the house where his great-grandparents (Gus Bell's home) had lived, told the owners who he was, and they invited him in. 

At that time in the late 1990s, the new owners were remodeling Gus and Ida's old house. When the plaster and lath were pulled down in the kitchen, all kinds of paperwork were on the topside of it. They surmised that some children took the paperwork (from trunks in the attic) and pushed it in between the spruce boards and the paperwork ended up on the topside of the lathes.  This probably happened in the mid 1930s or so. 
 
So all of this interesting paperwork shows up when the ceiling comes down,  including a record that Jo-Jo’s grandfather had cut and  hand-hewn 110 ties for which he received $0.10 a piece. A lot of hard work for $0.10 each.
  
Two other interesting items. Eliza had written Christmas cards to her in-laws. One card was signed Walter and Eliza. The second card was signed Walter, Eliza and Alice in a little kids scribble:  Alice.  Jo-Jo’s own mother.  

The new owners asked Jo-Jo if he knew the people. At the time, Jo-Jo's mother Alice had been deceased 15 or 20 years. He had a hard time holding back the emotion trying to tell them that Alice was his mother and Walter and Eliza were his grandparents. Jo-Jo was very close to his mother and his grandparents.

Those two postcards, especially the one signed Alice, connect Jo-Jo to the ones who came before.