Travels With Becky

In case you missed it ...

New Hampshire Public Television taped the launch party of my new book, and you can watch it here online.

Lots of good storytellers there. Give it a look.

You know you’re in N.H. North Country when:

In West Stewartstown, you see a woman who has pulled her car off the gravel road and is holding an antenna, like the old TV antennas soon to be obsolete, as high as she can above her head. It’s about three feet long with three crossbars. What’s she doing? Trying to get reception on her cell phone.  This is what’s known north of Franconia Notch as a sweet spot.

At the Coos County Nursing Home in Berlin (pronounced Co-os, not coos like a dove, a nd Brr-lin, as in “Brr, it’s cold here come January”), you see this sign on the front door: “Notice to Visitors. Bears have been spotted near this facility.  Use caution when entering or exiting.”

At the Sportsman’s Lodge and Cabins in Stewartstown where you’re staying a couple of nights (Great place! Clean, spacious cabins on Big Diamond Pond at a reasonable price. Thanks, Linda and Roger for your hospitality), when your hosts learn you’ll be returning late from celebration of the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Methodist Church in Colebrook, they warn you:  “Just watch out for the moose; we’ve got seven or eight of them that wander around in the evening.”

We didn’t see the moose, but we did have long conversations with the loons and a nice kayak ride on Big Diamond. Little Diamond Pond, just down the road, is completely undeveloped.  Next time we’ll kayak that one, too.  It’s part of Coleman State Park and said to be excellent for fishing. We spotted some happy campers roasting wieners over their fires.

I kellate this will clear things up good

David Emerson wrote to explain about his criminal turkey and the derivation of “kellate.”  Here's his e-mail:

“Jerome, the best turkey ever, used to manage to raise his bulk over the fence and make his way to a nearby Dunkin Donuts where he would beg for donut holes. One day during rush hour, he caused such a traffic jam that the cops were called to unsnarl things. I got a call and had to slink over and collect him. He loved to ride in the back seat of my Contour. It caused some odd looks at intersections.He made the newspapers twice, once on the front page, above the fold.

“I've always assumed that ‘kellate’ is a corruption of calculate, but I may be off base. It's used in the sense of, ‘I kellate he'll win the primary.’ "

Loisanne Foster, who created the website New Hampshire Humor on Squidoo thought of a bunch of New England expressions.Here's what she wrote: 

“Well, I heard ‘two shakes of a lamb's tail.’

“I'll be 65 in December. I tend to use expressions that cause folks to look at me blankly. I guess that, as a child, I picked them up from my elders. One is, ‘I am going to sozzle some clothes,’ meaning wash them by hand. ‘Sozzle?’ they ask. 

 " ‘Scarce as hen's teeth.’  It took me a long time to realize that is rare indeed.

" ‘Once in a coon's age’ or, of course, ‘once in a blue moon.’

" ‘Shiver me timbers’ for cold and ‘batten down the hatches’ for prepare for a storm (literal or figurative) are probably more upstate New York.

“My aunts called an untrustworthy man ‘a two-legged snake’ or ‘snake in the grass.’ And no one should trust a man with ‘shifty eyes.’

“My mother said something worthless was ‘not worth a hill of beans’ or maybe ‘not worth a fig.’

“My dad called a winch ‘a come-along.’  A man who had caused his own downfall was ‘hoist by his own petard,’ (blown up by his own explosive device?).

“Bathroom expressions are weird. ‘I am going to see a man about a horse.’ One elderly lady I knew used to say of her husband, ‘Oh, George has gone to shake the dew off his lily.’

“One of my favorite N.H. understatements for a young lady who has stepped outside the acceptable boundaries: ‘She's no better than she should be.’

“Now that you got me going, I'll probably think of some more.

“I enjoy your books, your tapes and CDs, your blog, and, especially your presentations. I have you linked to my New Hampshire Humor lens (web page). You told me you were ‘wicked flattered.’ I am wicked flattered that you are glad to be on it. You are my star!”

Thanks Loisanne – I'm glad you like my stuff.  Don't know as I'm much of a "star," but if you say so, I'll take the compliment.  And keep those sayings coming!

Have you heard of these?

David Emerson of Albany, N.H., writes that he's been enjoying my blog. Which is good, because I really enjoy him. He's one of the funniest people in New Hampshire, as I pointed out in an article for New Hampshire Magazine last summer. A storyteller and humor writer himself, he often tells about growing up in Chatham, N.H., sister city to Stow, Maine. He responded to my request for North Country expressions this way:

“Here's a North Country expression from the Sister Cities: Wes Buswell used to allow that he could accomplish some deed or other ‘quicker than three shakes of a lamb's twitchet.’

“Another popular one in the cities was: ‘He just about sh-- a clinker.’ Sometimes it would be a ‘green clinker.’

“And my personal favorites: ‘If I looked like that, I'd shave my ass and walk backwards,’ and ‘I wouldn't piss in his ear if his brain was on fire.’ ”

I wrote back to thank him and wondered if he'd ever heard the expression "poorer than Job's turkey." He replied:

“Never heard of Job's turkey. Did I ever tell you about my turkey with a police record?

“Are you familiar with the term ‘kellate?’ My grandfather used it all the time, but the only other place I've heard it is in the Snowvillage Sketches.

“I'm sure you're familiar with ‘hotter than a tophet.’ Susan is fond of saying ‘hot enough to breed apes’ or "hot enough to breed sheep.’ I have no idea what that means and daren't ask.

“I'm considering coining ‘deader than Maynard Record's beagle dog.’

I'm going to ask him about "kellate."  Not familiar with that word, but it doesn't sound like something I'd like perpetrated on my own self. And if David tells the story of his turkey with a record, I'll pass it on to all you faithful blog readers.

Keep those expressions coming.  I'm collecting them for my next book!

Why I Love N.H.

In yesterday’s Suncook Valley Sun, I  read that the Chesley Memorial Library in Northwood will host a new crafts class. The article begins: “Would you like to learn how to crochet plastic totes from grocery bags?”

Who wouldn’t?
   
Evidently the class is free. It’ll be held Tuesday, Aug. 5, from 1 to 3 p.m..  Evidently one afternoon is sufficient to learn this skill. Besides reusing plastic bags, the totes will be handy for lugging groceries, so you won’t get stuck with a cupboard full of the very bags from which the totes are made! Talk about a win-win-win. Participants need to bring their own plastic bags, scissors and an M hook.
   
This morning I trotted to Durham to interview Andre and Arnold Garron, brothers and former star Univerisity of New Hampshire football players who went on to play professional ball. When they were just out of high school, each was recruited by a number of colleges. “Why did you choose UNH?” I asked.  Arnold said his first memory of UNH was stepping onto the crosswalk in front of Town and Campus in downtown Durham. “The cars all stopped,” he said. In Framingham, Mass., where he grew up, “They wouldn’t have.”

Our good driving wasn’t the only reason Arnold chose UNH.  But it helped. 

My Q&A with the Garrons will appear in the next issue of UNH Magazine.  If you’re an alumni, you’ll get the magazine in the mail for free. Otherwise, you’ll have to google the article.  If I remember, I’ll get somebody who knows how to set up a link from here to there.

Comments, questions, stories, and story ideas appreciated.  I’m especially interested in New Hampshire sayings. 

Just who is Job and why is his turkey poor?

Don and Ann from the Auburn Historical Association know I’m collecting New Hampshire expressions for a book on the vernacular. They e-mailed a beauty. In a conversation with an 87-year-old New Hampshirite, they got onto the subject of moonshine. Turns out the elderly Yankee recalled a man who’d been nabbed by the Feds for his stash of moonshine in the barn cellar during the early ‘30s. He got a hefty fine for his crime, but the fine didn’t mean a thing because the fella was “poorer than Job’s turkey.”  Don and Ann ran the expression by another old-timer, a 91-and-a-half-year-old, to check for authenticity. That man acknowledged that he’d heard it used before, but not recently. 

These gas and oil and food prices keep going up and we’ll all be poorer than Job’s turkey.

I’d love to hear more New Hampshire expressions. Some of them run in families; some are distinctive in a town or region. Post them in the comments section of this blog, or send them along to [email protected] and I'll post them myself. Maybe hearing one will help somebody recall another. It’s good to save them before they’re lost to memory altogether, don’t you think?

Vacation! Although it was busy...

Where do New Hampshire people go for vacation? A lot of us go to Maine, “Vacationland.” Thirteen years ago, John and I bought a log cabin on Donnell Pond in Franklin, Maine. I’ve done a lot of writing up there, all by myself, weeks on end, near total seclusion. It was lonely, but efficient. Not anymore. John’s retired. We’re inseparable. We go to camp to have fun. We go for vacation, although neither one of us has a "real" job to take a vacation from. I guess we take a vacation from busy-ness. 

This trip was pretty busy, though. We kayaked to the islands and picked blueberries. We played a lot of Scrabble. We drove to Tidal Falls Restaurant in Hancock and ate fried clams, scallops and the best french fries ever, while watching the tide rip through the channel at Frenchman’s Bay. And I waitressed at the tea room for the Down East Church Fair at Hull’s Cove. I’ve done this a few years running. My friend Ada invited me to help out with the serving of the popular crab sandwiches (they were sold out by noon), and the egg salad, ham salad, chicken salad, and tuna sandwiches, plus the very popular strawberry shortcake with homemade biscuits. I’m not a very good waitress; the girls, mostly Ada’s granddaughters (ages 8-14) outstrip all my efforts and get all the tips. But it’s fun.

A fellow at one table made the mistake of asking what I did for a living. (How did he know I wasn’t a professional waitress?) So I told him, “Storyteller.” Turns out he liked to spin a yarn or two himself. A half hour later I’d pulled up a chair and was still at the table trading yarns. You know how it is, one leads to another. Luckily, when you’re a volunteer, you hardly ever get fired from the job you're supposed to be doing.

John and I took a shortcut from Franklin to Hull’s Cove, which added a half hour to our trip because we ended up in Lamoine. If we hadn’t gotten lost though, we wouldn’t have passed a road called “Milky Way,” and seen the sight we saw: Thirty or more residents of “Milky Way” -- a herd of goats.  I got pictures!

Only in New Hampshire

I didn't think anything of it at the time, but when the Friends of the Library were putting away the chairs and tables at Town Hall following my book launch, they found a book. One lonely copy of Live Free and Eat Pie left behind. Inside was a name, Ursula, and a cell phone number. Did I know whose book it was?

I did. It was my friend Sue's handwriting, and the number was for my other friend, Ursula. I said I'd get the book to Sue. (Putting it in the mail today!)

At a dinner party, I told about the abandoned book, and a friend from New York said, "Only in New Hampshire." I asked what he meant. He explained that the fact that the Friend bothered to search for the book's owner, who was located in short order, was a small town phenomenon. I guess so.

Which reminded me of Phil and Dianne. I dedicated my book to them. I'd met them and talked with them MANY times, because they attend lots of my storytelling sessions. They sent me a photograph of Frog Rock in New Boston that I blew up and sometimes use as a visual aid when I tell a story about that most interesting rock. It It looks just like a frog, in case you couldn't have guessed that from its name. Anyway, I didn't know Phil and Dianne's last name or how to get in touch with them. I just knew they lived in New Boston. What to do?

I called the New Boston Town Hall. Sure enough, the second person I talked with knew Phil and Dianne, and I got the information I needed to send them a personal invite to the launch party. Which they attended. Sat in the front row. Great to see them.

"Same thing," said the New Yorker. Where he comes from if you called town hall, or city hall, looking for somebody in particular, chances are the folks there wouldn't know them, and, even if they did, they probably wouldn't tell you how to find them.

I like the New Hampshire way better.

I keep forgetting to mention this, but please comment on my blog. Share a story! Or, you can shoot me an email at [email protected], and I'll post it myself!

Helen's Crocuses

Here's the poem Grace Mattern read at the launch of Live Free and Eat Pie in Northwood on July 11. I did a poll of the audience to see how many knew Helen Johns, the subject of the poem. About half the crowd did. She was a great lady – hard working and, in later years, stooped with osteoporosis, but that didn't seem to slow her down much. She was active in town as well as farm affairs. I met her when we used to stop by her farmstand next to Heritage Hardware and the Northwood Market, previously Lester's. She sold plants in the spring and eggs out of an old refrigerator. Customers were instructed to leave their money in a designated spot, because most of the time Helen was off doing other things. She trusted people to pay what they owed. And I'm pretty sure, for the most part, we did!

Grace's poem was published in her chapbook, Fever of Unknown Origin, from Oyster River Press. After she read it, I noticed a few people with tears in their eyes. Laughing hard, as we were that night, can bring you close to tears, especially when a memory like this one catches you off guard.

Helen's Crocuses

by Grace Mattern

Earlier than we dare to hope

for any native color beyond

the hard buds of maples sheening

the hills with faint rose, the cupped

crocuses shoot up yellow,

purple, white – organge hearts

studding Helen's front yard.

Helen was a loose farmer – what bloomed

bloomed wherever; greenhouse customers

would leave a note and payment

clothespin-clipped to a board

by the broken door; eggs were sold

from an old refrigerator propped outside,

cartons stacked next to the change box.

So when the blood blossomed 

in her brain as she drove to pick up 

pig scraps from the restaurant,

she just pulled to the shoulder, planted

her foot on the brake and waited.

Three seasons later, hardy and startlingly

new, her again, her crocuses.

In Laconia, stories kept a-coming

On the ride up 106 to Laconia Arts Day, we passed the International Speedway in Loudon and admired their sign, “Live Free and Race.” That’s the spirit.

The streets of downtown Laconia were lined with artist tents and tables, all kinds of crafts, too. People strolled. Very festive. At the Laconia Library, about thirty people showed up at 1:00 for stories. We laughed!  I tried my old trick of telling a few stories than asking the crowd if I’d shook loose any memories. The stories came and kept a-coming. One guy, Bruce, was particularly quick. When I told about the time Pricilla in Wilton got her foot stuck in her bra, Bruce said, quick as a wink:  “You know about Wilton?”

“What about it?”

“They have to keep watering it.”

To which I responded. “You know about Milan?”

“What about it?” Bruce said.

“The townies say, ‘Milan’s dumb, but the next town’s Dummer.”

Giovanni from Milaan (that’s in Italy!) sat in the front row. He and I heckled each other.  That was fun.

When a smiley woman, last name of Rappa, pronounced Rapper, told a story about Lyman, there was heated discussion about whether such a town really existed. Maybe she was thinking of Lyme. No, she insisted, Lyman was not Lyme; it’s a small town near Sugar Hill.  She was right.  Lyman even has a website, and a population a twitch under 500.  Let it be said, I’m sorry for picking on Mrs. Rappa about Lyman being imaginary, and the rest of the crowd’s probably sorry too. I’m sure they’ve all looked it up by now.  Yup, Lyman’s small, but definite.

Favorite moment: the beautiful white-haired native who, after the program, told me she called her mother Mummer, just as her own mother had called her mother, Mummer. It’s another case of that wandering NH “r”.