Travels With Becky

Lawn ornaments

One man’s truck rack is another man’s sculpture. As the fella says, “Sure I collect dump trucks and line them up in the yard. They don’t run, but they look nice. Could be worse. I could collect culverts like my cousin Lymon.” 

My friend Lucy, on the drive from a meeting the other night, told about her husband Ben’s boat. It was a 27-footer that sat in the yard 10 years awaiting repair. Finally, the kid down the road hauled it away. He’s going to work on it.  As for us, we just sent the Queen Frickin’ Mary (that’s my name for it) to my bother-in-law’s house. The 17-foot sailboat has been on our lawn since 2006, getting fixed up ever so s-l-o-w-l-y.  We figured it’s better off at Jim’s house, since he lives near a lake. Last Sunday, we took her for a spin and she didn’t sink. I call that progress. She almost sank, though. My husband forgot to put the drain plug in. Luckily, he noticed the water pouring in, plugged the hole, and all was well. If we’d had wind, it would have been even better. 

But speaking of sculpture. At the church auction one of the items up for bid was a heavy- duty truck rack. The rack was not on site, but Neil English, poet/carpenter, sent in a photo, and this description:
"Vanguard Contractor’s heavy-duty truck rack
Used one year
Bolts on to full sized 8-foot pickup bed
70” by 100” footprint size
Was installed on a 1996 Ford F 150
Sold new for $600.00
Reason for selling: Leigh no longer appreciates it as a lawn ornament, but hey, you never
can tell, you might just fall in love with it, either on your truck or off."

Once we had a French exchange student, who, upon seeing some of these lawn ornaments posed the question: “Why do people put their cars in the garden?”

Cause they look so nice, naturally.

What’s in your dooryard acting like a lawn ornament? I’d love to hear your stories of objects that just won’t go away. Post a comment here -- please do, it's really easy! -- or e-mail me at [email protected].

I’m off to camp in Maine for a week or two, finishing up a writing project, so the blog might be skimpy until early September, and I’ll be out of e-mail range as well.  But the Moose will return with lots more stories. 

Happy Labor Day!

Going once ...

Northwood was hopping last Saturday night.  A crowd of nearly 40 showed up for the auction at the Congregational Church. That event followed the annual Barbecue Chicken Dinner. That chicken was some tender; I know because I ate one.

It was my pleasure, once again, to serve as auctioneer.  Sandy McGann and Russ Eldridge, along with their many helpers, did so much advance organizing that auctioneering was a breeze. Each of the 60-plus items had an index card with the name of the item, donor, description, value and suggested starting bid. I didn’t have to think at all, just put my mind in neutral and ran my mouth. I’m good at that. A few items had a minimum bid – that was awkward. And a few didn’t sell at all. No takers. Oh well, blame the economy.

The Rev. Gail Murphy got the winning bid on a necklace and earring set from Northwood’s favorite jewelry maker and stained glass artist, Susan Pratt-Smith. The other bidder dropped out at $110 saying Gail didn’t have any of Susan’s jewelry yet and the set was a good color for her. (The reverend does have beautiful blue eyes.) How’s an auctioneer supposed to work with people as nice as that? I guess when you’re surrounded by church people you run the risk of inordinate niceness. Many of us Northwood ladies own Susan Pratt-Smith jewelry. We love it! It glows. Mostly she sells it at fancy art galleries and boutiques, but sometimes she’ll sells it at the church fair, and we snap it up like beans.

Charlotte Klaubert and Robin Drown show off the jewelry.

 They were in charge of money at the auction.This is my buddy, Russ Eldridge, demonstrating
 the sit-up exercise machine.

We sold Santa’s elves, but the peace pole didn’t go. A minimum
bid of $350 was too rich for our blood. Still, it’s a beautiful object.
 There’s one in front of the church that looks real nice.

Going out in style

Word came from my friend Neil English, poet/carpenter, that New Hampshirite Mark Winkley, 96, had died.

I met Mark just once, at a meeting of the N.H. Model-T club. Mark’s son told this story.  His dad, he said, (who happened to be sitting right next to him at the dinner), drove his Model-T all over the place. You never knew where he was going to turn up or what time of day, dawn to dusk. He was putting on so much mileage, the son suggested he slow down a bit, so the car would still be in good shape when the son inherited it. 

“I’m going to be buried in my Model-T,” Mark said.

“Why?” 

“Because I never saw a hole a Model-T couldn’t get out of.”

As it turns out, Mark was not buried in his Model-T, but the antique car community turned out in force.  You can see pictures of Mark, his car, and the turn-out here. His casket was driven to the cemetery in a Model-T, and the chroniclers of the event say he would have gotten a kick out of how his feet were hanging out the back.

Lookin' good!

Kim from Fort Lauderdale, Fla., writes to remind me that she won a Live Free and Eat Pie special limited-edition T-shirt in the raffle at the Frenchboro Lobster Fest, and we posed together for a glamour photo. So why isn’t it on the blog? 

Oversight, I’m sure. Here it is. You can’t see our eyes, but we look soooo good. (This is, of course, after the big lobster feed, hence my protruding paunch. Nothing a few million sit-ups won’t take care of. I’ll get right on that.)

Which reminds me of the story of the horse trader and the farmer. “That’s a nice horse,” the farmer said, pointing one out. “What’ll you take for her?”

“Well,” the trader said, “she is a strong, sweet-natured animal, but she don’t look so good.”

“How much?” the farmer said.

They dickered and came up with a mutually agreeable price. The deal was done. The farmer went down the road with his new horse. But he was back 15 minutes later.

“You suckered me,” the farmer said.  “That horse is blind.”

The horse trader said, “I didn’t sucker you.  I told you she didn’t look so good.”

Home again, home again

Sunday brought two Old Home Days. In the morning I told stories in South Sutton at the Old Meeting House.  In the afternoon, it was North Wilmot (see previous entry) where some of my folks come from.  A bunch of them were there -- Chet, Althea, Mike, Betty. They came from far away to visit the old place on Old Home Day.

FYI in 1899 Gov. Frank Rollins declared Old Home Week for New Hampshire, exhorting those who’d heeded the call of Horace Greeley (also a New Hampshire lad) to “Go West” to return for a visit at least.  A lot of people did, and still do. 

In South Sutton a man told this “true” story. (Ain’t they all?)
Friend Johnson was a logger and retired railroad man who lived in Colebrook.  One day, as Friend was enjoying a Moxie on the porch of the general store, a shiny car with New York plates pulled up out front.

“Say, Friend,” said the slicker, “do you know how to get to Errol.”

“How’d you know my name was Friend?” Friend said. 

“Wild-ass guess,” the slicker said.

“Well,” says Friend, “why don’t you take a wild-ass guess about how to get to Errol.”

In North Wilmot, three hours later, a man told me this “true” story. (If they ain’t exactly true, they’re true-ish.)

Slim Robbins from, of all places, South Sutton, was a tall, lanky, quiet kind of guy.  One day Slim was out mowing his lawn, when a big Buick with Massachusetts plates pulled up.  “Hey, Slim,” the outta-stata says, “Do you know how to get to Warner?”

“How’d you know my name is Slim?” Slim says.

“Wild guess.”

“Well, why don’t you take a wild guess as to how to get to Warner.”

Which just goes to show, a good story is like a head cold, it’s contagious.

In South Sutton, town folk dress in vintage clothing for the Old Home Day celebration.  That’s Jody Wells on the left, his dad George in the middle, and the Rev. Henry W. Fleming Sr. on the right. Reverend Henry officiates over the goings-on at the meetinghouse, delivers the sermon, leads the prayer, and heckles the guest speaker (i.e., me).  George uses his feather duster, a.k.a., tickler, to keep the congregation awake. Jody collects the offerings. If the offering offered by certain congregants seems stingy (a wooden nickel, for example), he holds it up for all to see, and Reverend Henry writes the offender’s name in a little book, for future reference.

The photo above shows George, Henry, a fella I don’t know, and a headless lady.  Note her ghost face in the mirror. Note that in her ghostly incarnation, her head’s on backwards. 

'Must git'

Fred Ogmundson of North Wilmot, enthusiastic local historian, dug up this piece of social science from an old issue of the Franklin Transcript of June 28, 1894. (Names changed in case any of the families are still around – it’s fairly scandalous.)  The item went like this:

“Charles Jones, who left his wife, Mrs. Lucy Messer Jones, seventeen years ago, has just returned and paid his former wife a visit. She has, during his absence, married a Mr. Pangburn.  Charles has been heard to say that Lucy is as sweet and fair as ever and Mr. Pangburn ‘must git.’  Wilmot people are anxiously awaiting further developments.”

Here's some of the gang who turned out to hear stories at the historic North Wilmot Church on Old Home Day. Ain't they a jolly bunch? That's Fred in the front row.

So much for being a famous author...

Last night at Border’s in Concord, a small but enthusiastic group of six women gathered for New Hampshire stories, including Dee, who books local writers to visit and read from their work. I got kind of excited when a seventh woman stopped by. She said, “I’m sorry I have another meeting but . . . ”

I interrupted, catching her drift (I thought), “You want me to sign a book for you now!”

“No,” she said. “I just wondered if I could borrow one of these empty chairs.”

Sometimes the writing life is a humbling experience. But just look at our happy faces. That’s me in the middle, and Dee standing on the right. We love stories. 

Tonight I’m at Barnes and Noble in Manchester. Wonder who’ll show up. Maybe the mayor. It could happen.

Bob at camp

When we go to our camp in Maine, our wire fox terrier, Bob, comes with us. This photo of him taken there last week was too cute not to post, even though it really has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that Bob really, really likes potato chips.

 

Lobster tale

Here’s my favorite line from the Frenchboro Lobster Festival. On the verge of telling a town meeting story, I asked if they held town meeting in Frenchboro. Fella says: “Every day.”

The crowd wanted a lobster story so I obliged. On the coast of Maine, you can go down to the pier in a lot of places, pick out your lobster, and they’ll cook it for you on the spot. Sure enough, the lady from Kansas wanted to try lobster. She picked one out.  The Mainer grabbed the lobster and held it over a pot of boiling water. “You’re not going to put that living animal into that boiling water, are you?” the lady said, appalled.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” the Mainer said. “They’re used to it.”

And here’s an expression I’d almost forgotten. A nice lady named Lillian who’d come to the festival via “God’s Tugboat” (the missionary boat Sunbeam) pointed to my husband’s back. “Is that a bee?”  Sure enough, it was a wasp. I brushed it away. She said, “I would have done it, but I didn’t want to cuff him.”

Brought back memories of my brother, Robert, and me fighting in the back seat of the Fairlane. My father would say, “You kids want to get cuffed?” We didn’t.

I sat with Lillian a while talking about island life and the sea and how scary the sea can be when it gets roiled up. When the storms come, she said, you just hope everybody’s in safe. We talked about the rain and how discouraging it gets when it keep s coming day after day. She called Swan’s Island “over home.” Islanders make do, she told me. “We’re used to making do.” 

Lillian won two prizes in the raffle, including a pretty teapot, which the volunteers wrapped up snug for the return trip “over home.”

More pie, island-style

I was at the Frenchboro Lobster Fest, which was indeed festive, on Long Island off Maine last weekend. During the pie auction, I took a seat at a picnic table beside a couple of salty salts. We sat on our hands, amazed at the prices those pies were bringing. I think the one made with love by a Frenchboro native from raspberries, strawberries and blueberries picked on the island brought $15. Some of the apple pies brought $10 or $12. The cream pies went for less, maybe because it was so hot out and bidders were daunted by the thought of carrying a cream pie on the eight-mile ferry ride back to the mainland. We’d have to fight off the seagulls for one thing and the other travelers for another.

After witnessing the pie buying frenzy, the older of the two salty salts said, “That’s too much to pay for pie. I’ll just go home and tell the wife to bake me one.”

Moral of the story: Everyone likes pie.

Here I am in front of the Frenchboro museum, library and gift shop. I'm wearing one of my new "Live Free and Eat Pie" T-shirts (get yours now!) and even though it looks like I have an American flag sticking out of the top of my head, I don't.