Travels With Becky

Down on the farm

On Osgood Road in Milford, members of the Holland Farm CSA got together for a harvest festival. What’s a CSA? I didn’t know either until I asked. It’s Community Sponsored Agriculture. Locals buy shares in the products of the farm – vegetables, herbs, eggs – and reap the benefits all summer. They show up at designated times and collect their share of what was harvested that day.

Instead of the farmland being subdivided and the old house falling into ruin, the land is used as it was meant to be and the house restored.  You can read about it at here. 

During our story session, Mrs. K. told her “Welcome to Milford” story. Seems her husband, John, ran a stop sign, being new in town and not knowing where all the stops were located. He got a ticket, paid his fine, and all was well, until one morning the police showed up with an arrest warrant. Seems another John K. in a nearby town had done some serious law breaking, skipped his court date, and was WANTED.

After careful reading of the paperwork, the case for mistaken identity was made, and the police went away – though the couple’s 5-year-old was quite upset because the police tried to take away her daddy. And lord knows what the neighbors thought about the cruiser in the yard of the new people.

A few hours later, the police showed up again. The second shift hadn’t gotten the memo, and more chaos ensued. Once again, John avoided arrest, but he came close.

At bedtime, Mrs. K. said: “We might as well stay up, because when the next shift comes on, they’ll probably be back.”

Sure enough, about 11 p.m. floodlights and sirens bombarded the house, no doubt waking the neighborhood. Again, John talked his way off the hook.

He went to work the next morning a little bleary eyed.  Meanwhile, the Chief calls Mrs. K. to apologize. He was especially sorry their little girl was upset, and wanted to make it up to her. Would mom and daughter like a ride around town in a cruiser so they could meet some of the nice police officers and the little girl would realize they were, in fact, kind and well-meaning?  “Sure,” Mrs. K. says. “That would be fun.”  And it was.

Except, John got a call at work from a concerned neighbor.  “The police were back at the house,” the neighbor said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but this time they hauled off your wife and your daughter.”

Meanwhile, back at the Harvest Festival, entertainment was provided. That's the notorious
John K. on the flute.

There were also some happy chickens at the farm. (Part of my pay was a dozen fresh eggs.) Here they are:

Kyle failed to dampen our spirits

The rain from Hurricane Kyle didn’t hit New Hampshire as hard as it did Maine this weekend, but it was pretty damp and overcast. At the Highland Center in Crawford Notch, the annual Arts in Education Conference sponsored by the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts went on as scheduled, though the painters painted the mountains by looking out through the windows instead of standing in the meadow, and the dancers did most of their dancing inside, too. 

John Rule and I stayed at our favorite place, Bartlett Inn, just a few miles south of the Highland Center. We like it because owners Nick and Miriam are so friendly, the cottages are so comfy and dogs are welcome. Bob, our terrier, doesn’t like us to leave him home. He and John took a hike while I ran a couple of workshops at the conference. 

At the morning workshop on collecting oral histories, the room was a little small for the size of the group – 18 – so we crowded together. During introductions a man, “John” of the long gray beard, looked intently at the woman, “Pat” of the bright, expressive eyes, to his left.  “Pat,” he said, “I believe we ballroom danced together in the sixth grade.”

“John,” she said, “I believe we did.”

Hmmmm. Perhaps this meeting was fate.
    “
“Pat,” I said, “are you single?”

“Two years divorced,” she said.  (I knew that already.)

“John?”

“I’m available!”

Will romance bloom?  Who knows?  But later in the day, another participant told me witnessing the reunion of John and Pat was the highlight of her day.

Other highlights for me: Hearing Doctor Doug McVicar read Hawthorne’s short story “The Ambitious Guest” by candlelight to a rapt gathering of teachers and artists. The spooky story is based on the true tale of the Willey family, killed in an rock slide in 1829. The family heard the rocks coming and rushed from the house. Instead of finding safety, they found death waiting. All were killed, but the house remained untouched, the nine chairs gathered around the fireplace, knitting and books just where they family had left them. A ghostly scene. As Doug read, slides of the Willey House and the mountains appeared on the huge screen behind him. It was multimedia!

After Doug’s reading, I told a few lies, and Susie Burke and David Surrette
sang and played. Nobody does New England folk music better than Susie and David.

At the Sisters Restaurant, this sign spoke to how we roll in New Hampshire:

Judging from this  view  from the Sugar Hill Scenic Vista on the Kangamaugus Highway –  locally known as the Kank – hot turkey sandwiches and fried clams will be served this Monday and Tuesday for sure. The foliage is not at peak, but those maple reds sure brightened the gloom cast by that pesky Kyle.

The secret of a happy marriage

Jenni Shone of Strafford sent me this true story. She said one of the fishing stories in my book Could Have Been Worse reminded her of a day on the coast. She had a bum knee and her husband, Bob, wanted to do some smelt fishing. So she brought a book, sat in the car with the heater on and read while he fished. 

At the dock, Bob joined a group of older guys also fishing. Who was that in the car, they wanted to know.  Bob explained that she was his wife. 

“Oh,” one old guy said, “we usually leave them home.”

Just don't try the haggis

If you missed the Highland Games at Loon Mountain last weekend, pencil them in for next fall. We went on Friday because that’s the least crowded – Yankees get nervous in crowds. Also because on Friday the dogs herd the sheep.

You can sit on the side of the mountain and watch for hours as those clever sheepdogs chase the wary sheep through gates. Four sheep per dog, seven gates, timed: A perfect score is 28, all four sheep through all seven gates. (Notice the fourth sheep giving the dog in the photo above a hard time.) One dog got a perfect score. I think his name was Ben. He won $300.

The sun was shining, a light breeze blowing. Here’s the view! Not bad, eh? If you like mountain views. Which reminds me of the Texan on the wrap-around porch of the Mountain Washington Hotel who said: “You’d have a good view from here if all those mountains weren’t in the way.”

Plenty of music to be heard as well. That’s Charlie Zhan, below, playing for his fans. He was so good, I shucked out $15 for a CD.

Oh, and did I mention the kilts? Even the Littleton police officers maintaining crowd control wear kilts. I never saw so many knees in your life, except at the beach.

As for the food, plenty of it.  Didn’t try the haggis (am never going to try the haggis).  Burned my tongue on the cockaleekie soup (chicken, leeks, potatoes and prunes), but it was good.

Which reminds me of that apocryphal story called Moose Turd Pie. It happened in the lumber camps of northern New Hampshire. Nobody wanted to be cook because the lumberjacks complained so much. After a series of cooks quit in a huff, Pierre said he’d take over the job for now, but the first one to complain would find himself with the job.

Meal after meal, the lumberjacks ate their beans, beef, biscuits, bacon, eggs and potatoes without complaint. After a few weeks, Pierre got sick of being cook. It was a lot of work. So he went into the woods, gathered moose turds (also called moose beans), baked them into a flaky crust and served them hot. Ola took one bite: “This pie tastes like s - - t,” he said, “but it’s good.”

Leon Hawkinson, who used to clerk in the lumber camps around Berlin, told me camps were known for their cooks. If a camp had a good cook, plenty of men wanted to work there.  Bad cook, not so much.  “Some cooks were boilers,” he said. “They boiled everything. They’d boil T-bone steak!”

Keeping the accent alive

Katherine Prudhomme-O’Brien inducted me. Yup. She inducted me into the New England Society for the Preservation of our Accent, because my New Hampshire accent is so ... obvious. I used to be able to turn it on and off (bilingual), when I was in college and people made fun of it, or when I was hosting a radio show and worried that some listeners might be thrown off by pronunciations like “con” for “corn,” “drag-ass” for “dry gas,”  “laahd” for “lard,” etc.

But lately the off button isn’t working. That’s OK with me. I enjoy all kinds of accents – they show our regionality. Nothing wrong with regionality, if you ask me, or Katherine Prudhomme-O’Brien. She’s a trustee of the Derry Library and loves books as much as she loves accents. She grew up in No. Reading, Mass., and in rebellion “developed a deep love for the written word.”  Moving to Reading, as a teenager sealed the deal.

Which reminds me of a story.

Fifty or sixty years ago, give or take, my parents and my grandparents were driving to visit Aunt Lila and Uncle Fred on Cape Cod. As they drove from town to town, Grampa famously said: “I Needham breakfast. If I don’t get breakfast soon, I’ll be Dedham.”

I am honored to be “Honorary Member  Number 0003”  of the NESPA. No fee to belong, but a warning: “Membership may be revoked if member intentionally attempts to lose said accent." I never would!

Katherine writes that her society is “dedicated to the proposition that the New England accent is a beautiful, cultural treasure worthy of our affections.”

Ayuh.

Got any good stories about adventures with the accent, like misunderstandings, perhaps? Love to hear them. Put ‘em in my next book, all about New Hampshire sayings and expressions, and the way we talk around heah given our druthers.

A cat tale

Among my travels this week was a jaunt to jolly Freeport, Maine, where everyone on the street carries a shopping bag, or two. John Rule was impressed by the trout tank at L.L. Bean’s Mother Ship. Meanwhile, I was telling stories to home care and hospice workers at the Hilton Garden Inn. And they told stories to me.  Among them:

The road to Hathalie’s house was plugged with snow from the big storm, so the physical therapist couldn’t get through. Back at the office Betty gave Hathalie a call: “Rob couldn’t get through, Hathalie, are you OK?”

“Oh yes, deah, I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, deah, I’m fine.  It’s just that it’s so cold.”

“Do you need help?”

“Oh no, deah, my son will be out this evenin’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, deah.  Don’t worry about me.  I’ve got my hands in my little pussy just a-keepin’ ‘em warm.”

“Um . . . .”

“Can’t you hear him a-purrin’?”

Here's my little pussy, Maizie, trying to catch some Z's in the nearly dead spider plant.  The spider plant wishes she'd find another favorite snooze spot. 

Climb every mountain

In Conway at White Birch Books, my path once again crossed that of Nancy Nelson. She’s an older woman, octogenarian, I’d guess, though I didn’t ask. Trim, wiry, weathered and very fit, she’s climbed all of New Hampshire's mountains over 4,000 feet. There are 48 of them. That’s quite an accomplishment. 

“Yes,” she said, “I climbed them all. And then I climbed them again with my dog!”

Both Nancy and her dog are members in good standing of the elite Four Thousand Footer Club. Click here to find out all about it.

Yesterday, on the drive to Berlin to speak at Northern Forest Park to the North Country Senior Action Conference, John Rule and I spotted this rainbow over Pinkham Notch. People at the conference said this has been a good year for rainbows in the North Country.

Down on the farm

The Robert Frost Farm in Derry, a state historical site, was the perfect place to tell stories on Sunday afternoon. Frost and his family lived there from 1900 to 1911. Check www.robertfrostfarm.org for details on tours and programs. That's a picture of some of the folks who attended, below.

The programs are held in the barn, which is attached to the house.

Bill Gleed, who manages the property and gives tours, told of the man from the midwest, surprised that the house was attached to the barn. “Where we come from, we put the barn out in the field where we do the work,” the midwesterner said. “Why the heck do you folks attach the barn to the house?”

Bill replied:  “February.”

Bill told me that he’d confirmed this next story with Frost’s grandchildren. Robert Frost was born in California, so the “authentic” New England voices you hear in his poetry were acquired. How’d he acquire them? Evidently he used to spend hours listening in on his neighbors’ conversations on the party line. He called it “research.”

Which reminded me of a story. In Hebron they tell of the notorious Hattie, known for listening in on the party line. One time a couple of her neighbors were having a conversation, when they happened to think: “Maybe Hattie’s listening in.”

One yelled into the phone: “Hattie, hang up the phone.”

“I ain’t listening,” Hattie yelled back. “I’m clear over by the sink.”

Another fellow told of how he and his wife had moved from the city to an old house in Windham. The taxes were pretty steep, so he went to the selectmen to try for an abatement. “Why, we’ve got three easements on the property,” he explained. “We got a gravel road that runs right through it and a power line that’s kind of an eyesore.”

Selectman said, “If it’s such a lousy piece of property, what the hell’d you buy it for?”

Got any party line stories? Abatement stories? Poet stories? I’d love to hear them. E-mail me at [email protected] or post a comment below.

Here’s a picture of me with Robert Frost. Note the resemblance.

Olde Cheese Cutter makes our livers quiver

Joel Sherburne celebrated fifty years behind the cheese counter at Calef’s Country Store in Barrington.  That’s me below in my orange dress in front of the store with a giant picture of the Olde Cheese Cutter. Orange is Joel’s favorite color, so many guests wore it.  Talk about a colorful crowd. 

Calef's owners, Lindy and Cleve Horton, had fluorescent orange T-shirts made up with Joel’s picture and some of his famous sayings, including: 

Heffer dust!
Flat as a fritter!
Oh Plutz!
Got to!
Go down to the city! (Rochester)
Ass over tea kettle.
Don’t that float your boat?
Don’t that make your liver quiver!
Gotta wet down the daisies.
Don’t that churn your butter.
Outta here like a cloud of talcum powder.

That Joel Sherburne is a card, and much beloved. There were citations from the governor, the House of Representative and the Senate. Many dignitaries were present to read said citations and to say a few words about all the good works he’s done and good causes (like the Red Cross and Rochester Opera House) he’s supported over the years.

Joel was 17 years old when he started at Calef’s. Legend says he was a shy boy who didn’t say a word for his first year of employment. Now known as a raconteur, impresario, and the Voice of Calef’s on popular radio ads, he’s more than made up for his youthful silence.

Hey Joel, my friend, congratulations, and here’s to 50 more!

'Democratic brownies have nuts'

At the polls in Northwood on Tuesday, turnout was better than expected. Which reminds me of the story of the farmer, who, when asked about the spring sap run, said, “It wa’n’t as good as expected, but then we didn’t think it would be.”

This is why Yankees are never disappointed.

I enjoy standing at the polls holding signs and chatting with people, especially the other sign holders. Some stay all day, but two or three hours is about my limit. When I arrived at 5 p.m., the sign holders were looking a little soggy. Evidently there had been a significant thunderstorm. (I was up in Wakefield, 50 miles away, so I missed the thunder boomer, but I detected its after-effects in the way the Republicans huddled under their umbrella, shivering a little.)

The Republicans stand in a cluster. The Democrats stand in a cluster. Sometimes we pass out stuff. I was passing out invitations to the Northwood Democrats fundraiser on Sept. 23, Lake Shore Farm, 7 p.m. It’s called “Lift Your Voices” – and we plan to. We’ve got singers, guitarists, a couple of people running for office – Chaz Proulx and Tom St. Martin – who happen to be singers and guitarists. I’m going to be the emcee. There will be food. I think we’re asking for $5 donations, so we should bring in some dough for the cause.

I wouldn’t be surprised if some Republicans show up for the entertainment. And, of course, the independents will be out in force eating the homemade brownies. My friend Jean Lane makes Republican and Democratic brownies for the women’s club bake sale at the polls. Ask her what the difference is and she’ll say, with a twinkle:  “The Democratic brownies have nuts.”

As we all stood in the Town Hall yard, naturally we chatted. The conversation ranged widely, from Vietnam to Iraq and Iran, to the price of oil and Sarah Palin’s ability to field-dress moose. “Who can’t?” I said. We agreed that field dressing a moose wasn’t that big of a deal. We talked about the school superintendent in town getting fired and nobody knows why! Shocking – not that she got fired, but that two days have passed and nobody knows why yet; or if they do, they ain’t saying. 

We talked about lipstick and pigs and which politicians show up at outdoor events in January with the wind blowing, and which politicians simply send their kind regards. We talked about a peace march coming through town sometime soon and how that’s going to snarl traffic on Route 4 something wicked. We talked about hearing aids and horsehide boots. Jake, who raises cattle, showed off his horsehide boots. “I’ve had these for 15 years,” he said. “Look at ‘em. Good as new.” Horsehide, he explained, is the only leather that lasts. It’s the only kind that doesn’t rot away when exposed to lots of manure.

At the polls, there’s only one possible response to a statement like that: “They’ll sure come in handy today, Jake.”