Travels With Becky

Moose busy, thank goodness for muses

Happy Halloween!

The Moose has a big Saturday coming up. At the Second Annual Coalition of Caring Conference, I’m giving the keynote (what were they thinking?) on how laughter is good for us and stories matter. Then in the evening at the Rochester Opera House, the New Hampshire Acoustic Music Association presents: Acoustic Roots, Bluegrass & Beyond. It’s at 7 p.m. and costs $20, but you’ll get to see four excellent bands: Lunch at the Dump, High Range, Cordwood and Late Night Radio. And guess who gets in for free because she’s the emcee?  Me!

If you were wondering about my muses – here they are, pictured below. Webster, Mutey and Elvis help with e-mail and make suggestions for the blog each morning. Webster also answers the  phone, Mutey is my accountant, and Elvis is my literary agent. They work for seeds. Millet is their favorite.

The Yankee truth

Went to Devens, Mass., yesterday to talk to some retired educators. Some hairy ride down 93 let me tell you; cars to the left and cars to the right, and all of them going 70 miles an hour or more. I had a few more white hairs by the time I got to the Devens Common Conference Center.

Before I was scheduled to speak (11:45), the teachers had listened to a number of speakers, including the deputy state treasurer and an insurance agent, speaking of matters dear to the hearts of retirees, like cost of living increases and accident forgiveness. When it was my turn, we were running a good twenty minutes late, the folks were peckish (as was I) and seemed a dite restless.

“How long you been sitting here?” I asked.

“Too long!”

Never ask a Yankee a question, if you’re not prepared for an honest answer.

Which reminds me of a story out of Wilmot. The neighbor brought Irving a chicken casserole because Irving was ailing and she thought he could use a nice hot dish. A week later she went back to Irving’s house to collect her casserole dish.

“How you doing?” she asked.

“Better,” he said. He handed over the dish.

“How’d you like the casserole?” she asked.

Irving said: “It wa’n’t up to Wilmot standards.”

Which reminds me of Fred Creed, whom I met in Warner. Fred is full of stories; I could tell the minute I laid eyes on him. He bears a strong resemblance to Santa. Fred told of his father, on the rare occasion of eating out at a restaurant.

“How’d  you like your meal?” the waitress asked. 

Father said:  “It weren’t so bad but what I haven’t et worse.”

Fred also told of his brother, who, after eating a slice of apple pie given to him by a friend, who hated to cook but made the pie special, commented:  “It would’ve been better if you’d used Baldwins.”

“Wa’n’t she mad!” Fred said.

Who could blame her?

Monday night at the Warner Town Hall I spoke to the Warner Men’s Club (about thirty of them) and members of the general public (about thirty of them) invited through the Humanities Council, the program sponsor. I love speaking in Town Halls. The walls practically tremble with history and all the civil-ish back and forth political discussions over the years.  

We got talking politics, gossip, and the late Paul Newman. Yup, there were two Paul Newman stories. The actor was also a racer and from time to time he'd show up to race in Loudon. First story concerned a lady who walked into an ice cream shop. She spotted Paul Newman at a table, and, Yankee-like, pretended not to notice him. Walked right by. Chin up. She ordered an ice cream, got her change, and walked right back past the man with the beautiful blue eyes, again pretending not to notice.  

Out on the sidewalk, her change was in her hand, but there was no sign of her ice cream.  

Back into the shop she went.  She said to the clerk: “I’m missing my ice cream.”

Paul Newman said:  “It’s in your purse.” 

Second story took place at the Cat and Fiddle Restaurant in Concord (they make the best lamb shiskebabs). The waitress came to the table and told the diners in a low tone to get their salads from the salad bar now because Paul Newman was due to arrive with a large party and his party was to have the salad bar to themselves.

A short time passed, the door opened, and there he was. Mary whispered to her husband, Phil, “Paul’s here.”

Phil said: “Paul who?”

Hope you all enjoy that big photo of Paul up there. I know I do. 

Haven't done any decorating for Halloween yet. A little behind on that.  But I did take this picture the Maplewood Cemetery in Antrim. It's across the road Mush Cook's Garage. 

 

Hurricane tales

Vea Jenks of Piermont sent a note. At the bottom of a half-sheet of yellowed paper she wrote in ink:  “This was something my mother had.” On the rest of the paper, a  story was penciled in, faded and hard to read but here ‘tis:

In the Hurricane of 1938 an old farmer arose and began to dress. “What you doin’, Elmer?” his wife shouted from the bed. 

“Dressin’,” he said grimly. “This house may soon be blowed clear to the village. How you’re goin’ is your business. I’m a-goin’ in my pants.”

Thanks, Vea!

Which reminds me of a story. Several years ago, I worked with students at Indian River Middle School to collect oral histories and create a play based on them. Actually it was a contrastoria, a play with huge paintings illustrating the action that turned, like the pages of a book, with each new scene.

The students performed the contrastoria for the community. In the Hurricane of ‘38 scene, a boy recounted Richard O’Day’s tale of his experience in Enfield. Richard, who was in the audience that night, had been seven years old in 1938.  “We got all the wind off the lake,” the young actor portraying Richard said. “I can remember my brother and me going out on the porch after we thought it calmed down some. We had to hold tight to the metal railing, because we were almost flapping in the breeze!”

From the audience, the real Richard O’Day shouted:  “Ayup – that’s just the way it was!” 

Anybody alive in New Hampshire during the Hurricane of 1938 has stories about it. I’d love to hear them -- and I bet faithful readers of this blog (helloooo are you out there?) would, too.  Shoot me an e-mail at [email protected] or click the “comment” box below and chime in.

It's gotta be more fun than that

Swapped a few yarns at the library in Piermont. There were some accomplished hecklers in the crowd – which I always enjoy!  When I asked for Piermont stories, though, they were stumped.

“Nothing funny about Piermont,”  Helga said. 

 Somebody else piped up:  “Nothing ever happens in Piermont.”  

“What do you do for fun?” I asked.

“Pay taxes.”

Here’s a picture of the lively crew. Thank you, Piermont, for an evening of belly laughs.  

How many books does a library need?

At the Chesley Memorial Library in Northwood last evening, Elizabeth Longfellow – remember that name – read from her memoir in progress. She was awarded a fellowship from the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts and this was her “Report to the Community.” She read a series of harrowing true family stories – including the story of how her mother, Belle, narrowly escaped death in the fire that took the family home and killed Belle’s mother and sister.  The audience sat transfixed for nearly an hour. Compelling story, beautifully written, beautifully read. Thanks, Elizabeth.  

And now the funny part. The Moose of Humor always looks for the funny part. Introducing Elizabeth, Marie Harris gave a plug for small town libraries like Chesley. Marie – former poet laureate of New Hampshire and a library trustee in Barrington – urged us to vote in favor of library budgets at town meetings come March. At a recent budgeting session, she said, one official suggested trimming the book budget. “Perhaps patrons could just read every book twice,” he said.

Which reminded me, true story, of the cranky budget committee member who, when analyzing the library budget, snapped:  “Didn’t we buy books for you people last year?”

Amusements in Amherst

Met some great folks at the Peabody Mills Environmental Center in Amherst, and saw some great pelts. Here's Keeley with a coyote pelt:

 

Nick, originally from Chicago, told of his first encounter with local Howard Parkhurst, lumber man. “Are you a native?” he asked Howard. “No,” Howard said, “I’ve only lived in Amherst 50 years. I’m from Hollis.”

In New Hampshire we take our native status seriously and define “native” narrowly.  “Five generations in the ground” is what I heard.

Another story told that evening concerned the ever-controversial subject of lobster cuisine. The flatlander complained to the Mainer about how long it took to get the pot of water boiling. “Jeesh,” the Mainer said, “you don’t boil a whole bucket of water, just put an inch or two in the bottom of the pot and let ‘em steam. You want to cook 'em, not drown 'em.”

 

Willy nilly in Exeter

Last night at Water Street Books in Exeter, a hearty group of 10 or so showed up for stories.  One lady reminded me of one I used to tell but had forgotten. Or maybe I never told it and she just thinks I did. She says I told it on the radio.  Could be. Goes like this:

At town meeting, a resident complained about the state of her road. It needed work. All humps and bumps and washouts. Roads across town were getting fixed, but not hers. “Is there a plan for improving the roads in this town?” she demanded. “Or is it willy nilly?”

The road agent went to the mic and replied, with dignity:  “Willy nilly.”

“In our house,” the lady at the bookstore told me, “when things seem a little out of control, we say ‘willy nilly’ and it makes us smile.”

The last word

At the Nashua Country Club (some nice!), I told stories for members of the Sky Meadow Women’s Club at their luncheon luncheon (some tasty!). At our table we got to talking about books and reading.

Margaret Mary has a large collection of books. She can’t part with any of them, because, she says, when she picks up a book she remembers the story and it’s like reading the book again. Her children and grandchildren are all great readers, too. “When you have a book,” she said, “you can’t be lonely.”  She won’t buy just one book either. At bookstores – used or new – she always buys at least a couple, so they won’t be lonely on their ride home. We spoke fondly of a bookstore owner we both know, Richard Mori, who doesn’t sell books, but places them in good homes.

Sure enough Margaret Mary bought three of my books and two CDs to boot. I appreciate her business; more than that I appreciate her love of books. I feel the same way.

I heard a couple of good stories at the luncheon. One teller spoke of her brother once stationed in Germany. The family, being Italian, sent the soldier a care package at Christmas, including cookies, salami and cheese, which he shared with his fellow soldiers. One of his buddies sniffed the cheese.  “What’s that?” 

“That’s provolone,” the brother said.

“Smells like it ought to be left-alone.”

The other story was one of those morbid funeral stories we Yankees so enjoy. A couple took in the wife’s mother and the husband’s father, the two older folks needing some support in their golden years. All lived together, but not in harmony. The in-laws did not get along.  True story, after the father died the mother-in-law was overheard to say at the funeral, as she stood by the open casket:  “Well, John, I have to say, this is the first time I’ve been pleased to see you.”

Snap.

Sick a-bed in the wood box

My friend Jennie Brown wrote from Gorham. She’s recuperating. Recuperating’s a good time for correspondence and thinking. She thought of a saying for my collection. She writes:

“As a child, ill with fever, we were said to be ‘sick a-bed in the wood box.’ This came from the literal as I remember at least once being bedded down in the wood box, which, of course, was near the stove and thus the warmest place in the house. Was at the doctor once, he asked how I was doing, and when I said sick a-bed in the wood box, he had no idea what I was talking about.”

Must have been a flatlander.

Thanks, Jennie, for the story. Get well soon. It’s about time you climbed out of that wood box.

Here’s Jennie telling a story at the Family Resource Center in Gorham.