Saturday night I told stories at the opulent Mount Washington Resort in Bretton Woods. At night, it looks like a cruise ship all lit up. It’s a beautiful sight tucked in among the mountains. John and I arrived about 7:30 for an 8:30 program. Too late to have dinner (we usually eat around 5:00) – which I would have got for FREE. Too bad, too, since the hotel is known for its haute cuisine (pronounced hotty quizine – which is French for good eats.) Yup, I was singing for my supper and the chance to stay overnight at the grand hotel. Well, not singing, but storytelling. Twin sisters Angel and Cathy from Dalton came out of the hills for stories, as did Esther Leiper and her husband Peter Esterbrook. Esther is the Poet Laureate of the North Country. Last time I was at the Wash (as locals call it), these same faithful folks showed up to hear stories, so I appreciate their loyalty. Also in the crowd were a few hotel guests, one couple from Utah and another from Ohio. So it was, what you’d call, a diverse group.
A year ago, when I visited the Wash, Angel and told me a story, which I retold on Saturday. “Did I get it right?” I asked her. (Stories tend to evolve over time. Mine do, anyway.) “Well,” Angel said, “you got the gist.”
Here’s the story, or at least the gist of it:
When Angel and Cathy retired, they moved into the old family camp in Dalton. That first spring, they tried out the lawnmower, but it didn’t start. They asked their neighbor, who was handy, what to do. He said: “All you need is some dragass.”
“Dragass?”
“Yuh, go down the hardware store and pick up some dragass.”
“Dragass?”
“Right.”
“How do you spell it?”
“D-R-Y-G-A-S. Dragass.”
So they bought some, put it in the tank, and sure enough, the neighbor was right. All that lawnmower needed was a touch of dragass.
I took this picture of the Wash, below, at 7:00 in the morning as we were leaving for a teacherworkshop I was running at White Mountain College in Berlin. The serving of breakfast started at 7:00, but we couldn’t stay for it. Had to hit the road to get to the workshop in time. Which is too bad because breakfast would have been FREE. Next time I sing, or sign, for my supper at the Wash, I’m going to have to do a better job with scheduling.
A year ago, when I visited the Wash, Angel and told me a story, which I retold on Saturday. “Did I get it right?” I asked her. (Stories tend to evolve over time. Mine do, anyway.) “Well,” Angel said, “you got the gist.”
Here’s the story, or at least the gist of it:
When Angel and Cathy retired, they moved into the old family camp in Dalton. That first spring, they tried out the lawnmower, but it didn’t start. They asked their neighbor, who was handy, what to do. He said: “All you need is some dragass.”
“Dragass?”
“Yuh, go down the hardware store and pick up some dragass.”
“Dragass?”
“Right.”
“How do you spell it?”
“D-R-Y-G-A-S. Dragass.”
So they bought some, put it in the tank, and sure enough, the neighbor was right. All that lawnmower needed was a touch of dragass.
I took this picture of the Wash, below, at 7:00 in the morning as we were leaving for a teacherworkshop I was running at White Mountain College in Berlin. The serving of breakfast started at 7:00, but we couldn’t stay for it. Had to hit the road to get to the workshop in time. Which is too bad because breakfast would have been FREE. Next time I sing, or sign, for my supper at the Wash, I’m going to have to do a better job with scheduling.
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