Travels With Becky

Turkey, cheese and a nimrod

A Thanksgiving Story:

The fresh turkeys were just 79 cents a pound. Doris cooked one and it was so good she bought two more and froze them.

A Frugal Yankee Story:

Jenny at the market looked over all the cheeses. She loves Swiss, but it was $5.99 a pound and, she thought, it’s mostly holes.  

A Nimrod Story:

From the news a couple of weeks ago. True story, I clipped it and put the clipping in my little black story-gathering book because you can’t make these things up. Gallen “Nimrod” Winchell of Georgia cleaned the cobwebs out of his exterior eaves ... with a blowtorch. Luckily, only part of the house burned, but the smoke and water damage to the part that didn’t burn was substantial.

From effluvium to Don Shula

At a conference for the New England Association of Water Companies held at the elegant Wentworth by the Sea in New Castle, these were some of my elegant dinner companions. Wish I could read their name tags; darned if I can remember their names. (And no, I didn’t drink too much wine; professional storytellers can’t drink before performances or they might slur their words; I know I would.) These folks work for or own water companies that provide water to homes and businesses. They seemed to especially appreciated my water filter and septic tank stories.  (I  adjust my set list according to what I think the audience might relate to -- sure enough, the water people enjoyed stories involving effluvium.  Who doesn’t?) The dapper fellow standing amazed us with his imitation of an Irish accent.  Stories told with an Irish accent:  always amusing.  The fellow in the turtle neck is from Maine and does a mean Bert and I.  His natural Maine accent is thick as grade A maple syrup on a cold morning in Lubec.  I was billed as the “entertainment,” but -- these things happen -- ended up being thoroughly entertained.

Heard this story from one of the water folks.  Must be true because it fits the historical record.  In 1973 in Belfast, Maine, eight or nine folks had taken their seats at the downtown movie theater, when in walked Don Shula, who had just finished a remarkable undefeated season as coach of the Miami Dolphins, including a Super Bowl win.  As he walked toward the front of the theater, the patrons broke into applause.  “How did you all recognize me?” he said, grinning.

“We didn’t,” a fellow said.  “Here  in Belfast we don’t start the movie until the tenth person arrives.”

Snow in Stewartstown

Checked into the Northern Comfort Motel in Colebrook. Greeted by my new best friend, Bear.  He’s a Red Sox fan.  The proprietor of the motel explained that poor bear had been killed in the road not far from the motel, and he was so beautiful they had him preserved. You know you’re in the North Country when:  The motel office decor includes a stuffed bear, a moose antler, and a tanned deer hide.  On the counter a basket held white rags:  “Free for cleaning your machine.”  Snow machine that is. 

On the edge of the counter, you might notice a framed photo of the motel with a bear wandering through. Different bear, I hope. 

Nice folks. Comfy room. Reasonable prices.  And right across the street from what they call the Shrine. In June “The Shrine of Our Lady of Grace” hosts the “Blessing of the Bikes.”  Motorcycles that is. Thousands come, filling hotels, motels and campgrounds for miles around. 

When I got up the next morning, the snow was falling -- making for a tricky drive to West Stewartstown, where I spent the day telling stories at the Stewartstown Community School. But wasn’t that snow beautiful as it fell on the Shrine?  Breathtaking. 

Here’s a picture. 

The village of West Stewartstown boasts a fine restaurant, “The Spa,” where they serve five varieties of Poutine (French fries with gravy). It also boasts a general store and gas station, Towle’s Market.  

Culture shock:  No place on the gas pumps to insert my credit card, so I went inside the store.  “I think it’ll take thirty dollars,” I said to the smiling lady, Shannon, behind the counter, as I sifted through my wallet for the right bills. She looked at me strangely:  “Just pump it, then pay,” she said. 

Pump first, pay later?  When was that last time you had that option? I told her that in the deep south (Northwood) where I came from, we always had to pay first.   

But I recalled a time when that wasn’t so.  Some say the North Country is New Hampshire the way it used to be. Felt good to be trusted in West Stewartstown. 

I also got to meet Echo, Shannon’s daughter.  She’s home schooled, which is why I hadn’t had a chance to meet her at Stewartstown Community School, 94 students, last count, K-8. 

Hello to Shannon, Echo, Melissa the Principal, and all the great teachers and students I met in West Stewartstown. Full of stories, they were. And some good writers, too! If anybody feels like writing comments (click below) or shooting me a story in an e-mail at [email protected], I’d be delighted. Thanks also the the NH Humanities Council and the Arts Alliance of Northern New Hampshire, which sponsored my visit.

Swapping stories in Dover

After my suggestion that stories from the audience should not be too long, too boring or too off color, Helen’s son said: “My mother has good stories.” Helen claimed she couldn’t tell them. “Are they off color?” I asked.“Very,” she said. But with encouragement, she told a couple.

In the olden days, she said, children were born, grew up, and moved away to make homes of their own. All but the youngest, who stayed on the farm with the old folks. Daniel, the youngest, stayed home like the good youngest son he was. He had some age to him himself when his folks passed away. Left all alone on the farm, he thought he might like a family of his own. Consulted his minister, who didn’t see why not, and sure enough, Daniel courted and married a younger woman from the village. 

On account of Daniel’s advanced age, the newly weds consulted the local doctor about the possibility of having a family. The wise doc didn’t see why not. “But Daniel,” he said, “you’re getting on in age and you’ve got an awful lot of work to do on the farm, why not take on a hired hand?” 

Daniel agreed that was a good idea. 

A few months later. Daniel and his wife consulted the doc again. “My goodness, Daniel,” the doc said. “Your wife is pregnant!” Then, “Did you take on that hired hand like I recommended.” 

“Ayuh,” Daniel said. “She’s pregnant, too.” 

Helen also told the story of Aunt Minnie from the Midwest who always wanted to see the ocean. In old age she got the chance because her nephew was stationed at Pease. Minnie flew to New Hampshire and the nephew took her to Rye Beach to see the ocean for the first time. 

As they stood on the sand looking at the water, the nephew noticed that Minnie seemed a little down in the mouth. “What’s the matter, Aunt Minnie?” he said. 

“Oh,” she said, “I had an idea it would be bigger than this.” 

Thanks, Helen. And thanks Sue Wheeler and Maggie Moore for inviting me to the Dover Library to swap stories. How we laughed!

Chronicles of Nimrod

Did I mention my new book idea?  "The Chronicles of Nimrod," stories of domestic turmoil caused by, um, poor or uninformed choices with, sometimes, a smidge of bad luck.  Nimrod, historically, was a Mesopotamian monarch known as a mighty hunter who may have had some part in -- might have been his idea -- building the show-offy Tower of Babel. Not the best idea, since it displeased God, according to the Bible, who responded by  confusing the populace, giving each person in Babel a different language and sending them on their way.  So I guess Nimrod is the king of the confused.  

When I was a kid, in our family if somebody did something not-too-swift, we called it a Nimrod move.  We all make them.  And sometimes, they're funny. In hindsight.

Last summer, we took the big boat out to the island at the lake. Wouldn't you know, it broke down. Typical. So we were stuck -- me, my husband, my daughter, her boyfriend, my brother-in-law and mother-in-law. We had a kayak, that someone -- I forget who -- had paddled out. So we came up with the bright idea to send a volunteer back in the kayak, get the aluminum fishing boat, row that back and evacuate some of the stranded, especially the mother-in-law, while others worked on the motor.

My daughter's boyfriend volunteered. He paddled away in the kayak and about 45 minutes later reappeared, rowing the fishing boat. He's a strong young man and he was rowing hard. We watched him move up the lake in our direction, slow, considering the effort he seemed to be making. 

Thank I noticed my daughter, standing at the top of the ledge, yelling:  "Nimrod, Nimrod, pointy end first."

Moral of the story:  Always travel pointy end first.

Yesterday afternoon,  I sat on the couch eating my Lean Cuisine Turkey Dinner while watching Top Chef.  My husband, who is not a fast mover, zipped through from the garage to the bathroom.  His size 13 feet were flying!  "What?" I said.

He didn't have time to answer.  He reappeared and slid back through to the garage with a bucket of water and a bath towel.

I followed.  

Later, when the excitement had died down, he explained what happened.  He was priming clapboards in the garage (because it's cold out). Set the gallon of white primer on a cardboard box.  The box tipped. The gallon of primer launched itself -- he said it "cantilevered" -- and the paint went high and long, dousing his . . . mid-life crisis.

Here's a photograph of the sorry situation.  

With the hose and rags, we managed to wipe the primer off the shiny black exterior of the Porsche Boxter before it dried.  But the situation looked serious for awhile.  Let's just say my husband, now called Nimrod, wasn't all that pleased when I pulled out the camera.  Admittedly, I laughed -- just a little.

Got any Nimrod stories?  I'd love to hear them.  Maybe they will be immortalized in "The Chronicles of Nimrod."  Let me know if you'd like credit for the story (or not).  Click on comments (below) and write your stories there, or send them to me directly, [email protected].

Then there's Vermont...

Lebanon, New Hampshire, is, of course, just across the Connecticut river from Vermont, so I hear a lot of Vermont stories when I travel to that side of the state.  The tourist asks, "What's the difference between New Hampshire maple syrup and Vermont maple syrup?"  The codger replies: "About ten miles."

Or -- true story, happened to me -- the man sits in the back row  while the hilarious storyteller (me) regales the crowd with her hilarious tales.  He sits there, arms folded, never cracking a smile the whole hour.  So the storyteller (me) goes up to him after.  "Hope you enjoyed the show."  He says, "I did."  I say:  "Noticed you sitting in the back there, never cracking a smile."   He says:  "I'm a fifth generation Vermonter.  We don't."

Which brings us to the apocryphal tale (extra big lie) sometimes attributed to Mark Twain, sometimes to Will Rogers.  We'll call it Twain. Seems Mark Twain was performing at a town hall in the Northeast Kingdom.  Had a good crowd. Told some funny stories.  Nobody laughed.  Tried some funnier stories. Nobody laughed. They just sat there looking at him, stone-faced.  Tried his funniest stories ever.  No response.  At the end of the show, after polite applause, he slunk out the back door. Curious, he sneaked around the side of the building to hear what people were saying about the debacle. 

"What did you think of the show, Vern?" 

"Some funny, Martha.  It was all I could do to hold back laughing." 

Which brings us to the administrator at Alice Peck Day Health Systems, who moved to Vermont from away for the job.  He explained to the realtor that he was looking for a house in a certain price range.  The realtor asked:  "Paved or unpaved."  The administrator says:  "I thought she was talking about the driveway."

Here's Vern and Martha being thoroughly entertained. 

Thanks to an old bear

At the Annual Employee Recognition Dinner for Alice Peck Day Health Systems in Lebanon the ham was tender, the potatoes mashed, and the veggies cooked just right at the elegant Fireside Inn.  Must have been a hundred people there, getting recognized.  I didn't recognize any of them, but was glad to meet a few and tell some stories.  They do good work taking care of people.  

A highlight:  meeting the Old Bear Skinner, Les Lundberg, who served as DJ for the night.  I asked Les how he got his handle.  Turns out it is a handle, from the days of CB radio, when he and his buddy Haybaler, rode the roads of New Hampshire and Vermont working on X-ray machines.  They kept in touch, gab-gabbing over the radio.  Now, of course, cell phones and blueberries have replaced CBs, but Les still goes by Old Bear Skinner.  He carries a backpack full of little bears, and leaves one on each X-ray machine he services.  

He gave me one! Ah, the perks of being a traveling humorist. Thanks, Old Bear Skinner.

I think this bear has much the same expression, around the eyes, as Bob the dog.  What do you think?

Startling starlings

When I let Bob the dog out, we were startled by the roar in the woods. No, not a herd of elk bugling, but birds. Hundreds of them. Sounded like power tools or chain saws only higher pitched. Starlings I think. On their way south.

Here are some of them landing in the trees behind Thunder Mountain (that’s what we call the enormous leach field in the back yard –- it’s lovely).

Note the stunned look on Bob’s expressive face.  It’s like he’s saying:  “What the heck is that racket?”

Talk about exciting!

Shake an egg

In the fall of the year, the bluegrass band Cordwood and I get together to perform for a  fundraiser called Humor and Harmony for the Chesley Memorial Library in Northwood.  It’s a grand affair, held at the Masonic Hall or, as Arthur Slade – a man with a long memory – calls it, the Grange Hall, which it was before it was a Masonic Hall evidently. The Friends of the Library sell baked goods and snacks. Cordwood plays music. I tell stories. We do a fifty-fifty raffle.  (This year the winner got $60!) Admission is just $5. Such a bargain, but good money for the library.

We didn’t fill every seat in the hall, but pretty close. This year, be still my heart, the band let me play along on some songs. I play the egg. Shake it to the beat. I’m a natural. And this year – I still can hardly believe it – Walt Kutylowsi called for an “egg solo,” which I delivered with enthusiasm.

I like being a musician. Check out Cordwood's MySpace page and you can hear some of their music, or try cordwoodmusic.com. They have a CD for sale.  

Here’s me with the gang. Seated, Wini Young and Walt Kutylowski; standing, Bob Young, me, and Al Pratt.

Because of the format, there wasn’t much chance for the audience to tell stories, but I did get a few during intermission. Steve Lombard asked had I heard about the kid who dropped his gum in the chicken house?  

“No.”

“Took him all day to find it.”

Eeeew.

Wonderful Warner women

The Women’s Club of Warner was looking good this week when we told stories to each other in the basement of the United Church of Warner. Warner is as picture perfect a New England town as you’ll find. In the picture below, Darlene Nevins and her son Neil emerge from the church after the program. Neil sold my books, and the ladies bought lots of them! Thanks.

Neil and his wife Catherine run MainStreet Bookends just down the road. More than a bookstore, it’s a community center with music and workshops and readings going on all the time. Darlene, age 82, teaches piano and saxophone. She doesn’t plan on retiring any time soon. Her new CD will be out any day. She’s recorded several.

Mary Stuart told this story:

New on the road, she walked over to visit her neighbor at the next farm. Knocked on the door, and a voice said: “Come on in. You don’t have to knock in the country.” Elsie Rufe, the neighbor, was most welcoming. The women had a nice visit. “I’m sorry you didn’t meet my husband, Gus,” Elsie told Mary.  “He’s down in the cemetery.” "Oh, I'm sorry," Mary replied.

Elsie gave Mary a Norwegian apple cake, which Mary said, “was so delicious it was eaten before I got back to the house.” 

The next week, Mary visited again, returning the cake dish. She didn’t knock, and found  Elsie in the kitchen candling and cleaning eggs. Again a nice visit. Again, Elsie told Mary as she got up to leave, “I’m sorry you didn’t meet my husband, Gus. He’s down in the cemetery.” Which Mary thought a little strange, Elsie repeating herself that way. But sometimes older people do repeat themselves.

On the third visit, Mary walked straight through the door. No Elsie, but a man at the table.  Big as life.  “Hello,” he said.  “I’m Gus.”

Mary didn’t faint away, but pretty near.

Later, she learned that Gus Rufe was the sexton.

Below, the Women's Club of Warner – looking good!