Travels With Becky

In need of a good laugh

It’s true, I’ve seen it over and over: The people who are having the toughest times are often the ones who want and need to laugh the most.

At a recent conference for caregivers (professionals as well as family members who care for loved ones), a woman described her husband’s progressive illness and how toward the end he couldn’t move or speak but could type with one finger.

One day he wrote: “We should go on a vacation.”

She said, “Honey, where would you like to go?” 

He typed:  “Egypt.”

“But how would we get there?”

He typed:  “First class.”

They didn’t get to Egypt, but she’s still smiling and telling his story. Moral: If you’re going to go to Egypt, by all means go first class.
 

Septage is on the table

Brendan Cahoon commented on the “Is there an echo in here?” entry, that Robert Skoglund, the Humble Farmer, is a wicked good practitioner of the art of Maine humor. I’ve heard him on radio a couple times passing Maine, just long enough to say: “Who the heck is that? He’s funny.” Brendan alerted me to the Humble’s on-line newsletter “Whine and Snivel” and I checked out his lively and humorous web site thehumblefarmer.com. Brendan wondered if I knew Humble in person, but I don’t. Wish I did. He’s a hoot and a half.

I notice that like me he takes pictures of his audiences. He’s posted one called “Captivating” in which people are asleep at their tables. That’s what we call self-deprecating humor. Reminded me of how my story about Fred Courser and the fellas from DES went over with the Model-T Club – that is, like a lead balloon. Yake a look at them, they're stunned, except for the one guy on the left who got a kick out of it:

OK, here’s the story, but don’t read on unless you can stand some spicy language, so to speak.

In Sutton, or it might have been South Sutton, two fellas from the DES, that’s Department of Environmental Services, did a demonstration of a new septage filtration system, top of the line. “When the septage goes through the first filter,” said the official, “it’ll look like this.” And he held up a water glass full of brown liquid. “When it goes through the second filter, it’ll look like this.” And he held up a glass filled with tan liquid. “When it goes through the third filter, it’ll look like this.” He held up a glass of clear looking liquid, handed it to his partner who drank it with relish. “Any questions?”

Fred raised his hand. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I have a question. How many filters does it take to turn a turd into a cookie?”

Did I mention that my new favorite word is septage? I’ve been invited to speak at a convention of the Septage Haulers of New England. Until they called, I didn’t even know septage was a word. It’s a grand word. Evocative.

Anybody have some favorite words to share? Or septage stories? Bring ‘em on.

About that venison...

Why I love my job, such as it is.

Nancy Dodge, the Cemetery Lady of Stewartstown, sent this story out of the blue, and the Great New Hampshire North. She prefaces it with: “These are all real people and I’m using their real names, or I’d get mixed up.”  Me, too. If I try to change names, I get muddled.  Here ‘tis. A Vermont story:

"Great Aunt Iva and Uncle Hub lived in Canaan, Vt. Uncle Hub was an engineer for the Grand Trunk and Aunt Iva was a homebody. Uncle Hub did 'the loop' up here – Beecher Falls to Island Pond to Stratford and back, and I have fond childhood memories of him taking me in the engine with him on the loop. (I'm sure it wasn't kosher for him to do that, but I was – and am – a train lover.)

"Hub loved venison. Iva didn't, and didn't like to cook it, either, but when Hub asked for it she did it. Somewhere along the way, he stopped asking for venison, and in fear of reminding him about it, Iva never asked why.

"The mystery was solved YEARS later: There was an old fellow named Malcolm, a friend of mine, who lived up on a hill in Bloomfield and had no car. Apparently once in a while he'd decide he wanted to get to town, and he'd go down and stand by the tracks and Uncle Hub would pick him up. Back in those days they had a little coal-fired potbellied stove to warm the engineer, and Malcolm used to pass Hub a paper bag as his "fare.” In the bag was venison, which they'd cook on the stove en route.

"And THAT's why Iva never got asked to cook venison again.

"Uncle Hub was long gone before I heard about Malcolm's bag, and Iva was ancient, but she laughed so hard she almost cried.

Dispatch from Colebrook

Ginger is on the ball regardin’ jargin’.  She writes:

"Just read your request for 'local jargon,' so here's some from up here in the Nawth Cuntry!

"Well, first, anyone from south of about the junction of routes 3 and 302 in Twin Mountain is from "down below," and if they're from below Franconia Notch, they're a 'flatlander.' If said flatlander moves up here – as I did 30 years ago  it takes 'a while' for them to outlive their title! All over the rest of the country you go into an ATM machine and it comes up in English or Spanish.  Not up here - English or French!

"Up here in Colebrook, the old natives say the following if they're going 'to town' to shop - depending on which direction from downtown they live - 'up street, down street, or over-street.' Out here in East Colebrook, we 'go to the village' or 'down street.'

" 'The notch' refers to Dixville Notch. All the other notches have names. If someone lives on Route 26 between downtown Colebrook and Dixville, they live 'on the Mohawk.'

"During hunting season, you hear people referring to 'birds' ... Those are 'pahtridge' – or, to be correct, ruffed grouse!

"When we first came here we were a bit surprised at how many men never went by a common nickname – like a lot of men named Richard never were 'Dick.'  But, then now and then you'd find one. Ditto for Roberts and Bobs, etc.

"Then, of course, we're coming up on 'mud season.' If you live on a dirt road, like I do – and a lot of others – you know it's well-named!!  And, the 'first sign of spring' is when the roads get "banded" – i.e., when signs go up limiting the tonnage of trucks on some roads.

"Anyhow, for what it's worth!

"Ginger Jannenga
East Colebrook"

It’s worth a lot to me.  Thanks, Ginger.  Reminded me of this story, coincidentally also from Colebrook.

Two hunters from away walked into the shop and asked for “shot for grouse.”

“What?” the shopkeeper asked, baffled.

“We need shot for grouse!”

Another customer had to translate: “That’s a flatlander way of saying they want cahtridges for pahtridges.”

In my family, we say pattige instead of pahtridge – regional variant, I guess.

Who’s got some juicy mud season stories?

More Town Meeting talk

In 1964, in New Boston, discussion at Town Meeting turned to fire trucks. The fire department wanted a brand new 1964 Ford fire truck to replace the 1937 model in use.  After much discussion, the old timer, Fred Chaney, raps his cane on the floor and says:  “I could support this truck if it was an International.”

Upshot was, despite the old timer’s objection, the fire truck got approved.  As for the old one, fella says: “The fire chief sold it to Deerfield, but last time I saw it was in Raymond with a dump body.”

Which reminds me of the time I commented on an audience member’s handsome cane.  The big guy had been sitting in the third row, arms crossed over his chest, looking owly, so naturally, I have to say something to him. I said, “Nice cane.”

He said, “Ain’t a cane. It’s a stick.”

Which is was. Just straight up and down. I guess canes have curved tops and sticks don’t.

“Well,” I said. “It’s a nice stick. Is it made from some special tough New Hampshire tree like hornbeam?”

He nodded.  “Maple sucka.”

Come to the show!

You’re all invited to the debut of my new Spoken Documentary at the Concord City Auditorium on Sunday, March 1, from 3 to 5 p.m. It’s free. The Friends of the Audi and Community Players present a series of new works called "Page to Stage," usually staged readings. I’m up next! You can call 225-2164 for more information.

In “Crosscut” I pass on some of the stories I collected in Berlin during the spring of 2007, stories of logging, the mills, and life in the North Country. John Rule is going to be running a projector, so the audience can see old pictures of the mills and Berlin, provided by the Beyond Brown Paper Project and Erik Kaminsky, a fine local photographer. I took pictures of the people interviewed so you’ll be able to see who I’m talking about. Afterwards, the audience makes suggestions and we have a discussion. Should be fun. Here’s a sample from the program:

Ola Oleson spoke with pride about his father, Alton.  “My father’s first job in Bog Brook was loading logs that were bigger around than they were long – huge spruce and pine. In Kennebago, opening up Crowley Brook – this was in the 1950s – they found the King’s stamp on some of the pines.”  The King’s stamp meant they were mast trees, claimed for the king of England and his sailing ships, so the marks on those trees dated to before the Revolutionary War. 

“Another one of my father’s jobs was picking rear. If the boom separated and logs went in the wallows, he had to fetch ’em back. He was rugged. They were all rugged.” In College Grant they found the Norwegian hand carved in a stone, thumb and forefinger extended – the sign that somebody had died on that spot. The Norwegians came first,” Ola told me.  “Squareheads – like me! The French came later!”

“Lord,” Ola’s mother, Norma, said,  “the woods were full of them!”

Here’s a picture of Norma and Ola at their home in Norwegian Village.

Caribbean, New Hampshire style

Spring fever is taking hold. This morning instead of writing what I was supposed to be writing, I found myself on the web looking at vacation spots in the Caribbean. We’re not going on vacation in the Caribbean, but it sure looked pleasant. Which reminded me of our last vacation, on St. Maarten – that’s the Dutch side of St. Martin, which is the French side. 

John Rule and I love the beach, but we don’t like to get sunburned. So we wear New Hampshire beach fashions. Sandals, of course, but with socks so our feet don’t burn. Swimsuits underneath sunproof but light and breathable swim pants. On top John wears a long-sleeved swim shirt, and I wear my knee-length hooded beach robe. Any exposed skin we slather with sunscreen. And of course we wear sunglasses so as not to damage our corneas. Oh, and hats with broad brims.

On our last Caribbean jaunt, we rented chairs and umbrellas, sipped a sweet beverage or two, then decided to go for a stroll. We’d walked quite a long ways and crossed over some rocks when we noticed people staring at us. Staring. Like they’d never seen New Hampshirites in the Caribbean before. 

Unbeknownst to us, we’d walked all the way to the nude beach.

John and me, half-naked at our villa. That's right, villa,
which is Caribbean for two rooms with a view.

Me and a lipstick plant.

Yankee riddles

Answers below, don’t peek!

1) What’s red when it’s green?

2) The more you give me away, the more I belong to you.

3) Does this road go to Dover?

4) What did Joe Collins say to the fella who talked too much?
(this one’s a little off-color, proceed with caution)

5) How long does it take to get to Bangor?

6) And my favorite, a true question from my husband who decided he wanted to cook dinner: How long does it take to cook a chicken?

Answers (you didn’t peek did you?)

1) Blackberry

2) A story

3)  Nope, just stays right where it is.

4) If you got lockjaw, you’d fart yourself to death.

5) Depends how fast you go.

6) 2 hours and 7 minutes. Not really. John Rule, it depends on how hot you set the oven and how big the chicken is. You’re an engineer. You should be able to figure these things out. Just saying.

There are no R's in Barker

My next book for Islandport Press is going to be about New Hampshire language, those special sayings we have, town and place names of interest, words we use but people in other parts of the country might not, and, of course our particular pronunciations.  Truth is, we pronounce things differently in Berlin than we do in Barrington or Seabrook. That is, the accent varies by region even within the state. Seabrook has a language unto itself that dates back to Olde England.

The other day, a lady said she didn’t realize N.H. people had an accent. She’s lived here all her life and never had one. Course, Massachusetts, Maine, and Vermont people all talk funny. Then she told me her name: Normer (spelled Norma) Pilcha (spelled Pilcher).
Normer Pilcha, Tiner Turna, Aniter Baka – we don’t hear our own accents sometimes. 

But I’ve been listening. To myself. To my family. To folks up at the Hannaford. I heard:

Enufa = as in “That’s enufa that behavior, young man. You switch Dad’s toothpaste with his Preparation H again and he’s gonna be some pissed.”

Some pissed = as in, not as pissed as the time you run the snowmobile into the four-wheeler, but slightly more pissed than when you drank the last of the Lactaid so he had nothing but orange juice to put on his corn flakes in the morning. It goes like this. Level 1 = pissed. Level 2 = some pissed. Level 3 = wicked pissed.

Got examples to add to the list? I’d love some. It’s hard to write a book one word at a time and I’ve only got until September.

FYI, my maiden name was Barker. I grew up introducing myself this way: “I’m Becky Bahka” then spelling it out, B-A-R-K-E-R.

One time in college I called Professor Yount and said I was Becky Bahka.  He said: “Do I know you?”  I said, “I’m in your creative writing class.”  He said, “No you’re not.” I said, “I am.”  He said, “There’s only seven people in that class. How do you spell your name? I said, “B-E-C-K-Y B-A-R-K-E-R.”  He said, “Oh, Becky, what can I do for you?”

Is there an echo in here?

You’ll let me know if I start repeating myself, won’t ya? Just noticed that twice in this blog I’ve told the story of the Town Meeting moderator who says “Can you hear me in the back?” My fear is that I’ll do something like that during a performance. Tell a story, then tell it again 10 minutes later. Probably did that already, but the audiences are too polite to let me know.

Come to think of it, my audiences aren’t that polite. They heckle. They interrupt. They add their two cents worth. Just the way I like it! I told a fellow storyteller (did I already tell you this?) that I encourage audience members to tell stories, too. If one of my stories reminds them of something, go ahead, tell it. He said he’d never do such a thing, too dangerous.  “What if the audience member tells a better story than you?” It happens. What the hey? A good story’s a good story no matter who tells it. Besides, I’ll remember that good story and tell it at the next event. So it’s all good.

In the vein of silly questions which we discussed a couple blogs back (as I recall), here’s one: “Where am I?”

A couple of stories come to mind, one the “Bert and I” classic about the fellas who through a series of mishaps end up drifting over Northern New England in a hot air balloon. At last the balloon lauwers (that’s Maine for “lowers”) close enough to the ground for the sad sacks to yell to a farmer in his field: “Where are we?”

The farmer replies: “You’re in a hot air balloon, you damn fools.”

Note that you can now buy “Bert and I” CDs from Islandport Press. Great stories, big laughs. My friend Leigh asked had I ever seen Marshall Dodge of “Bert and I” fame in person. Unfortunately, I had not. She said he was phenomenal. He’d tell these side-splitting stories and never crack a smile. Stone-faced he was. Except this one time. Leigh said a man in the audience got laughing so hard he fell off his chair. She thought she saw Marshall Dodge’s lips twitch, just a little, in what might have been the ghost of a grin.

This story was told to me true by the woman to whom it happened: She went walking in the big woods and got turned around.  Walked for hours. Found a stream bed, followed that to a dirt road, and finally came upon a house. She knocked on the door and asked the man who answered, “Where am I?”

He said: “Where do you want to be?”

You’ll let me know if I start repeating myself, won’t ya?