Travels With Becky

Pie, oh my!

Going, going, gone

I met John Scudder in Moultonborough. He didn’t tell a story that night – but thought of this true one later and e-mailed it, having changed names and flavor of pie to protect the innocent. Thanks, John. This story gave me a belly laugh.

The Rev. Hill loved pie and his parishioners knew that very well. Marcy Abel loved to bake pies and she thought it would be nice to bake her favorite rhubarb pie for the reverend. Mrs. Abel was a sweet little old lady. 

During one of the reverend’s visits to her home, Mrs. Abel presented him with a delicious looking pie that she had just baked just that morning. She told the reverend that he must take the pie home and share it with is family. He took it willingly.

The pie made it home safely (no pieces missing or finger holes) and after supper that night the Hill family got ready to enjoy it. The reverend had the first piece. The first forkful went quickly into his mouth and pfftt . . . almost as quickly was spit out! It was awful! Just terrible! Mrs. Hill tried a bite and and confirmed that it was indeed horrible. Evidently Mrs. Abel had made a mistake with the recipe. The old dear must have mistakenly put salt into the pie instead of sugar. The pie went right into the garbage can. All were very disappointed.

That Sunday after church Mrs. Abel came up to the reverend to ask how he liked her favorite rhubarb pie. The reverend did not know what to do: He didn't want to hurt her feelings. After some thought he replied, “Well, all I can say is that it didn't last very long around our house." 

Which reminds me of the time – a culinary fox pox – I made a big chicken and rice casserole in a 9’ X 13’ pan. We sat down at the table, then heaped chicken and rice onto our plates. My husband made a face but took a second bite. I  tried it, too. It was, like the rhubarb pie, just awful. Later, I figured out that I’d failed to properly rinse the pan after washing. We were tasting dish soap.

More negotiating

Speaking of negotiating, I’m reminded of my favorite true Yankee negotiator story of all time. It’s in Live Free and Eat Pie, I believe.  If not that one, then Could Have Been Worse.  Maybe both. I’ve been telling it for years.

Linwood Rodgers of Canterbury used to sell picnic tables out front of his place. For $16 each – that’s how long ago it was. Long time ago. A fella pulled up in a big old truck with out-of-state plates; probably summer people. He looked the picnic tables over. “Sixteen dollars,” he says.

“Yup,” Linwood says.

“How long does it take you to make one of those picnic tables?”

Linwood thought a while. “Oh,” he says, “About four hours.”

“Four hours,” fella says – doing some quick calculations in his head; he was a smart fella, probably went to Harvard. “Four hours, $16. That’s about $4 an hour, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” Linwood says.

Fella says, “Well, could you make me a picnic table for $3 an hour?”

“Sure,” Linwood says. “But it would take me a little longer.”

One time I was telling this story at the Merrimack County Nursing Home. I’d just started when a nurse stuck her head in the door. “Linwood Rodgers?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “do you know him?”

“He was my uncle.”

After the story, I asked her if it sounded about right. She said it did. That made me smile. I wouldn’t want to use Linwood’s name in vain.

Fuzzy reception

A woman of the mountains told how her mom from the flatlands paid a visit. When Mom went to watch her favorite program, she discovered that channel didn’t come in.

“Next time I visit,” she said, “I’ll bring my TV.”

True story.

Which reminds me – that and the state of my road – of a story from Nottingham. She, too, was entertaining relatives; they were from the South, Virginia I think, and it was about this time of the year. On a driving tour of some Nottingham hot spots, they thumped a dip in the road pretty hard. Teeth rattled, heads bounced off the ceiling.

 “Gee,” Auntie from Virginia remarked, “there’s another one of those dry heaves.”

A different kind of smarts

Two stories about the Hurricane of ‘38, a topic  that never gets old. “I was four years old,” George told me.  “And what I remember of the Hurricane of ‘38 was it blew all the clothes off the line. It blew all my clothes away. I was worried about having no clothes.”

Mary Jenkins recalled the hurricane took down a 200-year-old elm tree, and that it just missed her mother’s 200-year-old house.

Still in Chocorua (those folks sure had a lot of stories – I hardly had to open my mouth!), they told about William James, brother to Henry James, and how William had a home in town.  A Harvard man, William was determined to master the art of Yankee negotiations. Off he went looking for a horse. He found a man with a horse for sale.  “How much do you want for that horse?” William James asked.

“How much do you have?”

“A hundred fifty dollars.”

“Well,” says the Yankee, “that’s the price.”

William James returned with the horse, some proud of his negotiating.

No sale

Betty Schneider of Chocorua (I wrote Schneida in my little book, but I’m pretty sure it’s Schneider; sometimes I write what I hear) told this favorite family story from about 15 years ago in Florida. Her husband’s grandmother was blind and independent. One day the phone rang. The voice said: “Are you Miz Scott?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like a free introductory subscription for the Monday through Friday issues of the Fort Meyers News-Press?”

“Dearie, I’m blind.”

“Maybe you’d like a free introductory subscription to the Saturday and Sunday issues.”

“Dearie, I’m just as blind on the weekend as I am during the week.”

A case of mistaken bologna

At the Chocorua Library, we had a great turnout on a Wednesday noontime, more than 40 people crowded in. Some brought sandwiches. Others enjoyed the sumptuous array of cookies, brownies, and other health foods that help us survive winter.

We spoke of skiing, a popular pastime in the area. Peaco Todd recalled a ski party where everybody brought their bag lunches and put them on a picnic table to grab at noontime. She noticed her husband chowing down with a speck of white on the corner of his lip.  “What are you eating?” she said.

“Bologna and mayonnaise sandwich,” he said. 

“That’s good,” she said, “but I packed us peanut butter and jelly.”

Here are some of the folks from Chocorua. A pleasant bunch as you can see. Note the N.H. Humanities Council flag hung from the bookshelf. This event, like lots of my programs, was sponsored by the council. Check out NHHC.org and their Humanities to Go catalog. A bunch of us have programs we offer to non-profits, such as libraries and historical societies, with most of the cost picked up by the council. It's easy to apply.

A pox upon me

Fox pox, that’s Yankee for faux pas. The Moose (that’s me, the Moose of Humor) managed two in one night at the recent Plymouth Friends of the Arts annual auction. Sometimes the Moose really steps into it up to her knobby knees. During the silent auction and schmooze part of the evening, I was chatting with this one and that.  Young women brought trays of snacky things, so we were munching, too. Some folks were having adult beverages, but I stuck to water because I had to run the live auction later and had to be sharp (pronounced shaahp). I’m introduced to a beautiful tall lady, all dressed up and looking shaahp herself. I don’t exactly catch her name – never do. We get talking about Plymouth State University, nearby. Finally, I say, “And what’s your connection to the university?”

She pauses, for just a split second. Then smiles, a real smile, and says, “I’m the president.”

Fox pox.

The second one was a little more serious. After the auction, which was great fun and loads of laughs, another tall woman – Plymouth is evidently the land of tall women – this one blonde, I think, calls me over. She introduces herself, but as usual I don’t catch her. “Rebecca,” she says, in the tone my mother uses when she’s mad at me. “I was offended.”

“Huh?”

“Well,” she says, “when you thanked the Common Man (that’s the restaurant where the event was held) you didn’t mention me, and I’m a full partner.” 

Fox pox.

And furthermore, “You called us the Common Man group. We are the Common Man family.”

Double fox pox.

“Next time,” she said, “do your homework.”

You betcha.

It’s not easy being a humorist. The road is pocked with fox pox holes and sooner or later if you run your mouth enough, you’re bound to step into one . . . or two.

Got any stories about fox poxes? It would be a comfort to know I’m not the only one. 

Secrets to fishing success

Mimi Lisbon of Wolfeboro writes:

You probably already know the one about the fellow who was out ice fishing, and boy, he was hauling in fish hand over fist! Well, the other fishermen just shook their heads in frustration as they watched, because no matter what they tried they were catching NOTHING.

Finally one of the group couldn't stand it any more and called out, "Say old man, what are you using for bait?"

To which the old fellow replied, "Peas."

"Did you say PEAS?" asked the other. "That ain't no bait I ever heard of!"

"You ain't never heard of peas as bait before?" says the old fellow. "Thought everybody knew 'bout that. Still, just this once, I'll share my secret with you but you have to promise not to spread it all over town."

"Oh," said the others all in a chorus like. "We won't tell nobody. You have our word."

"Well see, there's nothing to it," said the old fisherman. "All you need to do is open a can of peas and dump them into your fishing hole, then, when a fish comes up for a pea, you grab him!"

I never heard that one before, Mimi, but am glad to hear it now. Reminds me, though, of this true story that takes place on Highland Lake in East Andover. Perley was out fishing and having good luck. Nearby, a couple of out-of-staters were also fishing and having no luck. Frustrated they did just what the anglers in Mimi’s story did. They asked a question:  “How come you’re catching so many fish and we’re not catching any?”

Perley replied: “I’m a native.”

Alden's stories

My friend Alden Farrar tells this cautionary tale.

A fellow’s due at work at 8:30 in the morning, but rolls in after nine. His supervisor says:
“You should have been here at 8:30.” The fellow says: “Why? What happened at 8:30?”

Years ago Alden told me this story. Never forgot it.

“My ancestor that I was named for went out hunting and there on a high branch was a squirrel, just chittering away. So old Alden loaded up his muzzle loader and I guess he overloaded it because when he went to shoot at the squirrel, which was still up there chittering, the muzzleloader bucked and knocked him ass over teakettle. When Alden come to his senses, stretched out on the ground, muzzle loader still in hand, the squirrel continued to chitter on that high branch. Old Alden said:  ‘Chitter, damn you, chitter. You wouldn’t be chittering if you were on the other end of this thing.’ ”

The first time I met Alden and his Olive was over in New Boston, I believe. They told some excellent stories and made a big impression on me. Not more than a couple weeks later, they turned up at an event in Epsom. I said, “Olive, Alden, you came to Epsom all the way from New Boston. Wow!”

Alden said dryly: “We stopped on the way.”

Turns out they lived in Warner.

Its the pits

It could have been worse, I guess, but not much.

Dave from Marlow tells about the family camp in Naples, Maine. Much loved. Every summer, the family repainted the clapboards with crankcase oil. 

The camp had an outhouse and in the spring of the year, somebody dug a new pit and moved the outhouse, for obvious reasons. Gramps didn’t get the word about the move. Nature called in the middle of the night and he shuffled out to the outhouse, well, to where the outhouse used to be, and fell in the old pit. He hollered bloody murder. The boys pulled Gramps from the pit and tossed him off the end of the dock. It was April. He hollered more bloody murder.

This unfortunate incident lives on in family history, because Gramps’ hollering caused the neighbors to call the police. Who arrived shortly thereafter, sirens, blue lights and all.