Travels With Becky

Ahh, natives

True story. New Hampshirite in Boston recognizes her own kind, sitting right in front of her at Swan Lake performed at the Wang Center. The music swells. The dancing proceeds. After about 15 minutes one Yankee turns to the other: “When’s somebody gonna say something?”

The other says: “Bea, it’s a ballet. Nobody’s gonna say nothing.” 

“You mean we drove all this way to watch a show and nobody’s gonna say anything?”

“Yup.”

On the other side of the coin, the fella from Massachusetts gets off track in New Hampshire. Stops at a convenience store and asks directions: “Can you help me find I-93?”  

Native says:  “Didn’t know it was lost.”

Really got her goat

True story, told by a woman whose father was a gunsmith in Litchfield and had a deer-tagging station at his shop.

Woman comes in all excited. She’s shot her first deer. Father’s job was to weigh the deer, verify the tag, record the kill, where she shot it, what she killed it with, and so forth -- it’s technical. He goes out to her truck. He was a stoic Yankee, but this nearly cracked him. He comes back in. He has to deliver the news:  “Ma’am, it ain’t a deer; it’s a goat.”

Which reminds me of the story of the sad sack hunters explaining a poor season. “The only one of the family that bagged a deer was Mother,” they said.

“What’d she get it with?”

“The Buick.”

How now, Maine cow?

A New Hampshire farmer bought a milking cow in Maine, brought it home. Went to milk it, and the cow broke wind. Tried again. Broke wind. This seemed to be a pattern. 

He was telling his buddy Clem about his new cow’s unusual habit. “You got that cow over in Maine, didn’t you?” Clem said.

“How’d you know I got her in Maine, Clem? I never told you.”

Clem said, “My wife’s from Maine.”

That may be apocryphal, but it reminds me of a true story of a little boy who came to the farm and wanted to learn to milk a cow. The farmer got the boy situated on a milking stool, pail in place. “There you go,” he says.

The little boy says, “How do you turn it on?”

How you doing?

Oh, they’re quick, these Yankees.

Hope, with the beekeeper husband, won a blue ribbon for honey at the fair.

Hope’s friend told her son, “Hope’s honey won first prize at the fair.”

“Oh,” the son replied, “for what?”

Another response to: “How you doing?”  From David Griffin: “I’m up and about and able to take nourishment.”

Heard in Auburn: “How you doing?”

“Just bought a new underground condo.”

“Is that right?”

“Ayuh, and I’m dying to move in.”

Then David Griffin, trustee of cemeteries, quipped:  “I took his money!”

Bucky from New Boston, Fourth of July, (don’t you love the details?) when asked how he was doing, said: “I’m above the topsoil.”

And finally, this from Don Dollard: “If I felt any better, I couldn’t stand it.”

Octogenarian fisticuffs

When I’m out and about I write the funny things I hear and see in my little black notebook. Sometimes I don’t write enough, so the entries puzzle me. Help. Here’s an entry that sounds like the punch line to a hilarious story, but darned if I can remember the story. Do you know one that ends: “He ain’t dead yet”?

Sometimes I find things funny, laugh out loud and then realize maybe nobody else in the room is amused. Fox pox.

Example:  Before my program, the group of retirees, many in their 80s and even 90s, held a short business meeting. Minutes were read. This line cracked me up, but I had to stifle, because nobody else was even cracking a smile. I quote: “The board agreed that saving of seats for late arrivals should be discouraged as it was causing some tension among members.”

I bet it was!

Need help with stinky herb bag

Asophidity bag? Asphidity bag? First I’ve heard of it, but I’m told people used to wear them around their necks – cloth bags full of stinky herbs, to ward off colds, flu, bees and evil spirits. Anybody know anything about them? What herbs? I think I might need one for my recurring sinus problems.

This came up because I recounted the famous Bert and I story about Aunt Mehitabelle and her ill-fated trip to California. She never made it home on account of she came down with the corrimoblis and, on top of that, the tissick. Don’t know exactly what those are either, but they sound unpleasant. You can hear the whole story of Aunt Mehitabelle on the Bert and I CDs available from my beloved publisher, Islandport Press.

SRO

Standing room only at the Auburn Historical Society.  Well, standing room after the seats were filled, which they were for the pot luck that preceded the program.  Several people did stand the whole hour, including me – but I always stand when performing so it didn’t bother me.

Whenever a room gets full like that, we worry about the fire department.  Pretty sure this hall in the basement of the Historical Society wasn’t overloaded, but my friend Chris reminded me of a town meeting in Candia that was so crowded the legality was questionable. Someone suggested that if the fire chief left the problem would be solved. I guess probably he did.

Which just goes to show, as a first grade teacher once said to me, “There is no problem that cannot be solved.” One way or another.

David Griffin – 91 years old, library trustee, cemetery caretaker, amazing wit and storyteller – was present and accounted for, along with two of his daughters and their husbands.  David’s the man who changed my life last year.  In this very hall, I told a story that was just slightly off color.  “I hope I didn’t offend anyone,” I said.  David said, “If they were offended, they can just go home!” 

Friday night we were talking about the Hurricane of ‘38. David was working at the Mount Washington Hotel during the big blow. “The first night,” he said, “they wanted candlelight. The second night they had to have it.” That’s David, below, on the left, in the red, yellow and green suspenders. 

Aren’t they a happy looking bunch?  Even the ones who had to stand the whole time. Good sports, I say.

A fun bunch

The Plus-55 Club of Rye was a barrel of laughs plus. Almost didn’t make it.  Called Jane, the organizer, at 10:30 a.m. Said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight, Jane.”  She said, “I hope not. Since the meeting’s at noontime.”

Oops. Sometimes I write things, like times, on my calendar, but fail to read them carefully. Luckily, I made it to Rye in time to tell stories after lunch.

What a crew. Much heckling, which I always enjoy. I got Bob Carpenter, chief heckler, with my old Yankee hug trick. Stand still, cross arms, nod. Here we are demonstrating.

We got talking about Yankees and roots and how some of us stay in one place generation after generation, and others move around.  “Who here is a native of Rye?” I asked. Two ladies raised their hands. One was Irene.  Irene’s friend said, “Put your hand down, Irene, you’re not a native.”

Irene shot back, “How old do you have to be to be a native?”

She’s a pistol!

Here’s part of the gang at Plus-55. They take bus trips or have special activities just about every month. Seems to me they are folks who love to have fun.

Monumental stories

At Wilmot Town Meeting, some years ago I’m told, a suggestion was made to erect a new and updated veterans monument. Seems they were a few wars behind. Discussion ensued. The monument was a fine idea, but should it be erected in Wilmot Center or Wilmot Flat? The vote tied at 50 for the center, 50 for the flat.

So, the wry lady from town told me, “we didn’t build it.”

Which reminds me – years back a new veterans monument was put into the lawn of town hall in Northwood. It was a large granite block neatly engraved. Only problem, the word “Veitnam.”

Moral: When carving words in stone, check the spelling. Twice.

The misspelling has since been corrected.

I guess that qualifies as a stony fox pox.

Memories of Ireland

Had lunch at the Holy Grail, “where your quest for great food ends,” a grand pub in Epping. It’s an Irish establishment so naturally I ordered the chicken picatta with penne. Delish! Loaded with capers and artichoke hearts. John had fish and chips. Also delish. And our friend Erin O’Halloran, an Irish gel herself, chowed down on bangers and mash. Our tummies were happy.

Just as good was the ambiance (that’s French for “this place is super cool.”) It used to be St. Joseph’s Church, built in 1896. Lot’s of churchy touches, including the original stained glass windows and a mural. It’s got a definite medieval flair as well. A larger-than-life monk statue greets visitors.

The visit reminded me of the few glorious times I’ve visited Ireland. A couple of memories. One is simply directions given in a village: “Drive down this road just a bit, then turn left at the Holy Virgin.”

The other, when a native was asked what a yellow line by the curb meant, he said: “No parking a’tall.”

Asked what two yellow lines by the curb meant:  “No parking a’tall a’tall.”

Here's Erin entering the Holy Grail: