Travels With Becky

Congratulations, Dudley

Congratulations to my friend Dudley Laufman of Canterbury for being named a National Heritage Fellow by the National Endowment for the Arts. He’s an amazing fiddler and barn dance caller. Congrats, also, to his wife Jacqueline, for her fiddling along with Dudley all these years. Dudley’s been calling dances since 1948, keeping the tradition alive! Check him out at www.laufman.org.

Dudley’s a good storyteller and poet, too. He lives his passion for the old music and dances.

Canes and urinals

Another fox pox – that’s Yankee for faux pas. A man in Grantham told me his great aunt was an active member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Being sore with bursitis didn’t stop her from attending the evening meeting. She grabbed a cane from the umbrella (and cane) stand by the door and off she went!

It wasn’t until she returned home from the meeting that she realized the cane she’d grabbed was an advertising piece painted with the words, “Lean on Me: Calvert Whiskey.”

Truth be told, I made a fox pox at the 25th Annual N.H. Business Committee for the Arts Awards Dinner last week at the fancy Radisson Hotel in downtown Manchester. (It has its own parking garage!) Mike Morin a deejay from WZID was the emcee – he was smooth.  Gov. John Lynch made the opening remarks and told a story about Carol Channing, who’s such an optimist that at age 87 she took out a 30-year mortgage on her new house. The Apple Hill String Quartet played beautiful chamber music. The Peacock Players – young ‘uns – performed a lively song from Peter Pan with much loud drum-beating. I told eight minutes worth of stories. The Average Joes sang the evening to a close with barbershop music. 

But it was during the trivia contest that the Moose of Humor fox-poxed. (I can’t take me anywhere!) Van McLeod, commissioner of cultural resources, asked questions of the crowd about arts in New Hampshire. Like which award our own James Patrick Kelly won. (The Hugo.) The first to answer correctly got a gift basket and a chance to win two nights at Wentworth by the Sea. A question came up about Marie Harris, former state poet laureate. Something about ... besides writing a poem for the inauguration of Gov. Craig Benson, for what other official event did she write a poem?

Long silence.

Having interviewed Marie for NHPTV just the week before, I thought I knew the answer.  So I poked my hand in the air. Van came over with the mic.  “The urinal,” I said.

“The urinal?”  he said.

“Yes, the dedication of the urinal.”

“Uh,” he said, “no.”

Oh-my-gosh. A room full of New Hampshire’s finest artists, arts supporters and business persons and I say:  “Urinal.” 

Nobody wants to hear about a urinal at a fancy dinner.

The correct answer was: She wrote a poem for the dedication of the New Hampshire state quarter.

In my defense, she also wrote a poem for the dedication of a urinal. Read all about it here.

Michael Zinman, slightly eccentric and very rich, donated money to renovate a men’s bathroom at the Van Pelt Library at the Penn State University. He sent all the poet laureates in the U.S. a letter requesting poems on the topic of urinals to honor the occasion. With each letter was a check for $100 for the poet to keep in any case. Marie Harris wrote a poem and it was included in a booklet distributed at the opening of the new bathroom.

A heads-up on chickens

A mother in Grantham said when her son was small he raised chickens for 4-H. One night she heard an awful ruckus. When she approached the chicken pen, she saw a fox making a get-away. Oh no! She counted the chickens. What a relief. The 12 chicks were still in the pen.

The next morning she told her son what a close call the chicks had had. “But don’t worry,” she said, “I did a head count.”

“Mom,” he said, “that’s no good. Foxes leave the heads.”

No surprises

I asked about Town Meetings at the new (just four years old) Grantham Town Hall. They said the big issue this year was tarring a dirt road at a cost of $50,000 give or take.  Neighbor after neighbor who lived on the road got up to speak against tarring. They liked it just the way it was.

The motion to tar was defeated.

In a weird twist of scheduling fate, I spoke to the Grantham Library folks on Tuesday, May, 12, and am supposed to speak to the Historical Society folks there on Thursday, May 21.  A lot of whom are the same folks. Francis said he’d be back next week and not to worry if I told some of the same stories. He said if he heard the story before he “won’t have to wonder about the ending.”

Gonna try hard not to repeat myself. But some stories bear repeating.

Here’s the beautiful new Town Hall. Built to last.

A blowout tale

Met up again with Paul Currier at Grantham Town Hall. He asked if I’d been telling the story he told me last time we met.

“What is it?” I asked.

He reminded me. 

Indeed, I have not been telling that story, but it’s well worth telling, so I’m going to start.  Sometimes I have to hear a story two or three times before it sticks in my head. Thanks, Paul, for your patience. Here’s his true story. He witnessed this exchange, between his uncle (I believe) and a Canadian trucker.

Said the trucker: “I was rolling along with load of logs, come to a long steep downgrade and, wouldn’t you know, the brakes failed. I was picking up speed, headed for disaster on the curve I knew was coming up, when a tire blew. That slowed my down some. Then another tire blew, and another and another. Six in all. Those blowouts slowed me down enough I could pull over to the side of the road and I was saved.”

Said the uncle: "I was out horn pouting in the dead of night with some buddies. We were fishing by the light of a kerosene lantern and having good luck, until somebody leaned the wrong way, and somebody else overcompensated, and the boat flipped. We swam to shore, pulling the upside-down boat behind us. Wa’n’t we some upset! We lost the poles, the tackle, the fish we caught; we even lost the lantern.

"Next morning, we returned to the scene and with a grappling hook managed to locate and haul up most of what we’d lost. Even the lantern. The surprising thing: That kerosene lantern was still lit."

Said the trucker: "You’re pulling my leg. There’s no way that lantern would have still been lit."

Said the uncle: "I’ll blow out the lantern if you blow up five of them six tires."

Where do you live?

I asked about unusual town and road names. Ginger Jannenga, faithful reader from Colebrook, wrote:

"Up here when you ask where someone lives you often get the name of an 'area' or neighborhood vs. the town and street. Like up in Pittsburg, people live in places like 'Back Lake, 1st Lake, Indian Stream,'  etc. In Stewartstown they may live in Bear Rock or Creampoke or Diamond Pond. In Columbia, they live 'out in Bungy' or on Carleton or Marshall Hill. Then, of course, there's 'the Notch' (Dixville)."

This got me thinking how in Berlin locations on the west side are described in relationship to Mount Forist – which looks like an elephant. People live by the head of the elephant, or under his belly or near the tail. In Northwood, some people live in the Narrows. In Boscawen, where I grew up, there’s the Valley of Industry, down by the river.  No industry there, but a few tall houses. My husband grew up “on the Bog” in West Concord, also known as Bog Road.

I bet in any town there are area designations that appear on no maps, that only the locals known.  Tell me about yours, please. 

Simply grand

Spent the night at the Mountain View Grand hotel and spa in Whitefield. Oh my gosh! It’s a beauty. So far it’s my favorite of the three grand hotels in the North Country where I’ve stayed. It’s warmer somehow, friendlier, cozier than both the Balsams and the Mount Washington Hotel.  Our room was absolutely pristine. The hallways are lined with handsomely lit art, mostly mountain scenes. The staff, very friendly -- and they remembered our names. Also, seemed to me, a bit more reasonably priced.  Check the website. We ate at the Tavern instead of the main dining room (which has real fancy food).  For $15 I had prime rib with all the fixings and dessert included. Top notch.

In the morning, I enjoyed my favorite Eggs Benedict (best ever!); John ordered waffles with berries and cream.  His waffles were a little late – the first batch stuck in the waffle maker. Our waitress was mortified that she had to serve my food before John’s so the eggs wouldn’t get cold. The dining room manager came over and very discreetly said the entire breakfast was free because of the delay. Pretty darned nice, I thought.  

Favorite part:  A working farm on the property run by Krista Diego. The gardens hadn’t been planted yet, but had been plowed. Horses for riding. Goats for milking. (Last year guests got to bottle-feed some of the baby goats.)  Sheep for shearing. And two Sicilian donkeys, Ringo and Coco. Ringo rested his head on my hand while I scratched his ears. Who knew donkeys could be so affectionate, not just to each other but to strangers?

One disappointment, we didn’t see any of the ghosts. Not the Gray Lady, nor the little girl, nor the handsome man, said to walk the halls. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

Mountain View Grand Hotel -- highly recommended by the Moose of Humor. 

Here’s a picture of the main part of the hotel.  If you play golf, the course looks pretty challenging.

Red roof in

I love this true story. A couple bought an old house, ramshackle and in need of considerable repair. First stop, the roof – red shingled and rotting. They went to the selectman to ask if they needed any special permits to replace the roof.  He said, “What color are you planning to put on?”  

They said, maybe a tasteful gray.  

He said, “In this town when we give directions we always say, turn right or left by the farmhouse with the red roof. We’ve been doing that for a hundred years. What color did you say you were going to put on that roof?” 

“Red,” they said.

“In that case,” he said, “you don’t need a permit.”

Which reminds me of the time I was trying to get to a gig in Durham out on the way to Adams Point. The directions were clear; turn left at the yellow cottage. I drove up and down that road five or six times. No yellow cottage. I took left after left.  And finally, found the house party – though I was a little late and flustered.

The yellow cottage had been painted blue.  

I guess nobody noticed.  EXCEPT ME!

Live free and eat Chinese Pie

E-mails, I’ve got e-mails, from folks responding to my blog entry on food a while back. 

John Colburn writes: 

"My father used to kill squirrels and my mother would cook them. Often the squirrel meat would be put in the bean pot to be baked with the beans. Somebody mentioned Shepherd's Pie. When I was young it was like what we used to call Chinese Pie, but it had lamb in it instead of beef. Now everyone refers to Chinese Pie as Shepherd's Pie. In Canada it is called something like Pati Chinois (pardon my French, which may explain our use of the term Chinese Pie. Incidentally, in England it was called Cottage Pie when beef was used."

Squirrel and beans? Never heard of that before. But it sounds . . . good. John’s theory about Chinese Pie coming from the French sounds about right. Anybody speak French? Could it be pate chinois? And is a chinois a dog in Francais? Or is that chignon, a fancy hairdo? 

Pat Cummings writes: 

"A favorite food in my family of origin was Lima Bean Soup. My mother claimed it was a southern dish to which she was partial because of her "heritage." No matter that she spent only five years as a Georgia Peach! She made this soup often, usually with cornbread. The men all loved it. Any repairman who showed up in her small town would be given a bowl or two of this potent soup. Of course, the wives had to have the recipe, after hearing their husbands' raves, and so the trend of making Lima Bean Soup spread throughout town. Many a woman did not like the soup, for reasons I cannot divulge. My mother's own son's family referred to it as, 'Oh, The Beans Floating in Water Soup.' Some folks have no respect. If you have water, salt pork, salt, Lima Beans, and an onion, you're good to go. Of course, she got more elaborate in her old age, adding carrots and calling it 'Pioneer Lima Bean Soup.' 'Rooty-toot-toot for the moon' is a phrase that takes on new meaning, when fondly remembering Mother's Lima Bean Soup."

Rooty-toot-toot, indeed. Thanks, John and Pat. I wonder if people eat Chinese Pie in other parts of the country. I found several recipes for it in my grandmother’s handwritten cookbooks. Welsh Rarebit also seemed to be a favorite. And just last night a man reminded me of that culinary delight: “Salmon Pea Wiggle.”

Native son

I moved here when I was 12,” Carlton told me. “Lived here 50 years, but I’ll never be a native.”

Course not.

Native status requires five generations in the ground. Minimum.

But, here’s a twist. “You become a native,” Ken says, “when the last person dies who remembers you moving in.”

Hmmmm.  

My husband says he doesn’t understand this story, but I do:

At the Historical Society annual meeting, a man told how he was researching his family, the genealogy and such. His grandparents had 14 children. Someone said, “Were they all New Hampshire natives?”

“Well, there’s some question about Brucie,” he said, “Brucie was born in Maine. But, a-course, Grampa never left the state.”