Travels With Becky

Laughs in Littleton

Chatting with my friend Art, we got talking about old times and how our town of Northwood once had a common. Somehow, it got away from us decades ago. He recalled this very old saying: 

The law prosecutes the man who steals the goose off the common.  But the law protects the man who steals the common from under the goose.

Either way, the goose doesn't make out so well. 

The other day at the Littleton Senior Center, folks were reciting oxymorons. I scribbled as fast as I could but couldn't get all of this one: "Early in the morning, in the middle of the night," and "back to back they faced each other, pulled out knives and shot each other." Who know the whole silly saying? I'd like to write it up.

Micki Simons carried this cute cane, hand carved by her son.  

Here's more of the crowd. How we laughed! 

 

Better than the stork

The kindergarteners got on to the subject of where babies come from. Teacher tried to steer the conversation in an appropriate direction, but Billy raised his hand and announced: “I know exactly where I come from!”

“Oh,” teacher said.

“Yup. My father’s eye. I was a twinkle.”

It really is the best medicine

Headed for Littleton this week to tell stories at the Senior Center -- a delightful place I’ve visited many times before. I checked my records to see what stories I’d told last time, so’s not to repeat, and found this one -- a reminder of our morbid Yankee sense of humor and how it sustains us.

The daughter-in-law in this story told it to me:

When my father-in-law was dying, my husband and I came home to care for him those last few weeks.  His clothes were pretty tattered, so I went to J.C. Penney to buy him a flannel shirt.

“This is a final sale,” the clerk said.

“I know.”

Later, when Dad succumbed, I called a local florist about flower arrangements for the funeral. He recommended the “Fireside Bouquet.”

“No,” I said. “Dad was a God-fearing man. I’m pretty sure he’s headed in the other direction.”

Just to be clear ...

I love fanning out a net for stories — they swim in! Here’s one from a blog reader who wishes to remain anonymous (but I know who you are, and thank you).

At town meeting, two locals shared the same last name, no relation. One was an astute thinker who cared very much about the welfare of his newly adopted town. He raised his hand only if he had something important to share. The other stood often to speak and spoke nonsense. One day, the astute thinker raised his hand after the other jolly fellow had spoken. He said, “Please let the record reflect WHICH Mr. Grace made the previous statement.”

Can’t be too careful with historical records.

Should spouses even get a vote?

Talking with my friend Joann, she recalled how, when her children were small, she served a term on the school board.  She ran for a second term, but lost by one vote.  Her husband failed to vote for her.  

“It would have been a tie,” she said, “if he voted.”

Unless, of course, he voted for the other candidate.  

Which reminds me of my own three-year-sentence on the Northwood School Board, including lengthy and painful negotiations with the teachers’ union for a new contract.  We thought we drove a pretty hard bargain, but when the budget for the contract came up for a vote at school meeting, it went down in flames.  

As my fellow school board member Sarah said:  “Even our husbands didn’t vote for it.”

Back to the drawing board.

Come swap some whoppers!

I’m wicked excited to be part of the 2nd Annual Dead of Winter Story Swap on Saturday, January 23, 6 to 8 p.m at Chadbourn’s Restaurant on Route 4 in my home town, Northwood. All are welcome for good food, good company, and lively stories. Bob Chadbourn and I will prime the pump with some humorous Yankee yarns. Then it’s anybody’s turn as one story leads to another in an old-fashioned evening of storytelling around an actual roaring fire. Last year we got some whoppers!

To be sure to get a table, call Sally at 603-942-9203 or 603-942-5992 to make your reservation. I recommend the steak tips, made with Korean spices using a secret recipe. Deee-li-cious.

Here’s Bob and me getting a head start on the lies.

It's budget time again

Here’s a classic town meeting story -- as we gear up for the big day in March. 

During the discussion of the proposal to pay $3000 to support the efforts of a planning committee looking into whether or not the town might join a neighboring town in a cooperative school district -- hiring consultants and so forth, the old timer says: “Looks to me like we’re buying a road map for a trip we ain’t planning to take.”

Which makes me think of a new answer to the question “What do you folks do in New Hampshire all winter?”

How about, “Budget”?

An awful lot of budgeting going on around here -- at town hall, school board meetings, and here at the house as we wonder how we’re going to pay for the oil and the taxes.  Plus the birds at the feeder are eating like little feathered pigs. Have you checked the price of black oil seed lately?

Life's no picnic

Sometimes people from away don’t understand local ways.  For example, vacationers see a beautiful lawn under big old leafy maples and think:  Good place for a picnic.

Jim’s aunt and uncle traveled a lot. They owned a nice house in the village opposite the covered bridge with a rolling lawn and leafy maples.  One time when they were off in exotic parts, Jim happened by the house and there was a picnic in progress.  Some travelers from out of state had spread a blanket and were chowing down.

Jim pulled over in his truck.  “You must be friends of the sheriff,” he said.

The tourists looked confused.  “Why’s that?”

“Because if you weren’t, he’d shoot you for trespassing on his lawn.”

I asked Jim if, in fact, his aunt or uncle was the sheriff.  No, he made that part up for the fun of seeing the tourists pack up quick and move on.

Moral of the story:  What looks like a public park might not be one.  Best investigate before opening the picnic basket.

On the other hand, if a family was having a picnic on my lawn, I’d probably join them in hopes of an extra sandwich. 

Excuse me while I frost heave

Ken Sheldon — songwriter, storyteller, and the creator of the character Fred Marple — sent me clips from his latest Frost Heaves show over in Peterborough. Find out all about Fred and his friends in Frost Heaves, N.H., at frostheaves.com. This particular clip explains how to accurately predict the severity of the upcoming winter.

Which reminds me of the debate in Lincoln at town meeting over the purchase of a new plow. One of the legislators (we are all legislators at town meeting — how cool is that?) suggested that since Woodstock was buying a new plow, maybe Lincoln could go in halfsies with them and share the machine. The road agent didn’t think much of that idea. “Far as I know,” he said, “when it’s snowing in Lincoln, it’s snowing in Woodstock.”

Slipped out in my slippers in four inches of fresh snow the other day to try to get a picture of the cardinal in the apple tree. But he flew away. I’ll keep trying, though. Nothing prettier than a cardinal in a snow covered apple tree.

Happy New Year!

Gail wrote to say she didn’t have any town meeting stories, but she enjoyed the blog and especially liked the pictures. Since I’m in hibernation, I haven’t been out and about to get new pics, but here are two home grown ones.

This first one is of the cherry pie I home-made for Christmas, covered with a towel on the counter, only to find, when I lifted the towel, that the cat and stepped in the middle of it.  Note the crater.

 

This next one is me in the morning after a long night’s hibernation. The cold weather makes me tired, so I went to bed right after my bath with wet hair. This is what happens when I sleep on wet hair. The looked stunned my daughter’s boyfriend K when he passed through the kitchen in search of an egg about 10 a.m. Happy New Year!