Travels With Becky

What a lot of rot

True town meeting story said to be out of Enfield: The bridge needed to be replaced and the proposal on the table was to match state money with town money, for a substantial total.  “What kind of a bridge are we talking about?” a citizen wanted to know.

“Well,” the road agent explained, “it would be a culvert under wood planking.”

The citizen said, “Mr. Martel, wooden bridges aren’t practical in New England.”

The citizen may have been an engineer, but my guess is he wasn’t from around here.

Which reminds me of a long-ago trip to Ireland, 1984, I think. We were visiting the family homestead in Lahile Woodford, Galway.  I marveled at the thick stone walls of the old house.  “What do you make your houses out of in America?” the folks wanted to know.

“Wood,” we said.

“Don’t they rot?”

“Yup.”

Left holding the bag?

True story of family dynamics and hornpout [that's a kind of catfish to those who don't know], as told at the New London Historical Society:  Clarence and Merle went hornpouting one night and during the fishing expedition got into the sauce.  The hornpout were biting good, and the sauce was tasty, too.  When they disembarked the boat to head home (let’s assume they were walking -- not driving after having embibed), they set the bag of pout on the ground. Merle slipped and sat on the bag -- the horns of the pout penetrating his backside in a number of places.  

Back at the house, Merle told his wife of his injuries and explained he’d sat on a bag of pout.  She didn’t believe a word of it.

Next day, she confronted Clarence.  “Clarence,” she said, “were you part of this lunacy last night?”

Clarence explained that he had been and that, indeed, Merle had sat on a bag of pout.  

“Oh,” she said, “that’s a relief.  I thought he’d been drinking.”

 

Kids really do say the darndest things

Newcomers Unlimited in Durham welcomed me and my stories -- and the ladies were most generous with stories of their own.  Newcomers is a club open to folks new to town, to help them get introduced socially.  Some of the Newcomers have been Newcomers for 25 years -- which is why, they say, it's called Unlimited.

We got on a roll telling stories about kids.

Pri told a couple of cute ones.  A little girl was watching her mother take a bath.  She said, “How come I’m so plain and you're so fancy?”

Pri said her mother said that her grandmother told her this next story. So it goes back a few generations.  A little girl was watching Mother give her new baby brother a bath.  “Wouldn’t it be awful if it was on his face?” she said.

Another Newcomer told about her son, the youngest of five children, the others all girls.  She felt bad about it, but when he was a baby, she dressed him in pink hand-me-downs.  When she expressed her regret, her daughter -- aged three or four -- said:  “Don’t worry, Mummy.  He doesn’t know his colors.”

Here are the Newcomers, looking chipper on a beautiful early spring morning in the basement of the Durham Community Church.

 

 
 

Searching for Moose sheds

What do we do for fun in March in New Hampshire?  

We look for moose sheds -- those secret places where moose drop their antlers.  In the north country, I’m told, there are spots deep in the woods where locals know to go and find lots of of antlers.  

Makes for a nice collection and can be used for home decorating.

On Sunday, my husband, John, found an antler in the snow in Danbury.  Imagine our delight!  Here’s my daughter Adi, lugging the antler down the hill.  

Reminds me of a true north country story.  Young Lance, fifth grader, was falling asleep in class, head down on his desk. His teacher woke him.  “We can’t have students sleeping during math,” she said.

“I’m awful sorry, Mrs. Johnson,” Lance said.  “We was up all night burying moose bones.”

 

 

Call for Town Meeting Stories

Before you forget them, please send me your town meeting stories. Funny or not. Susan Bruce and I attended as many town meetings as we could to gather stories for our book on NH Town Meeting due out next March. We could hit them all, but boy would we be grateful for any stories about the goings on at yours! Any story big or small welcome. What struck you?  What surprised you?  What seemed very familiar? What was your favorite part?

Here are a couple of pictures from Northwood's town meeting, during one of just two secret ballots (some years we have a lot more -- they sure eat up the time).  Also, the sign at the dump -- I mean transfer station -- says it all.

Send stories to me at [email protected] or [email protected] or add them as comments below.  I'm practically holding my breath ... 

 

 

 
 

Don’t Take This the Wrong Way

A true story passed down through a family (not mine though): Within the family, it was said that Great Grandfather William already had two STDs by the time he was 30 -- that’s two Sacred Theology Doctorates.

Sid from Brookline told this story about his mother.  He and Mom were in the kitchen when John came in to use the bathroom.  He was a neighbor whose water had stopped working, so while it was being repaired, Mom kindly let John use her bathroom.

John was in the smallest room for quite some time.  When he came out, Mom said:  “How was that, John?  Doesn’t it just make you feel good all over?”

She thought he’d been in there taking a shower. He hadn’t been.  

Later, Sid explained the misunderstanding to John.

If the Shoe Pinches, Leave it

Gloria Campbell Pelletier told this story about her grandmother, Josie Ham Campbell.  We both think Josie would be tickled to have it passed on. 

When Josie married, at age 17, she was five months pregnant.  As an elderly lady, the subject came up.  Looking back, how did she regard that sequence of events?  Josie said: “Why, I never bought a pair of shoes in my life without trying them on first.”

Two wee wellies

A reader of this blog, who shall go unnamed, recalled moving to a faraway southern state and speaking to a group of young children about her art work.  She did her best to leave her NH accent behind, but hit a glitch when she uttered a sentence that seemed to leave the young listeners baffled.  She said, “I get most of my idears in the showah.”

The line I have trouble with -- and often need an audience member to translate is:  "Stories are our identity." Which comes out of my mouth sounding like this:  "Stories ah ah identity."

Speaking of accents, at the Rochester Historical Society, I met a charming woman from the Isle of Skye in Scotland.  She told a story in a gorgeous rolling Scottish accent. I enjoyed every moment, though I didn’t understand every word.  Here’s the translation:

"My wee son and I got to scrapping, you know, each stubborner than the other.  He was about five years old.  He got so angry he pulled on his jumper (sweater) and his wee wellies (little rubber boots) and off he went up the hill and over.  

"I stood at the window watching for him to return. Five minutes went by. Ten. The mist turned to rain.  Finally, I saw the two wee wellies coming down the hill. He walked through the door, sopping wet, and said: “Mither, I’ve decided to give you another chance.”  

Campaign tactics

Growing up in Boscawen, I’ve always known about Hannah Dustin, who killed her Indian captors and escaped.  I did not know about her descendent Miles Henry Powers Dustin, who founded the Rochester Historical Society in 1950.

At the Historical Society, this placard caught my eye, recommending frugality by electing a husband and wife to the state legislature (thereby saving on gas).  The voters bought it -- and elected Miles Henry Powers Dustin and his wife, Margaret, the nation’s and the state's first husband and wife legislative team.

Here's Miles:

 

 

Doing things with equanimity

Equanimity -- another Yankee trait. I was reminded of this last night at the Rochester Historical Society. During the short meeting that preceded our story swap, the president mentioned an upcoming spring event. It would be held on a certain Saturday, unless it rained -- as it has for three or four years. In the case of rain, the event would be held on the following Saturday, unless the weather was bad, as it has been for three or four years. In which case, the event would be postponed until fall.

So there.

Which reminded me of the performance of my play "Town Meeting," scheduled for the weekend of the big winds and power outage. We couldn’t hold it that Friday -- for one thing, the two police officers who play the two police officers in the show had been out all night dealing with emergencies. Also the power was out and downtown Nottingham was flooded.

This was sad. It was a sold-out show -- a benefit for the library at $5 a pop.

When Rhoda -- librarian and organizer -- tried to reschedule, this one was out of town or that one. No date in March seemed to work, and by April, nobody cares about "Town Meeting." So we agreed to try it next year. Maybe.

Rhoda said anybody who wanted refunds for their $5 tickets just had to ask. My bet: Nobody did.

It’s a good cause after all.

And, as one of the actors said, it was such fun rehearsing! So not all was lost.

Equanimity.