Travels With Becky

Bull shipping. Really.

Story from Rob about Tom Johnson who did a job a lot of people wouldn’t want to do.

He hitched a sturdy trailer to his pickup and, when his neighbors’ cows needed transport, he transported him. 

Yup, Rob said, Tom Johnson was known as the biggest bull shipper in Westmoreland.

(Pronounced Wesmalan, FYI.)

 

Jaws and jawing in Rumney

At the Quincy Bog Natural Area in Rumney (check the web site www.quincybog.org), where we gathered for stories this spring, the peepers were in full voice.  Betty Jo Taffe showed off one of the treasures of the education center (see photo below), a moose jaw.  Wow.  Never saw one of those before.  Children who visit the center enjoy the jaw.

We spoke of Tudor Richards, beloved longtime leader of the NH Audubon Society who died in 2009 at age 94.  How he loved bogs!  And I remember a story of Tudor leading an outing and stopping short when he spotted something very special on the water.  In a hushed voice, he announced to the group:  “Blue winged teal.”

A few days, Gordon, who was present at the sighting, asked one of his neighbors in Bow, a native, if he’d ever had the privilege of seeing a blue winged teal.

“Yep,” the old fella said.  “Et it.”

Just before we started our storytelling, John Williams came in with a very large net.  For catching dragonflies.  He catches them, identifies them, then sets them free and sends his identification information to dragonfly central, where insect fans keep track of such things.

Quincy Bog is a magical place.  Visit. Take the mile-long walk along the edge of the bog.  You may see dragonflies.  Or a moose.  Or even a blue winged teal.


 

But can you ride it?

At the Hannah Dustin Quilter’s guild, fabric is a serious topic.  One woman said that her husband had the audacity, after she made a series of shopping trips to quilting shops, to ask her how much money she was spending or planning to spend on her quilting hobby.

She replied:  “How much did you spend on your Harley, dear?”

Snap.

 

Out there and back again

At the Meredith Historical Society, talking about old sayings and local color, someone said that only the locals knew where Chemung was.  And I mentioned a saying I’d heard years before, out to East Chemung and back, meaning to take a trip to a remote place.    

Chemung is a rural section of Meredith and New Hampton. So to go to East Chemung and back is to take a frustrating trip to some place hard to get to as in: 

“How was the wedding?”

“Long, boring, and too far away.  By the time I got home,  I felt like I’d been to East  Chemung and back.”

At the Historical Society, a woman said:  “My mother lives in Chemung, but I’ve never heard of East Chemung.”

Then she slipped away to inquire of her mother if she’d ever heard of East Chemung. 

Nope.  Nor did she know how to get there.

Which, I guess, is the point.

 

Captain Obvious Strikes Again

 Sometimes I don’t think before I open my mouth and words spill out or mosquitos fly in.  Does that ever happen to you? I called my friend Marie from our camp in Franklin, Maine.  Her husband, Charter, answered.  Marie was out but he’d take the number in Maine so she could call me back.  After a long pause while he located pencil and paper, he said, “Go ahead.”  So I recited the number.

He said, “You know how haahd it is to write something with one hand.”

I pictured him with a cast or a bandage or swelling from gout (at our age, one part or another of ourselves is usually in some state of affliction).   I said, “What's up with your other hand?”

He said, “It’s holdin’ the telephone, deah.”

Black fly season

We loves our bugs.  And hates ‘em.  You know the old saying, “If it wasn’t for black flies, everybody would want to live in New Hampshire.”  Or the Maine State Bird:  the mosquito.

I heard a new one in Vermont:  How do you define black fly?  Mosquito with a chainsaw.

Ouch.

 

What do you think I am, an octopus?

  Our friends Neil and Leigh English went on a boat ride with John and me and loads of other people out to the Isles of Shoals from Portsmouth on the Thomas Laighton.  It was the reggae cruise (happens every Wednesday) -- very musical.  My friends Pam and Jack Bingham gave a bunch of us the opportunity courtesy of their business, SEA Solar Store, which specializes in all things good for the environment like solar hot water, solar electricity, and composting toilets.

It was a BLAST!  The music was blasting.  The sea was smooth.  When we left Portsmouth Harbor, it was wicked hot and humid, but out at sea we cooled off in the breeze the boat made gliding through.  We passed the Isles of Shoals at dusk and could see the lights and profile of the conference center and the dear little houses.  

Coming back in, the sea had a mist over it and everything seemed to be floating.  Come to think of it, we were floating.  The lights of Portsmouth -- the bridges, the condos, the restaurants, the shipyard and its spooky, derelict prison-- were spectacular.

We had plenty of time to swap stories.  Neil told this one.  His friend told the three year old he had his shoes on the wrong feet.  After a long pause and a long look at the shoes in question, the little boy said:  “These are the only feet I have.”

Before four

Deb’s toddler -- just finding her way around language -- announced, unexpectedly, “I hope I don’t have diarrhea today.”

Deb said, “Did you before?”

“No,” the toddler said, “I’m two.”

Get it:  “Be four?”  In fact, she be only two.

 

Making census

The census taker stood on the stoop and knocked on Mrs. Burke’s front door.  He knocked and knocked.  No response.  Then he heard a voice from across the road:  “Ain’t nobody there but me, and I’m over here.”  

To be or not to be?

Dad, Carolyn said, was not a jokester, but he had an edge.

Mother made hot dogs for lunch, but had no rolls, so she covered the dogs with chili.  Dad looked at the display on his plate and said, dryly, “Is it to be or has it been?”