Travels With Becky

Like moths

True story:  

Charlie and his wife had a passel of children. At lunch one day, Charlie said, “I don’t mind the neighbor kids eating here once in a while, but that boy is here every day.”

“Why, Charlie,” his wife said, “That’s your son, Willie.” (Thanks, Peter Randall for this story.)

Which reminds me of an old story, apocryphal (that means an extra big lie).  Coincidentally, it involves this same Charlie.

When Charlie’s wife went into labor, the neighbor lady helped out.  She and Mrs. Charlie did most of the work, but he also helped out by holding the lantern.  After a couple of hours of labor, Mrs. Charlie was ready to deliver.  A little head popped out.  “Oh,” said the neighbor lady, “you’ve got a beautiful baby daughter.”

Charlie and Mrs. Charlie were pleased.  “But wait,” says the neighbor lady, “hold the lantern close.  Here comes . . . yes . . . it’s another one.  Oh, Charlie, it’s a beautiful baby boy.  But wait, we’re not done yet. Another girl.”

Just then, the lantern went out.

“What happened to the lantern, Charlie?”

“I put it out.  Had to.  The light’s attractin’ ‘em.”

 

Seabrook, seen backside-to

My old friend and colleague in the book business, Peter Randall, graced me with some observations about language and stories -- my favorite kind of gift.   Stories don’t take up my room, you don’t have to dust them, and they can be re-gifted without even wrapping them up!

Thanks, Peter.  And for those who don’t know Peter or his work, he’s been writing, illustrating (with amazing photographs) and publishing important books -- many New Hampshire and New England related -- since 1970.  Check out his back list at www.perpublisher.com.

Here’s some of the wealth Peter passed on to me:

A Yankee word (I think so), though maybe it’s used in other parts of the country:   “She looks like Elsie backside-to.”  

A lot of things are startling when you look at them backside-to.

For my new book on town meeting, Peter generously contributed these observations  of the goings-on in Seabrook politics He writes:

Seabrook high school students at one time had to attend high school in Newburyport or Amesbury, for which service the town paid tuition.  One Seabrook school board member, upset with the expense, said:  “I’d like to know what the one-ition would cost.”

And:

I was at town meeting one year when we were discussing whether to pass an article to accept a piece of land for a new town cemetery.  Seemed like it was going to pass when one fellow stood up and said, “I heard tell that ground is so wet there it would like buryin’ someone at sea.”  Article failed to pass.

Christmas Crawlers

This happened in my family -- almost exactly like it happened in this story.  I was a child at the time (though my maternal family name is Stewart, not Stalwart -- poetic license, even thought I’m not a poet). Not to give away the ending, but after the Disaster, the men folks went to the barn and found a replacement for the object of Disaster, and the celebration continued, pretty much on course.  This is why we Yankees save things -- you never know when you’ll need a spare.  Happy holidays.

The traditional Christmas Crawl started after the Great Christmas Disaster of 1962.   It insures that such a disaster never recurs, but also it’s fun.  The Stalwarts have many fun traditions, like the Serving of the Pea.  One Christmas, Nana asked if everyone had peas.  Uncle Hubert responded, “I need a pea,” prompting her to spoon one on to his plate. This scene has been reenacted year after year.   Someone says, “I need a pea”  and one  pea is placed beside the cranberry sauce, creating a  green and red tableau -- the colors of the season. It is, inevitably, a poignant moment.

But, getting back to the  Disaster  and the tradition it inspired. Before anybody gets peas or cranberry sauce, before any food appears on the table, the Christmas Crawl must take place.  

Everybody sits -- except the previously designated Crawler, usually the youngest person present.  Somebody says, “All set?”  The Crawler replies: “I’ll check,” goes under  the table, and crawls from one end to the other.  The family calls out words of warning and encouragement:  “Mind the cross brace.”  “Keep your head down.”  “Watch out for Lester’s rat.”  Etcetera.  

If you’re raised with a  tradition, you think nothing much of it. If it’s your family tradition, it seems normal.  But when someone new is imported, an explantion may be necessary: “It’s like this, Glenn,” the Stalwarts explain to the sweet-faced sailor from Georgia who Lucy married.  “We Crawl because in 1962 we didn’t and, as it turns out, we should have.”

That Christmas the family gathered as usual at the homestead on Kettledrum Pond Road. The dining room table was loaded to groaning and stretched to its limit with three oak leafs to accommodate the whole family.  The turkey alone went thirty pounds. Grump was standing over the turkey a  fork in one hand, a carving knife in the other.  To the left and right of the turkey, the fixings were abundant:  steaming bowls piled high with boiled onions, mashed potatoes, blue hubbard squash.  A tureen of peas.  Aunt Lila’s green bean and mushroom soup casserole. Gravy boats filled to the brim.  Pitchers of apple cider. A platter of olives, pickles, piccalilli, and dilly beans. 

The Stalwarts let loose a collective “ooh” of anticipation as Grump sliced into that enormous, juicy bird.  

“And then, Glenn, a bad thing happened.”  

One minute the Stalwarts were drooling over Grump’s first cut into that juicy golden monster  of a turkey, and the next minute the weight of that holiday dinner became too much for that old dining room table stretched to its limit with three oak leafs.  

Once one leg let go it wasn’t long before its partner on the downhill side followed suit. Grump stabbed the turkey with the fork, but it was awful heavy and, though the tines were long, they weren’t long enough. The avalanche was swift and inevitable.  It involved onions, peas, potato, blue hubbard squash, cranberry sauce, gravy, Lila’s green bean and mushroom soup casserole, butter, salt and pepper, olives, pickles, piccalilli and dilly beans.  The homemade rolls rolled. The pitchers of apple cider  pitched. The downhill Stalwarts were packed so close together  between the table and the wall, they could not get out of the way in time. They received that Christmas dinner in their Stalwart laps.

“Isn’t it good,” Nana said, after a brief, stunned silence, “the pies are still on the sideboard and we saved the hot coffee until dessert?”

And so the tradition of the Christmas  Crawler was born. When the Crawler emerges at the far end of the table, having checked for weaknesses, especially in the legs, he or she gives the go-ahead.  Then and only then is the table loaded with  turkey and fixings.  Then and only then do the Stalwarts tuck in.  

After that, dinner proceeds pretty much without interruption right through until pie, except for the pea discussion and, of course, the apple cider toast, led by the oldest Stalwart present:  “Here’s to Great Grampa  Oliver Stalwart, struck dead from apoplexy as he fished the Mayfly hatch on Kettledrum Pond in Nineteen Sixteen.  He got his limit.” 

If you can, you can

Had a wonderful time telling stories at the Senior luncheon in Chester.  My goodness, there was enough turkey and ham left over to feed an army. Organizers assured me it would be frozen and would reappear at future dinners.  

Upon hearing that my new book is called “Headin’ for the Rhubarb,” Brownie posed a riddle:  “How do you keep rhubarb from molding in the rain?”

“I don’t know, Brownie.  How do you keep rhubarb from molding in the rain?”

“Can it.”

Another man explained that he loved rhubarb, but only raw. Couldn’t stand it cooked -- not even in pie.  He also hated pineapple, but could eat grapefruit by the bushel.  Unfortunately, he can no longer eat grapefruit because it blocks his medication -- so his doctor said.  Tangerines, oranges, melons -- all ok -- but not his favorite, the grapefruit.

All of which reminded me of an old saying about a bountiful harvest:  “We eat what we can, and what we can’t we can.”

 

Why I Never Wos That Great of a Spellah

I love language and the differences in how different ones say things -- in English.  Sadly, the only other language I have is un peu poor Francais.  But, happily, there’s enough going on in English to keep me entertained.  Since my new book, Headin’ for the Rhubarb: A New Hampshire Dictionary (well, kinda), came out a month or so ago, I’ve been getting loads of language questions and suggestions.  At Water Street Books in Exeter the other night, Jim asked how children with New Hampshire (or other) accents were supposed to learn to spell.  Any suggestions?

I were stumped.  Noting that the more I tell stories, the more I immerse myself in the glories of the NH accent, the worse I spell (conventionally speaking), because -- if I’m not careful -- I spell it like I hear it.  

Jim agreed.  He said, for example, in my next dictionary, the natural thing would be to list lectrician under “l”.  Well, acourse.

But wouldn’t that be frowned upon on in a 4th grade spelling test?

A wise man in the crowd gave us all a bit of perspective when he said:  “My father always told me, if you can't spell a word more than one way, you’re narrow minded.”

Ayuh. And may I add that strict adherence to conventional spelling also suggests a lack of imagination.

Sticklahs, I await your response.

 

Mass of hunters

Matthew St. Onge wrote that recently while hiking he encountered some hunters. “For some reason,” he says, “I was reminded of my father’s story about the Hunter’s Mass at 5:00 a.m. in St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Berlin.” This was years ago, when Matthew’s dad was a kid. What he remembered (and passed on to Matthew) was the vision of the “full house of orange jackets worn by the hunters.”

Now that’s a picture! Bless me, Father, for I’m about to go out and bag me a buck -- hope all goes well.

Why Yankees Are Never Wrong

This morning I caught myself using the all-purpose yankee expression “that’s right, too.”

John Rule e-mailed me (from his study to mine -- same house -- this is how we communicate) a photograph of myself and wrote:  “Do you recognize this place?”

I wrote back, “Yup, it’s on the  waterfront in Burlington, Vermont.”

He wrote back:  “No, it’s St. Croix.”

“Oh,” I wrote, “That’s right, too.”

I remember now.  Restaurant at the Buccaneer Resort and I’m holding up three fingers because it’s day three of our vacation.  It were a good one!

And if you’re going to St. Croix, I highly recommend The Buccaneer.  In fact, check their web site. It’ll make you feel better just looking at it.

 

Brrrrr

How do you pronounce that city on the Androscoggin well north of the notches?  Brrrrrrr-lin, as in “Brrrrrr, it’s some cold in Brrrrrr-lin in late November.”

Here’s a picture of the boom piers running down the middle of the river on a cold November afternoon, taken from the middle of the bridge at the north end of town.

The boom piers -- those small rocky islands -- are man-made, built as anchors for lengths of chain and large boom logs put in place during river drives to separate the logs from the Brown Company on one side of the river from those of International Paper on the other.  It must have been quite a site -- the river full of logs on their way to the mill to be turned into paper.