At the Cornerhouse Inn in Center Sandwich -- where most every Thursday is a storytelling night -- I told some stories and heard some. One fellow told of being new in a family and new to New Hampshire, when his new father-in-law sent him to the gas station to pick up a gallon of gas for the lawn mover.
The son-in-law was dubious. Dad-in-law handed him a red, one-gallon container, but it wasn’t a gas can, it was a maple syrup jug painted red. At the gas station, the son-in-law explained to the old-timer who ran the place that although this was the container he’d been given, he wasn’t sure it was legal. The old-time took the red maple-syrup jug to the pump. The old-timer filled the jug. The son-in-law explained that his father-in-law was quite frugal, like most Yankees he guessed.
The old-timer said, “Ayuh.”
And that was the end of that conversation.
The son-in-law was dubious. Dad-in-law handed him a red, one-gallon container, but it wasn’t a gas can, it was a maple syrup jug painted red. At the gas station, the son-in-law explained to the old-timer who ran the place that although this was the container he’d been given, he wasn’t sure it was legal. The old-time took the red maple-syrup jug to the pump. The old-timer filled the jug. The son-in-law explained that his father-in-law was quite frugal, like most Yankees he guessed.
The old-timer said, “Ayuh.”
And that was the end of that conversation.
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