Travels With Becky

Mygolrifus, What a Nudnick

It’s all a matter of scale and perspective. David Jenkins of Auburn used to say:  “Auburn? It’s just like New York City ‘cept not so crowded.”

David Griffin, also of Auburn, would express his Yankee enthusiasm with this comment: “It’s the best one you never saw yet.”

Warren Angus Wilbur of Seabook might well have exclaimed: “Mygolrifus.” Meaning, “I’m impressed.”

In Seabrook, I’m told, nimrod and nudnick mean about the same: someone without the skill, knowledge, or capacity to do a job the way it ought to be done.

And one more, while we're talking language.  Have you ever heard brown bread (the kind you steam in a can to eat with beans) called muskadown?

I never had either.

What yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh

I often tell a story called “Buttah Bahtah.”  Even included it in my book Headin’ for the Rhubarb: A NH Dictionary (well, kinda), under B for Buttah.

Here’s the story.  After you read it, I’ll give you the addendum -- coming under the category One-Story-Leads-To-Another -- that a woman in Merrimack told me a couple weeks ago.

From Headin’ for the Rhubarb: A NH Dictionary (well, kinda):

buttah  Made from cow milk churned until it’s solid. The city boy sat on the milking stool ready to milk his first cow.  He looked the belly and udders all over, then, confused, said to the farmer, “How do you turn it on?”

The farmer said, “Pull her tail.”

During the Depression, money was in short supply, so folks bartered:  eggs for flour, hay for soap, bacon for codwood.  A woman came into Hod Hastin’s store with a pound of buttah that had a daisy embossed on  top from the butter press.  She said, “I’d like to trade this pound of buttah for a  pound of buttah.”  

“Why?” Hod asked.

“Well,” she said, “If you must know, after I finished churning the buttah, I looked and  in the bottom of the churn was a dead mouse.  I screamed, the kids come runnin, saw the cahcass, and refuse to eat the buttah.  So I thought I’d trade this pound for another pound, because what yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”

Hod said, “I think I can help you, ma’am.”  He took the pound of buttah to the back of the store, scraped the daisy off the top and carved in an apple.  Back at the counter, he handed the buttah to the woman. “You are absolutely right, ma’am,” he said.  “What yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”

One Story Leads to Another

At the Merrimack Library, a woman, upon hearing this story, recalled the oleo substitute for real butter used during WWII.  Her father hated it!  Refused to eat it. It was an oily white concoction to which yellow food coloring would be added to make it look more like butter.

Her mother took matters into her own hands.  She’d mix up the oleo, then put it in a butter press so it would have the shape and embossing of homemade butter.

“Oh,” father would say, “homemade butter.  That’s the stuff.”

Guess Mother figured out that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. What yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh

Telling tales in Auburn

Emerson Heald told a couple of tales at the Auburn Historical Society meeting earlier this month.  He recalled his father, Benjamin, (known for his colorful language)working in the garage when he bunged up his finger good and it was bleeding all over.

In the house, Emerson’s mother found the bandages. She said, “What did you say when you bunged up that finger?”

Benjamin said, “Nothin’. Wa’n’t nobody there to hear.”

Emerson also told about the minister in Northwood who announced to the congregation that the $4000 needed for church renovation had been located.

“Where is it?” the delighted congregation wanted to know.

The minister said, “It’s still in your wallets.”

Oh, why not one more?

Emerson explained that the church was full on a Sunday when the devil appeared.  The congregation fled. All except for one little old lady.  “Why are you still here?” the devil asked.

“I ain’t afraid of you,” she said.  “I was married to your brother for thirty  years.”

Thank you, Emerson Heald. You make me smile!