Travels With Becky

Underground politics

True story of underground politics from a town that shall not be named.

“Jeff” bought his house from the Chief of Police. He and his wife and baby hadn’t been living there too long before, on a hot summer day, nothing but air spurted from all the faucets. The well had rung dry.

Jeff called the Chief, who said, “Don’t worry, you’ll have water before morning.” Jeff, a city boy, thought: Oh, the well will recharge itself overnight.

The little family was awakened at 6:00 a.m. next morning by the racket of a tanker fire truck. And there was the Fire Chief, hose down the well, filling it up. He looked grumpy and he was. He told Jeff, “This is the last time I’m putting water in that well. You ain’t the Chief and I ain’t gonna be messing with newcomers.”

Jeff, naive, told the story around town. He thought it was kinda funny. He wasn’t laughing though when his application for a variance was rejected by the board of adjustment. Seems the head of the board of adjustment was the Police Chief’s brother.

Moral: Some stories you tell. Some you sit on.

No going back on this one

Ramesh has family all over. For a wedding, he headed to Montreal from Littleton. His two uncles flew to Montreal from Halifax with one way tickets -- they planned a scenic drive back.

They found a rental agency willing to give them a very good deal on an older but reliable Buick. It had new tires, a recent oil change, all cleaned up pretty. “The only thing is, “ the rental agent said, “it won’t go in reverse.”

“Don’t worry,” Uncle said. “We’re not coming back.”

Which reminds me of the story my friend Alden Farrar loves to tell:

“Tractor got stuck in reverse. Unplowed 17 acres.”

A Short Gardening Tale or Two

Jenny in Littleton recalled her father’s love of gardening and how frustrated he was that, when she was a little girl, he couldn’t seem to get his carrots and radishes to grow very big.

Years later she realized that her pulling them out, checking them for size and tucking them back in the ground probably hadn’t been helpful.

Another Short Gardening Tale

The new neighbor from the city planted his cucumber seeds on a Tuesday. On Thursday, the cukes were four inches high.

He planted tomato seeds on a Friday, by Monday the plants were eight inches high.

“Boy,” he told Charlie, “stuff grows faster than I ever thought it would.”

Little did he know, Charlie, for a joke, had put in the plants under cover of darkness.

Imagine the neighbor’s dismay the next summer, when no such miracle growth occurred.

And, of course, Charlie, being a Yankee, never let the neighbor in on the joke.

You can't fight City Hall -- or can you?

At the Newfields town meeting, the road agent asked the town to support the purchase of new steel strips for the blade of the snowplow. Seems the old ones were “all burned out.”

Old-timer says: “If you’d stop scraping that blade across the ground, t’wouldn’t wear out so fast.”

In other town business, Buddy and his wife were upset that the taxes on their house were so high. The upstairs was unfinished, and the taxes didn’t seem to reflect that.

Buddy went to the town offices at the time allotted for protesting tax bills. He sat and waited his turn. He was pretty steamed up. Ready to give it to ‘em both ways.

After a while the door opened and a police officer hauled a sputtering citizen away. Buddy rethought his impulse to give it to ‘em both ways.

He entered the office. Yes, indeed, he sought an adjustment to his tax bill. The head selectman said, “How long you been waiting?”

“About 40 minutes,” Buddy said.

“How about 50 bucks off?” the selectman said. “50 bucks an hour ain’t bad.”

Buddy agreed. And left peaceably.

A shaggy cow story

At the spanky new library in Kingston, a free luncheon drew a nice crowd.

Audrey and Henry Crosby chatted after my storytelling program about country life. Henry said: In the outhouse, the index of the Sears and Roebuck catalogue was preferred because that paper was softer than the shiny, slippery paper in the rest of the catalogue.

Good to know.

And a couple of us tried to piece together that old story about Tut Tuttle and the drawbridge.

Near as we could figure, one of Tut Tuttle’s cows was feeling poorly, so he administered an enema of warm soapy water poured into the bell of a trumpet gently inserted where it would do the most good.

The cow got nervous during the procedure and ran for it. Ran right for the drawbridge, and, well, with all that internal pressure, that horn she blew.

It being a foggy day, the fellow running the drawbridge failed to see Tut Tuttle’s distressed cow, thought the blare was a signal to raise the bridge for a passing boat.

So he did.

And Tut Tuttle’s cow ran right off the edge of the bridge and plunged into the water below.

Which didn’t do her any good.

Tut was so mad. He said to the fellow he should be fired if he couldn’t tell the difference between a maritime signal and a cow with a trumpet up her . . . bum.

I think that’s how it goes. Corrections? Additions? Embellishments? All much appreciated.

Is that a phone in your pocket?

Debbie bought a cell phone for her parents so they’d have it in an emergency. Nobody every called them on it. One afternoon, Debbie called their house. Nobody home. So she thought she’d try the cell phone.

Meanwhile, Mother and Father, both in their eighties were waiting in line at the movies to buy tickets for the matinee. They were standing next to a pay phone and when the ringing started, Mother wondered aloud why nobody was picking up that pay phone.

Then she realized, “Arthur, that ringing is coming from you.”

Arthur had threaded the phone case through his belt. The phone kept ringing. Evidently he didn’t realize he could unsnap a snap and remove the phone that way. Instead, he worked on getting his belt off fast as he could.

Not fast enough for Mother. She squatted in front of him and tried to talk into the phone as it hung from his belt.

By then, Debbie said, “I’d already hung up.”

When Mother stood up -- disappointed that they’d missed their first phone call on the new cell phone -- she noticed that people in line around them were staring.

Oh, well.

 

When the cows do come home

So happy to be able to add to my collection of Sherman Adams lore.

Carl Hoff grew up in North Woodstock, which is where he heard this story.

A judge in town, name of Jay Muchmore, was a big Sherman Adams fan. He said, “Sherm, I’ll support you ‘til the cows come home.”

Well, apparently Sherman Adams did something down to Concord or Washington that Judge Jay Muchmore didn’t like. The Judge sent Adams a postcard, that said simply: “The streets of North Woodstock are full of cows.”

Of lawyers and politicians

Had a delightful time at the National College of Trial Lawyers conference, held at Wentworth by the Sea. Kinda nice, that Wentworth by the Sea on a beautiful June morning.

To my surprise, instead of going golfing or to Market Square Day, a good many of the Trial Lawyers showed up to hear me tell stories of NH, preceded by J. Dennis Robinson who gave a very entertaining history of Portsmouth. (He’s written 11 books, J. Dennis has. Good ones! Check him and them out at www.seacoastnh.com.)

The lawyers and I were able to overcome the accent barrier (I have a slight NH accent) and share some good laughs. Joe Steinfield recalled a trip to Washington, DC, with the Stevens High School Band (Claremont). His father was friends with Sherman Adams, then Chief of Staff to President Eisenhower. Dad told Joe to say “Hi” to Sherm if he spotted him.

Sure enough, in the Rotunda, Joe spots Sherman Adams across the way. He approached and hold out his hand for a shake. “Good afternoon, Sir,” Joe said. “My father asked me to say hello to you.”

“And what is your father’s name?”

“Frank Steinfield, Sir.”

“Oh and how is your dear father.”

“He’s well, Sir.”

“And how is your dear Mother.”

“She’s well, Sir.”

“Well, it’s my pleasure to speak with such a nice young man and please give them both my regards.”

On the train, headed home Joe told his friend Mike how he’d gotten to talk with Sherman Adams.

“I didn’t see him,” Mike said.

“Well, he was there,” Joe said. “Look, there’s his picture.” Sure enough, on the front page of the newspaper was the great man’s photo.

“That’s not Sherman Adams,” Mike said.

“Course it is.” Joe read the caption, which identified Senator Styles Bridges.

At first Joe thought, well, the caption is wrong. Then he realized his mistake. From that brief D.C. encounter with the Senator from New Hampshire, Joe says, “I learned a lot about what it means to be a true politician.”

Misunderstookings

 At the Wakefield Opera House we got talking about language and communication and how sometimes our wires get crossed.

For example, the Mister was building a rock wall in the back yard.  The Missus says, “Put the face of the rock to the outside.” Mister pondered this, studied the rocks at hand.  He said, “I don’t see any faces.”

Judy recalled an idyllic  summer evening at camp near the Kancamagus highway.  The family was all together -- aunts, uncles, cousins.  An opera played on the portable radio.  A campfire glowed and the adults gathered around it.  The children chased fire flies.  “Do you get this where you live?”  The Uncle from Massachusetts asked the Uncle from Canada. “Only on Sunday afternoons.” “Gosh,” said the Uncle from Massachusetts, “how do you see ‘em.”

The Uncle from Massachusetts was asking about fireflies.  But the Uncle from Canada was speaking of opera on the radio.  Henceforth in the family, the phrase “Only on Sunday afternoons”  meant “We’re confused!”

Last one: Fella who ran the hardware store remembered the first time a woman -- later to become a regular customer -- came in.  She bought a broom.  He said, “Shall I wrap it or will you ride it?”

She did not crack a smile -- just turned and walked out the store with the broom. Years passed and they never spoke of that initial meeting, until one day, she said, “Do you remember what you said to me the first time I came in here?” He said he did. She said, “I did look kinda witchy that day.”

Don't shoot!

Our newspapers are full of talk about guns -- what kind of guns we may own, who can own them (just about everybody), who needs to know who owns them (hardly anybody), where owners may carry them (the State House is fine), and whether they may be concealed or revealed. Our local state representative Kyle Tasker (R-Northwood, recently moved to Nottingham) carried a  little gun to a session of our House of Representatives. As he was settling in, the little gun fell out of its little holster to the floor.

It didn’t go off.  So all was well.

Still.

Which reminded me of something I heard years ago -- and believe to be true.  A sign posted at the Wilton dump (I call them dumps) read as follows:

“The Wilton Transfer Station is not authorized to accept firearms, but individuals can, so please ask.”

Which reminded me of a sign we used to have at the Northwood dump that tickled me every time I saw it:  “If in doubt as to where to put it, ask attendant.”

I finished the thought in my head:  “He’ll tell you exactly where to put it.”