Travels With Becky

Now that's a buggy ride

Mr. Harry Prouty told me this story, after I mentioned my new book “The Iciest Diciest Scariest Sled Ride Ever!”

He said:

The boys and I had a wild buggy ride, I’ll tell you. You know, being farm kids, we were finding fun where ever we could -- we’d make a scooter out of baby carriage wheels. All kinds of stuff like that. Well, I had an idea about taking a ride in the old hoss buggy in the barn. We could put the shaves upright to steer, haul it up to the top of that big hill in the field and ride it down. The boys said, “Jesus, that sounds pretty decent.’

Well, it was quite a ways down that field and at the end it dropped straight off the edge of a bank. Beyond that was a logging road went off into the woods. We climbed into the buggy and got her going. You know with those big buggy wheels she got going pretty fast. We had no idea! We didn’t dare jump off because we might get run over by a hind wheel, so we stayed with her. She was bumping over rocks and humps and picking up speed as she went. I said, “Boys, we’re gonna get killed.”

Got to the bottom of the field, still going full chisel, closed our eyes, waiting for the end. Hit that drop off, and that buggy shot into the air like Santa’s sleigh.

Landed in the top of an apple tree.

We felt ourselves all over to make sure we weren’t hurt or anything.

Had to climb out of the tree, and go get the farm tractor to pull the buggy down.

We laughed for the rest of the day.

What kind of business would that be?

Headed up to Laconia to tell stories to folks attending the Business Without Borders sponsored by the NH Division of Economic Development at Opechee Inn and Spa.  I’m told there will be Canadians.  So I’ve been racking my brain for stories about, you know, economics and development. Try to tailor my programs to the audience.  (May I say it was a lot of fun, a few years back, to design a program for the New England Septage Haulers Association; The New England Association of Deer and Elk Farmers was also great fun; and of course, there were those Benedictine Monks -- just kidding about the Monks. Although, come to think of it, I did tell stories at a retirement home for nuns. Nuns, in my experience, love to laugh.)

Business stories, hmmm?  How about this one?

The farmer was out plowing his field when his big bay hoss dropped dead in the furrow -- something that hoss had never done before.  (And would never do again.) Thinking quick, the farmer rode his other hoss five miles up the road to his neighbor’s house. “Charlie,” the farmer said, “how would you trade your white hoss for my big bay?”
Charlie said he’d trade even. And they shook on it.
“Well, Charlie,” the farmer said, “my big bay hoss lies dead in the furrow.”
Charlie says, “My white hoss died three weeks ago. And his skin is hanging in the barn.”

Or this one?

Linwood Rogers used to sell picnic tables out in front of his house on the Shaker Road in Canterbury.  This was a while back -- the tables sold for $16 each.

Fella stopped by in a pickup truck.  He says,  “How long does it take you to build one of those $16 picnic tables, Linwood?”

Linwood says, “About four hours.”

Thinking quick, the fella says, “That’s about $4 an hour, isn’t it?”

Linwood agrees that it is.

Fella says, “Can you build me a picnic table for $3 an hour?”

Linwood says, “Sure, but it’ll take a little longer.”

Or maybe the true story (they’re all true, more or less) about the Maine potato farmer who walked into a greenhouse in Swansey Center, explained that his wife was feeling poorly and couldn’t accompany him on his trip to NH, so he wanted to bring her back a little something as a gift.

The proprietor showed him a beautiful big pot of blood red geraniums. “How much?” the farmer said.

“Seven dollars and ninety-five cents.”

“She ain’t that sick,” the farmer said. And bought a flat of petunias for $1.99.

A most unusual prize

Floyd Plummer told a few good ones at the luncheon for Northeast Utilities Retirees (used to be called Public Service).  When he stood to give the treasurer’s report, he said “We’re broke.”  He was just kidding, but with those two words, I knew I was in good company.

He told about Ralph Sinclair of Newport, who was a great jokester.  When the bank had a flower contest, Ralph poked a weed into a pot of soil and entered it.  To his surprise, he got a call to come down and collect his prize for “Most Unusual Flower.”  When he opened the package, he discovered a mound of horse manure.  

Asked how he liked his prize, Ralph said:  “I imagine it’ll draw a lot of interest when I lock it up in my safety deposit box.”