Travels With Becky

What makes New Hampshire different

The Difference Between Maryland and New Hampshire

Walter recalled driving through Concord when he first arrived in NH with his NH native relation.  Walter said, “What’s the name of this town?”

The relation bristled:  “This ain’t no town.  It’s a city!”

How Do You Get From New Hampshire to Vermont?

Old timer settin’ on the bench in downtown Keene.  Tourist says, “How do you get to Vermont from here?”

Old timer says: “My brother-in-law usually takes me.”


The Difference Between New York and New Hampshire

Meredith and her husband were visiting Pittsburg when, oh my goodness, they spotted a moose on the side of the road.  They pulled over.  A car with New York plates pulled over.   Two guys got out.  Meredith’s husband rolled down his window.  The moose stood stock still just thirty feet away. Close enough to touch, almost.  

One New Yorker said, “Do you think we could touch it?”

Meredith’s husband said, “Oh, sure.”  Pause.  “But I wouldn’t.”

Desperate Times: I'll laugh at anything

A friend of mine asked if I had any good bean stories.  I racked my brain and shook loose this one from the  sister cities of Stow, Maine, and Chatham, NH.

Seems there was a bean supper each Saturday night at the hall in Chatham.  Bob Williams enjoyed attending.  He lived right across the road in Stow, but when he enjoyed a good bean supper, he made a point of spending the night at his sister’s house in Chatham.  Didn’t want to risk breaking the law against transporting gas across state lines.

(If you don't get the joke right away, sit on it for awhile.)

In loosely related news, there's the old story of the fellow bringing his little daughter  home from the fair with her pink balloon.  She needs to go bad, so they stop at Aunt Millie's to use her outhouse.  Aunt Millie won't mind.  

Sadly the child drops her pink balloon in the hole. And there's no retrieving it after that.

Later, when Aunt Millie goes to use the facilities, she looks into the hole and sees the strange pink object. She hollers for Uncle Nub.

Nub looks into the hole, too.

"My god, Millie," he says. "We may be the only people in the world to actually see a fart."

An old family story

Ass Over Teakettle!

When my grandfather to be, Robert Stewart, was courting my grandmother to be, Lillian Ford, he visited the family homestead on a Friday night to play cards with the gang.  It was midwinter in a time when roads were rolled for sleigh travel rather than plowed.  The homestead sat at the top of a hill away back in the woods.  Robert Stewart had climbed up on snowshoes for the festivities, not a short walk, close to two miles.

Wen the evening ended, Lawrence Elliot Ford, known as L.E., Lillian’s big brother, offered to ski Robert Stewart down the hill to save some time.

Problem was, there was just the one set of old wooden skis about seven feet long and the skis had straps for just one set of feet.  L.E. strapped his big feet to the skis, lit his pipe (he always smoked a pipe) and instructed Robert Stewart to stand on the skis behind him, and hold tight.

Which my grandfather to be did.  

The lucky thing was there were sleigh ruts in the snow.  A pair of them, just about a foot apart. Seemed perfect.  A ski in each rut and they’d make a straight run all the way down the hill. L.E. wouldn’t even have to steer.

The slope was gradual, the moon bright, the skis fit just right in the ruts.  Started out slow.

At about the halfway point, they began to pick up speed.  Robert Stewart held tight to L.E.’s waist.

They negotiated a long slow curve with grace.  And then, as they approached the last steep incline, Robert spotted something in the moonlight, straight ahead.  A dark mound in the snow seemed to fill one of the ruts. L.E. saw it too.  He said, around the stem of his pipe:  “Bob, we’re goin’ to have to lift our left feet.”

The mound was a large, frozen horse flap.

They lifted their left feet.

At this point, the term "ass over teakettle" applies.

No bones were broken, but L.E. lost his pipe, which was found the following spring by his mother, when she was out picking wild strawberries.  Shortly thereafter, Grammie and Grampa were married.  He and L.E. always got along good.

Two right feet

Lois recalled that her older son, Peter, was a clumsy child, but very bright -- with a great sense of humor and logic.  At age six, he was proud to tell her he could predict which team he’d be on by determining whether it was an even or odd number of children participating:  Because he always got picked last.  (Me, too, Peter.  How I hated dodgeball!)

The plan for the day was that she’d pick him up after school and take him to Mr. Michaelson’s shoe shop in Lexington, Mass, to buy a pair of new shoes.

As he emerged from the building, she noticed  he had his boots on the wrong feet.  She said nothing.  They got to the store, Peter sat down to be fitted, and Mr. Michaelson observed:  “Peter, you’ve got your boots on the wrong feet.”

Peter replied: “They’re the only feet I’ve got.”

On the ride home, Lois queried:  “Peter, did you know what Mr. Michaelson would say?”

He said, “I figured somebody would say it sooner or later.”