Travels With Becky

Don't know where I'm going, but it may be by boat

After an evening of stories in Orford, Dick Paulson was inspired to send me a couple of his family stories.  Thanks, Dick.  They’re corkers. 

First:

Both my father and grandfather were commercial fishermen. During WWII, my grandfather was given special permission to have a two-way radio on his ship, to notify authorities if he observed any German U-boat presence off the coast of Maine. But most boats were not permitted to have radios. I was at an auction one day and saw a large number of signal flags mariners use, that were up for auction. It made me wonder if my grandfather had learned the meaning of the different flags.

A few days after the auction, my grandfather was over for dinner, so I asked him if he had ever used the flags to communicate with other boats.

"No, I never did learn to read those," he said.

"Gee," I said, "I thought you must have had a whole set of those flags on your ship, so you could signal other boats."

"No, never did," he replied. "No point in hav'en 'em, if you can't read 'em." 
 
and:

A cousin of a friend of mine was at his mother's death bed. The family was all gathered around, and his mother's eyes were closed, resting.

The son held his mother's hand and was telling her what good times they had all had together, and what a good mother she had been. This went on for several minutes.

Finally, he said, "Mom, I just want you to know we're really gonna' miss you when you're gone."

With that, his mother opened her eyes and said, "Why? Where am I going?

The less said the better

These stories were told to me during my last visit to Storytelling Night at the Cornerhouse Inn in Center Sandwich.

The Yankee Sensibility

Dorothy told the story of a woman running into an acquaintance (with a yankee sensibility) after a long separation.  “How’s your wife doing?” she asked.

The yankee said, “Pretty good.”

“That’s good,” the woman said. “She was sick for so long.”

“Ayuh,” the yankee said. “She died.”


Hiding Out

Cousin Debbie was five and her little brother, Eric, three.  Debbie ran away from home and took Eric with her.  The whole neighborhood was out looking for them.  At last they were discovered, under the porch.

When asked what she’d learned from this Debbie said, “Next time, I think I won’t take Eric.”


More Hiding

Which reminded me of a wonderful story Tommy Makem used to tell at his concerts -- with his lilting Irish accent.

The phone rings and the little boy under the table grabs it from on top of the table and whispers, “Hello.”

The caller says, “Is your mother there?”

The boy whispers, “Yes, but she can’t come to the phone.”

“Is your father there?”

Whisper: “Yes, but he can’t come to the phone?”

“Who else is at home?”

Whisper: “There’s three policeman and two fireman and some of the neighbors.”

“My goodness, what are they doing?”

Whisper:  “Looking for me.”

Founder in the Ceiling: Messages from the Past

I met Arthur Jo-Jo Nadeau in Rye while giving a presentation on the Berlin Mills.  He told me this story.  And may I say, at the end, we both had tears in our eyes:

Arthur Jo-Jo Nadeau went to Doucetteville, Nova Scotia, to chase down his genealogy. As a child, Jo-Jo went to Nova Scotia when his parents vacationed there. He has gone now for the last 15 years or so as an adult. His grandmother Eliza Robichaud is from Doucettevile. His grandfather Walter Robichaud was raised in Weymouth. Walter was raised by his mother Ida and his stepdad Gus Bell. Gus's home was on the Sissiboo road in Weymouth, a seven- or eight-mile walk between the homes where Walter and Eliza were raised. Walter would tell Jo-Jo how he would walk to visit Eliza when they were dating. 

On one visit, Jo-Jo found the house where his great-grandparents (Gus Bell's home) had lived, told the owners who he was, and they invited him in. 

At that time in the late 1990s, the new owners were remodeling Gus and Ida's old house. When the plaster and lath were pulled down in the kitchen, all kinds of paperwork were on the topside of it. They surmised that some children took the paperwork (from trunks in the attic) and pushed it in between the spruce boards and the paperwork ended up on the topside of the lathes.  This probably happened in the mid 1930s or so. 
 
So all of this interesting paperwork shows up when the ceiling comes down,  including a record that Jo-Jo’s grandfather had cut and  hand-hewn 110 ties for which he received $0.10 a piece. A lot of hard work for $0.10 each.
  
Two other interesting items. Eliza had written Christmas cards to her in-laws. One card was signed Walter and Eliza. The second card was signed Walter, Eliza and Alice in a little kids scribble:  Alice.  Jo-Jo’s own mother.  

The new owners asked Jo-Jo if he knew the people. At the time, Jo-Jo's mother Alice had been deceased 15 or 20 years. He had a hard time holding back the emotion trying to tell them that Alice was his mother and Walter and Eliza were his grandparents. Jo-Jo was very close to his mother and his grandparents.

Those two postcards, especially the one signed Alice, connect Jo-Jo to the ones who came before.

Scat, cat

Dick in Newport had a story about his friend Linwood Moody from Waldo County, Maine. In fact, Linwood was the station agent in Brooks, Maine. Linwood was always full of stories when Dick visited. Often he told about how Me and Kitty did this or my Kitty and I did that.

After they were pretty well acquainted, Dick thought it would be all right to ask Linwood if Kitty was his wife. “Hell no!” Linwood said. “That’s what I call my cats. It’s easy to remember and they all answer to it.”

Which reminded me of the story of Nub and the three holes in his kitchen mopboards with little flaps of burlap tacked over them, otherwise open to the elements. Nub’s buddy asked about the holes. “Cat doors,” Nub said.

“Why are there three of them?”

“I got three cats.”

“Couldn’t the cats all use one door?”

Nub said, “No. When I say scat, I mean scat.”