Travels With Becky

When Guests Wear Out Their Welcome

Luci Byrnes of Hancock recalled a story her father, Leo Cormier, told about the Depression. Supplies were short and even though his family of eight—six kids and two adults—lived on a farm in Dalton, food wasn’t plentiful either. Some relatives from Maine began showing up on Sundays expecting dinner, which was okay for a few weeks, but the visits became a burden after awhile.

What to do? Something subtle, perhaps?

Whether it was mother or father who came up with the idea, it took two of them to carry out the plan. After dinner, they put the dirty dishes on the floor for the dog to lick clean.

The dog did a fine job.

Then, the coup de grace: they picked up the dishes and put them into the cupboard.

The Maine relatives never showed up for Sunday dinner again.

A Christmas Miracle

I scored another story for my collection in progress, The Chronicles of Nimrod. A person in my house (who once went out to buy a snow shovel and returned with an ATV with a plow attachment) has not been able to get said ATV to work so far this winter. We have been using the old-fashioned back breaking method to clear the yard and dig paths for the dogs to run around in.

So he bought a new battery. Installed it. Oh no, still doesn’t run. Has to go to the shop. Oh no. Must dig out the trailer to haul the machine to said shop. Digs all morning. Oh no, lights don’t work on the trailer. So he tries tries to start the machine again.

Still dead. Until he notices . . . the kill switch is on.

Yup, the emergency stop switch. He toggles the switch to the “go” position. 

Brmmmm, brmmmm. 

A Christmas miracle!

Stories from Dick Macleod

It was such a privilege to visit the home of Dick Macleod in Bradford a couple of Sundays back, to sit with him and his daughter and daughter-in-law in a warm kitchen, eat scones, drink tea and share stories.

Dick is one of the founders of the famous (and huge) Loon Mountain Scottish Festival. He once painted the shutters on his house in the tartan plaid of his clan. When asked how he made all those stripes, he explained that instead of shaking the can to mix the paint, he held it very still, straight up and down, and the paint striped on its own.

He says he drew his way through school. When asked for a thousand-word theme on the bombing of Pearl Harbor, he drew a picture instead. And when asked to explain called upon the old adage, “A picture is worth . . . ” and got an A.

He spent a lot of time in the principal’s office -- playing cribbage with Mr. Hancock, the principal. Both enjoyed the game. And were good at it.

Sometimes instead of waiting for the school bus in front of the big rock, he waited behind the big rock -- and the bus would sail right on by. This gave him a day to himself.  So long as he remembered to get home by 3:00, he was all set. (The little devil!) It was kind of a family tradition, his daughter said: “My mother never went to school on a Friday.” Dick said: “I took off every Monday.”

Here are a couple of my favorites from that afternoon of stories:

The city slicker couldn’t believe his luck, buying a pie for $3.50. What a stupid bumpkin the local was for selling a blueberry pie so cheap.  

The local, meanwhile, couldn’t believe the city slicker was so stupid to pay $3.50 for a pie. 

When Dick was a kid, there was a doctor in Henniker who’d make the Bradford rounds, when needed. The roads were dirt and in mud season, the doctor and the local farmers had a system. The doctor would let each farmer along the way know approximately when he’d be passing through. If he was passing Dick’s parent’s farm at 10:30, say, he’d beep to let them know he was ok. If time passed and the doc didn’t beep, Dad would harness up Prince the horse, head down the road and pull the doc’s car out of the mud. On he’d go to the next farm, toot toot.

Thanks for the stories, Dick. And the hospitality. More Dick Macleod stories to come in future blogs.

The Christmas Stocking

Lynn Baker called me with this story. Her grandmother grew up on a farm in Gorham, Maine. The boy who was to become Lynn’s grandfather was a hired hand there. So they knew each other as teenagers.   

One of the other hired hands -- a man named Bert -- was likeable but a little slow. At Christmas time, Bert refused to hang up his stocking with the others because he said, “Ain’t no such thing as Santa Claus.” The teenagers insisted there was indeed such a thing and if Bert hung a stocking he’d be rewarded. Bert was adamant: “Ain’t no such thing as Santa Claus. No such thing.“

Finally, they persuaded him that there wouldn’t be any harm in at least hanging a stocking. So he did.

The teenagers filled the stocking with the usual: candies, fruit, etc., with some sprigs of holly stuffed in the top for good measure.

They got up early and waited for Bert to come down the stairs from his room. All the way down he was mumbling, “Ain’t no such thing as Santa Claus. Ain’t nothin’ gonna be in it. No sir, I don’t think so. No such thing.”

He saw the fat stocking and realized, oh my, there’s something in there! He ran his hands all over it—toe-to-top, front to back. Finally he pulled the stocking from its peg and peered inside: “Aw hell, he says. Nothin’ but brush!”

But that’s not the end of the story. Lynn’s grandfather served in WWI. He was a conscientious objector assigned to the Red Cross -- an ambulance driver and letter carrier.

For his first wedding anniversary, he was in Europe. For a surprise he filled a cigar box with holly and mailed it to his bride.

She wrote back: “Aw hell, nothin’ but brush.” 

Lynn said this was a beloved family story that she wanted to pass on. “Now,” she said. “It belongs to you.”

And, now, dear readers, it belongs to you, too. 

PS: I’d sure love some more Christmas stories. Please write if you’ve got one to give away. And remember: The more you give a story away, the more it belongs to you. Happy holidays!

Rebecca Rule
178 Mountain Avenue
Northwood, NH 03261
[email protected]

Or visit my website here.