Travels With Becky

Bullseye

When my daughter was little, she asked why her Grampa’s stories always ended the same way.

“What way is that?” I asked.

She said, “They always end: ‘And then I shot it.’”

Well, not always. But often. Most folks in my family were hunters. Not me, but most everybody else. 

So I should have known what was coming when I received this little story from a friend in North Wilmot. She wrote: 

One of our neighbors who always gets a deer in hunting season, after hanging it next to his house, then cutting it up for the freezer, leaves the head up in the tree for all those passing by to admire. 

Well, this year just before Christmas, he attached a blinking red light to its nose.  

By the way, in case you didn’t guess, the creative neighbor is your cousin, Vic.

Not surprised. I didn’t know Vic was such a good shot, but I always knew he had a good sense of humor. 

That’s Vic in the pic, the boy among all the girl cousins (left to right -- Lonna, Sheree, me, Sam) and my mom. Christmas at Grammie and Grampa Stewart’s in Danbury circa 1963.  

Stories from the Road

New London, Dover, Berlin and Dover again: in the last couple of weeks I’ve told stories at an Episcopal Church, Garrison Elementary School, Brown School, and at a health and rehab center. Audiences included 25 kindergartners gathered on a carpet and a gathering of a dozen or so senior citizens, most in wheel chairs. But, you know what, everybody likes a story— it doesn’t matter if you’re five or eighty-five.

During these travels, my ears were perked by some one- or two-liners. You can’t beat a good one- or two-liner. Here are a few:

From a second grader: “RebeccaRule, you look a lot younger on your web site.”

Note: All the students at Garrison School called me RebeccaRule - all one word. They’d done quite a lot of research on me before I arrived. When I introduced myself to one group as Becky Rule, I was swiftly corrected. “No, you’re RebeccaRule.”  I LOVE visiting schools. Love it love it love it. Surprises galore!

When asked for questions to be directed to the esteemed guest author (me), a kindergartner said: “Can somebody tie my shoe?”

From a senior:  

Q: “What do you do for excitement around here?”

A: “Don’t know, never been excited.”

From an Episcopalian:

At Art’s Hardware Store in New London, the merchandise was a jumble, so you told Art what you wanted and he fetched it for you.

Charlie comes in. Art says, “Charlie, what’s on your mind?”

Charlie says, “It’s sex that’s on my mind, but nails I come for.”

From Carolyn whose father was an artist: 

In York, Maine at the Hancock Wharf, he asked a local to pose for a photograph. The local obliged, saying, “You want a picture of an old faht, you got it.”

One more Episcopalian story:

Jules Pellerin was in the boat business on Lake Sunapee. Fella came in with a white water canoe pretty well beat up from an encounter with a rock on the Saco river. Jules patched it up as best he could. Another fella is looking to buy it. “Does it leak?” the fella asks. “Do you want it to?” Jules says.

And the final word from my new best friend, Queeny Cheney, librarian extraordinaire: “Those kindergartners,” she said, “They act just like five year olds.”

Sunk

Thanks to Holly Bray for sending me this little gem of a story verified true and as Yankee as can be. I’m going to be telling story for the rest of my days. Talk about economy!

Holly wrote: 

My cousin's husband, Greg—a third generation commercial fisherman—came up to Augusta from Phippsburg, Maine for Christmas dinner. Greg has a beard, ruddy cheeks, strong callused hands, and an even stronger Down East drawl, with a no-nonsense, straight-faced delivery.

My mom says: Greg, I saw in the paper that someone in your family had a boat that sunk?

Greg:  Ah, yup.

Mom: Whose boat was it?

Greg: Mine.

Mom: What happened?

Greg: Filled with water.

(Silence)

Mom: What are you going to do?

Greg: Pump it out.

Maisie the $1700 Cat and Other Stories

I may, if I play my cards right, land a gig to tell stories on a special topic: Our Beloved Pets. Only problem, I don’t have that many really good or even pretty good pet stories.  

I have a lot of pets—three dogs, three cats, and four birds. So you’d expect I’d have lots of pet stories. But, gosh, most of mine go like this:

Reggie and Chico were playing. They were cute.

Chico stole Reggie’s bone and Reggie looked upset.

Stories where you kinda had to be there:

Once we left Bob, a Wire Fox Terrier pup, home alone. He ate the couch, pulled my husband’s shoe out of the closet and pooped in it. We think he was sending us a message.

Oh, and when poor little Maisie stopped eating, the vet gave her an X-ray and quickly identified the problem. She’d eaten a fish hook with monofilament line attached. She survived and thrived, but earned a nickname: Maisie, the $1700 cat.

This one I got from my friend David Emerson who grew up in Stow, Maine, sister city to Chatham, NH:

Maynard Record’s beagle dog liked to sleep dead center of the crossroads between the sister cities of Chatham, NH and Stow, Maine. Day or night, sunny or rainy, blizzard or hurricane, pea soup fog, make no difference, that dog was more than likely to be lying there, smack dab in the middle of those four corners. Local’s knew the spot, so even if it was too dark or foggy or snowy to see the dog, they’d swerve to avoid him.

Years passed. The dog died. So did Maynard Record. And so did my friend David Emerson. But at the crossroads between the sister cities of Chatham, NH, and Stow, Maine, the locals, the natives, and the old timers still swerve.

And then there’s the Yankee classic:

Old guy sitting on an apple crate in front of the general store. Dog beside him. Newcomer says to the old guy, “Your dog bite?”

“Nope.”

Newcomer passes close by the dog. Dog bites him. Newcomer hops around, mad:  “I thought you said your dog didn’t bite.”

“Ain’t my dog.”

And finally, the story my dad told about a visit to Harvey’s house up the road. As Dad passed through the front door, the little dog was circling him, barking, growling, and so forth.

“Pay no attention to him,” Harvey said. “He don’t bite.”

Dad says: “He’s biting me right now!” Dad raised his leg and sure enough, there was the little dog, still attached.

If you have any pet stories that you want to pass on, let me know in the comment section below or by e-mailing: [email protected]. 

I’d really appreciate some additions to the pet repertoire. 

Quick Exchanges

Happy 2014! Here's a few little stories on a variety of subjects to get you going:  

Frugality:
Found in Grammie’s attic: a box of cups without handles, and a box of cup handles. 

Wrong Impression:
A little boy noticed a framed collection of fishing flies and lures on Dr. Bozuwa’s office wall.

“You must love fishing, Dr. Bozuwa,” the boy observed. 

“I don’t fish,” replied Dr. Bozuwa, “I took all those flies and lures from people’s heads.”

Getting the Lay of the Land:
The plumber arrived at the farmhouse with a tool box in hand. The farmer pointed to the second door on the right. “That’s where the stopped up sink is,” he said, “but go in quick and shut the door behind you. Mother’s taking a tub, and if there’s a draft, she’ll be ugly.”

And Finally, How We Talk to Each Other: 

Q: Think it’ll ever stop snowing?
A: Always has before. 

Q: How long will it take to get to Exeter?
A: Depends how fast you go.

Q: How do you get to Claremont?
A: Usually my son takes me.

Q: How you doing? 
A: Pretty good considering what I've been through.

Q: What you been through?
A: Well, the last thing was a set of stairs.

Q: Can I take this bridge to Vermont?  
A: You could but I wouldn’t recommend it.

Q: Does this road go to Chichester?
A: Nope. Stays right where it is.

Q: Do I go over the covered bridge to get to Vermont?
A: If I was you, I’d go through it.

Q: How’s your husband? 
A: Compared to what?

Q: How do you do? My name is Becky Rule.
A: Mine isn’t. 

At the roundhouse train station (that used to be in Concord, NH):

Q: Where you headed?  
A: None of your damned business, and I wouldn’t tell you that much if you weren’t my sister.

Any terse exchanges in the Yankee style that make you laugh? Post them here in the comment section or send them to me at [email protected]. You’re apt to see your suggestions in future blog posts. It’s my mission to collect these little bits of culture and pass them on in the New Year and many more (knock wood) to come.