Travels With Becky

Headed Out Yonder

Since my mom moved in with us, five weeks ago, everything’s been different -- and better! For one thing, she’s a better housekeeper than I am. Among the items she requested we bring down from her old house: a dust mop. Make that two. She’s been dust mopping the heck out of the place.

So now we have three generations under one roof. My daughter and her significant other, my mom, my husband and me (plus four cats, four cockatiels, three dogs, and a macaw). It’s a party! 

A couple of days ago, this example of the language of different generations came to my ear. My daughter wrote it down and posted it on Facebook, so I know I have it exactly right. Though I will add a bit of context.

So I say to my mom, “How about a game of Upwords?”  She likes Upwords because she almost always wins.

Adi (that’s the daughter) is at the table. She says she’ll play, too. 

Ma says, “Have you played before?”

She has played. Many times. With Ma.

Adi says, “Are you high?”

Ma says, “What?”

Adi says, “ARE YOU HIGH?”

Ma turns to me: “She’s a sassy little trollop, ain’t she?”

On another language note, when Ma’s heading for the bathroom, she often says, “I’m headed out yonder.”

I remember my grandparents and aunts saying the same thing. This harkens to the days of the outhouse, when out yonder was out of the house, down the trail and behind the barn.

It got me thinking about other expressions for headed out yonder: 'Going to powder my nose,'  "Going to spend a penny (as heard on British comedies)," and 'Gotta see a man about a horse.'

Others? Let me know. 

Yankee Attitude

As spring approaches, one waxes philosophical:

The sugaring season wasn’t as good as we expected, but we didn’t think it would be.

We didn’t expect to make a lot of money, and we didn’t.

Frost heaves on the road? Yup we got a lot of them. That’s the way we like it. Keeps out the riffraff.

Years ago, Gordon Preston of Orford (originally from England) was asked to speak at his first Orford town meeting. He was impressed when a number of locals rose to support his bid to speak, though they knew darned well he was on the opposite side of the argument. At town meeting, freedom of speech trumps politics. He’s now a selectman in town; as one constituent said, “The first foreign selectman Orford’s ever had.”

Four Clapboards Below the Sill

From Paul Currier, a story of one-upmanship:

At Proctor’s General Store in Enfield (a while ago), a half dozen old boys were shooting the breeze about how cold it got out their way during this latest snap. One said five below. Another said ten below. "Fifteen below at 5:00 a.m.," said the third.  

Chester said, “All I know is it was so cold the smoke froze in the stove pipe.”

But the winner was Junior, who said, “I had to look four clapboards below the sill to find the mercury.”

Which reminds me of a story I wrote a decade or so ago. The idea came from some story somebody told me, but I can’t remember who. Nevertheless, here it is, smoothed out by time and retelling, but with more than a snowflake of truth to it. It’s a conversation among some old boys at a general store, could well have been Proctor’s.

Skivvies

Yes, it was a cold winter. No question about it. But there’ve been colder. Royal remembered his Grampa John telling about one in particular. 

Ezra says: “That wa’n’t the winter the town clock froze, was it, Royal?”

“I believe it was. It could have been. It got so cold with the snow and sleet freezing on the town clock, it stopped. And they didn’t get it going again until spring.”

“Hard winters back then,” Ezra says. “Not like now, these warm piddly things they call winter. A lot of days I don’t even bother to light the stove. And the piddly little bit of snow that piddles down, hardly enough to bother with. Wait for spring. Let it melt.”

Ezra is known to be warm blooded. 

Urban says: "Cold weather don’t phase, Ezra. New Year’s day last year I happened to drive by his place. Don’t know where I was going, but I must have been going somewhere. It was a nippy day—20, 30 below—but the sun was out. There sat Ezra in his swim trunks. I guess it was his swim trunks, either that or his skivvies, stretched out like a mud worm on the front porch getting a tan.”

“Is that right?” Royal says.

“I guess it must be,” Ezra says. “Urban don’t lie. Neither of course does his brother, Nelson. Neither of course do the politicians down in Concord.”

Royal says: “I never seen Ezra wearing anything but his overalls and undershirt—summer, winter, spring, or fall. I figured that was your uniform, Ezra. Must have been quite a sight, 30 below and Ezra stretched out like a mud worm in his swim trunks. Or was it his skivvies?”

Uphill Battles

My friend Susan Bruce sent these two sweet, old Dunbarton stories.  Thanks, Susan -- and happy town meeting season! 

 

Approximately 40 years ago, my friend Lynda stopped in to visit her mother in Dunbarton. Mom had just been to some event that resulted in her bringing home a dozen donuts. A man was there pumping the septic, and had his two little boys with him. He finished up and went in to be paid, and Mom offered them a donut. The boys happily accepted, as did the man. Mom showed him the way to the bathroom to wash his hands, and he said thanks, but he wasn't going to bother, since they'd just get dirty again at the next job. 

 

Lynda had a conversation with the Road Agent some years ago about the sanding hills in winter. She questioned the methodology the road crew was using. He told her that his crew sanded the uphill side of the roads. 

 

Which somehow reminds me of another story: a mountain story. When asked by a hiker if a certain mountain trail was steep, the local replied:  “If anything, it leans forward a little."

 

This time of year, feels like it’s all uphill all the time. I'm still waiting for March to march out like a lamb.

 

On Broadway

My mom’s been telling me lots of stories lately. One of the big adventures of her life was traveling to New York City with a couple of girlfriends when she was in her early twenties.  She wanted to go see the The King and I  but ended up at Pal Joey.

 

But, she says, in a way it worked out. A friend of one of the girls was in a show and they were waiting for her at the stage door when along comes Yul Brynner. He stops to chat. Where are they from, he wants to know. New Hampshire. Where in New Hampshire? They tell him they’re from Concord.  

 

Ma says, “We didn’t tell him we were from Danbury. We didn’t want him to think we was total hicks.”

 

I asked if she got his autograph. “Oh, no.” she says.  “I didn’t want to bother him.” 

 

Here’s a picture of my mom, Jean Stewart, at that age. I don’t think he’d have been much bothered.