Travels With Becky

Awkward Introductions and More Funny Moments

A story collected at Sprucewood Emeritus Senior Living in Durham:

“I worked at the telephone company. Progressed upward through the ranks, and was introduced by my future father-in-law as his son’s fiancé, the call girl.”

Another introduction:

“Be sure and go into the old meeting house. My mother’s in there; she’d love to meet you; she’s a hooker.” (As in rugs, I later learned). 

What mother used to say: 

“When I first met your father I loved him so much, I could have eaten him up. After 40 years of marriage, I wished to God I had.”

And for the pet owners among us, this story from Holly Bray:

“As it happens on working farms," Holly wrote, “it took a several months to get around to getting the ceiling fixed.” Here’s the story of why the ceiling needed fixing:

A Great Dane named Loren and a spunky Jack Russell, named Peanut, were an odd couple but inseparable. They spent their nights together in a two-car attached garage with an unfinished loft.  

One night Peanut went up the stairs to the loft, followed by Loren. Curiosity struck Peanut and he poked his nose into the space between the first and second floor. Still curious, he crawled into the dark space snugly with insulation. Maybe he heard a mouse. Could have been.

The Great Dane had no intention of being left behind. And though the space between floors was a foot or less, she squeezed in behind her little buddy. She must have gone flat and wide.  

The explorers had traveled about about 20 feet and were well into the kitchen area of the house, when the ceiling under the Great Dane gave way. Ceiling plaster and dog landed together in a pile on the floor. 

Peanut escaped the crash and remained between floors.

The next morning, the man of the house couldn’t figure out why Loren, who’d been locked in the garage the night before, was sleeping on the couch. He was also puzzled by the debris on the kitchen floor, until Peanut barked and he spotted the little dog peering down through the substantial, dog-shaped hole in the ceiling.

Side note: Despite his fall, Loren was unhurt, and the reunion of the two friends was a warm one.

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.

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.