Jud's New England Journal

My Favorite April Moments

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 04:00:00 +0100

Juds New England JournalFor April 2013

Welcome to the April 2013 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, NH.

My Favorite April Moments

After a long winter, there's nothing more welcome than the first sighting of a suddenly-open lake. But I recently saw something equally thrilling in downtown Boston...

All of us have our favorite signs of spring--spotting a robin among snow patches on the lawn, for instance. Whatever. But for me, it's always been ice-out.

Each year, during the latter part of March and April, the ice, now deserted of all human activity, has been turning dark gray, almost black. Not the shiny, crystal-clear black ice of December and January. This is the dull, rotting gray-black ice of April. Coves and shorelines become free of it, but the main area of the big lakes remain locked in this gray mass--interminably.

Then, one late April or early May morning (later in the north country, earlier in the south), someone who has passed the lake on the way to work will announce, "the ice went out last night."

The office ice-out pool, in which bets were placed on the precise date and time, has a winner and I, for one, make a special point of driving over to the lake sometime that day to see for myself, firsthand. Like the marvel of autumn foliage, the first sight of open water in a big lake each spring is thrilling. The wind that helped bring about the ice's disappearance is often whipping up whitecaps and I stand there on the shore amazed-- always amazed--that a landscape so entrenched for so many months could change so dramatically in a matter of a few hours.

If the day is calm and ice-out coincides with or follows "opening day," sections of the shore will be lined with fishermen and the lake will be full of small boats. In any case, the annual ritual of personally looking at the ice-free lake is my own favorite signal to myself that I've survived the winter and another New England spring has arrived.

Several years ago, I was in Boston the day the ice went out of many of New Hampshire's big lakes and so I figured my own spring would necessarily have to be delayed.

However, thanks to extremely fortunate timing, I was witness that year to a uniquely Boston seasonal milestone. It happened as I was walking along Commonwealth Avenue. Suddenly I was aware that some of the people on both sides of the avenue were beginning to clap and cheer and smile at one another. There, moving slowly in traffic down toward the Public Garden, was a huge trailer truck. On board were six swan boats.

The swan boats are stored all winter under cover and right around Patriots' Day, April 19 (that's the real Patriots' Day), they're transported back to the Lagoon--the little lake in the Public Garden--for another season. You have to be in the right place and the right time to see the swan boats on this annual overland voyage, but if you are, well for me it's about as good as ice-out.

An Evening with the D. A. R.

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the March 2013 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, NH.

An Evening With the D. A. R.

Whenever I've stereotyped groups ofpeople in my mind, invariably somethingoccurs to prove me wrong.....

The Daughters of the American Revolution, founded in Washington, DC, but well established in New England, is very sensitive about being labeled snobbish. Some 208,000 Daughters strong, or thereabouts in years past, it is the largest patriotic -hereditary organization in the world and its library in Washington, open to the public, is regarded as second only to that of the Mormon Church among genealogical archives. It is crammed to the roof with copies of marriages, birth and death certificates, voting and property tax roles, deeds, war records and all the other public documents that establish a person's existence. The purpose is to prove each member's claim that one of her ancestors fought or had a big hand in the American Revolution. On our side. No Tories allowed. Only direct lineage is included--and, as I recall, excluded are descendants of illegitimate children and polygamous marriages.

Critics of the D. A. R. maintain that their apparent patriotism is actually a combination of thinly-veiled snobbery and the protection of privilege. Another side to the subject is often expressed in the simple and sincere statement by Daughters that it really is "an honor to have an ancestor who fought in the Revolution."

In my younger days, I was often the speaker at New England chapters of the D.A.R. and I've found the members, almost always on the elderly side, to be charming. (I assume many have by now passed on.) And no more snobby that any of us New Englanders concerned with genealogy. Although the organization as a whole was often criticized in past years for its stand opposing the likes of the United Nations, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, federal aid to education and so forth, its individual members often say they only want to preserve family history for their grandchildren.

One particular D.A.R. dinner I attended as a speaker will always be vivid in my memory. The opening ceremonial procession was, as usual, complete with all sorts of flags and banners, and the marching Daughters, in gorgeous formal floor-length gowns, were wearing the official ribbons, bands, gold bars and pine that indicate ancestors, family ties, and positions in the local and national organizations.

An extremely elderly Daughter, dressed and decorated to the hilt, was at the piano, but I could hardly believe what she was doing. No doubt there had been a time when she knew piano chords and could actually play. No longer. All she had left was a marching rhythm--and enthusiasm. Pound pound de pound de pound...and every pound was a discord.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable and sort of embarrassed as I stood on the stage with the other chapter officers, facing the oncoming processional. However, no one else seemed to mind. All the ladies marched slowly down the aisle in time to this pounding as if Van Cliburn himself were at the keys. As each turned slowly in front of us to take their seats, I began to notice one and then another of the ladies I'd met prior to the meeting subtly catch my eye and give me an almost imperceptible wink. They knew. They all knew. Their tolerance of the struggling but still game lady at the piano was a kindness. And since then my feelings for the D.A.R. have been mixed with the emotions that, I must confess, brought a bit of a lump to my throat that evening long ago.

Winter Weather Sayings--Can't Be True. Can They?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the February 2013 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

Winter Weather SayingsCan't Be True. Can They?

Surely a few have validity, of course,but others are just plain silly. Thetrick is knowing which is which...

As we proceed along through the month of February, the old winter weather sayings are heard once again, often with a sort of doomsday theme. Some have been around for centuries here in New England and show no signs of fading away. For instance, "If a man [or woman?] makes it through the winter, he'll make it through the summer." Open, snowless winters like last year (and maybe this year?) are considered to be unhealthy. "A green Christmas makes for a fat cemetery."

I'd have to say that some of the moon sayings, like "a full moon brings a change in the weather," are not difficult to believe. After all, the moon (with a little help from the sun) dramatically changes the level of the Atlantic Ocean off our coasts twice each day. Our atmosphere is full of water--and so are we human beings. Many coastal people are convinced that if a person is dying and survives the turn of the tide, he or she will make it to the next tide. Most people, they say, die on the ebb tide.

The New England weather sayings that seem to me to be totally meaningless are those created simply because they rhyme. Like, "When a cat lies on its brain, then it's surely going to rain." I also don't hold in high regard those sayings that rely on nature's fairness and short-term balance...i.e. "If a month comes in good, it goes out bad." "A warm Christmas means a cold Easter." Naaah.

Sayings that depend upon a haphazard arrangement of numbers are not believable either. For instance, "As many days old is the moon at the first snow, there will be that many snows before crop planting time again."

At least this last is based on what I consider to be the correct assumption that the universe is orderly and precise. That every phenomenon has a cause and effect. That nothing, including weather, occurs randomly.

How frustrating, however, that this obvious precision in our universe cannot translate reasonably into the assumption that the age of the moon at the date of an autumn's first snowstorm will indicate the number of additional snowstorms that will occur between then and the following spring. To be sure, the obvious flaw is that the numbers linked in that old weather saying have no business being linked.

Some years ago, I was attempting to explain this in a talk I was giving to a women's club in Montpelier, Vermont, a week after a rather severe snowstorm hit New England unusually early. Naturally, coming in October as it did, it was the season's first snowstorm. And it so happened that on that date the moon was two days old. A perfect example, I thought, of how these numerological weather sayings simply do not work.

"So as you can understand," I said to the ladies gathered there that day, "if this moon-age weather saying were to be applied to this coming winter, the snowstorm we just had last week would be one of only two major snowstorms that'll hit us between now and next spring."

General laughter all around. How ridiculous. But, you know, that's exactly how it turned out.

Thoughts on Up and Downs and Overs and Outs

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 05:00:00 +0100

Jud's New England JournalFor January 2013

Welcome to the January 2013 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

Thoughts On Up and Downsand Overs and Outs

From southern Maine, you must go "up"to Bangor but "down" to Eastport. Confusing? Well, not to New Englanders.....

The New England language is probably easier to learn that one of the numerous New England accents. But like English itself, there are few rules. As soon as you'veidentified a rule, you discover more exceptions than examples. For instance, you might hear a Maine man say he intends to go gunnin' for partridge that afternoon. You figure gunnin' is used instead of huntin'. But it isn't. If you're after deer instead of partridge, then you're deer-huntin ! We seldom eat venison either. Eat a lot of deer meat, though. Or take that simple little word "lot". There are in New England plenty of wood lots, four-acres lots, and even barn lots. However, there are no corn, potato or oat lots. A pasture is generally considered to be a large, untilled area, often with several groupings of trees scattered here and there. But these trees do not constitute a wood lot. The stand of trees in a wood lot is bigger and thicker. A field of potatoes may be a patch, but you cannot describe a field of grain with that word.

The smallest of words may be the most difficult for outsiders to place correctly. When I was growing up in Maine, we used to have four principle directions: up river, down state, over to home, and from away. From Boston we went out to Prout's Neck (near Portland, Maine). But from Prout's Neck, we went up to inland Vanceboro, whence we went over to McAdam, Canada, or down to Calais. St. Stephens is just across the international border from Calais, but we went to St. Stephens.

When it comes to tos, ups, downs, overs, and outs, if you depend upon north-south logic, you'll be wrong about half the time. For instance, everyone knows one goes down the coast of Maine when sailing northeast, up the coast when sailing southwest. The term "Down East" obviously originates from sailing downwind with the prevailing westerlies when traveling from Massachsetts ports to those along the Maine coast. However, one can indeed go up to Bangor from Massachusetts. Correctly.

"Up" is a hard-working little word. It is added to brought, banged, warmed, tumbled, let, picked, dressed, turned, and countless others. Also you find, up and did it, up and coming, up and around, and even what are you up to? Banks in Maine have drive-up tellers. (Connecticut banks have drive-in tellers.) You can shine up to someone but that's not quite the same as taking a shine to that someone.

"Take" is used in many situations, too. I can take another job, take after someone, or take sick, during which time I ought to take it easy. A person can take off another person, meaning mimic, or take him down a peg. "Take" can also be added for seemingly no reason at all -- such as, "I'll take and give him a good lesson."

Well, on that note, I guess I better up and end this right about now.

Where in the United States Does The Sun Shine First?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 05:00:00 +0100

It's more complicated than you might think...

Jud's New England Journal For December 2012

Welcome to the December 2012 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H

Where in the United States DoesThe Sun Shine First?

It's more complicated than you might think...

Everyone agrees that the sun shines least during the month of December. But where, exactly where, does it shine first? Over the years, many readers have written (or e-mailed) us here at Yankee Magazine asking us that very question. I used to reply that it was West Quoddy Head, Maine, which is New England's easternmost point of mainland. But then I found that not everyone agreed. So, with the help of Blanton C. Wiggin, then the puzzle editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac, I undertook an exhaustive study of the matter.

Our findings: Between January 11 and March 6 as well as between October 7 and November 29, the sun first hits the top of Cadillac Mountain on the island of Mt. Desert, Maine. It would be West Quoddy Head, but for the fact that for up to five minutes, the hills of Grand Manan Island, New Brunswick, block the sun on the mornings of those dates, thus making Cadillac Mountain the winner.

The only times that West Quoddy Head wins, we found, are those mornings from March 7 to March 24 and then from September 19 to October 6. For much of the remaining dates in the year, we discovered the winner to be sort of a dark-horse candidate. Turned out to be a 1,660 feet high elevation known as Mars Hill, located on the New Brunswick line north of Maine's Washington County, which, incidentally, proudly proclaims itself as "The Sunrise County of the U. S. A."

However, there were, we found, exceptions even during the comparatively long Mars Hill periods of the year. For instance, sometimes the high hills of Carleton County, New Brunswick, block the Mars Hill sunrise for a few minutes, giving an occasional morning to the top of Mount Katahdin in central Maine.

We published these fairly complicated results in a winter issue one year but it only seemed to intensify the arguments. Most upset were the residents of Washington County, Maine. They seemed to favor being "the Sunrise County of the U.S.A." all year, not just most of the year. At least they and everyone concerned seemed to agree that the one and only place in New England where one can stand on the mainland and watch the sun go down over the Atlantic Ocean is Race Point, Provincetown, Cape Cod. Well, almost everyone agreed it was the only place. Some, for instance, mentioned Wellfleet and Truro.

Perhaps I could add here that there is no argument whatsoever on how to determine the date of Easter each year. (This year it falls on the 31st of March.) It's the first Sunday following the day of the full moon on or after the vernal equinox...with rare exceptions. Very rare. Not worth arguing about.

Why Fishermen Won't Paint a Boat Blue

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Thu, 01 Nov 2012 04:00:00 +0100

Jud's New England JournalFor November 2012

Welcome to the November 2012 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H

Why Fishermen Won't Paint a Boat Blue

It's not that they're superstitious.No, no, heavens no...

Most of the fishermen in the picturesque village of Port Clyde, Maine, are descendants of the English, Finnish, and Swedish stone cutters who came to Maine to quarry paving blocks for the streets of New York and Philadelphia. They became fishermen when the cobblestone streets went the way of the horse and most of the quarries went out of business.

"These Port Clyde fishermen are a wonderfully lovable, superstitious and rowdy bunch," a retired businessman friend of mine wrote me after permanently moving from New York to the town of Saint George, of which Port Clyde is a part. So a few months later, Yankee writer and photographer Larry Willard and I moseyed down the Maine coast to fill out a story we were planning to do on New England superstitions.

"We're not any of those things," a fisherman we found on the town docks told us when I read him that portion of my friend's letter. "People may think we're rowdy because we go up to Rockland and have a few drinks on Saturday night. Or maybe once in a while during the week, if the weather report is bad and we know we won't be going out on the trawler the next day. And what do you mean by 'superstitious'? In what way are we supposed to be superstitious?"

There was nothing for Larry and I to do but tell him a few of the many things we'd heard about New England fishermen's beliefs that denote some sort of ill fortune--such as painting a boat blue, mentioning the word "pig", having an umbrella onboard ship, or leaving a hatch cover turned upside down.

For several minutes after our brief explanation, the fisherman worked silently on the net he was repairing. Finally, I prodded him with: "For instance, it doesn't look to me as though there is a blue fishing boat in this whole harbor."

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I wouldn't paint a boat blue myself. I don't like the color. I don't know of anyone that does, either. But that's not necessarily a superstition."

Then I told him I'd always been led to believe that most fishermen simply do not allow the word "pig" to be used around or on their boats and that some fishermen won't even eat pork. He seemed a little uneasy as I went on to say that I'd heard about a young boy in Port Clyde who'd made an "oink" sound near a fishing boat the previous summer and had been punished by his parents when the boat returned from its next trip with nets destroyed in some sort of mishap at sea.

"I don't eat pork myself," he responded after a pause, "but it ain't that I'm superstitious about it. I just don't like pork."

"What about your friends?" I asked.

"I'll admit a few of them won't use the word 'pig'," he said, "but it don't bother me none...so long as I'm clear of the boat."

"What about having an umbrella aboard ship or leaving a hatch cover bottom side up?" Larry asked, entering the conversation for the first time.

Visibly relieved and feeling on solid ground once again, the fisherman turned to Larry and fairly shouted, "Why in tarnation would anyone want to bring an umbrella onboard a ship? And as to leaving a hatch cover bottom side up--that's no superstition. Only a Goddamn fool would leave a hatch cover bottom side up!"

With that, he left his nets and walked away, obviously somewhat disgusted with the ignorance of writers and editors.

Later that afternoon, as we drove by the Thomaston harbor, we spotted a blue fishing boat. Just one out of the dozens moored out there--but it was definitely blue. We decided it was probably owned by some New Yorker who used it as a pleasure boat. We wished him luck.

OK, Where is the Birthplace of the American Navy?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the October 2012 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H

OK, Where is the Birthplaceof the American Navy?

Lots of places claim the honor and,surprisingly, each one makes a prettyconvincing argument in its favor...

Well, to start with, the two Massachusetts towns that have argued with each other for years over this question are Marblehead and Beverly.

Marblehead's claim: On September 2, 1775, George Washington commissioned a Marblehead man, Captain Nicholas Broughton, a Marblehead ship, the Hannah, and a Marblehead crew into the service of the United Colonies of North America.

Sounds like an open-and-shut case for Marblehead, right?

Wrong.

You see, when Washington's order came through, the Hannah was tied up in Beverly harbor. She therefore sailed forth from Beverly on her first mission as a U.S. Navy ship.

Back in 1935, the two towns asked the Secretary of the Navy, then a man named Charles Swanson, to come to Massachusetts, investigate the claim of both towns and settle the question once and for all. Secretary Swanson, obviously not experienced in New England ways, naively accepted what he considered to be merely a simple matter of looking up a few historical facts.

Within several days of his arrival from Washington, he found Marblehead's claim to be true. Then he discovered that Beverly's was also true.

About this time, word of the Secretary's investigation began to get around and it wasn't long before he received a letter from the governors of South Carolina and Georgia, saying that as early as July of 1775, naval forces created by both of those states had jointly captured a British supply ship carrying powder and had then delivered this powder to the Continental Congress for the use of the United Colonies. Both therefore claimed to be the birthplace of the American Navy.

Then he discovered that on August 1, 1775, Commodore James Smith had taken command of the sloop Enterprise at Crown Point, Lake Champlain, "for the service of the United Colonies." Even today, anyone traveling through Whitehall, New York, has seen the large sign proclaiming that town as the birthplace of the American Navy.

Rhode Island inserted its oar, too. On August 4, 1775, General Washington had requested the governor of that state to send ships to Bermuda to capture British powder stored there. The Rhode Island sloop Katy did just that, the Secretary was told in no uncertain terms by a group of Rhodes Islanders sent to speak to him. In their minds, he should designate Little Rhody as the birthplace of the American Navy.

Finally, the now harried and thoroughly confused Secretary learned that five days before the Battle of Bunker Hill, a Captain Jerry O'Brien had sailed out of Machias, Maine, and with a crew of farmers armed with pitchforks, sabers and axes, had boarded a British naval sloop of four guns, the Margaretta, and forced it to surrender. Machias, Maine, strongly claimed--and still claims--to be the true birthplace of the American Navy.

It was at this point in his investigation that the Secretary was heard to mutter to one of his aides, "Oh, to hell with it!" That evening he boarded a train and returned to Washington.

And so, like many such historical squabbles here in New England, the various claims continue to this very day. Frankly, I don't think the matter will ever be settled. At least I hope not.

About Our Hard Cider -- And, Yes, Our Hard Tea, Too

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sat, 01 Sep 2012 04:00:00 +0100

Jud's New England JournalFor September 2012

Welcome to the September 2012 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H

About Our Hard Cider -And, Yes, Our Hard Tea, Too

It's difficult for outsiders to believehow strong New Englandersprefer both...

While various spirits are widely consumed throughout New England today, the traditional drink is, of course, cider. Hard cider. Sure, there's always been plenty of sweet cider handy, particularly during the fall months, but during my growing-up years in Vanceboro, Maine, the favorite recipes had names such as "Hard Cider Egg-Nog", "Old Hard", and "Whitcomb's Dynamite Special." The latter, in a 19th century recipe book I still keep in my office today, is described with the following postscript:

"Don't ever venture to drink it. It's great for blasting rocks or blowing out stumps. If you owe somebody a grudge, a slug of 'Whitcomb's Dynamite Special' will square accounts permanently."

An old New England custom was to take barrels of cider and bury them in the ground in the fall. Then in the spring, the barrels were dug up and the contents put through some sort of filter, after which the cider would be, as an oldtimer once told me, "clear as wine, with a kick that would put a mule to shame." The holes were called cider holes and the result was generally known as applejack, which has a "muzzle velocity", as the oldtimer told me, "like a six-inch howitzer cannon."

Tea, more popular in New England than in any other part of the country (or so I've been lead to believe), is written and talked about in the same exaggerated manner as is hard cider. We just seem to enjoy boasting about how incredibly strong our drinks are.

"Laboratory tests have proved that tea prepared in the Maine fashion is far more corrosive than nitric acid and only misses being the universal solvent by an eyelash," wrote one Down East newspaper columnist some years ago. And he was only half joking.

"To be at its best, Maine tea should be prepared out of doors," he went on to say, "in a pot made of double-thick armor plate. A pound of tea in a tablespoon of water is the ration generally observed in mixing the ingredients. This mixture is boiled for two days or until the foliage within a radius of three miles has been withered by the strong fumes it gives off."

Roger Finn recalls a time when the Finn School in Concord, Massachusetts, had its beginnings. One day a Miss Jay was reading a story to the first graders and came upon the word "straight." She paused for a minute to establish the meaning of it. Some told her that the edge of the table was straight. Others chose a ruler. There seemed to be complete understanding by all until, inevitably, a little boy by the name of Sammy, age six, said, "No, that's not what it means. In my house it means, 'without gingerale.' "

Spoken like a true New Englander. You've heard that one before? Well, sure...but I like the old stories!

The Truth About the Cabots and the Lowells and That Sort of Thing

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the August 2012 edition ofJud's New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H

The Truth About the Cabots andthe Lowells and That Sort of Thing

Some of New England's best traditionalhumor originates from Boston's old-fashionedreputation for having a snobby attitude...

A "New England First Family" is not a term much used or even known about these days. But I'm occasionally asked about it. Who is qualified to be a "First Family", people ask - and do they still exist? As to the former, I've always thought of First Families as those whose Puritan ancestors founded the Massachusetts Bay Colony during the 1630's and went on to accumulate considerable wealth and influence. And, sure, some are still around today. Some would be thought of as the quintessential "Boston Brahmin." But, of course, few live in Boston anymore. Most are out on the North Shore. (For those of you who live elsewhere, the North Shore refers to the coastal towns north of Boston.)

I recently ran across an article in an old Yankee describing what was once considered the "proper ancestry" for a First Family. It was written by none other that Oliver Wendell Holmes. To qualify, he wrote, one needed "Four or more generations of gentlemen and gentlewomen; among them a member of his Majesty's Council for the Provinces, a Governor or so, one or two Doctors of Divinity, or a member of Congress not later than the time of long boots with tassels."

Under those general guidelines, I'd say First Families include, for instance, the Cabots who, as the saying goes, speak only to God; the Lowells, who speak only to the Cabots; The Adamses, acknowledged to be the foremost of all First Families; the Forbeses, perhaps the wealthiest; the Appletons, who made a fortune, as many First families did, in the textile industry; the Saltonstalls, who have sent sons to Harvard in every generation since Nathaniel Saltonstall graduated in 1659; the Peabodys, whose family fortune was founded by Joseph Peabody of Salem, a privateer during the Revolution; the Winthrops, who helped found the Massachusetts Historical Society (right up there with the Athenaeum in social status); the Putnams who, along with the Jacksons, Bowditches and Warrens, headed the Harvard Medical School throughout the nineteenth century; the Quincys, who include a President of Harvard; the Phillipses, who founded both Andover and Exeter; the Lodges, who have been senators and oodles of other good positions, including Harvard overseer; the Emersons, whose scion Ralph Waldo did quite well in the writing field; the Eliots, who include presidents of both Trinity and Harvard...and the list goes on.

Well, it doesn't go on forever. While you're not beginning to "slum" after naming the first fifty or sixty, you are beginning to water the soup. The number of First Family members didn't increase as much as one might expect because they all hung around with each other and intermarried. Thus you had a Cabot Lodge, a Godfrey Cabot Lodge, a Cabot Lowell, a Peabody Gardner, an A. Lawrence Lowell and so forth. As historian John Morse, Jr. says in his Memoir of Colonel Henry Lee: "Lees, Cabots, Jacksons and Higginsons knew each other well...and had a satisfying belief that New England morality and intellectuality had produced nothing better than they were, so they contentedly made a little clique of themselves and intermarried very much, with a sure and cheerful faith that in such alliances there can be no blunder." Today, though most would deny it, First Family-status still can provide an inside track insofar as obtaining certain executive positions in Boston. At least, on the initial contacts. Outside of New England is a different situation, of course - as exemplified by the story of the young Bostonian who requested a family friend at the Old Colony Trust Company (which no longer exists) to write a letter of recommendation to a Chicago firm to which he was applying for a position.

"I can recommend him to you without the slightest reservation," wrote the family friend, saying that the young man's mother was a Cabot, his father was a Lowell and his ancestors were all Peabodys, Appletons, Forbeses, and Saltonstalls.

The Chicago firm politely replied that they were really looking for different information. "After all," they wrote, "we are not contemplating using this young man for breeding purposes."

I wonder if that story is true. Come to think of it, I'd have to say "probably".

There Are No Heart Attacks Among Native New Englanders

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 04:00:00 +0100

None at all. The simple explanation has to do with the way we speak ...

Welcome to the July 2012 edition ofJud’s New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

There Are No Heart Attacks Among Native New Englanders

None at all. The simple explanationhas to do with the way we speak...

There are probably more than a dozen New England accents. Each differs from the others in a number of subtle ways, but the use of a and r, it seems to me, constitute the basic differences. There is the broad a, the lost r, the nasal a, the misplaced r, the lost a, the regular a and r, and the misplaced a. New Englanders - yes, even today - utilize these various a's and r's, or absence thereof, in various combinations.

Take the r, for instance. ldquo;We'll pa'k the ca' in Ha'vud Ya'd,rdquo; is the well-worn example of the lost New England r. (And it can be pronounced with either the broad or the flat, nasal a.) Now consider "Yeste'day afte'noon, Mary sawr a man drawring ca'toons." Here we have three lost r's but the entire sentence is actually only minus one r since two r's have been added. One r, in "Mary", is used normally. Incidentally, some New Englanders I know prefer "May-ree," but the r remains in place. As for myself, I think that's a good idear.

The use of a is more complicated. Like the r, it can be added to words in which a normally does not belong. Coaw and naow would be examples. Also, in instances where a is ordinarily united with o to produce a long o sound, as in load or boat, the a is eliminated, resulting in lo-d and bo-t. The a in barn is eliminated, along with the r, if the word is preceded by cow. The result here is cow bn, with the heavy accent on cow.

Some New Englanders utilize the broad a - cahn't, tomahto, etc. - while others prefer the flat, nasal-sounding a that, as Mary Louise Gilman, a Boston transplant from Kansas, pointed out in an article in The National Shorthand Reporter, renders the word park, for instance, into the word pack.

"Thus if your hostess suggests you pa'k your bags," she writes, "you'd better know whether you're coming or going."

The nasal sound so often associated with the flat a pronunciations is probably less pronounced today due to better health. Sickness and colds during bitter winters raised havoc with the old-time New England noses. Although, sure, the nasal sound continues today to some extent, thank goodness there are no heart attacks among native New Englanders. None. Of course, some will suffer a hat attack and others perhaps a serious hot attack. And we all know that famine isn't necessarily one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Rather, it's what a New England farmer does when he's working. Fa'min. No problem. What is sometimes a problem, however, is trying to distinguish whether a person lives on Western or Weston Avenue in Boston. Or, for that matter, Western or Weston Place or street. There are oodles of all these in Boston as well as other New England cities.

My only recourse: spell it, please.

Learning to Drive a Tank

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 04:00:00 +0100

Jud’s New England JournalFor June 2012

Welcome to the June 2012 edition ofJud’s New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

Learning To Drive a Tank

It required just a nightmarishfive minutes. But I’ve appliedthe lesson almost every day since . . .

“All of you under there! Fall in!” I heard my platoon sergeant yell. He was squatting next to the tank under which three or four of us were drinking beer instead of working. The time: June, 1955. The place: the tank motorpool at Ft. Knox, Kentucky. I’d been drafted into the U.S. Army three weeks earlier. At the time, it seemed to me that avoiding work was cool.

“Any of you got a driver’s license?” he barked at us, standing at a rather wobbly attention before him. Without a thought, and before anyone else could reply, I said I did.

“Good,” he said. “We’re short one driver for the three-day maneuvers that begin tomorrow morning. You’ll drive Baker 3.”

It was then it dawned on me that while I was referring to a car driver’s license, he was referring to a tank driver’s license. There had been tank-driving training and licenses (or certificates) given to a few new recruits the week before. I had not been among that number.

But although I found my heart was suddenly pounding, I said nothing. To be a tank driver was like a huge promotion. And floating around in the back eddies of my mind was my mother often saying one should always “seize life’s moments’.”

At sunrise the next morning I was sitting in the driver’s seat of Baker 3. The engine was roaring — yes, I’d managed to start the thing, thanks to last-minute instructions from a tank-driver friend the night before. I’d even remembered to press the two starting levers before activating the radio system. “Start the engine with the radio on,” my friends had warned, “and the power surge will blow out a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of equipment.” Surely that was the sort of little blunder that might alert the other crew members in my tank to the fact their new driver was not exactly experienced.

“Move out!” came the order over my headphone from the tank commander standing tall in the turret far above and behind me. I pushed the single lever located on my right into the forward position, pressed gently on the accelerator, and forty-seven tons of steel began to rumble forward.

“Stay fifty yards behind Baker 4,” the voice in my earphones instructed. Thank goodness the pace of our long line of tanks, each with its 90 millimeter gun pointing backwards, leaving the motorpool area was slow, with many stops. It gave me a chance to calm down. But only a little.

Once on the road outside the base, the tanks in front of me accelerated. Baker 4 was already several hundred yards ahead and gaining speed when my tank commander’s voice crackled through to me. “Get going, driver!” Slowly I increased the foot pressure, passing the point where I still felt reasonably comfortable, on beyond to where I became frightened and thence, after another bark through the headphones, to being out of control.

Unlike the later model M-48 tanks which we were to have in Germany a year later, the M-47 was steered not by a wheel but by moving the shift lever. And, as I was to learn during the next few minutes, when you were up over 40 mph, you steered by merely thinking left or right. Any more pressure than that meant trouble.

I was in trouble. When I oversteered to the right, I overcorrected to the left. I figured catastrophe was two, maybe three, overcorrections away.

“Cripes! What-in-hell-are-ye-doin’!?” The voice in my headphones almost pierced my eardrums. A gas station was looming up in front of us. As we flashed by, barely missing the two pumps, I was conscious of a brief crunching sound which I later learned was the attendant’s motorcycle. Seconds later, we’d swooped over to the other side of the road and were beginning what would probably be our last overcorrected turn before descending over the bank leading down to the dry riverbed running parallel with the road. Now the voice coming over my headphones was so loud and shrieky I couldn’t decipher the words.

Finally, exercising my only remaining option, I slammed on the brakes. My tank commander was not catapulted out only because his foot caught on the 50-caliber machine gun mounting next to the hatch cover. The gunner later showed me his front teeth, loosened a bit when his radio mouthpiece passed by them on its way to the back of his throat. The bow gunner and the loader had bruises.

But I had avoided going over the bank, and at the suddenly reduced speed was able to break the overcorrecting cycle. At long last we proceeded down the road in a straight line, my foot shaking so badly I could barely keep it on the accelerator. As we began to catch up with the tanks ahead, I repeated the words, “Don’t steer!” over and over to myself out loud, between tightly clenched teeth. “Now we’re gonna ease to the left — but don’t steer!”

So, I’d learned how to drive a tank that long-ago June day. And my mother had been right about “seizing life’s moments”. From then on I was a proud driver, then a gunner, and, eventually, a tank commander. Avoiding work was never again cool. And perhaps most important, I came to realize that often the best steering is done with one’s mind.

Exploring a Few New England Oddities

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Tue, 01 May 2012 04:00:00 +0100

To discover some of these, you'd need to look UP...

Jud’s New England JournalFor May 2012

Welcome to the May 2012 edition ofJud’s New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

Exploring a Few New England Oddities

To discover some of these, you’d need to look UP. . .

My favorite New England oddities are those with which I’ve had some personal connection. For instance, I’ve snooped around a certain little house nestled in some pines on the shores of a river in Hopkinton, New Hampshire — a little house made from the crate used to ship Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis back to America on board the U.S.S. Memphis after his historic trans-Atlantic flight to Paris. I’ve been told that an officer aboard the Memphis, who happened to be a native of Hopkinton, made a deal with Lindbergh en route to acquire the crate which he eventually turned into a small house. I assume it’s still there.

And I didn’t need my binoculars to see plainly the large pointing hand on top of the steeple of the Methodist Church in Milton Mills, New Hampshire, when I was investigating the “Church with the Hand on Top” for Yankee Magazine one September day. It was made, I later learned, of a solid block of wood and had been carried to that dizzy height in a half-bushel wicker basket by one Aratus Shaw who, with others, built the church as a labor of love in 1871, using only donated materials.

It makes history real for me to see and touch and ponder the perfectly-preserved bullet hole in the shed wall of the Elisha Jones house (not open to the public) in Concord, Massachusetts, a British soldier’s parting shot as his regiment was retreating following the Concord fight on April 19th, 1775. It’s almost as if it happened last week. Same with the plainly visible tomahawk marks on a door at Old Deerfield, Massachusetts.

Speaking of my binoculars, I did use them one day to study the top of the steeple on the First Baptist Church in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire. I was trying to determine whether or not there’s really a five-and-a-half-foot high beer bottle up there. Well, it’s up there, all right. The most popular explanation is that during the 1850’s a brewery in Portsmouth offered to donate the money necessary for a brand-new steeple, if the symbol of their product was placed at the top for all the world to see.

“Smacks a little of soul-selling,” the then-pastor, Reverend A. Scruton, told me. “but that was the only offer they had.” Since then, generations of Hampton Falls residents can be thankful that the Trueform Brassiere and Corset Company, then a major employer in town, hadn’t decided to make a better offer.

In New England Old Is Good

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 04:00:00 +0100

That is, in most cases. (But not all.)

Welcome to the April 2012 edition ofJud’s New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

In New EnglandOld Is Good

That is, in most cases. (But not all.)

It’s true that in New England old is good while new is, at best, somewhat suspect. For instance, in the social scheme of things, old houses are regarded more highly then new houses. Old companies are better to work for than new companies. Better to own an old barn than to build a brand new one. Old wooden boats are much admired. New fiberglass boats less so. Old-time New Englanders (young people being an exception) are not inclined to wear showy new clothes. As the late Cleveland Amory once wrote, “For a woman to dress too smartlyis to open herself to the charge that she is a social climber.” Of course, that sounds ridiculous today but nonetheless I think wearing slightly threadbare clothing that has been around for years is still, in some circles, a subtle sign of gentility. (Old but definitely not stained.)

I haven’t been in any of the three yacht clubs in Marblehead, Massachusetts, for some years, but I remember how each used to demonstrate physically it’s place on the New England social ladder. Out on Marblehead Neck, where many summer people own houses, are the Eastern Yacht Club and the Corinthian Yacht Club. Old families with old money belong to the Eastern Yacht Club whose clubhouse, as it seemed to me, looked as if it might collapse during the next storm. It needed stain or paint, there always seemed to be a loose board or two out on the porch, and the dining and other facilities were modest, although, with a certain quiet, old charm. The Eastern was -- and probably still is -- THE club to belong to.

The Corinthian Yacht Club, on the other hand, attracted people with new money and its clubhouse and dock were new, meticulously maintained, modern and rather posh.

To, say, a Texan or anyone else not knowledgeable in New England ways, an inspection of the physical facilities of the Eastern and the Corinthian back in the comparatively old days, would have caused the Corinthian to be the immediate and obvious choice. And from the old New England point of view, that would be all well and good. Let those newcomers enjoy the Corinthian. As someone once said, “A Texan may be many things, including sometimes a braggart -- but he can never be a snob.”

Then there was the Boston Yacht Club, located across the harbor from the “Neck”, in the town of Marblehead. As far as I know, it’s still the place for those not interested -- or not able to be interested in social considerations. So the clubhouse was neither obviously old nor obviously new, neither run down nor posh. It was comfortable, practical, and I’m sure that’s what it is today. Some Marbleheaders, particularly the young ones who come from old families with old money, join both the Eastern and the Boston Yacht Club. That’s known as covering your bases.

As for me, I don’t currently belong to a club of any kind. On the other hand, at least I’m old. And, as I’ve said, old is good. But, you know, I guess I’d sooner be young.

Loving the Month of March

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the March 2012 edition ofJud’s New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

Loving the Monthof March

Not everyone does. But here’swhy they should

It seems to me that in New England the month of March is an entire season unto itself. No other month is remotely like it and no other region of the country experiences it in exactly the same way.

“What may happen in New England in any month of March,” a Hardwick, Vermont acquaintance told me a while back, “is one of the things which God don’t know. Along with how a jury will decide and a few more things like that.”

Nineteenth-century humorist Josh Billings wrote that New England’s March “derives her pedigree from the Danish verb, ‘Whizz’, which means to blow, to wheeze, to snort, to pitch in endways and crossways, to shake window blinds, to smash barn doors, to scare pigs, to break clothes lines, to make men swear and women balky.”

March is maple syrup month, the landscape changing to include silver pails on thousands of trees along country roads and even on isolated groups of maples in front lawns. March is ‘mud season’ with our dirt roads turning to mud roads and our hard-top roads becoming a roller coaster of frost heaves. The few comparatively smooth stretches of road between heaves are identified by the always misplaced ‘bump’ signs. March is the month that always, without fail, comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Or vice versa.

But above all, March is town meeting month. As the various social levels draw back together behind their own battle lines — as they do in the latter part of February and early March — life actually changes. One notices, for instance, the daily early morning social gatherings around coffeepots at the drugstore, at the general store, at the diner, at the garage, and at the firehouse on Sunday mornings, are much larger than at any other time of the year. More vociferous, too. Some of the liveliest are the all-day beer-sipping and sap-boiling sessions at local sugar houses.

“I don’t know where they’re gonna get the money.”

“Damn fools.”

“It ain’t right.”

“I don’t know what this town is coming to.”

...are among commonly expressed sentiments at each of these gatherings leading up to town meeting.

The late Ben Rice, an apple grower in Peterborough, New Hampshire, and a Yankee Magazine writer and editor for over forty years, once described the outcome of this emotional buildup.

“Town meeting will be about the same as usual,” he once wrote in a little essay entitled ‘March Tonic.’ “But say what you will, it does perk a man up to hear old John rant and spiel out all the figures he’s been working on since last March to show that education costs more ’n it used to and don’t give half as much as it used to.”

“General feeling will be the town is gone to hell and there’s nothing to be done about it. This is the best tonic a man can have in March, and Ma and I will drive home as sweet as doves.”

You know, March is my favorite New England month of the entire year.

My Favorite "House for Sale" Story

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the February 2012 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

My Favorite "House for Sale" Story

Hard to pick one. But if I had to, this is probably it…

Published some thirty years ago, it was an old-fashioned lakefront sporting camp in Kokad-jo (short for Kokadjoweemqwasebemsis), about 20 miles northeast of Greenville, Maine, which, of course, is northwest of Bangor. (You know, we do a "House for Sale" story in every issues of Yankee — have for over sixty years.) Anyway, this place had nine acres, 2,000 feet of shore frontage, eight fully-equipped sporting camps plus a well-stocked country store with a nice owners' apartment, lovely mountain views, fabulous fishing and, well, it was a golden opportunity for someone who liked that sort of wilderness thing — and all for only $150,000, quite a lot back then but still a bargain.

For several years after, readers wrote us asking, "whatever happened to that sporting camp property in Maine?"

All we could reply was that a fellow from New York eventually bought it but here's the whole story…

According to the original owners, the Yankee story resulted in 93 inquiries from 26 states, including New England, Maryland, Michigan, Ohio, Florida, Indiana and Wyoming. Occupation of callers included doctors, attorneys, writers, stockbrokers, school teachers, a policeman, a pilot, a machinist, a chemist and a number of businessmen. Oh, and a policewoman, too.

The first person to inquire about it was obviously inebriated. He said how interested he was and how he loved the place. Ten minutes later he called back to ask why someone had called him because "he wasn't at all interested in real estate."

The author of "The Shadow" — remember that? — the late Walter Gibson, called. He was 83 at that time, still writing, and looking for a wilderness retreat. He'd actually visited the place, he said, back in 1912 and liked it.

A man afflicted with a severe stutter telephoned to make an appointment to see the property. The camp owners were away for a few days and, since their answering machine recorded messages for only a half minute, he'd had to telephone more that a half dozen times to complete his message. And he utilized the entire tape.

Seven California callers were, they said, looking to go east and quite a few wanted to move to Kokad-jo because they were "burnt out" and, they said, "sick of the rat race."

And so on.

The man who actually bought the property was from Cold Springs, New York. He'd seen it the year before when he and his son bicycled through the area. He said at the time hed remarked how wonderful it would be to live there. So when he saw the property featured in Yankee, he felt fate was on his side. He immediately called to make the offer that was accepted and said he'd be at Kokad-jo three days later to wrap it up.

The day before he left for Maine, he walked into the Con Edison plant in which he'd worked for over twenty-five years and quit. Just up and quit.

He later told us in a letter that after signing the papers up at Kokad-jo the very next day, he and his son embraced and actually danced for about ten minutes. He said it was the best he'd felt in his entire life.

"Free," he said he kept repeating. "Free at last."

* * *

So what has happened since? Probably a lot but I'm reluctant to inquire. I like the ending as is.

A Conversation About a Chimney

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the January 2012 edition of"Jud's New England Journal," the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

A Conversation About a Chimney

Getting something fixed in a small New England town simply requires patience…

I've had my successes and failures in this regard. To illustrate the former, I can recall a certain conversation about my new chimney which didn't draw properly. The person I wanted to hire was a very-much-in-demand Jack-of-all-trades by the name of Bill. Bill could fix anything.

My first instinct was to call him, but then I remembered that Bill hardly ever answered his phone. He didn't have voice mail either. So I decided to bide my time until a chance meeting at the post office. I often ran into him there. Maybe about a week later our "chance" meeting took place. I remember it had been raining but the sky was clearing.

"Morning, Bill," I said casually. "Looks like it'll turn out to be a pretty nice day after all."

"It will, Jud, if it don't rain again," said Bill with a smile.

We stood near our parked cars and talked a bit more about the weather.

"Too bad about the young Arnold girl," I said during a pause. I was desperate to keep him talking.

"Well, these young people today…" he said with a shrug. "They've just got no sense."

We discussed the Arnold girl, young people and, as I recall, the Arnold girl's father and uncle who, Bill suggested, "weren't much good either."

"Well, Bill," I said finally, "we've all got our problems, right?"

"If we didn't, Jud, we just wouldn't be happy."

Laughter. And I knew a good summarizing laugh was the signal that the serious part of our conversation could now commence.

"Say, Bill," I began, "I was wondering whether you might know of somebody who could come over to my place sometime and take a look at that new chimney of mine. The fireplace smokes something awful. I know how busy you are, but…"

"How high does that chimney extend over the roofline, Jud?"

Some back-and-forth conversation ensued about the chimney, the damper, the fireplace and the young contractor who had built my house, including the chimney.

"I knew it wasn't right when you put it in," Bill said, " but I didn't want to say anything. T'was none of my business."

"Well, Bill, you were right," I replied, happy for the easy opportunity for a compliment. Then "Do you think there's any possible way it can be fixed?"

"Oh, sure. It can be fixed, all right. Cost you some money. But, oh sure, it can be fixed."

There was a long pause. I knew I was at the critical juncture that would decide whether I win or lose.

"Well," Bill said at last, "I've got to go up your way tomorrow afternoon and I'll stop by and take a look."

"Thanks, Bill. I'd appreciate it."

I win. I knew he probably wouldn't stop by the next afternoon and maybe not even within the following week. But Bill was now committed. My chimney problem would be fixed.

Eventually.

How in the World Did the Donut Develop a Hole?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the December 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

How in the World Did the Donut Develop a Hole?

Really now. This is important!

There are, of course, countless theories. The most widely believed one was the declared winner of the Great Doughnut Debate held at New York City's 1939 World's Fair, as judged by many celebrities of the time, including Elsa Maxwell. The same theory won in a similar debate at that year's Maine Hotel Association dinner, attended by many of New England's top government officials, including Maine's governor, Lewis Barrows.

Both groups, after examining affidavits, letters and other documents, declared that Captain Hanson Crockett Gregory of Rockport, Maine, had invented the doughnut hole."Young Hanson Gregory," the New York group wrote, "was in the kitchen watching his mother make fried cakes. He asked why the centers seemed so soggy. She said they were seldom cooked through. The boy then poked the center on a few uncooked cakes with a fork. His mother cooked them that way - and from then on cooked them that way. So the doughnut was born."

In 1947, a full century after this incident supposedly occurred, a bronze tablet was placed on the old Gregory home in Rockport. As far as I know, it's still there. It reads: "In commemoration. This is the birthplace of Captain Hanson Gregory, who first invented the hole on the doughnut in 1847. Erected by his friends, November 2, 1947."Another popular version also recognized Captain Gregory but claims that the hole was born around 1870 aboard Gregory's ship at sea. The good captain, as the story goes, was at the wheel during a storm; knowing his fondness for cake, the ship's cook brought him one. Just as he was about to take a bite into it, the ship was struck by a mountainous wave that forced him to grasp the wheel with both hands. Not wishing to lose the cake - naturally - he jammed it down over the wheel and then proceeded to bring his ship back on course.

When the wheel returned to its original position, Gregory noticed his cake still on the spoke, safe and ready to eat. Except that now it was, voil, a doughnut! From then on he ordered his cook to make holes in all future "cakes" served to helmsmen.

Finally, there are those who point out that in early New England (and elsewhere), cooks rolled dough into slender ropes, tying the ends together to form rings. Thus, "doughnut" would be a word derived from "dough-knot."

That may be the most believable of all the theories. But do you suppose it's conceivable that it all began in 1623, when an Indian in Plymouth, Massachusetts, shot an arrow clean through a muffin — which in turn gave several Pilgrims standing nearby a pretty good idea? Possible?

Well, anyway, Merry Christmas, everyone.

The Gentle Art of Listening to Speeches

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the November 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine, published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

The Gentle Art of Listening to Speeches

We herewith present truly helpful advice on the subject, thanks to our old friend and writer, Garnette Wassen…

As a result of all the listening to dinner speeches I've done in my life, I've worked out a basic posture. It consists of placing my left elbow on the table and resting my cheek in the palm of my left hand. Not only does this convey the impression that I'm following every word, but in case my eyes grow heavy I can use the tip of my forefinger to prop an eyebrow up while I draw the lower lid down with my thumb.

But the first thing a listener should learn is to anchor himself securely. Some listeners court disaster during an after-dinner speech by lacing the fingers together and resting the chin on them like a hammock. The danger here is that in the course of a very long speech, the fingers are apt to come unlaced without warning, plunging your chin into your hot cup of coffee.

The safest plan is to grip the table and scowl intently, pursing your lips and nodding your head rhythmically whenever the speaker's glance comes to rest on you. But don't nod too rhythmically, because the steady movement tends to have a decidedly soporific effect.

Naturally, the listener should vary his or her expression according to the circumstances. For children's recitations I always assume an indulgent smile, with my head tilted quizzically. The trouble is that after the first 12 stanzas my smile starts getting rigid, my jaw muscles tighten into knots, and my lips draw back in a sinister grimace. This sometimes frightens a reciting child.

Sooner or later every listener must face the problem of how to stifle a yawn. Swallowing is not recommended, because the gulp is apt to be audible and the effort to strangle it without being detected produces an expression of acute anguish, causing the eyes to pop and tears to course down the cheeks.

This is bad enough if the narrator is telling a funny story, but it's worse if the story is emotional, since he'll then be flattered into thinking that he's touched some deep sympathetic chord in his audience and will make his story even longer.

If a yawn can't be suppressed, I usually resort to some ruse like upsetting my drink or, in the old days, dropping my cigarette down behind the upholstery of the sofa. While I was on my hands and knees during the ensuing excitement, I could get rid of the yawn safely, and if I was really alert, I could continue creeping on all fours out of the room.

This technique couldn't be done today, because you wouldn't have a lighted cigarette to drop. So likely a bit of loose change would accomplish the same thing.

Anyway, good luck!

About the Sacred Cod…or Haddock…or Schrod…or?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the October 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

About the Sacred Cod…or Haddock…or Schrod…or?

While "scrod" may be delicious, have you ever heard of anyone actually fishing for "scrod"?

There is, of course, no such fish as "scrod" in New England waters or anywhere else. The term began years ago when fishing schooners would return from the Grand Banks to the Boston fish pier, loaded with fish ready to be auctioned off. Now fancy hotels like, for instance, the Parker House (still going strong) didn't want to serve fish that came out of the bottom of any ship's hold. It would likely be old, flabby and maybe soft from the weight of each succeeding day's catch on top of it. To go along with its famous rolls, the Parker House wanted only the small, choice, firm, fresh fish from the top layers.

Of course, the Parker House maitre d' couldn't predict what sort of fish would be on the top layer. If he printed the menu featuring haddock and the top layer turned out to be pollack— well, he might get away with it in Kansas City, but not in Boston. So what to do? The answer was simple. He coined a name for a new seafood. He called it "scrod". Very possibly he was making a contraction of "sacred cod".

Haddock, cod, pollack, and hake are all related and all caught off the New England coast, but for the most part, "scrod" is either haddock or cod. If both are fresh, properly prepared and cooked without the skin, it's pretty difficult to tell the difference.

Incidentally, it's easy to tell cod from haddock if their skins are on. It's part of the cod's New England mystique, you see, that it became the "sacred cod" because it was the fish Christ used when he fed the multitudes, and even today the marks of his thumbs and forefingers are plainly visible on the codfish. As to the haddock, well, the devil thought he could multiply fish and feed multitudes, too. So he grabbed a cod but it wriggled and slid through his red hot fingers, burning two black stripes down its sides. And so it became a haddock. Fishermen still use these markings to differentiate between the cod and the haddock.

Today, a large codfish (or is it a haddock?), carved from a single block of white pine, hangs between two central columns in the Massachusetts House of Representatives - a symbol of all the codfish has meant to the New England economy in years past. It faces north when the Democrats hold the majority, and south when the Republicans do.

The symbolism of that has always escaped me.

The Aftermath of the Most Famous New England Murder

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the September 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

The Aftermath of the Most Famous New England Murder

And it continues to this very day!

The premier murder case in New England — possibly the entire country until O. J. Simpson — occurred in Fall River, Massachusetts, around 11 o'clock on the sweltering hot morning of August 4, 1892, when elderly, wealthy Andrew Borden and his second wife, Abby, were done in — by someone. Of course, their daughter, Lizzie, was always considered as guilty as guilty can be even though, like O. J. Simpson, she was found to be "not guilty" at her trial. Most of the books, poems, and plays about the Borden murders leave no doubt whatsoever that "Lizzie Borden took an ax, and gave her mother forty whacks. Then, to show she wasn't done, she gave her father forty-one."

The interesting part of the case to me is that so many New Englanders with personal pieces of the Borden puzzle surfaced after we published a Lizzie Borden feature in Yankee Magazine back in 1966.

For instance, a man who'd lived next door to Lizzie wrote to me to say he knew that Lizzie's sister, Emma, was afraid Lizzie would kill her, too, during the time the two sisters lived together in a Fall River house on Second Street (not the murder house). The same man, who asked to remain anonymous, swore to me that Lizzie had once been thrown by a beautiful, white horse and in an instant rage, had returned to her house, fetched a gun, and proceeded to shoot the horse, dead.

A New Hampshire woman wrote to me recalling an astonishing story told to members of her family by "a frail, semi-retarded little man" who did odd jobs around their farm back in the 1920's. He said he once lived in Fall River and often did chores for the Bordens. Around noon of the murder day, as he was cleaning up behind the Borden house, Lizzie, he said, came to the back door wiping off a hatchet! He went on to say she actually handed him the hatchet along with the rag with which she'd wiped it off and told him to put the hatchet in the barn and throw the rag in a nearby lot where fill was being dumped every day. This he did.

An hour or so later, he heard the Bordens had been murdered with a hatchet and so, with mentally deficient reasoning, he hid the hatchet behind the horse stalls "so no one else could use it to hurt someone." He never told the police any of this because he was afraid he would somehow be punished. He soon left Fall River so that he could be sure he'd never run into Lizzie Borden again. My correspondent said she believed he spent the rest of his life moving from town to town, doing odd jobs on local farms. Occasionally, she said, he would tell his story, as he did with her family, and then move on to another locality so that he wouldn't be "punished".

An intriguing tale — but true? Hard to say…

A Fort Lauderdale, Florida, man wrote me to say he knew for a fact that Lizzie Borden was accused of shoplifting in the Tilden & Thurber Jewelry Store in Providence, Rhode Island, some years after the murders. According to his "unimpeachable source," the Tilden & Thurber people agreed not to press charges against Lizzie if she signed a confession to the murders—which she apparently did. (After all, the law had already found her innocent of the crime.) It was his "understanding" that the signed confession, saying both murders were "by my hand and mine alone," remained in the Tilden & Thurber vaults until a fire destroyed the entire store including everything in the vaults. What a collectors' item that little slip of paper would be today!

"I was a member of the crew of carpenters who remodeled the Borden home in Fall River back in 1949," a Springfield, Massachusetts, man wrote me, "and we came upon a rusty old hatchet concealed behind a partition there." He was referring to the second Borden home, but still…

There were other letters and other personal anecdotes, too. And where the truth lies is anyone's guess. Two things are for certain, however. We'll never know exactly what happened in the Borden home on August 4, 1892. Second, we New Englanders, long after the O. J. Simpson trial has faded into obscurity, which it sort of has already, will never tire of speculating about it. Never, ever.

When Richard Wagner Came to Camp On A Scow

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the August 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

When Richard Wagner Came to Camp on a Scow

It was a summer of music
I'll never forget

What with all the band concerts, chamber music recitals and so forth, the hills of New England are always very much alive with the sound of music throughout July and August. And it so happens that one of my favorite of all summer memories involves music. It was the day an old scow delivered a grand piano across ten miles of Spednic Lake to my parents' rustic island retreat just north of Vanceboro, Maine. The year was 1942 and I was nine.

My mother being a Wagnerian opera singer (albeit not overly successful), she always had her opera-singing friends from New York there on our island as guests. Visiting during that particular wartime summer were Friedrich Schorr, still considered by some to be the greatest baritone ever to sing at the Metropolitan in New York; his jolly, blonde, chunky wife, Upie, a fine soprano herself; world-famous (at that time) pianist Eddie McArthur; and three of Friedrich Schorr's young voice students.

In those days it was a big deal for us to see anyone on Spednic Lake so when the scow with the piano aboard was being maneuvered to the large float connected to our dock, it had an enthusiastic reception committee made up of our entire family along with all our guests.

Before the ropes were even secured, pianist Eddie McArthur hopped aboard, sat down at the piano and, with great gusto, began to play Brunhilde's triumphant music from the second act of Richard Wagner's Die Walküre. Upie, the three students, and my mother happily joined in, singing at the top of their considerable voices. They stopped, however, when Eddie abruptly switched to the music of the final scene of the third act, the one in which the god, Wotan, bids farewell to his beloved daughter, Brunhilde, sealing her eyes in sleep and then calling upon the fire god, Loge, to protect her forever by a wall of flame.

The emotional aria Wotan sings in this scene is one of the greatest baritone arias in all of opera and, as Eddie McArthur knew well, Friedrich Schorr sang it better than anyone. At a nod from McArthur, Schorr, who'd been helping to tie up the scow, took a deep breath and began to sing. His deep, vibrant voice increased in power as he continued through the entire aria until, finally, as he struck the wooden float three times with a canoe paddle that by now was surely Wotan's magic spear, it soared across the lake and surrounding hills. Leb'wohl, Leb'wohl, Leb'wohl. (Farewell, Farewell, Farewell.)

When he came to the end, I remember wondering why everyone was crying. Even, as I recall, Eddie McArthur. On the other hand, whenever I have the rare opportunity to hear that aria today, there's no way I can avoid tears, myself. I'm not sure if it's the beauty of that particular aria or the memory of a special long-ago New England summer of music.

Probably both.

Okay, So Who Was the First to Fry a Clam?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the July 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

Okay, So Who Was the First to Fry a Clam?

I feel pretty certain as to who was the first to EAT a clam. But as to frying one, well, there seems to be a difference of opinion…

We can be proud of those among our New England ancestors who first ate or first cooked certain foods. For instance, I enjoy occasionally mentioning that the hamburger was invented at a place called Louis' Lunch in New Haven, Connecticut.

And I think everyone knows that the "grinder" was first made in New London, Connecticut. Of course, it went on to become a "poor boy" or a "garibaldi" or a "zeppelin" or a "torpedo" or a "rocker" or a "bomber" or a "submarine" or a "hoagie" and so on, depending on the location across America. But to me a grinder is a grinder by whatever name. Its originator was Benedetto (Benny) Capalbo, who for years operated a grocery store in the heart of New London's Italian section.

A prehistoric Indian was surely the first to enjoy the sweet nectar oozing from maple trees in March, but the consensus is that Samuel Cunnabell of Bernardston, Massachusetts, was the first white man to "gather sap in a basket and boil it in a tub." Likewise, I'm sure the Indians found clams to be pretty tasty. However, most feel it was Ruth Alden Bass of Duxbury, Massachusetts, noticing her pigs eating clams along the shore, who was the first white settler to actually eat a clam. So began clams on the half shell, clam fritters, clam pie, clam chowder, littleneck clams -- well, the list could continue for pages. So it was that Ruth Alden Bass had taken one giant gulp for mankind. (Sorry …)

So, okay, having given Ms. Bass her due, who was the first to fry a clam?

Most people credit Lawrence H. Woodman, who operated a small concession stand in Essex, Massachusetts. On the reverse side of Lawrence and Bessie Woodman's wedding certificate are written the birth dates of their two oldest sons, Wilbur and Henry, and, directly under these dates, "We fried the first fried clam -- in the town of Essex, July 3, 1916." I know this because I researched an article for Yankee about it some years ago. What surprised me most was the amount of mail we received after its publication. Readers didn't doubt the Woodmans' fried clam on July 3, 1916. Rather they all claimed earlier fryings. As I recall, the very earliest was fried by a Hosea B. Quint, who ran a fish market in West Lynn, Massachusetts, and fried clams for his customers every Friday as early as 1910.

I've since read in Richard J. Hooker's book, Food and Drink in America, however, that a Dr. Alexander Hamilton fried and ate some clams at the Narrows ferry landing on Staten Island in 1744! (Let's just hope the New Yorkers don't get wind of this.)

Surely, however, everyone can agree on a certain scientific law that holds true in all cases. To wit: "The flavor of a fried clam is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from the ocean to the place where it's fried."

Now … can anyone tell me what brave person was the first to swallow an oyster?

Are There Any Yankees Left Today?

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the June 2011 edition of Jud's New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, the Editor-in-Chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, N.H.

Are There Any Yankees Left Today?

To answer that question, one would have to arrive at a definition. And that is no easy task. . .

A Yankee has been variously defined as an American, a northern American, a New Englander, a Vermonter, and a Vermonter who eats apple pie for breakfast (preferably with a knife).

There doesn't seem to be a real consensus on the word. Some define it by geography; others maintain it is more a state of mind. An example of the latter would be a 19th-century definition which goes as follows: "A Yankee is a wizened old man with a hook nose sitting on a sharp rock near a stormy sea drinking vinegar —and contemplating adultery."

Pretty harsh. And when someone says I'm an example of a Yankee I resist, pointing out that, for instance, I do not possess a hook nose. Actually, in all seriousness, I belong to the geography school. To me, a Yankee is someone either native to New England or perhaps whose ancestors were.

And yet I'm intrigued with both the Dutch theory and the Indian one. Advocates of the Dutch theory say that the early Dutch settlers in New York sold cheese to the early English settlers in Connecticut. Or was it vice versa? Anyway, the English began calling the Dutch "John Cheese" which, in Dutch, is "Jan Kaas" which could easily have evolved into the word "Yankee".

Those who favor an Indian origin cannot decide on which Indians.

"Yankee comes from the Cherokee word eankke meaning slave or coward," Tom Aytos, a New England scholar from Reading, Massachusetts, once told me. "It was applied to the inhabitants of New England by the residents of Virginia when the New Englanders would not assist them in a war with the Cherokees."

James Fenimore Cooper, in a footnote in The Deerslayer, wrote, "all the old writers who speak of the Indians, say the Indians pronounce 'English' as 'Yengeese'."

Then there's a Professor Edward Taube of Racine, Wisconsin, a scholar of the early Algonquin Indian language, who suggests Yankee evolved from the Algonquin word awaunaguss which means "this stranger," (Sounds a bit farfetched to me. I mean "Awaunaguss go home?" Doesn't seem right,)

The late Joe Allen, who once wrote a monthly column for Yankee Magazine, explained to me that Yankee came from the good-natured Sunday afternoon tugs-of-war between the Indians and the early settlers of Olde Plimouth, Massachusetts. He said the Indians always won because they would begin pulling a split second before the pistol shot that began each contest. So the Indians became knows as the Yankors which of course, made the settlers the. . . well, that was just Joe's opinion.

So anyway, would I say there are still some Yankees around today? Well, sure. Millions of them. And most don't even know it.

Peacetime Soldier

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sun, 01 May 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the May 2011 edition ofJuds New England Journal, the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

Peacetime Soldier

During my three years in the army, I never experienced combat, and I feel so fortunate for that. Except on one particular day in May . . .

It seems to me that Memorial Day brings a New England community together like no other holiday. Although the gathering on the town green (or, in Dublin, New Hampshire, in the Yankee parking lot) and subsequent march to the cemetery are annual rites to honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice in behalf of our country, the occasion is also somehow a celebration of survival. The leaves are finally on the trees again, the grass is green, and the annual appearance of old uniforms from long ago reminds us that we've made it through another winter.

Maybe the general is now too weak to march all the way to the cemetery, but he still looks magnificent in his uniform, sitting in the open car carrying several other old soldiers. There are the Johnsons back from wintering in Florida — and could that handsome young man in a Marine uniform be their little grandson, Tommie? It's wonderful to chat with people prior to the parade, people I haven't seen in a year. And, yes, the high school band sounds better than ever, even if they change the beat from time to time and miss a note here and there. The minister's speech at the cemetery is inspiring, and I'm always happily surprised to see our former postman in a sailor suit.

Alas, I can no longer quite fit into the uniform I once wore as a member of the 3rd Armored Division in Germany during the 1950s. But I wouldn't for the world miss marching on Memorial Day. So I spruce up in a clean white shirt, tie, and blue blazer. Some of the other veterans around me aren't in uniform, either. However, they're all friends and neighbors, so I don't need to see battle ribbons to know who experienced the horrors of war, faced death, and lost friends. When people along our route break out in applause as we march by, I know it's truly for them. I was a peacetime soldier.

As always, I'm looking forward to once again participating in this year's Memorial Day parade and festivities. But I must confess that it's the only day of the year when I wish, deep down, that I were one of those who'd gone to war; that the applause could be for me, too.

One Way to Catch a Hoot Owl

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the April 2011 edition of"Jud's New England Journal," the rathercurious monthly musings of Judson Hale,editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

One Way to Catch a Hoot Owl

But April 1st is probably the only time to try it . . .

There are many types of New England humor — that is, the understated variety, the overstated, put-downs, and so forth — but the one most utilized on the first day of April each year is that which endeavors to test the gullibility of the listener. The more gullible he or she turns out to be, the more laughter.

I well recall a certain April 1st on the Maine farm on which I was raised when I first encountered this particular type of New England humor. I was around 8 or 9 at the time and was going through a phase of collecting all sorts of screwy things, including, in particular, bird feathers for my father's fly-tying hobby.

On this particular April morning, I was chatting with one of the farmhands while he was milking. (Yes, in those days, cows were hand-milked.) I mentioned to him I'd just spotted a little owl on the barn roof and how I wished I could figure out a way to get a couple of his feathers.

Casually, he asked me whether or not I was aware that most owls could turn their heads completely around as if rigged on a swivel. I said that that would be hard to believe but that even if it were true, it wouldn't help me catch that little owl on the roof, would it?

He kept milking for a while and then, having set me up for what he had in mind — remember, this was April 1st — he said that he could give me a good tip. "Back when I was about your age," he said, "I caught quite a few owls simply by walking around the tree on which they were perched. They're very curious creatures, you see, so they had to keep an eye on me every step of the way. Eventually, they either passed out from having strangled themselves, or, in some cases, they actually broke their own necks."

Of course, I took all this in hook, line, and sinker. I'm sure he was having a big laugh for himself as I hurried outside to try out his owl-catching technique on that little hoot owl still up there on the barn roof.

The things is, however, is that the laugh was on him. Believe it or not, his method worked — worked perfectly. That little owl never took his eyes off me as I circled the barn. Then I went around a second time. And a third time, at which point I noticed that the poor little guy was having difficulty breathing. I mean, he was twisting his neck like a pretzel, slowly shutting off his supply of air. But there was no way he was going to stop watching me, even for a second.

I was halfway around on my fourth trip when he fell over and rolled down the roof onto the ground. While I was picking a couple of feathers out of his tail, I noticed that his head was spinning backwards very rapidly, like a top. Finally, his neck having returned to normal, he recovered, took a few deep breaths, and flew away.So that's the end of the story. I wasn't so gullible after all, was I? On the other hand, if you believe this story . . . well . . . all I can say is that you'd better be on guard from dawn to dusk on this coming first day of April.