Jud's New England Journal

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.

Clam Chowder: New England vs. Manhattan

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

Welcome to the March 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.Clam Chowder:New England vs. ManhattanThis is one controversy thatll never fade Of all New England dishes, clam chowder probably evokes the strongest feelings. In 1939, for instance, a bill was introduced into the Maine state legislature suggesting that making a clam chowder with tomatoes be deemed illegal. Almost passed, too.To some, the vehement objection of New Englanders to the presence of a tomato in their clam chowder might appear odd. After all, it was a Newport, Rhode Islander Michaele Felice Corne who, probably around 1835, was the first to dine on tomatoes. (Thomas Jefferson, in 1781, was the first in this country to grow them.) Before this, most people in New England believed the tomata, as it was usually spelled, or love apple, caused all sorts of diseases. In fact, its suspected in some quarters that it was Michaele Felice Corne himself who inaugurated the clam chowder controversy by dunking some of his tomatoes in his chowder. The Corne family today, as I understand it, adamantly asserts this vicious rumor to be untrue. Nonetheless, of all of todays native New Englanders, only Rhode Islanders will add at the end of their clam chowder recipes, If desired, add a can of tomato soup.Now Manhattan or New York clam chowder is altogether different. Its not just New England clam chowder with tomatoes or tomato soup, as in Rhode Island; the entire base is different. Traditionally, what New Yorkers call clam chowder is actually a spicy vegetable soup to which someone once decided to add a few clams. And therein is one of the main reasons the presence of tomatoes in clam chowder so upsets most of us: It reminds us of how stubborn and ridiculous New Yorkers are to persist in calling their vegetable soup a clam chowder. Perhaps the controversy goes further. Any fools knows that Manhattan clam chowder is far superior to New England clam chowder, wrote a New York columnist some years ago. It is superior because it comes from Manhattan. The other comes from New England.Now, thats getting down to the nub of it. Both sides feel superior but I trust no true New Englander would feel the need to say so. I personally prefer the lighter, subtler chowder darts anyway, such as: The best thing to use in Manhattan clam chowder is pieces of old automobile inner tubes. They wear well and do not interfere with the tomatoes. That quote is from a July 1958 edition of the old New York Herald Tribune. However, I have reason to believe the writer was originally from Gouldsboro, Maine.

Have You Ever Found Any Hippopotamus Teeth on the Beach?

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

Welcome to the February 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.

Have You Ever Found Any Hippopotamus Teeth on the Beach?

Some years ago, one Roy Coombs of Vinalhaven, Maine, did. Really!

Sometimes our New England legends tend to straddle the line between truth and falsehood. The truth means historic facts. The falsehoods are exaggerations, errors, or perfectly honest misinterpretations. But, of course, often just the truth is plenty good enough.

For instance, back around 1900, a certain Roy Coombs of Vinalhaven, Maine, picked up some odd-looking smooth, white "stones," four or five inches long, that he found lying on the beach one morning. Curious, he wrapped his discoveries in a candy box, which he then mailed to the geology department at Harvard University for identification.A few weeks later, the package was returned with a letter that said, "The specimens you sent are teeth from a hippopotamus."

Coombs figured that some wag at the university was playing a joke on him, or that the geology department there was on the decline. At any rate, he kept the things, whatever they were, on display in his living room. He carved the largest one into a knife handle and often amused visitors with the fact that Harvard University had identified some "stones" found along a Vinalhaven beach as hippopotamus teeth.

"Well, they probably are hippopotamus teeth," one old-timer down at the Vinalhaven town wharf told Coombs some years later. "I found something about a mile from here that turned out to be a bone from an elephant's leg. I still got it."

The fact of the matter is that not one but two additional elephant legs were found on Vinalhaven Island sometime in the early 1950s. About 10 years later, I actually saw one of them myself. It was owned by the family of the late Alton H. Blackington, a New England newspaper writer and radio broadcaster, whose widow sold many of his old photographs and radio scripts to my uncle, Robb Sagendorph, founder of Yankee Magazine (in 1935).

I assume that some member of the Blackington family still has the bone that was once within the leg of "Mogul," an elephant aboard the circus ship Royal Tar, which, back in 1836, burned and went down with all hooves just off Vinalhaven on a voyage from St. John, New Brunswick, to Portland, Maine.

So there. No need to straddle any lines between truth and fiction with that old New England tale.

So Long, Dark Months

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

Yes, the amount of daylight is finally increasing. Hooray!

Welcome to the January 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.

So Long, Dark Months

Yes, the amount of daylight is finally increasing. Hooray!

I love the arrival of January. The holidays are over; a bright new year is under way; but, most of all, I love the fact that the two darkest months, November and December, are at long last behind us.

I keep a copy of The Old Farmer's Almanac on our breakfast table, and every morning I glance at the appropriate calendar page. I like to know how we're "situated," astronomically speaking, each day. For me, it serves to put things in perspective.

"Oh, how lovely," I'll likely think to myself on, say, January 2, 2011. "We'll have one more minute of daylight today." Then I'll skim down to the end of the month and see that the sun will be setting 33 minutes later by then. That's more than a whole half-hour! My day has had a great start.

Another thing about January I like is that this is the month when the big New England lakes finally freeze solid. Sure, small ponds, shallow lakes, and swamps have been iced in for weeks, but lakes such as New Hampshire's Winnipesaukee don't usually freeze over completely until after New Year's.

Once the ice is solid, out come the icehouses, and small, crudely painted wood signs appear saying simply Shiners. That's information enough for ice fishermen seeking live bait. The skates come out, too, and the iceboats, snowmobiles, and, during "normal" winters, cars and pickups.

"What does it take to drive a car out on this lake?" a man once asked my friend and barber, Bill Austin, and me one day as we stopped briefly on the shore of the mainland after having driven over from my island cottage on Winnipesaukee.

"Oh, usually just a couple of beers," Bill replied, a twinkle in his eye as usual. He was joking, but I must say my first drive out onto the lake each winter years ago was at close to full speed — and with my left arm holding the car door open. In recent years, however, I've been content to ski or walk over to the island. Maybe one becomes less adventuresome with advancing age. Or maybe the winters are becoming warmer, too — and the ice thinner.

Finally, have you noticed that toward the end of January your town road agent begins to wave at people passing by, particularly those he recognizes as voters in the town? That's a great early sign of good times ahead. It means, of course, that town elections and town meetings are only a little more than a month away. And not long after that … SPRING!

Memories of a Certain Christmas Eve

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 05:00:00 +0100

How could I ever forget what I saw out the window that night?

Welcome to the December 2010 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.

Memories of a Certain Christmas Eve

How could I ever forget what I saw out the window that night?

When I was growing up on our farm in Vanceboro, Maine, during the 1930s and '40s, my mother always put on a Nativity play for the townspeople on Christmas Eve, using mostly members of the family.

I first participated at about age 5 or 6, and my job that year was to sing four verses of "We Three Kings" all by myself. I did it with no problem during what I assumed would be the one and only evening performance. Then I learned there would be a second performance for the people who'd been left outside, unable to find seats. I commenced to cry when I was so informed, and, in fact, I cried from the beginning of the second performance right through to the very end. Yes, I bravely sang the four verses of "We Three Kings" again, but this time it was more of a wailing than a musical rendition, and the tears were streaming down my face throughout.

No one could comfort me that night, not even my mother backstage, and, for some reason, I refused to explain my problem to her. For years she told everyone that I'd cried during the second performance because I didn't think we'd done it right the first time.

Wrong. That wasn't my problem at all. The reason I cried was because the second performance would go past my normal bedtime. So when Santa Claus came, I wouldn't be there in bed like I was supposed to be. So he'd assume that either I didn't live there anymore or that I'd been a naughty boy and had snuck off somewhere. Either way, there'd be no presents.

It was a tremendous relief, therefore, after my sister and I were finally tucked into our beds much later that evening, to hear our dogs begin to bark at Santa's sleigh flying in from the North and, with an ever-increasing sound of bells, land on the roof above us with a great clatter of reindeer hooves. Thank goodness we were there in bed in time for him after all.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" Santa bellowed in a deep voice, amid much foot-stomping. Then there was a loud thump, followed by a veritable stream of rapid-fire curse words in a voice suddenly familiar. My sister and I popped out from the bottom of our beds, where we'd been huddling under the covers in exquisite terror, and peered out the window that overlooked part of the roof. There was my father. He had a broomstick in one hand (to make the sound of reindeer hooves) and a string of bells in the other. He was lying prone on the roof, but was twisting the upper part of his body to look at his backside and the new rip in his best — and brand-new — riding pants.

It was one of those eye-opening moments in life when you feel that all of a sudden you pretty much know everything there is to know.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

About Historical Trivia

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the November 2010 edition of“Jud’s New England Journal,” the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale,editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

About Historical Trivia

But some “trivia” is important history!

I learned years ago that New Englanders have always been slightly annoyed with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's account of Paul Revere’s ride the night of April 18–19, 1775. Why? Well, for one thing, why didn't he include the name of Revere’s horse? Every horse has a name. What a silly oversight. This particular horse was called “Brown Beaty” … or was it “Brown Betty”? (Some maintain it was “Minuteman,” but I doubt that one.)

Anyway, the majority of historians say it was a mare, although, indeed, some argue gelding and still others stallion. Most hold to the notion that she/he was a Narragansett Pacer, a breed popular before the Revolution. George Washington, for instance, owned two Narragansett Pacers.

Surely Longfellow should have included some of those things in his poem, the real title of which, incidentally, is not “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” but rather “The Landlord’s Tale.”

I don’t, however, think it’s fair to accuse New Englanders of being obsessed with historical trivia. They’re not. Well … not excessively so. For one thing, we don’t consider historical details to be trivial. Remembering details, it seems to me, is simply an effort to remember, period. An accurate memory preserves history, which, in turn, supports the present from which we launch into the future.

Yet frail memory plays tricks on us or fails, which is no doubt another reason we sometimes become obsessed with historical details. The last time I leaned over the railing and looked down at Plymouth Rock, enshrined there in Plymouth, Massachusetts, a father and his young daughter were beside me.

“Do you know what happened here?” I overheard the father asking.

“Oh, yes, Daddy,” the girl replied. “This was the place the penguins landed.”

A few months later, while attending a dinner party, I told this story to the group at my table. Everyone chuckled, and then, a moment later, an elderly lady next to me turned and said in a low, confidential tone, “You know, my niece is at Skidmore College, and they’re teaching her that Columbus never landed on Plymouth Rock after all.”For a moment, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Exactly Why the Leaves Turn

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Fri, 01 Oct 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Jud’s New England JournalFor October 2010Welcome to the October 2010 edition of“Jud’s New England Journal,” the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale,editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine,published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.Exactly Why the Leaves Turn

We don’t fully understand this explanation. But maybe you will ...

A few years back I asked my friend — and Yankee contributor — George Taloumis to explain to me exactly why our fall leaves turn such vivid and beautiful colors. Here’s what he said ...

“During the summer, leaves are busy manufacturing food. This food — starches, sugars, and proteins — is distributed by chlorophyll, the green coloring matter in leaves. When the chlorophyll captures the sun’s rays, it transforms the carbon dioxide in the air and the water in the soil into food. This, then, is distributed throughout the plant.”

“In the autumn, as a result of cooler weather and shorter days, the food-manufacturing process slows down. This results in a chemical breakdown of the chlorophyll, so that the starches and other food go into the branches, limbs, and trunks of the trees to be stored away for spring use. When the green chlorophyll breaks down in the process, it becomes colorless, thus permitting the colors already present in the leaves to reveal themselves.”

Okay, I get it (sort of).

Running for Town Office

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Jud's New England JournalFor September 2010

Welcome to the September 2010 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.

Running for Town Office

The late Vrest Orton, founder of the Vermont Country Store, had two words of advice: "Go slowly."

"I wish that some of the newcomers from metropolitan centers who just love our rural ways," Vrest said to me years ago, warming up to the subject, "would, if they arrive on Monday, wait until at least Friday before they start running for office and telling us how to run the town."

My own feeling is that it's impossible to explain this adequately to a newcomer if said newcomer doesn't have the natural instinct to feel it.

"But I'm only running for the Board of Selectmen because I want to show my new neighbors that this town means something to me. I know I can improve things for everyone. Why does it matter how long I've been here?"

Those were pretty much the exact words of a capable, hard-working friend of mine who had just moved down the street from me from a city in New York State. And despite my urgent appeals that he be patient and wait a few years before running for the town's top job, he continued campaigning - sending out letters to every resident in which he explained his opinions and made suggestions for town improvements, printing and handing out bumper stickers, buying space in the local paper, and calling upon each and every voter in town. He received a friendly reception wherever he went, and the night before the election, he told me he was confident he was going to win.

"I've been through every name on the checklist," he said, "and my 'definite yeses' alone will put me over the top - even without some of the 'maybes.' "

On election day, I believe he received three votes. Maybe it was four. Even I didn't vote for him. His opponent, not incidentally, had done absolutely nothing during the campaign except to sign his name, verifying that he would serve if elected.

Go slowly. Good advice.

About the Word Ayuh

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the August 2010 edition of Juds New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine, published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

About the Word Ayuh

It has various meanings, including no.Some people feel ayuh is no longer utilized in New England today, but theyre just not listening. Sure, its not pronounced in the heavy-hande , overly obvious way the imitators do in order to make fun of us. But the word nonetheless remains a part of our way of speaking and has various meanings based on how it is said.Here, then, with apologies for the inadequacies of the spellingssome sounds just cant be spelledare nine ayuhs with nine different meanings:1. Ay-uh (second syllable a half-note higher in pitch that the first). Meaning: I heard what you said.2. Aaayyyeeeuuhh (in a more-or-less monotone, lengthened out to four or more seconds). Meaning: No, particularly to a question necessitating positive action.3. Eyuh (very quick, almost a bark, with the e hardly pronounced). Meaning: Yes, Im ready to take the next step in the task were involved with.4. Eeeeyyaaooh (slowly, but doesnt last as long as No. 2, and the middle section is at a higher pitch than either the back or the front end). Meaning: I hear you, but I dont agree.5. Eeeeayuh (slow in the beginning but cut off abruptly at the end, which is at a slightly higher pitch; repeated three or four times, the last ending at a slightly lower pitch). Meaning: Weve talked enough and Im about to move on.6. Aaayuh ( in sort of a nasal whine, the ending lower in pitch, repeated over and over with both exhaled and inhaled breaths and continuing while the other person is speaking.) Meaning: I really sympathize with you.7. A-yuh (each of the two syllables pronounced distinctly, both at the same rather low pitch. Occasionally a p is added to the end.) Meaning: I agree with you.8. Eyuh, eyuh, eyuh! (A short burst of three, rapidly, in a monotone, the accent on the second syllable, followed by a few seconds pause, and then, even though the other person is speaking, repeated.) Meaning: Youre wasting your time and my time because youre telling me something I already know.9. Ayy-yuhh (both syllables emphasized equally and in an exaggerated manner, the second syllable at slightly lower pitch). Meaning: Im an outsider trying to pass for a native. Secondary meaning: Im making fun of those of those amusing characters you find in New England.Can you think of more?

New England Men and the Word "Love"

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the July 2010 edition of Juds New England Journal, the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine, published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.New England Men and the Word LoveThey dont always rest easy together Some summers ago, we published an article in Yankee Magazine about the dearth of sentiment, particularly in Maine men. A week or so later I received a letter from a Midwestern lady (who will remain nameless at her request) who said she felt this attitude applied to all New England men. Her husband, she said, was originally from Massachusetts, and he nearly choked on the marriage vows beings they contain the word love. Heres the ending of her letter, which Ive saved to this day: You look alright is the highest compliment I ever get and once when I bawled (all right, so I was younger then) and said he never told me he loved me, he muttered darkly, I show it in other ways, and went back to whittling on his woodcarving.There is some evidence that he may be mellowing, however. One night last winter he got out of bed to go to the bathroom and I think he must have thought I was asleep, which I almost was, being barely aware he was up, because when he came back to bed he stopped and stood for a moment, looking down at me, and then said out loud, I love you! It startled me fully awake sos I got up and wrote down the date and time (February 28, 1:10 AM), but Id appreciate it if you omit to print my name and address if you print this letter, as Id hate for his relatives back in Massachusetts to get the idea hes become maudlin.Dont worry, Mrs. X, your secret is safe with me.

What to Do When Your Car Steering Wheel Comes Off

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the June 2010 edition of "Jud's New England Journal," the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine, published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

What to Do When Your Car Steering Wheel Comes Off

Sure, it's unlikely. But it's best to be prepared

There's been a lot of chatter in the news lately about certain cars mysteriously accelerating out of control, but what about the steering wheel coming off in your hands while you're cruising along at, say, 60 mph? No one has been talking about that possibility.

Well, some years ago the late Frank G. Smith wrote something called "The Gentlemen's Manual for the Old and New Touring Cars," in which he specifically addressed that particular problem. We excerpted some of it in Yankee Magazine, and readers today still occasionally request reprints.

So here's what he said

"Perhaps you have seen this situation [steering wheel coming off] in old-time 'comic' movies. As one who has survived this experience can testify, in the brief period between your perception of what has happened and the outcome, happy or tragic, there is little to laugh about. A feeling of surprise is quickly superseded by a feeling of utter helplessness. Endeavor to make this phase as brief as possible, and get on with the question of what to do.

"Note where the break has occurred, and if a sizable stub of wheel spoke remains attached to the column, you may be able to steer to some extent. Or you may seize the nut that held the steering wheel (no pun intended) with the vise grips you should always keep handy, to improvise a tiller. Before trying these maneuvers, however, look over the road and the traffic situation. Is the car holding a reasonably straight course now that it's free to go whither it listeth, or is it veering to the left or right? A reasonably quick thinker can cover these points in seconds.

"Here is where most drivers make their mistake. If you have reason to believe you may get away with a fender bender or cut lip, you may spend your time bracing yourself, or trying to remember what your insurance covers. But if things appear hopeless, do not waste time on these trivialities, but proceed immediately to review your past life. Drowning persons have more time for this, and generally do an adequate job of it. If you waste too much time, you may not get beyond the time you flunked algebra, and may have to cut it short in order to allow a second or two to wonder whom your wife will marry, and time for a final curse, or commitment to the Almighty, depending on your religious persuasion. Some drivers do not review their lives but, adhering to a custom common among American Indians, sing a death song."

The only problem I have with the above instructions is that very few of us know any Indian death songs. But then I suppose one could hastily make one up.

Learning the New England Language

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Sat, 01 May 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the May 2010 edition of "Jud's New England Journal," the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine, published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

Learning the New England Language

Trouble is, as soon as you've identified 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 hes using gunnin' instead of huntin'. But he 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-acre 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 dont 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 cant describe a field of grain with that word.

The smallest of words may be the most difficult for outsiders to place correctly. In Maine, we used to have four principal directions: up river, down state, over to home and from away. We went up to Boston, and from Boston we went out to Prouts Neck (near Portland, Maine). But from Prouts Neck we went up to inland Vanceboro, whence we went over to McAdam (New Brunswick, Canada) or down to Calais. St. Stephen is just across the international border from Calais, but we went to St. Stephen.

Every town in New England has its own set of tos, ups, downs, overs, and outs in relation to the rest of New England. And if you depend on north-south logic, you'll be wrong about half the time. For instance, everyone knows one goes down the coast of Maine when one is sailing northeast, up the coast when sailing southwest. The term "Down East" obviously originates from sailing downwind with the prevailing westerlies when traveling from Massachusetts ports to those along the Maine coast. However, one can go up to Bangor from Massachusetts. Correctly.

"Up" is a hard-working little word. Its added to brought, banged, warmed, 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 isn't 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, I guess with that I'll take a break 'til next month

Two Signs of Spring

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 04:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the April, 2010 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.

Two Signs of Spring

There are, of course, a lot more than two about now. But these are my favorites

After the various early signals of spring in New England -- the Boston Flower Show, spotting a robin among snow patches on the lawn, and gathering pussy willows for the dining room table -- there comes a truly major seasonal milestone. Ice-out. During the latter part of March and into April, the ice, now deserted of all human activity, has been turning dark gray, almost black. Not the shiny, crystal-clear black ice of late December and early 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 northern sections, earlier in Connecticut, Rhode Island and southern Massachusetts), someone who has passed the lake earlier will announce, "The ice went out last night!"

The ice-out pool, in which bets are placed on the precise ice-out date, has a winner, and I make a special point of driving 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," the lake will be full of boats and sections of the shore will be lined with fishermen. In any case, the annual ritual of personally looking at the ice-free lake is my own private signal to myself that another New England spring has finally arrived.

About five years ago, I was in Boston the day the ice went out of many of the big lakes in New Hampshire, and I thought my own spring would have to be delayed. But by fortunate circumstance, 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. They're stored all winter under cover and right around Patriot's Day, April 19, 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 at the right time to see the swan boats on this little overland voyage, but if you are, its, well, almost as good as ice-out. Almost.

My Favorite Survival Story

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 05:00:00 +0100

"Please, tell us about the Gloucester, Massachusetts, guy who rowed across the Atlantic Ocean without any hands or feet." That's a typical request I receive in the mail (or e-mail) from time to time. But most people don't have it quite straight. Yes, a Gloucester fisherman by the name of Howard Blackburn did row across the Atlantic several times. And, yes, he'd lost both hands and both feet. But the realstory is how he lost them.

For that we must go back to the cold winter of 1863. The good ship Fears out of Gloucester was fishing above Newfoundland's Grand Banks, putting out long lines that eventually needed to be gathered in by men in dories. Well, it seems that Howard Blackburn and a man named Tom Welch were in the last dory launched that day, and when the wind shifted from southwest to northeast along with dramatically increased velocity, the two men were blown so far away they totally lost contact with the Fears.

Realizing that trying to row against the wind toward where they'd last seen the ship was hopeless, and knowing that the ship was already miles away and probably in trouble with the storm, too, they turned toward the coast of Newfoundland. But the waves were now huge, and with the temperature well below freezing, the two men had to not only bail but also knock off ice with their oars.

They survived the first night all right, but by the second night, although the wind had moderated by that time, Tom Welch was so weak he could no longer row. During the third night, he slowly froze to death. Blackburn was now alone with a body in the bottom of the dory and he'd somehow lost his mittens. They'd gone overboard during bailing, and although there were mittens on Welch's body, they were so frozen to his hands that Blackburn couldnt even begin to remove them. So his hands were bare -- and freezing rapidly.

Now comes the incredible part of the story. Knowing that if he let his hands become stiff and straight, he wouldn't be able to handle the oars, he wrapped each hand carefully around the oars, bending the fingers so they'd grip. Before long, the hands and the oars were frozen together as one. In that way he was able to row another day and a half, finally reaching the coast of Newfoundland, where he was rescued. Of course, eventually both his hands and his feet (they'd also frozen stiff) had to be amputated.

For many years thereafter, Howard Blackburn was quite a celebrity in Gloucester, where he ran a popular restaurant. He didn't return to fishing again, but we're told he did manage to continue his adventurous ways by rowing across the Atlantic several times single-handed. Well, perhaps we should say "no-handed." (He must have rigged up a way to grip the oars.)

There are a few old timers in Gloucester today who remember their grandparents saying that they'd often gone to his restaurant and had enjoyed talking to him. Of course, they'd told their children not to stare.

February, a Month of Questions

podcast@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 05:00:00 +0100

Welcome to the February 2010 edition of "Jud's New England Journal," the rather curious monthly musings of Judson Hale, editor-in-chief of Yankee Magazine, published since 1935 in Dublin, New Hampshire.

To most of us, the month of February means Washington's birthday (celebrated this year on the 15th, although he was born on the 22nd), Valentine's Day (the 14th) and Lincoln's birthday (the 12th), which isn't observed much. Oh, and, of course, there's Groundhog Day. But it's also the month that, for some reason I could never fathom, we here at Yankee Magazine receive the most questions from readers. Here are three that come to mind

1. "What is the shortest distance between Rhode Island and New York as the crow flies?" We published that question, and a series of answers ensued. It was, of course, a trick question, because the answer was "no distance." "Picture a seagull floating out in Long Island Sound," the final letter read. "His head could be in Rhode Island while his wings are in Connecticut and his tail in New York."

2. "Why is a ship always called 'she'?" We used a letter from Oakton, Virginia, as our answer to that question, even though it might have been a tad sexist. The writer quoted something titled "A Man and His Ship," saying, "There's always a great deal of bustle about her. There's usually a group of men around She takes a lot of paint to keep her looking good. It's not the initial expense that breaks you but rather the upkeep. She's all decked out. It takes a good man to handle her right. She shows her topsides, but always hides her bottom." (Well, these days I might take out the word "always.")

3. "Can you tell us your favorite swop that's been published in Yankee?" Well, we could have answered that question with any one of many "favorites." But since it was February, cold and snowy as usual, we chose the following from Massachusetts: "Will swop handmade size 5 champagne-colored wedding dress with appliqued lace and chiffon skirt, and size 51/2 keepsake 17-karat diamond ring, for a wood-and-coal-burning stove."

Surely there's a true-life story in there somewhere