Rebecca Rule
Writer, Storyteller, Humorist, Editor
"Whatever you do, make it a good story."
24-16-25
TRIVIA: New Castle, Portsmouth, Downton Abbey, and King Tut: What’s the Connection?
It was my pleasure and delight to swap stories in the smallest town (land-wise) in NH. The only town that’s also an island.
Yup, it’s New Castle. Known for its grand hotel, Wentworth by the Sea; its forts (Constitution and Stark); and its long, and rich history as one of the first European settlements in the country. I read up on the community in History of New Castle, NH by Anna B. White (edited and typed by Carol White), a limited-edition, plastic bound volume full of dates, names, and historic events going back 400 years. But even better for the storyteller in me, it’s full of firsthand accounts from a woman who was born in New Castle (in 1905) and lived there all her life.
Anna B. White witnessed many changes in her home place and wrote about them with some regret and wry humor. In one story, John Albee of Wild Rose Lane (a Harvard professor) hired a local to dig a well. Albee’s daughter, checking out the dig, said, “Father, aren’t you going to have it dug deeper than that?” The local digger was puzzled: “Who in hell is ‘Aren’t You?’” he said.
I laughed out loud, once I translated “Aren’t You” into the vernacular: Aunt Yew. Who the hell is Aunt Yew?
In New Castle, at one time, you could pay your taxes with fish.
Years ago, at the “upper school” where the “big boys” went (grades five through eight), Anna recalls that“switching” took the place of “feruling (striking the hand of a miscreant with a ruler.)” The willow switches were “cut from the swamp conveniently located behind the schoolhouse. . . . A certain boy was noted for his agility in jumping over the switch every time the teacher swung.” Which inspired “a bit of doggerel”:
Here I stand
before Miss Blodgett.
She’s going to strike,
and I’m going to dodge it.
On a more serious note, Anna White writes poetically of the haunting sounds of the island: “The old reed (fog) horn on Whalesback Lighthouse would pull the dead right out of their graves as storms flung its long, drawn out, mournful note across the island accompanied by the plaintive bell on Fort Point that seemed to be tolling for all the ships that had ever gone ashore.”
History of New Castle, NH is for sale at the New Castle Historical Society, along with several other books on the town’s history, including J. Dennis Robinson’s New Castle: New Hampshire’s Smallest, Oldest, & Only Island Town. You can’t go wrong with any book by J. Dennis Robinson!
As for that trivia question, “New Castle, Portsmouth, Downton Abbey, and King Tut: What’s the Connection?”
It’s Highclere Castle near London, England.
At the New Castle story swap, I threw out a challenge: Stump us with a bit of seacoast trivia. Tony Keating sure did. His question: What’s the connection between the series Downton Abbey and Portsmouth, NH (sister city to New Castle)?
Sure and begorrah, there is one. Catherine Tredick Wendell of Portsmouth, whose family had lived on the seacoast since the 1700s, married the son of an English earl in 1922. The happy couple moved into the earl’s family home, Highclere Castle, the setting for—you guessed it—Downton Abbey. When her father-in-law died, the son became earl and Catherine became the Sixth Countess of Carnavon. Catherine’s father-in-law, the Fifth Earl of Carnavon, was on the dig (having funded it) with Howard Carter when Carter discovered King Tutankhamun’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings.
How cool is that?
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Feburary 2, 2025 -- BRRRRR
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Marion reminded me that summer will come again. In fact I was inspired to bake a blueberry pie from Maine blueberries picked (see above) last summer and frozen for just such a winter's day as today. Delish! Her encouraging email is excerpted below with her permission. She told about a friend of hers from Randolph named John Scarinza who told wonderful stories. I'll be on the hunt for those stories. She also showed her yankee sense of fairness as you'll see in her story of finding a book of mine for sale for cheaps. Thanks for the tip and thanks for the grandchildren stories too, my friend.
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Mentioned in one of Marion's stories is a mountain in Strafford: Blue Job.
How is it pronounced by locals? (Answer at the end.)
Dear Becky:
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You don't know me, but I feel like I know you. Especially after just finishing your book "That Reminds Me of a Story". I just want to tell you that I really enjoyed this book. And not just because a story I told you is in it (page 254, "Where's Caleb?). I loved the way you wove the book together by mentioning a phrase or word in one chapter and then wrapping a story around that phrase or word in the next. The personal stories you shared brought me to tears more than once. . . .
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I found my copy of "That Reminds Me of a Story" at the Canterbury Fair last summer for $1.00. A signed copy !! It's such a good book Becky, that I feel bad I didn't pay full price for it. So here are two stories about my granddaughter, Evelyn, who turns eight today. I figure each story is worth about $9.50, so now we are even :)
I live in the ell of our farmhouse. Seven of my grandchildren live in the main house. Watching them and listening to them has given me lots of material for story telling ~~
When Evelyn was about three, she travelled to New York with her parents and siblings to attend her first wedding. When she got home a few days later I asked her how she liked the wedding. She replied "Nannie, when I get married, I'm going to wear a dress that drags".
When Evelyn was five, she and her parents and six siblings hiked up Blue Job Mountain one hot day in July to rake blueberries. While coming down the mountain in the dusk, an owl flew right over their heads. When everyone got back to the farm, Evelyn was the child designated to come out and tell me what they saw, but she started the story out with "Nannie, know what? The mountain isn't blue."
Marion
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Blue Job is pronounced Blue Jobe
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Laconia Public Library and Taylor Community October 29, 2024
Laconia Speaks (With a New Hampshire Accent)
November 2024
Visited Laconia twice last week. Told stories at the library one day and the next day at the Taylor Community. Both lovely places full of lovely people sharing stories and laughing together.
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Sharp, too. I started each session with a trivia question from my NEW BOOK,
NH Trivia. Didn't get more than four words out of my mouth, before those sharpies were shouting out the answer. Here's how the question begins:
This sometimes rowdy event . . .
I'll finish the question for those who didn't guess the answer after four words:
This sometimes rowdy event attracts thousands to Laconia for a week each June, and is the longest- running in the country and maybe the world. What event is this? (Hint: There’s a lot of revving.)
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Of course, the answer is:
Laconia Motorcycle Week.
Laconia Motorcycle Week started small back in 1916 and has been growing ever since. Around 300,000 riders from all over motor in to enjoy bike-related activities. The reverberations from Bike Week are felt statewide.
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* * *
Donna, during a discussion about how one qualifies to be a “yankee” and/or a “native,” posed this riddle: “You know what I’d be if I wasn’t from New Hampshire?”
“What would you be?” we ventured.

“Ashamed of myself.”
* * *
In a contrasting story, Barbara told of her daughter who happened to be visiting Texas not long after her 21st birthday. It was kind of a big deal for the young woman to order a drink at a bar. She tried. Naturally she was carded. The barkeeper took one look at her driver’s license and called her out: “That’s a fake ID.”
“No it’s not,” said the mortified young woman.
Said the barman, “I never heard of a state called New Hampshire.”
The manager stepped in. He’d never heard of New Hampshire either, but he was moved by her sincerity. “Go ahead. Give her a drink,” he said.
* * *
The New Hampshire accent (I have one—it amps up when I tell stories) led us to a discussion of the “intrusive R.” I’d never heard the term, but Freda had. It’s what happens when people in some pockets of the state pronounce her name: Freder. But, she said (and this makes sense) the R only intrudes when her name is followed by a word beginning with a vowel. For example, “Freder is going to the grocery store,” but “Freda walks her dog every morning.” Lynda, sitting next to Freda, concurred. As do I, Rebecca, Rebeccer, or, as my mother would say when she say when I’d misbehaved: REEbeckER!
* * *
One man, whose name I did not catch, told of his father, born and raised in Ohio, who’d moved to New Hampshire in 1940 to teach at Dartmouth. Dad was looking forward to his first New Hampshire winter. He asked a local: “When would be the best time to teach my daughter to ski?”
“How old is she?” the local asked.
“Two.”
“It’s too late.”
October 17, 2024 Bartlett Public Library
In Bartlett They Give as Good as They Get
Had a grand time in Bartlett at the library which is conveniently right next to the school. Somebody was thinking ahead! I know it’s a good session when I get nearly as many stories as I give. Here are a couple cockahs about yankee traders.
I’m reminded of the ancient storyteller credo: I can’t vouch for the details of these stories but I know they’re true.
John told about a fellow named Tim Hill who had a car for sale at his garage in town. Price $100.
His buddy George haggled him down. To $75, then $50, and finally, $25.
“Deal,” George says. “You got a payment plan?”
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* * *
Ty told about Errol, known for his frugality, who locked out himself out of his house. He didn’t want to break a window (glass costs money), so he got ahold of the local locksmith, known for his business acumen.
The locksmith picked the lock and opened the door.
“That’ll be $10,” he said.
“I ain’t paying $10 for two minutes work,” Erroll said.
The locksmith snapped the door closed. “That’ll be $20,” he said.
Sept. 11, 2024 Laconia Friendship Club
Two (Too) Big Families
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At the Laconia Friendship Club, which meets weekly in Gilford (go figure), I met two women from Bar Harbor, which is near my camp in Maine, and we learned we had friends in common—specifically the Hatch family from Salisbury Cove and Donnell Pond. Chalk that up to the small world department.
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The Hatch family included seven children, named alphabetically, beginning with Alan. Sure enough, Ella, who grew up in Rochester, Vermont, is one of nine children, also named alphabetically: Allison, Barbara, Christine, David, Ella, Frederick, Gratia, Harold, and Irene whole middle name is Jean since, somehow, Mother knew there wa’n’t going to be a J child coming along any time soon.
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For vacation, there were too many kids to fit in a car, so Dad bought a rattletrap old school bus. They went all over. But the trip to Quebec proved . . . . Well, here’s what happened. Driving down from the heights of Mount Royal, the rattletrap bus lost its brakes. Dad laid on the horn to warn any vehicles on the road ahead as the bus picked up speed. The horn stuck. So that bus full of kids comes speeding and wailing into town. Finally, rolls to a stop.
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A police officer was waiting: “Why did you do that?” the officer says, in French. Luckily, Dad spoke French, so he explained the situation as best he could. (Mother wasn’t happy.)
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As the family headed back to Vermont, Mother said: George, that’s the end of our vacations.
And it was.
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Ella’s story reminded Rachel of a story. (This often happens.) Her dad was out for a Sunday drive on Hurricane Road in Belmont. It’s a narrow road. Not much room for passing. He drives pretty much the whole length of it at 15 miles per hour.
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The local police officer pulls Dad over and asks for his ID. “Why, Mr. Bretton,” the officer asks, “were you driving so slow?”
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“Well,” Dad says, I’ve got ten children at home and I’m in no hurry to get there.
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