http://odeo.com/channels/6431-Jud-s-New-England-Journal PeterRukavina no Sample the monthly musings and Yankee lore of Judson D. Hale, editor-in-chief of YANKEE Magazine. Sample the monthly musings and Yankee lore of Judson D. Hale, editor-in-chief of YANKEE Magazine. Sample the monthly musings and Yankee lore of Judson D. Hale, editor-in-chief of YANKEE Magazine. 40 Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:00:00 -0700 Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:00:00 -0700 http://odeo.com/episodes/25391138-Some-Little-Known-Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few . . . Welcome to the November 2009 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. Some Little-Known Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few My favorite New England legends are those with which I've had some personal connection. For instance, I've snooped around a certain abandoned little house nestled in some pines on the shore 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 Atlantic flight. Legend has it 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'm not sure whether it's still there today. I may take... They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few . . . Welcome to the November 2009 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. Some Little-Known Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few My favorite New England legends are those with which I've had some personal connection. For instance, I've snooped around a certain abandoned little house nestled in some pines on the shore 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 Atlantic flight. Legend has it 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'm not sure whether it's still there today. I may take a look later this month. I've studied the top of the steeple of the First Baptist Church in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, through binoculars to determine whether or not there's really a five-and-a-half-foot-high beer bottle up there. It's up there, all right. The most popular of several explanations is that during the 1850s 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 church's then-pastor, Reverend R. Scruton, told me, "but that was our only offer at that time." Hampton Falls residents are thankful that The Trueform Brassiere and Corset Company, for instance, didn't decide to make a better offer. I didn't need 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" one beautiful November day. It was made 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, utilizing 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 19, 1775. It's almost as though it happened yesterday or last week. Same with the plainly visible tomahawk marks on a door at Old Deerfield Village. And yet the squat 26-foot-high fieldstone tower with its semicircular arches between chunky columns, located in a small park in Newport, Rhode Island, seems to me to be somehow unreal. It's known as the Old Stone Mill, or sometimes the Norse Tower. Labeled "the most controversial building in America," it's been there longer than anyone can remember, but no one knows how or why it came to be built. Theories name the colonists of the 1600s, who were real enough, but also people like Eric Gnupsson of Greenland in 1112, or the Scandinavian Paul Knutson around 1355. I find it difficult to relate to Eric and Paul. Too iffy. Most of these Norse theories were discredited anyway when an archaeological dig around and under the tower unearthed only colonial artifacts. Nonetheless, the librarian at the historical society said to me, "Local people don't like to spoil a legend." A Newport real estate man echoed the same feeling: "I don't think there's a chance it's Norse, but as long as it's talked about, that's the main thing." He wanted a colorful tourist sign erected, illustrated with a Norseman in full 12th-century getup, to direct people to the tower. But the more conservative Newport element squashed that idea. Probably just as well. They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few . . . Welcome to the November 2009 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. Some Little-Known Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few My favorite New England legends are those with which I've had some personal connection. For instance, I've snooped around a certain abandoned little house nestled in some pines on the shore 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 Atlantic flight. Legend has it 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'm not sure whether it's still there today. I may take a look later this month. I've studied the top of the steeple of the First Baptist Church in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, through binoculars to determine whether or not there's really a five-and-a-half-foot-high beer bottle up there. It's up there, all right. The most popular of several explanations is that during the 1850s 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 church's then-pastor, Reverend R. Scruton, told me, "but that was our only offer at that time." Hampton Falls residents are thankful that The Trueform Brassiere and Corset Company, for instance, didn't decide to make a better offer. I didn't need 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" one beautiful November day. It was made 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, utilizing 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 19, 1775. It's almost as though it happened yesterday or last week. Same with the plainly visible tomahawk marks on a door at Old Deerfield Village. And yet the squat 26-foot-high fieldstone tower with its semicircular arches between chunky columns, located in a small park in Newport, Rhode Island, seems to me to be somehow unreal. It's known as the Old Stone Mill, or sometimes the Norse Tower. Labeled "the most controversial building in America," it's been there longer than anyone can remember, but no one knows how or why it came to be built. Theories name the colonists of the 1600s, who were real enough, but also people like Eric Gnupsson of Greenland in 1112, or the Scandinavian Paul Knutson around 1355. I find it difficult to relate to Eric and Paul. Too iffy. Most of these Norse theories were discredited anyway when an archaeological dig around and under the tower unearthed only colonial artifacts. Nonetheless, the librarian at the historical society said to me, "Local people don't like to spoil a legend." A Newport real estate man echoed the same feeling: "I don't think there's a chance it's Norse, but as long as it's talked about, that's the main thing." He wanted a colorful tourist sign erected, illustrated with a Norseman in full 12th-century getup, to direct people to the tower. But the more conservative Newport element squashed that idea. Probably just as well. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-31,25391138 Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25395109-Some-Little-Known-Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few . . . Welcome to the November 2009 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. Some Little-Known Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few My favorite New England legends are those with which I've had some personal connection. For instance, I've snooped around a certain abandoned little house nestled in some pines on the shore 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 Atlantic flight. Legend has it 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'm not sure whether it's still there today. I may take... They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few . . . Welcome to the November 2009 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. Some Little-Known Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few My favorite New England legends are those with which I've had some personal connection. For instance, I've snooped around a certain abandoned little house nestled in some pines on the shore 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 Atlantic flight. Legend has it 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'm not sure whether it's still there today. I may take a look later this month. I've studied the top of the steeple of the First Baptist Church in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, through binoculars to determine whether or not there's really a five-and-a-half-foot-high beer bottle up there. It's up there, all right. The most popular of several explanations is that during the 1850s 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 church's then-pastor, Reverend R. Scruton, told me, "but that was our only offer at that time." Hampton Falls residents are thankful that The Trueform Brassiere and Corset Company, for instance, didn't decide to make a better offer. I didn't need 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" one beautiful November day. It was made 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, utilizing 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 19, 1775. It's almost as though it happened yesterday or last week. Same with the plainly visible tomahawk marks on a door at Old Deerfield Village. And yet the squat 26-foot-high fieldstone tower with its semicircular arches between chunky columns, located in a small park in Newport, Rhode Island, seems to me to be somehow unreal. It's known as the Old Stone Mill, or sometimes the Norse Tower. Labeled "the most controversial building in America," it's been there longer than anyone can remember, but no one knows how or why it came to be built. Theories name the colonists of the 1600s, who were real enough, but also people like Eric Gnupsson of Greenland in 1112, or the Scandinavian Paul Knutson around 1355. I find it difficult to relate to Eric and Paul. Too iffy. Most of these Norse theories were discredited anyway when an archaeological dig around and under the tower unearthed only colonial artifacts. Nonetheless, the librarian at the historical society said to me, "Local people don't like to spoil a legend." A Newport real estate man echoed the same feeling: "I don't think there's a chance it's Norse, but as long as it's talked about, that's the main thing." He wanted a colorful tourist sign erected, illustrated with a Norseman in full 12th-century getup, to direct people to the tower. But the more conservative Newport element squashed that idea. Probably just as well. They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few . . . Welcome to the November 2009 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. Some Little-Known Legends They're all over New England. And I've visited quite a few My favorite New England legends are those with which I've had some personal connection. For instance, I've snooped around a certain abandoned little house nestled in some pines on the shore 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 Atlantic flight. Legend has it 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'm not sure whether it's still there today. I may take a look later this month. I've studied the top of the steeple of the First Baptist Church in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, through binoculars to determine whether or not there's really a five-and-a-half-foot-high beer bottle up there. It's up there, all right. The most popular of several explanations is that during the 1850s 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 church's then-pastor, Reverend R. Scruton, told me, "but that was our only offer at that time." Hampton Falls residents are thankful that The Trueform Brassiere and Corset Company, for instance, didn't decide to make a better offer. I didn't need 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" one beautiful November day. It was made 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, utilizing 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 19, 1775. It's almost as though it happened yesterday or last week. Same with the plainly visible tomahawk marks on a door at Old Deerfield Village. And yet the squat 26-foot-high fieldstone tower with its semicircular arches between chunky columns, located in a small park in Newport, Rhode Island, seems to me to be somehow unreal. It's known as the Old Stone Mill, or sometimes the Norse Tower. Labeled "the most controversial building in America," it's been there longer than anyone can remember, but no one knows how or why it came to be built. Theories name the colonists of the 1600s, who were real enough, but also people like Eric Gnupsson of Greenland in 1112, or the Scandinavian Paul Knutson around 1355. I find it difficult to relate to Eric and Paul. Too iffy. Most of these Norse theories were discredited anyway when an archaeological dig around and under the tower unearthed only colonial artifacts. Nonetheless, the librarian at the historical society said to me, "Local people don't like to spoil a legend." A Newport real estate man echoed the same feeling: "I don't think there's a chance it's Norse, but as long as it's talked about, that's the main thing." He wanted a colorful tourist sign erected, illustrated with a Norseman in full 12th-century getup, to direct people to the tower. But the more conservative Newport element squashed that idea. Probably just as well. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-31,25395109 Sat, 31 Oct 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25213856-A-Moan-a-Post-and-a-Little-Bell Welcome to the October 2009 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. A Moan, a Post, and a Little BellEach of these represents a spooky true story to tell on Halloween With Halloween falling on Saturday, the 31st of this month, I'm reminded once again of how New Englanders have always seemed a little preoccupied with old cemeteries. I'll admit to being drawn to them, too. Not long ago, for instance, I found myself in Newcastle, Maine, and decided to look around Glidden Cemetery there for the gravestone of one Mary Howe. I just happened to remember her story. (Talk about trivia!) Mary Howe was a medium who, as such, often put herself into trances. One summer she went "into" one of these and remained that way for quite a few weeks. Finally, several doctors examined her, found no pulse, and pronounced her dead. Yet she remained warm (possibly because of t... Welcome to the October 2009 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. A Moan, a Post, and a Little BellEach of these represents a spooky true story to tell on Halloween With Halloween falling on Saturday, the 31st of this month, I'm reminded once again of how New Englanders have always seemed a little preoccupied with old cemeteries. I'll admit to being drawn to them, too. Not long ago, for instance, I found myself in Newcastle, Maine, and decided to look around Glidden Cemetery there for the gravestone of one Mary Howe. I just happened to remember her story. (Talk about trivia!) Mary Howe was a medium who, as such, often put herself into trances. One summer she went "into" one of these and remained that way for quite a few weeks. Finally, several doctors examined her, found no pulse, and pronounced her dead. Yet she remained warm (possibly because of the warm rocks her family placed around her), her limbs stayed flexible, and it was said there wasn't the slightest odor from the body. Eventually, over the strenuous protests of her family, the town authorities ordered that she be buried anyway. And so she was. But for a long time afterward, people insisted they sometimes heard low moans and groans coming from the ground around her gravestone in Glidden Cemetery. I couldn't locate the stone that cold, foggy day I was there, but as I was leaving, I heard what sounded like a moan. One soft, short little muffled moan. I swear! There have been stories of people actually returning from the dead. An old-time New England favorite concerns the funeral of a strong-willed Vermont woman, during which the carriage bearing her body hit a wooden post as it was leaving the house for the cemetery. The force of the collision was so great that she was thrown from the carriage onto the ground. The shock of that brought her back to life and she went on to live for another five vociferous years before she died once again. This time, as the carriage carrying the body was preparing to leave for the cemetery, the woman's meek and soft-spoken husband approached the driver and said solemnly, "Be careful now that you don't hit that post again." Some people have taken precautions against being buried alive. Ulysses Smith of Middlebury, Vermont, left instructions in his will that his coffin be equipped with a glass window that would be plainly visible through a glass-covered shaft extending from the window to the surface of the ground. Further, he stipulated that a string should extend from inside the coffin up though the shaft, connected to a small bell attached to his tombstone. He felt secure in the knowledge that if he was mistakenly buried alive, hed be able to ring the bell as a signal for help. After his death all this was done, exactly per his instructions. Rumor has it that one day a slightly inebriated passerby thought he heard the bell tinkling, staggered over to the tombstone, looked down through the glass at the body far below, and yelled several times, "What do you want?" Oh, I do so hope that story is true! Welcome to the October 2009 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. A Moan, a Post, and a Little BellEach of these represents a spooky true story to tell on Halloween With Halloween falling on Saturday, the 31st of this month, I'm reminded once again of how New Englanders have always seemed a little preoccupied with old cemeteries. I'll admit to being drawn to them, too. Not long ago, for instance, I found myself in Newcastle, Maine, and decided to look around Glidden Cemetery there for the gravestone of one Mary Howe. I just happened to remember her story. (Talk about trivia!) Mary Howe was a medium who, as such, often put herself into trances. One summer she went "into" one of these and remained that way for quite a few weeks. Finally, several doctors examined her, found no pulse, and pronounced her dead. Yet she remained warm (possibly because of the warm rocks her family placed around her), her limbs stayed flexible, and it was said there wasn't the slightest odor from the body. Eventually, over the strenuous protests of her family, the town authorities ordered that she be buried anyway. And so she was. But for a long time afterward, people insisted they sometimes heard low moans and groans coming from the ground around her gravestone in Glidden Cemetery. I couldn't locate the stone that cold, foggy day I was there, but as I was leaving, I heard what sounded like a moan. One soft, short little muffled moan. I swear! There have been stories of people actually returning from the dead. An old-time New England favorite concerns the funeral of a strong-willed Vermont woman, during which the carriage bearing her body hit a wooden post as it was leaving the house for the cemetery. The force of the collision was so great that she was thrown from the carriage onto the ground. The shock of that brought her back to life and she went on to live for another five vociferous years before she died once again. This time, as the carriage carrying the body was preparing to leave for the cemetery, the woman's meek and soft-spoken husband approached the driver and said solemnly, "Be careful now that you don't hit that post again." Some people have taken precautions against being buried alive. Ulysses Smith of Middlebury, Vermont, left instructions in his will that his coffin be equipped with a glass window that would be plainly visible through a glass-covered shaft extending from the window to the surface of the ground. Further, he stipulated that a string should extend from inside the coffin up though the shaft, connected to a small bell attached to his tombstone. He felt secure in the knowledge that if he was mistakenly buried alive, hed be able to ring the bell as a signal for help. After his death all this was done, exactly per his instructions. Rumor has it that one day a slightly inebriated passerby thought he heard the bell tinkling, staggered over to the tombstone, looked down through the glass at the body far below, and yelled several times, "What do you want?" Oh, I do so hope that story is true! tag:odeo.com,2009-09-30,25213856 Wed, 30 Sep 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25213866-A-Moan-a-Post-and-a-Little-Bell Welcome to the October 2009 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. A Moan, a Post, and a Little BellEach of these represents a spooky true story to tell on Halloween With Halloween falling on Saturday, the 31st of this month, I'm reminded once again of how New Englanders have always seemed a little preoccupied with old cemeteries. I'll admit to being drawn to them, too. Not long ago, for instance, I found myself in Newcastle, Maine, and decided to look around Glidden Cemetery there for the gravestone of one Mary Howe. I just happened to remember her story. (Talk about trivia!) Mary Howe was a medium who, as such, often put herself into trances. One summer she went "into" one of these and remained that way for quite a few weeks. Finally, several doctors examined her, found no pulse, and pronounced her dead. Yet she remained warm (possibly because of t... Welcome to the October 2009 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. A Moan, a Post, and a Little BellEach of these represents a spooky true story to tell on Halloween With Halloween falling on Saturday, the 31st of this month, I'm reminded once again of how New Englanders have always seemed a little preoccupied with old cemeteries. I'll admit to being drawn to them, too. Not long ago, for instance, I found myself in Newcastle, Maine, and decided to look around Glidden Cemetery there for the gravestone of one Mary Howe. I just happened to remember her story. (Talk about trivia!) Mary Howe was a medium who, as such, often put herself into trances. One summer she went "into" one of these and remained that way for quite a few weeks. Finally, several doctors examined her, found no pulse, and pronounced her dead. Yet she remained warm (possibly because of the warm rocks her family placed around her), her limbs stayed flexible, and it was said there wasn't the slightest odor from the body. Eventually, over the strenuous protests of her family, the town authorities ordered that she be buried anyway. And so she was. But for a long time afterward, people insisted they sometimes heard low moans and groans coming from the ground around her gravestone in Glidden Cemetery. I couldn't locate the stone that cold, foggy day I was there, but as I was leaving, I heard what sounded like a moan. One soft, short little muffled moan. I swear! There have been stories of people actually returning from the dead. An old-time New England favorite concerns the funeral of a strong-willed Vermont woman, during which the carriage bearing her body hit a wooden post as it was leaving the house for the cemetery. The force of the collision was so great that she was thrown from the carriage onto the ground. The shock of that brought her back to life and she went on to live for another five vociferous years before she died once again. This time, as the carriage carrying the body was preparing to leave for the cemetery, the woman's meek and soft-spoken husband approached the driver and said solemnly, "Be careful now that you don't hit that post again." Some people have taken precautions against being buried alive. Ulysses Smith of Middlebury, Vermont, left instructions in his will that his coffin be equipped with a glass window that would be plainly visible through a glass-covered shaft extending from the window to the surface of the ground. Further, he stipulated that a string should extend from inside the coffin up though the shaft, connected to a small bell attached to his tombstone. He felt secure in the knowledge that if he was mistakenly buried alive, hed be able to ring the bell as a signal for help. After his death all this was done, exactly per his instructions. Rumor has it that one day a slightly inebriated passerby thought he heard the bell tinkling, staggered over to the tombstone, looked down through the glass at the body far below, and yelled several times, "What do you want?" Oh, I do so hope that story is true! Welcome to the October 2009 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. A Moan, a Post, and a Little BellEach of these represents a spooky true story to tell on Halloween With Halloween falling on Saturday, the 31st of this month, I'm reminded once again of how New Englanders have always seemed a little preoccupied with old cemeteries. I'll admit to being drawn to them, too. Not long ago, for instance, I found myself in Newcastle, Maine, and decided to look around Glidden Cemetery there for the gravestone of one Mary Howe. I just happened to remember her story. (Talk about trivia!) Mary Howe was a medium who, as such, often put herself into trances. One summer she went "into" one of these and remained that way for quite a few weeks. Finally, several doctors examined her, found no pulse, and pronounced her dead. Yet she remained warm (possibly because of the warm rocks her family placed around her), her limbs stayed flexible, and it was said there wasn't the slightest odor from the body. Eventually, over the strenuous protests of her family, the town authorities ordered that she be buried anyway. And so she was. But for a long time afterward, people insisted they sometimes heard low moans and groans coming from the ground around her gravestone in Glidden Cemetery. I couldn't locate the stone that cold, foggy day I was there, but as I was leaving, I heard what sounded like a moan. One soft, short little muffled moan. I swear! There have been stories of people actually returning from the dead. An old-time New England favorite concerns the funeral of a strong-willed Vermont woman, during which the carriage bearing her body hit a wooden post as it was leaving the house for the cemetery. The force of the collision was so great that she was thrown from the carriage onto the ground. The shock of that brought her back to life and she went on to live for another five vociferous years before she died once again. This time, as the carriage carrying the body was preparing to leave for the cemetery, the woman's meek and soft-spoken husband approached the driver and said solemnly, "Be careful now that you don't hit that post again." Some people have taken precautions against being buried alive. Ulysses Smith of Middlebury, Vermont, left instructions in his will that his coffin be equipped with a glass window that would be plainly visible through a glass-covered shaft extending from the window to the surface of the ground. Further, he stipulated that a string should extend from inside the coffin up though the shaft, connected to a small bell attached to his tombstone. He felt secure in the knowledge that if he was mistakenly buried alive, hed be able to ring the bell as a signal for help. After his death all this was done, exactly per his instructions. Rumor has it that one day a slightly inebriated passerby thought he heard the bell tinkling, staggered over to the tombstone, looked down through the glass at the body far below, and yelled several times, "What do you want?" Oh, I do so hope that story is true! tag:odeo.com,2009-09-30,25213866 Wed, 30 Sep 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25053974-Some-Things-We-Can-Count-on-Not-to-Change Welcome to the September 2009 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. Some Things We Can Count on Not to Change It's not quite as easy to come up with unchanging things as we first thought We can count on certain things in nature not ever to change -- and that's comforting. Right? But wait a minute. In reading the brand new 2010 Old Farmer's Almanac, officially out for the 218th consecutive year on September 8 (but already available on most newsstands), I was shocked to learn that while Old Faithful is old, it's not faithful; that those swallows who always return each year to Capistrano, California, don't anymore; and that Niagara Falls will eventually cease to exist! Is nothing permanent anymore? Well, in reading further, I learned that Old Faithful can still be counted on to erupt. Just not when you might think it will. While it used to put on its show ever... Welcome to the September 2009 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. Some Things We Can Count on Not to Change It's not quite as easy to come up with unchanging things as we first thought We can count on certain things in nature not ever to change -- and that's comforting. Right? But wait a minute. In reading the brand new 2010 Old Farmer's Almanac, officially out for the 218th consecutive year on September 8 (but already available on most newsstands), I was shocked to learn that while Old Faithful is old, it's not faithful; that those swallows who always return each year to Capistrano, California, don't anymore; and that Niagara Falls will eventually cease to exist! Is nothing permanent anymore? Well, in reading further, I learned that Old Faithful can still be counted on to erupt. Just not when you might think it will. While it used to put on its show every 65 minutes -- and you could count on that to the second -- it can now be anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours between eruptions. And the blowing out of the geyser can last from a bit over a minute on up to as long as five minutes. Still quite something to witness, however. As to the swallows who used to always return to the Mission San Juan Capistrano on the third week of March every year since 1776 when the church was built, well, they still return to that general area at that time. But now they prefer to roost under highway overpasses near farm fields where they like the bugs and can gather mud for their nests. About twenty swallows still do nest under the eaves of the church, like always. Those few are obviously more interested in maintaining tradition that in obtaining bugs and mud. Good for them. But Niagara Falls ceasing to exist? That's as ridiculous as saying several years ago that New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain will cease to exist. (We Granite Staters are still in mourning about that one.) Turns out that the falls are, indeed, eroding back up river. However, only at a rate of less than one inch per year. At that rate, it'll require 50,000 years for the brink of the falls to retreat another 20 miles to Lake Erie and thus, sure enough, cease to exist. But let's not worry too much about that. (It's possible that practically everything will cease to exist by that time.) Of course, in perusing the new 2010 edition of The Old Farmer's Almanac ,we had to check on this coming winter's weather in New England. Seems it'll be colder than normal but with slightly below normal snowfall in northern regions and a bit more snow than normal in southern areas. In other words, it'll be "wintry" hereaboutsfollowed by spring. And, yes, we can all count on that. Can't we? Welcome to the September 2009 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. Some Things We Can Count on Not to Change It's not quite as easy to come up with unchanging things as we first thought We can count on certain things in nature not ever to change -- and that's comforting. Right? But wait a minute. In reading the brand new 2010 Old Farmer's Almanac, officially out for the 218th consecutive year on September 8 (but already available on most newsstands), I was shocked to learn that while Old Faithful is old, it's not faithful; that those swallows who always return each year to Capistrano, California, don't anymore; and that Niagara Falls will eventually cease to exist! Is nothing permanent anymore? Well, in reading further, I learned that Old Faithful can still be counted on to erupt. Just not when you might think it will. While it used to put on its show every 65 minutes -- and you could count on that to the second -- it can now be anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours between eruptions. And the blowing out of the geyser can last from a bit over a minute on up to as long as five minutes. Still quite something to witness, however. As to the swallows who used to always return to the Mission San Juan Capistrano on the third week of March every year since 1776 when the church was built, well, they still return to that general area at that time. But now they prefer to roost under highway overpasses near farm fields where they like the bugs and can gather mud for their nests. About twenty swallows still do nest under the eaves of the church, like always. Those few are obviously more interested in maintaining tradition that in obtaining bugs and mud. Good for them. But Niagara Falls ceasing to exist? That's as ridiculous as saying several years ago that New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain will cease to exist. (We Granite Staters are still in mourning about that one.) Turns out that the falls are, indeed, eroding back up river. However, only at a rate of less than one inch per year. At that rate, it'll require 50,000 years for the brink of the falls to retreat another 20 miles to Lake Erie and thus, sure enough, cease to exist. But let's not worry too much about that. (It's possible that practically everything will cease to exist by that time.) Of course, in perusing the new 2010 edition of The Old Farmer's Almanac ,we had to check on this coming winter's weather in New England. Seems it'll be colder than normal but with slightly below normal snowfall in northern regions and a bit more snow than normal in southern areas. In other words, it'll be "wintry" hereaboutsfollowed by spring. And, yes, we can all count on that. Can't we? tag:odeo.com,2009-08-31,25053974 Mon, 31 Aug 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25053912-Some-Things-We-Can-Count-on-Not-to-Change Welcome to the September 2009 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. Some Things We Can Count on Not to Change It's not quite as easy to come up with unchanging things as we first thought We can count on certain things in nature not ever to change -- and that's comforting. Right? But wait a minute. In reading the brand new 2010 Old Farmer's Almanac, officially out for the 218th consecutive year on September 8 (but already available on most newsstands), I was shocked to learn that while Old Faithful is old, it's not faithful; that those swallows who always return each year to Capistrano, California, don't anymore; and that Niagara Falls will eventually cease to exist! Is nothing permanent anymore? Well, in reading further, I learned that Old Faithful can still be counted on to erupt. Just not when you might think it will. While it used to put on its show ever... Welcome to the September 2009 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. Some Things We Can Count on Not to Change It's not quite as easy to come up with unchanging things as we first thought We can count on certain things in nature not ever to change -- and that's comforting. Right? But wait a minute. In reading the brand new 2010 Old Farmer's Almanac, officially out for the 218th consecutive year on September 8 (but already available on most newsstands), I was shocked to learn that while Old Faithful is old, it's not faithful; that those swallows who always return each year to Capistrano, California, don't anymore; and that Niagara Falls will eventually cease to exist! Is nothing permanent anymore? Well, in reading further, I learned that Old Faithful can still be counted on to erupt. Just not when you might think it will. While it used to put on its show every 65 minutes -- and you could count on that to the second -- it can now be anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours between eruptions. And the blowing out of the geyser can last from a bit over a minute on up to as long as five minutes. Still quite something to witness, however. As to the swallows who used to always return to the Mission San Juan Capistrano on the third week of March every year since 1776 when the church was built, well, they still return to that general area at that time. But now they prefer to roost under highway overpasses near farm fields where they like the bugs and can gather mud for their nests. About twenty swallows still do nest under the eaves of the church, like always. Those few are obviously more interested in maintaining tradition that in obtaining bugs and mud. Good for them. But Niagara Falls ceasing to exist? That's as ridiculous as saying several years ago that New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain will cease to exist. (We Granite Staters are still in mourning about that one.) Turns out that the falls are, indeed, eroding back up river. However, only at a rate of less than one inch per year. At that rate, it'll require 50,000 years for the brink of the falls to retreat another 20 miles to Lake Erie and thus, sure enough, cease to exist. But let's not worry too much about that. (It's possible that practically everything will cease to exist by that time.) Of course, in perusing the new 2010 edition of The Old Farmer's Almanac ,we had to check on this coming winter's weather in New England. Seems it'll be colder than normal but with slightly below normal snowfall in northern regions and a bit more snow than normal in southern areas. In other words, it'll be "wintry" hereaboutsfollowed by spring. And, yes, we can all count on that. Can't we? Welcome to the September 2009 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. Some Things We Can Count on Not to Change It's not quite as easy to come up with unchanging things as we first thought We can count on certain things in nature not ever to change -- and that's comforting. Right? But wait a minute. In reading the brand new 2010 Old Farmer's Almanac, officially out for the 218th consecutive year on September 8 (but already available on most newsstands), I was shocked to learn that while Old Faithful is old, it's not faithful; that those swallows who always return each year to Capistrano, California, don't anymore; and that Niagara Falls will eventually cease to exist! Is nothing permanent anymore? Well, in reading further, I learned that Old Faithful can still be counted on to erupt. Just not when you might think it will. While it used to put on its show every 65 minutes -- and you could count on that to the second -- it can now be anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours between eruptions. And the blowing out of the geyser can last from a bit over a minute on up to as long as five minutes. Still quite something to witness, however. As to the swallows who used to always return to the Mission San Juan Capistrano on the third week of March every year since 1776 when the church was built, well, they still return to that general area at that time. But now they prefer to roost under highway overpasses near farm fields where they like the bugs and can gather mud for their nests. About twenty swallows still do nest under the eaves of the church, like always. Those few are obviously more interested in maintaining tradition that in obtaining bugs and mud. Good for them. But Niagara Falls ceasing to exist? That's as ridiculous as saying several years ago that New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain will cease to exist. (We Granite Staters are still in mourning about that one.) Turns out that the falls are, indeed, eroding back up river. However, only at a rate of less than one inch per year. At that rate, it'll require 50,000 years for the brink of the falls to retreat another 20 miles to Lake Erie and thus, sure enough, cease to exist. But let's not worry too much about that. (It's possible that practically everything will cease to exist by that time.) Of course, in perusing the new 2010 edition of The Old Farmer's Almanac ,we had to check on this coming winter's weather in New England. Seems it'll be colder than normal but with slightly below normal snowfall in northern regions and a bit more snow than normal in southern areas. In other words, it'll be "wintry" hereaboutsfollowed by spring. And, yes, we can all count on that. Can't we? tag:odeo.com,2009-08-31,25053912 Mon, 31 Aug 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24894976-The-Man-Who-Stepped-on-Plymouth-Rock-FIRST Welcome to the August 2009 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.The Man Who Stepped on Plymouth Rock FIRSTAn unimportant and possibly not totally accurate examination of proper New England ancestry. New England's so-called "First Families" didnt originate with the Mayflower group. Instead they trace their ancestors back to those who sailed over here from England in 1629 (and for about 10 years thereafter) on the Arbella and several other ships to found the Massachusetts Bay Company. These people, including a Saltonstall, a Winthrop, a Phillips, a Bradstreet (but no Dun -- although a Dunn came over on the Mayflower), a Quincy, and most of the other First Family ancestors, were conservative businessmen with a puritanical outlook on work, religion, sex, death, and the hereafter. As we all know, they were Puritans. The Mayflower people are referred to a... Welcome to the August 2009 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.The Man Who Stepped on Plymouth Rock FIRSTAn unimportant and possibly not totally accurate examination of proper New England ancestry. New England's so-called "First Families" didnt originate with the Mayflower group. Instead they trace their ancestors back to those who sailed over here from England in 1629 (and for about 10 years thereafter) on the Arbella and several other ships to found the Massachusetts Bay Company. These people, including a Saltonstall, a Winthrop, a Phillips, a Bradstreet (but no Dun -- although a Dunn came over on the Mayflower), a Quincy, and most of the other First Family ancestors, were conservative businessmen with a puritanical outlook on work, religion, sex, death, and the hereafter. As we all know, they were Puritans. The Mayflower people are referred to as Pilgrims. Now most would agree that Mayflower ancestry doesn't have the financial and political power that has always been associated with First Family names. But it's nonetheless very fine to be a member of the General Society of Mayflower Descendants. If, for instance, you're a Chilton (the oldest passenger on board was James Chilton), or a More (Richard More was one of the children on the Mayflower), or a Rogers (Thomas Rogers signed the Mayflower Compact), or if you're descended from one of the other 20 families aboard the Mayflower who are now known to have present-day offspring, then you can join the society. You could, perhaps, also hang a huge print of the ship Mayflower in your living room, which might at times elicit enough conversation at social gatherings for you to mention your Mayflower ancestry without appearing overly forward about it. However, as the late Vrest Orton (founder of the Vermont County Store, still going strong today) wrote in his book The Voice of the Green Mountains, "If the good ship Mayflower had taken aboard all the ancestors that are now claimed to have come over on that voyage, it would have been bigger than today's Queen Elizabeth II." I regret I have no ancestors who came over on the Mayflower. I was, however, once introduced in the following manner: "And although our speaker claims no Mayflower descendance, he does have a relative who ran for the boat and missed it." (That was, indeed, a relative of mine, who then waited 18 years before catching a boat that subsequently landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts. But he was neither a Pilgrim nor a Puritan.) If I could be a Mayflower descendant, I'd like to be a Howland. John Howland fell off the Mayflower as it was rounding the tip of Cape Cod. "But it pleased God he caught hould of ye top-saile halliards " wrote Governor Bradford about the incident in his History of Plimouth Plantation, " held his hould (though he was sundrie fathoms under water) and then with a boat hooke and other means got into ye shipe againe." A few days later, John Howland was one of a small group of Mayflower men "sente oute" to discover a locality suitable for their future home. Thus it was that John Howland stood on "Forefathers Rock," as Plymouth Rock is also called, five whole days before the rest of the Mayflower people landed on it. Now, that's one-upmanship. Welcome to the August 2009 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.The Man Who Stepped on Plymouth Rock FIRSTAn unimportant and possibly not totally accurate examination of proper New England ancestry. New England's so-called "First Families" didnt originate with the Mayflower group. Instead they trace their ancestors back to those who sailed over here from England in 1629 (and for about 10 years thereafter) on the Arbella and several other ships to found the Massachusetts Bay Company. These people, including a Saltonstall, a Winthrop, a Phillips, a Bradstreet (but no Dun -- although a Dunn came over on the Mayflower), a Quincy, and most of the other First Family ancestors, were conservative businessmen with a puritanical outlook on work, religion, sex, death, and the hereafter. As we all know, they were Puritans. The Mayflower people are referred to as Pilgrims. Now most would agree that Mayflower ancestry doesn't have the financial and political power that has always been associated with First Family names. But it's nonetheless very fine to be a member of the General Society of Mayflower Descendants. If, for instance, you're a Chilton (the oldest passenger on board was James Chilton), or a More (Richard More was one of the children on the Mayflower), or a Rogers (Thomas Rogers signed the Mayflower Compact), or if you're descended from one of the other 20 families aboard the Mayflower who are now known to have present-day offspring, then you can join the society. You could, perhaps, also hang a huge print of the ship Mayflower in your living room, which might at times elicit enough conversation at social gatherings for you to mention your Mayflower ancestry without appearing overly forward about it. However, as the late Vrest Orton (founder of the Vermont County Store, still going strong today) wrote in his book The Voice of the Green Mountains, "If the good ship Mayflower had taken aboard all the ancestors that are now claimed to have come over on that voyage, it would have been bigger than today's Queen Elizabeth II." I regret I have no ancestors who came over on the Mayflower. I was, however, once introduced in the following manner: "And although our speaker claims no Mayflower descendance, he does have a relative who ran for the boat and missed it." (That was, indeed, a relative of mine, who then waited 18 years before catching a boat that subsequently landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts. But he was neither a Pilgrim nor a Puritan.) If I could be a Mayflower descendant, I'd like to be a Howland. John Howland fell off the Mayflower as it was rounding the tip of Cape Cod. "But it pleased God he caught hould of ye top-saile halliards " wrote Governor Bradford about the incident in his History of Plimouth Plantation, " held his hould (though he was sundrie fathoms under water) and then with a boat hooke and other means got into ye shipe againe." A few days later, John Howland was one of a small group of Mayflower men "sente oute" to discover a locality suitable for their future home. Thus it was that John Howland stood on "Forefathers Rock," as Plymouth Rock is also called, five whole days before the rest of the Mayflower people landed on it. Now, that's one-upmanship. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-31,24894976 Fri, 31 Jul 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24894442-The-Man-Who-Stepped-on-Plymouth-Rock-FIRST Welcome to the August 2009 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.The Man Who Stepped on Plymouth Rock FIRSTAn unimportant and possibly not totally accurate examination of proper New England ancestry. New England's so-called "First Families" didnt originate with the Mayflower group. Instead they trace their ancestors back to those who sailed over here from England in 1629 (and for about 10 years thereafter) on the Arbella and several other ships to found the Massachusetts Bay Company. These people, including a Saltonstall, a Winthrop, a Phillips, a Bradstreet (but no Dun -- although a Dunn came over on the Mayflower), a Quincy, and most of the other First Family ancestors, were conservative businessmen with a puritanical outlook on work, religion, sex, death, and the hereafter. As we all know, they were Puritans. The Mayflower people are referred to a... Welcome to the August 2009 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.The Man Who Stepped on Plymouth Rock FIRSTAn unimportant and possibly not totally accurate examination of proper New England ancestry. New England's so-called "First Families" didnt originate with the Mayflower group. Instead they trace their ancestors back to those who sailed over here from England in 1629 (and for about 10 years thereafter) on the Arbella and several other ships to found the Massachusetts Bay Company. These people, including a Saltonstall, a Winthrop, a Phillips, a Bradstreet (but no Dun -- although a Dunn came over on the Mayflower), a Quincy, and most of the other First Family ancestors, were conservative businessmen with a puritanical outlook on work, religion, sex, death, and the hereafter. As we all know, they were Puritans. The Mayflower people are referred to as Pilgrims. Now most would agree that Mayflower ancestry doesn't have the financial and political power that has always been associated with First Family names. But it's nonetheless very fine to be a member of the General Society of Mayflower Descendants. If, for instance, you're a Chilton (the oldest passenger on board was James Chilton), or a More (Richard More was one of the children on the Mayflower), or a Rogers (Thomas Rogers signed the Mayflower Compact), or if you're descended from one of the other 20 families aboard the Mayflower who are now known to have present-day offspring, then you can join the society. You could, perhaps, also hang a huge print of the ship Mayflower in your living room, which might at times elicit enough conversation at social gatherings for you to mention your Mayflower ancestry without appearing overly forward about it. However, as the late Vrest Orton (founder of the Vermont County Store, still going strong today) wrote in his book The Voice of the Green Mountains, "If the good ship Mayflower had taken aboard all the ancestors that are now claimed to have come over on that voyage, it would have been bigger than today's Queen Elizabeth II." I regret I have no ancestors who came over on the Mayflower. I was, however, once introduced in the following manner: "And although our speaker claims no Mayflower descendance, he does have a relative who ran for the boat and missed it." (That was, indeed, a relative of mine, who then waited 18 years before catching a boat that subsequently landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts. But he was neither a Pilgrim nor a Puritan.) If I could be a Mayflower descendant, I'd like to be a Howland. John Howland fell off the Mayflower as it was rounding the tip of Cape Cod. "But it pleased God he caught hould of ye top-saile halliards " wrote Governor Bradford about the incident in his History of Plimouth Plantation, " held his hould (though he was sundrie fathoms under water) and then with a boat hooke and other means got into ye shipe againe." A few days later, John Howland was one of a small group of Mayflower men "sente oute" to discover a locality suitable for their future home. Thus it was that John Howland stood on "Forefathers Rock," as Plymouth Rock is also called, five whole days before the rest of the Mayflower people landed on it. Now, that's one-upmanship. Welcome to the August 2009 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.The Man Who Stepped on Plymouth Rock FIRSTAn unimportant and possibly not totally accurate examination of proper New England ancestry. New England's so-called "First Families" didnt originate with the Mayflower group. Instead they trace their ancestors back to those who sailed over here from England in 1629 (and for about 10 years thereafter) on the Arbella and several other ships to found the Massachusetts Bay Company. These people, including a Saltonstall, a Winthrop, a Phillips, a Bradstreet (but no Dun -- although a Dunn came over on the Mayflower), a Quincy, and most of the other First Family ancestors, were conservative businessmen with a puritanical outlook on work, religion, sex, death, and the hereafter. As we all know, they were Puritans. The Mayflower people are referred to as Pilgrims. Now most would agree that Mayflower ancestry doesn't have the financial and political power that has always been associated with First Family names. But it's nonetheless very fine to be a member of the General Society of Mayflower Descendants. If, for instance, you're a Chilton (the oldest passenger on board was James Chilton), or a More (Richard More was one of the children on the Mayflower), or a Rogers (Thomas Rogers signed the Mayflower Compact), or if you're descended from one of the other 20 families aboard the Mayflower who are now known to have present-day offspring, then you can join the society. You could, perhaps, also hang a huge print of the ship Mayflower in your living room, which might at times elicit enough conversation at social gatherings for you to mention your Mayflower ancestry without appearing overly forward about it. However, as the late Vrest Orton (founder of the Vermont County Store, still going strong today) wrote in his book The Voice of the Green Mountains, "If the good ship Mayflower had taken aboard all the ancestors that are now claimed to have come over on that voyage, it would have been bigger than today's Queen Elizabeth II." I regret I have no ancestors who came over on the Mayflower. I was, however, once introduced in the following manner: "And although our speaker claims no Mayflower descendance, he does have a relative who ran for the boat and missed it." (That was, indeed, a relative of mine, who then waited 18 years before catching a boat that subsequently landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts. But he was neither a Pilgrim nor a Puritan.) If I could be a Mayflower descendant, I'd like to be a Howland. John Howland fell off the Mayflower as it was rounding the tip of Cape Cod. "But it pleased God he caught hould of ye top-saile halliards " wrote Governor Bradford about the incident in his History of Plimouth Plantation, " held his hould (though he was sundrie fathoms under water) and then with a boat hooke and other means got into ye shipe againe." A few days later, John Howland was one of a small group of Mayflower men "sente oute" to discover a locality suitable for their future home. Thus it was that John Howland stood on "Forefathers Rock," as Plymouth Rock is also called, five whole days before the rest of the Mayflower people landed on it. Now, that's one-upmanship. tag:odeo.com,2009-07-31,24894442 Fri, 31 Jul 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24751386-Old-Time-New-England-Humor-Is-It-Still-Funny Welcome to the July 2009 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. Old-Time New England Humor: Is It Still Funny? Here's an example from the famous19th-century humorist known as Artemus Ward. You decide ? The use of dialect isn?t an essential ingredient of New England humor. It used to be, however. Today it's more often misused. After all, the word "ayuh" isn't particularly funny to someone who often says "ayuh." And unless you do say "ayuh" as part of your natural way of speaking, there?s no possible way you can say "ayuh" and have it sound authentic. No possible way in the world. However, dialect can be written. Many of the 19th-century New England humorists -- such as Josh Billings and Charles Farrar Browne, otherwise known as Artemus Ward -- wrote in heavy dialect. And although I believe that the dialect used in even the written New England stories ... Welcome to the July 2009 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. Old-Time New England Humor: Is It Still Funny? Here's an example from the famous19th-century humorist known as Artemus Ward. You decide ? The use of dialect isn?t an essential ingredient of New England humor. It used to be, however. Today it's more often misused. After all, the word "ayuh" isn't particularly funny to someone who often says "ayuh." And unless you do say "ayuh" as part of your natural way of speaking, there?s no possible way you can say "ayuh" and have it sound authentic. No possible way in the world. However, dialect can be written. Many of the 19th-century New England humorists -- such as Josh Billings and Charles Farrar Browne, otherwise known as Artemus Ward -- wrote in heavy dialect. And although I believe that the dialect used in even the written New England stories of today more often than not seriously obstructs the humor, the likes of Billings and Artemus Ward made dialect work for them. For example, in 1860 Artemus Ward, who once referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson as "a perpendicular coffin," describes his experience as a census taker in characteristic fashion, even to his jumbled orthography. The Senses taker in our town being taken sick he deppertised me to go out for him one day, and as he was too ill to giv me infomashun how to perceed, I was consekently compelled to go it blind. I drawd up the follerin list of questions which I proposed to ax the people I visited: "Wat's your age? Whar was you born? Air you marrid, and if so, how do you like it? How many children have you ?? Did you ever have the measles, and if so how many? Wat's your fitin wate? Air you trubeld with biles? Do you use boughten tobacker? Is Beans a regler article of diet in your family? Was you ever at Niagry Falls? How many chickens hav you, on foot and in the shell? Was you ever in the Penitentiary?" But it didn't work. I got into a row at the fust house I stopt to, with some old maids. Disbelieven the ansers they giv in regard to their ages I endevered to look at their teeth, same as they do with hosses, but they floo into a violent rage and tackled me with brooms and sich. Takin the senses requires experiunse, like any other bizniss. That was 150 years ago, but even today the line between successful and unsuccessful New England humor is, of course, infinitesimally narrow, depending on timing, voice inflection (if spoken), surprise, and the precise choice of words utilized. The latter is probably the most important. I remember a party my wife and I attended some years ago at which an elderly New Hampshire friend of mine had perhaps one more drink than he should have had. As we were leaving, he and his wife were just ahead of us, and I could hear her gently admonishing him for being "drunk," although he seemed to be walking along all right. I really didn't mean to be eavesdropping, but on the other hand, I'm glad I caught his answer. "Betsey," he said slowly, "a man ain't drunk so long as he can lay down, hang on to the grass, and keep himself from rolling over." Strangely enough, the humor here is, I believe, enhanced by my overhearing it rather than having had it spoken to me directly. Successful humor is often puzzlingly subtle, especially the New England variety. More on this subject in the months to come ? Welcome to the July 2009 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. Old-Time New England Humor: Is It Still Funny? Here's an example from the famous19th-century humorist known as Artemus Ward. You decide ? The use of dialect isn?t an essential ingredient of New England humor. It used to be, however. Today it's more often misused. After all, the word "ayuh" isn't particularly funny to someone who often says "ayuh." And unless you do say "ayuh" as part of your natural way of speaking, there?s no possible way you can say "ayuh" and have it sound authentic. No possible way in the world. However, dialect can be written. Many of the 19th-century New England humorists -- such as Josh Billings and Charles Farrar Browne, otherwise known as Artemus Ward -- wrote in heavy dialect. And although I believe that the dialect used in even the written New England stories of today more often than not seriously obstructs the humor, the likes of Billings and Artemus Ward made dialect work for them. For example, in 1860 Artemus Ward, who once referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson as "a perpendicular coffin," describes his experience as a census taker in characteristic fashion, even to his jumbled orthography. The Senses taker in our town being taken sick he deppertised me to go out for him one day, and as he was too ill to giv me infomashun how to perceed, I was consekently compelled to go it blind. I drawd up the follerin list of questions which I proposed to ax the people I visited: "Wat's your age? Whar was you born? Air you marrid, and if so, how do you like it? How many children have you ?? Did you ever have the measles, and if so how many? Wat's your fitin wate? Air you trubeld with biles? Do you use boughten tobacker? Is Beans a regler article of diet in your family? Was you ever at Niagry Falls? How many chickens hav you, on foot and in the shell? Was you ever in the Penitentiary?" But it didn't work. I got into a row at the fust house I stopt to, with some old maids. Disbelieven the ansers they giv in regard to their ages I endevered to look at their teeth, same as they do with hosses, but they floo into a violent rage and tackled me with brooms and sich. Takin the senses requires experiunse, like any other bizniss. That was 150 years ago, but even today the line between successful and unsuccessful New England humor is, of course, infinitesimally narrow, depending on timing, voice inflection (if spoken), surprise, and the precise choice of words utilized. The latter is probably the most important. I remember a party my wife and I attended some years ago at which an elderly New Hampshire friend of mine had perhaps one more drink than he should have had. As we were leaving, he and his wife were just ahead of us, and I could hear her gently admonishing him for being "drunk," although he seemed to be walking along all right. I really didn't mean to be eavesdropping, but on the other hand, I'm glad I caught his answer. "Betsey," he said slowly, "a man ain't drunk so long as he can lay down, hang on to the grass, and keep himself from rolling over." Strangely enough, the humor here is, I believe, enhanced by my overhearing it rather than having had it spoken to me directly. Successful humor is often puzzlingly subtle, especially the New England variety. More on this subject in the months to come ? tag:odeo.com,2009-06-30,24751386 Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24756033-Old-Time-New-England-Humor-Is-It-Still-Funny Welcome to the July 2009 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. Old-Time New England Humor: Is It Still Funny? Here's an example from the famous19th-century humorist known as Artemus Ward. You decide ? The use of dialect isn?t an essential ingredient of New England humor. It used to be, however. Today it's more often misused. After all, the word "ayuh" isn't particularly funny to someone who often says "ayuh." And unless you do say "ayuh" as part of your natural way of speaking, there?s no possible way you can say "ayuh" and have it sound authentic. No possible way in the world. However, dialect can be written. Many of the 19th-century New England humorists -- such as Josh Billings and Charles Farrar Browne, otherwise known as Artemus Ward -- wrote in heavy dialect. And although I believe that the dialect used in even the written New England stories ... Welcome to the July 2009 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. Old-Time New England Humor: Is It Still Funny? Here's an example from the famous19th-century humorist known as Artemus Ward. You decide ? The use of dialect isn?t an essential ingredient of New England humor. It used to be, however. Today it's more often misused. After all, the word "ayuh" isn't particularly funny to someone who often says "ayuh." And unless you do say "ayuh" as part of your natural way of speaking, there?s no possible way you can say "ayuh" and have it sound authentic. No possible way in the world. However, dialect can be written. Many of the 19th-century New England humorists -- such as Josh Billings and Charles Farrar Browne, otherwise known as Artemus Ward -- wrote in heavy dialect. And although I believe that the dialect used in even the written New England stories of today more often than not seriously obstructs the humor, the likes of Billings and Artemus Ward made dialect work for them. For example, in 1860 Artemus Ward, who once referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson as "a perpendicular coffin," describes his experience as a census taker in characteristic fashion, even to his jumbled orthography. The Senses taker in our town being taken sick he deppertised me to go out for him one day, and as he was too ill to giv me infomashun how to perceed, I was consekently compelled to go it blind. I drawd up the follerin list of questions which I proposed to ax the people I visited: "Wat's your age? Whar was you born? Air you marrid, and if so, how do you like it? How many children have you ?? Did you ever have the measles, and if so how many? Wat's your fitin wate? Air you trubeld with biles? Do you use boughten tobacker? Is Beans a regler article of diet in your family? Was you ever at Niagry Falls? How many chickens hav you, on foot and in the shell? Was you ever in the Penitentiary?" But it didn't work. I got into a row at the fust house I stopt to, with some old maids. Disbelieven the ansers they giv in regard to their ages I endevered to look at their teeth, same as they do with hosses, but they floo into a violent rage and tackled me with brooms and sich. Takin the senses requires experiunse, like any other bizniss. That was 150 years ago, but even today the line between successful and unsuccessful New England humor is, of course, infinitesimally narrow, depending on timing, voice inflection (if spoken), surprise, and the precise choice of words utilized. The latter is probably the most important. I remember a party my wife and I attended some years ago at which an elderly New Hampshire friend of mine had perhaps one more drink than he should have had. As we were leaving, he and his wife were just ahead of us, and I could hear her gently admonishing him for being "drunk," although he seemed to be walking along all right. I really didn't mean to be eavesdropping, but on the other hand, I'm glad I caught his answer. "Betsey," he said slowly, "a man ain't drunk so long as he can lay down, hang on to the grass, and keep himself from rolling over." Strangely enough, the humor here is, I believe, enhanced by my overhearing it rather than having had it spoken to me directly. Successful humor is often puzzlingly subtle, especially the New England variety. More on this subject in the months to come ? Welcome to the July 2009 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. Old-Time New England Humor: Is It Still Funny? Here's an example from the famous19th-century humorist known as Artemus Ward. You decide ? The use of dialect isn?t an essential ingredient of New England humor. It used to be, however. Today it's more often misused. After all, the word "ayuh" isn't particularly funny to someone who often says "ayuh." And unless you do say "ayuh" as part of your natural way of speaking, there?s no possible way you can say "ayuh" and have it sound authentic. No possible way in the world. However, dialect can be written. Many of the 19th-century New England humorists -- such as Josh Billings and Charles Farrar Browne, otherwise known as Artemus Ward -- wrote in heavy dialect. And although I believe that the dialect used in even the written New England stories of today more often than not seriously obstructs the humor, the likes of Billings and Artemus Ward made dialect work for them. For example, in 1860 Artemus Ward, who once referred to Ralph Waldo Emerson as "a perpendicular coffin," describes his experience as a census taker in characteristic fashion, even to his jumbled orthography. The Senses taker in our town being taken sick he deppertised me to go out for him one day, and as he was too ill to giv me infomashun how to perceed, I was consekently compelled to go it blind. I drawd up the follerin list of questions which I proposed to ax the people I visited: "Wat's your age? Whar was you born? Air you marrid, and if so, how do you like it? How many children have you ?? Did you ever have the measles, and if so how many? Wat's your fitin wate? Air you trubeld with biles? Do you use boughten tobacker? Is Beans a regler article of diet in your family? Was you ever at Niagry Falls? How many chickens hav you, on foot and in the shell? Was you ever in the Penitentiary?" But it didn't work. I got into a row at the fust house I stopt to, with some old maids. Disbelieven the ansers they giv in regard to their ages I endevered to look at their teeth, same as they do with hosses, but they floo into a violent rage and tackled me with brooms and sich. Takin the senses requires experiunse, like any other bizniss. That was 150 years ago, but even today the line between successful and unsuccessful New England humor is, of course, infinitesimally narrow, depending on timing, voice inflection (if spoken), surprise, and the precise choice of words utilized. The latter is probably the most important. I remember a party my wife and I attended some years ago at which an elderly New Hampshire friend of mine had perhaps one more drink than he should have had. As we were leaving, he and his wife were just ahead of us, and I could hear her gently admonishing him for being "drunk," although he seemed to be walking along all right. I really didn't mean to be eavesdropping, but on the other hand, I'm glad I caught his answer. "Betsey," he said slowly, "a man ain't drunk so long as he can lay down, hang on to the grass, and keep himself from rolling over." Strangely enough, the humor here is, I believe, enhanced by my overhearing it rather than having had it spoken to me directly. Successful humor is often puzzlingly subtle, especially the New England variety. More on this subject in the months to come ? tag:odeo.com,2009-06-30,24756033 Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24634937-Rhode-Islanders-Will-Tolerate-Most-Anything Welcome to the June 2009 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. Rhode Islanders Will Tolerate Most Anything Well, most anything except inaccuracy. Concern for accuracy -- particularly historical accuracy -- is a trait shared by all New Englanders, but it seems most highly developed in Rhode Islanders. Their noted tolerance in other matters (they were, for instance, the first civilized community in the world to allow freedom of religion), doesn?t extend to errors. Over the years, whenever we've published something containing even the most minor mistake, we hear first and most often from Rhode Islanders. "Your December cover painting showing the church choir is nice but inaccurate. The American flag just visible on the left of the clergyman as he faces the congregation is in the wrong position. According to Public Law 829, 77th Congress, Chapter 806, s... Welcome to the June 2009 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. Rhode Islanders Will Tolerate Most Anything Well, most anything except inaccuracy. Concern for accuracy -- particularly historical accuracy -- is a trait shared by all New Englanders, but it seems most highly developed in Rhode Islanders. Their noted tolerance in other matters (they were, for instance, the first civilized community in the world to allow freedom of religion), doesn?t extend to errors. Over the years, whenever we've published something containing even the most minor mistake, we hear first and most often from Rhode Islanders. "Your December cover painting showing the church choir is nice but inaccurate. The American flag just visible on the left of the clergyman as he faces the congregation is in the wrong position. According to Public Law 829, 77th Congress, Chapter 806, second session HJRES 359, it should be instead on the right." This from Wakefield, Rhode Island. When we mentioned in some article that the distance from Rhode Island to New York was quite a few miles, we heard not a word from our New York subscribers. But from Rhode Island we received an avalanche of mail, each letter and postcard (this was before e-mails) pointing out to us that the two states actually border one another -- out in Long Island Sound. Many gave us a seagull analogy. "A seagull might sit in the water at a certain point in Long Island Sound and have his tail feathers in New York, his beak in Rhode Island, and his left wing in Connecticut." In southern Massachusetts just south of Worcester is a lake we mentioned in an issue of Yankee/ as Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. A few days after that issue came out, we heard from several Rhode Island readers who told us we'd misspelled it. There should have been, they said, another "g" after our fourth "g." We noted and corrected the error in our next issue. In the interest of further accuracy, I?d add a linguistic observation or two for those wishing to assimilate quickly into the community that is Rhode Island. Probably needless to say now, never refer to Rhode Island Reds as communists. Rhode Islanders never did think that was particularly funny. More important, the state should be pronounced "Ruh Dilan." If that concern seems stupid, then call it "stupit" -- pronounced stoo -- pit. Of course, the Rhode Island language is a whole other story in itself. Welcome to the June 2009 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. Rhode Islanders Will Tolerate Most Anything Well, most anything except inaccuracy. Concern for accuracy -- particularly historical accuracy -- is a trait shared by all New Englanders, but it seems most highly developed in Rhode Islanders. Their noted tolerance in other matters (they were, for instance, the first civilized community in the world to allow freedom of religion), doesn?t extend to errors. Over the years, whenever we've published something containing even the most minor mistake, we hear first and most often from Rhode Islanders. "Your December cover painting showing the church choir is nice but inaccurate. The American flag just visible on the left of the clergyman as he faces the congregation is in the wrong position. According to Public Law 829, 77th Congress, Chapter 806, second session HJRES 359, it should be instead on the right." This from Wakefield, Rhode Island. When we mentioned in some article that the distance from Rhode Island to New York was quite a few miles, we heard not a word from our New York subscribers. But from Rhode Island we received an avalanche of mail, each letter and postcard (this was before e-mails) pointing out to us that the two states actually border one another -- out in Long Island Sound. Many gave us a seagull analogy. "A seagull might sit in the water at a certain point in Long Island Sound and have his tail feathers in New York, his beak in Rhode Island, and his left wing in Connecticut." In southern Massachusetts just south of Worcester is a lake we mentioned in an issue of Yankee/ as Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. A few days after that issue came out, we heard from several Rhode Island readers who told us we'd misspelled it. There should have been, they said, another "g" after our fourth "g." We noted and corrected the error in our next issue. In the interest of further accuracy, I?d add a linguistic observation or two for those wishing to assimilate quickly into the community that is Rhode Island. Probably needless to say now, never refer to Rhode Island Reds as communists. Rhode Islanders never did think that was particularly funny. More important, the state should be pronounced "Ruh Dilan." If that concern seems stupid, then call it "stupit" -- pronounced stoo -- pit. Of course, the Rhode Island language is a whole other story in itself. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-31,24634937 Sun, 31 May 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24635027-Rhode-Islanders-Will-Tolerate-Most-Anything Welcome to the June 2009 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. Rhode Islanders Will Tolerate Most Anything Well, most anything except inaccuracy. Concern for accuracy -- particularly historical accuracy -- is a trait shared by all New Englanders, but it seems most highly developed in Rhode Islanders. Their noted tolerance in other matters (they were, for instance, the first civilized community in the world to allow freedom of religion), doesn?t extend to errors. Over the years, whenever we've published something containing even the most minor mistake, we hear first and most often from Rhode Islanders. "Your December cover painting showing the church choir is nice but inaccurate. The American flag just visible on the left of the clergyman as he faces the congregation is in the wrong position. According to Public Law 829, 77th Congress, Chapter 806, s... Welcome to the June 2009 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. Rhode Islanders Will Tolerate Most Anything Well, most anything except inaccuracy. Concern for accuracy -- particularly historical accuracy -- is a trait shared by all New Englanders, but it seems most highly developed in Rhode Islanders. Their noted tolerance in other matters (they were, for instance, the first civilized community in the world to allow freedom of religion), doesn?t extend to errors. Over the years, whenever we've published something containing even the most minor mistake, we hear first and most often from Rhode Islanders. "Your December cover painting showing the church choir is nice but inaccurate. The American flag just visible on the left of the clergyman as he faces the congregation is in the wrong position. According to Public Law 829, 77th Congress, Chapter 806, second session HJRES 359, it should be instead on the right." This from Wakefield, Rhode Island. When we mentioned in some article that the distance from Rhode Island to New York was quite a few miles, we heard not a word from our New York subscribers. But from Rhode Island we received an avalanche of mail, each letter and postcard (this was before e-mails) pointing out to us that the two states actually border one another -- out in Long Island Sound. Many gave us a seagull analogy. "A seagull might sit in the water at a certain point in Long Island Sound and have his tail feathers in New York, his beak in Rhode Island, and his left wing in Connecticut." In southern Massachusetts just south of Worcester is a lake we mentioned in an issue of Yankee/ as Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. A few days after that issue came out, we heard from several Rhode Island readers who told us we'd misspelled it. There should have been, they said, another "g" after our fourth "g." We noted and corrected the error in our next issue. In the interest of further accuracy, I?d add a linguistic observation or two for those wishing to assimilate quickly into the community that is Rhode Island. Probably needless to say now, never refer to Rhode Island Reds as communists. Rhode Islanders never did think that was particularly funny. More important, the state should be pronounced "Ruh Dilan." If that concern seems stupid, then call it "stupit" -- pronounced stoo -- pit. Of course, the Rhode Island language is a whole other story in itself. Welcome to the June 2009 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. Rhode Islanders Will Tolerate Most Anything Well, most anything except inaccuracy. Concern for accuracy -- particularly historical accuracy -- is a trait shared by all New Englanders, but it seems most highly developed in Rhode Islanders. Their noted tolerance in other matters (they were, for instance, the first civilized community in the world to allow freedom of religion), doesn?t extend to errors. Over the years, whenever we've published something containing even the most minor mistake, we hear first and most often from Rhode Islanders. "Your December cover painting showing the church choir is nice but inaccurate. The American flag just visible on the left of the clergyman as he faces the congregation is in the wrong position. According to Public Law 829, 77th Congress, Chapter 806, second session HJRES 359, it should be instead on the right." This from Wakefield, Rhode Island. When we mentioned in some article that the distance from Rhode Island to New York was quite a few miles, we heard not a word from our New York subscribers. But from Rhode Island we received an avalanche of mail, each letter and postcard (this was before e-mails) pointing out to us that the two states actually border one another -- out in Long Island Sound. Many gave us a seagull analogy. "A seagull might sit in the water at a certain point in Long Island Sound and have his tail feathers in New York, his beak in Rhode Island, and his left wing in Connecticut." In southern Massachusetts just south of Worcester is a lake we mentioned in an issue of Yankee/ as Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. A few days after that issue came out, we heard from several Rhode Island readers who told us we'd misspelled it. There should have been, they said, another "g" after our fourth "g." We noted and corrected the error in our next issue. In the interest of further accuracy, I?d add a linguistic observation or two for those wishing to assimilate quickly into the community that is Rhode Island. Probably needless to say now, never refer to Rhode Island Reds as communists. Rhode Islanders never did think that was particularly funny. More important, the state should be pronounced "Ruh Dilan." If that concern seems stupid, then call it "stupit" -- pronounced stoo -- pit. Of course, the Rhode Island language is a whole other story in itself. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-31,24635027 Sun, 31 May 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24521309-It-s-Not-Easy-Being-a-Genealogist-in-New-England Welcome to the May 2009 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. It's Not Easy Being a Genealogist in New England For instance, how could you tell if a child happened to be illegitimate? Well, there are ways ? There's a tombstone in the cemetery of Cornwall, Connecticut, that reads as follows: "Here lies interred the body of Mr. John Sage, who departed this life on January 22, 1750, in the 83rd year of his age. He left a virtuous and sorrowful wife with whom he lived 57 years and had fifteen children. Twelve of them married and increased the family by repeated marriages to the number of twenty-nine. He had 120 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren, 37 now living, which makes the number of offspring 189." Today, John's descendants are most likely in the millions. Abaih Edgerton of Pawlet, Vermont, left 209 descendants when he died at age 85. Eight famil... Welcome to the May 2009 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. It's Not Easy Being a Genealogist in New England For instance, how could you tell if a child happened to be illegitimate? Well, there are ways ? There's a tombstone in the cemetery of Cornwall, Connecticut, that reads as follows: "Here lies interred the body of Mr. John Sage, who departed this life on January 22, 1750, in the 83rd year of his age. He left a virtuous and sorrowful wife with whom he lived 57 years and had fifteen children. Twelve of them married and increased the family by repeated marriages to the number of twenty-nine. He had 120 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren, 37 now living, which makes the number of offspring 189." Today, John's descendants are most likely in the millions. Abaih Edgerton of Pawlet, Vermont, left 209 descendants when he died at age 85. Eight families in Clarendon Springs, Vermont, produced exactly 113 children, including only one pair of twins. And Nantucket's Tristan Coffin supposedly left even more descendants. Keeping the branches untangled on these huge family trees is often a nightmare for genealogists. A common complication arises from the fact that many New England men outlived several wives and then, after marrying again late in life, sired more children. A hundred-year-old Connecticut journal mentioned by genealogist Donald Lines Jacobus in his book Genealogy as Pastime and Profession says: "Died of physical exhaustion, Lieut. John Brandon of Saybrook at the age of 110 years. He left him a young widow and three children, the latter all under 10 years of age." (I'm not at all sure I believe that.) I do know for a fact, however, that one Thomas William, second earl of Leicester, England, sired a son at a time when one of his daughters was already a grandmother. And from the records of the New England Historic Genealogical Society, going strong in Boston since 1845, I note that a certain Colonel William Webster, age 67, married a Martha Winslow of Kingston, New Hampshire, who was 19. She also happened to be the colonel's sister's granddaughter. Martha, then, was wife to her great-uncle, sister-in-law to her grandfather and grandmother, aunt to her mother and father, and great-aunt to her brothers and sisters. She was also stepmother to five children, fourteen grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Illegitimacy is another problem -- not only because the records of illegitimate children are vague, but also because a professional genealogist will sometimes ignore a discovery of illegitimacy in order to spare his client any possible distress. Or let's say they used to. It's not so much a factor today. But discovering that an ancestor was hanged or otherwise executed is still ignored by some genealogists. Donald Lines Jacobus cites just such a case. He says that the history of a certain New England family published some years ago correctly states the date and place of a family member's death. What it does not include is the fact that said family member was executed on that date for being "one of the greatest mass murderers known to American criminal history." One method of spotting an illegitimate girl in a New England family tree is by the actual name. It was sometimes considered appropriate to call girls born out of wedlock names such as Lament and Trial. (Boys born out of wedlock are more difficult for genealogists to identify, as they were usually given the name of the reputed father, if known ?) Those poor little girls. How would you like to go through life with a name like Lament? Welcome to the May 2009 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. It's Not Easy Being a Genealogist in New England For instance, how could you tell if a child happened to be illegitimate? Well, there are ways ? There's a tombstone in the cemetery of Cornwall, Connecticut, that reads as follows: "Here lies interred the body of Mr. John Sage, who departed this life on January 22, 1750, in the 83rd year of his age. He left a virtuous and sorrowful wife with whom he lived 57 years and had fifteen children. Twelve of them married and increased the family by repeated marriages to the number of twenty-nine. He had 120 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren, 37 now living, which makes the number of offspring 189." Today, John's descendants are most likely in the millions. Abaih Edgerton of Pawlet, Vermont, left 209 descendants when he died at age 85. Eight families in Clarendon Springs, Vermont, produced exactly 113 children, including only one pair of twins. And Nantucket's Tristan Coffin supposedly left even more descendants. Keeping the branches untangled on these huge family trees is often a nightmare for genealogists. A common complication arises from the fact that many New England men outlived several wives and then, after marrying again late in life, sired more children. A hundred-year-old Connecticut journal mentioned by genealogist Donald Lines Jacobus in his book Genealogy as Pastime and Profession says: "Died of physical exhaustion, Lieut. John Brandon of Saybrook at the age of 110 years. He left him a young widow and three children, the latter all under 10 years of age." (I'm not at all sure I believe that.) I do know for a fact, however, that one Thomas William, second earl of Leicester, England, sired a son at a time when one of his daughters was already a grandmother. And from the records of the New England Historic Genealogical Society, going strong in Boston since 1845, I note that a certain Colonel William Webster, age 67, married a Martha Winslow of Kingston, New Hampshire, who was 19. She also happened to be the colonel's sister's granddaughter. Martha, then, was wife to her great-uncle, sister-in-law to her grandfather and grandmother, aunt to her mother and father, and great-aunt to her brothers and sisters. She was also stepmother to five children, fourteen grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Illegitimacy is another problem -- not only because the records of illegitimate children are vague, but also because a professional genealogist will sometimes ignore a discovery of illegitimacy in order to spare his client any possible distress. Or let's say they used to. It's not so much a factor today. But discovering that an ancestor was hanged or otherwise executed is still ignored by some genealogists. Donald Lines Jacobus cites just such a case. He says that the history of a certain New England family published some years ago correctly states the date and place of a family member's death. What it does not include is the fact that said family member was executed on that date for being "one of the greatest mass murderers known to American criminal history." One method of spotting an illegitimate girl in a New England family tree is by the actual name. It was sometimes considered appropriate to call girls born out of wedlock names such as Lament and Trial. (Boys born out of wedlock are more difficult for genealogists to identify, as they were usually given the name of the reputed father, if known ?) Those poor little girls. How would you like to go through life with a name like Lament? tag:odeo.com,2009-04-30,24521309 Thu, 30 Apr 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24521914-It-s-Not-Easy-Being-a-Genealogist-in-New-England Welcome to the May 2009 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. It's Not Easy Being a Genealogist in New England For instance, how could you tell if a child happened to be illegitimate? Well, there are ways ? There's a tombstone in the cemetery of Cornwall, Connecticut, that reads as follows: "Here lies interred the body of Mr. John Sage, who departed this life on January 22, 1750, in the 83rd year of his age. He left a virtuous and sorrowful wife with whom he lived 57 years and had fifteen children. Twelve of them married and increased the family by repeated marriages to the number of twenty-nine. He had 120 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren, 37 now living, which makes the number of offspring 189." Today, John's descendants are most likely in the millions. Abaih Edgerton of Pawlet, Vermont, left 209 descendants when he died at age 85. Eight famil... Welcome to the May 2009 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. It's Not Easy Being a Genealogist in New England For instance, how could you tell if a child happened to be illegitimate? Well, there are ways ? There's a tombstone in the cemetery of Cornwall, Connecticut, that reads as follows: "Here lies interred the body of Mr. John Sage, who departed this life on January 22, 1750, in the 83rd year of his age. He left a virtuous and sorrowful wife with whom he lived 57 years and had fifteen children. Twelve of them married and increased the family by repeated marriages to the number of twenty-nine. He had 120 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren, 37 now living, which makes the number of offspring 189." Today, John's descendants are most likely in the millions. Abaih Edgerton of Pawlet, Vermont, left 209 descendants when he died at age 85. Eight families in Clarendon Springs, Vermont, produced exactly 113 children, including only one pair of twins. And Nantucket's Tristan Coffin supposedly left even more descendants. Keeping the branches untangled on these huge family trees is often a nightmare for genealogists. A common complication arises from the fact that many New England men outlived several wives and then, after marrying again late in life, sired more children. A hundred-year-old Connecticut journal mentioned by genealogist Donald Lines Jacobus in his book Genealogy as Pastime and Profession says: "Died of physical exhaustion, Lieut. John Brandon of Saybrook at the age of 110 years. He left him a young widow and three children, the latter all under 10 years of age." (I'm not at all sure I believe that.) I do know for a fact, however, that one Thomas William, second earl of Leicester, England, sired a son at a time when one of his daughters was already a grandmother. And from the records of the New England Historic Genealogical Society, going strong in Boston since 1845, I note that a certain Colonel William Webster, age 67, married a Martha Winslow of Kingston, New Hampshire, who was 19. She also happened to be the colonel's sister's granddaughter. Martha, then, was wife to her great-uncle, sister-in-law to her grandfather and grandmother, aunt to her mother and father, and great-aunt to her brothers and sisters. She was also stepmother to five children, fourteen grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Illegitimacy is another problem -- not only because the records of illegitimate children are vague, but also because a professional genealogist will sometimes ignore a discovery of illegitimacy in order to spare his client any possible distress. Or let's say they used to. It's not so much a factor today. But discovering that an ancestor was hanged or otherwise executed is still ignored by some genealogists. Donald Lines Jacobus cites just such a case. He says that the history of a certain New England family published some years ago correctly states the date and place of a family member's death. What it does not include is the fact that said family member was executed on that date for being "one of the greatest mass murderers known to American criminal history." One method of spotting an illegitimate girl in a New England family tree is by the actual name. It was sometimes considered appropriate to call girls born out of wedlock names such as Lament and Trial. (Boys born out of wedlock are more difficult for genealogists to identify, as they were usually given the name of the reputed father, if known ?) Those poor little girls. How would you like to go through life with a name like Lament? Welcome to the May 2009 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. It's Not Easy Being a Genealogist in New England For instance, how could you tell if a child happened to be illegitimate? Well, there are ways ? There's a tombstone in the cemetery of Cornwall, Connecticut, that reads as follows: "Here lies interred the body of Mr. John Sage, who departed this life on January 22, 1750, in the 83rd year of his age. He left a virtuous and sorrowful wife with whom he lived 57 years and had fifteen children. Twelve of them married and increased the family by repeated marriages to the number of twenty-nine. He had 120 grandchildren, 40 great-grandchildren, 37 now living, which makes the number of offspring 189." Today, John's descendants are most likely in the millions. Abaih Edgerton of Pawlet, Vermont, left 209 descendants when he died at age 85. Eight families in Clarendon Springs, Vermont, produced exactly 113 children, including only one pair of twins. And Nantucket's Tristan Coffin supposedly left even more descendants. Keeping the branches untangled on these huge family trees is often a nightmare for genealogists. A common complication arises from the fact that many New England men outlived several wives and then, after marrying again late in life, sired more children. A hundred-year-old Connecticut journal mentioned by genealogist Donald Lines Jacobus in his book Genealogy as Pastime and Profession says: "Died of physical exhaustion, Lieut. John Brandon of Saybrook at the age of 110 years. He left him a young widow and three children, the latter all under 10 years of age." (I'm not at all sure I believe that.) I do know for a fact, however, that one Thomas William, second earl of Leicester, England, sired a son at a time when one of his daughters was already a grandmother. And from the records of the New England Historic Genealogical Society, going strong in Boston since 1845, I note that a certain Colonel William Webster, age 67, married a Martha Winslow of Kingston, New Hampshire, who was 19. She also happened to be the colonel's sister's granddaughter. Martha, then, was wife to her great-uncle, sister-in-law to her grandfather and grandmother, aunt to her mother and father, and great-aunt to her brothers and sisters. She was also stepmother to five children, fourteen grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Illegitimacy is another problem -- not only because the records of illegitimate children are vague, but also because a professional genealogist will sometimes ignore a discovery of illegitimacy in order to spare his client any possible distress. Or let's say they used to. It's not so much a factor today. But discovering that an ancestor was hanged or otherwise executed is still ignored by some genealogists. Donald Lines Jacobus cites just such a case. He says that the history of a certain New England family published some years ago correctly states the date and place of a family member's death. What it does not include is the fact that said family member was executed on that date for being "one of the greatest mass murderers known to American criminal history." One method of spotting an illegitimate girl in a New England family tree is by the actual name. It was sometimes considered appropriate to call girls born out of wedlock names such as Lament and Trial. (Boys born out of wedlock are more difficult for genealogists to identify, as they were usually given the name of the reputed father, if known ?) Those poor little girls. How would you like to go through life with a name like Lament? tag:odeo.com,2009-04-30,24521914 Thu, 30 Apr 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25335055-The-Five-Men-I-Know-in-Every-New-England-Town Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. Hell tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the churchs executive committe... Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. Hell tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the churchs executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. Hell tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the churchs executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble tag:odeo.com,2009-03-31,25335055 Tue, 31 Mar 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25334632-The-Five-Men-I-Know-in-Every-New-England-Town Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. Hell tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the churchs executive committe... Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. Hell tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the churchs executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. Hell tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the churchs executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble tag:odeo.com,2009-03-31,25334632 Tue, 31 Mar 2009 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24387409-The-Five-Men-I-Know-in-Every-New-England-Town Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes ? THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. He?ll tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the church?s executive comm... Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes ? THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. He?ll tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the church?s executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble ? Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes ? THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. He?ll tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the church?s executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble ? tag:odeo.com,2009-03-31,24387409 Tue, 31 Mar 2009 19:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24387568-The-Five-Men-I-Know-in-Every-New-England-Town Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes ? THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. He?ll tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the church?s executive comm... Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes ? THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. He?ll tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the church?s executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble ? Welcome to the April 2009 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. The Five Men I Know in Every New England Town Last month I described the six women everyone knows. What about the men everyone knows? Well, in the interest of equal treatment, avoiding accusations of sexism and once again risking stereotyping, here are five men I maintain live in every New England community. Yes, every one. Ready? Okay, here goes ? THE HISTORIAN -- usually an elderly man (or at least a longwinded one) and almost always a native. He?ll tell you, often without even being asked, exactly where the old hotel once stood, the names of all the people who stayed there each summer, and what the weather was like the day before, the day, and the day after it burned to the ground. THE DOER -- a member of the working professionals in town, he's chairman of the church?s executive committee, serves as town selectman, raises money for the regional hospital, and convinces "the Club" to allow townspeople to play on their golf course during the spring and fall. His wife is president of the Women's Club. THE ECCENTRIC -- His actions are, well, just a little strange. One of my favorites in this category was a man living in nearby Peterborough, New Hampshire, who had an inordinate love of beavers. That's right, beavers. His property bordered a large beaver pond. Each morning for a number of years he stood at the edge of the pond calling to the beavers. "Here, beaver, beaver, beaver! Here, beaver!" is what he repeatedly yelled, with apparently no reaction whatsoever from the beavers. I'm told that after some three years of this on an almost daily basis, one morning a single beaver finally emerged from the water near the shore in front of him, waddled up to our Eccentric, and bit him quite severely on his outstretched hand. (I'm not really certain whether this last part is true.) THE MYSTERY MAN -- one of the very few people in town whose ancestry and place of birth cannot be determined. Also, no one is quite sure what he does for a living or whether he ever had a wife and family. Or why he leaves town for 10 days every three months during odd-numbered years. The Mystery Man causes extreme frustration. THE CELEBRITY -- who either commanded the Second Army in Europe during World War II, wrote the screenplay for an early Fred MacMurray or Ronald Reagan movie, or was aboard Admiral Byrd's plane on the first flight over the North Pole in May 1926. Although now in his nineties, the Celebrity, more often than not, still wears an ascot. There are some others. But I think it would probably be best to quit before I really get in trouble ? tag:odeo.com,2009-03-31,24387568 Tue, 31 Mar 2009 19:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24236347-Six-Women-I-Know-in-Every-New-England-Town Welcome to the March 2009 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. Six Women I Know in Every New England Town No doubt you know them, too. Everybody does. Stereotyping people is "out" these days, and rightly so. But sometimes I can't help doing it. For instance, here's how I?d describe six particular women I've known all my life. I'll label them: 1) The Force, 2) The Do-Gooder, 3) The Good Cook, 4) The Gossip, 5) The Voice, and 6) That Woman. THE FORCE -- always a woman and always a native. Her blessing is absolutely crucial to the success of most any church, school, or town organization project. She never speaks out at meetings, and in private, speaks out only to her most intimate friends. Since the opinions she expresses, even privately, are always in the negative, any project about which she has failed to utter a single word is considered to have he... Welcome to the March 2009 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. Six Women I Know in Every New England Town No doubt you know them, too. Everybody does. Stereotyping people is "out" these days, and rightly so. But sometimes I can't help doing it. For instance, here's how I?d describe six particular women I've known all my life. I'll label them: 1) The Force, 2) The Do-Gooder, 3) The Good Cook, 4) The Gossip, 5) The Voice, and 6) That Woman. THE FORCE -- always a woman and always a native. Her blessing is absolutely crucial to the success of most any church, school, or town organization project. She never speaks out at meetings, and in private, speaks out only to her most intimate friends. Since the opinions she expresses, even privately, are always in the negative, any project about which she has failed to utter a single word is considered to have her heartfelt support. How her considerable power in the community is derived has always been a mystery to me. THE DO-GOODER -- a wealthy elderly woman who has waged a lifelong crusade against cruelty to animals, once suggested back in the '60s that an African American be invited to speak on integration as part of the Thursday afternoon lecture series at "The Club," and occasionally holds a seminar at her mansion for the purpose of "breaking down the silly barriers between summer people and townspeople." The seminars, incidentally, always result in stimulating and lively discourses among the summer people present. There are, of course, no townspeople there. THE GOOD COOK -- always a native and usually a woman. At church suppers, people take pieces of her lemon meringue pies from the serving tables before the main-course dishes, just to be sure. She can cook and manage a baked-bean-roast-beef-and-hot-rolls supper for 200 people -- served exactly at the announced time, every dish piping hot, and with bottomless cups of incredibly good coffee. In marked contrast to The Good Cook, The Good Cook's husband is quite skinny. THE GOSSIP -- usually a native and always, owing probably to stereotyped attitudes, a woman. Of course, every man and woman in town is, in varying degrees, a gossip. As Thornton Wilder once said, "In our town we like to know the facts about everybody." But The Gossip, either the general store owner's wife, the postmaster, the librarian, or at least someone with ready access to people on a day-to-day basis, is counted upon by everyone in town to either confirm or deny the latest rumors. She always confirms them. And adds to them. Also, she's an unwitting tool for a few wily residents who use her to spread their version of certain common information. THE VOICE -- either a townsperson or a summer person. The Voice is usually a woman but may be a man, too. The Voice sings at every town occasion in which solo singing is called for. During the singing of hymns in church, The Voice sings more loudly than everyone else and holds her notes a split second longer than everyone else. The Voice is a soprano (or, depending on sex, a tenor) and is quick to lead singalongs at parties, beginning with "Moonlight Bay." The Voice once choked during a church Christmas solo, and no one has ever mentioned the incident from that day to this. THAT WOMAN -- she may not be pretty in the classic sense, but there's something vaguely exotic -- and cheap -- about her appearance. She wears her hair long, she uses elaborate facial makeup, and she elicits from each and every woman in town, summer person and townsperson alike, an instant and irrevocable hate. On sight. Maybe next month I'll describe a few of the men in town we all know... Welcome to the March 2009 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. Six Women I Know in Every New England Town No doubt you know them, too. Everybody does. Stereotyping people is "out" these days, and rightly so. But sometimes I can't help doing it. For instance, here's how I?d describe six particular women I've known all my life. I'll label them: 1) The Force, 2) The Do-Gooder, 3) The Good Cook, 4) The Gossip, 5) The Voice, and 6) That Woman. THE FORCE -- always a woman and always a native. Her blessing is absolutely crucial to the success of most any church, school, or town organization project. She never speaks out at meetings, and in private, speaks out only to her most intimate friends. Since the opinions she expresses, even privately, are always in the negative, any project about which she has failed to utter a single word is considered to have her heartfelt support. How her considerable power in the community is derived has always been a mystery to me. THE DO-GOODER -- a wealthy elderly woman who has waged a lifelong crusade against cruelty to animals, once suggested back in the '60s that an African American be invited to speak on integration as part of the Thursday afternoon lecture series at "The Club," and occasionally holds a seminar at her mansion for the purpose of "breaking down the silly barriers between summer people and townspeople." The seminars, incidentally, always result in stimulating and lively discourses among the summer people present. There are, of course, no townspeople there. THE GOOD COOK -- always a native and usually a woman. At church suppers, people take pieces of her lemon meringue pies from the serving tables before the main-course dishes, just to be sure. She can cook and manage a baked-bean-roast-beef-and-hot-rolls supper for 200 people -- served exactly at the announced time, every dish piping hot, and with bottomless cups of incredibly good coffee. In marked contrast to The Good Cook, The Good Cook's husband is quite skinny. THE GOSSIP -- usually a native and always, owing probably to stereotyped attitudes, a woman. Of course, every man and woman in town is, in varying degrees, a gossip. As Thornton Wilder once said, "In our town we like to know the facts about everybody." But The Gossip, either the general store owner's wife, the postmaster, the librarian, or at least someone with ready access to people on a day-to-day basis, is counted upon by everyone in town to either confirm or deny the latest rumors. She always confirms them. And adds to them. Also, she's an unwitting tool for a few wily residents who use her to spread their version of certain common information. THE VOICE -- either a townsperson or a summer person. The Voice is usually a woman but may be a man, too. The Voice sings at every town occasion in which solo singing is called for. During the singing of hymns in church, The Voice sings more loudly than everyone else and holds her notes a split second longer than everyone else. The Voice is a soprano (or, depending on sex, a tenor) and is quick to lead singalongs at parties, beginning with "Moonlight Bay." The Voice once choked during a church Christmas solo, and no one has ever mentioned the incident from that day to this. THAT WOMAN -- she may not be pretty in the classic sense, but there's something vaguely exotic -- and cheap -- about her appearance. She wears her hair long, she uses elaborate facial makeup, and she elicits from each and every woman in town, summer person and townsperson alike, an instant and irrevocable hate. On sight. Maybe next month I'll describe a few of the men in town we all know... tag:odeo.com,2009-02-28,24236347 Sat, 28 Feb 2009 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24236403-Six-Women-I-Know-in-Every-New-England-Town Welcome to the March 2009 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. Six Women I Know in Every New England Town No doubt you know them, too. Everybody does. Stereotyping people is "out" these days, and rightly so. But sometimes I can't help doing it. For instance, here's how I?d describe six particular women I've known all my life. I'll label them: 1) The Force, 2) The Do-Gooder, 3) The Good Cook, 4) The Gossip, 5) The Voice, and 6) That Woman. THE FORCE -- always a woman and always a native. Her blessing is absolutely crucial to the success of most any church, school, or town organization project. She never speaks out at meetings, and in private, speaks out only to her most intimate friends. Since the opinions she expresses, even privately, are always in the negative, any project about which she has failed to utter a single word is considered to have he... Welcome to the March 2009 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. Six Women I Know in Every New England Town No doubt you know them, too. Everybody does. Stereotyping people is "out" these days, and rightly so. But sometimes I can't help doing it. For instance, here's how I?d describe six particular women I've known all my life. I'll label them: 1) The Force, 2) The Do-Gooder, 3) The Good Cook, 4) The Gossip, 5) The Voice, and 6) That Woman. THE FORCE -- always a woman and always a native. Her blessing is absolutely crucial to the success of most any church, school, or town organization project. She never speaks out at meetings, and in private, speaks out only to her most intimate friends. Since the opinions she expresses, even privately, are always in the negative, any project about which she has failed to utter a single word is considered to have her heartfelt support. How her considerable power in the community is derived has always been a mystery to me. THE DO-GOODER -- a wealthy elderly woman who has waged a lifelong crusade against cruelty to animals, once suggested back in the '60s that an African American be invited to speak on integration as part of the Thursday afternoon lecture series at "The Club," and occasionally holds a seminar at her mansion for the purpose of "breaking down the silly barriers between summer people and townspeople." The seminars, incidentally, always result in stimulating and lively discourses among the summer people present. There are, of course, no townspeople there. THE GOOD COOK -- always a native and usually a woman. At church suppers, people take pieces of her lemon meringue pies from the serving tables before the main-course dishes, just to be sure. She can cook and manage a baked-bean-roast-beef-and-hot-rolls supper for 200 people -- served exactly at the announced time, every dish piping hot, and with bottomless cups of incredibly good coffee. In marked contrast to The Good Cook, The Good Cook's husband is quite skinny. THE GOSSIP -- usually a native and always, owing probably to stereotyped attitudes, a woman. Of course, every man and woman in town is, in varying degrees, a gossip. As Thornton Wilder once said, "In our town we like to know the facts about everybody." But The Gossip, either the general store owner's wife, the postmaster, the librarian, or at least someone with ready access to people on a day-to-day basis, is counted upon by everyone in town to either confirm or deny the latest rumors. She always confirms them. And adds to them. Also, she's an unwitting tool for a few wily residents who use her to spread their version of certain common information. THE VOICE -- either a townsperson or a summer person. The Voice is usually a woman but may be a man, too. The Voice sings at every town occasion in which solo singing is called for. During the singing of hymns in church, The Voice sings more loudly than everyone else and holds her notes a split second longer than everyone else. The Voice is a soprano (or, depending on sex, a tenor) and is quick to lead singalongs at parties, beginning with "Moonlight Bay." The Voice once choked during a church Christmas solo, and no one has ever mentioned the incident from that day to this. THAT WOMAN -- she may not be pretty in the classic sense, but there's something vaguely exotic -- and cheap -- about her appearance. She wears her hair long, she uses elaborate facial makeup, and she elicits from each and every woman in town, summer person and townsperson alike, an instant and irrevocable hate. On sight. Maybe next month I'll describe a few of the men in town we all know... Welcome to the March 2009 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. Six Women I Know in Every New England Town No doubt you know them, too. Everybody does. Stereotyping people is "out" these days, and rightly so. But sometimes I can't help doing it. For instance, here's how I?d describe six particular women I've known all my life. I'll label them: 1) The Force, 2) The Do-Gooder, 3) The Good Cook, 4) The Gossip, 5) The Voice, and 6) That Woman. THE FORCE -- always a woman and always a native. Her blessing is absolutely crucial to the success of most any church, school, or town organization project. She never speaks out at meetings, and in private, speaks out only to her most intimate friends. Since the opinions she expresses, even privately, are always in the negative, any project about which she has failed to utter a single word is considered to have her heartfelt support. How her considerable power in the community is derived has always been a mystery to me. THE DO-GOODER -- a wealthy elderly woman who has waged a lifelong crusade against cruelty to animals, once suggested back in the '60s that an African American be invited to speak on integration as part of the Thursday afternoon lecture series at "The Club," and occasionally holds a seminar at her mansion for the purpose of "breaking down the silly barriers between summer people and townspeople." The seminars, incidentally, always result in stimulating and lively discourses among the summer people present. There are, of course, no townspeople there. THE GOOD COOK -- always a native and usually a woman. At church suppers, people take pieces of her lemon meringue pies from the serving tables before the main-course dishes, just to be sure. She can cook and manage a baked-bean-roast-beef-and-hot-rolls supper for 200 people -- served exactly at the announced time, every dish piping hot, and with bottomless cups of incredibly good coffee. In marked contrast to The Good Cook, The Good Cook's husband is quite skinny. THE GOSSIP -- usually a native and always, owing probably to stereotyped attitudes, a woman. Of course, every man and woman in town is, in varying degrees, a gossip. As Thornton Wilder once said, "In our town we like to know the facts about everybody." But The Gossip, either the general store owner's wife, the postmaster, the librarian, or at least someone with ready access to people on a day-to-day basis, is counted upon by everyone in town to either confirm or deny the latest rumors. She always confirms them. And adds to them. Also, she's an unwitting tool for a few wily residents who use her to spread their version of certain common information. THE VOICE -- either a townsperson or a summer person. The Voice is usually a woman but may be a man, too. The Voice sings at every town occasion in which solo singing is called for. During the singing of hymns in church, The Voice sings more loudly than everyone else and holds her notes a split second longer than everyone else. The Voice is a soprano (or, depending on sex, a tenor) and is quick to lead singalongs at parties, beginning with "Moonlight Bay." The Voice once choked during a church Christmas solo, and no one has ever mentioned the incident from that day to this. THAT WOMAN -- she may not be pretty in the classic sense, but there's something vaguely exotic -- and cheap -- about her appearance. She wears her hair long, she uses elaborate facial makeup, and she elicits from each and every woman in town, summer person and townsperson alike, an instant and irrevocable hate. On sight. Maybe next month I'll describe a few of the men in town we all know... tag:odeo.com,2009-02-28,24236403 Sat, 28 Feb 2009 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24005397-Which-State-Is-the-Most-Frugal Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of ... Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-31,24005397 Sat, 31 Jan 2009 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24005196-Which-State-Is-the-Most-Frugal Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of ... Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-31,24005196 Sat, 31 Jan 2009 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059010-Which-State-Is-the-Most-Frugal Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of ... Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-31,24059010 Sat, 31 Jan 2009 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058084-Which-State-Is-the-Most-Frugal Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of ... Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. Welcome to the February 2009 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. Which State Is the Most Frugal? Opinions vary, but from strictly a tradition point of view, the Granite State wins hands down? Although frugality and shrewdness in business dealings are traits characteristic of New Englanders as a whole, I personally think New Hampshirites, of whom I am one, are the most frugal of all. Possibly it has something to do with the overall conservative and business orientation so closely associated with the state for so many years. A typical New Hampshire story, for instance, concerns two Berlin (remember -- pronounced Berlin) men discussing the hard financial times. One asks the other how in the world he has managed to feed his large family on such a low income. "I'll tell you," is the reply. "I find out what they don't like and then I give 'em plenty of it." A neighbor of mine who deals in antiques points out how this frugality, coupled with a general regional stubbornness, can make negotiating with a New Hampshirite a pretty difficult process. Several years ago, he spotted a nice chest of drawers standing in the woodshed of an old farmhouse in Gilsum. He stopped and asked the owner whether he'd care to sell it for, say, $75. The man -- an elderly, slow-moving gent who'd obviously enjoyed better days -- said no, he guessed not. The next time my friend drove by, about a month later, the chest of drawers was still there, and he offered the old fellow $125, which is about what he felt its value was. Still no. Almost a year later, he stopped again and, in a display of his own stubbornness, tried out a figure higher than he thought the chest was worth. "Well, what do you say?" he asked. "Shall I take it away for $200 cash?" The old man reflected for several minutes and then said slowly, "I guess she can set there for a spell longer. She ain't eatin' nothin'." "She" was also increasing in value faster than most anything he could put money into. Several years ago, Yankee writer Ned Comstock wrote me a letter, which I published, describing a New Hampshire church supper he'd attended. After enjoying one dish of fresh-baked, feather-light biscuits loaded with fresh strawberries, dripping with juice, smothered in whipped cream, he noticed a sign next to the woman guarding the cash box. "Strawberry Shortcake," it read. "First Plate: Fifty Cents. All You Want: One Dollar." As Ned prepared to pay his bill, the lady asked him whether he wanted more strawberry shortcake before he left. Ned said no, he'd enjoyed his piece very much but was full. "That will be one dollar," the lady said firmly. I rest my case. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-31,24058084 Sat, 31 Jan 2009 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059011-My-January-Adventure-Atop-Mt-Washington Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only onc... Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. View mountain guide Joe Lentini's photos of Mount Washington in winter. Read about Joe Lentini's mountain rescues: White Mountain Guide. Read about Mel Allen's unforgettable sleepover: Overnight on Mt. Washington. Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. View mountain guide Joe Lentini's photos of Mount Washington in winter. Read about Joe Lentini's mountain rescues: White Mountain Guide. Read about Mel Allen's unforgettable sleepover: Overnight on Mt. Washington. tag:odeo.com,2008-12-31,24059011 Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23822468-My-January-Adventure-Atop-Mt-Washington Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only onc... Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. tag:odeo.com,2008-12-31,23822468 Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23820243-My-January-Adventure-Atop-Mt-Washington Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only onc... Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. tag:odeo.com,2008-12-31,23820243 Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058086-My-January-Adventure-Atop-Mt-Washington Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only onc... Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. View mountain guide Joe Lentini's photos of Mount Washington in winter. Read about Joe Lentini's mountain rescues: White Mountain Guide. Read about Mel Allen's unforgettable sleepover: Overnight on Mt. Washington. Welcome to the January 2009 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. My January Adventure Atop Mt. Washington With the temperature at 20 below zero and the wind blowing at 110 mph, one isn?t apt to figure in the ?wind chill factor.? For years I?ve been mildly irritated by the constant references on TV and radio to the ?wind chill factor.? ?It?ll be five below zero tomorrow,? the weather person will say, ?but with the wind at 15 mph, the real temperature will be 25 below zero.? / Baloney. The real temperature will be what was said originally: five below. A 15 mph wind can go from zero to maybe more than 15 mph constantly. It comes in gusts. So what does that do to the ?wind chill factor?? I would much prefer they tell us the temperature and the average wind velocity ? period. We can all figure out the rest. I have experienced a steady high wind only once. It was on the summit of New Hampshire?s Mt. Washington one January day some years ago. I?d accompanied a half-dozen others as a passenger in a Snowcat tractor that brought us all up there to experience a day and a night atop New England?s highest mountain. We dressed for the Arctic Circle, of course, but in truth, our accommodations were warm, cozy, and very comfortable. When we first arrived at the summit, they told us that the wind velocity was 80 mph and the temperature was about zero. Incidentally, there was no mention of the ?wind chill factor.? To stand against that 80 mph wind, I had to lean so far forward that I could practically reach out and touch the ground. If there had been any variation in that velocity, I would have fallen on my face. Later that afternoon, at about ?cocktail hour,? the wind velocity rose to 110 mph. We were told that if it remained that high, we wouldn?t be going down the mountain the following day. Too dangerous. Anyway, while enjoying a drink before dinner -- yes, it?s very civilized up there --someone asked whether we?d like to join the Century Club. Seems that if you can walk around a certain circular deck on the roof of the building we were in without falling down when the wind is at 100 mph or more, you can become a member. Oh, yes, one more thing: Touch a railing or the side of the building and you?re disqualified. Well, a couple of us decided to give it a try. Maybe the drink was a factor. And nobody told us until later that only two people had become members in the last 50-some years. So, full of enthusiasm, up some stairs we went to a door opening to that particular metal circular deck. My friend went first. The amount of time between his stepping out that door and being blown flat on his face was possibly as much as three seconds. Or less. At that moment I decided I didn?t really need to belong to another club. We were on the summit for the next three days and nights -- even watched the Super Bowl up there. The wind remained at about 110 mph, you couldn?t see more than a few feet outside, and the temperature stayed around zero. Then, early on the fourth morning, the wind died down, the temperature went to 27 degrees below, and all the clouds vanished suddenly, providing us with a most spectacular view, extending all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I?ll never forget that particular moment, when miles and miles of New England were spread out before us. As to that ?wind chill factor? thing? Bah, humbug. View mountain guide Joe Lentini's photos of Mount Washington in winter. Read about Joe Lentini's mountain rescues: White Mountain Guide. Read about Mel Allen's unforgettable sleepover: Overnight on Mt. Washington. tag:odeo.com,2008-12-31,24058086 Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23688575-A-Little-About-the-New-England-Language Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about f... Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. tag:odeo.com,2008-11-30,23688575 Sun, 30 Nov 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059012-A-Little-About-the-New-England-Language Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about f... Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. tag:odeo.com,2008-11-30,24059012 Sun, 30 Nov 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23687867-A-Little-About-the-New-England-Language Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about f... Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. tag:odeo.com,2008-11-30,23687867 Sun, 30 Nov 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058087-A-Little-About-the-New-England-Language Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about f... Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. Welcome to the December 2008 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. A Little About the New England Language It's still true that every region of our country continues to have its own special words. Ask a waitress in almost any American restaurant if you can have a poached egg and she'll understand. Say you want it porched and she'll be with you if she originally lived in the Deep South. Ask for a dropped egg, and unless she's a New Englander, her face will remain blank. You'll need to explain that you'd like it fried in water. The separating area in the middle of a four-lane road is a mall in New York, a medial strip in Pennsylvania, a median strip in parts of New England and the Midwest, a medium strip in Kentucky, a center line in the West, a centerstrip in Ohio, and neutral ground in Louisiana and Mississippi. We New Englanders, particularly about four months from now, sometimes feel logy. But in Indiana they?re more apt to feel dauncy, while elsewhere they might be sort of punk, puny, or draggy. There's little question that the language is somewhat different from region to region across the United States. I guess (or if I were from the South, I reckon, or if from some of the New England offshore islands, I presume likely) the only argument is whether or not those differences are disappearing. In my view, maybe regional accents are becoming less pronounced (except way Down East, of course), but not regional language. Words and expressions unique to individual regions remain in use because so many are based on specific historical, geographical, or other attributes of their region. "Straight as a loon's leg" will never, for instance, become an Oklahoma expression. If a Texan suggests a swim in a pond, well, more than likely she/he is not a Texan. Because so many ponds in Texas are man-made, ponds are called tanks. In a similar way, my camp on an island in New Hampshire's Lake Winnipesaukee isn?t a place for tenting or camping. As outsiders are quick to learn, a camp in New England can be a pretty luxurious home, as can a summer cottage. During a recent visit with friends in South Carolina, I learned that when building a fire they prefer splinters to our kindling. We had battercakes for breakfast one morning rather than pancakes. Served on the same plate was streaked meat, not bacon. And can you guess what they called their attic? It was the plunder room. No kidding. A North Dakota friend of mine told me when we first met that he never realized the word "summer" could be used as a verb. In fact, I recall he got quite a chuckle out of it. After he moved to Vermont to take a job with Vermont Life magazine, however, I smiled when he informed me that his parents were building a camp on Lake Winnipeg in Canada and were intending to summer there. Good, I thought. Even newcomers to New England eventually learn the region's expressions, names, and words. What they don't always learn is the accurate pronunciations. But that's another story -- maybe for next year. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, everyone. tag:odeo.com,2008-11-30,24058087 Sun, 30 Nov 2008 20:00:00 -0800 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25335064-When-Maudlin-Was-In Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I bel... Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brothers. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials arent always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brothers. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials arent always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. tag:odeo.com,2008-10-31,25335064 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/25334634-When-Maudlin-Was-In Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I bel... Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brothers. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials arent always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brothers. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials arent always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. tag:odeo.com,2008-10-31,25334634 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23564119-When-Maudlin-Was-In Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I... Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. tag:odeo.com,2008-10-31,23564119 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059013-When-Maudlin-Was-In Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I... Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. tag:odeo.com,2008-10-31,24059013 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23563993-When-Maudlin-Was-In Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I... Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. tag:odeo.com,2008-10-31,23563993 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058088-When-Maudlin-Was-In Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I... Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. Welcome to the November 2008 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. When "Maudlin" Was "In" Years ago in New England, people viewed death and dying quite differently ? About a month ago, when I had a little spare time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I decided to take a walk through Mount Auburn Cemetery, known as the "Gateway to Heaven." With the fall foliage just coming along, it was beautiful in there, but I really marveled at the size and elaborateness of some of the larger mausoleums. The sculptures are quite something, too -- including weeping maidens, life-size statues of dead children, tons of cherubs, urns, and weeping willows. I was reminded that it wasn't so long ago that what is considered extravagantly maudlin today was once very much "in." My grandmother, for instance, displayed in her house a wreath made from the hair of a dead relative. I believe she told me it was her brother?s. On the mantelpiece in the same house was my grandfather's appendix, pickled in a jar. Whenever we visited "Pop" and Grandma when I was a boy, that particular mantel was where I'd head first. And I'd stare, always fascinated. Absent for the most part from Mount Auburn are the quirky-but-memorable epitaphs one sometimes finds in the older graveyards around New England: "I told you I was sick, Maude" and the like. Mount Auburn was, and still is, too proper for any but the most dignified memorials. Dignity is an important requirement of almost any stone reminder of a onetime presence here on Earth. But the most dignified and elaborate of memorials aren?t always an indication of great wealth and New England social position. There have been many people who decided to save for years in order to have a really fancy remembrance. For example, a man named Lucas Douglass died, apparently penniless and alone, on the streets of Ashford, Connecticut, one cold December night in 1895. He'd never married and had few relatives. Shortly after his death, it was discovered his will left enough money -- thousands of dollars -- to erect, as he stipulated, a 34-foot-high monument of Italian marble, complete with headstone, urns, and a 140-foot stone wall surrounding the plot. It's there to be seen in Westford Hill Cemetery today. It includes epitaphs ("I have heard Thy call"), a portrait of Douglass in a circular medallion, and all manner of various inscriptions. Since he ordered all this before he died, at least he must have had some satisfaction in picturing it there for all to see forever. But the most common reaction of the several hundred tourists who view it each year is one of wonder and pity. Henry Daniel Cogswell, a wealthy Rhode Island dentist of the 19th century, encountered far worse reactions to his efforts at self-perpetuation. In fact, his major contribution to the world may have been the regulations of today's fine-arts commissions relative to the suitability and good taste of monuments in public places. Not that Dr. Cogswell initiated such rules. Rather, it was his memorials that demonstrated the need for them. It seems that the good doctor donated large stone monuments doubling as drinking fountains (he was a teetotaler) to Boston, Fall River, Pawtucket, and more than a dozen other American cities, each topped by a statue of himself and, unfortunately, as described in a New Haven newspaper of the day, "outlandishly ugly." One of the few remaining Cogswell fountains stands today in Central Park in Rockville, Connecticut. Years ago, it was thrown into a nearby lake, as many of Cogswell's memorials were, but was retrieved in 1969 and erected in its present location, with a flowerpot substituting for the statue of Dr. Cogswell. There's another at the entrance to Slater Park in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. You might want to go see it. As for me, I think I'd still rather stare at my grandfather's appendix. tag:odeo.com,2008-10-31,24058088 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23431264-What-to-Do-in-Case-of-Fire Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have z... Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. tag:odeo.com,2008-09-30,23431264 Tue, 30 Sep 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059014-What-to-Do-in-Case-of-Fire Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have z... Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. tag:odeo.com,2008-09-30,24059014 Tue, 30 Sep 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058089-What-to-Do-in-Case-of-Fire Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have z... Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. tag:odeo.com,2008-09-30,24058089 Tue, 30 Sep 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23431410-What-to-Do-in-Case-of-Fire Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have z... Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. Welcome to the October 2008 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 in Case of Fire As a volunteer fireman, I learned early on how to mask my fears -- and my inadequacies. There?s a "coming together" evident in a small New England town after the summer is over. Social divisions become noticeably fuzzier. Town organizations spring back to life with renewed vigor, and almost all are socially integrated. An exception is the volunteer fire company. No "year-round summer people" become firemen. It's always all townspeople. And unlike many other town organizations, it?s active all summer, too. I'm not sure whether or not I qualify as a bona fide "townsperson" -- after all, I came "from away" -- but nonetheless I was a volunteer fireman here in Dublin, New Hampshire, for about 15 years. I was and still am inordinately afraid of fires, and I have zero aptitude in mechanical matters. However, upon arriving in town 50 years ago, I felt it was my duty to join the fire company simply because the fire station was located a hundred yards from my Yankee office. When the siren sounded, I was one of those readily available. The first man to reach the firehouse after the alarm began to wail always jumped into the 10-wheel, multiton fire truck, started it up, and commenced to move out in the direction indicated on the truck radio. Later-arriving firemen would hop aboard as the truck moved, bring the second or third truck, or follow in their own cars. I was very often that first man to arrive at the station. And that constituted a problem. To put it simply, I could never remember how to start or how to shift the many gears in that big truck -- or for that matter, how to tune in the radio. The solution to my problem presented itself around the time the company purchased waterproof fire coats and helmets for us volunteers to use during a fire. They were hung on the rear of the truck. The first time the alarm sounded after the purchase of this equipment, I was once again the first arrival at the station. Instead of jumping in the cab and struggling with the gears, I ran to the rear of the truck to fetch my new coat and helmet. Running back forward, I noted to my intense relief that someone else was already in the driver's seat starting the engine. So at every subsequent fire, I made certain I took a long enough period of time fetching a coat and helmet to avoid the driver's job. Often this required initially running around and around the truck a number of times until someone else finally arrived, but no one ever caught me on that particular ruse. During a fire alarm, the main thing is to run. It really doesn't matter to anyone where you're running to or why. Just run. I eventually resigned from the fire company, feeling I'd served my stint and that there were enough men close by the fire station. But despite my fears and all the rest, I miss the fire company today. I particularly miss those times after the fire was out, when a can of beer or a little whiskey might be passed around while we were on night duty, occasionally hosing down still-burning embers. There was a euphoric feeling of having worked, endured under trying circumstances, and succeeded together. "We've never lost a cellar hole," we always said at some point. I have never, before or since, felt more a part of what I might call the central spiritual core of the town than I always did during these quiet times after all the excitement was over. Wonderful memories. But I'm still a mechanical dunce. tag:odeo.com,2008-09-30,23431410 Tue, 30 Sep 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059015-On-the-Road-Again-With-The-Old-Farmer-s-Almanac Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillma... Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. tag:odeo.com,2008-08-31,24059015 Sun, 31 Aug 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23309748-On-the-Road-Again-With-The-Old-Farmer-s-Almanac Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillma... Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. tag:odeo.com,2008-08-31,23309748 Sun, 31 Aug 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23314879-On-the-Road-Again-With-The-Old-Farmer-s-Almanac Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillma... Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. tag:odeo.com,2008-08-31,23314879 Sun, 31 Aug 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058090-On-the-Road-Again-With-The-Old-Farmer-s-Almanac Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillma... Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. Welcome to the September 2008 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. On the Road Again With The Old Farmer's Almanac "What's the winter going to be like?" is the usual first question. But my most vivid memories of my past radio and television interviews had nothing to do with the weather. Well, for the 217th consecutive year, The Old Farmer's Almanac appears this month on newsstands across the country. September 9th is the official on-sale date for the brand-new 2009 edition, but you'll be seeing it around before then. For more years that I care to say, I was the 12th (since 1792) editor of The Old Farmer's Almanac and, as such, traveled around the country every September promoting the new edition on radio and television. I'll be out there again this month, but most of the touring is now done by the 13th editor, my friend and colleague Janice Stillman, as well as Yankee Publishing CEO Jamie Trowbridge. But it'll be a while before they've compiled as many bizarre, weird memories as I have. For instance, I recall attempting to convince Katie Couric on the Today show that the chicken I was holding in my arms wasn?t stuffed but rather hypnotized. (We had a story that year on how to hypnotize a chicken.) She didn't buy it. She's pretty sharp, that Katie Couric. I think it was the next year that I was, at the last minute, told I wouldn't be going on Good Morning America because the Pope had just died. They scheduled me for a show three months later, and I was bumped off once more because -- guess what? The Pope had died again! There were times on these promotional tours when I had the feeling that some people considered The Old Farmer's Almanac a little, well, maybe "hokey" would be the word. For example, I was on a live morning show in Cleveland on which I was the third of three guests. The first guest, a man from Pittsburgh, played "America the Beautiful" -- with his armpit! (Actually, he was pretty good.) The second guest was the tallest woman in the world. At 7'9" she was taller than even the late Wilt Chamberlain. As I said, I was the third guest that morning. Later, I began wondering whether there was some sort of message in that grouping of guests. And, if so, just what was that message? Another odd memory is being interviewed by the ex-wife of the governor of Minnesota in her round wooden hot tub, water right up to our necks. Apparently her daily hot-tub interviews were quite popular in that part of the country. I'm not sure whether she's still at it. I do recall she was very much on the hefty side. How hefty? Well, let's put it this way: When she stood up and got out of the hot tub after the show, there were actually only a few inches of water in there. The most vivid -- and saddest -- memory I have is sitting in the "the Green Room" -- next to Harry Belafonte, incidentally -- waiting to go on the Today show with Al Roker, when the second plane hit the World Trade Center's south tower. Obviously, I never talked with Al that morning. The world had changed forever. So look for me on the tube this month, although you'll be more apt to see Janice Stillman and Jamie Trowbridge. (I'll "do" only New York, Detroit, and Toronto.) And, also, look for that familiar yellow cover on the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. It's the best issue ever. Am I already overly "promoting"? Shame on me. tag:odeo.com,2008-08-31,24058090 Sun, 31 Aug 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24059016-Making-Fun-of-Democrats-and-or-Republicans Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by ... Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. tag:odeo.com,2008-07-31,24059016 Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23314885-Making-Fun-of-Democrats-and-or-Republicans Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by ... Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. tag:odeo.com,2008-07-31,23314885 Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/23309773-Making-Fun-of-Democrats-and-or-Republicans Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by ... Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. tag:odeo.com,2008-07-31,23309773 Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal http://odeo.com/episodes/24058091-Making-Fun-of-Democrats-and-or-Republicans Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by ... Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. Welcome to the August 2008 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. Making Fun of Democrats and/or Republicans Actually, New Englanders have always managed to make fun of just about everyone ? Since the days of Roosevelt and even further back, the Democratic party has, rightly or wrongly, been associated with the antithesis of New England thrift. Therefore, like the federal government, tourists, and New Yorkers, the Democrats have always been a favorite and traditional subject of New England humor. I should add here that Democratic jokes cannot be turned around to become Republican jokes. They're not interchangeable. Nor are they like so-called ethnic jokes, in which you can usually substitute almost any ethnic minority for another ethnic minority. For example, if you substituted "Republican" for "Democrat" in the following old-time story, often told by the late Sherman Adams when he was governor of New Hampshire, it simply wouldn?t be funny. The governor's version of the story concerns a boy in a Vermont village near his home town (Adams was raised in Vermont) who decided to go to college. His parents were willing to help him but were unsure about some of the ideas he might pick up out there in the wide, wide world. "Sure enough," Adams would say, "the boy came back from college a Democrat. The family was very upset about that and considered that he?d been under the auspices of evil. To make matters worse, the boy founded the local Democratic Club and on the next Fourth of July organized a parade. His father pulled down all the shades in the house and wouldn't let anybody look out to see what was going on. But then he got curious and picked up just the corner of the shade and took a peek. In horror, he turned to his wife and said, 'My God, Samantha, they've stolen our flag!'" Oh, how Adams loved that one. Anyway, here's one more, as told by the late Professor Allen Foley of Dartmouth College and involving a Texas Democrat and a Vermont Republican. It takes place in Texas and has a double whammy because New Englanders enjoy putting down Texans (and I'm sure the reverse is true) just as much as they enjoy putting down Democrats. "How come you're a Republican?" the Texas Democrat asks the visiting Vermonter. "I come from Vermont and my father was a Republican," replies the Vermonter. "Oh, I see," says the Texas Democrat. "So I suppose if your father had been a horse thief, you would have been a horse thief, too." "No," says the Vermonter. "In that case I would have been a Democrat." So how do New England Democrats -- and there are lots today, maybe even a majority -- counter all these old-time New England "Democrat stories"? Well, one of the most effective means is to utilize all the "wealthy, fancy, city slicker" stories and then simply substitute "Republican." Maybe that's not fair, but fairness and accuracy have nothing to do with New England humor. Come to think, fairness and accuracy don't have much to do with politics either. tag:odeo.com,2008-07-31,24058091 Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:00:00 -0700 no Jud's New England Journal