He was an inveterate storyteller. My late father-in-law, Alfred was a farm boy from upstate New York, not far from the Canadian border in the Saint Lawrence River valley, second youngest of ten children. His childhood coincided with the Great Depression, which added flavor and context to a number of his tales of a small rural farming community, where everyone knew everyone and family doings were well known. Many of his stories, as well as his Alfredisms, live on in family lore and culture to this day. When I win two dollars in the lottery, it’s, as he would say, “better than a kick in the head.” His distinctive nickname came from our nephew, who struggled early on to say “grandpa” – it came out “Gaga”, shortened over the years to “Gug” or expanded to “Gugster” by his grandchildren.
One such of notorious memory involved a family named Daginault. Father Daginault wasn’t a farmer, but rather worked in a local factory. He got paid each Friday, and upon receipt of his earnings, would go shopping for all manner of luxury foods – steaks, vegetables, desserts. But curiously, he only bought enough for two. Arriving home, he and his wife would feed the children some simple fare and put them to bed. Then, Mr. and Mrs. Daginault would literally gorge themselves with an extravagant buffet. That, of course, expended the money for the week, so the family survived on scraps until the following pay day. This, of course, led to expressions at gatherings of my wife’s family. “Just like the Daginaults”, somebody would say at Sunday dinner, or on holidays, when my dear late mother-in-law would put out about eight vegetables, each someone’s favorite. In later years, Alfred divided his time between Florida and his summer camp in Stoddard, New Hampshire. When it was too early to open the cottage, he’d stay with my wife’s sister and her husband. He traditionally went to bed early, and on one such evening, after he’d gone upstairs and while they were watching television, they made tea and popcorn. Apparently, the scent of popcorn carried, because a voice from above came booming down the stairs, “Damn Daginaults”.
Another wonderful depression-era story he’d circulate, and that generated another well used expression, involved a local family habitually on the short end of money. In order to cut costs, mother would put salt in the sugar bowl, and everyone in the family knew not to touch it. At family gatherings, mother would take an empty pie plate and drape a tea towel over it by way of dessert charade. The pie plate would pass from family member to family member, each refusing to cut into the “pie”. Guests, taking their cue from the family, would decline as well. On one particular occasion, so the story goes, a son, getting rather sick of the façade, allowed as how, yes, he have a piece, saying, “bring on your damned pie if you’ve got any.” Mother, horrified, rushed the empty pie plate back into the kitchen, telling her son that he wouldn’t be getting any with that rudeness. Another family expression was born. After dinner, inevitably, someone would say, “bring on your damned pie (or cake, or whatever) if you’ve got any.”
Lots of colorful stories came from this era. Gug would tell the tale of the farmer that regularly came into the local café to have his breakfast. I’m seeing in my mind a place much akin to Garrison Keillor’s “Chatterbox Café” in Lake Wobegon. A stranger coming in and looking bewildered, would ask, to quote Keillor, “Where am I, and how do I get back on the highway?” Anyway, the gentleman farmer would order a cup of coffee. He’d carefully measure six spoonsful of sugar into the coffee and then sip it, a smile on his face. Bystanders would watch this routine with fascination. One morning, someone screwed up the courage to ask why he never stirred the coffee. He responded, “Oh God no – it would be too sweet.” That’s the kind of logic that’s made America great. Coffee traditions are intriguing. Alfred’s brother-in-law would make a cup of coffee using instant, so popular for years. Then, he’d stand over the sink and pour in condensed milk until it overflowed. I can’t imagine what the taste was of that. In my youth, I spent a summer on an exchange program in England. My host “mother” bought some instant coffee for me, which was very thoughtful as I come from a long line of coffee drinkers. The only problem was that she’d heat milk and pour that into the coffee cup, then mix in the instant. It tasted very different and not particularly good. About a week in, I showed her how I’d done it at home with water. She remarked at how much better that tasted!
Back to the Gugster. Many of his stories related to his exploits with his brothers – there were four older and one younger. Their father, who ruled the farm with a quiet firmness, told the boys that he didn’t really care what they did in the evenings, as long as they were up and ready to milk the cows at 5 AM. They were, but often times having slipped into bed an hour or two before. I’m guessing the cows didn’t get loving treatment on those mornings. The brothers would head into town and sing songs, passing the hat to pay for their drinks. The boys were quite renowned. The funny part is that, when they came home, their parents’ bedroom was right off the kitchen and the back door. According to Gug, she could recognize each son’s walk as he came across the kitchen. She’d call out – “Is that you, Alfred?” He’d respond, “No, it’s William.” Back she’d come, “It is not – I know it’s you, Alfred.” They never could fool her as they straggled in. Somehow, she’d know each distinctive walk. One night as the brothers were heading out, Alfred, the younger brother was apparently going to cramp the older siblings’ style. They tied him to a tree so he wouldn’t be able to follow them. It was never quite clear how long he stayed tied up, but as he made it to adulthood, he must have been released at some point.
The other interesting bit that I remember him telling was of the late First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt. She had a summer place in the area on Chateaugay Lake, which she visited each summer. One year, while driving to the lake, and as the story goes, Mrs. Roosevelt was a notoriously bad driver, she hit a dog. Not intimidated by her fame, the owner sent a letter of complaint to the White House. A few weeks later, a representative from the First Lady arrived with a letter of profuse apology and a new puppy.
In another historical tidbit, the family would hear trucks rumbling through town late at night or early morning, knowing they carried illegal liquor from Montreal during Prohibition.
The Gugster’s eldest brother, Howard, who, as Alfred described him, was “an expert on everything.” He was not as close to his brothers and sisters as the others were to each other. His younger brother, the baby of the family, tended to get ladies in trouble, and ended up going into the service and moving to the West Coast. Cousins that Susan never knew she had started popping up on Ancestry. Alfred’s sister Stella, the oldest in the family, was chronically “not well”. Another sister would visit her from time to time in later years, always reporting back that “Stella isn’t well.” I asked Alfred once if she ever was well. He’d chuckle and tell me that she’d had a very hard life. We let it go at that.
Amazingly, Alfred and his brothers and sisters all lived long lives, well into their 80’s and some into their 90’, and Alfred was the Last of the Mohicans. They are all long gone now, but the cousins get together from time to time and share family lore, which moves steadily down to the second and third generations.
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