Meeting the Fosters’


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My tale begins with a city guy (me from NYC) who moves his family to the woods (NH), without a clue. It has been 37 years now and in some ways still clueless.
I had finish a jobs’ program as a boat carpenter while living in NY. Whereas we spent most of our free time camping and exploring upstate NY. Why not move to the country?
So heading north to New England, finding a job in a boat yard
I brought the family here and we spend the summer camping, while I worked and looked for an apartment.
The job was okay, but trying to find an apartment with 2 girls and a dog was a problem.
Places were either willing to take the kids, but no dog or take the dog but no kids.
It wind forcing our hand, if we decided to stay we would have to look for a place of our own or move back to NY.
We did find a place 6 acres out in the woods, a little more than 6 miles from town.
To the town of Farmington, where it just had its’ first murder in 22 years, death by bow and arrow.
Where the principal of the school where my girls wind up going, asked how we had come to moved to the end of the world?

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I know I have have lost most of you who have moved on to better blogs, but for the few reminding here is the meat of the tale.
Once we were settled in and we started to travel the area, we started to notice that more than half the folks mailboxes around here had the name ‘Fosters’.
Now you would expect in a place where generation after generation still living in the community, there be a lot of folks with the same name, But the ‘Fosters’ were everywhere.
Us having just bought a home (a shack really) with plan to build our house the following spring. We had to wonder,
Did we make the best move? Was there a lot of in-breeding going on? Did we move too far into the woods?
It wasn’t until a few weeks later in a conversation with some folks at the town dump. I asked why there were some many Fosters’. Well the laughter began by all parties but me.
For as it turned out it wasn’t mailboxes with the name on it, but newspaper boxes for the the ‘Fosters’ Daily Democrat’ a daily paper in these parts.
My only defense is to say is that we didn’t have newspaper boxes in city,or having grown up on papers with names like the ‘Post’, ‘Daily News’, ‘Herald’, or the ‘Times’ who ever heard of a newspaper named ‘Foster’, so how would I know?

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We all have our tales, whether we share them or not. I might do some sharing as time goes on.
Thank you for staying and listening, I really am harmless.

14 thoughts on “Meeting the Fosters’

  1. That’s a great story. My husband grew up an hour from Farmington. I’ve been there a few times. Thank you for sharing. πŸ™‚

    1. It the same town though it has been thru many changes, the downtown empty now with the big box stores down the road. Few friends still live there. I remember going to the dump on Sat. and then heading to Palmer’s hardware for supplies for weekend chores. Now it gone

    1. Hi I can tell in Farmington, there were an odd sort of characters who hung out at the dump. Just waiting for someone to drop off that old neglected treasure or keep the dump guys company

  2. Ha! You’d be right at home with our friend who, when traveling in Germany with my dad, was mystified and astounded that Germans had so little imagination in naming their towns. Every single road had signs leading to towns called Ausfahrt (Exit)! We are all lost in the world in one way or another! πŸ˜‰

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