I must begin with a confession. As often as I claim to be a native, the truth is I was born in Massachusetts, my family moving to New Hampshire when I was 16. However, my father was born in New Hampshire. My grandfather and grandmother were born in New Hampshire. I have an ancestor who was a life deacon in a Congregational church in New Hampshire. My first driver’s license was New Hampshire. My second job was in New Hampshire — my first was on a family farm in Massachusetts. I’ve had season tickets to the rope tow on the ski slope in a small New Hampshire town. I graduated from high school in New Hampshire, and attended the University of New Hampshire for three years. I married a New Hampshire native. I’ve had a sailboat with a home port on a New Hampshire lake.
It is true, I have lived in six different states during my employment years. But my anchor has always been New Hampshire. It is where I have refocused my life in retirement. I know, I’m not really a native. But I still like to pretend. After all, New Hampshire is my home.
To me, New Hampshire is like well-stacked fire wood. I had a neighbor who could stack a cord of fire wood that was exactly 4-by-4-by-8 feet. Not one length of wood stuck out from the vertical plane of the sides. The top of the stack was absolutely level, the ends square and even top to bottom. This stack of wood testified to hard determined work, a penchant for precision, the practical, order, and self-reliance. The stacker of wood prefers deeds over words and maintains a reserved, stoic demeanor while welcoming friendship and offering genuine help when needed.
New Hampshire means state government mired in solipsistic legislation proposals and fiscal frugality to a fault. However, New Hampshire also means to me the annual town meeting, a rite of spring where the end of mud season frees folk to step out after a long winter. The town meeting is where one can witness straight-forward no-nonsense discussions using an economy of words. Emotions are kept in check. Humor is subtle. Tradition reigns. Some citizens have the same role to play each year, speaking on a particular subject: the purchase of new equipment, the condition of the roads, snow removal, or the budget. There is also the same person year after year who is expected to disrupt the proceedings for a period of time before being ejected by the moderator — all in good order. Primarily, citizens attending a town meeting are given the power and authority to influence the governing of the town. New Hampshire means a working democracy.
Finally, New Hampshire means my home. It is where I can climb to the summit of Mount Kearsarge, hike the Flume trail, sail on Newfound Lake, drive the Kancamagus highway — even before it was paved. It is where I can join friends and family to eat clam chowder at a restaurant overlooking the ocean, binge on frozen pudding and maple walnut ice cream, share a pot of bean-hole baked beans, roam the Hopkinton State Fair grounds. It is square dancing at the town hall on Saturday night, the farmer’s market, the League of New Hampshire Craftsmen. It is changing hats for each season of the year: wool hat, trucker’s cap, wool hat, fur hat.
New Hampshire means soft spring colors and the brilliant fall colors blanketing the mountains and valleys. And, New Hampshire means to me Thanksgiving dinner at the family farm — count the more than a dozen farm-raised vegetables on the table. I may not be an official native, but New Hampshire is my home.
John Buttrick writes from his Vermont Folk Rocker in his Concord home, Minds Crossing. He can be reached at johndbuttrick@gmail.com.