This blog is starting to look suspiciously like a love letter to New Hampshire—with a few passive-aggressive footnotes about the weather. It’s a far cry from other places I’ve lived: Houston, Phoenix, Santa Monica, San Francisco, London, Boston… and Anchorage (which, to be fair, is the closest match—minus the volcanic ash, wandering moose, salmon runs, and the deeply questionable concept of a midnight-sun tee time at 2:00 a.m.). March in New Hampshire means one thing: Town Meeting . For the uninitiated, this is a centuries-old New England tradition where residents gather to govern themselves directly. Yes, really. No filters, no middlemen—just your neighbors, a microphone, and a strong opinion. I used to think Texas politics had a flair for the dramatic. Then I attended Town Meeting. Picture a room full of people, with seriously opposing viewpoints, debating municipal budgets and whether the town should build much-needed infrastructure (tax funding required). Now add just enough unpr...
A lot has happened since the last blog post — including an ambulance ride in a snowy whiteout. (You know, the kind where the road disappears and everyone pretends they can still see the lane lines.) Also there were a couple of nights in the hospital. That particular adventure, I’m happy to report, had a good ending. Whew. Meanwhile winter is beginning to loosen its grip. We are solidly in double digit temps, and the days are warming up. And here’s something I never thought I’d say in my entire New England life: I am thrilled to be moving into mud season. Mud! Slush! Puddles! Bring it on. After months of frozen everything, a little squish underfoot feels downright festive. And the house? Well friends and neighbors, I do believe the house has officially had its aha! moment. Thanks to Dan the Man and his fearless Marlborough Men brigade, the old cottage and the new addition are no longer awkward acquaintances politely nodding across a structural divide. They are...