The Small Things That Make New Hampshire Home
When people think of New Hampshire, they tend to picture the White Mountains, Lake Winnipesaukee, covered bridges, and hillsides covered in brilliant fall foliage. I've lived in New England my entire life, and there are still places here that make me stop and look. But when I think about what makes New Hampshire home, it's rarely the things people drive hundreds of miles to see. It's the smaller things, the details of living here that become so familiar we hardly think to mention them.
We live in the Lakes Region, where the lake is part of everyday conversation whether or not we're actually spending time on it. We pay attention to when the ice goes out in the spring, complain about the summer traffic, and notice when the boats begin disappearing from the water in the fall. In July, the roads fill with vacationers, the grocery stores get busier, and everyone seems to have a favorite ice cream stand. On a quiet evening, you might hear a loon calling from somewhere across the water. I've heard that sound countless times, and I still stop to listen.
Our family lives on nine wooded acres, which means we get a fairly close look at what each season brings. Spring arrives slowly at first, with stubborn patches of snow hiding along the edges of the woods, followed by several weeks of mud that the dogs seem determined to bring into the house. The chickens begin spending more time scratching around outside, the birds get louder, and every day there's a little more green. By the time the trees have filled in, it's hard to remember how exposed everything looked just a few weeks earlier. There are parts of our property we can see clearly in March that practically disappear behind leaves by June.
Summer never seems quite long enough. We spend as much time outside as we can, whether that's biking, swimming, walking, or just letting the kids run around the yard until it's time to come in. I love the smell of the woods after a rainstorm and the way the air cools once the sun drops behind the trees. There are evenings when the kids insist it can't possibly be bedtime because it's still light outside, and mornings when the birds have been making noise for hours before anyone else is awake. I also love that we can spend an afternoon at the lake, surrounded by people who have traveled here for vacation, then drive home, turn down our wooded driveway, and have the place mostly to ourselves again.
By September, I'm usually ready for fall. I love the first morning that requires a sweatshirt and the first few days when the air smells different, even though the leaves haven't really started changing yet. There are apples to pick, pumpkins appearing on porches, and the annual debate about whether it's too early to turn on the heat. Of course, the foliage is beautiful, but I also like what comes afterward. Once the leaves are down, we can see farther into the woods again. The yard needs raking, the days are shorter, and suddenly we're looking for gloves that haven't been worn since March. I actually enjoy that stretch of November when the tourists have mostly gone home and everything looks a little bare.
Winter requires the most patience. There's the driveway to plow, the ice to worry about, the boots and mittens that never seem to stay together, and the inevitable discovery that someone has outgrown last year's snow pants. Still, I can't imagine raising my children somewhere without snow. I love waking up to a fresh snowfall and watching the kids run to the windows to see how much we got. I love looking for animal tracks in the yard and seeing how different the woods look when every branch is covered. Snow days are exciting for the kids, even when they mean rearranging everything we'd planned. By February, I'm usually tired of shoveling and ready for spring, but I know I'll be excited about the first snowfall again the following winter.
Having children has made me think more about what we remember from growing up. I don't know how many of our carefully planned outings will stay with them, but I suspect they'll remember plenty of things we never thought to plan. The chickens wandering around the yard, the dogs coming inside covered in snow, the excitement of seeing a deer in the woods, or the feeling of peeling off wet mittens after an afternoon outside. I imagine they'll remember the sound of the snowplow coming down the road early in the morning and the first warm day when they could finally go outside without a coat. These are things I barely notice some days, but they're a big part of what my children know about the place where they live.
When I started writing Home Is Here: New Hampshire Nursery Rhymes, I kept coming back to those experiences. I wanted to write about the New Hampshire my children know, including mud season, maple syrup, snowplows, loons, and the little adventures that come with living here. I wanted the poems to be fun to read aloud, but I also hoped parents and grandparents would recognize things from their own childhoods. One of my favorite parts of making the book was seeing how illustrator Nicole Hogan imagined these scenes, especially the animals she created to inhabit them.
I have no idea whether my children will stay in New Hampshire when they're grown. They might end up somewhere with milder winters, longer summers, or considerably less mud. Wherever they go, I hope they'll remember the woods behind our house, the chickens in the yard, and the summers that never seemed long enough. And if they eventually have children of their own, I hope they'll bring them back to see the places where they grew up, even if it's just to spend an afternoon at the lake or go sledding after a good snowfall.
Home Is Here: New Hampshire Nursery Rhymes, written by Veronica Tucker, illustrated by Nicole Hogan, and published by Kelsay Books, is available through Kelsay Books and Amazon.
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