by Becky Rule
Sometimes people from away say New Hampshire folks are reserved, even chilly.
That is, of course, a matter of interpretation. We may not exude friendliness like people from, say, the Deep South… like Connecticut. But we’re friendly enough, in context. We don’t go around hugging everybody in sight or smiling for no particular reason. And we don’t usually get all gushy – ‘Hello, how you doing?’ ‘Where you from?’ ‘Nice T-shirt’ – unless we have an inkling of who you are or we really like your T-shirt. We don’t always speak first, but we’ll speak when spoken, too. We’re friendly in our own way.
Family story – not my family, but a story told by the daughter of a game warden who, years ago, spent a lot of time maintaining order in the wilds of the North Country. There he was at seven o’clock in the morning. It was a foggy, dismal morning. Chilly, you might say. He was filling his tank at a gas station in one of those stark North Country towns. This was years ago, when gas stations sold just one thing. Gas. Also at the pump was an old guy – “an old salty salt” – the daughter told me, though how a person gets salty in the White Mountains I don’t know. Must be the roads.
The old salty salt had a beater truck, overalls, gum boots, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He was smoking one of those short black pipes. (This took place in the time before regulations were posted warning customers about the hazards of smoking around gasoline: If you smoke close to this pump, you may blow up.)
The old salty salt and the game warden stood side-by-side, filling their respective vehicles. Staring off into space. Contemplating their respective places in the universe. And not saying a word to one another, in the Yankee tradition.
Finally, the warden said out loud more to the aforementioned universe than the old salty salt: “I wonder where a fella can get a good cup of coffee around here this time of the day.”
The old salty salt took a draw off his pipe, pulled it from his mouth and set it carefully on the roof of the truck. “Well, sir,” he said. “I guess you’ll just have to come home with me.”
Becky Rule has lived all her life (so far) in New Hampshire. She has written several popular books set in her home state, including her latest collection of stories, “Live Free and Eat Pie” (Islandport Press), and hosts live storytelling events, many sponsored by the New Hampshire Humanities Council. She posts stories regularly on her website, www.livefreeandeatpie.com.
