I am about to devote an entire column to something I know is probably on your mind right now. A subject that is pressing on the cerebral cortex of Andalusians everywhere: New Hampshire.
In pursuit of the “good life” and the Great American Dream, I recently sallied forth into that expanse of wild country, that pristine wilderness devoid of any civilization whatsoever, that region where everyone has pointy little teeth and plaid Bermuda shorts, yea verily, I went to New Hampshire.
You might not know much about New Hampshire. Nor care. This is not surprising, since there is very little to know or care about in the state.
Vermont, Maine, and all those other New England places are usually talked about more often–unless it’s an election year whereupon every American white male over 50 puts on a checkered shirt and goes “on the stump.”
Evidently, checkered shirts are all the rage in New Hampshire.
“Live Free or Die!” Now that’s bold. That’s ambitious. That’s the New Hampshire state motto. Fittingly, it bears absolutely no resemblance to the people of New Hampshire–who, from what I can tell, is a small group of frozen Yankees that are extremely bitter that L. L. Bean and Ben & Jerry’s are in another state.
Yet despite these obvious obstacles, New Hampshirians continue to display their state motto proudly on every license plate, coffee mug, and miniature ceramic outhouse along the interstate.
Probably, and I’m using my keen sense of journalistic intuition here, “Live Free or Die!” is stamped somewhere on the rotunda of their capitol building–that is, and once again I’m using skills honed from years as the Star’s foreign correspondent if New Hampshire even has a rotunda.
There aren’t many people living in New Hampshire, so by conducting a telephone poll of three folks I managed to get a scientific study as to how the citizens of New Hampshire feel about the state’s slogan: 33% thought the state slogan was just fine and 66% didn’t understand why I was calling but definitely didn’t want to switch their long-distance carrier.
Sensing ambivalence from the electorate, I decided to take the issue to the highest-ranking official in New Hampshire. It took a few weeks, but eventually, I figured out that the capital of New Hampshire is “Concord,” apparently known as “Jelly Town” in some circles. There I found the governor. This is a transcript of our conversation:
Brilliant Journalist: Is the governor there?
Government Bureaucrat: No.
Q: When will he be back?
A: It’s a her. Governor Jean Shaheen.
Q: Oh. Say, does the governor have “Live Free or Die!” stamped anywhere in the rotunda?
A: We don’t have a rotunda. We do, however, have a Hall of Flags.
Q: What exactly do New Hampshirians . . . or is it New Hampshirites?
A: Granite Staters.
Q: Granite Staters? What’s that mean?
A: We have a lot of granite.
Q: Okay, well, what exactly do Granite Staters mean by “Live Free or Die!”? It seems somewhat optimistic–you know–as if we have a choice–about dying I mean.
A: Well, Major General John Stark said that to his men when they defeated the British at Bennington . . . .
Blah, blah, blah. The receptionist went on to tell me in excruciating detail, including a British body count, about the General’s battle over some worthless piece of property that’s full of gravel and granite.
One thing about Granite Staters: they know their trivial history about old dead people who didn’t even have the courage to stand behind their slogans and get shot like a real man. General Whatshisface probably dropped dead in bed (but free!).
The governor’s secretary asked me if I was a motorcyclist. This certainly, was a line of reasoning I couldn’t seem to follow. We’d gone from talking about New Hampshire’s scenic Lake Winnepesakkee, the largest lake contained within a single state–the sort of lake that makes me proud to be an American–to a subject that seemed to be far removed from New Hampshire–the dangerously insensible practice of motorcycle riding.
The lake is big, clear, green, and really cold. It is also the vacation choice, as it turns out, for 500,000 motorcyclists who come each year to enjoy the Wier Motorcycle Festival. Bear in mind that New Hampshire is only a state of a million people, which means that in June, one out of three folks is astride a hog. They probably think the same thing about Alabama.
This brings me to a more pressing question: what does “Hampshire” mean? Shire of Hamp? And where is Hamp? Who was Hamp? And why did they need a new one?
Once again calling on my supernatural journalistic second sense, I asked a British person. British persons are handy in any discussion because they sound like an authority. Also, I figured if there was an “Old Hampshire,” it would probably be in England somewhere–where everything is old. They never heard of it.
Alabama, at least we know, means “thicket clearers” in Cherokee. And while I cannot glean anything from this particular snippet of information, nor figure out a way to logically end this column, at least my native state isn’t associated with a bunch of “Hamps.”
—Morgan Murphy