FIRST IMPRESSIONS

You know you're in "small town America" when you go to Walmart and see grown men shopping in their pajamas...

I'm still in vacation mode; I haven't begun looking for work yet, so my focus is on getting to know the area around my temporary (?) new home in Derry, New Hampshire.

I grew up in Stoneham, Massachusetts, a suburb about 10 miles north of Boston. It has changed substantially in the thirty years since I left. Gone are the fields, woods, and ponds of my youth, replaced with houses, streets, and shops. While some business locations have changed hands over and over, some remain after all these years. Thankfully one of them is Stoneham Pizza – still the best pizza and submarine sandwiches in New England.

New Hampshire – or "Cow-Hampshire" – as some call it, is a weird combination of old and new. It's like stepping back in time with just one foot. You really do see adults out and about in their pajamas. My first such encounter was a few years back at an ice cream shop on the side of the road. I was startled to see a woman in her nightgown standing in line with us. Now, granted, the garment wasn't particularly revealing, but it wasn't a housecoat either. It was clearly a nightgown. When my family assured me this was not unusual, I didn't really believe them. Now I see this everywhere. What's wrong with these people?

Helping me maneuver around this fascinating burg is my new GPS. That's the foot in modern times. What a marvelous invention. I am sure it will take me on many adventures in the future. For now it just amuses me by calling our street "sear" instead of "circle." I won't tell you how long it took me to figure out it was saying "Cir." I do have to test the various voices available for it. If you have any preferences, by all means, let me know. Then of course, once I settle on a voice, I'll have to name him or her, since I already know I'll be talking to the machine, especially – but not exclusively – when I'm alone in the car.

Another thing about my new home here in Cow-Hampshire is the non-human population. Two weeks ago, if you had mentioned the term "fisher cat" to me, I would have pictured Figaro sitting on top of a fish bowl using her paw as a hook to catch Chloe (if you don't recognize the characters, you need to rent Pinocchio). Now I know Fisher cats are ferocious predators belonging to the weasel family. Most people who hear the Fisher cat call for the first time are fairly convinced that they are hearing a human calling out for help. All I know is, the little Cairn Terrier in this house can't go out at night due to the possibility of being eaten by one.

And then there's the skunks...

There's a fairly radical thunder storm starting up, so this blog is ending for the day. God bless you all from the forests of Cow-Hampshire – an udderly wonderful place. Did I really say that?