It is becoming green again around my home. I have always loved the beautiful, bright, boisterous green of spring. But this year it seems especially beautiful. The arrival of the spring green this year means that I have survived my first winter here in Stone Wall Country. It means that I can look forward to the soft days of spring and summer to truly prepare for the next winter. For that seems to be the only thing that people here in New Hampshire are really doing; making ready for winter.

The perception of Winter here is different than from where I grew up. Back in Metrowest Boston, snow was treated as an annoyance that was dealt with, plowed away and piled up in a corner. Here in New Hampshire, snow, and winter in general, are treated as a challenge, a test of man and his ability to adapt. And before the snow is plowed away, we all stop and look at how beautiful it is in the trees and on the fields. Then, and only then, do we move it out of our way.

When I moved north to New Hampshire in the late summer of 1996, I really had no idea how different it would be from the place where I grew up. I had my first inkling when I found out that you can't get the time in this state. Sure, you can find out about what time it is, but there is no way to get the exact time.

In Massachusetts, there is a phone number that anyone can call, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, which will give you the exact time, right to the second. I knew that number by heart: 637-1234. I often called that number when I lived near the city, surrounded as I was by all the electronic trappings of modern life; VCR, computer, even a microwave oven with a digital clock. When I moved here, I brought all of these gadgets with me. To help restore my equilibrium in my new environment, I wanted to set all of these clocks to the correct time.

I assumed that the phone number for the time would be the same as it was in Boston. It never occurred to me that there would be a place in the United States where a citizen could not simply call a number on the phone and get the exact time. So I dialed the number and found myself listening to a voice on an answering machine at a private residence. Hmmm... I took out my new Keene area phone book and looked for the number for "Time". Not there. I even tried calling the number in Massachusetts with the Boston area code in front of it. That didn't work either.

Finally, I called the Operator, (at least that number was the same). I asked her if there was a number that I could call to get the exact time. She didn't seem quite sure as to what I wanted. She said that she could tell me the time; by looking at her watch, no doubt. I condescendingly told her that I needed the exact time, and she didn't really seem to understand why anyone would want to know the exact time.

Of course, I don't really need to know the exact time; it's just a habit left over from living too close to a city all of my life. Later, I came to understand that the concept of exact time really doesn't mean anything in a place in which "down the road a piece" is an actual measurement of distance.

Then there was the night that I stepped out onto my back porch and looked UP. What I saw shocked me so much, that I nearly fell over. There were stars up there; millions and billions and even trillions of stars. There were stars that twinkled, and stars that sparkled, and there were even stars that practically blinked on and off. There were red stars, and blue stars, and yellow stars, and even stars that constantly changed color. I invited a friend from the city, who is an amateur astronomy buff, to come up and see the stars. He said that there were too many stars, and that he couldn't find anything. All of the constellations that he knew like the back of his hand in the light of the city night sky were simply lost in a sea of shimmering stars. He was so frustrated, he had to stop looking and go inside to watch television to regain his composure.

Another difference from city life is that my neighbors all wave at me when I drive by. In the city, the only waving that went on usually involved using only one finger. And city folk also have a strange reaction to anyone who gives a friendly wave as they drive by. My dad grew up in New Hampshire, and he brought some of his country ways with him when he moved to Massachusetts to marry my mother. There were many times, in the quiet time after supper, that he and I would sit on the front stoop and wave at passing cars. The usual response from the drivers was one of surprise. Some waved back, many turned away quickly and tried to pretend they hadn't seen us wave, some even scowled at us. I have no doubt that some of these people were tempted to call the police with a report of 'suspicious waving'.

But here, people wave in a friendly, open way, as if they really are happy to see you, and returning the wave is expected. And there is no shame in giving a smile with the wave. Considering how few people I see in a day, it really is a treat to see someone, anyone. So, waving at my neighbors when I do see them seems like a very natural thing to do here. It has taken me a few months to get used to the waving, but I think that I have gotten the hang of it. I also think that I like it.

The differences from city life were what attracted me here in the first place. The promise of clean air and quiet, restful living were the things that I was looking for. Now that spring is here, I am looking forward to seeing more of those wonderful differences.

There may be hope for this Flatlander yet.

Written by Neil Van Zile, Jr. at 04/11/97 10:36:33 AM.

Well, maybe not.