New Hampshire is homogenous at mid-season. At its edges, on the cusp of shoulder seasons, that unity unravels into stark regional differences that confound tourists and meteorologists alike.
When city dwellers come for a visit to my modest tree farm in Middleton, they are usually effusive. “Oh what a beautiful place,” they say. “You must love living here. It’s so peaceful! Oh how I wish I would live like you do.”