A day in the life of the New Hampshire primary

New Hampshire punches above its weight during primary season. But, damn, we are an eager bunch. Many of us moonlight every four years as mystery shoppers who take their presidential vetting job as seriously as the one that pays the bills. So when candidates stage events anywhere close to my small New Hampshire town, I show up. 

Ohio Governor John Kasich commanded center stage with ease on Tuesday night at the Monadnock Country Club in Peterborough. A confident man in his light blue, open-collared shirt, his tieless amiability went over well. Mostly. He touted his everyman credentials with his postal worker parents and working-class, Pennsylvania town upbringing. He answered (some) questions directly, though sometimes had to be prompted with a follow-up question to be clear about his positions. He was a bit snippy with a young woman who asked a question about climate change, trying to disparage her for using a talking point that he'd heard twice that day at other events -- namely, that there is a consensus among 97% (or more) of climate scientists that climate change is real. So his nice-guy image cracked a bit.

When he claimed vehemently that raising the payroll tax cap could not come close to fixing social security, the math major in me cringed. I am no expert, but the reports I've read show otherwise in simple mathematical terms; this step could go a long way toward fixing social security. So, as amiable as he may be, he is not interested in boosting the solvency of the social security system by asking people to pay payroll taxes on income earned above the current $118,500 payroll tax cap. A demerit on the issues.

Senator Rand Paul was another story Wednesday afternoon at his lunchtime meet-and-greet at the Peterborough Diner. While Mr. Kasich seemed to soak in energy from his audience, Mr. Paul appeared to be drained by the crowd. Frankly, he did not look like he particularly enjoyed talking to people. When I placed myself in line to ask him a question, he moved past me so quickly that the best I could do was thrust my hand forward for a quick handshake, which he managed with little eye contact. For an opthamologist, he didn't seem to see that well.

But he looked good, playing the common man role with his black-and-white checked shirt, jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. A smile could have been his best accessory though; I don't think I saw him smile at all. Instead he came across as a sinewy boxer searching for ways to land a figurative punch. You could see the single-minded filibusterer in him as he drilled through the small crowd. Unfortunately,  I wasn't able to ask him a question and the cramped space didn't allow me to hear him talk on the issues. This is a candidate you may have to see twice to confirm your first impression. The price you pay for living in New Hampshire.

So, two down and, at last count, 17 more candidates to go. And that's only the first viewing. It's a spectacular ride in a state whose plain-talking citizens consider themselves as smart as any candidate. Maybe smarter. Stay tuned for updates.

Eyes wide shut

Reading my work aloud to an audience still makes me a bit nervous. Though I've gotten better over the years. I've learned to speak slowly and with intention to be sure my words are loud and clear. I vary the style of my speaking voice to avoid sounding monotonous. And I look up from the page once in awhile to engage the audience.

Most of these techniques are for a listener's benefit. I want them to hear each word and not be put off by a boring tone. But the last technique is really for me. When I look out at the audience, I can see peoples' body language, particularly their eyes, and know how they are reacting to a piece. Are they smiling? Thoughtful? Intense? Falling asleep?

The last time I read to an audience, though, something shifted. When I looked up to engage them, I couldn't see the whites of their eyes because most had their eyes closed. Some of them were squeezing their eyelids tight. Many had their heads tilted back with their chins up as if they were expecting the words to dribble down from the air and wash over them, like a rainfall of story.

It took me some time to realize why this audience was so different than others. But it made sense when I thought about it. These were my colleagues at an artist's residency and they were almost exclusively visual artists. They were not particularly interested in seeing me read. They wanted to ingest my words and process them visually,  as only they could see them. Like on the television show The Voice, they were reacting to craft in its purest form, using their own creative judgment to react to my work without the artifice of appearances. 

It was a raw moment of peer-to-peer creativity. And a reminder of the elasticity of writing. People take in writing using whatever tools or filters they possess. I read the words; they saw the stories. Over in the blink of an eye. Magical.

Rediscovering an endless summer

When I was a kid, I took summertime for granted. Sprung from school at the end of June, I felt set loose onto what seemed like a vast, timeless stretch of sunshine and relaxation. I slept when I chose, woke when I felt like it, and swam and read at will. I ate fresh peas and corn and tomatoes as the season progressed. I dug earthworms and caught perch and sunnies off the dock, which my father skinned and my mother cooked. I generally lounged around with a freedom I didn't even know I had.

This summer, for the first time in more than thirty years, I feel like I am having that same sort of old-fashioned, child-like summer. On sabbatical in Santa Fe at a writing residency for the entire month of June, my schedule was my own. My basic needs were met with a blissful ignorance. Returning home to a full work schedule, I figured my carefree days of 2015 were behind me. But New England had other ideas.

It rained in New Hampshire for much of the month I was gone, and I was met by a lush, flowering landscape on the cusp of the July 4th holiday. American flags were flying everywhere. Orange daylilies lined stone fences. The pink and white astilbe in my front yard reached straight up with a feathery exuberance.

Now, entering mid-July, the summer is ripe and will be for at least a few more weeks. The cicadas and their sizzling end-of-summer serenade have yet to gain full strength. Nothing is waning; there are no school busses on test drives, high-school football players at practice, or bittersweet Labor Day plans. The dog days are stubbornly, deliciously here. It makes me think of earlier summers: of my first dive off the deep end, of learning to dance to Motown, of men walking on the moon. Of what miraculously still feels like effortless, endless possibility.