I am writing this on an evening in late March. The daylight has lengthened, so now when I come home after work I can walk along the river that flows through the heart of my New Hampshire town, or down the path beside the lake where bikers and dog walkers stroll and see the sky turn red at sunset.
By Mel Allen
Apr 06 2020
I am writing this on an evening in late March. The daylight has lengthened, so now when I come home after work I can walk along the river that flows through the heart of my New Hampshire town, or down the path beside the lake where bikers and dog walkers stroll and see the sky turn red at sunset. Springtime is just around the corner, and on the warmest days the air holds the promise of summer. Right outside my door, the crocuses are up and the daffodils are almost ready to bloom.
Each year at this time, with the land greening all around, we here at Yankee ship our summer travel issue to the printer, confident that we are showing New England at its finest, the New England that so many want to know. This year, however, we are all unsettled, the ground shifting beneath us, and chances are good that by the time you hold this issue in your hands, we will likely still be feeling unsettled. But I know this: During my four decades at Yankee, I have seen New England endure two deep recessions, a terrorist attack that began partly in Boston and Portland, wars that sent tens of thousands of New Englanders to Iraq and Afghanistan, and a bombing at our cherished Boston Marathon, and always, through it all, the people who live here tapped into the resilient spirit that defines this region.
One day I found myself in Caribou, Maine, known as the coldest spot in a state that does not fear cold. There, a woman told me a story that had been passed down through her family like an heirloom. The date was February 13, 1861. It was 36 degrees below zero with a vicious wind, she said, when a mailman named Bubar was preparing for his rounds. He trekked by snowshoe 12 miles to the town of Presque Isle, collected his load of mail, and started back. When the wind forced him to stop, he cut down a cedar tree and kept a fire going all night to stay alive. “The next day,” the woman said proudly, “he brought the mail.” In my career I have gotten to know many Bubars—tenacious people who do not flinch in the face of adversity.
Though always an antidote to routine, travel can also be the calm after the storm. In these days of hunkering down, I hope you will look through these pages and remember that beauty awaits: the fascinating places to see, the wonderful people to meet. Dream a little about seeing puffins and whales, lighthouses and dramatic lakes. They will be here when you are ready.
PS: This issue also showcases the talent and care that art director Lori Pedrick has brought to our pages since 2007. She leaves now to head up her own design studio, and she will be deeply missed.