Author: Rick Broussard

New Hampshire’s most celebrated poet wrote those lines in one of his lesser-known poems, appropriately titled “New Hampshire.” I say “lesser known” but not unappreciated.

A few years ago, my wife and I were walking in Portsmouth’s Market Square — people-watching, of course. My wife was dressed as a monarch butterfly and I wore the plush orange skin of a human-size red spotted newt.

But it was too late. I was already emotionally bound to my Scottish “heritage,” which mostly took shape in my desire to wear a kilt, play the pipes and go hunting Nessie in the lochs of the Highlands. When I…

My family ran a traveling puppet theater when I was growing up, so it was this last attraction that I was most looking forward to seeing at the big shebang at Manchester’s Northeast Delta Dental Stadium in June. Sadly, I…

It was an impulse buy. I didn’t even look at the price (pricey) because it was displayed with some hand-wrapped cuts of cheese so I could tell it was from a local dairy — two of my favorite words —…

In Florida, where I grew up, the closest thing to mountains are sand dunes. There were some big ones on our beaches, including one we called The Matterhorn that was treated like a faux snow hill by kids on cardboard…

Speaking as someone with a number of nurses in my family (two of whom have worked in pediatric ICU for decades), I have nothing but respect for these warm souls that minister to us at the most vulnerable and uncertain…