Author: Rick Broussard

Since the old order of things has been tossed and everything is changing, here’s a thought. What if I appointed you, dear readers, to take over some of my editorial duties? Don’t laugh. It’s happening.

You learn a lot walking a dog around the neighborhood every day. One lesson is that all creatures have their own favorite places to visit and enjoy.

Time flies when you’re having fun. Or not. The last time I subjected myself to the trial of having an “official” portrait taken was in the summer of 2009. That shot has aged much better than I have, but it was time to let it go.

Why does mud get such a bad rap? It’s what politicians sling when they run out of good arguments. It’s what your name becomes when you screw up publicly. It’s also the nickname of the “off” season that is now upon us.

What would Gen. John Stark think of guru Baba Ram Dass? Editor Rick Broussard expands on that thought, plus introduces our new special issue Lifelong New Hampshire.

About a year ago this month, my wife and I received a special honor at the New Hampshire Theatre Awards —mostly just for being stage parents who didn’t quit when our kids grew up, but I took advantage of the opportunity.

You may have noticed our latest foray into multimedia: our Cubicle Concerts series, mentioned on our “About” page (in October) or on house ads (like the one to the left), and perhaps you’ve even taken a few minutes to watch and listen to a few of them. I hope so.

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…

For most of my early life, April 22 only signified one thing to me: my little sister’s birthday, which frankly didn’t have that much impact back then beyond requiring me to sing…

The favorite restaurant of my young family (nearly 30 years ago) was the Capital City Diner on South Main Street in Concord. It was fun, served kid-friendly food, and the owner, according to his own staff, was cool.

Between the time I write this and the time you read it, my wife and I will both stand on stage and thank some people after receiving a joint lifetime achievement award. Among those I thank will be you.

While gathering stories for our feature on cannabis in NH, one source suggested I find someone whose life had been ruined by pot. I was having no luck when someone I once knew well came to mind.

Shakespeare wrote, “What’s past is prologue.” The past is also what we take for granted. Maybe that’s why history is often so unexplored and overlooked, even when it’s your own family history.

My first encounter with a “health food store” was back in the 1960s. They sold a mysterious, chewy cereal called “granola” and made cups of dark yerba mate tea that smelled like a mystical potion.

One of my first workplaces in New Hampshire was a third-floor office on the corner of Elm and Amherst Streets in Manchester. It was 1990 and, yes, imaginary tumbleweeds did roll down Elm Street.

The Poetry Society of NH is seeking a new poet laureate for the state. While it’s possible you don’t know the name of the current one, this might be the most important nonpolitical office we have.

Our Best of NH Party happens June 14 and you should attend. If not for yourself, then for the good of the Granite State and, in evolutionary terms, for the good of humanity. Allow me to explain.

A walk through the NH Statehouse is a good way to absorb a little of the state’s political DNA, but it might leave you convinced that we are all descended from old, bearded white guys.

It was 50 years ago this month that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Tennessee. For their safety and well-being, his wife and family retreated to stay with friends in New Hampshire.

Did you know that Dr. Seuss was born in New Hampshire? To be clear, I’m not saying that the man who became Dr. Seuss was born here, just that he assumed that famous name while he was here.

There was a death in my family just as the year was turning and it was an emotional time on every level, but through all the stress and grief, one member of our clan kept her composure.

For me, the future arrived back in the 1960s. It came on wheels, packed with books, and when the door opened, it smelled like a cool breeze from heaven: It was an air-conditioned bookmobile.