Editor’s Note

Somewhere in the Granite State, a 2-by-3-foot replica of the October issue of New Hampshire Magazine decorates a grateful guy’s garage. 

The first Christmas my family spent without my father should have gone down in the books as “The Year of the Disappearing Dad.” 

Editor Mike Cote reflects on all he is grateful for in New Hampshire, and the path that he took to get here

On a sunny day in late August, Lady Sara Richard and I met at a café in Nashua to talk about death.

The storms that pummeled New England in July disrupted the lives of thousands of Vermonters as rising waters damaged or destroyed homes and businesses. In New Hampshire, flash floods washed out roads and prompted evacuations in some southern towns.

In June, I started reporting to work on the fourth floor of the Waumbec Commercial Center, a 450,000-square-foot building that was once part of the largest textile manufacturing operation in the world.

I got to meet my replacement the other day. He hadn’t been hired yet, but there’s not a lot of objectivity in such an encounter so no one was seeking my approval. Still, for what it’s worth, I approve. Mike Cote seems tailor made for the job.

Our postmodern age is fun if you enjoy watching language change before your eyes. I’m an editor, so my job is to be a stickler, but as Gen. John Stark’s life made clear, you’ve got to pick your battles. Which brings us to my point of contention: our famous state motto