Opinion: The nostalgia of a small town – Concord Monitor

It wasn’t until I moved out of state for my first year at Syracuse University that I realized just how special New Hampshire is.

As a freshman, the first three questions you’re always asked upon meeting professors and fellow students are: name, major and hometown. When I answer that I’m from Webster, N.H., I’m often met with slightly perplexed expressions from domestic and international students alike. Something along the lines of, “I’ve been to Boston, but I don’t really know anything about New Hampshire” or “There’s a lot of mountains up there, right?”

So, I came up with a sort of elevator pitch. A quick and easy explanation of what New Hampshire is.

“Well, I live in the middle of the woods, off a dead-end dirt road. Enough so that I have videos of moose trotting across my yard, pictures of groundhogs sitting on my front doorstep and memories of my dogs playing with baby deer. But, I’m only a half-hour drive from the capital city, Concord. I’m an hour from the beach, an hour and a half from Boston, where I can see any of my favorite artists perform, and just two hours from Portland, Maine, and Burlington, Vermont. I’m surrounded by woods, lakes and mountains, but still have the option to venture into a city or lay by the ocean for a day if I’d like.”

At first, I was surprised by people’s reactions when they would comment on how nice it must be to live here. Enduring the cold winters and rural isolation gets old, and I certainly don’t plan on staying here forever. Still, I’ve noticed that the way I describe it has always been more affectionate than I gave it credit for.

But what I’ve realized since leaving is that New Hampshire is more than just its convenient geography. It’s a feeling you don’t fully understand until you’re far enough away from it to miss the small things.

It’s recognizing yourself in the lyrics of Noah Kahan, hearing your home described in a way that feels nostalgic and deeply personal. It’s the pride of seeing “Live Free or Die” on license plates and tattoos, knowing it isn’t just a motto, but a kind of identity people grow up internalizing.

It’s summers at Canobie Lake Park, riding Untamed for the tenth summer in a row and still flinching at the top. It’s road trips up North to Lincoln, watching the mountains slowly take over the horizon. It’s holding onto my dad as he snowmobiled around our house, wind biting my face while everything around us turned into a white blur. And it’s the constant hope of refreshing Snow Day Calculator, waiting for that announcement that meant the world would slow down for just one more day.

It’s the small familiarity of it all. Walking into Pitchfork Records and knowing the man behind the counter; talking about music as a shared interest, not a mere transaction. Visiting the middle school for my little brother’s events and knowing the teachers there will greet me like I’m still their student. It’s the kind of place where community quietly becomes a staple of your life.

It’s winter evenings that have a way of slowing everything down. Joining my family on the
couch with the sound of Fritz Wetherbee’s voice coming through the TV, steady and familiar. The introduction of the old, crackling vinyl singing, “There’s an old-fashioned home in New Hampshire with a light in the window for me.”

Although the appeal of New Hampshire has naturally worn off after 19 years in the same small town, and I often joke that I need to leave, my classmates’ replies have reminded me how remarkable the state really is. None of these experiences can quite capture it on their own, but together they point to what it means to be from a place that is small, but feels endless — one where nature, community, history and memory all overlap in ways you only fully appreciate once you leave.

I’ve always loved the idea of travel, and I have every intention of city hopping in the years to come, chasing new places and versions of “home.” But regardless of where I end up, the Granite State will always feel like mine. It’s where I know I can return when I need a renewed sense of familiarity, comfort or perspective.

For me, New Hampshire is more than the place I was born. It’s the confidence of knowing exactly what it feels like to belong somewhere, and the comfort of realizing it’s been there all along.

Addyson Kimball is a lifelong resident of Webster. She is currently a sophomore at Syracuse University, where she is dual-majoring in Political Science and Law, Society and Policy.