I divide my time, as the book jackets put it, between Quebec and New Hampshire, and, though they border each other, if one were tossed out of a low-flying Piper Twin Cub one would have no doubt which side of the line one had landed on. When you cross from the south, you’re greeted by a sign on the autoroute declaring “SIGNALISATIONMETRIQUE” followed by “65” with a line scored through it and underneath “100.” I often think, crossing from the north, that they should have a sign on the New Hampshire side displaying a conventionally proportioned woman with a line scored through her and underneath a humongous North Country gal.

I hasten to add I don’t mean that in a disparaging way. Over my years in the Granite State, I’ve grown accustomed to their bulk, and come to find many of them rather beautiful: their size seems to suit the rigors of rural...


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