“Sooner or later, every man sits down to a banquet of consequences” - Robert Louis Stevenson

My mother grew up during the Depression and had to eat mustard sandwiches. As a result my sensibilities have been influenced by many of her penny-pinching habits.

It’s hard to compare American and Canadian political systems without stepping on toes or boring the living daylights out of anyone who would feign interest in this subject.

Honestly, I would rather teach the sport of Curling to a Texan.

Sometimes I feel like a kid that just fell in love and feels that it is necessary to brag about every little thing they have in common with the special person they’ve just met.

The problem is that I’m 46 years old, have lived in Cheshire county for five years, and am a little slow on the uptake.

My first experience with the Atlas Pyrovision Productions pyromusical displays began unknowingly in the mid-nineties.

Twice a week every summer I would make a two minute pilgrimage up a flight of stairs to the rooftop of the apartment building I lived in. It was there I would wrap my legs around a railing and sit with a few neighbors, sip a few beers and share a radio to listen to and watch whatever country was lighting up the city skyline with their presentation during Montreal’s International Fireworks Competition.

I never knew until I moved to New Hampshire that every now and then one of the competitors representing the United States was from the Granite State.

For a few summers I’ve driven by local food stands like Belmore Farms in Greenfield wanting to turn in and pick up some fresh vegetables.

Every time that I drive by I think back to when I was a kid visiting a dairy farm that belonged to a friend of our family who lived in southern Quebec. I remember trading a quarter for an empty 25 pound sized potato sack and heading off to fill the bag that was bigger than I was with as many ears of corn that I could drag back to the barn.

North American driving habits seem to have regional norms. Like dialects they are versions of the same language spoken differently in certain areas.

I have been waiting for 5 years to have a tattoo. I want a bald eagle clutching a scroll stamped onto my right arm. The riband will proclaim that I am a "Proud American Made in Canada".

I have had a love affair with the Granite State since I was 4 years old, spending many summer vacations at Hampton Beach.