Wednesday, August 22 — I was standing in line at Piscataqua Bank the other day when the teller, without a word of warning, began telling me how much she loves the New Hampshire Gazette. I mean loves the thing. Says she rushes around town looking for it every other Friday. I believe she even used the word “fortnightly,” which is a dead giveaway that the woman is an addict. Says she reads my column at the front, then flips to the one at the back. Also loves the tide chart, old news, etc. etc. When she is done, she hands it to the woman at the next window and all but forces the poor dear to read the best parts.
Anyway, I’m on the other side of a piece of bullet-proof plexi listening to this whole thing coming through a tinny speaker, and a tad embarrassed, when the guy standing at the next teller window begins a monologue of his own. “You know what happened to the old New Hampshire Gazette printing press?” he hollers over to me, and through the glass to the two tellers. I do know, actually, that the press was last seen at some world’s fair back in the late 1800s, but I act dumb. The guy proceeds to tell us all the story about the missing Daniel Fowle printing press, and more people are lining up, and the whole thing is turning into a sort of Gazette Love Fest, when I finally get my cash and, thanking everybody, head for the door.
You might think this doesn’t happen often, but it does. A couple of years ago I was touring a ritzy house in York, Maine. It’s one of those places where you pay a chunk of money to see how a bunch of decorators have renovated a lot of rooms. I’m way out of my element here, but my wife likes these things. Anyway, I find myself continually stuck standing next to a classy looking gentlemen wearing a bow tie. We move to the next room, there he is again. Eventually he strikes up a conversation and, you guessed it, he’s talking about What a dope George Bush is and how someone should send him a subscription to the New Hampshire Gazette.
We were way out of town at some music festival and the guy sitting in front of me had on a New Hampshire Gazette T-shirt. I’ve had readers send me historical stuff — old letters and books — in the mail. People are passionate about this little thing in a way that others reserve for nicotine or sportscars or Star Trek. And experience has taught me that you cannot spot a Gazette fanatic based on his or her appearance. Age, posture, clothing, personal hygiene — nothing seems to be characteristic.
Initially I thought maybe all these accolades had something to do with me, or my work, but I’ve since smartened up. It’s all about the paper, and if this new web site forum thing works out, maybe about the web site too. People are just happy that it exists. It doesn’t arrive like a paper that you read because it’s morning and you’re checking the news. This thing isn’t news. It comes to them more like a $20 bill discovered on the sidewalk with no possible owner in sight. I can’t explain it. But I know two things — it ain’t normal and I like it. – J. Dennis Robinson
Those with dissenting views are particularly invited to write. Our hate mail in-basket is getting dusty.