Greetings, friends. (XXXVI)

Greetings, friends. Today I went for my longest training run yet, for a total of 4 miles. I’m back in New Hampshire, where there has been a brief warm spell, before the weather returns to its normal cold and wet for New England in mid-February.

And, by warm, I mean in the low 50ºF, because my concept of warm is still calibrated to San Francisco. Warm enough, at least, to “run” comfortably outside. I put “run” in quotes because I only managed a 12’30” pace, which is a brisk jog for people in better health than I am. Still it’s not bad by my standards, considering that I ran up Center Hill Road in Epsom, which is marked by the grade of the hill that it runs up.

Epsom, of course, is named for the town in Surrey in England, not the bath salt. Center Hill Road was apparently so named, firstly, because of the eponymous hill, and secondly, because the town of Epsom was originally clustered on the slopes of the hill when the town was founded in 1727. Technically Epsom was a part of Massachusetts originally, as this pre-dated the foundation of New Hampshire by about fifty years.

Epsom had about 700 people recorded in the first United States census in 1790, and today it is home to about 4,800 people. The center of the town is no longer Center Hill Road, though. US 4 and State Route 48 intersect about 2 miles west of here, and, by the time the traffic circle was built in the 1940’s, the town “center” had moved over there. The traffic circle is now where the McDonald’s and the Dunkin’s and the town office and the post office and the state liquor store all are.

Anyway, jogging up Center Hill Road, my mother’s seven acres (not forty!) run about 1,000 feet to where a snowmobile trail crosses the road. Beyond that is the cemetery, with a granite marker memorializing the location of the town’s first meetinghouse, dating back to 1765. A little farther on the right is a partially collapsed house, next to a fully collapsed shed.

Beyond that is the turnoff to Mountain Road, which dead-ends at the Epsom Town Forest. The entire idea of a “town forest” boggles my mind slightly. It seems like a peculiarly New England institution. According to its web page, “its goal is to promote conservation, education, forest and wildlife management and outdoor recreation on this property for all individuals.” So that is a thing.

Right at that intersection, there is a granite plinth with a bronze plaque that reads “Mrs. Izabella McCoy was captured by the Indians near this site Aug. 27, 1741. Erected by the Center Historic Club, A.D. 1904.” The Indians, indeed. Who can blame them.

Further up the road still is another plinth with another plaque that reads: “On this site stood the home of MAJ. ANDREW Mc CLARY, who leaving his plow in the furrow hastened to respond to his country’s call and was killed at the battle of BUNKER HILL.” Underneath that, it says in smaller letters, “Erected by the Centre (sic) Historic Club 1905.”

Next to that is a house with a flag mocking Joe Biden, a bunch of small MAGA signs, and an even larger group of handmade signs with Trumpist slogans scrawled on scraps of plywood and cardboard in spray paint. Like, one attached to every tree facing the road. This is New Hampshire, after all. I wonder what Maj. McClary would think.

Finally, at the very top of the hill, there is a small table by the roadside with a cooler. Posted on the cooler is a sign reading “ELLIE’S EGGS · $5 dozen · Healthier feed, healthier hens, healthier eggs.” Taped to the inside of the lid of the cooler is a handwritten poem also titled “Ellie’s Eggs”, consisting of four rhyming couplets, and signed “THE POULTRY POET”.

Underneath that is written in felt marker, in a different hand, presumably Ellie’s. “Thank You Unknown Customer!” it says.

Beyond the top of Center Hill Road starts Echo Valley Road, which dips precipitously down into what I can only assume is Echo Valley. Not wanting to huff my way up another steep slope, I turned and went back down the hill, turning up Mountain Road to make up enough mileage to go home.

Up Mountain Road there is a kind of glamping resort of sorts with signs that say “Getaway” in a fancy modern cursive typesetting that suggests an eye for chic. I believe this place has a bunch of small cabins with internet access for Bostonians looking to, uh, get away from it all, while still being able to work remotely.

Right before the turn off to this place, there used to be a sign affixed to a tree in front of a house that read “MASSHOLES GO HOME”. I wonder what happened to it.

I did my four miles, walked the rest of the way to the house, and got my wallet and car keys. I drove back up to the top of the hill and bought two dozen of Ellie’s eggs. I won’t miss this place at all once we finally sell the house, but I’m sure the eggs will be delicious.

If you’re reading this, I send my love. Ceterum censeo pro vigilum imperdiet cessandam est. See ya tomorrow.