North Country Problems, North Country People

“I hate the North Country.”

That’s what I recently overheard from another local. It sent me into reflection on what it really means to live here in Northern New Hampshire, and why I continue to choose this place as my home. It didn’t take long for the universe to hand me an experience that affirmed my choice.

It all started with a routine errand run on Monday evening. First to the Co-op, and then to the always-dreaded Walmart stop to grab a few things in bulk. As I pulled into a parking space, a dashboard alert popped up: right rear tire pressure low—20 psi. That’s strange, I thought. I had just gotten my car serviced three days earlier. Maybe it’s a glitch in the system. After all, the car is 11 years old. (Wow!)

I hopped out for a quick look. The tire didn’t seem obviously deflated. I went into the store, got what I needed, and came back out to a new alert: 19 psi.

As I started heading home, the number continued to drop. 18. 17. Something was definitely going on. I passed Maplefields and noticed their air pump was in use, though I’d just seen a Facebook post warning locals that it was broken. I called a friend. No air pump, but they offered to reach out to one of their contacts if I needed help. Since it wasn’t an emergency, I thanked them and said I’d check on it in the morning.

Back home, I crouched down by the tire and heard it: the air rushing out in a steady hiss, like it was celebrating its freedom. Wheeee!!! Then I saw it—a nail, tall and smug, embedded perfectly into the curve of the tire, like it belonged there. Years ago, this would have launched me into a full-blown panic. Car trouble triggers a special kind of anxiety, especially when you live alone, far from family, and depend on your vehicle for everything.

But this time, I was calm. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s fatigue. Maybe I’ve just lived here long enough to know help isn’t far. I left the nail in the tire and went to bed. I’ll figure it out tomorrow, I said.

The next morning, I woke up with an unexpected thought: This is going to be an amazing adventure. I genuinely meant it. Who would become part of the story? What pieces would fall into place? I felt a little nuts for being excited (and you may think I still am, and that’s okay). But one of the gifts of living in a small community is learning to trust that even problems can come with connection.

Working remotely meant I had some flexibility. Around 9:30am, I called Porfido’s Automotive. They’ve helped me before with battery boosts during subzero mornings. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that they’d moved locations, and they didn’t have the staff available to come out. “Do you have anyone you recommend?” I asked.

“Have you tried Roger at The Rolling Mechanic?”

So that’s who I called next. Roger was kind and willing, but couldn’t leave the shop. “If you can get the spare on,” he said, “I’ll take care of the patch.” Alright then. I decided I was going to do it myself.

I rolled up my sleeves, pulled out the spare, the jack, and the wrench, and got to work. I’d seen it done before—never been the one doing it. But how hard could it be? I knew I could operate the jack. My one concern was the lug nuts.

I tried the first one. Nothing. Second one—still nothing. Third one—I threw my full weight onto the wrench handle. The car bounced a little, but that lug nut would not budge. Okay, I told myself, time to ask for help.

I called my friend Edwin. He picked up immediately: “Hey Amanda, how can I help you?”

That question alone felt like a gift. I explained the situation. He said he’d be right over.

While I waited, I jacked the car up—a sweaty effort with the temperature already pushing 80. Edwin and his wife Robin arrived within minutes, drill in hand. A quick bzzz bzzz bzzz bzzz and the spare was on. The flat went into the trunk, and just like that, we were done.

What I had braced myself for—an all-day hassle—turned out to be a graceful, coordinated little dance.

I drove slowly to Roger’s shop. We’d never met before, but he greeted me with kindness and said he’d have the tire patched and back on my car by the end of the day. My friend Mark, who I know from Shaw’s, happened to be there too. We chatted for a few minutes before I walked the short four blocks home thinking, Why is this so easy and fun?

Next on the list: get to the gym. I called my friend Mari, who offered to pick me up on her way to Littleton Fitness. And again I thought, Why is this so easy and fun?

After our workout, I asked Mari if she could stop at an ATM so I could get some cash to pay Roger. But when I got to the machine—I blanked. I’d forgotten my PIN. (Don’t judge me—I never carry cash.)

Okay, I thought. Who can help me now? And then an idea hit me.

I asked Mari to drop me off on Main Street. I walked into a local shop where they know me well and explained my cashless situation to one of the associates behind the counter.

Without hesitation, he said he could help. We processed a refund-style card transaction so I could walk out with cash in hand. I was giddy. Yet again: Why is this so easy and fun?

I arrived back at Roger’s shop, smiling, cash in hand, pep in my step. My car was ready—patched tire already back in place, just like he promised. Roger asked if I wanted to keep the nail as a souvenir. “Of course,” I said with a grin.

I drove away from Roger’s with a souvenir in my cup holder and a full heart. What I thought might be a chaotic, inconvenient ordeal had unfolded into one of the most affirming days I’ve had in a long time.

It all started with someone saying, “I hate the North Country.”

But after a day like this, I can say with full clarity: I don’t. I love it here.

Not because things don’t go wrong. They do. Cars break down. Nails show up in tires. You forget your debit PIN at the worst moment. But when those things happen, people show up. They say yes. They bring drills. They give you a ride. They swipe your card behind the counter and hand you cash without blinking. They make room for you in their day, not because they have to, but because that’s just what people do here.

Years ago, I lived in big cities—San Jose, Costa Rica, and Quito, Ecuador—with populations of one and two million. Life was very different there: the culture, the rhythm, the diversity. It came with a kind of noise and anonymity that wore on me. When things went wrong in a place that size, it often felt like I was entirely on my own, and that felt truly terrifying.

Moving to a town like Littleton with just over 6,000 people was like turning the dial from heavy metal to solo piano—suddenly, everything slowed down enough to breathe. There’s space here for connection, for presence, and for just being human.

Every single person in this story said yes. That’s the North Country I know. It is not just a place, but a community. A culture of kindness, of neighbors who notice, of connection that doesn’t ask for anything in return. I am so grateful to call it home, and I can’t wait for my next adventure here.

Maybe you’ve had a moment like this too—one of those ordinary days that quietly reveals something much bigger. It might not look like a flat tire. Maybe it’s a small kindness, an unexpected offer of help, or just the comfort of being known in a place where you belong.

Whatever shape it takes, I hope you notice it. These moments are easy to miss, but they’re often the ones that show us why we’re exactly where we’re meant to be. -Amanda