My dad was the kind of man who fixed everybody’s snowblower before fixing his own.
In Manchester, that meant our garage filled up every winter with machines that would not start, neighbors stomping their boots, and Dad saying, “Give me ten minutes,” even when dinner was already on the table.
He worked at an insurance office, which sounded boring until you saw how many people trusted him with the things they were afraid to lose. He was careful with papers, careful with money, careful with promises.
This New Hampshire hex is for him — for the small reliable ways he loved people.