Windham. I Got You.
As this is my first contribution to Greet Windham, it feels only right to introduce myself. My wife and I rolled into Windham in 1997 after a grueling frontier expedition from the wilds of Wilmington, Massachusetts. Supplies were low, spirits were high, and the trauma was surprisingly manageable.
As a foremost expert on dramatic life explanations, I believe the relationships we protect are based on circles. The biggest one is our planet, otherwise known as Earth for those of you not familiar with astrology. If extraterrestrials ever invaded from some distant galaxy, I trust we would all link arms and defend that circle with the kind of teamwork normally reserved for assembling IKEA furniture.
Next comes our country. Also known as the United States, for the geography-challenged among us. If you’ve ever been in a foreign land and spotted another American family, you know the drill. Those are your USA people. You don’t know them, they don’t know you, but you’re basically cousins until your return flight.
Then we zoom in to our region. Let’s call that New England. The second you see someone in another time zone sporting a Patriots or Red Sox hat, the bond is instant. You might as well break bread together or at least exchange a subtle nod that says, “You too possess great wisdom.”
Then comes New Hampshire. Then our hometown. With each shrinking circle, the loyalty gets tighter, the pride gets stronger, and the expectations for not embarrassing the rest of us rise dramatically.
So, while I still do not know most Windham residents personally, the bond with the people of our hometown is unshakably sacred. Of course, I do not extend my loyalty casually. You have earned it from consistently courageous feats that would make the villagers of neighboring towns crumble.
I’ve seen you, noble warriors, grappling with the self-checkout at CVS like it just cursed your bloodline. I witnessed The Great McFlurry Shortage of 2020, when the McDonald’s drive-thru became a battlefield, and you bravely soldiered on. And I watched in wonder as you parallel-parked like a boss at The Common Man.
And yes, I’ve witnessed you manage the local Facebook group with the diplomacy of a UN ambassador. Someone posts “What’s that noise?” and suddenly we’ve got 142 comments, three conspiracy theories, and one person insisting it’s a bobcat riding a dirt bike. Yet somehow, you keep the peace. Mostly.
If one of us calls and says, “It’s happening,” we don’t ask what. We just grab a shovel, organic trail mix, and monogrammed designer flask, and meet at Griffin Park. That’s love. That’s loyalty. That’s hometown.
So, mark my words: should I be far from this place and catch even a whiff that someone is messing with you or your property, I will become our town’s personal Liam Neeson.
No matter if I’m halfway across the country, sipping on a questionable hotel cappuccino, I will remotely weaponize your Ring doorbell to hurl Shakespearean insults at trespassers. It shall echo through your cul-de-sac like the voice of vengeance itself.
Should I happen to see you while on vacation, perhaps at a sketchy all-you-can-eat buffet in Daytona, and some belligerent stranger dares to cast shade upon your name? Oh, it’s on. I will materialize beside you in a fiery wrath and unleash a verbal barrage that makes Gordon Ramsay sound like Mr. Rogers. I will roast that rando so hard, they’ll evaporate into a fine mist of regret and take a vow of silence to recover.
If our ship goes down, I’ll push Rose off the floating door like a soggy pool noodle to make room for you. Because at the end of the day, I may not know your name, your life story, or why you insist on mowing your lawn at 7am every Saturday – nobody messes with the chaotic harmony of this town or its people on my watch.
I didn’t ask for this role, but I will defend it with honor.
(A single kazoo plays the Avengers theme. Lights fade.)
Steve
UNCONTROLLED SUBSTANCE 