June 2026
At the dinner table of my friends Christopher and Zoë's homely home last August, the topic of their upcoming wedding was at hand. "We have to tell you, the location has changed. We're getting married in Italy."
My first thought was "I can't wait to see the pictures". I sincerely was overjoyed that my two beautiful friends were going to celebrate their love in a place I knew meant so much to them both, for a variety of reasons. In the next instant I heard; “Oh, and you're coming with”.
I just about fell out of my seat when I heard that.
I've traveled across our vast and varied United States. Both as a child of a single mother who, despite the odds, and sometimes because of them, gave her children a wealth of experience; and as an adult who continues to be curious about the world around him. However, international travel, let alone travel in general, has a certain financial reality that is easy to succumb to. I didn't expect to be leaving the contiguous 48 anytime soon, and here I was now with a flight to Italy. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that two people I have great respect for, thought I was important enough to share in their ceremony of love, blending two awesome families into one.
A couple months later, I found myself again at the table of the homely home. This time clouded by the stresses of a series of unfortunate events. As good friends of mine, I could not hide my grief from them. They may not have known the cause, but they could see the fog over my mind’s eye. Dinner that night ended with me choking on my words. I needed a temporary place to stay, but I also hated being in such a vulnerable position. As the clock struck a late hour, and we all rose to depart after a lovely meal where I had never mentioned any of my own ails. Finally, I muster the courage to ask. Before I can fully finish my thought - "We've already discussed it. We have a spare room. You are welcome to stay.”
I like to say, I don't cry much at all. Tears just happen to fall from my eyes from time to time. The ride back that night, may have been one of those times.
Very shortly after that, I was living in the homely home. Awaiting an opportunity, which was set to lock in late November/early December of that year. With short notice, that became March, and as the Spring month came around - so did the sad fact that this opportunity would not. As well as the auxiliary plans surrounding it.
I had no deadline to leave, and was consistently told I was still welcome to stay - even dubbed an honorary Diloreto by Chris's father by the end.
And I was honored by their Grace.
250 years ago, you needed to be a man who owned property, alongside a host of other requirements, in order to serve in office. It was the slow consistent effort by those who believed in a republic, truly representative of those it governs, who changed that paradigm. Up until the late 70s, you had to be 21 years old to vote. It wasn't until the soldiers fighting the war in Vietnam said, ‘if we're old enough to serve you on the battlefield, we’re old enough to participate in the system that sends us to those battlefields.”
Only then did the State House open its doors to those over the age of 18. Ever since, 18, 19, 20 year-olds have weaseled their way into serving in the the State House one way or the other, participating largely as equals amongst their elders.
However, unspoken judgment from the puritanical core within the New English spirit looms in many of us still to this day.
By the coming of Spring in late March, I was working a deck job in Penacook, and doing some topography surveying, while in the throes of what has been described by many with the credibility to say so as; the worst session of the House in decades. Allies, mentors, and friends were all making the decision to retire out of pure exhaustion. All this while also living in the library of my close friends.
For the first time in four years of public service, I too was feeling the exhaustion. Attempting to find a permanent housing solution within the bounds of the district I serve, on top of handling the busiest part of the legislative session and make enough money to get by, doing jobs that accommodate the schedule of the legislature.
At a certain point I had to consider whether or not I could make this work for another two years.
There's nothing that I feel more called to do than that which I am doing now. I strongly believe in a government of citizens. I look at my home underneath Monadnock, and yearn for it to be there for the children of my grandkids. I see the way of ensuring that, as the public coming together in our temples of deliberation to deliberate, and therefrom find that which will heal our wounds. Nonetheless, I had to consider whether or not I belonged under our golden dome.
What place does a whippersnapper getting by renting, and doing odd jobs, have in our State House of Representatives? Do people want a representative living on the margins?
The last week of May rolled around and with it, my looming personal deadline of June the 1st. At that point there were three rental units available online. None of which met my budget. It was beginning to feel as though the end was near. Though, I could feel the ember in my spirit telling me it wasn’t. I had one final shot and I wasn't going to accept defeat until the bitter end.
So I drove to my good friend, one of my many adopted grandmothers, Carol Wyndham. She was not home, and I found out she had a fall back in April - but she was being released the next day at noon from the nursing facility. I arranged to assist her daughter in getting her home; and next I knew I was around the dinner table. If you know Carol, you know that she's going to feed you, and won't take no for an answer.
Our conversation ended with a plan for me to live in one of the apartments on her property, and serve as an extra pair of hands for the management of it.
The ember in my spirit set aflame once more; and a few days after that, I made the trek to the Town House to file for re-election. With full confidence in my ability to continue to weather the craziness of the legislative/personal balance that comes with living a healthy life while in public service.
Our final session day came a day afterwards on 4 June. For the first time, I was able to wrangle some of my closest family and friends to join me for a day where the full House met in session. It's not often I write remarks when descending to the well of the House. My philosophy on the matter is, true deliberation isn't scripted, and if you need notes to speak on an issue, don't take the well at the House. After two years of hearing my colleagues, including myself, complain about the state of the House, I could not let the regular session end without saying my piece. I had a brief punchy two minute thirty-four second speech ready. I had its rhythm, its melody, and the lyrics all as I imagined.
Then, I had a call with a close colleague of mine. A colleague who I've spent each lunch hour during the full sessions with. Someone who has dedicated themselves to serving something bigger than themselves while in the State House. Someone whose story yet untold, has bettered the lives of every citizen of this State. This member has a number of serious ailments which pains her body, and when she told me, it wasn't her body which agonizes her; but instead the state of the deliberative body the member dedicated themselves to. I sat in silence for a long moment before being able to respond. I went to bed hearing her say that, I heard her saying that the entire day as all the background drama of the final day, made her words that much more salient.
As I'm watching my baby cousin hop around the State House, feeling the love of family. As I look at my Aunt, my Mother, and I see how far we've all come; and as the words of a mentor in agony echo in my ears - I realize I'm gonna need a little bit more than two minutes and thirty-four seconds.
After finishing my remarks, I went to the chambers’ stairwell to collect myself having gone off script, before going back to see the remaining speeches on the final day. The overarching message of my new remarks were that in the next session; the House requires a leadership team that refuses to accede to the whims of the childish, petty, partisan behavior, which has become too often the rule rather than the exception. Delivered poorly, that message could easily be misconstrued as me calling everyone children. Instead of one calling for a higher standard.
As any public speaker, I prayed my message was heard. As we all do, I prayed that I'd be seen.
The overwhelming response from every end of the spectrum of characters in the body both gave me the confidence it was; and proved to me yet again that the majority have better angels, and they're waiting for the permission to listen to them.
Walking down the ten granite steps of our two hundred and seven year-old temple to our States’ constitutional republic, saying my summer goodbyes to the friends, and friendly foes of the session, reflecting on all that has transpired; and all that is to come with the personal balance found more centered than ever before - the 169th General court's regular session had come to a close.
The following two weeks were spent getting myself into my apartment, building a garden, doing some carpentry and topography surveys for extra cash, meeting with colleagues to recap the session and finding my rhythm as Carol’s assistant.
All leading up to that which didn't feel real until the day I left; Italy.
Hopping onto the commuter in Fitchburg the morning of Monday the 22nd, with all my effects in my carry-on and computer bag, I was set for my Boston flight to Philadelphia. The night prior had been rocky, and by the point it smoothed out, I had to stay up in order to make my morning train. Getting a solid half hour nap in before the crack of dawn. By the time I was snug in my seat on the train, with Sade in my ear, singing a song about war (and what he had to go through), I was fast asleep.
Getting off the train, I looked down at my phone to see a text from Chris: "You saw that our flight to Philly was canceled? You're now Boston to Madrid, leaving in five hours. We don't know where we're going yet”. My heart sank, but not for my five hour wait, but because they have seven people, including their kids, and finding last-minute seats for seven isn't easy. What does it matter if I get to Italy, but the two getting married bringing us all there don't?
Minutes later I hear they're on a flight to Germany, which will then connect them to Napoli.
Thus beginning our long hop over the Atlantic.
We all found each other in the terminal, as well as Zoë’s close friend Lauren, and her eight year-old son, Jonah. Set to spend the day in Boston’s chaotic, yet nonetheless entertaining international terminal. After a while, everyone else's flight had left and I was by my lonesome, awaiting a plane which continued not to arrive. Being delayed by hours by God knows what, I ended up finding a couple and striking up a conversation in solidarity about the abysmal state of air travel today. By the time my 8 o'clock flight left at 11:23, I was ready for bed. Of course, instead, I spent much of the hop over the ocean in conversation with a fascinating man who worked at MIT.
Landing in Madrid, it was 105°, and my connecting flight to Napoli had left two hours ago. I moseyed my way to the airline support desk, following the sea of people in the same boat; and find out my next flight is eight hours away. After an unsuccessful attempt to haggle myself into a better option, I walked outside, enjoying the Spanish oven of a day, finding my way back into the airport, where I was excited to learn there was a smoking area past security. Decked out with vending machines, tables, a food truck and interesting travelers; all the stresses of the day subsided.
I made it to Napoli at about 11 o'clock local time. In a haze, I exited the aircraft, and left the bounds of the airport. The original plan was to take the train from Napoli, to where the wedding was in Vietri Sul Mare, on the Amalfi coast. The next train left at 0555 in the morning, nine hours from then. My only other option was to take a taxi. So I haggled with the taxi drivers. They started at $300, went to $200, but I only had so much spending cash for the two weeks I was there - I wasn't about to spend it getting fleece by the taxi-men. So I sat outside the airport, ready to wait for the train. Talking on the phone.
There was then a series of embarrassments beginning with a lost item. Right as the taxi man gave me a decently fair price at $100, I ended up needing to stay at the airport until 10 in the morning. Missing my train, and turning a once successful haggle into a flop.
Now, imagine the Manchester, New Hampshire airport, and you'll get the idea of the scale of Napoli international. The reason I spent the night waiting outside, was the airport closed from 10 at night to 0330 in the morning, and most workers didn't arrive until nine in the morning. After a hilarious encounter with some incredibly helpful Italian police, who spoke no English; I was on track retrieve my lost item, but needed to leave the airport to head to downtown Napoli, via two buses to do so.
Oh, and did I mention my phone had been dead?
After exchanging our goodbyes, I took the directions I wrote from the cops’ Italian instructions, and made my way through Napoli in 100° weather on virtually no sleep. Retrieving my item, and then getting directions from the Italian security guard for the several buses down the coast to Vietri, with warnings about some of the areas I'd be going through to get there.
8 o'clock that evening I got off the bus in Vietri Sul Mare.
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