Welcome to “Dear Daybreak”, a new, occasional Daybreak column. It features short vignettes about life in the Upper Valley: an encounter, some wry exchange with a stranger or acquaintance, an odd animal sighting, the way the light looked the other evening… Anything that happened in this region or relates to it and strikes a contributor as interesting or funny or poignant—or that makes us appreciate living here.

Dear Daybreak:

There's a poem I read once about a guy who knows when it's time to lean on his shovel and talk to his neighbor over his stone fence.

The other morning I was running our local hill with my friend who also happens to be my neighbor -- me, my neighbor, and my elderly dog, Blue. Just a couple of recently post-partum moms huffing up the hill and my senior dog with his tongue hanging out in the humidity.

I spotted a ways uphill a guy walking from the mailbox of a house where I had never seen another soul before. Let me tell you about this house -- it is beautiful in that "This Old House" way, with a proper flower garden out front, sprawling outbuildings and a red barn in back. Someone is clearly taking care of this property, though there's never even a suggestion of activity on site. In my seven years living here I've always wondered about its story. How long ago did kids run across these lawns? What animals once grazed the fields? Who sat on the front porch at the end of the day?

So my heart raced a little when I saw this guy walking out front. He wore a faded gray t-shirt and had gray hair, and he stuck his hand right out to us to shake ours as we slowed to a walk. We introduced ourselves, we told him where we lived, and all of us marveled at how we'd never seen one another before. I didn't ask all my questions. For another day! I hope to run into my neighbor again.

— Leah Todd Lin, Lebanon

Dear Daybreak:

I recently flew to the Midwest to visit family.

I always buy the cheapest plane tickets. That means I undoubtedly end up in a middle seat, and I can only bring a little bag that fits under the seat in front of me.

On this trip, I wanted to bring some homemade maple syrup as a thank-you to my aunt and uncle, who were hosting. You know, a little slice of Vermont, the novelty of which often brings a big smile to folks who aren’t from around here.

I researched the TSA rules about liquids: 3-ounce maximum per item in one plastic Ziploc bag. I figured, “Hey, 4 ounces is only a little more than 3 ounces,” so I poured some syrup into a 4-ounce mason jar, put it in a Ziploc bag as instructed, and hoped TSA wouldn’t notice.

My bag got flagged for review. The TSA agent at Logan was befuddled by my little jar. “It’s maple syrup,” my husband said. The agent searched the jar for some indication of its size. There were no such inscriptions in the glass.

Finally, she sighed and shoved it back in the bag.

Upon arrival, I proudly presented the little jar to my aunt and uncle. My little heist made the gift just a little sweeter.

— Krista Karlson, Thetford

Dear Daybreak: