“Down the hill and around the corner.” Whenever someone asks where I’m from, I proudly answer: Dublin, New Hampshire. Their puzzled looks remind me to translate it into local shorthand: Knollwood Manor—the stately home of our dear late Augusta Petrone. I live just down the hill and around the corner from that sprawling estate, so every reference to it feels like a warm welcome home.
My first summer job was weed-whacking Mrs. Petrone’s vineyard—quite the task if you’re unfamiliar with its size. My Uncle Sturdy tended the property long before I could operate a shovel or shoo porcupines from Augusta’s rows of hydrangeas, and he was the reason I got the job. I spent countless afternoons and evenings enjoying sack lunches or catered chicken salad by “Lake Augusta,” the old Colonel Joe Petrone’s beloved goldfish pond. I count myself among the fortunate young men who roamed those grand halls and felt every bit at ease in the company of the Ambassador and Mrs. Petrone.
But Knollwood offered more than steady summer work. It introduced me to something even more enduring: New Hampshire politics—the gracious, boots-on-the-ground kind you don’t find in Washington’s echo chambers. Friends and neighbors, sometimes even casual family friends, gathered at local GOP meetings that bookended presidential hopeful visits. Every circuit-rider, every candidate, found a soapbox to stand on in Joe and Augusta’s parlor. The Colonel would bellow, “Zach! My boy—how are you, young buck?!” from his stooped seat at the dining table, while Augusta, ever the wit, would quip, “My, that is just gangbusters, dear Zach.”
My father—Dublin’s police chief for many years—often worked those events on special detail. Tagging along with him, I met countless civil servants: Ted Cruz, Joni Ernst, Scott Walker, Rick Perry… and most memorably, the Honorable John Stephen when he campaigned for governor. Mid-stump speech, he paused, pointed to my dad, and declared, “Chief Letourneau knows my record—I don’t give in to slander.” I don’t recall the exact controversy he referenced, but I remember thinking it was the coolest moment: important people knew my father, and they all felt at home just down the hill and around the corner.
Speakers, singers, and storytellers all graced Knollwood’s drawing rooms, but none captivated me more than those who spoke with dignity, clarity, and conviction. “The Colonel,” as I respectfully called him, has reason to celebrate now that his beloved Augusta has joined him upstairs. Yet I still hear her cheerful whistle—her unmistakable “Yoo-hoo, Zach!”—beckoning me to sample her famous non-alcoholic mint-julep iced tea. With every sip, she’d regale me with tales of their ambassadorship under President Reagan, reminding me that true service to country and community begins at home.
Today, as I go about my work in the State House, I carry their notions of patriotism and public service with me. It is the memory of service, hospitality, and genuine affection—the very qualities Augusta embodied—that inspire my daily efforts on behalf of Granite Staters.
With deepest gratitude and the fondest of memories, I dedicate this humble tribute to Augusta Petrone—that lovely creature and cherished neighbor.
