Ever since the Old Man of the Mountain’s face fell, New Hampshire has sought an inspirational symbol that doesn’t resemble John Kerry to guide it through uncertainty. But, as primary day rapidly approaches, the electorate feels as fickle as a thesaurus. Choosing among appealing candidates is hard enough, but predicting how Iowa impacts New Hampshire, how New Hampshire might then influence Super Duper Tuesday, and whether to vote Democrat or Republican is downright confounding. Betting on who has general election stamina—deepest pockets, most positive negatives, who makes the future look shiny but solid, who can turn purple states red or blue—further befuddles. No wonder so much has been written about the New Hampshire primary’s similarity to a whacky Scottish village that runs on taffy-time.

Celebrities and holiday ads have tried to help. Former POW John McCain’s ad makes us remember what havoc chicken hawks can wreak. The floating “T” in Mike Huckabee’s ad reminds viewers how Transfixed they are by it. Many appreciate Hillary Clinton’s thoughtful and carefully wrapped gifts, yet daydream about Oprah handing them a new car, or Chuck Norris forcing them into shape with or without Christie Brinkley.

Given the power of visual persuasion, it is somewhat shocking that media attention to a local metaphor has been as negligible as a negligee. The poignant image that accompanies this article—an optimistic picnic table in a vacant parking lot, surrounded by dumpsters and lonely evergreens—is a veritable stage set awaiting candidates. It not only speaks volumes about everything, it proffers a plethora of puns that might annoy voters into the right decision.
Imagine Rudy Guiliani interrupted by his cell phone while bragging about cleaning up New York here, or Fred Thompson smoking a cigar while praising law and order. Imagine John Edwards discussing the “Two Americas”—those at the picnic table and those treated like trash. Or Ron Paul gushing about America’s freedom to eat and waste limitlessly, but please eat a healthy diet and recycle.

Fear mongering could work, too. Ingenious ad agencies would figure out ways to imply that wars either follow the same logic that makes a third dumpster follow a second, and therefore a hawkish president is prudent—or that they absolutely do not, so “vote for me if you don’t want World War III.” Flip-flopping between these positions is also an option—or maybe it’s not.

Any picnic table needing three dumpsters is a handy cornucopian symbol, so it’s easy to visualize love-monger Mike Gravel seated here, quoting himself: “The most important thing in life is love. That’s what empowers courage, and courage implements the rest of our values.” For many of those who think our current president is a few sandwiches short of a picnic, Gravel paves the road to happiness.

Bill Richardson hearts plenty of things, too—bowling, good times, maybe even cheeseburgers dipped in chocolate. The way his bowl-o-rama event reinforced his reputation for bowling over wobbly opponents in the slippery lanes of international diplomacy was striking. But if winning New Hampshire means attracting the hippie vote’s disdain for Seabrook’s nuclear station (whose fallout fuels ardent Seacoast peace activism), and if Richardson extolled his disapproval of the Yucca Mountain nuclear dumpsite here, he might draw fans of nuke-hating Jackson Browne. Perturbed by the lawless avenues of government and the pretender running it on empty, yet supporting certain lawyers in love, Browne arrived in New Hampshire with Bonnie Raitt in the nick of time to campaign for Edwards.

This potent symbol also evokes the New Hampshire primary as a moveable feast that may be squeezed out and dumped by more egalitarian primary schedules in the future. The attention and power the state receives must—in the same way a picnic must end—live free or die. Painful puns notwithstanding, and regardless of whether or not Hillary planted it, this picnic area’s possibilities are as endless as public television’s, and its clearest message is undeniable: The last seven years have been no picnic, and require major clean-up.