An Arkansas gardener had an adventure.
After driving in the dark for 90 minutes, I walked to the airport under construction, punched in the six magic characters, took the boarding passes upstairs to join fellow travelers in the cattle line. We took off our shoes and everything else except a single outer layer, and one at a time held our hands over our heads in front of the swirly thing so that we could put our shoes and everything else back on and go find the plane that matched our boarding pass. My plane took off at 7:06 a.m. for Charlotte.
The tradition at the Charlotte airport is for incoming planes to sit on the tarmac interminably. The folks in the tower were working on crosswords and sudokus. I had 40 minutes total to find my connecting flight. When we finally deboarded, I set a new land speed record zigging through traffic (Barry Sanders upon review would have nodded in respect) to find Gate C-18 (next terminal over). Everyone else was already on board for our flight to Hartford, and once I was comfortably seated, away we went.
My hosts met me at BDL and drove me to Shelton, a happy town 20 minutes north of Long Island Sound. I helped them move into their forever home a year ago, and upon arriving, we spent considerable time surveying the changes in landscaping— perfunctory junipers replaced by hydrangeas, hostas and marigolds, vinca gone and instead coreopsis and coleus and the rest of the rainbow, a window full of ornamental peppers… finally to the front door, which now was bright yellow.
For dinner, we went to the Shelton version of Ermilio’s – wonderful atmosphere, Italian descent owner named Frankie, delightful Capellini D’Angeli, except a lady at the next table had a medical emergency and was carted away for medical care. I saved the rest of my pasta for another day. When we returned home, we watched the Northern Lights.
Day Two involved a drive farther into the heart of Connecticut. They have wineries up there, you know, so we visited one and watched through the upstairs window at the wind blowing orange and red autumn leaves toward Lake Wauramaug, named for the chief of the Wyantenock tribe.
All around the lake folks with inheritances own enormous, impressive homes they visit occasionally when they aren’t in Portugal or Bermuda. Then we drove farther north and picnicked near a waterfall. It was a sunny, colorful autumn afternoon. Later, when the sun went down, I finished my pasta from the night before, and we told stories of past glory by the firepit.
Saturday began with yoga. Yoga people can easily sit on the floor and spring straight up on their feet (boing!) but not me. I can hike five miles, no problem, but yoga and I have kept our distance all these years. However, after 45 minutes of excellent instruction, I had my left knee behind my head for the first time since I went skiing.
Lunch by Long Island Sound was next. Afterward, the rhythmic cadence of waves lapping ashore was massage for the mind. Some locals were playing beach volleyball, but I didn’t. I focused on the shimmering water, and it improved my charisma.
But that’s not all. Sunday morning we traveled to Newport, Rhode Island. Cornelius Vanderbilt had his summer home built there. When he died from fatigue in 1877, he had more money than any other American. His wealth in today’s dollars would equal maybe $200 billion. We went to his 138,350 square foot summer “cottage” called The Breakers which compares favorably to a Royal Palace in Europe, It faces the Atlantic Ocean, and my house would easily fit into the gathering hall. Nothing but the best for Vandy, but good luck keeping it Swiffered®.
Right on schedule, nights and early mornings got cooler during the visit, and the time had come to go home. That’s where my garden is, and my hands have been far too clean since last Wednesday. See you next time, Connecticut.