JUNE 19, 2024 – I enjoy driving down the rolling, winding backroads of Connecticut, especially around our neck of the woods in Lyme. Around a bend, atop a knoll, down in a hollow, you’ll find a place imbued with old Connecticut Yankee style and charm. Some of these country or small-town residences are grand and nicely maintained by professional crews. Other homes and gardens are of more modest scale but just as pleasing to the eye and mind. No matter what you call home and how attractive it might be, in this area you’ll find many places deserving of consideration in a drive-by daydream.
As I catch a glimpse of a home, patio, garden, shade of an old oak tree or spreading maple, I always think of rooms, nooks, crannies, corners, spaces where I’d want to read, write, or draw. Almost never are these places grand or luxurious. In fact, grandeur and luxury cut against conduciveness of the sort I’d seek. Left to my own devices, I’d select quietude, the picturesque, and proximity to nature over conspicuous over-sizing and display of wealth.
Today my sister, her husband, and their daughter drove up from the city. Upon encountering blockage on Merritt Parkway, they wound up taking a long detour. It took them through exclusive areas dominated by enormous estates, prompting my sister’s reaction, “There are an awful lot of people with an awful lot of money.”
In any event, before “our city people” arrived, we sought to enjoy the beaches of Hammonasset State Park, down the shore a 20 minutes or so from the mouth of the Connecticut River. By our arrival time—12:30—the park had just closed because it had reached its crowd quota for the day. Other beach parks had closed as well, so we reduced our expectations and settled on far more modest alternatives, such as the playground behind a school—just like home. At lunchtime, we found the “Salt Meadows Park” near Clinton, dragged a heavy picnic table into the shade of an oak tree, and enjoyed a perfect repast. After eating our picnic lunch, we played UNO. Contentment is a ham and cheese (or turkey), a can of cold sparkling water, a pleasant view, lots of birds singing, lots of sunshine, a pleasant breeze, and a deck of cards.
After enjoying that unanticipated venue of bliss, we drove to another: the small but idyllic town beach on the side of a lake three stone throws from our son’s family house in Chester. For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in the shade and watched our eight-year-old travel companion and her uncle splash and swim in the sun.
We then continued to Byron and Mylène’s house for an Italian take-out dinner (shrimp and chicken pasta plus garlic bread and a handsome tossed salad). While the food was being laid out, I stole away for a few minutes to sit out on the front verandah and read a new book by Orlando Figes The Story of Russia. It’s a gripping work, but the main reason I wanted to read was simply to fulfill my imaginings past all those splendid bends, knolls, and hollows today. The view from the front of our son and daughter-in-law’s house is as good as any and always seems to be accompanied by lively birdsong.
The irony of it all was that not until darkness fell did we reach the best seat in the house according to my sentimentality and unrealized dream of becoming an artist: the cove-view verandah of our old family place in Lyme.
With its sunshine and mid-June warmth moderated by a deliciously pleasant breeze, today was a wonder despite our plan for Hammonasset having been disrupted by over-subscription. Illiana certainly knew how to have fun, and her delight in the sun and water; in playing UNO and getting laughs out of her baby cousin; in assembling a Star Wars “Republic fighter tank”; in her conversations—funny and serious . . . gave us delight as great as any that could be found in the sands of Hammonasset, let alone inside the grand entrance of some Connecticut mansion on rolling manicured grounds overlooking the Sound.
Often contentment runs deepest in alternate plans that unfold as close to home as home itself.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
