AUGUST 1, 2021 – Yesterday, our son Byron and daughter-in-law, Mylène, gave us a walking tour of their new home-town, Chester, CT (pop. 3,994), then drove us to Rocky Neck State Park on Long Island Sound. On the rural route back, we stopped for locally-made ice-cream.
As we enjoyed the scenery of these parts, where our family’s ancestors settled in the 1630s, I felt removed from the troubles that currently disturb the country.
In Chester is a cemetery. On the fence hangs a hand-painted sign: “OLD BURYING GROUNDS / PLEASE WALK CAREFULLY.” With mocking randomness, time has tipped the weathered headstones long covered with lichen. Most of the inscriptions have been rendered illegible by over 200 years of erosion.
Close by is the Chester Public Library, founded in 1789. If some volumes upon its shelves are slanted like the headstones, the building itself—an architectural gem of granite—stands straight and strong, as if good for a thousand years.
These landmarks—library and cemetery—along with old barns and dwellings, built generations ago, stirred me to ponder the early history of this area, which is the early history of our country. My ruminations led to thoughts of Lieutenant Ichabod Spencer, our family’s soldier of the Revolutionary War, whose tri-cornered hat—but miraculously, not his head itself—took a bullet in the Battle of Monmouth (colony of New Jersey). How differently history would’ve been told if Ichabod and the other 231,000 soldiers of the Continental Army hadn’t taken up arms.
At the Chester-Hadlyme ferry a car with Massachusetts plates pulled up behind us as we awaited our turn to board. An Indian-born (judging by her accent and appearance) woman alighted from the car to ask us about boarding procedures. The couple, I surmised, were on an extended backroads, weekend drive: they were from the next state north and taking this “local crossing” over the Connecticut River. I wanted to engage them in conversation, but the ferry ride was too short, allowing only time for an exchange of smiles.
What a country this has become since a British regular put a bullet through Ichabod’s hat! In our car were the descendants of immigrants (my wife and I, both paternal side) who arrived nearly 135 years after the Revolution; driving us was our son, himself an immigrant from Korea in 1989—exactly two centuries after establishment of the library in his adopted town; behind him sat our daughter-in-law, born and reared in France of Portuguese parents but in short order as familiar with these parts as a life-long local. Behind us, as told, drove another set of New Americans, adding to the country’s story. Back at Rocky Neck, the beach had been crowded with families, many of them speaking Spanish, basking in the sunshine. In their laughter, food, and music, those people had projected a sense of optimism.
We mustn’t give up, I said to self. Surely this country’s capacity for collective renewal is as unlimited as the vibrant, hopeful strivings of this nation’s people.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
