Today, as I contemplate my next step to move onward, I was invited to have lunch with my friends Sandro and Maria and their son Sam. We drove to Sandro's brother's restaurant in Wolcott and spent time discussing our recent past, work and our futures. Maria is six months' pregnant. Sandro works in Hartford, Maria for the state. Sam is three and is one of the happiest children I know.
After lunch we drove past the house where I grew up. The people who bought it are odd. They still have a vast array of Christmas display items on the front lawn. The hedge is barely pruned, the yard ignored. Across the street is an old colonial farmhouse that had been the home to Bronson Alcott, well-known educator and father to Louisa May, author of "Little Women." Unfortunately the people who now possess the property have converted a classic salt box style house into an amalgam of split level, covered in white polyvinyl chloride siding and a pine green metal roof. The trim is lavender. She is from North Carolina, the husband from Vermont. She is a wonderful vegetable gardener. She takes anti-depressants and I never saw her without a mason jar filled with whiskey and some green liquid. She would come over to my mother's house and insinuate herself into any conversation we would be having. She would not leave without some disparaging comment. She was usually barefoot when there was no snow on the ground.
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