Visiting With Good Friends Again

Late last summer, I got a letter from Calla—during the long stretch of time when my computer was down, we exchanged actual letters—announcing that she had completed the degree she had been working on, and was coming to New England with her mother, Brenda, as a reward, of sorts. I was thrilled, to say the least. I had not seen either of them since my long ago visit to South Dakota. Calla had been about 15 then, and she was now a grown, married woman. Brenda and I had not changed at all in the intervening years, quite naturally.

On the afternoon Calla called to say they were in Connecticut, and were going to grab some lunch before striking out to find Bragg Street, I was very happy. I went out into the yard to watch for them. At last they arrived, and hugs were exchanged all around.

Everyone looked wonderful—well, they did, anyway; I looked the way I always look, but they assured me I looked really good. I am glad they did not say I looked “fine.” As everyone knows, that is a gentle way of saying you look like 50 miles of bad road.

Their visit was everything I dreamed it would be. I will start with their “tour” of my apartment, and progress through the next couple days. Skip to the next post, if you find Connecticut less than thrilling.

Although we were still referring to the first floor apartment as my aunt's apartment—it helped to keep her calm—the sad fact is that she did not have many more months to live, and had already been moved into a nursing home. In reality, I had taken up residence, and was proud to show off my new home.

After what my family would always have called “the nickel tour” of the apartment, the three of us visited for a time with Maureen, and then went out to eat. I suggested a nearby family-owned restaurant that Maureen and I frequent, and they agreed.

Over dinner, Calla announced that she was having her first child. Naturally, I was thrilled for her and her husband, James, as well as for Brenda and Tim, who would be welcoming their first grandchild. I am telling this, not to give out Calla's personal information, but to set the scene for what took place as we were paying our bill and getting ready to leave the restaurant.

The waiter, a nephew of the owner, said to me, “Tell your friend with the pretty eyes that she should come back again sometime.” He favored Calla with his nicest smile, and I simply had to give him the good news—I could not let him live in false hope—and he said, “Never before has such a good line gone so horribly wrong.”

We returned to the same restaurant the following morning for breakfast, and were joined by my cousin and her husband. I told them the good news, too, but I did wait for permission to tell the story. On occasion, I can be taken out in public and be trusted to behave properly.

After breakfast, Calla mentioned wanting to tour the Mark Twain House in Hartford, so we headed there. It is a lovely old home, and the tour was very interesting. I pictured myself living there, and being the owner of a particularly beautiful fireplace, when Calla, looking at the same thing, commented dryly, “I wonder if they ship?”

Once the tour ended, and we had wandered all around the grounds, we headed for Colchester to visit Harry's Hot Dogs. I have a long history with Harry's, as we used to go there every summer when we stayed at the cottage near Lake Hayward. I had mentioned it to Calla enough times that she wanted to try it. The three of us enjoyed it very much, and then Calla suggested that we go out to Lebanon, where she and her mother were staying.

After seeing their accommodations, and meeting the owners, we drove around the countryside, stopping along the way to take pictures, visit farm stands and to take a stroll along Lebanon's huge town green. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we thoroughly enjoyed the day, the sights and the good company.