“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”
― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
My father attended the University of Connecticut in Storrs, Connecticut and received an undergraduate degree in Forestry. I often wonder what drove him to take up the study of trees; to consider the place of the hickory, elm and pine. I think his obsession with forest ecology led to my own amateurish fascination with trees, whom I consider gatekeepers of the planet and who serve as silent witness to our petty squabbles, down here on the ground.
As we drive through the UConn campus I am struck with the similarities with N.C State down in Raleigh, most likely because these great universities began as agricultural schools and evolved into the sprawling campuses of today.
The school of forestry has grown over the years and I found a door that said this:
which is what I expect a door to say after 80 years or so.
UConn has some of the best ice cream around, all made right there on campus with ingredients supplied by the Benevolent Union of Cows. This as what writers call a harbinger, as we will eventually go to Burlington, Vermont, birthplace of Ben and Jerry. In Storrs, we prepare our palette for that future moment.
From Storrs, Google takes us through the beautiful Connecticut countryside toward Providence, Rhode island, the place where Mom was born. I know almost nothing of Providence or my mom’s home or of the Dunphy family. Mom was first generation Irish and spoke with an Irish accent. I remember Mom’s sister, Aunt Gertrude in NYC, would come and visit with stories from NY. Aunt Gertrude never married and never owned a car, although I am not sure if those two events were in any way related. Here is the earliest photo I have of Mom:
We drive through Providence and to me it is just another big city. I feel no family connection here although if there is a shanty Irish part of town, that is where I would find Mom’s stomping grounds.
We turn north through Massachusetts, skirt Boston and head into New Hampshire. This part of the trip ventures into places I share no history, at least as far as I know. Once we make New Hampshire the persistent rain which has followed us like a banshee decides to relent, and we are presented with the kind of vista all road trips should experience at least once.
Now, *that’s* a picture.
We soldier on toward Maine, a state I always wanted to visit although I am not sure why exactly. It just seems kind of cool I guess, with a rough-hewn coastline and giant rocks everywhere. I mean what else do you need?
I have always assumed the borders between states to be mostly imaginary lines drawn on maps, but between New Hampshire and Maine you have an actual bridge over a real physical barrier aka the Piscataqua River. This border came under some dispute back in early 2000, as both Maine and New Hampshire laid claim to Seavey’s Island, smack dab in the middle of the Piscataqua. Spoiler alert! The US Supreme Court ruled in 2002 that Seavey’s belongs to Maine, although it seems to me that it should belong to “Seavey”, otherwise why bother with all this pesky naming at all?
As we cross the river into Maine I notice two phenomena: (1) There is a dense fog bank on the Maine side, and, since Maine is where Stephen King lives, there are probably giant *things* in the fog, and (2), there is a long line of cars headed south, clipping along as a leisurely 1 mile per hour. And by long I mean 4-5 miles long. Apparently this is common on extended holiday weekends as the folks from NY, Mass, Conn all head back at the same time. On the other hand they could be escaping the giant things in the fog. Regardless, I feel bad for all these folks having to endure the grind and the thousands of plaintive cries of “are we there yet?”
Tomorrow will bring us into Portland Maine, where we will sample the famous lobster.
whoisfenton 