Dear Connecticut,
I should have never moved south. Is it cheaper? I honestly don’t know anymore. The persistent humidity and low wages have left me fog-brained, sweaty, and disoriented like a first date dragged to last year’s July 4th barbeque.
But it’s not just the heat. I lived in Beaufort, South Carolina for the first two years of this blistering journey; a beautiful coastal town south of . It was 90 degrees when we decorated the Christmas trees.
Spiders the size of my palm, assorted deadly snakes, and gators were available to help ring in the new year. A beautiful place to visit; like Jurassic Park without dinosaurs. But not for this Yankee. North Carolina would be cooler, right?
It’s hard to surprise a 60-year-old, but I’ve been asked questions here that I’ve never been asked before. What county are you from? A proud Bridgeport girl, I knew I was from Fairfield County, but it never came up in conversation. What difference did it make if I was from Fairfield County or another? Except for the old “gold coast” nickname. We didn’t see any gold in the West End, but Greenwich seems to be doing well.
Courtesy of Greenwich Chamber of Commerce
Greenwich, Conn. (Courtesy of Greenwich Chamber of Commerce)
Counties are big down here as they still manage municipal budgets and may reflect distinct cultural norms. Turns out I was in Beaufort County, North of the Broad (river). Hilton Head and Bluffton are south of the Broad. North and South in this instance reflect a vast economic disparity. Like Bridgeport and Greenwich, without the abeetz.
Another surprising question: What church do you attend? Back home, that only came up if you were making a neighborhood geographic distinction like, do you attend St. Anthony’s or St. Peter’s? because they were both in Bridgeport’s West End. Talking about religion was prohibited along with politics and money.
We said grace at dinner, worked the bake sales and all other church community events, but we left spiritual conversations in the confessional with the holy water. Maybe it was just our family, but none of our acquaintances brought up scripture at birthday parties or company picnics. Unless my dad’s French profanity counts.
But here in the Carolinas, people talk about their faith religiously. I respect the faithful, but it’s unnerving to hear the Bible and Jesus quoted so close to the cake raffle.
It’s not all bad. Nothing is all bad. Winters are easier. Here in the Charlotte area, we see flurries or ice. And everything shuts down with the hint of precipitation. Except for the rogue 18-inch storm in February. I foolishly ventured out two days later, and the roads were still treacherous. They don’t have the will or the equipment. I was the only one out shoveling the morning after. People wait for the temperature to rise. That goes against my 1978 blizzard handbook.
Courant File Photo
A snowmobiler rides up and over an embankment on Washington Road in Enfield on Feb. 9, 1978. The snowmobiler was one of four traveling as a group from Enfield to Ellington on snow leftover from the historic Blizzard of ’78.
Macaroni and cheese are a Thanksgiving staple. Why this hasn’t spread up north is beyond me. I’ll take mac ‘n cheese over oyster stuffing every day of the week. And there’s biscuits. Flaky, melt in your mouth biscuits like the jelly donuts from Pacelli’s bakery, without the jelly.
Or the powdered sugar. Anyway, they’re light as a feather.
And of course I’ve met some lovely people. People who tell me I’m not from here, and when I ask where they think I’m from, the most common reply is New England. That makes me smile. So I let them renew their books without late fees. Unless they remind me that I’m saying the town of Concord wrong. It’s Con-Cord here, accent on the Cord. Not Con-cahd as in Massachusetts.
They don’t seem to like the late fees.
Will I stay? It’s almost too late to return. But New England is in my bones; a vital organ that breeds sarcasm and a raised eyebrow at an alarming rate. Sigh. I suppose vacations will have to suffice for now. I’ll keep you posted, Connecticut.
With love and hope for a lottery win, a sweaty Yankee, Cynthia L. Gilmore