Connecticut's Charm is Elementary, my dear Watson

Ever feel like a tourist in your own state? It's possible, even when your state takes an hour to drive through.

My old college roommate, Kim, and I, kicked off summer with a visit to Gillette's Castle, an hour west of Providence, R.I. While Kim grew up in the area, I was raised a whopping 60 miles south near New York City. Although the entire Constitution state is rich in Colonial-era history, it's perhaps densest near Kim's hometown.

Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, lived in Hartford. Other 19th century luminaries include Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and William Gillette, an eccentric actor and playwright. Gillette is best known for his theatrical adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. Gillette's retirement home, finished in 1919, is a medieval-style castle overlooking the Connecticut River. Today, the castle is a museum on a 184-acre estate.

East Haddam itself is seeped in New England charm. Downtown includes the historic Goodspeed Opera House and Hillside Sweet Shoppe, scooping out hard-serve ice cream rivaling Ben & Jerry's.

Self-guided tours of the Castle's sprawling interior are a $6 bargain for adults. After his 28-year-old wife died from a ruptured appendix, Gillette, 33, swore on her deathbed he would never remarry. True to his word, he remained a bachelor until his death in 1937.

Throughout his remaining years, however, Gillette took many aspiring actors under his wing, P-Diddy-style. His proteges included Helen Hayes.

"D'ya really think he stayed single after his wife died?" an elderly gentlemen chided a teenaged tour guide.

"Er...possibly," the tour guide said. "I think he was more like Peter Pan."

"Or was he more a 19th century Michael Jackson?" I mused.

The older gentleman laughed. We pondered the nature of the relationship between Gillette and his niece, who had her own quarters in the 24-room manse. 

"Do you think it's just modern cynicism?" I suggested.

The older gentleman shook his head. "I'm a couple generations ahead of you, and I think it's just--"

"Realism," I finished.

"I heard there's a book coming out on Gillette that's supposed to be rather salacious," he said, winking. "People always try to romanticize history."

"But that's not usually reality," I concluded, a bit sadly.

Chatting further, I learned the gentleman and his wife were from my hometown of Fairfield. On Monday, the gentleman was turning 71-years-young.

"We thought his birthday weekend would be a nice trip for us," his wife said.

"Birthday weekend!" I exclaimed. "Bah! It should be your birthday week!" (I love birthdays).

"Well, when you get to be my age, it's important to value each day," the gentleman said.

"I think that's true no matter what age you are," I said.

After bidding good-bye, Kim and I wandered down the sandy bank of the Connecticut River. A man and his dogs, a Shepard mix and two Golden Retrievers, inched closer to us.

Kim and I watched the dogs race in and out of the river like stallions, playing fetch.

"Do you mind dogs?" the man shouted at us.

"As long as they don't jump on us!" Kim shouted back, laughing.

"Well, they don't really jump, but they do..." the man began.

At that moment, one of the Goldens bounded up and stuck his nose between my legs.

"Meet Boomer. He's a crotch dog!" the man announced.

Boomer proceeded to shake his coat free of water, spraying my bare legs.

"He's quite a flirt," I said.

It turned out I wore the same perfume as the man's wife, which meant the dogs quickly grew fond of me--especially Boomer.

"Does he do this to men?" I giggled.

The man, who introduced himself as Jean ("What can I say? It's French."), explained Boomer was an equal-opportunity sniffer. The East Haddam native said the dogs, all shelter rescues, had become like children to him and his wife.

"We realized we weren't really kid people," he explained. "Then we made the mistake of thinking we were pet people." (In addition to the dogs, the couple own three horses and a goat).

Leaving the castle later, I marveled at how a day can feel like a vacation. Daycations in fact, have become increasingly popular. An escape often grounds us in reality.

Recently, fellow writer Jessica and her husband visited Connecticut, charmed by the views of Long Island Sound (less so by the drivers). Discussing local tourist attractions, I realized how rarely we visit the "must see" spots closest to us.

After visiting Seattle last year, I vowed to treat my home state like a newcomer. I'm slowly getting there. In addition to visiting places like Gillette's Castle, I'm getting to better know Milford, my current city.

Last month, I explored its backroads on the rear of my friend's motorcycle. Soaring past Gulf Beach at sunset, I was stunned by how fresh the world looked ten minutes from home.

Roaring into dusk, I thought of the scene in American Beauty when Wes Bentley's character discusses the most beautiful thing he's ever filmed: a plastic bag dancing down an empty street.

Beauty is all around us. How often do we appreciate it?

You Can't Put a 'Reserve' On Happiness

The last time I went to an auction, I was seven. The esteemed event was at my town's middle school. Instantly, I became fixated on a Strawberry creamer during the preview. "I must have that," I told my parents through clenched teeth. (Things haven't changed much twenty-one years later). ;)

Today, the creamer sits on my kitchen table. In fact, a lot of the pieces in my home are from auctions--well, one in particular.

For the last few years, my parents have been regulars at Canton Barn, a country auction house in Canton, Ct. With no buyer's premium or reserves, it is among the last of its kind. (Buyer's premiums are fees sellers often pay (generally 10-20% of sale price) to cover auctioneers' overhead costs. A reserve is the minimum price a seller will accept for an item. They "reserve" the right to accept or reject a bid).

Last night, I had the opportunity to cover Canton for Antique Trader. Although I've written for newspapers for years, I only recently began writing about antiques. My mother is a longtime dealer and author of a book on Mercury Glass. My home definitely has a vintage touch, from the Victorian-era desk my parents acquired from Canton to the china closet--from, yes--you guessed it--Canton.

Since I hadn't been to an auction since I was a kid, I wasn't sure what to expect. I studied Canton's website and researched the history of auctions online. I learned how the Webster definition: a sale of property to the highest bidder, is the auction's rudimentary form, without the commissions we usually see today.

Driving to Canton with Mom yesterday, I went over some questions I'd prepared for auctioneer Richard Wacht, a minor legend in the Nutmeg State. Have you always maintained the philosophy of no buyer's premiums? How far do you travel to estates? What are the most memorable pieces you've sold?

"Don't think about it too much," Mom advised. "Just go with the flow."

I glanced at her gratefully. When I first started reporting, I typically kept my list of questions short. The best way to write a story is to experience it, not only through questions, but through impressions. What does the person look like? How does the setting appear? I observe the person's speaking style and the way they interact with others.

It was telling Mom appreciated my storytelling style. I never thought I'd be writing for an antiques magazine or enjoy talking about collecting. For years, I glazed over like a porcelain plate whenever Mom brought up her love of Russian Enamel. As I've grown older, however, our similarities have become more apparent. We are both spontaneous and absorb the world existentially.

One of our best moments was blasting up Route 8 to The Rolling Stones' Big Hits: High Tides & Green Grass. My mother used to play plenty of classic rock in our house, especially Led Zeppelin and the Stones. (We agree we're far more Stones than Beatles).

I rarely sing in front of people, since my voice rival's William Hung's. Despite this, we belted out "It's All Over Now".....on repeat, for about ten miles straight.

We arrived at Canton promptly at five. My interviews went smoothly. It was a hoot seeing Wacht in action. Driving home, blaring the Stones CD Mom let me borrow, I realized you can't put a reserve on happiness. Often, we try to measure the cost of a moment through our expectations. Like too many preconcieved questions, however, when we worry about what makes us happy, we quickly forget what happiness is all about.

Happiness is sharing music with someone we love.

Happiness is watching an auctioneer like Wacht share their passion with others.

Happiness is something to claim outright. Own it! 

The Age of Entitlement

Progress is sometimes just staying put. Perhaps it's generational, but we seem to live in a time where everyone under 35 "should" have a Blackberry, at least one designer item and a fabulous corporate job title. Or, maybe that's just Connecticut. ;)

In all seriousness, I've often been the type to rush ahead so quickly I've neglected the moment. It's ironic that while I talk about enacting change, I still keep quite a few bad habits. ;) At times, I even feel (wince, gasp) entitled. The word "deserves" starts to creep into my vocabulary.

It's so simple to blame discontent on the external: not being smarter, or more attractive, or coming from a wealthier family, or going to a better college, or acquiring a more useful degree. Tell that to a CEO who never earned their Associate's. Success is relative.

There's always going to be someone smarter and better-looking than you. The point is, hard work and dedication goes a lot farther than a diploma or a tight bum.

I'm determined to shuck the shallow. Life is a lot more enjoyable when you take a minute to breathe, trying your hardest even when you're in a less than ideal place. In fact, you'll always be in a less than ideal place the more you strain ahead or check to see how the Joneses are doing.

I keep thinking about the film The Pursuit of Happyness. At the time I saw it, I was so hung up on the misspelled title I missed its point. (Seriously! I wouldn't shut up about it)! But as I look back, I see how one man built himself up slowly, without an ounce of complaint or regret.

We can do that, too. Everyday. Be patient.

Shuck the shallow! I like that.

Finding True Friendship

I never knew what friendship really meant until recently. Arriving home with a belly full of wine, cheesecake and contentment, I finally understood why films like Sex and the City resonate so strongly with women. I have found true friendship, I mused later under the gush of a hot shower. The thought felt much like the warm towel I wrapped myself in as I stepped out of the tub.

In grade school and much of high school, I always kept one or two close girlfriends. We glided over life like skaters, gossiping about boys, going to the mall and seeing movies together. While those friendships had their place, their depth rarely sliced through the ice.

Halfway through college, I began a serious relationship with my first boyfriend. He became everything, a best friend and lover in one heady package. When we parted amicably after four years of dating, I was adrift.

I had always envied my boyfriend’s close friendships because I didn’t understand them. I thought finding the perfect partner meant finding the completion to one’s every need, the psychological equivalent of the old-school transition from family to future husband. I had spent so much energy investing in someone else I hadn’t taken the time to get to know myself, or, subsequently, anyone else. Even my college friends were largely the adult equivalents of my girlhood pals.

Then, about four years ago, I reconnected with an acquaintance who quickly became a kindred spirit. Perhaps it’s impossible to have a deep friendship until you’ve shared certain life experiences. We both knew the exultation of falling in love and the sharp knife of heartbreak. I didn’t fully appreciate her, however, until my belief in finding happiness through that “one in a million fit” shattered.

It took losing someone I loved to realize happiness was my own responsibility. Once I stopped looking outside for fulfillment, I found it inside. Now I was able to give more to the people around me. Finally, the ice I had skated on for so long cracked.

Now I know what it’s like to have friends who are like sisters. I know what it’s like to talk daily, laugh so hard together you can hardly breathe, enjoy companionable silences and virtually finish each other’s sentences. There is no judgment, no obligations.

We have allowed each other the freedom to cry when it hurts, to reveal parts of each other we had always kept private and to be there to celebrate each other’s successes. Finding true friendship is a lot like finding true love. You know it when you’ve found it. And much like true love, it doesn’t come until you’re ready.

Riding Life's Waves

Is life a cup to be filled? We’ve poured ours to the brim, overflowing with family, work and friends. Or, perhaps, our cups never seem quite full enough. Despite the richness of others' love, we can never quite reach the tip.

We examine our cups: half-full or half-empty? Are the contents strong enough to sustain us? Is life a drink to consume, precariously balanced on our own demanding expectations? Perhaps it’s time to spill the contents.

My friend has a job they hate. The still-weak economy offers few prospects, especially when their job experience doesn't fit into the proverbial doctor-or-lawyer boxes. College-educated and living at home, they strive to break their now-daily mantra: “This is not what I pictured myself doing at this age." Their cup may be full of family and friendship, but it lacks the satisfaction of being where they want to in life. Yesterday, they told me about the importance of developing the will to break free. I watched them shatter their cup. Now, they have a job interview next week.

Several months ago, my mother talked me into doing a story about a new antique shop in northwestern Connecticut. My cup was already quite full. I was busy at work and not sure how I could cover a story outside my local contacts. I did the piece anyway, and got it published in one of the area’s newspapers. It was included in the portfolio on my website. Two months ago, I received an email from the editor of a national collectibles magazine who discovered the story and loved it. I am now writing my second piece for the publication, with several more in the queue.

Confluence technically means the merging of bodies of water into one. According to HuffPo blogger Kari Henley, it can also mean “a coming together of random moments in your life that are startlingly familiar.” Perhaps you’ve seen someone’s name in the newspaper, and then you run into them. In my case, I had some interviews coming up and needed a tape recorder. I messaged an old reporter friend. Within an hour, he responded, admitting he was actually trying to sell one. I’ll be using it in a few hours.

As I look back at the last year and a half, I relish the old cliché “everything happens for a reason." I went through a devastating loss, and from that loss vowed to wipe away the mud of years of insecurity and negativity. If I hadn’t gone through that experience, I would not have had the impetus to change my life. If my mother hadn’t encouraged me to cover that antique shop, I wouldn’t be on the cusp of fulfilling my dreams. Life is not containable in a cup. It is not controllable, not should it be. Life is like the ocean, and we can steer more than we think.

Want Two

A year ago I wrote a lil' piece called "Want." The premise was wanting what we already have. Tonight I wrote down the words, “How do we NOT want what we want?” (Answer: Want what you already have). I was partially brainstorming for "Becoming Braveheart," my book about self-acceptance, specifically the chapter on Becoming Confident. We want the confidence to succeed. The chapter is about breaking the illusion of having to be “great” to be “enough,” or, in contrast, thinking we are destined to settle for less because we will never stand at the height of the “greats.”

The truth is we are all capable of greatness if we release our expectations of what we don’t have and better appreciate what we do. And remember: there are many definitions of greatness. Growing up, my dad was the greatest man who ever lived. In many ways, he still is.

Scientists suggest we use only a minute portion of our brains. I believe we use a minute portion of our talents through roadblocks constructed through negative thinking. We don’t think we have the resources because we don’t CREATE them.

Last year, I started to write in a way much different than before. I didn’t think about how the writing sounded or if it was grammatically correct. I wrote essays, poems and short stories. I started one novel and created the outlines for two others. I wasn’t writing for a newspaper or a contest. I was writing for myself.

At last, I had found the key to what I was, the person I had lost. I shattered an internal Writers Block, the culmination of years of holding back to wait for someone to tell me I was good enough. I lost who I was because I hadn’t fully accepted myself and was expecting everyone else to. I write now almost every day. Despite some stumbles along the way, I haven’t lost belief in myself since (at least, not for very long). ;)

Toward the end of the wonderful film (500) Days of Summer, the protagonist pulls himself out of his heartache by re-discovering his true passion: architecture. He stopped looking for someone else to complete his life.

He was, at last, the architect of his own destiny.

We are all the owners of our own fate. Even if external roadblocks stymie us, pushing us adrift in waves of doubt, we have the power to swim back to shore. The only way we’ll sink is if we believe we can’t swim.

I guess I finally started swimming. I was recently accepted into Western Connecticut State University’s MFA program in Creative and Professional Writing. A year ago, I wasn’t even contemplating returning to graduate school. I also didn’t think I would become the unofficial organizer of a writers group (which is how I learned about the MFA program).

I used to think I had to escape somewhere else to be happy. Later, I thought once everything “came together” outside, everything would fall into place inside. I learned it is the precise opposite, and I am indebted to those who helped me discover the truth. Create happiness right now for yourself, because happiness won’t grow somewhere else. It must start within. Go for it!

West Coast vs. East Coast

I’m back, not only on the West Coast but also in my own skin. This year has been a tremendous journey. I'm here in Seattle visiting friends for my 28th birthday, thinking about how different life can be when we simply "let it."

When you let life unfold instead of trying too hard to control every variable, you tend to appreciate more about yourself--and others. As a result, I’ve been noting the countless differences between West and East Coasters. ;) I’ll first speak briefly about Connecticut. Essentially, there are two Nutmeg States. The city of Hartford is the Mason-Dixon Line dividing down-to-earth Yankees (north of Hartford) from high-strung Greater New York City neurotics (south of Hartford). Suffice it to say, I’m from Fairfield County (an hour’s drive from Manhattan).

My parents, meanwhile, plan to move upstate someday “where people are nice.” I can relate. (When I first started at my current company, some of my coworkers thought I was from the Midwest. One dubbed me “Bubbles” (“the cute and bubbly one”) from PowerPuff Girls. Yeah, Exactly).

I have natural cheer. I’m easily excited about things, whether it’s my hotel's state-of-the-art showerhead or a Chinese takeout bag with a smiley-face on it. Nevertheless, I used to struggle with an East Coast ‘tude so huge I made Larry David look laidback. Well, okay, I’m exaggerating. Sort of. There’s a lot of factors that helped me become more relaxed, namely self-awareness. I also believe a sense of humor is a vital survival tool. ;)

Let’s start with this morning. My alarm went off at 4:15 a.m. ‘Nuff said. Fast forward to 7 a.m. outside a JFK Airport Starbucks. I was so tired I started emptying packets of Splenda onto the lid of my tall nonfat Chai.

Once settled on the plane, however, the caffeine began restoring me to human form. Watching my fellow passengers board, I decided to play a game: “East Coast or West Coast?” Basically, the nicer and more polite they were, the less likely they were to be from New York. A scowling adolescent with a Yankees hat slumped by. East Coast. An older Asian man took the seat next to me, but first asked if I wanted my coat from the overhead storage bin since the plane was chilly (!). West Coast.

Halfway through the flight I’d devised a list:

West Coasters vs. East Coasters

*Non-Billy Mays Speech vs. Billy Mays Speech: West Coasters (pretty much anyone outside New England) tend to speak slower. They actually pause after sentences. They may even let you finish a sentence! East Coasters tend to talk like Billy Mays on cocaine….oh, wait….

*Superficial vs. Direct: The last time I went to Seattle a New York native confessed she missed the East Coast’s “directness.” She believed West Coast people were often polite to the point of superficiality or phoniness. While I’ve experienced this firsthand, I still prefer a little over-politeness to disrespect any day. Side note: East Coasters are often accused of being “too PC.” Hmmm.

*Laidback vs. All-Important: I believe studies could prove living out West lowers blood pressure. They can start by doing a Case Study on me. The West Coast vibe, even in a bustling city like Seattle, is simply not as entitled and impatient as the energy in New York or even Boston.

*Animal Prints vs. ‘Normal’ Prints: The West Coast seems to have an affinity for animal prints. The last time I stayed in Seattle, my hotel had complimentary leopard-print robes. Which is fabulous...if you’re Burt Reynolds on a shag rug circa 1973.

*Mountains vs. Hills: I believe if the East Coast had mountains larger than the Appalachian “Hills,” they might be more…West Coast. Mountains are both exhilarating and peaceful. There’s nothing quite like a good mountain chain to lift spirits.

*Jack in The Box vs. Friendly's The East Coast would be a better place if we had happy-faced clowns as fast food mascots. Although we do have happy-faced clown ice cream. ;)

*Open vs. Constrictive: I love open space, open land, open fields. Preferably bordered with mountains. The East Coast has lots of trees, but no mountains and no real open space, the kind where you see nothing but miles of blue sky. Despite their Red State politics, the people seem a lot more neighborly, as “open,” maybe, as their land. I like that.

Anyone got anymore? Thoughts? Comments?