THE HILARIOUS COVID-19 PANDEMIC-Connecticut
NEVER SAY . . . WELL, YOU KNOW
I've come home again, and this time it's in Connecticut. It is as shocking to me, as it would be to anyone who knows what a misanthrope I can be.
There are two places I have called home since leaving my ancestral one at 18, and striking out, sorta, on my own.
New York City.
And now, Connecticut, specifically in the town of Groton/Long Point.
Most know the feeling. You step out of a car, or off the plane, or boat, or train, or, as I did when I arrived in NYC in 1980 to dance, off the proverbial bus. Port Authority to be even more cliche-ridden. Two suitcases. No place to stay.
Nothing like being young and stupid!
But not the point of this article.
The moment my feet hit that pavement on 42nd Street and 8th Avenue in 1980, I had arrived in my new home.
Cannot tell you why, because I was broke, homeless, unemployed, and in one of the most unforgiving cities on the planet. In less than two months, I had a job, an apartment, a dance scholarship, a few new friends, and a boss at the restaurant where I worked who put on her sexual afterburners every time she walked by and told me how attractive she thought me.
And now, 40 years later, in the midst of The Time of the Stupids, had no idea we would pull up in front of this modest house, a mere half block from the water and feel I had come home once more.
Here I sit, cranking out 1000 words a day on my latest unpublishable novel; writing a movie review for one of the few Facebook sites that hasn't kicked me to the curb; revise the documentary script for a team of people I'm not sure want to produce it; and, of course write a daily posting on our sojourn as Lisa and Oliver Wendell Douglas.
And, except for the wonderful 18 years I spent tormenting my incredible parents, George and Betty Young, I've never been more at home in my life.
We start looking at houses next week. Not making that up.