Connecticut’s John Trumbull may be best known for his painting The Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. Despite its precise title, what Trumbull created by 1819 (and repeated twice again by 1832) was a carefully crafted record of an event that did not take place exactly as or when he portrayed it. In this painting there are meticulous portraits of 42 of the 56 delegateswho would eventually sign a revised version of the declaration, but the initial presentation to Congress of a draft of the Declaration of Independence took place on June 28 (not July 4) and was far more sparsely attended. Trumbull worked hard to represent the spirit and personnel of the event, if not all the other specifics.
Even forgiving Trumbull’s casual regard for some of the details of the event, there was more amiss than just that.
(This post was published previously, on another blog I maintain. I imported it from that blog this July, which explains why it’s posted in the summer, but concerns wintertime activities.)
It’s winter 2018 — or the roller coaster that may pass this year for winter in Central Connecticut — with fits of warm weather, occasional low teens, minor snow or ice … but still a simmering risk of cabin fever. (Sometimes just knowing it’s winter is enough to keep a person bundled up indoors, busy on some type of puzzle or book or computer.)
I thought each call would be easier than the previous, but it’s just the opposite. Perhaps my numbness is fading, and my grief is sinking in. Or perhaps I’m just tiring of sharing with others the reality that my mother has died — tiring of sharing the circumstances and the details of how we’re all reacting, what we’re planning, how we feel.
It’s winter — or the roller coaster that may pass this year for winter in Central Connecticut, with fits of warm weather, occasional low teens, minor snow or ice, but still with a simmering risk of cabin fever. (Sometimes just knowing it’s winter is enough to keep a person bundled up indoors, busy on some type of puzzle or book or computer.)
My heart is breaking, but it’s not just for me. It is breaking for my mother’s brother Ken Viard, for Ken’s children Melissa and Carl (with whom, at some relatively minor physical distance, I grew up), for Melissa’s husband Jeff and Carl’s wife Agnes, and for all those who love Marcia Leete Worthen Viard, who, on Feb 22, 2017, passed into what awaits us all. Continue reading “Aunt Marcia – Family Vol. 4”→
Around the turn of the century (or the millennium, if you prefer), I began hiking in a semi-serious way, including overnights on a part of the Appalachian Trail that rambles from eastern New York through Connecticut to southern Massachusetts. The walking itself was calming and invigorating and reminded me of all the walking I had done over many years in my hometown of New York City – partly because I often paid less attention to where I was going, and more to where I was stepping next. Continue reading “Walking in the World”→
In late May 2016 in Milford, Conn., half a dozen regular folks – volunteers, good Samaritans – pulled to the side of what locals call the Route 15 Connector, which links Interstate 95 to Route 15 (from Milford east, called the Wilbur Cross Parkway – The Merritt to the west), and among them they managed to pull two young women from a car that had crashed and caught fire. Continue reading “The Vollies Are Busy”→