Connecticut

What makes a farm? Chickens, goats, cows, a garden, good soil, rolling acres are all accidental qualities of a farm. Ultimately though it’s about the people who form the community, and despite differences of ideology or perspective create a family of sorts based on shared geographical terrain.

On Saturday, my parents, cousins, grandfather, aunt, and neighbors gathered to begin cultivating the garden for next year. It involved cutting down brush, probing for the taproots of weeds that extended deep into the soil and resisted prying hands with the same lively stubbornness of mussels in the mud. These practical chores manifested our communal desire to respond in gratitude to Matt Gonsalves the man who tended the garden throughout the summer. Each of us benefited from the rich red tomatoes, explosively hot chilly peppers, leafy and luscious kale greens, peas, and beans.

The work party was an opportunity for all of us to come together and simply enjoy each other’s company whether it was listening in as my cousin–fresh off completing a half marathon in impressive time–broached the status of her Colombian-born boyfriend or watching as an intergenerational bond of camaraderie formed between my 90 year old grandfather and the 6th grade tennis dynamo going to the U.N. School in New York City. Those two made an effective pair trimming back forsythia branches and combing the apple trees for the finest apples. Two and a half hours outside of the frenetic pressure cooker that is Manhattan this garden proved a blessing enabling me to spend time with people who have known me longer than I can remember.

One criticism of the age in which we live is that despite our penchant for novel technology and our boasting of an interconnected world we can still find a way to be isolated creatures. Tuned in to the latest trends, but tuned out to the people who should be closest to us. Thankfully the antidote is not ridiculously difficult. It’s simply making the time–in this case two hours on a Saturday morning–to work together with the option of spending an equal amount of time feasting together on barbequed hot dogs, cheeseburgers, corn, as well as beer. The best place to build peace in the world is not always in the worst war-torn region, but the place that I call home.

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LaborDay-1010225 LaborDay-1010221 LaborDay-1010223 LaborDay-1010224 LaborDay-1010220The summer was a mad dash to this weekend when I finally caught an ephemeral glimpse of genuine calm after the family picnics, reunion of friends, and absconding from my general need to be keyed in to work 24/7.  At the Traver picnic (my maternal grandmother’s family of Irish descent), I discovered (among other things) that I have a cousin, Jim Shea, who writes for the Hartford Courant.  Now that it’s after Labor Day he reminds us that the election season shifts into high gear: Labor Day Means Summer is Over; Political Season Has Begun. Sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On Saturday, my Uncle Michael asked those gathered at St. John of the Cross Church in Middlebury, CT:

“When Brian, Jr. turns fifteen what is he going to need to know?”

“How will we know that we’ve done our job?”

After a pregnant pause, he added, “As long as he knows the God is head over heals in love with him, we’ll know we’ve done our part in sharing the gift of Faith.”

After becoming a deacon several years ago my uncle’s focus has shifted to the work around his home parish of St. John of the Cross, but I know he’s always been passionate about serving in the prison system throughout Connecticut.  His stories of the incarcerated, both redeemed and those yet to be, are a source of entertainment and awe.

The Catholic Church continues to receive her fair share of criticism, sometimes on target and other times baseless, but after my uncle finished baptizing his grandson, Brian Jr., he exclaimed with a big smile, “Here’s the Church’s newest member, and our Church just got better.”

 

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