After the Lecture at Yale
Whether or not there are bobcats
in Southbury is up for debate.
But I will concede as we turn onto Old Farm Road
that here there are MAGA partisans
and that demagogues can woo quiet neighbors
even in the State of Steady Habits.
Because lawn signs don’t lie.
Neither do lengths of charming stone walls
laid in the time of charters and King George.
According to the Nobel laureate, first there was rock,
then protoplasm, then an ingenious race of hominids
milling wheat and clicking away on abaci
in a time-lapse compendium
paused just past ENIAC and ballpoint pens.
He said that slime-slicked granite deep in the Precambrian
was the first cooperative community.
But that was last night in Sterling Library,
and now I’m sketching plans at the table
between rulers and a stack of The New Yorker
as you brew chai tea, prime the nail gun,
unfurl stenciled blueprints of our barn-cum-studio
in the making. With renovations, we can sell our land
for a premium our Brooklyn friends tell us.
But it’s charming here, and the afternoon
is a pleasant exasperation of tape measures
and twine as October wind works its way
through chinks and cools our sweat.
We can paint our canvasses here
and impress our Chicago friends
with our view of the Taconic Mountains.
Yet still my eyes linger on the “Make America Great Again” signs
down the road.
“It’s class solipsism,” our sociologist friend
tells me, and reminds me
that not everyone reads The New Yorker
or has a chance to go to graduate school.
And true, I haven’t gotten around to reading
J.D. Vance, so I still wonder.
We call it a day as the sun lowers over the valley,
and we’re strolling along the stone wall.
I’m thinking about the slime-covered rocks,
of the wriggling amoebas, the blooming lichen,
the goatherds speaking Sumerian on the banks
of the Tigris. And soon enough there are charters
directing our ancestors to form towns and harvest
sassafras for shipment back to England.
There’s the brief blip of ENIAC, but not before Nagasaki,
and followed by Darfur and Srebrenica
along with Timothy McVeigh and the 16th Street Baptist Church.
And it all started with the protoplasm.
We don’t think of crossing those granite rocks,
approaching our neighbors, and getting a sense
of why exactly they’re casting their lot with
“the greatest existential threat to liberal democracy”
(according to our professor friend in Seattle).
You’re making quinoa paella for dinner,
and besides, I want to finish sketching.
I wrote this poem on the eve of the 2016 US presidential election. I think it’s still relevant to today’s news landscape. It also still captures how I feel about collective responsibility and the consequences of community atomization.
The catalog of explosive historical events in the sixth stanza might be clichéd and a bit overwrought, but that’s why I’m publishing this poem; I’m trying to exorcise my former interest in collapse. In my late teens and early twenties I was a bit of a “kollapsnik” and was fascinated by societal calamity, as epitomized in Thomas Cole’s painting Destruction in his Course of Empire series.
What we focus on grows, so it’s no surprise that my fixation on cataclysm led to a period of suicidal depression. I’ve matured a lot since then. But the presence of poems like “After the Lecture at Yale” in my electronic archive kept that fascination smoldering; when drafts of poems like this came to mind, I’d start thinking of whether I should make revisions and spend money to submit them to literary magazines. By posting this poem and others like it, though, the tantalization of publication is eliminated since most literary magazines won’t print works that were previously published on a personal website. Then I can more fully move on to my new commitment to renewal and the Great Turning.
This is the first of several old self-authored poems I will unload here in order to create more mental space for myself (this website is as much for me as it is for you). And since pieces of writing are transmuted when they are read by an audience, perhaps these pieces will stop being mere artifacts of a gloomy stage in my life and become progressive stepping stones towards my later realization that humanity is poised on the precipice of a new era of abundance and unity.
In July I paid a visit to Darien’s historic Mather Homestead on Brookside Road. Built in 1778, the history of the Mather Homestead resembles that of Sylvester Manor: it was privately held in the same family over the span of several centuries before being incorporated as a historical nonprofit and opened to the public in recent years (2017, to be precise).
Front of the original 1778 structure.
The stories of many New England towns are animated by a narrative arc that stretches to the origins of the American republic, and Deacon Joseph Mather, the original proprietor of the homestead, features prominently in Darien’s own foundational tale. Joseph’s father, the Reverend Moses Mather, is related to Increase Mather (of Salem Witch Trial infamy) by way of Increase’s brother, Timothy. The Yale-educated Moses arrived in Darien, then known as Middlesex Parish, in 1740 at the age of 25 in order to take up his post as the town’s first Congregational minister. Moses was staunchly anti-Anglican, and during the Revolutionary War he cultivated a reputation as one the most fiery Patriots in the Stamford-Middlesex area. On two occasions, he and his sons were captured by Loyalists from Long Island and imprisoned in New York City. In a separate raid that took place in March of 1781, Tories stormed Joseph Mather’s home while only his wife, Sarah, was present. They then confiscated valuables that were hidden by friends in the family’s well.
The well where Patriot friends of the Mathers hid valuables like silver and clothing, hoping that the homestead’s relative distance from Long Island Sound would keep the items safe from raids.
This WPA mural in Darien Town Hall depicts the July 1781 Tory raid on the Middlesex church and meetinghouse during an afternoon service presided over by Moses Mather.
Joseph Mather’s property on Brookside Road was occupied by his unmarried daughters until the death of Rana Mather in 1880 at the age of 96. Thereafter, the homestead functioned primarily as a summer residence for the family of Joseph Wakeman Mather (grandson of the elder Joseph), a San Francisco businessman who eventually relocated to Brooklyn. Joseph’s son, Stephen Tyng, became the first director of the National Park Service in 1917. Despite Stephen’s early years and college studies in California, plus a career path that took him to Chicago and Washington, D.C., he considered the house on Brookside Road to be his permanent home. In fact, Stephen was the sole inheritor of the Mather Homestead in 1906, and continued to use it as a summer retreat until his death in 1930.
Stephen Tyng Mather
I wonder about what impact the setting of southwestern Connecticut had on Stephen Mather. In The Last Undiscovered Place, David K. Leff reflects that Connecticut’s lack of open horizons or sweeping mountain vistas allows for a more nuanced appreciation of the beauty and underlying processes that animate the other-than-human realm, and Stephen seems to have cultivated this appreciation. He was instrumental in persuading Congress to expand the National Park system beyond the dramatic scenery of the West, and by the end of his tenure at the the Department of the Interior, Mount Desert Island, Shenandoah Valley, and the Great Smoky Mountains were encompassed by national parks.
Stephen Mather would not be the first influential figure in American conservation/environmental thought to carry into adulthood the imprint of a youth rooted in the Constitution State. Frederick Law Olmsted, the famed designer of New York’s Central Park, grew up in Hartford County, and he attributed his vision as a landscape architect to the complementary patterning of the built human world and natural scenery that characterized his birth state. Henry Chandler Cowles, a botanist who pioneered the study of ecological succession, grew up exploring the countryside around the town of Berlin, where he first appreciated the reality that the landscaped is an ever-changing mosaic.
I’ve written repeatedly in previous essays about unearthing sights of natural wonder and gems of discovery hidden in the overlooked corners of Darien. Using his position of power in Washington, Stephen Mather seems to have instilled that expanded definition of natural wonder in the broader American consciousness via national parks, while Olmsted achieved similar ends by offering a green respite in the middle of Manhattan. Our foundational mythos does not have to rest solely on the pomp and patriotism of exploration across oceans or a war for independence. When we tell ourselves stories of origin and identity, I think all cultures operating in the industrial, hyper-connected world would do well to acknowledge the quiet, humble workings of the land we inhabit.
I once harbored a grudge against an entire species. Tree-of-heaven, Ailanthus altissima, or simply ailanthus, is a deciduous tree belonging to the simaroubaceae family. With its spindly trunk and frond-like bows of pinnate leaves, ailanthus vaguely resembles a palm plant, and its native range extends from the temperate regions of China through Southeast Asia. But if you live in Europe or the contiguous US, there’s a good chance that you have crossed paths with this “tenacious bastard,” as I once referred to it. Ailanthus is an invasive in both regions, where it thrives in disturbed, low-quality soils such as those found in abandoned lots or the margins of railroads, freeways, or any patch of land that has been cleared of vegetation (the photo below was taken at the edge of a playing field). For this reason, ailanthus is sometimes referred to as the ghetto palm, although its pungent odor and status as a noxious weed has earned it a variety of epithets: stink tree, stinking sumac, tree-of-hell.
My war with ailanthus began five years ago during my senior year of high school. As part of a project for my AP environmental science class, I learned to identify invasive plants in a tract of woods near my house. I did not come across tree-of-heaven in those woods, although in the course my research I happened on a webpage with a photograph of an ailanthus sapling under the bold-face heading “IF YOU SEE THIS PLANT IN YOUR YARD, REMOVE IT IMMEDIATELY.” I learned that a tree I had taken to be just another part of the urban scenery of the Northeastern US was in fact a foreign invader. Thereafter, I was seeing tree-of-heaven everywhere. I eyed two saplings growing along my bike route to the YMCA, noted the prevalence of ailanthus along the edges of playing fields, and, while driving out of New York City, spotted a mature, six-story specimen from I-95 in the North Bronx. I had no idea how overrun my home was.
So the seed of alarm was planted when, one weekend that June, I noticed a young, seven-foot-tall ailanthus growing in my next-door-neighbor’s side lawn, just a few feet from my own family’s back yard. I wasn’t surprised. Our neighbor at the time was not a fastidious groundskeeper, and a veritable jungle of overgrown bushes and weeds demarcated our properties. Tree-of-heaven can produce 14,000 seeds for every pound of biomass, so it was inevitable that an ailanthus samara would settle and sprout in that jungle. After getting my neighbor’s permission, I armed myself with a pair of garden shears and a plastic lawn barrel and spent an afternoon hacking away at the invader, all the while scowling at tree-of-heaven’s burnt peanut oil scent. I had read about how ailanthus can clone itself via root suckering, and that cutting down the exposed parts of the plant is only a temporary control. Yet I also read accounts of tree-of-heaven roots growing through concrete and destabilizing building foundations, and so the warning kept flashing bright red in my head: REMOVE IT IMMEDIATELY.
Felling that one ailanthus offered no satisfaction. I continued to regard with near-horror entire colonies of ailanthus clones erupting along the roadways of the Tri-State area. That summer on a trip abroad I saw a cluster of tree-of-heaven growing beside a gravel parking lot in rural Tuscany (no!), and when I returned home to Darien I discovered that the same tree I hacked to pieces a few weeks earlier had grown back to its previous height (the bastard!). Ailanthus even infiltrated my sleep. In one dream, I walk out the front door in the morning to find that, overnight, an ailanthus of sequoia proportions has taken root across the street and bulldozed one of my neighbor’s homes to the side. In another, ailanthus samaras, borne by an equatorial breeze, are showering over the neighborhood like snow, and every native plant has been replaced by an embryonic tree-of-heaven.
Ailanthus was a punk, I decided, a spoiled brat with no capacity for restraint. It didn’t belong in New England, land of white pine and sugar maple. It was too smelly, too exotic. It just didn’t look right.
It just didn’t look right. Hungarian nationalists use these same words to describe Syrian refugees walking down the streets of Budapest. The parallel between contempt for an invasive plant and that for foreigners and ethnic minorities is an imperfect one; as the above photo of the kudzu barren makes clear, crowding of ecosystems by non-native species is a legitimate environmental concern. But displaced people and invasive plants are both symptomatic of the Crisis of Now, and therefore merit joint consideration.
In Failed States, Collapsing Systems, journalist Nafeez Ahmed outlines how the sectarian violence that has riven Syria since 2011 is partly an outgrowth of a years-long drought that exacerbated unaffordable food prices and growing unemployment. These global warming-induced pressures only added more strain to a nation buckling under declining oil revenue. Similar biophysical trends played out in Libya, Iraq, and Yemen, and in aggregate resulted in the pulse of immigration from the Arab World that Europe witnessed 2015-2016. Meanwhile, in the botanical realm, global warming enables subtropical plants to migrate northwards in moist regions such as the eastern US, while intensifying droughts in arid climates allows the further spread of xeric exotics like Russian thistle.
With this background of interlocking global systems in mind, the sentiment “it just doesn’t look right” belies a lack of understanding of the complex feedbacks that are altering the contours of human life around the world. My growing comprehension of those feedbacks these past five years is partly why I no longer grudge ailanthus. I imagine that going deaf in my left ear in 2014 also helped me learn to let go of the unalterable, and much of what we as a global society will experience as the Crisis of Now progresses cannot be blunted as much as we’d like. In an article for Grist titled “Let it Go: The Arctic Will Never Be Frozen Again,” Eric Holthaus details how, as of last year, polar researchers can confidently project that the Arctic will never again be reliably frozen like it had been since modern humans evolved 150 thousand years ago. Last week, The Guardianreported that the most ancient of the Arctic Ocean’s sea ice ruptured for the first time in recorded history this past summer. In a similar vein, recent research indicates that the carbon storing capacity of soils worldwide is diminishing rapidly in relation to increasing atmospheric temperatures.
Each new climatological threshold is a potential Rubicon for globalized human civilization. In addition to giving up modes of living that we know are destructive to Earth’s life support systems – no more 5,000-square-foot houses, nightly steak dinners, or ski resorts – we also have to learn to let go of certain trappings we used to associate with home, wherever that might be. According to the most optimistic forecasting models, Connecticut will have a climate comparable to that of northern Virginia by mid-century. Worst-case-scenario models predict Connecticut’s climate will resemble South Carolina’s in thirty-odd years. If the latter turns out to be true, then I have to accept that, probably in my lifetime, white pines and sugar maples will recede to the Canadian Shield and New England will become a land of palmetto, loblolly pine, and, of course, ailanthus. Europeans have to brace for further influxes of refugees from destabilized parts of the Middle East and Africa, while all denizens of the world’s coastal regions will need to negotiate a new shoreline as sea levels rise. We can act to mitigate the effects of global warming, but words like “mitigation” and “resiliency” are already an admission on our part that there’s no going back to what we once knew.
My neighbor of the unkempt jungle no longer lives next door. His property was bought up by a developer who replaced his relatively humble 1960s-era house with a larger, more marketable structure. The developer also cleared out the jungle and the ailanthus tree with it (they probably had to use a backhoe to do the job). Yet even if that tree-of-heaven were still standing, I don’t think I would care. There’s just too much that’s in flux now in the 21st century, too much change that cannot be undone, while the legitimately urgent problems are much greater than a scrawny, root-suckering tree. When I spent an afternoon hacking away at my neighbor’s invasive weed I was also motivated by a primal desire to see ailanthus – my enemy – vanquished entirely. Such a desire is quixotic in the extreme and belies a scorched-earth antagonism that will be of no help in the decades to come.
Besides, as Lauret Savoy tells us in her book Trace, to inhabit a landscape means also to be implicated in that landscape’s history. Well, tree-of-heaven was introduced to the United States at the turn of the 19th century, when everything Oriental was trending among America’s educated class. After being cultivated in the gardens of the gentry (including, probably, the grounds of Sylvester Manor), tree-of-heaven was used as a street tree in the young Republic’s urban centers. Imagine that: ailanthus first took root in North America when the United States was in its infancy. We grew up together on this continent. And since then, tree-of-heaven and One Nation Under God have been casting their seeds to the wind, yearning to multiply.
These thoughts in mind, I cannot help thinking of Camille Dungy’s poem, “What I know I cannot say,” which considers a different invasive plant:
“the blue gum has colonized
the California coastal forests, squeezing out native plants, dominating the landscape,
and increasing the danger of fire. I should hate
the blue gum eucalyptus, but from the well of their longing,
by which I mean to say from their pods, you know what I mean
I hope, their original homes, from the well of their longing
blooms explode like fireworks. I love them for this. Do you hear me?
I absolve you. You are far too beautiful and singular to blame.“
I am not yet at the point where I can think of ailanthus as a beautiful tree, but I do now appreciate that tree-of-heaven and its status as an invasive in North America is only a single phenomenon, one subplot in a very complex story line. Who among us is not a manifestation of a convoluted chain of events? I’m referring here to conquests, genocides, mass migrations, innovation, leaps of faith – world history. And the pageant continues today in the decisions we make in this century of transition, an era some refer to as the Great Turning. Whatever actions we take, though, must be directed by a fierce desire to persist and forge new ways of living amidst so much loss and dislocation. Ailanthus, which can grow from the most degraded of soils, has already demonstrated a tendency to thrive far from its original home, and for that I regard it with a certain degree of respect.
What does it mean to be back in Darien at the age of 23, to have the architecture of my days once more be molded by the place where I grew up? To begin to answer that question I recently reread an essay I wrote at the close of my first semester of college. The essay, which I titled “Commonplace,” verbalizes my then-newly crystallized belief that the places we are most familiar with on a day-to-day basis have the potential to yield the most profound insights and discoveries about the world at large. In “Commonplace,” I recall a bike ride to a local beach one cloudy September Saturday during my senior year of high school:
Long Island Sound was a drab, grey monochrome. The unbroken clouds overhead sapped the trees of any bright hues. A wind blew off the water, just crisp enough to forebode a change in seasons. In short, it was the type of day my suburban neighbors would use as an excuse to stay inside and do chores around the house. But, standing there alone on the sand, looking across to the opposite shore of New York, the thought came to me, “How could I ever turn my back on this?”
Because it is scenes like this, times when the world shows its capacity for the unabashedly mundane, that catch me the most. My earliest vivid memory rooted in the coastal Connecticut landscape where I grew up is of swimming in a neighbor’s pool with my brothers and some family friends one summer evening and insisting that everyone look at a sunset-streaked cloud that happened to be passing directly overhead. I was interested not in the sunset itself, but that one small stratus cloud, brushed with pink and purple. As I got older, no matter what interests took hold of my attention and state of mind, I always found time to stop and contemplate the perfectly commonplace interplay of the naked natural world and the built, suburban environment I called home. And in those mundane scenes and moments, sometimes as unremarkable as a dull orange twilight horizon set against a foreground of dusky houses and maple trees, I have found sources of wonder comparable to looking across the Grand Canyon or out at a panorama of the Rocky Mountains.
Where I grew up is in many ways a mundane place, easily written off as a mere bedroom community where an absence of definable local culture is paralleled by a lack of distinction in the natural or ecological sense. My town’s woods, where they exist parceled between roadways and residential development, do not erupt with orchids and wildflowers in the spring, nor are its horizons animated with the melodrama of snowcapped sierras. Yet it is precisely this mundane landscape that has left an imprint on my psyche. It was amid the suburban spread I called home for the first eighteen years of my life that I learned to appreciate not just the occasional scenes of ostentatious natural beauty, but also the world in its simple, unremarkable manifestations, be they a mellow twilight or a cloudy, colorless day at the shore.
Weed Beach, November
I typed those paragraphs five years ago. I had no idea then in the fall of 2013 the scintillating path I would take in the next stage of my life: two brain surgeries, hearing loss, a season of peripatetic farm work, two experimental rounds of chemotherapy, and a bout of major depression. And I am still working towards my college diploma. Darien and my parents’ house on Thomasina Lane has remained a constant this whole time, and that constitutes a generous mercy. Any measure of stability is helpful in a time of transition and turbulence.
Yet I am grateful for my anchorage on the north shore of Long Island Sound not just because of the consistency it has provided. In “Commonplace” I conclude:
On that grey September day at the beach, I did eventually turn my back and let my future take me wherever it may. Because these moments of mystery and silence are not exclusive to a pebbly stretch of New England coastline. Rather, they exist everywhere and every day as the inherent beauty of this world.
The knowledge that profound insight – mystery and silence – are present everywhere has sustained me on a spiritual level through my setbacks and disappointments these past five years, and by regularly returning to Darien I have kept that knowledge fresh.
I don’t mind that I never got a chance to study abroad or spend a summer backpacking through the latest haute ecotourist destination; I don’t need mementos from far-flung places to make my life richer. Through the first 18 years of my life, followed by all of my recent convalescences and languid vacation days away from school, the shingled rooftops and hardwood woodlands of Darien have been the stuff of my world, just as cattle paddocks and baobab trees are the stuff of a Herero’s world, or freeway underpasses and chaparral hillsides are the stuff of a southern Californian’s world. Wherever you happen to make your life, there are layers of discovery waiting in the cracks between the most unassuming features of our natural and human landscapes.
Casement Street, sunset
Several years ago while walking in Darien’s Woodland Park I picked my way through underbrush and encountered an army of shrimp-like arthropods marching across a scummy pond margin. Last summer I kayaked to a cove in neighboring Stamford and explored 1-acre-square Vincent Island, where the mason shell of a house that burned down before I was born is being swallowed by poison ivy and other sun-loving herbaceous plants. I don’t have as much time to explore the woods or go kayaking this summer, but only a few days ago, on a visit to Darien Town Hall, I saw a justice of the peace presiding over an outdoor civil wedding ceremony between a young couple dressed in shorts and t-shirts. These are the sorts of discoveries that lie in wait if one chooses to interrogate the commonplace and see what happenings unfold behind the static of the day-to-day.
While I could sigh with regret or resignation that I am now well into my third decade of life and still bound to the address where I grew up, I don’t really feel regretful or resigned. I will leave Darien for good at some point then end up in a new locale whose commonplace is just as fertile as any other. But in the meantime I can explore the endless crevasses and cul-de-sacs of my immediate environs.
Not long after I returned from Shelter Island, I made plans to meet up with a friend for lunch at Mama Carmela’s Italian Deli. Mama’s, located in a strip of commercial zoning along the Boston Post Road, is less than half a mile from where I live, and I had dropped in on Mama’s for sandwiches several times in the previous year or so. But this most recent sandwich stop was the first time in a while where I actually sat down with my lunch at one of its tables and took in the details of the place. Except for the Darien Times articles detailing the latest local sporting and academic exploits stuck to the tack board by the back entrance, I didn’t notice any significant changes in the appearance or atmosphere of Mama Carmela’s. Nor did I expect anything to be different. Mama’s is one of those places that has always just been there.
Of course, Mama Carmela’s has not occupied 1981 Post Road since time immemorial. It set up shop in the summer of 2001. But Mama’s, mind you, is a “deli” deli, one of those salt-of-the-earth sandwich joints that’s as embedded in the local geography as the nearest hill or stream. Every American town needs such a place. Your equivalent to Mama’s might be flavored with a German, or Latin, or a down home accent depending on where in the country you live. But whether you order fried okra or a potato knish to go with your wrap, America’s long-standing lunch and breakfast joints are all kept alive because they connect their patrons with the local ecology of human interactions that make a community. This sense of community belonging, which Wendell Berry describes as “membership,” is the topic of many an impassioned op-ed screeds, most of which (rightfully) bemoan the loss of said belonging in the face of globalized corporatocracy. But here I want to briefly reflect on how precisely I feel a sense of membership when I’m standing in line waiting to place my order at Mama’s.
Frank, Patty, Carlos, Sue, Frankie, and Juan are the vital names you need to know. Frank Colandro is the founder and head proprietor of Mama Carmela’s, and, appropriately, with his bushy beard and ham arms, mans the deli’s meat slicer on most days. Next to Frank’s work station, Patty, a sharp-eyed older woman, works the cash register and speaks with an exacting, cut-to-chase tone of voice to match. At the other end of the counter, the cooks – Frankie, Carlos, and Juan – cantilever around each other with spry precision as they switch between frying eggs and bacon on the one hand and slicing vegetables and cheese on the other. Amidst all this, Sue (wearing a pink shirt in the photo above) makes sure the machinery of Mama’s stays greased. When I’ve stopped by for lunch over the years, I have seen her at work taking orders from customers, unpacking supplies from cardboard boxes, helping the cooks with food preparation, and relaying information between the entire crew. If Frank is the pater familias, then Sue is the grande dame of the deli.
On any given day there are bound to be alterations to this ensemble of employees. Frankie’s or Carlos’s places at the fryer might be temporarily replaced by a seasonal worker, or Frank will be stationed at the cash register instead of Sue. But the variations in staffing at Mama Carmela’s are minimal, and employee turnover is low: a sure sign that you can trust a dining establishment to prepare your food. It is this stability that allows me and dozens of other Darienites to know the staff at Mama’s on a first name basis, and the familiarity is reciprocated. You can usually count on there being a laminated flyer posted on the deli counter displaying the go-to order of a faithful patron (usually a high school athlete or local first responder). When I myself was a DHS student, and spontaneously grabbing lunch with friends at a local sandwich joint was a rite of establishing teenage autonomy, I became a regular enough face at Mama’s that after placing my order one afternoon, Frankie gave me a fist bump and introduced both himself and his co-workers. In effect, Frankie bestowed on me a membership that went beyond the walls of the deli and encompassed the entire web of Darien affairs that crosses paths with 1981 Post Road.
As the writer Arundhati Roy suggests, we should not make complicated what is actually quite simple, so I will not parse and dissect every meaning behind the ideas of ‘membership’ and ‘community.’ I am even cautious about using the word “idea” to describe what I feel when I’m standing in line at Mama Carmela’s, since ideas can be maddeningly ambiguous; mere ideas, without any grounding to them, are the playthings of convoluted philosophy treatises that no one will read. Home, however, is not ambiguous. Home is where you feel most comfortable, the place you go back to, where you belong. Even though I spend significant portions of my time in New York’s North Country these days, my permanent address is still in Darien, and ordering lunch at Mama’s during summer and winter breaks serves as a reminder of where in the world I am grounded.