TT: Into the woods

In theory, Mrs. T and I divide our time between New York City and an old farmhouse deep in the woods near Storrs, a college town located in the quiet corner of Connecticut. Alas, this theory has taken a beating of late. We flew down to Florida in January so that I could put in my annual stint as a scholar-in-residence at Rollins College, our new home away from home, and I didn’t set foot in Storrs again for the better part of five months. No sooner did I return to Manhattan than I got stuck on Broadway, reviewing show after show, and in Philadelphia, seeing Danse Russe onto the stage. Not until Memorial Day was I able to pack a bag, rent a car, drive to northeast Connecticut, and rejoin Mrs. T at our little place on Chaffeeville Road.
New York is…well, it is what it is and then some, and if that’s what you want, you know what to do. I’ve lived there for a quarter-century and find it hugely stimulating. Most of the time I love catching cabs and sitting on the aisle and seeing my beloved friends whenever I please. But regular readers of this blog don’t need to be reminded that I’m a small-town boy from way back, and New York, for all its self-evident splendors, does have a sneaky way of grinding you down.
Not so Storrs, which is as tranquil as a cloud study by Constable, so much so that longtime residents not infrequently refer to the town as “Snores,” sometimes affectionately and sometimes wryly. Mrs. T, as it happens, was born near Storrs and moved back to her old home town many years later, and when I visited her for the first time five years ago, I knew that I wanted to spend as much time there as I could.
I sleep better in Storrs, flinging my bedroom window open to hear the gentle sounds of the night, and I write better, too, no doubt because of the near-complete lack of opportunities for distraction. In New York I have to be constantly on guard in order to get anything done. In Storrs, by contrast, I can sit down at my desk secure in the knowledge that nobody is likely to bother me.
Needless to say, I didn’t plan to spend the whole spring in Manhattan, and by the time I finally managed to hit the road on Monday, I was well and truly frazzled, in part because I’d spent virtually all of Sunday writing a 2,500-word essay from scratch. But no sooner did I cross the state line than I felt my cares melting away, and when I pulled into our driveway, smelled the deep-green scent of the meadow across the way, and heard the neighborhood rooster, who has the confusing but endearing habit of crowing not at sunrise but whenever he pleases, I knew I was home again.
I hasten to point out that I’m not–repeat, not–on vacation. I have to write and file two Wall Street Journal columns this week, and once they’re done, I have plenty of other work to do before we go back to New York on Friday to see the Mint Theater Company‘s revival of Rachel Crothers’ A Little Journey. But I don’t have to start writing until Wednesday, so Mrs. T and I plan to take today off. We’re going to sleep late, have lunch at the Vanilla Bean Café, then go for a nice long drive to nowhere in particular. Come evening we’ll eat a home-cooked supper, curl up on the couch, and watch a movie.
That sounds to me like the best of all possible days, spent in the company of the best of all possible wives. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got plenty of nothing to do, and I need to get started.
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Mildred Bailey and the Delta Rhythm Boys sing Alec Wilder’s “It’s So Peaceful in the Country” in 1941: