Road Trip - Litchfield
The fall color in western Connecticut is at its peak. Birch trees -
not seen in Maryland but a warm memory from my Massachusetts boyhood - glow yellow; sugar maples, red and orange; and pin oak, ochre.
Leaf-peepers clog Route 6 driving north from the interstate.
Litchfield, Connecticut, is something out of a Currier & Ives print. All clapboard houses, congregational churches, village commons, fall color, and white people. Everyone in town seems to have hopped out of a Bean, Woolrich, or Talbot's catalog. The town smells of tweed and pipe smoke rubbed on the bottom of a leather-soled Gucci.
The first law school in America was founded in Litchfield. But it's gone now.
The only detectable blot on this archetype of picturesque quaintness is the rampant display of those detestable roadside political signs. Litchfield, judging by the plethora of signs, is staunchly pro-McCain.
And I was so hoping to like the place.
K-
Litchfield, Connecticut, is something out of a Currier & Ives print. All clapboard houses, congregational churches, village commons, fall color, and white people. Everyone in town seems to have hopped out of a Bean, Woolrich, or Talbot's catalog. The town smells of tweed and pipe smoke rubbed on the bottom of a leather-soled Gucci.
The first law school in America was founded in Litchfield. But it's gone now.
The only detectable blot on this archetype of picturesque quaintness is the rampant display of those detestable roadside political signs. Litchfield, judging by the plethora of signs, is staunchly pro-McCain.
And I was so hoping to like the place.
K-
