I wrote about the Scarborough 11, the group of people who’ve banded together to form an intentional community in Hartford. They’ve been living in one for years in Hartford, but stuff started flying when they bought a mansion on one of the city’s toniest streets and the neighbors cried foul.
The column is here. For Mother Courant. I wrote about this group earlier for Connecticut Magazine. I really hope this family — now heading to court — prevails.
(Up top, that’s the Scarborough 11 minus 7: Simon DeSantis, Julia Rosenblatt, Hannah Simms, and Dave Rozza. They just happened to be around the day I visited. You should get to know them. They’re good people.)
Back in 1969, Neil Armstrong, who died Aug. 25, and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin and Michael Collins, the other Apollo 11 astronauts, figured out a way to provide for their families when the threesome couldn’t afford life insurance back in the ’60s.
They signed autographs — lots and lots of autographs.
Of course, that’s not hard if your baseline is zero.
They’re looking to extend paternity leave.
Who has mandatory paternity leave? And who doesn‘t?
I am not shaking this nasty summer cold, but I’ve shown good faith effort. I even went to an urgent care facility, something I usually do only if there’s a bone breaking through the skin.
While there, I saw this poster in the bathroom. I also saw scads of little postcards and note cards with the local domestic violence hotline printed on them.
Domestic violence is not one of our issues, but I found it comforting that the doctor would make it as easy as possible for a patient to talk about it. I once was getting an examination, and the doctor complimented me on my overall health (for someone in my age group, I figured), and I made some lame comment about how lucky I am, that all my wounds are self-inflicted, and his shoulders slumped and he said quietly, “Is there something you want to tell me?” and because I’ve written about domestic violence and suicide, I knew precisely what he meant, and I proceeded to apologize profusely for my lame joke. He spent the rest of my time in his office treating me very gently, and in a follow-up phone call one of his office workers made a point of asking me if everything was OK.
I was horrified that she or any one would spend time worrying about me, and continually reassured them all that yes, I’m fine, and no, he doesn’t hit me, ever, and no, I don’t hit myself, either.
Part of me was annoyed that this even came up, but the bigger part of me appreciated their tenacity to give me a chance to talk about whatever is going on in my house. I know how hard it is to tell someone when something really lousy is going on, and I walked away from there feeling pretty good that my doctor was so quick to key on what might have been a problem. And I learned to keep my lame jokes to myself.
You can read more here.