Story: Four Days of Cole Slaw

I will admit that I had never heard of the idyllic shorefront hamlet of Old Lyme, Connecticut before my grandmother and her husband Leo began spending time up here at Leo’s summer cottage. And although the majority of you most likely have not heard of Old Lyme either, let me assure you that it is by no means a ‘nothing town.’ To begin with, it is this very community that the potentially disabling, tick-borne Lyme disease is named after. Impressive indeed. That is unfortunately all I can think of at this time, but a lack of specific distinctions certainly did not stop me from enjoying my recent four day visit there.

Moments after arriving at the cottage last Thursday I sat in the enclosed balcony staring out at the abundance of trees, the brightly colored bird feeders, neighbors chatting away in the street and at signs posted in front of the homes that state such things as “Me and My Old Crab Live Here”. My grandmother immediately offered me an assortment of food fresh out of the oven. Unfortunately though, when it comes to my grandmother, this does not include tasty blueberry pies or warm apple crumble. Her oven is actually not used as a baking device, but instead as an extra pantry to store all sorts of packaged snack items. Food fresh out of the oven over here involves bags of chips and pretzels with questionable expiration dates.

On my first evening, as we drove to a restaurant for dinner, I was also treated to a tour of their quaint four-street neighborhood. Leo drove and my grandmother provided the detailed narration, a commentary more informative than the eight hour tour of Rome I took last year. This commentary however, did not explain the history of the area or the architectural changes since the early 1900s, but instead focused strictly on the fascinating topic of local gossip.

Without taking even a single breath during her spiel, my grandmother brought me up-to-date on all the happenings: “There’s Ellen and her dog, that ugly mutt, it shits everywhere and she never picks it up. Someone must be visiting the Grossman’s because their lights are on but it is Thursday night and Doris and Fred always go to the local theater on Thursday nights. Look at Francis over there, she’s lovely I tell you, at least she should do something with her hair…wait, she’s waving, everyone wave to Francis and smile, oh god what a beauty that woman is. It’s Frankie and Martha, hi Frankie, the kids are in town I see, this is my grandson. His wife never says a word, NEVER, I don’t think they have a very happy marriage, she never smiles either, it’s like talking to a giraffe. That young couple over there just had a baby, they are very sweet people, but the baby has six toes on each foot, that thing will be swimming to Long Island soon. That man has Alzheimers and is falling apart along with his house, and there is Rupert, Hey Rupert, this is my grandson, Hey Rupert!, he doesn’t even hear me, deaf as can be and blind in one eye, everyone’s a mess over here. Derek, your grandmother is getting old, I’m getting old.”

Meanwhile, as Leo, who has lived in this neighborhood since childhood, turns a corner and drives by a small gray cottage with a fenced in garden in the backyard, he suddenly recalls a most precious memory from his youth, “That is where I lost my virginity, right there in that garden.” He then laughs aloud as my grandmother shakes her head.

Old Lyme is the kind of place where neighbors generously share their homemade wine, brag exaggeratedly about their grandchildren, immediately inform the entire street when a bargain on nail clippers has been found and organize a ban of the Dollar Store when they raised their prices to $1.25. Groups gather in the evenings to play poker or mah jong, watch the Red Sox or chat about the newest beauty salon in town. At the end of the night, everybody returns to the comfort of their own homes, sips a Wolfschmidt vodka on the rocks and prepares for bed. While wearing the bath robes they stole from their last cruise they take a quick read through the coupon booklets before turning out the lights. Another perfect day in paradise.

For the Fourth of July, the neighborhood was full of golf carts draped in flags, fireworks rocketing out of driveways and hors d’oeuvres served on red, white and blue napkins purchased from the Dollar Store before the ban went into effect. My grandmother and Leo held a barbeque, hosting and entertaining a motley collection of close family, friends, family friends and distant relatives with names such as Bunny and Irving. An abundance of soft sand, refreshing ocean waters and 3 lb. tubs of cole slaw ensured that the day was a success for everyone. The three-month old defrosted brownie cake was simply the bonus that made the event truly spectacular.

On the following day, when her party hosting skills were no longer required, my grandmother had only one item on her agenda, a situation demanding such urgency and attention that passersby may have mistakenly concluded that the survival of the entire summer cottage-living civilization depended on its outcome. I actually hate to admit that such a situation was created by a member of my own family, but the truth is, she had lost the slip for Leo’s shirt. What slip? you may ask. I shudder with embarrassment as I say this, but it was the slip to pick up his shirt from the drycleaners. Can you believe that?

The slip had simply vanished and with it went my grandmother’s hopes for ever being able to retrieve the shirt. She arrived at the logical conclusion that ‘the cleaners will give the shirt to someone else’ and this naturally threw not only her, but the entire street, neighborhood and town into a panic. People began to frantically pray, asking to be immediately stricken with Lyme Disease in order to avoid facing another second of this tragic disaster.

How would the dry cleaners give the shirt to someone else? you may also wonder, just as I did. The explanation, as many are, was more than obvious in the end: Someone would certainly find the slip for the shirt laying on the floor wherever she had misplaced it and because people ‘are not nice these days’, that person would certainly drive to the address of the cleaners on the top of the slip, pay the $2.75 and retrieve the freshly cleaned large men’s striped polo shirt, just in case they happened to be or knew someone who happened to be, a large male in need of a striped polo shirt.

The wait until noon, the time when the dry cleaners opened, was long and uncomfortable, with tempers flaring under the pressure of having the future of cottage life linked to this lost dry cleaning slip. Finally, the phone call was made and she desperately told her story to the woman who answered, begging her not to give the shirt to anyone else. “I will pick it up myself tomorrow,” she emphatically repeated. When she had conveyed her message as convincingly as possible, she hung up the phone. “I don’t think she is going to listen to me,” was all she could murmur as she shook her head in hopelessness.

But thank goodness! Today the residents of cottages worldwide can relax as the shirt has been successfully returned to the bedroom closet!

Oh were we ecstatic! With such a disaster avoided, the three of us all sat down to enjoy a celebratory and hearty evening meal. The Wolfschmidt was poured more freely than ever and the tub of cole slaw was served yet again. In a state of relieved joy I enthusiastically began to plop spoonful after spoonful of the watery cabbage onto my plate, prepared to feast until I could feast no more. But then my grandmother suddenly chimed in, “Take more Derek, really take some more, I am going to throw it away tonight as soon as you are done, I think it has gone bad anyway.”

Let’s just say that I laughed until there were no more tears to fall from my eyes, as did Leo and eventually my grandmother as we began determining what else should be inspected and consequently thrown out before being eaten.

The very next day I had to board a train for the journey to New York City, finding myself about to return to my regular life while realizing how much I will indeed miss such moments of laughter. Life needs such moments, when the absurdity reaches a point where nothing else but laughter will suffice. And that is why I will return every year to visit my grandmother and Leo here in the adorable town of Old Lyme, because here such moments occur often.