Sandra’s Next Generation is a soul food restaurant, about a twenty minute walk from New Haven’s center on Congress Avenue. It’s received excellent reviews. I thought I would walk over, check it out, and return that evening for dinner. Assuming that I was getting close, I asked three men standing in front of a deli, “Excuse me is Sandra’s nearby?” One of the men immediately said, “I’m walking that way, I can show you.” My guide’s attire was shabby, but his demeanor was kind. “Have you eaten there?” I asked. “Sure,” he replied.” “What’s good?” “The fried chicken and ribs, none better. But everything’s good.” We didn’t walk far before a man in a suit with tails, wearing reflective sunglasses and shiny shoes asked if we had seventy-two cents. We both said we didn’t, and the well dressed man walked on. My guide and I continued a few more paces. “Do you have fifty cents?” he turned toward me and wanted to know. “No, sorry.” I replied. Within three blocks we were at Sandra’s door. He walked in and told a young woman working there that he had brought me, seemingly to curry favor.

My guide and I said our goodbyes. I noticed he walked back in the direction he came.

Sandra’s Next Generation has simple decor. The emphasis is on the food. Hot pans with candied yams, collard greens, black eye peas, fried okra, corn bread and much more were displayed through the glass counter. Nearby was a refrigerated case with deviled eggs, homemade cakes, banana pudding, sweet potato pie, home made teas with fresh mint and sliced peaches in quart size containers. Everything looked fresh and wonderful. The staff was welcoming, answering my questions, even offering a taste of the sides. I said I’d be back that evening.

Later that afternoon, I met Marjorie. We spoke with one another as if we had met years, instead of moments before. She was working in a shop in New Haven’s center and I had ventured in for a look. One thing led to another, soon we were making dinner plans. I suggested Sandra’s for that evening. Marjorie has lived in a town just a few miles away, for forty-two years. She had never heard of it, but she was game.

We arrived around 8pm. The weather was warm and dry, the street quiet, we sat at a table outside. The staff, a mix of Sandra’s family and locals, made us feel at home. We ordered. A heaping plate of fried chicken, ribs, mac and cheese, collared greens, and corn bread arrived. The portion was intended for one. The food was divine. We licked our fingers, swooned over each bite and still had food left over to take home.

My “purse” is a small leather, orange backpack. If I wear its straps over one arm and its body nestled between my elbow and body, it is indistinguishable from any other bag. Or so I thought.

“You’ll have to check that knapsack,” said the guard at a New Haven museum. I wanted to take some photos, maybe do some sketching, I explained my reasons for wishing to keep it. “You can give it a try, but the guards are going to tell you to check it.””If it’s okay with you, I’ll take my chances” I replied. With my bag securely tucked by my side, I entered numerous galleries. In each one I asked the guards about the museum’s collection. All were friendly and none made mention of my bag. I spent almost two hours making my way up to the fourth floor in one building, then down to the third in another building next door.

“You’ll have to check that knapsack,” one of very few women guards said. I explained my experience thus far. Her directive remained. I headed to the lockers downstairs. As I was descending the spiral staircase I heard a woman’s voice in snippets, “orange”, “woman”, “locker” and surmised that this same guard was informing all the other guards about me.  While making my way down the staircase, a guard approached. “Are you looking for the lockers?” “Thanks, I know the way.” I replied. Continuing down the same staircase, another guard neared, “Are you looking for the lockers?” “Thanks, I know the way.” I repeated. This exchange, as I made my way to the lockers, occurred a few more times.  Did they see me as a fugitive? Another guard approached with the same question, “Are you looking for the lockers?”  This time I said, “No, the exit.” The thrill of the place was dimming.

There by the exit was the original guard, smirking with a grin,” I told you so.”
“About what?” I replied, although of course I knew.
“About your bag.”
“Oh. It’s all good. Have a fine day.” I answered breezily, walking out the door, doing my best to hide my humiliation.

I’m not sure when I’ll go back. The Met’s collection in NY is so much better.

Note: The work shown is by Sol LeWitt. Photo taking in the museum is allowed.

A group of us were sitting in a workshop summarizing our writing. Genres were being blended, defied, invented and adhered to. One woman sitting about ten seats down, spoke of the memoir she was working on. As a teenager, after her father’s death, she and her mom moved to a new neighborhood. There she suffered the cruelty and bullying of her peers.

Because of the seating arrangement I was able to hear, but not fully see her.  Afterwards, when the workshop was over, she stood up and passed by. I was struck by her beauty. She stood about 5’10”, with thick auburn hair, a stunning face and a strong, graceful body.

The next day, we happened to meet on a path by the dormitories. I said, “You are exquisite. It must be comforting to see yourself now, and know you triumphed.” Her eyes quickly moistened. “Thank you, thank you so much for saying that. It hasn’t been easy.” I added, “Well, you definitely got the last laugh.” She smiled and thanked me again. We introduced ourselves.

She approached me the next day. Gave me a hug with tears in her eyes and said, “Your words meant so much to me.”

Jackhammers were pummeling asphalt. I awoke to the sound, got out of bed and peered outside my window. Down the street, men in phosphorescent green vests were directing cars and construction vehicles between the orange cones. Hoping to sleep I stepped out and asked,”Will you be here long?”
“The water main broke,” a man in a hard-hat replied.
“We’ll be done in a couple of hours. Then we’ll be moving along.”
The men were kind. They asked me where I came from and why I was here. I told them. “From New York City? You must be used to this noise.” “No, where I live it’s quiet. It’s the songbirds that wake me some mornings.” I’m not sure they believed me. I returned to my room. Sleep would have to wait.

The day was full then went to night. And night went on to day.

Metal bars were dropping one on top of the other. I awoke to the sound, got out of bed and peered outside my window. Across the street, men in phosphorescent green vests were directing construction vehicles between the orange cones. Scaffolding was being assembled, cyclone fences too. There was no need to ask. They were not moving along anytime soon. This was not a water main break, but a major construction project. I put in my ear plugs and adjusted the room fan to high, but the sound of the metallic clanging carried on. It was a relief to know the work day ended at five.

The day was full then went to night. And night went on to day.

An electric saw was buzzing. I awoke to the sound, got out of bed and peered outside my window. Men in phosphorescent green vests were standing amongst orange cones. One man was guiding a huge swirling blade carving up the sidewalk below.