Who is Snow Boy??

When Snow Boy came to New London last year, it was during a blizzard and the bad weather didn't let up for two weeks until after his arrival. Nobody likes Snow Boy. He made winter worse. He is bad luck.

Snow Boy is a fat boy, and that makes him an easy butt for jokes. He is round like an apple and he comes from Yakima, Washington. Children yell when Snow Boy goes past, "Hey Snow Boy, you're an Apple Boy!" This past autumn, they pelted him with crab apples, It's not easy being Snow Boy in New London, Conn.

New London is usually kind to stangers, but Snow Boy is the exception that proves the rule. He is mealy mouthed. He talks like his tongue is covered with slush. He is pale in a sickly, weak way, limp wristed with blue spider veins running up his pale arms. He is the opposite of robust. He is pathetic. New London loves an almost-winner, but Snow Boy is sure to come up last in the pack. Why bother encouraging this predictable disappointment?

Snow Boy insists that Yakima, Wash. is better than New London, Conn. He is so dim and dunderheaded, he cannot see the obvious. Even a New Londoner, who can tolerate all sorts of scorn, cannot stomach the idea that Yakima, Wash. is better than Connecticut's Whaling City. When Snow Boy passes them on the street, some children say, "Hey Snow Boy! I'm yakking up on Yakima!"

Snow Boy went to the Dutch Tavern last night, not the busiest night, but not as slow as a Tuesday. The Dutch was full of slender characters just as pale as Snow Boy. He was wearing a tattered sweater with holes at the elbows. He fit right in with the scruffy New Londoners who meet at the Dutch on Monday evenings. No one mocked Snow Boy for his Washington accent. No one threw anything at him. He met a nice girl, Julie, who listened to Snow Boy's stories about the apple fields that stretch out from exurban Yakima. She took him down to City Pier and they kissed as the ferry went by.

Maybe Snow Boy has found a home after all. New London is full of smart women.

Who Is Rhonda Ward??

Rhonda Ward is a poet who has lived in New London for almost five years. Her first six months in the Whaling City were spent in a private, little house tucked a bit from the riverfront on Pequot Avenue. She didn't know much about New London beyond the way to the highway and the same route in reverse. That changed one summer night when she read that there would be an open poetry reading downtown. She decided to participate.

The poet Rhonda Ward cares about her craft. She lives for the written word spoken aloud. She promotes poetry as an essential, accessable art form and not only her own poems, but all poems. She believes in poetry's power to provoke and cause postitive change. For reasons mysterious even to her, she is drawn to poetry's pull of profound ideas put well. She believes in the power of speech and feeling.

The poet Rhonda Ward believes in bringing poetry to the people; not only her own poems, but all poems. She is a writer and a performer who publishes and travels widely. She is a carrier of the poetry germ. She knows many fellow writers with voices that run from the erudite to the street savvy. The poet Rhonda Ward is not only out to promote her own work, but the work of everyone who feels poetry's tug. To this end, she organizes gatherings of poets to read to the general public. She attracts some of the best and most of the brightest to her events. She has become a poetry impressario.

Four and a half years ago, the poet Rhonda Ward read in the newspaper that there would be an open poetry reading downtown. She went to the appointed place at the advertised time and no one knew what she was talking about but a gentleman who was also there for the same reason. Rather than get angry, the poet Rhonda Ward and her new companion read to each other on the Bulkley House deck while enjoying a Campari and soda and a plate of escargot.

The poet Rhonda Ward learned that, while nothing works out as planned in New London, everything works out fine. The two are still friends, helping and supporting the other's passion. They are two writers encouraging each other to do what they do best even better.

Super Sunday!!

Every day is super in New London, a city that is waiting for a hero. People wear capes, but mostly for warmth and for fashion. People wear masks, but only on Hallowe'en and during masquerade balls. There are plenty of muscles poised to do some heavy lifting and figures ready to leap into action. Everyone has a secret identity.

Today, like most days, New Londoners get together to share each other's company and comraderie. They get raucous, they cheer, they razz, and they indulge in friendly wagers. They eat like gluttons at a banquet and they drink like they have hollow legs. New Londoners don't need an excuse to host a party, their whole lives are fun-loving and based on good-willed competition. New Londoners know how to enjoy themselves. New Londoners know how to celebrate.

Every day is an event in a city where little happens. New Londoners will offer a toast to a new haircut. They will rally around an underdog. Any news is better than no news. New Londoners will bet on a cockroach race. They will watch the clouds pass over their skyline for fun. New Londoners will look for any reason to tell a joke in front of an audience. New Londoners love a party and know how to keep it going.

Every day is super in a superlative city. Every breakfast, lunch and supper is super in New London, Conn. New London has powers far beyond the pale of other cities. New London soars along the bank of a mighty river, carving out its destiny with bare hands. This may be a mild-mannered city, but its daily life is full of high adventure.

The Shaw Street Carrot

According to the Guiness Book of World Records, the longest carrot ever harvested was in 1934 by Mr. Cosmo Centoscudi from his backyard garden at 221 Shaw Street. The fact that Mr. Centoscudi pulled this carrot out of the ground without breaking is a testament to his love for plants. After the first foot, he called his wife to see and after another six inches, she fetched some neighbors to witness this miracle vegetable.

The carrot was of normal diameter despite its spectacular length. No one suspected a record breaker was about to see the light of day. After two more feet of gentle tugging. Mr. Centoscudi asked for a chair to rest. He held the top so that the carrot wouldn't fall over. He rested a moment and began again, gently working the carrot free, pulling up, turning it, pulling some more, inch by inch.

When the ordeal was finally over, Mr. Centoscudi had to stand on the chair. The final length, as measured by a yardstick and confirmed with a tape measure, was six feet four and one third inches. With the carrot finally in full view, the neighborhood burst into applause. Now that it was out of the ground, what to do with this miraculous carrot?

Some of the neighborhood boys, Tommy Archidi, Vinnie Morelli, Pepe Vesuvio and Johnny Cassata, carried it down to Cavella's Market. Each boy supported a bit of the carrot's length, again being very careful not to break it or drop it. Mr. Centoscudi watched them very closely during the four-block walk and people came out of their houses to see what all the hubbub was about. At Cavella's, the carrot was sliced into very long strips, 6'4 1/3 " strips to be precise. These strips of carrot were placed in a very long salami and provlone sandwich.

The boys then carried the sandwich back to 221 Shaw Street, again with Mr. Centoscudi supervising. Mrs. Centoscudi had laid out a table and old Mr. Vesuvio had brought over a few jugs of wine. The neighborhood had a feast and talked about that carrot for years.

Raiders' Roost

The old Raiders' Roost was a rather intimidating place. Small, dark, dirty windows and a door that was always closed even when the place was open for business. The inside was much like the outside, a place that had seen better days. The name doesn't come from any pirate lore or the disreputable characters who may have headquartered themselves there. Rather is was named for the New London Raiders amateur baseball team.

The Raiders' Roost opened in the 1950s and it has survived redevelopement and the encroachment of the New London Development Corporation. The building now has a parking lot in back and one parking space just before the rotary. It has been taken over by Brian Brother, one of New London's more famous chefs. True to form, the new owner has painted the interior his trademark red and black. He is not an anarchist, he associates these colors with his cajun cuisine. Remember, this is the man who had the Bayou in various locations around New London.

He brings his expertise to the Raiders' Roost. The food is as good as you would expect. The room is split between bar and tables. There was a healthy crowd of New London's congniscenti and illuminati there last night. The usual suspects and tastemakers are enjoying the new incarnation of the Raiders's Roost. While the food and the atmosphere are superb, the best part of all is the name. When you have something good, you don't give it up easily.