By Rosanna Trestman

Coincidence brought me to Norfolk. Since that time, coincidental encounters with
total strangers have bought Norfolk back to life for them.

Our family left New York City because, I discovered, baby strollers are exactly
on level with the exhaust pipes of city busses. Also, I was a country girl. Gasping
for air and room to breathe it, we rented a cottage in rural Columbia County
becoming instant “weekenders.”

In time, the babies were ambulatory and one day, back in the city, our eldest
son gleefully ambled into a pile of crisp autumn leaves. I shared his delight until
panic struck: there actually could be glass in those leaves… syringes. This was
Washington Heights. It was time to leave.

The choice of Norfolk, quite simply, was based on the convergence of two needs:
the desire to live in the country, but have a reasonable commute to a job in
Farmington, where my husband at the time was posted. So we planted a stake in
the Icebox of Connecticut.

One allure of Norfolk was that practically no one ever heard of it. But shortly I
discovered that Norfolk was not the best kept secret after all.

A few years after moving here, I was on a plane from JFK to Florida. A
stewardess sat facing me during take off, and we fell into conversation. It turns
out that she had not only heard of Norfolk, but had lived here for five years
when she worked out of Bradley. Ultimately she was transferred, but remembers
Norfolk fondly (except for the weather). Now she calls Florida home.

Later, when visiting a friend in Los Angeles, a man overheard me doing battle
with the electric company back home. He apologized for eavesdropping, but did I
say I lived in Norfolk? He had spent many a happy summer here with his cousins
and family. With my assistance, he pulled their street name (Parker Hill Rd.) out
of his memory, recalled the Yale grounds where he and his cousins eluded their
parents to slip down into the creek, and grew wistful when reliving his afternoons
at Tobey Pond. He thanked me for helping him to revisit his childhood memories
of Norfolk.

For a few years I settled in Goshen, just over the Norfolk line. Then, halfway
around the world, in Vietnam of all places, I met a woman who actually knew
of Goshen, Conn., not just heard of, knew. Originally from Maine, she also
spent summers here, though she couldn’t say where exactly. As I struggled to
place her grandparent’s house her memories grew more distinct. The road, she
recalled, was very long (and dirt at the time, which threw me off); the very old
house was the only one of its kind and was situated high on a hill; they stayed in
the smaller house on the property, located down the hill … this was getting very
close to home, literally. The final clue: there was a huge boulder at the end of the
driveway with the name “Comstock” carved into it: That was it, I was living in their
former house!

The most poignant Norfolk coincidence happened in South Thomaston, Maine.
I was having breakfast at the Keag Store. With three tables, everyone knows
everyone’s business (which they would regardless of the number of tables).
An older couple heard us mention Norfolk. Connecticut not Virginia. When we
confirmed that this Norfolk was home, they suddenly grew excited and then grew
sad. I asked how they knew Norfolk? “Our daughter is buried there,” they said.

It seems that their daughter was born with severe cognitive and physical
disabilities. Back then, such disabilities were considered shameful and many
families weren’t equipped to meet the challenges. Sending one’s child away for
specialized care was a common, though painful, practice.

They selected Ann’s Nursery for Babies, located on Terrace View. Most kids
stayed their whole life, some thereafter. The elderly couple’s connection to
Norfolk continues – every year they visit their daughter who was laid to rest in the
Center Cemetery.

You never know where or when you’ll have a ‘Norfolk moment.’