A Love Story Across the Oceans — Part 15: Connecticut & The Sterry Zoo

A Love Story Across the Oceans — Part 15: Connecticut & The Sterry Zoo

The thing about driving back to Connecticut with a sailor in your backseat is that you suddenly become hyper‑aware of every mile marker, every pothole, every weird landmark you never noticed before. It’s like seeing your whole childhood through someone else’s eyes.

Donna’s in the passenger seat, already narrating the trip like she’s filming a documentary.

“On your left, you’ll see New Jersey. Smells like diesel.”

He’s cracking up. I’m trying to drive. And somehow it all feels… easy.

“Janine, you better warn him,” she says, pointing ahead like she’s spotting enemy territory. “Your parents go big and go bold.”

He laughs from the backseat. “I can handle it”

Donna gives him a look that says, Oh honey… you have no idea.

Every now and then I catch him watching me in the rearview mirror — not staring, just checking in. Making sure I’m still good with this. Still here. Still choosing this moment.

And I am. God help me, I am.

Donna, of course, is in full wing‑woman mode.

“So, sailor,” she says, twisting around in her seat, “you ready to meet the Connecticut clan? They’re loud. They will ask questions.”

He grins. “Bring it on.”

Donna shoots me a look like, Oh he’s cute AND confident? We’re doomed.

Snacks get demolished. Stories spill out. Donna tells him things about me I absolutely did NOT authorize. He loves every second of it.

And somewhere between Philly and the Connecticut line, it hits me:

He’s about to meet my people. My family. My history. And Donna is absolutely going to stir the pot.

I choose the Merritt Pkwy because it’s such a beautiful drive – perhaps I’ll say scenic drive because after all, these are East Coast drivers. The road rolls under us, and the closer we get to my hometown, the more my stomach starts doing gymnastics. I’m not nervous about him — I’m nervous about the collision of worlds. My sailor. My parents. My past. My present. All in one driveway. 

As we cross the Connecticut state line, something shifts. This is my world. My roads. My childhood landmarks.

Turning onto the swervy backroads that cut through the woods — the ones I grew up flying down on my bike, the ones that smell like wild grapes and summer and
childhood, Pat leans forward between the seats, taking it all in.

“This is beautiful,” he says.

I don’t know why that hits me, but it does. Maybe because this place made me. Maybe because he’s seeing it for the first time. Maybe because I suddenly want him to like it.

He’s grinning.

I’m dying.

Donna’s thriving.

Downshifting, I pull up my parents’ driveway, and my stomach does a full somersault. This is it. My turf. My childhood. My chaos. And now Pat is about to walk straight into it.

Pat unfolds his 6’2” frame from the backseat of my Chevy Citation – steady and confident, taking it all in — the house, the yard, the gazillion cars. He’s steady, curious, maybe a little nervous, but I can’t tell. My parents are already at the door. And then it happens.

That moment where two worlds collide. “Mom, Dad… this is Pat.” 

My sailor walks up, stands tall, and introduces himself with that steady confidence that somehow makes everything feel less terrifying.

My mom is grinning ear to ear with a soft twinkle of mischief in her eyes. She doesn’t warm up. She never has. She just beams and pulls him into a hug like he’s been showing up for Sunday dinner his whole life. Dad, too, has mischief in his eyes, already calculating how best to deliver on it, shakes his hand, firm and sure, and gives him a nod that says, Alright, son. Let’s see what you’re made of.

And just like that, he’s in.

We barely get inside before Mom starts fussing — offering drinks, asking questions, pulling out food like she’s feeding a football team. Dad’s already talking Navy, asking about the ship, the crew, the ocean.

And me?

I’m standing there thinking, Oh my gosh… this is really happening. I’m literally watching Pat get absorbed into the Sterry Zoo with zero friction. Zero hesitation. Zero awkwardness. 

My parents skip the “getting to know you” stage entirely and go straight to enveloping him like it’s the most natural thing in the world to have a sailor I’ve dated twice and written to for six months suddenly living this chapter right beside me.

We spend the week showing him everything — the brook, Carini's Pond, the trails, the places where my ancestors carved out our start. Day trips to the shore. Seafood. Sunburns. Laughter.

And somewhere in all of that, something shifts.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly — like a tide coming in.

He handled it. He handled them. He handled me.

He fits. Not perfectly. Not seamlessly. But genuinely.

And my parents? They didn’t just welcome him. They folded him in like he’d been part of the story all along.

That’s the thing about them. They don’t do halfway. They don’t do maybe. They don’t do “let’s wait and see.”

They do jump in. They do why not. They do let’s go.

And somewhere in that week — between the laughter, the stories, the chaos, the quiet moments — I realized something:

If my parents liked him, really liked him, then maybe… just maybe… this wasn’t just a summer adventure.

Maybe it was the beginning of something that could survive oceans, time, and whatever came next.

Because in the Sterry Zoo?

If you’re in, you’re in.

The Sterry Zoo - Live & Unfiltered, always.

My parents are an enigma. Not mysterious — just impossible to categorize. They’re the kind of people who don’t wait for life to happen. They grab it by the collar, shake it around, and say, “Okay, what’s next?”

If nothing’s next, they’ll make a next.

Champion two daughters saving for a backpacking trip to Europe? Absolutely — even though I was seventeen and my sister nineteen. Most parents would’ve panicked. Mine bought guidebooks.

Three daughters to Girl Scout camp on a dime? Yup. Mom became a counselor that summer just so we could go. Her troop treated her like crap. I remember thinking, If only I were bigger… But she stuck it out because that’s who she is — grit wrapped in kindness.

Bring a science project home over the winter break that croaks and jumps and what's your father do?

Makes a cover for the terrarium to keep that dam frog in and not jumping across the bathroom floor. Hey, Dad! The frog, who I named "Speedy", is only staying until the spring thaw when I can let him go in Carini's pond. Promise!

Help me drive to California? You bet. Mom & Dad are all in. Bags packed. No hesitation. Adventure is the family currency.

A high school teacher friend once nicknamed our house The Sterry Zoo — and it stuck. Animals, kids, chaos, laughter, projects, people coming and going, something always happening. You never knew who would show up at any given time nor what they'd be carrying, or bringing, with them. My parents thrived on it. They helped create it.

So when I pulled into their driveway with a sailor in tow — a sailor I’d only seen twice in person — it wasn’t shocking to them.

It was Monday.

Next stop, Oklahoma!

Stay tuned for more from #thePrairieYankee — because this chapter is only the beginning of what Connecticut set in motion.

A Love Story Across the Oceans — Part 14: Philly, Fireworks & Two Chicks

A Love Story Across the Oceans — Part 14: Philly, Fireworks & Two Chicks

Philadelphia on the 4th of July is its own brand of wild. History, heat, crowds, flags everywhere — and right in the middle of all that patriotic chaos? Us. Donna and me. And Pat, strolling around like he owns the place.

I swear, if confidence were a uniform, he’d have been wearing that instead of his dress whites.

We must’ve looked ridiculous — or fabulous — depending on who you ask. Two chicks flanking a sailor like we were his personal honor guard. People stared. Some smiled. One lady actually winked at me like she knew something I didn’t.

Honestly? I didn’t know anything. Not yet.

We walked the streets like we were in some kind of parade. Donna was eating it up, waving at strangers like she was Miss Congeniality of the Navy Pier. Pat? Cool as a cucumber. Me? Trying to act normal while my insides were still doing somersaults from that bear‑hug on the pier.

Every time his hand brushed mine, even accidentally, my brain short‑circuited.

We hit the historic spots — Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, all the places you’re supposed to go when you’re in Philly on the Fourth. But the real show wasn’t the fireworks or the monuments. It was the three of us, laughing, teasing, walking like we’d known each other forever.

At one point, Donna leaned in and whispered, “Janine… people think we’re a thing.”

I nearly choked on my lemonade.

“A thing? What kind of thing?”

“You know… a thing,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

I snorted so loud a tourist turned around.

But honestly? I didn’t care what anyone thought. For the first time since that tape, since the letters, since the long months of wondering, I felt… steady. Like maybe this wasn’t just some wild adventure. Maybe it was the beginning of something real.

Later, when the fireworks started, Pat stood behind me, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just there. Solid. Present. Like he’d been doing it for years.

The sky lit up in reds and blues and golds, and I swear the crackle of those fireworks felt like the echo of everything happening inside me.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But in that moment, with the whole city celebrating freedom, I felt myself quietly surrendering to something I didn’t yet have a name for.

What Is Happening?

I swear. Just what is happening? I don’t know. I’ve got nothing.

I’m standing here in this moment — fireworks cracking overhead, the crowd buzzing around us, Pat steady at my side — and every logical part of my brain has packed its bags and left the building. So I do the only thing I can do: I smile. I breathe. I let myself enjoy this without trying to dissect it.

I’ve come this far. Why not just go with the flow?

Everything feels so easy. So natural. So genuine.

Nothing about this feels forced. Nothing feels like a performance. Nothing feels like I’m trying to fit into a space that wasn’t meant for me.

It’s unfolding — not in big dramatic gestures, not in fireworks or declarations — but in small, steady moments that feel like they’re stitching themselves into something real.

And that’s the part that I'm most curious about. Not the chaos. Not the unknown. Not the distance.

It’s the ease. The simplicity.

The way this story keeps moving forward without me having to push it.

So that’s where I am — no answers, no roadmap, no predictions. Just this moment, this ease, this unexpected rightness. And until life tells me otherwise, I’m staying in it. Because whatever this is, it’s happening… and I’m not walking away.

I don’t know what’s happening. But I’m here. I’m present. I’m choosing to enjoy it.

Because sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones you plan. They’re the ones that feel like they’re writing themselves.

Stay tuned… I’m not stepping out of this story, and it’s not slowing down.