Friday, July 30, 2010

peachy


The party's over, and it feels great. Not that we didn't enjoy it (we did!), but getting one's home ready to welcome others is a bigger deal than it should be, especially for those of us who let our homes get messy — "lived in" to put it euphemistically — and have to resort to stuffing stuff in closets and under beds to make it suitable for company. On top of that, a party (even a little one, for some of Darling Daughter's college friends and their families) becomes a reason/excuse/deadline for tackling projects on the home front, doesn't it?? Projects you/I/we have been meaning to do for ages?? Years?? Gee, um, in the interest of getting things done, maybe Mr. Betty and I should have more parties. Anyway, as soon as last night's little-party-that-became-a-big-deal was over, we took a walk down the hill to catch the tail end of the Indigo Girls' concert at the Yachting Center. Correction: I walked while Mr. Betty rode the scooter ... an old one ... which stalled ... and was potentially out-of-gas ... and Mr. Betty exerted more energy into getting it started again than it would have taken to walk in the first place. But we made it. And, just as we got there, with every intention of listening from outside (as we often do), two friends were leaving who handed us their tickets. So in we went, though I hatehatehate to admit that, as it's against the rules. We'd seen the Indigo Girls before, just the girls, but this was a larger band including a few boys (!!) and a sign-language interpreter whose presence I found totally compelling if a tiny bit confusing. I mean, if one can't hear, why attend a concert?? Can one hear the music?? I imagine, without knowing, that the answer is yes. There are degrees of hearing (right??). It's a scale; not either/or. And, no matter what, there's always the beat, which is felt as much as heard, right in the breastbone (under which the heart lies??), especially when the music is LOUD. And this was LOUD. And everyone, girl or boy, throughout the audience, was singing along, asking the same question: "How long 'til my soul gets it right??" Then the crowd got really worked up, nearly screaming with fist-pumping pleasure and all manner of swaying and dancing and bobbing of heads, for the recurring chorus of the concluding number: "There's more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line. The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine." Now maybe it was my own simple relief that the party was over, but I found arriving just-in-time for the last two or three numbers of a concert we never planned on attending, then hearing (0r maybe listening to) the words I've heard so many times before in a different context, to be one of those rare, shared moments — musical or otherwise — that suddenly appears, out of the blue/black (indigo??) sky, and everything seems perfectly clear. Even though it isn't clear at all. And that's okay. Everyone's in the same boat. Sort of. Like when the sun sets over Ida Lewis from King Park in a curious way, such that the natural elements and the man-made elements work together to create some sort of new, weird, weirdly-benevolent element. Or like the moon rising the other night over Sachuest Point, but the scene was so dark and my ability to stand still enough long enough to capture it (without a tripod) was lacking, so the hot breeze wafting up from Surfers' End above which I stood combined with the beating of my heart translated into sufficient motion by the time it reached my hands to make the image unsteady. In other words, the camera had a wiggle. So the peachy moon became a peachy smear, at which point I started playing with it, so it became a peachy heart (or maybe a jelly-bean??), a peachy squiggle ...









Thursday, July 29, 2010

lightbulb


As I was walking along Bellevue the other night around 10 (maybe 11), I met a super-handsome and very-friendly guy standing in the back of a pick-up truck holding some sort of hose contraption. Of course!! That's how all those high-up flower baskets stay lush all summer. And that's how the watering powers-that-be avoid traffic jams and parking issues. I never knew!! Okay, I never thought about it. Now if only I could apply similar logic — and a similarly cheerful can-do attitude — to the impossibly-jammed puzzle of all I have to do today (including watering the garden; why do we always plant so many flowers??) when all I really want to do is park myself in some coffee shop or on some beach somewhere. At least it's gray today; that's a good thing. Rain would/will solve the watering problem and remove the beach temptation. Gotta run ...


Wednesday, July 28, 2010

baseball


Every so often, once or twice per summer, we (Mr. Betty and I) get to a Gulls' game. We should go more often — it's the deal of the century and a great time on top of it — but somehow we forget, even though historic Cardines Field is right there, right in the middle of town, in such a cool location for a hot night: a literal stone's throw (a baseball's throw??) from the harbor.

So, last week, on one of those very hot nights, we remembered (amazing!!) and met some out-of-town friends for a game. I wish I could say I paid attention to the game; I didn't. I was too busy watching the kids ... oops, the players (who look like kids to me): college guys from all around the country to whom I wanted to say "It's okay, Sweetie" when they struck out just like I used to say to Super Son when things didn't go his way ...

Too busy thinking of undone housework (is it ever done??), of which I was reminded by the sweepers between innings ...

Too busy listening to the game's soundtrack with a song to suit every occasion: "Hit the Road, Jack" for when the opposing team retires a pitcher. "Bennie and the Jets" for a pop fly (I think, though I'm not so sure about that one) ...

Too busy laughing every time a foul ball flew over the fence into Marlborough Street or America's Cup Avenue, both typically lined with traffic, and we heard the sound of smashing glass ...

It's a recording of smashing glass, followed by the voice of the astoundingly-professional announcer, who can't be older than twelve or thirteen, saying, "Uh-oh, time to call Newport Glass."

Then, of course, there's the mascot ...







Honestly, it's alarming how time passes so quickly (or is it just that we fail to catch it??): the last time I visited Cardines was winter, when there were different critters playing the field ...

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

illusion


Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there or don't matter or I'm all wet (is there any doubt??). But on our way back from a moderately-rough ride to Mackerel Cove on Sunday — after we'd passed Horsehead (where exactly is the horse head??) and an ongoing sailboat race just off Hammersmith Farm (did Jackie and JFK really hang out in that "lighthouse" on the lawn??) — Mr. Betty and I saw a boot. Or what looked like a boot, not a boat, just floating there. We thought about retrieving it, but decided, "Nah." On closer inspection, it looked to be a bottle-of-sorts. A motor oil bottle?? Ick.

Then, back on the mooring, we were waiting for the launch: Tango, specifically. But the driver didn't seem to see us or hear us and passed right by without so much as a wave, just as we'd passed right by the boot as well as an oily-black cormorant on its own nearby mooring. She/he was drying out between fishing trips, not far from the junk (yes, a junk), and somehow that made me think of the oil spill in the Gulf, i.e., real junk. ICK!

Suddenly I felt guilty for not picking up that bobbing boot, boat, bottle or whatever-it-was.

And when we finally got to the dock, there was a foot. Just a foot — that's all we could see — propped there on the stern of a motor yacht docked at Bannister's Wharf. Beneath the foot was a hook, as if he/she were fishing?? Or in need of a boot?? It all fits; how charming. All the while, that cormorant was out there waiting for a lift ...

Not really. There's no point to any such illusion or absurdity, except to say it feels vaguely satisfying (doesn't it??) that the head of BP got the boot, to the extent that solves anything or brings back sunshine, moorings and/or good-fishing to anyone, real or imaginary ...










Monday, July 26, 2010

umbrellas


I rode my bike out to Gooseberry on Saturday; I hadn't been there in a while. Last time (late May perhaps??), the rosa rugosa was in bloom but had yet to bear fruit, and I'd headed that way because Darling Daughter, just home from college, said she was headed that way. The beach was empty except for my distant child on her striped towel and a couple with a dog named Olive (I asked) running laps along the lapping shore. So I walked down — the sand wasn't too hot on my bare feet — and plopped myself on my own striped towel beside my bikini-clad progeny who turned her head, pulled the earbuds out of her ears, and said, "What, are you stalking me??"

Ouch ... though, in all fairness to Darling Daughter, I suppose the company of a chatty bikini-clad (how embarrassing!) mom didn't fit with her vision of a day at the beach. Things got better from there: I piped down, and she went back to her iPod.

This past Saturday, by contrast, Gooseberry was crowded. The sand was hot to the point that I muttered "ouch, ouch, ouch" with every step. What's more, everyone seemed to have an umbrella — a good thing (or not), as torrential rain and wind moved through later in the afternoon. There were green umbrellas, striped umbrellas, flowered umbrellas, ruffled umbrellas, hi-tech umbrellas (more like tents), even grass ones. It was a city of umbrellas not so different from the sea of umbrellas one often sees in the city ...

Okay, it was different. But the variety and state of busy-ness (everyone was so busy relaxing!!), not to mention the bustling business going on at Gooseberry's best-in-town snack bar, were jaw-dropping.








Friday, July 23, 2010

old news


A few weeks back (it seems like ages ago) on a hot hot day that happened to be the Fourth of July, when I was just coming out of the Colony House, where there's a very cool-if-modest ongoing exhibit featuring letters from prominent Americans, and I'd been marveling at the differences in their handwriting and the legibility of their handwriting and the importance of their handwriting, and I found myself standing behind a naval officer who was looking out over a bustling patriotic scene in Washington Square involving a cannon salute re-enacted by the Newport Artillery Company, it occurred to me that it's not all fun and games. This man's view was different from mine (even though I was standing within inches of his right ear). That's always the way, of course — people view the same scene in different ways, and history in fact is ongoing — but it just struck me at that moment. And I was struck again later, on that same hot day, as I was heading down Memorial Boulevard behind some other apparent officers to Easton's Beach below the Cliff Walk. It's not a new thought; it's a very old thought. And it's not just the contrast (in views, motivation, experience); that's a given. It's that time really does (dare I say it??) march on ...