There are so many ways of saying "old," depending on the context and desired effect. In terms of architecture (and rusty fences), there's "historic." In terms of clothing, there's "vintage." In terms of yachts, there's "classic." All those terms and contexts are common around Newport, of course. Then there's "retro" — whatever that means exactly (and I'm not sure it captures Newport exactly), but somehow it's preferable to "old-fashioned."
When I dropped Darling Daughter at college yesterday — with all her bags (being trash bags) and abashedly-useful plastic bins and mostly-recycled textbooks — she was wearing brand-new retro sneakers: Converse All-Stars. Honestly, it took me back ... to a few of my own back-to-school sets of sneakers (and why are they called sneakers?): from the red Keds I still recall as I headed off to kindergarten (or was it first grade?) to the red-swoosh-on-white-leather Nikes in high school (or was it college?). I never had All-Stars, that I can recall, but there's something classically comforting, despite the blisters associated with any new sneakers, about the idea of still-clean laces and unsullied rubber trim. This/that means absolutely nothing (to anyone but me), I realize. Just thought I'd throw it out there ... along with a quick recollection of an old(er) gentleman in classic black shoes whom I tend to see seated on various benches around town.
The first time I saw him was way back in July (I think) on a hothot day on Long Wharf, where I sat beside him on a harbor-side bench, where he was engrossed in a book. There was no conversation other than my asking, "Mind if I sit here?" To which he nodded without looking up and nudged slightly to the left. I wouldn't have bothered him, except his was the only shady bench in sight, and I was in need of a shady bench due to exhaustion from heat or advancing age myself. But, within minutes, my benchmate got up and left (apparently he did mind and I had bothered him), taking his book but leaving his hat behind in his rush, unless someone else had left it before him. I left it right there, just in case some good sport came looking for his or her favorite old hat ...
And, just the other day, I saw the same old(er) man — hatless, still reading — in Touro Park near the statue of Commodore Perry, not to be confused with the other Commodore Perry, his brother, in Washington Square. Behind the man, across the street (though I can't imagine why it relates), there was/is an old tree (an old beech?) with an unmistakably-clear visage in the craggy trunk that I hadn't noticed before, though I've passed that spot hundreds-if-not-thousands of times in sneakers or flip-flops or loafers or fuzzy boots, even heels (that's rare), depending upon mood and season. I'd never seen it, and now I can't not see it — that face — every time I walk by. It's kinda creepy, as if it were watching ...
Seriously, if you find yourself walking up Mill Street, it's right there, across from the Old Stone Mill, on the left. And there's another face in another old/historic/vintage/classic tree that I had noticed for some reason some time ago, on the left side of Old Beach. Then there was that face in the driftwood ...
P.S. To give credit where it's due, it was a houseguest who pointed out the hard-to-miss face in the tree trunk (above) — thanks, K. And my friend Jed took time to answer and explore "the sneaker question" on his blog, The Penultimate Word (check it out!) — thanks, Jed.
