newport betty

all gone

2012-01-25T15:29:00.067-05:00

The phone rang yesterday afternoon. It was Grandma Betty.

"It's warm!" she said. (She was calling from Miami.)

"It's warm here, too!" I told her. "The snow's all gone."

It didn't take long, did it? A day or two tops, and now we're back to normal, or to what feels like normal. If not normal, it's certainly this year's norm: warm. Thus I found myself on a bike ride yesterday afternoon, January 24 (!), after I'd hung up with Grandma Betty ...

I headed out on my usual route — Ocean Drive — just because it never (ever) gets old. There's always (always) something new or at least previously-unnoticed to see. This time it was a sign coming around the corner by that endless construction site, the place that's called The Play House, or The Bird House, or The Bird Cottage, or some such thing. It used to have little round holes (for birds?) up under the eaves; that's why I think the moniker has something to do with birds, but I may be mistaken. Anyway, it's been under re-construction for a year or two or three at this point. It does look great. The site is priceless. The view is awesome (even through a chain-link fence). OK, so there's mud, but that's reality. They'll get to landscaping once springtime rolls around ... unless it takes another whole year.

And, for that reason, when I saw the "SLOW DOWN" sign, I had to smile.

Slow down? Me? I was probably traveling at speeds in the single digits, though I can certainly imagine slowing down, or the desire for things/processes to slow down, in other senses.

The property owners? They're probably thinking quite the opposite: "Hurry up!"

Passing cars? OK, the words of caution certainly apply at that exceedingly tight, shoulderless corner where someone (like me) might be walking along or standing astride a bicycle while peering through a construction fence at the view of the picturesque cove/inlet/whatever.

And around the next corner I saw something else, though I may not have noticed it at all unless I read about it in the Newport Daily News. You know those picturesque — seriously, they've been featured in many pictures and paintings — telephone poles along that straight, reeded stretch near Gooseberry Beach? Well, they're all gone. Local property owners contributed toward putting the power and phone lines underground. Much to the chagrin of all the birds who used to sit there, I imagine, but there are plenty of other places to perch and/or chat with family & friends ...

Grandma Betty called again this afternoon.

"Hello?" I answered, in inquisitive fashion, even though there was no question as to who was on the other end.

"I'm sitting by the pool!" she said, then added quickly (lest I feel badly?), "I wish you were here."

"Thanks," I said, picturing exactly where she was, having been to South Beach myself on more than one lucky occasion. "But I'm happy to be here ... "

See? No more telephone poles. Only flag poles. Works for me ...

snow!

2012-01-23T08:37:00.037-05:00

It arrived. Finally. Nearly a foot of the white stuff.

And it was beautiful (!) for an hour or two or even three before reality — being the necessity of shoveling and the mess of soggy snowboots and wet mittens drying by the back door — set in. Honestly, I wish I'd gone sledding or something to extend the appreciation, and to delay the shoveling, but I would have felt pretty silly doing so without kids in tow.

Also, I didn't want to get hurt.

Ah, age.

Speaking of which, Mr. Betty and I went to the movies last night. We walked down the hill to the Pickens, where they're showing a series of classics (once a month, on Sundays) at the historic venue which started as a church. Last night's selection was "Sunset Boulevard," which we thoroughly enjoyed (especially the circa 1950 fashions and cars) except for the line toward the end where the strapping young writer lashes out at the aging starlet with the words: "You're a 50 year old woman! There's nothing wrong with being 50. Unless you're trying to be 25."

Here's what he actually said (I just looked it up): "Norma, you're a woman of 50, now grow up. There's nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25."

I happen to be 50, so I wanted to get it right ...

And that leads straight to the painful reality of walking along once-snowy-now-slushy sidewalks to "A" Market for a cup of coffee, just a few minutes ago, and encountering an old (older than I, anyway) friend at the checkout.

I said, "Hi, how are you?"

He said, "I'm not doing too well, thanks."

Then he turned in my direction, and I saw that his lip was a swollen, bloody, stitched-up mess. He'd slipped on the ice, apparently. The result was ugly.

In spite of that, and maybe even because of that — i.e., even beautiful things involve risks & realities, and we're all going to get hurt (and old) at some point — I think I'll go sledding later.

At least I'll go watch ...

Note of explanation: Another trip downhill (during the storm) led me to Aquidneck Lobster, beside which lies "Janet" and inside which lies an assortment of fresh fish. Even in winter.

making tracks

2012-01-20T08:26:00.045-05:00

I had a funny experience yesterday on Second/Sachuest Beach ...

I set out from Surfers' End, from whence stemmeth (don't ask me where that came from) assorted tracks. I was more-or-less following the only other walker on the beach, the relative solitariness of the situation being not-so-unusual and not-so-unwelcome in January. Anyway, about half or maybe two thirds of the way toward the rocky refuge at the far end, I saw something. Something black. A lens — a long one — protruding from the dunes. And when the photographer removed lens from eye, I realized I knew him. Sort of. I knew his work, to be precise, so I called out, "I know you! You're Jim!"

Perhaps the solitariness of the situation was emboldening.

Then I went on to say (no idea what got into me), "I'm Newport Betty." This photographer and I are friends of the Facebook variety, so I thought he might recognize the name. Or not. But he seemed to. Or he pretended to ...

Anyway (again), after chatting for no more than a minute, during which we compared the impressiveness of his lens to the lack of impressiveness of mine, I went on my way.

OK, so that's not funny. But an hour or so later, when I was home from my walk, upon which I spied nothing earth-shattering but several things I hadn't expected (what's better than that?), I logged onto Facebook and was just scrolling down through the occasionally-enlightening but generally-redundant news when, wait, I saw something familiar. It was .... me!

The aforementioned photographer – we were both eyeing birds at the edge the surf — had caught me from behind, unaware, and figured he'd post it.

As if I were a bird or something.

Ha ...

That one (right there ^) was taken by James Clayton Sattel, the long-lensed photographer on the beach. Many more of his photos can be found by CLICKING HERE. Or you could "friend" him on Facebook, like I did.

You could even "friend" me, for that matter ...

winter?

2012-01-09T12:52:00.094-05:00

During a mid-afternoon bike ride around Ocean Drive on Saturday, I saw three top-down convertibles, five or six motorcycles, two scooters (not that I know the precise difference between motorcycles and scooters), any number of cars with sunroofs and/or windows open, at least a dozen bicycles other than my own and one unicycle.

Yes, a unicycle.

Oh, and two donkeys (in the interest of mentioning every conceivable mode of warm-weather transport).

And that brings to mind another tally of sorts: the bird count. I don't keep close track, if I'm being honest, but I am privy to a daily e-mail chain that posts what real birders have sighted in the area. Recent excitement has centered on a snowy owl who seems to be wintering in these parts. At Sachuest Point, specifically. Where there's not a snowflake in sight, incidentally. The only place to see snowflakes about now is on the windows of Yesterday's ...

ANYWAY, I've made several attempts to see him, this snowy owl. The first time, as I pulled into the sanctuary parking lot — jammed, by January standards — I ran into a friend, all hatted and mittened on that particularly brisk day (which felt bizarre when it should have felt typical). She was getting into her car to head home.

"I hear there's a snowy owl, " I said.

"Yeah," my friend said. "But no one's seen him since this morning. I think he's holed up in the rocks."

So I took a walk out that way: to Island Rocks, on the northeast i.e. Sakonnet side of Sachuest Point, facing Little Compton. Once there, but still not sure what I was looking for, I asked a few people wielding binoculars what they had seen.

"There were some arctics," one young woman (25ish?) said. "And I think we saw gannets."

I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about, which I didn't, and apparently that truth shone through.

"Would you like to know what gannets are?" she asked.

"Sure," I said.

"Well, they look like seagulls, but their wings are narrower, so they flap more. There's also a V of black on the bottom. And they dive straight down. They get going really fast. We were at, like, the third inlet back that way [she pointed South], so if you think you see gulls, look again, because they might be more than gulls."

Um, right.

I never did see gannets. I did see gulls — lots. I also saw the snowy owl when I returned to the sanctuary on a slightly warmer occasion a few days later. He was nothing more than a white speck (a bit of snow?), barely visible from shore through my decidedly amateur lens. But after waiting my turn behind assorted youngsters in hats of assorted animals likeness to look through a telescope aimed in precisely the right direction, I got a pretty good look at him. And, later, I found a close-up posted on the aforementioned birders' email chain, where I found a nice shot of a gannet as well (!).

Have to say, I'm impressed by the numbers and diversity of folks so engaged in watching birds in general and the snowy owl in particular. I guess there is something pretty special/magical about him. I'm wondering if this has something to do with it: CLICK HERE. I forwarded it (that clickable thing) via e-mail to Super Son, whose response was prompt and enthusiastic.

"Cool!" he said.

Yes, but definitely not cold ...

See the little white spot poking up from the rocks on the upper left?? That's the snowy owl.

That's the unicycle; I wasn't kidding.

That's a gannet (photo credit: Bob Weaver).

And THAT's the snowy owl (photo credit: Bob Weaver).

Oops, forgot the pony!

stars

2011-12-31T16:26:00.029-05:00

It's been quite a month (and year). And it's almost over. Finally. As I walked down Lower Thames today doing a few of the inevitable gift returns — if only one could return or exchange imperfect/unwanted experiences in similar fashion — I was thinking about that: how I'm really rather glad to see 2011 slipping into the rear view mirror. Not to say it didn't have highlights. Bright spots. Stars, so to speak. A few. A good number, if I think about it hard enough. And I guess that's the essential issue at hand, i.e., it's all about what sorts of spots, bright or otherwise, one chooses to focus upon in defining any given year, season or day ...

afterthought

2011-12-04T10:15:00.025-05:00

In describing our time aboard a pirate ship of sorts (whose history is really way more illustrious) the other day, I failed to mention that we checked out the captain's quarters. Quite the pad. Love the windows. Seriously cool waterfront real estate. And that reminded me — 'cause one thing always leads to another — of another Captain's quarters ...

That's Captain (right there ^^). He belongs to some friends ... though, in Captain's view, they most definitely belong to him. I take no credit for the image — thanks, A & K!

merry merry

2011-12-01T20:05:00.094-05:00

The tree lighting in Washington Square took place earlier this evening ... and we missed it. Mr. Betty's out of town; I plum (plumb?) forgot.

We did, however, manage to take in the very first (at least I think it was the first) event of the holiday season last Friday, being Black Friday, which sounds way too sinister if you ask me, even if it makes good sense/cents in an accounting sort of way. Seriously, why not call it Green Friday? Green would connote money and profitability just as well as black, wouldn't it? And holiday cheer at the same time?

But back to the first event, being the illuminated boat parade around Newport Harbor on what turned out to be a PERFECT day and night, weather-wise. Everything-wise, really. Both Darling Daughter and Super Son were home for Thanksgiving. And both had friends head to the City by the Sea on Friday evening to join them for the well-lit affair and whatever activities arose afterward.

Which in this case included an after-party — after the parade, not after the bars closed (that'd be way too late for me & Mr. Betty) — aboard a pirate ship followed by burgers & beer at Pour Judgment.

Pretty cool that the vessel – the historic Sloop Providence, built as a replica for the occasion of Tall Ships '76 (something I remember well, which is rather alarming) — was featured in the Pirates of the Caribbean series. "Dead Man's Chest," in the interest of specificity. We had occasion to climb aboard and hang out with the crew at some point during the summer, too ...

And then today, almost a whole week later (where did it go?) and just a few hours prior to the official Christmas in Newport kickoff at the aforementioned tree-lighting ceremony, I saw a guy waist-deep and wading farther into the now-empty harbor off King Park with all his foul gear on. Must say, it was alarming, even moreso than forgetting the tree-lighting, and brought to mind extreme if not desperate poor judgment.

I finally called out (there was no one else in sight), "Everything OK?"

At which he turned, waved and said, "Yeah, it's just crabs."

Glad that's settled ....

peekaboo

2011-11-21T09:13:00.056-05:00

I was sitting on the lawn between the King House and the library on a warmish morning a few weeks back ... doing nothing in particular except sipping coffee and taking periodic bites of one of those ginormous, super-healthy (I presume) muffins from "A" Market ... just minding my own business, basically, while looking out over the gentle downward slope and sleepy late-fall scene with no more than the occasional car rolling/bumping past on Spring Street below ... when someone pulled up behind me in a pick-up truck.

The driver got out, moved to the back (the bed?) of the truck and started tugging on a large, limp, lifeless bag. At this point I recognized him and got up to help. It was a sail bag, of course, and as we hauled it onto the grass I learned that this local captain had purchased a new (to him) boat — an 80-foot ocean racer of some sort — with another captain/friend and sought to check out the condition of the spinnaker.

So we stretched out the bag, slid out the sail (it took some doing), tied head and clew to two trees, and let the wind do the rest ...

party

2011-11-17T10:19:00.112-05:00

The first and only time I did karaoke in a bar, I sang "It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To." Don't ask me why: why I chose it, why I sang at all. Truth be told, I recall getting pretty into the whole feel of the thing by the last chorus ...

Which has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the It's My Party Bake Shoppe on William Street is closed as of today. Not that it's gone; it just moved next door to Newport Chocolates. Yes, the two shops have merged (products, logos, location) to form something new — sweet! — though I'm so glad they preserved something old at the same time, that being the pineapple, Newport's symbol of hospitality.

I said as much to Patrick, one of the owners, who was standing on the sidewalk outside the new shop(pe) this morning as I walked past with ritual coffee in hand. Patrick had just taken down the white paper that's been making a mystery of what's going on behind the windows of the new/old destination to reveal some very sweet tables and pink chairs, meaning we can all sit and eat cupcakes (among other things, but the cupcakes are especially yummy) in comfort and style, starting today.

And I assume they'll still carry Mr. Betty's and my favorite: 72% dark chocolate covered blueberries a.k.a blueberry cordials ...

Which, in turn, has nothing to do with the two, sweet girls I encountered in Touro Park the other day. I really dug one girl's boots — they were pink — and told her so. Then, feeling badly about singling her out in the company of her friend, I complimented the friend's look, too. I wasn't being insincere; both girls had style.

The two were standing, posing, taking a photo before the Old Stone Mill. Apparently, one of the pink-booted girl's friends back home (she's from Russia) is putting together some sort of birthday card for yet another friend, in yet another distant/distinct location, i.e., the message will be pieced together with words from around the globe — how sweet is that?? So the contribution being held up before Newport's oldest and most mysterious structure said something to the effect of "who has qualities such as." That's it. Just a piece of a sentence, the message, the puzzle ...

Which, of course, has nothing to do with my own puzzle, my own life (or yours) or the whole collective worldwide party for that matter. Except, somehow, it does ...

Oops, I left out what started this whole train/chain of thought in the first place ...

traffic

2011-11-13T09:25:00.115-05:00

On a typical Sunday morning at this time (9:25), I'd be sitting in the kitchen flipping through the newspaper while sipping coffee and waiting for the bells to start ringing their weekly mini-concert from Channing Church, on nearby Touro Park.

That IS, in fact, what I'm doing at this precise moment, although the morning has been entirely atypical otherwise. I've been up for hours upon hours ... and I'm no early bird (just ask Mr. Betty). I'm thinking of changing my ways, however, thanks to some inspiring words from Senator Sheldon Whitehouse, who addressed the 2000 or so runners gathered at the base of the Newport Bridge — the Jamestown side — just before sunrise. According to Whitehouse: "Anything worth doing is worth getting up in the middle of the night for."

Or something like that. I wasn't paying very close attention, and I didn't have a pencil or even a smart phone handy to take notes, because I was getting ready to run – not that I'm a runner, but who could resist the opportunity to take part in the Citizens Bank Inaugural Newport Pell Bridge Run?

Well, in all honesty, I could have resisted, but Mr. Betty made me do it. Scratch that: he strongly suggested. And he was right, of course; it was special. Really special. The public hasn't been allowed/invited to cross that bridge (on foot, en masse) in decades.

So the scene was this: runners took shuttles starting at 5 a.m. from Newport to Jamestown, where they were treated to coffee and snacks and a rousing soundtrack: the theme from "Rocky" and the like in addition to Senator Whitehouse's encouraging words. And coffee leads to, um, certain needs. So there was a long line (even longer than what you see at the Folk Festival) at an impressive row of porta-potties under the nearly full moon and still-illuminated bridge in the distance, i.e., everything about this event was incredibly organized & picturesque. Then the crowd — it was a mob, really: a sea of colorful Ts, black leggings, bobbing ponytails and baseball caps — took off gently/gradually/quietly in quasi-dark conditions around the ramp, through the tolls and on toward those familiar gray trestles (if that's the word for them). It was a long hill up — at the peak, I venture to say everyone experienced a real "top o' the morning" feeling — then a long hill down. To be honest, I thought I'd end up walking, but I didn't. I kept running. Not too fast, admittedly. With much appreciation for the long hill down. I even accepted a cup of water from a volunteer on the sidelines at one point, toward the end — just like you see real runners do on T.V. — but when I tried to drink it while still running/bobbing and dodging pedestrian traffic, I couldn't do so without spilling all down my front, so I just dropped the cup on Farewell Street with all the other cups, even though it felt vaguely awful to the point of unnatural to engage in littering.

The finish line, by comparison, felt fine ...

Suggestion (added later): Check out Tillerman's take on the bridge-crossing and all manner of other stuff including but not limited to Laser sailing. As it turns out, Tillerman & I crossed the finish line four seconds apart. We didn't know it, though, as we haven't met. Yet. Could he be one of those guys right there (<<)??

lost & found

2011-11-10T20:04:00.064-05:00

Even a bike ride to Sandy Point didn't remedy the funk I felt earlier this week ... for which there was no excuse. Seriously, the weather's been unbelievable. Life is good. I have no right/reason whatsoever to complain ...

That said, all I saw at Sandy Point — where the beach is all rocks, and sand is limited to that found in the empty rutted parking lot — were a pair of apparent friends engaged in conversation. Watching them (I try not to watch people, but sometimes I can't help it) led my eyes to that pair of nuclear-looking towers on the horizon, toward Fall River. That didn't help the funk either. Then, when I was almost home again, just as I was pulling out to pass another cyclist on Memorial and thinking it wasn't such a bright idea to do so, especially with the blinding late-afternoon light in drivers' eyes, I put my hand to my head for some reason and realized I wasn't wearing my helmet. What?!? I had it when I started out. I know I did. Where was it? Did I leave it at Sweet Berry Farm, where I'd stopped for a snack on my way home? Did I leave it on the lawn of that home near the corner of Third Beach Road and Green End, where I'd jumped off my bike to follow some seasonal birds? Where that cute bald guy in the truck with an even cuter dog hanging out the window had slowed to a stop — it probably looked like I was having some sort of trouble — and asked, "You OK?"

That's when I started to feel better, now that I think about it.

The whole idea that a stranger took time to stop and ask.

But what really helped me turn the corner was today's rain, in which I made my way (solo, as Mr. Betty's out of town) to a presentation at the Colony House by John Adams and his wife, Abigail. Really. It was called "Love Letters," and it was GOOD. Apparently, unlike other couples of yore who burned all their personal communications, J & A saved them. Hundreds of them — many written while he was on an extended trip to Philadelphia for some sort of convention. Anyway, within this presentation, the Adams sipped cider (hard, I presume) and read their letters aloud. That was the gist of it. And they never came out of character, even when pressed by audience members after the show. One gentleman in particular didn't get it. He kept asking, "How many letters were there in all? In your whole life? " John Adams kept replying with something to the effect of, "Sir, I'm at a disadvantage. It's the year 1777."

I love stuff like that.

Oh, and I found my helmet, too: back on the rocks at Sandy Point ...

cranky

2011-11-08T09:48:00.049-05:00

How can it be that I rode my bike who-knows-how-many-times to Surfers' End this summer but never noticed the aged a.k.a. classic 10-speed that, by the looks of things, was parked there all along?

Is it because I was so bent on my own purpose (being the locking of my bike) that I failed to notice anyone else's purpose (being the offering of beachy sustenance of which it's now too late to partake)? Is it because there were so many other bikes on the rack that this one, however colorful, remained invisible? Is it because, quite simply, I'm a space shot?

All of the above, no doubt.

That's what I was thinking during a walk on Second Beach yesterday, during which I encountered all manner of treasure (trash?): buried, washed up and otherwise.

And I was still thinking about it — somewhat crabbily, I admit — back in the parking lot, back at the bike rack, where I looked with envy upon a gentleman sitting in his truck in some sort of sublime state of mind as he puffed on a cigar.

How to get it back (the state of mind, not the cigar)? To unlock/untangle the momentarily elusive satisfaction engendered by run-of-the-mill stuff, past and present? Stuff that's utterly unfancy & unworthy but remarkable in that it's utterly evocative of, um, home? Stuff that it's easy to deem silly/crazy/bananas to notice, but maybe it's even crazier NOT to notice?

Sigh. I think this calls for another bike ride ...

Speaking of bananas:

scene

2011-10-31T10:17:00.062-04:00

The weekend's rain and threat of snow put a real damper on Halloween festivities. Saturday night should have been a big deal, and maybe it was, somewhere, but not for Mr. Betty and me. We did go out — for a wet walk. We even considered going to Rocky Horror, which we've never done (gotta do everything once, right?), but ended up engrossed in drinks and conversation instead, at The Fifth Element. So there it is: another Halloween (and year) in the fuzzy rear view mirror. Almost. I mean, TODAY is the real deal. And TODAY is a real beauty. Not that we've made any preparations beyond my/our usual lame attempts or embraced the spirit in any significant way. Yet ...

In the interest of full disclosure, that jagged (uncomfortable) railing by the seaside isn't Newport. It's Boston. South Boston, to be exact. Castle Island, to be even more exact. And we did NOT end up seeing snow in Newport over the weekend, although it did appear — as creepy as that seems in October — in towns nearby, as evidenced by an image borrowed from a friend on Facebook (Thanks, Toni!).

trees

2011-10-29T09:14:00.084-04:00

I heard tell of a little boy (the son of a friend) named Redwood the other day. I'm sorry, but that's adorable. And inspirational! I mean, we're all intent — as kids then as parents — upon the ideal of growing up big & strong. Having the name "Redwood" certainly would inspire one to eat one's all-powerful veggies, wouldn't it?

Related to that (sort of), Mr. Betty used to tell our kids, when they were small, on all those occasions when they faced without enthusiasm the spectre of broccoli on their plates, "Eat your trees."

Mr. B's mom said the same thing to him when he was a kid, apparently; he was just passing it along. No doubt about it: Broccoli looks like trees ... although I guess it's spinach that carries with it the greatest power-producing qualities, according to the Popeye principle. But spinach is more akin to seaweed; I can't imagine telling a kid to eat his or her seaweed. Not with any expectation of success, anyway.

Back to Redwood: In these parts, of course, it's more about history. Family history, local history. Hearing the name applied to a real-live, present-tense (little) person made me wonder, and I hate to admit that I hadn't thought about it with any specificity before: Who was that other Redwood? The original (not that everyone isn't an original)? The Redwood behind the impressive-in-every-way institution that is the Redwood Library and Athenaeum? Whatever happened to him? Or her?

Or to any number of other pillars/posts of the community for that matter?

Then there's what happens to trees ....

Those roots (^^) look like fingers, don't they? Clawing their way into the soil? Old and knuckly? They belong to the big (old) beech that stands before the Redwood ...

And that (^^), to me, is a sheep's face, not that there's much point in pointing it out ...

trip

2011-10-24T22:39:00.072-04:00

Mr. Betty & I took a really great bike ride over the weekend. It was more than we bargained for, actually, in terms of both distance and difficulty. And it wasn't in Newport or New York but in yet another new/old place: New Hampshire, where the day was gray, the foliage was past tense for the most part, we ended up with seriously cold hands & feet (having underestimated the need for gloves and non-mesh footwear), but no matter. It was GREAT. Why? I'm not sure. We'd traveled all the same roads at various points in the past, albeit on four wheels. I guess it's just a case of that age-old notion that one sees different things when crawling at a relative snail's pace (but at least we're still crawling!) up occasionally daunting hills on effectively deserted highways and byways, whatever "byways" are exactly. Honestly, this was such a good ride that even roadside signage struck us as interesting, so much so that we had to consider it in the closest possible detail. One particular sign, a historic marker of sorts, told a whole story: one we found hard to believe (!). Yes, this was just one of those days when even sights & signs bringing to mind the inexorable change of seasons weren't quite as much of a downer as usual ...

FYI: The Betty & Barney site is just past the Indian Head Resort, the "Indian Head" and the "Old Man" being two entirely different spectacles.

tangent

2011-10-21T10:47:00.105-04:00

Grandma Betty & I hopped the train to a distant city earlier this week. It wasn't so distant, actually; just a few hours down the track. Anyway, once there, we set out to investigate a quasi-new feature of yonder city: the High Line.

After wandering as directed to West 20th and 10th — this is New York, of course (though it could be anywhere) — we came upon a dilapidated, elevated rail bed and stood looking up at it thinking, "Are we really in the right place?" We were. So up we went, up stairs & ramps, for the chance to follow along, feeling strangely above it all, for a delightful sunny mile or so through assorted vegetated habitats. Grandma Betty went so far as to quiz those busily tending grasses/flowers/trees about what they were growing and how it all fared in winter ...

And at the end of the line lay the meatpacking district, which wasn't at all what I'd pictured. I mean, there were signs of erstwhile meatpacking. Even a crime scene. Seriously. It was more than a little alarming to see crowds of people/tourists gawking and pointing cameras at an assemblage of police cars and yellow tape. It took Grandma Betty and I a good ten seconds to realize the situation wasn't what it seemed — thank goodness. We knew we'd been had when the sidewalk, along which we were moseying past fancy shops and eating/drinking establishments, led us directly behind a wood-and-canvas director's chair emblazoned with the words "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit." And there was the victim, lying on the ground, except she kept getting up to fuss with her hair and make-up (largely red), then she'd lie back down for another take.

If only.

But the highlight, other than the High Line, of GB's and my all-too-quick trip was our visit with Super Son. We got to see his environment (!). Then he & Super Girlfriend took us to a club, somewhere on the Lower East Side, where one of their friends was playing keyboard in a band. We sat immediately behind said friend — a good view is critical, right? That said, the most compelling image of the evening may have been the jean-jacketed guy jumping around to take shots from every conceivable angle with impressive lenses all the while mouthing each & every word the singer was singing. Or maybe it was that pair of wallflowers who reminded me of home ...

oktober II

2011-10-18T09:33:00.063-04:00

Sometime last week, I got an email from Super Son requesting that I buy some beer. It's the time of year (logically enough) that any number of Oktoberfests become available, and he was concerned that he'd miss the opportunity to partake of Narragansett's seasonal brew.

"It's an orange can," he told me. "It's called 'Fest.' If you could pick up a couple of six-packs, that'd be great."

A subsequent message said, "If you want to try one, feel free."

Gee, thanks.

The reason behind the beer-buying dictum was that Super Son and Super Girlfriend were coming home for the weekend to attend a friend's wedding — yikes. Darling Daughter was home, too, as it turns out, for her fall break. The Lucky U brew that Mr. Betty had added of his own accord to the selection in the fridge portrayed the general feeling of the occasion (our very own Oktoberfest?), during which we enjoyed the kids, one last blast of fine weather, a few oysters expertly-shucked at the Seafood Festival (where the scene included assorted participants of the Newport Marathon standing around enjoying a post-race toast) and a host of additional sights & sounds involving shellfish & good times.

It also reminded me of a few other bottoms-up occasions we enjoyed over the summer, quickly fading from present to past ...

Then the last activity of the weekend — after everyone had re-departed in their own directions (sigh) — was a bike ride, during which I encountered another message of sorts. It was written in chalk on the farthest reaches of Ocean Drive. After I'd rolled across it, far too quickly to read let alone appreciate it, I snapped to attention from whatever lost-in-thought state I'd strayed, and asked myself, "Wait, what did that say?"

I pulled a U-ey and went back for a closer look. The message, over which I assume each & every one of those marathon runners had trod earlier in the day, stated the obvious: "Nice view, huh?!"

Indeed.

Which reminded me, in turn, of something I learned from Darling Daughter, who lists as her favorite quote on Facebook something from Baudelaire: "Il faut vivre ivre."

The first time I read it, I gasped. DD was in high school at the time, and the words (translated from French) say, "One must live drunk."

She was being figurative, I think ...

OK, it's a little embarrassing to be citing quotes found on Facebook (twice in a row). But it's DD and her friend. And it's Baudelaire and Camus ...

oktober

2011-10-12T17:38:00.074-04:00

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." (Camus)

I just read that on the Facebook page/wall/whatever of one of Darling Daughter's friends. Ahem, one of my friends, technically, as this very cool pal of DD's assented to my virtual friendship request.

She may even have friended me, come to think of it ...

So, of course, I commented on this lovely leaf-turning thought from Camus that seems apropos to, well, just about everything. I couldn't help myself, though I know that's rather embarrassing to Darling Daughter — for Mom (OMG!) to say something publicly in the Facebook realm.

In self defense, my comment was one word only, and I dare say it couldn't possibly be deemed offensive. Here's what I wrote: "Nice."

Unlike the weather, which just went from unimaginably nice to more appropriately cold, wet & gray. And the mood follows the weather, of course. It's almost scary the extent to which that's true.

Case in point: I took a quick trip down the hill, i.e., Historic Hill, this afternoon to batten down the hatches, though in truth no battening whatsoever took place. I did manually close the hatch (singular) on our very modest craft situated mid-harbor, where I was escorted via launch. And as we zoomed — aboard "Tango" not "Zoom" — back to shore with the summer-beaten Oldport flag fluttering to the point of being a total blur, I was struck as I'm always struck with thoughts along the lines of "Where did it go?"

You can take that any way you like.

All I know is that as I stood outside the gates watching the crowds livin' it up at Oktoberfest at the Yachting Center under impossibly clear & balmy conditions this past weekend, I felt ancient.

And when I stood chatting with a friend-of-a-friend straddling his bicycle at the corner of Bannister's Wharf as his young son bounced an oversized tennis ball just a bit too-close-for-comfort to America's Cup, I felt ancient.

When I asked this little tyke how many tickets the ball cost (he'd won it at the arcade, across the way), he said, "One hundred thousand tickets."

I was so impressed that after the little guy had climbed all by himself aboard a pedicab for a ride home (they'd be following Dad aboard his bike), I had to go check it out for myself.

And then I felt better ...

warmth

2011-10-08T09:37:00.082-04:00

It's back! Summer, that is, if only for a day or two before the colder/darker weather settles in. The warmth is well-timed, too, given it's the long weekend, suggesting we may get some serious crowds in town. Maybe even at the beach ...

I ran into a guy (a friend of my brother T) who's here over Columbus Day for just that purpose: to go to the beach. More specifically, to teach his girlfriend's four kids to surf. The lessons began yesterday. He had them all wetsuited-up and braving the waves at Sachuest. Not that there was much surf yesterday — there wasn't — but it was perfect for his/their purposes.

I asked where they went specifically. Surfers' End?

"Nope," this friend of T's said. "We were at Mom's."

Now I may be partial to that precise spot at Second Beach — last walkway at the St. George's end of the main parking lot and slightly more west from there — where I've frequently met friends, especially other moms, on occasion. But I never knew it was called "Mom's." How did that escape me? No clue, but learning something new about Second Beach reminded me of seeing something new at First Beach a week or so ago ...

I'd walked down on a chilly-ish day — I remember it was chilly as I remember rolling up my pant legs after getting caught inadvertently by a wave — and saw something weird at a distance. A blob of little birds moving en masse down near the outflowing beside the ABC. Little birds like that usually run around, in & out with the waves, right? As if they don't want to get their feet wet? (I find them endlessly amusing.) This time, though, they were sticking closely together. They also were hopping rather than running. It was more like popping, actually; it reminded me of popcorn, the motion being more up & down than in any purposeful direction. I got closer still and realized they could do naught but hop/pop/whatever, as nearly all of them were standing on one leg. Was this a different breed from what we usually get at the beach? Were they sticking together because they were afraid of something? Is it just that they had cold feet?

Again, no clue. But that got me thinking about feet. And legs — how weird (and useful!) they are. How different they are, too. How you see so many sizes, shapes & colors of legs at the beach. Black, tan, pink, yellow, blue. Yes, blue, and not from the cold. Apparently, we've had some unusual, blue-legged visitors in town lately: two-and-a-half pair (a.k.a. five) American avocet. I'm not much of a birder, but I read about them in the paper. And when I tried to get an up close & personal look at them — all the while wondering what happened to the sixth one — is when I got caught off-guard by the wave ...

history

2011-10-04T16:19:00.102-04:00

How auspicious that I happened upon someone playing with letters at the playground behind Cardines Field yesterday.

I was on my way to Ten Speed Spokes to get my bike fixed; Mr. Betty said it was time for a new chain. And there was this guy, amusing himself as his kids played on the see-saw, slides, etc. He had written "L" then "O" and it looked like there was space for two more letters, so I figured I knew where he was going with it. Thing is: When I passed by the playground 30 minutes or so later (after the bike shop), the guy and his fam were gone and that's as far as he'd gotten. "LO."

So I finished it off for him. Or maybe for me. Or maybe for the two teenage girls having some after-school fun on those spring-y animals, cars, whatever they are. You know the ones. You climb aboard and rock/ride aggressively back and forth, back and forth. Darling Daughter used to love that particular playground feature, although not at this particular playground, which wasn't here (and nor were we) when she was a tot ...

But, wait, why was all this auspicious?

"Coincidental" may be the simpler/better word ...

Because today is Mr. Betty's and my anniversary. That's right: 10/4, good buddy. I'm referring to the date, albeit in CB-radio parlance, as that's a handy way to remember it, remembering being extra important this year as it's a pretty significant anniversary, bringing to mind that day & date all those years ago when we had our nuptial shindig right here in this very old port of Newport (ha).

Seriously, one sees so many couples celebrating their big day(s) in these parts, and way back when we were one of them.

Anyway, we're figuring on going to the White Horse Tavern tonight, as we've never been there. I know, I know, that's hard to imagine — and, come to think of it, it's not even true. We have been to the bar at the White Horse but never ponied up for the whole dinner scene. It's about time, right?

Now that's true.

And it's kinda funny, or so it strikes me, that the only "new" place we could think of to go — that being the trick, right? — is the oldest place in town.

That said, I think the real trick is the other way around, i.e., doing the same ol' stuff you've done dozens if not hundreds of times before yet thanks to some combination of memory (or lack thereof), practice, will and maybe even illusion — with a little of that "LO" concept thrown in for good measure — making it seem/feel good as new ...

vital

2011-09-30T15:29:00.146-04:00

One of the nice things about taking bike rides on beautiful days or even not-so-beautiful days around Ocean Drive is the friendly little wave one gets from bikers headed in the opposite direction.

Today, as I chugged along — chugging was necessary given my gears were messed up and I was unable to shift out of the toughest rung of speeds for some reason — I crossed paths with a very serious-looking, seriously-garbed cyclist/gentleman stooped over his fancy handlebars. Nice wave. Then there was the older, as in my age, woman sitting upright on a comfy looking surf bike. Nice wave. Then the older guy in a baseball hat (no helmet) followed shortly thereafter by the happy-looking tourist couple. Three more waves. Finally, on the hill between Fort Adams and the SVF Foundation, there was the 20-something moustachio'd rider who was simultaneously navigating the steepish, winding decline and talking on his cell phone. He didn't wave. He had his hands full ...

It was a different story on a bike ride earlier in the week, when I didn't see any fellow cyclists at all. Not a one. Weird. I did, though, happen upon a couple of fishermen on the rocks. I'd taken a detour from The Drive up & out to Castle Hill for no reason other than I have a penchant for detours; then, given I hadn't been there in a while (a year or more), I disembarked to walk down & out to Castle Hill Light. I saw no one at first. Just descended the weathered steps before wandering off to the left/port/whatever, where I parked myself on the warm-if-shit-laden landscape.

It was only after I'd gotten settled and gotten my fix of assorted visions involving boats sailing past Horsehead, Beavertail and R-6 (that buoy off Butter Ball Rock) in especially sparkly conditions that I realized I wasn't alone. I was sandwiched, loosely speaking, between two fishermen. One to my right. One to my left. After I'd been sitting there awhile, one of these fishermen approached ...

Have to admit, I had a hard time understanding him. He wanted something; that much was clear. He spoke, but the accent was strong. He motioned, but I was confused. It finally dawned on me (light does dawn over Marblehead): He'd caught a fish. I had a camera. This called for a picture.

So I took his picture — with a rather impressive striper — and said I'd send it to him. All I needed was his e-mail address, but when I asked him for it, he looked puzzled. I asked again, and he said, "58 Darling." Did he think I'd asked his age? Was he calling me Darling? Is there some sort of e-mail server at 58darling.com? Communication or lack thereof gets complicated ...

At last, the fisherman took out his license (for driving, not fishing) and showed it to me. His name was Vital (pronounced Vee-tal?), and his address was 58 Darling Street in some yonder town. I had no pen, and my questionable memory certainly wasn't going to suffice, but then I remembered my smart phone, on which I tip-tapped the info in the Notes app (Super Son would be proud of me). I told Vital I'd get his photo printed and send it along. He & I had managed quite the sign-language conversation by this point. I'd seen the other fish he caught: a blackfish and a tautog in a bucket. He showed me his bait, a mishmash of crabs and squid.

He also said thank you, I think. I'm not kidding when I say I had that much difficulty understanding. All except the last thing Vital said to me (it came through clear as day): "Good life, good luck."

Seriously ...

Then he walked away with a little wave ...

fear knot

2011-09-20T19:44:00.054-04:00

Not sure what this (or that ^) has to do with anything, but I was sitting on the rocks out near Brenton Point recently — last Wednesday, I think — doing nothing in particular: just looking around, watching stuff, checking out some drowned crabs in a post-hurricane tide pool, things like that.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye (the right one), I noticed some figures in motion. It was a group of kids climbing around on that high outcropping of rock alongside Ocean Drive just past Castle Hill known as 12 O'Clock High. These kids weren't just climbing; they were jumping. Yes, 12 O'Clock High is a popular jumping spot despite being a DANGEROUS jumping spot.

Seriously, isn't that where someone drowned earlier this summer?? I believe it is. How awful. Truly awful. Beyond-words awful.

Yet here were these kids. Jumping. It wasn't 12 o'clock — it was more like 3 o'clock — though the rocks were certainly high. But, wait, if the rocks were high, doesn't that mean the tide was low, i.e., isn't that precisely when one should NOT be jumping off the rocks at 12 O'Clock High, or anywhere else for that matter??

Then I remembered my smart phone (I finally got one), on which I googled "tides in Newport, RI" for that particular date — who knows why we google what we google? — and discovered that it was, as I'd feared, dead low tide at precisely 3: 13 p.m last Wednesday, 9/14. Not that the information made me feel any better. Not that I was really going to do anything with it or about it, though perhaps I should have. I just kept watching. Tried to sit back and relax while watching kids jump off into treacherous waters ... which they managed to do without mishap.

These kids.

This time.

Then, of course, there's the spectacle (both thrilling and fear-knot-worthy) of kids' jumping off/out into the big wide world ...

boat show

2011-09-16T20:11:00.039-04:00

OK, so I was strolling the outskirts of the boat show this afternoon and got this silly idea to take a picture of a sign. Signs matter, I think. And while I was standing there looking/staring at the sign without much hope of capturing it — given the sun was shining in such a way that I just couldn't focus — some guy walked up behind me and said, "Want me to move the sun for ya?"

There's a concept.

Truth is: I've seen lots of sunny and not-so-sunny days (and a good number of boats) lately. You just never know what you're gonna see — or hear, for that matter — at the boat show, out on the bay, along Broadway, down by Washington Square, up on Bellevue. Everywhere you look, in every direction, there are sights & signs you could never anticipate.

And wouldn't want to ...

Actually, what I need is a beer ...

Or maybe some grub ....

A puppy? Mr. Betty'd have a cow ...

But an Awful Awful might help ...

power

2011-08-29T22:37:00.038-04:00

Last night about this time, Mr. Betty & I took a walk. It was dark. Very dark. We'd had no power most of the day but kept thinking it would be restored any minute. Nope. So after grilling anything & everything worth grilling in the fridge before it spoiled (let's hear it for gas!), off we went with quickly-dying flashlight in hand, and no spare batteries the correct size to be found, toward town. The only lights in sight, given there were no lights in windows, were, again, the gas-powered ones, i.e., the streetlights along the cobblestones and down Pelham. I never tire of the factoid that Pelham was the first gas-lit street in America, assuming the sign on One Pelham East is correct. Actually, there were a few more lights-of-sorts there, at "the Pelham", which was open (!), and busy (!). On top of the dim glow of candles in the windows, the red tips of patrons' cigarettes outside on the sidewalk were far more apparent and maybe a little prettier than usual. Then there were the stars, which seemed VERY bright last night as they shone through white clouds racing past on the last of Irene's gusts ...

That was about it.

But that was more than enough after a day or two of wind & waves & water & worries & waiting & wonder at the power (and powerlessness) of it all ...

storm

2011-08-27T15:49:00.033-04:00

Wherever I went today — a day that seemed strangely proloooooonged given the amount of notice we've been given for Irene (yet to arrive) — people were responding to the threat: plywood was going up, anchors were going down, surfers were going surfing. Even at Sandy's Liquors, where I stopped post-Farmers' Market for some Newport Storm in the interest of preparedness, folks were making the most of the situation by contributing a few words' worth of requested graffiti. And on Bannister's Wharf, despite stacked & tethered outdoor seating, bars were hopping. It almost felt normal but for the empty-ish docks and exceeding number of lines from bow to bottom. And the plywood. And the stillness. It was so still. It's STILL still. The wait (weight?) continues ...

sailing

2011-08-17T21:29:00.017-04:00

As I prepare to set sail for a day or two — having just heard news of a sail gone wrong — I'm thinking about how I'm really OK with the notion of going slowly, through whatever conditions, even rocky/foggy/stormy conditions, just so long as I get there, wherever "there" may be ...

music

2011-08-03T22:30:00.043-04:00

Mr. Betty and I have enjoyed any number of musical venues (and the music therein) over the past few weeks: from classical at The Breakers, to Bela Fleck at the Yachting Center, to some of Super Son's friends at Billy Goode's, to a bit (just a bit) of the Folk Fest at Fort Adams. Wanda Jackson, the 74-year-old Queen of Rockabilly, just-so-happened to be singing something pretty catchy about "a riot going on" as we scooted past a veritable sea of listeners on our way to Mackerel Cove for a swim.

And in terms of Fleck — though it's a little past tense at this point — we were equally impressed by Flecktone Victor Wooten on bass and his brother, percussionist Future Man (that's what he calls himself), as we were by Fleck. Which is saying something, 'cause Fleck is/was pretty amazing ...

Then, when I thought there couldn't possibly be any more (and Newport Jazz is yet to come!), I ran into some old bells. Seriously, on top of the usual Sunday morning concert emanating at about 9:30 a.m. from Channing steeple, there was a bell concert emanating from a bell-laden trailer of sorts on Sunday afternoon. So, while a capacity crowd were enjoying the whole sold-out scene at Fort Adams, a large-ish crowd of folk were enjoying another whole scene on Pelham Street.

There's another whole scene, of course, a little farther down Pelham, a little later at night. But I won't even attempt to go there ...

HA! Joke's on me: I thought the bells were old, but then I endeavored to translate their Roman numerals only to realize that Anno MCMXCII = 1992. Not that relative youth makes the bells or their music any less beautiful ...

surfing

2011-07-22T09:39:00.086-04:00

It's been rather weedy and waveless in these parts lately, but Mr. Betty and I took a surf-related scoot (on Mr. B's scooter) way out Bellevue to Rough Point last evening. The road is always longer than I remember it — two or three miles? Which makes sense, I guess, when one considers the length of the Cliff Walk running parallel, on the back side, through the back yards (if you can call them that) of all those cottages ...

Anyway, we pulled into Rough Point (last cottage on the left), stopped to pay a $5 fee to the gatekeeper, and I said to Mr. Betty, "Whoa! This place is hopping!"

There were cars, trucks & scooters everywhere. A few had surfboards on top. It struck me as funny somehow, seeing a fins-up vehicle at the front door of Rough Point, even though I know, by way of the current exhibit, that heiress/philanthropist Doris Duke was a surfer ...

We didn't see any people, though — nary a soul — 'til we'd gone through the door and proceeded toward the patio. Again, WHOA. It's like the whole world was there: all ages & sizes, all manner of dress. Granted it was so foggy that the water (that view!) was invisible, as if it didn't even exist (you know that effect?), which in a funny way made the colorful scene even more colorful. One had no choice but to keep eyes to the ground, where hundreds of surfboards — again, all ages & sizes — comprising "Doris Duke's Surf Fest" outlined the contoured gardens and contoured lawn, rocky and rolling toward the hard-to-see sea ...

In that big back yard, we saw LOTS of people (700+ I heard later): some we knew, more we didn't, a few we wished we knew ... like Sid Abruzzi of Water Brothers fame who'd worked hand-in-hand with Rough Point to draw the collection of surfboards and adoring crowd. Sid's the whole package — surfs, skates, plays rock n' roll. Is that why he's called "The Package"?? I've always wondered about that but never focused on it or much else long & hard enough to find an answer, and this foggy occasion (replete with plenty of Newport Storm) was no exception ...

But my image/impression of the whole scene? The one-ness of past & present, history & novelty, young & old (or just older), surfers & surfboards and the whole wide world of wave worship in general?

Let's just say I may take up surfing ...

tennis

2011-07-10T22:11:00.101-04:00

What to say other than it was a weekend of tennis ... and concerts and parties and sailing and bike riding and beaching and kite flying and glorious weather and totally non-stop fun.

I found time for only about half those activities, of course, but town was hopping with folks engaged in more stuff than I could keep track of (or keep up with). Blink and you'll miss something. Everything. That's how it feels in Newport about now, in the whirlwind of July.

The big name in town was Andre Agassi; he became a Hall of Famer. But the other players — vying for the Van Alen Cup in the only professional tournament on grass in the U.S. at the International Tennis Hall of Fame — were noteworthy, too. I happened to see Yani beat Kudla Friday afternoon. I also happened to see Isner, standing tall (at 6'9") and the ultimate winner, walking with racquet-laden backpack down that shady stretch of Memorial Boulevard toward the finals Sunday morning.

Saturday's induction ceremony was a parade of speakers and colorful dignitaries. At the last minute, Mr. Betty & I were handed a couple of tickets for a couple of hot (hot!) seats in the South Stands where we watched Steffi Graf & the kids in turn watching Daddy receive his honor and give a sweet speech.

"Thank you, tennis, for my life; thank you, tennis, for my wife" has a nifty ring to it (don't you think?).

And the bit about "the language of tennis is the language of life" really got me: "service, advantage, break, fault, love."

It was sweet, too, that Agassi shared the spotlight with a couple of kids from Agassi Prep, the charter school he founded in Las Vegas. One gave the intro; another sang the national anthem. Fans in all manner of hats could be seen crying, clapping, flapping — like I said, it was hot. Agassi couldn't get out of his formal attire fast enough. No sooner was it over than he was in a t-shirt walking away with that familiar Agassi gait over grass courts that have been stood/trod/played upon by so many tennis greats over the years.

Oh, and the presentation by women's great Peachy Kellmeyer, 2011's other new Hall of Famer, was sweet (peachy?), too.

My favorite moment of the whole weekend was an unexpected one, though — isn't that always the way? It was Friday afternoon, and I was headed home from the grocery store. I had a full-to-the-point-of-overstuffed bag in one hand and a gallon of OJ in the other and had stopped to chat for a sec with a friend and her daughter and the owner of The Linen Shop just outside the Casino entrance on Bellevue. Suddenly the crowd started buzzing and pointing and digging out cameras and jockeying for position and there was Agassi, working his way toward a waiting SUV. Poor guy could hardly get there with everyone trying to talk to him, get close to him, grab a photo, maybe even an autograph ... including The Linen Shop owner, who ran inside to get a pillow (a pillow!) for Andre to sign.

It's now in her display window for all to see, enjoy, remember ...

In order of appearance: unidentified onlooker in Hall of Fame hat; first-time semi-finalist Yani; just-missed semi-finalist Kudla; finalist Rochas with interviewer; 2011 Van Alen Cup winner Isner (the tall one); Mr. Betty; Steffi Graf & the fam; Andre with Bud Collins (orange pants and red shoes), Pam Shriver, Rosie Casals and others looking on; Agassi Prep student/speaker Simone Ruffin; Steffi again; Bud Collins again; Peachy Kellmeyer; signature hat; Andre fan (fanning); Andre's fist pump; Andre's gait; historic lights & hovering helicopter; signature pillow; official ATP balls on grass; another unidentified onlooker; Agassi Prep student/anthemist A.J. Greene.

red, white & blue

2011-07-05T08:38:00.089-04:00

At some point over the weekend — perhaps yesterday when I headed down to Washington Square to partake of assorted patriotic festivities — I found myself thinking about red, white & blue. Not what it stands for so much, but that it's everywhere. Together and separately. The colors, plain & simple. Along with plenty of other colors, of course.

And that made me think about a couple of colorful exchanges I'd overheard the day before ...

Super Son was home from the Big City (named for a red fruit) with Super Girlfriend and Super Roommate in tow; other familiar faces from high school & college kept showing up as the long, wonderful, largely-blue-sky weekend wore on. At one point, the whole gang was standing around outside gearing up for their next activity — a bike ride to Second Beach — which required a certain amount of effort, as the collection of spare bicycles in the basement were suffering from varying degrees of soft, squishy & downright flat tires.

Remember when stepping on the backs of someone's sneakers in grade school resulted in a "flat tire"?

Anyway, there was Super Roommate (in green flip-flops) getting ribbed by one of Super Son's high school friends (in red, white & blue Nikes). The latter said, "I'm going to have to wear sunglasses to hang out with you."

I.e., Super Roommate wasn't sporting much of a tan.

His response was quick, however: "Zip it, Red Beard."

Meanwhile, Super Son was getting a workout pumping up tires while Super Girlfriend looked on. Both were in Rainbows — sweet!

And then later, as diverse members of the pink (by virtue of sunburn) crowd gathered in the kitchen, Super Girlfriend and Super Roommate were eating goldfish in creative fashion and comparing notes on how it's done.

"This is how you catch a goldfish," said Super Girlfriend to Super Roommate, as little orange crackers flew back & forth across the room.

No idea what I'm driving at: just that "red, white & blue" as well as "red," "white" and "blue" carry with them lots of baggage. Red hair is actually orange (isn't it?). Goldfish are orange, too. And none of it matters, really. Except, in fact, it does ...

Just for the record: the smiling goldfish really was sitting there on the rocky shore. No posing involved. Seriously.

4th

2011-07-03T08:18:00.056-04:00

OK, so I'm jumping the gun — it's the 3rd.

But before this day (and summer?) gets rolling, and it's already starting to roll, and roll fast — seriously, I can feel the acceleration — I thought I'd throw a few things out there like the fact, earth-shattering as it is, that I was standing with my bike on Lower Thames yesterday when a friend rode by on his own bike. And by that I mean his motorcycle.

I had just seen this friend (with whom I used to work) the day before — or was it the day before that? — when we crossed paths on our respective bikes, both headed out toward Brenton Point on Ocean Drive. My motorized friend rode beside me for ten seconds or so before zooming off into the sunset (it was the end of the day) during which time I managed to ask, "Hey, how fast am I going?"

Now I'm not sure I heard him correctly, given the wind in my ears or the sound of his bike or perhaps my fading ability to remember things, but after glancing down and regarding his gauges for a few secs as I pedaled just as fast-fast-fast as I could alongside, I think he said, "Twenty-five."

Really? That's hard to believe, not that it's particularly fast, but the last time I got a good read on my speed, it was significantly slower; click HERE to see what I mean. And, in all honesty, Motorized Friend may have said, "Twenty." Which is still more than he'd said a few days before (yep, three times in one week) when I'd seen him (yep, on his bike) stopped at the light on Bellevue & Memorial where I stood on foot, on the sidewalk, and we shared a nod and a wave.

But back to yesterday on Lower Thames: When I spied Motorized Friend riding past oblivious to my presence in a bricked courtyard by the side of the road, I cupped hands to mouth and yelled, "Yo!"

At which he turned, smiled and called back, "You're everywhere!"

Then he drove on — returned eyes to the road, slowed with pre-Fourth of July traffic — and it occurred to me that that's largely the point: everywhere-ness.

That and you never know what or whom might see parading forth by land or sea, at Brenton Point or wherever you might be ...

fishing

2011-06-21T19:30:00.089-04:00

I took a late afternoon bike ride out to Sachuest Point today, which I gather is/was the first day of summer. What a beauty. And I was just taking a spin through the parking lot — I had no real intention of stopping — when I saw a familiar truck belonging to a friend. It's hard to miss (the truck, that is): classic black with assorted figures and flames on the side that I suppose represent speed and power.

Just what a truck ought to be: fast and powerful.

And cool (!).

Anyway, upon seeing the truck, I decided to disembark, lock my bike and head off in search of this friend (of the longtime variety) whom I know to be a fisherman. I assumed he was somewhere nearby, as Sachuest offers a wealth of spots, secret and otherwise, that are popular with those who enjoy casting about for whatever comes their way. Especially if it might provide dinner. I had no luck finding Fisherman Friend, however, so I just looked (fished?) around for whatever else struck me as marginally interesting on the Sakonnet side of the refuge: rocks, tidepools, seaweed and vines flowing/growing every which way, the usual stuff. Then I headed back to my bike but, just before hopping on, thought I'd take one last look on the other side: the side facing Second/Sachuest Beach. I headed down the trail a little way and ... there he was.

I picked my way over the rocks to where Fisherman Friend stood, and we exchanged pleasantries, after which he changed the subject by asking, "Want to see what I caught here three weeks ago?"

"Um, okay."

"Don't look too closely though ... "

But, of course, I did. I found it kinda pretty (in a prehistoric way): a sturgeon. The tail end, anyway. The rest of him/her had gotten a little, shall we say, old.

What Fisherman Friend was hoping to catch is striper, so we talked about that a bit, not that I know anything (at all) about fishing. Nor am I willing to do what it takes to get the job done, i.e., deal with the messy part; I just like to partake of the results. So, before long, I headed back to my bike and continued on my way.

And when I got home, I had a cell phone message from FF saying, "Just wanted you to know I caught one."

Must say, it made me smile ...

movies

2011-06-14T20:57:00.063-04:00

Must confess: I don't go to church. Not regularly anyway, though there are churches all around throughout the Historic Hill neighborhood (and throughout Newport), and that's really our truest claim to fame in these parts: freedom of religion. Massachusetts gets the credit. Rhode Island got it done. Anyway ...

Upon wandering through town earlier today, it seemed there was something going on at Trinity: construction cranes, blacked-out windows, substitute steeple (?), crunched VW bug (?). There's a movie being filmed, I'm told. Something involving Bruce Willis among others. Something called "Moonrise Kingdom."

I asked a policeman directing traffic along Spring Street if he'd seen Willis.

"Not yet, " he said.

Good to know (I hadn't missed it/him), though it was a little eerie looking up at blacked-out, taped-shut windows where the sun usually streams in ...

And having seen "Incendies" last night at the Pickens — which has nothing to do with anything although it has something to do with religion — all I can say is that I'm half-glad I don't feel any particular affiliation (while half-sure I'm missing out), as that can affect the way one looks at others of other affiliations. I like to think it's OK to harbor just a general/historical reverence for it all ...

But when I went back out again this evening — for a typical stroll down & around Washington Square and back home past Trinity — I saw it all in a different light, including the bug, now SQUISHED by the steeple.

I guess we'll have to wait to see "Moonrise Kingdom" to see exactly what transpired, and how, and why ...

Addendum: The stars are out! Click here (and here, and here) to see what I mean.

sunday

2011-06-12T17:26:00.030-04:00

Mr. Betty and I managed to see a lot today (Sunday), despite the glaring absence of the sun. We gassed up our little vessel to go out and watch other boats racing around beneath layer-upon-layer of gray skies: Optimists up toward the bridge and Naval War College, 420s off Goat Island, assorted classics farther north toward Prudence.

On top of everything else, this weekend marked the New York Yacht Club's Annual Regatta, thus there was plenty of activity on the bay.

OK, so the sun was lacking. Patience, patience — it'll return.

OK, so we were watching rather than participating. Sundays are supposed to be about resting rather than racing around like we do every other day of the week, right?

OK, so Sundays are about a few other things, too ...

hot

2011-06-10T08:49:00.030-04:00

Not knowing quite what to do with myself on a recent hot (hot!) afternoon, I joined the migration down Memorial, past Dunkin Donuts — iced coffee is de rigueur on such occasions — to First Beach.

Once there, I walked for a while, sipped for a while, watched girls little and big enjoy water and waves for a while. Then I plopped myself down on the sand (on a towel) and settled into some sort of semi-snooze state. Not even caffeine can keep me from drifting into that warm, semi-oblivious, where-does-the-time-go, quintessentially beachy state of mind ...

So I was half-asleep, with my ear to the sand, amid all the sights, sounds and don't forget smells of summer (ah, seaweed), when I heard the scrunch of footsteps not far from own feet and some sort of riveting conversation about seahorses. Red seahorses.

I opened my eyes just in time to see the seahorses in question walk past in the company of three (count 'em, three) pairs of short shorts. The seahorse-wearer was rising to the occasion of those teasing him by saying, "I have another pair. Light blue with green turtles. But they have a big hole in the crotch ... "

Excuse me?!? What a thing to say in mixed company.

Then again, I guess it's no big deal. One must relax (stay cool? go with the flow?) about such things. 'Tis the season ...

creepy

2011-06-06T21:54:00.023-04:00

I was just minding my business — riding my bike on a sunny afternoon along that road (inexplicably called Lakeview) behind Belcourt Castle — when I stopped short at the sight of two animals: a raccoon and a cat. They were staring each other down. The cat sat with back to the castle and was looking rather proprietary about it. The 'coon, in the middle of the street, seemed to be weighing his/her options: approach or retreat. It was a tense moment ... broken when both critters were spooked by my squeaky brakes. The raccoon waddled (quickly!) to the nearest storm drain, into which he/she disappeared. The cat slipped behind a brick wall that had seen better days ...

The whole castle had seen better days, I now noticed, so I jumped off my bike for a closer look. I frequently jump off my bike for a closer look at nothing in particular, just whatever strikes my fancy, like fancy rooves, eaves, windows, window grates, door handles (of twisted snakes?). Or nothing fancy at all. Or to marvel at the joys of home/castle ownership and subsequent decay and how maintenance can eat you alive. It's no wonder I don't get too far ...

In any case, when I went to get back aboard my trusty vehicle, which I'd dumped by the side of the road, I couldn't do it, because there was the 'coon. The two of us stood for thirty seconds or so, staring each other down, pondering approach or retreat — at least that's what I was pondering — then he/she waddled off to the closest tree. Whereupon I hopped (quickly!) on my bike and was just starting to pedal away when I spied the cat. He'd come back. And was staring me down. At which point I was pretty creeped out ...

big

2011-06-03T21:46:00.028-04:00

Last weekend may have been the big occasion, but this weekend brought the BIG BOATS. And Mr. Betty did me the huge favor of capturing at least one of them in its entirety just as the sun was starting to set ...

I'd gone down to the Shipyard earlier (at MB's suggestion) to take a peek at Maltese Falcon — a seriously impressive bird. But I got so drawn in and dizzy (!) staring up at her big black hull and her three ribbed masts from the outermost dock that I never thought to venture the short distance around the corner for a full view from the Goat Island causeway.

What can I say? Long day.

Anyway, no sooner had I gotten home (after failing to capture the big picture) than I noticed a shot of the Falcon on the fly on Facebook. Now that I've seen her, I'd know her anywhere. She's hard to miss, unlike Darling Daughter, whom we'll miss in a big way 'cause she's leavin' (on a jet plane) day-after-tomorrow for a big trip that involves crossing the ocean ...

With thanks to Mr. Betty for the big picture of the Shipyard (and in general) and to Jeremy Smith for the one involving NY Harbor. By the looks of things on Facebook, Jeremy is a deckhand aboard Maltese Falcon. Cool.

america

2011-05-30T10:33:00.028-04:00

At some point last night — after a long day of shrub trimming and flower planting and bike riding out & around Ocean Drive despite recurrent fog and considerable traffic — it occurred to me that words don't matter much. Seriously. It's more about sights, sounds & sometimes just colors and what they evoke with or without lots of syllables ... right?? I mean, there are some good lyrics: to songs, days, life. And some things worth remembering, like Dewey Bunnell of America's comment during their show at the historic Casino Theatre last night (to benefit the Tennis Hall of Fame). He was trying to direct traffic to the band's website — www.venturahighway.com — and in so doing advised fans: "Do not google America. That doesn't work."

I'll bear it in mind ...

balance

2011-05-28T10:52:00.067-04:00

Oh, how I wish there were a few more places I could go on my bike ... we're a bit island-locked in that respect. Not that the available destinations are bad. Sachuest Point is particularly lovely, and one never knows what (or whom) one might see ....

A few days ago (Thursday maybe?), as I was locking my bike at the parking lot before continuing on foot to my favorite deserted rocky beach, I saw a familiar guy get out of his car and start jogging down the trail toward the Sakonnet. He wasn't going too fast — he's about 90 years old (seriously). A friend's dad. But he had definitely tipped his body slightly forward and was pumping his arms back and forth as he strode — he was running.

I managed to catch up and say hello. He used to do a full circuit of Sachuest every day, he said. Now he does a half-circuit. Which is awesome. "I sure hope that's me at his age" is all I could think ...

Anyway, I left Friend's Dad to his half-circuit and followed a little path to the rocky shore, where I saw .... rocks. Lots. And then a TALL one, part of a cairn-of-sorts left by someone playing balancing games. I dumped my backpack as I moved in for a closer look. It's a stupid backpack, more of a sack, purple with the words "Know Thyself, Dude" emblazoned on it. Something Darling Daughter got as a freebee on a college orientation trip in '09. She wouldn't dream of using it herself — but it's super lightweight, handy, not-too-big. And I wear it backwards, so no one can see the words, so it's just plain purple.

It works for me.

Anyway, after checking out the balancing act and satisfying myself as to how it was accomplished — not that I could ever do it myself — I lay down on the warm rocks (backsack for pillow) with waves splashing/crashing not-so-far from my feet and exerted no energy whatsoever except to look left at a cormorant gang on the rocks, right at a happy-looking couple posing for pics, straight ahead at — wait, what's that?? — a cracked-open egg then a flash of darting yellow on the rocks. A yellow bird??

Hmmm, I suppose.

I didn't think about it further 'til I was headed back to my locked bike and saw a sign ...

pink

2011-05-23T21:18:00.036-04:00

I set off to the grocery store earlier this evening with that perennial question in mind: What's for dinner?

I never know 'til I get there, but then — more often than not — I arrive at the same answer: fish.

It was a gray walk to the store, I must say — this has been quite a gray stretch. And I was feeling rather blue, if you'll excuse one more reference to color, just because I feel the need to do SOMETHING to brighten things up around here ....

Anyway, fish in hand (or bag, to be precise), I was headed home when I felt a strange vibration or buzz in my pocket that turned out to be my cellphone, for which I fumbled unsuccessfully, and by the time I found it — my jacket has too many pockets! — it had stopped buzzing. Lo and behold, however, I had a text message from a friend and sometimes-walking-companion, who must have been walking past my home (where I wasn't) at that precise moment.

It said: "Your pink dogwood is beautiful."

To which I replied, painstakingly, because mine is a decidedly un-smart phone: "Thank you!"

And then I felt better ....

OK, I admit it: that pink sky wasn't tonight — no such delight in sight. And the pink-tongued pup? That's Snooter; he's frequently tethered outside the grocery store waiting for his person. I included Snooter because of the dogwood (get it?). And just because ...

blink

2011-05-16T20:05:00.020-04:00

As I was picking up Mr. Betty's shirts at Del Nero's not long ago, I had the lamest thought, i.e., it's so strange how we walk the same paths again and again (and again) doing who-knows-what without really thinking about it, and in so doing time passes WAY TOO FAST — in the blink of an eye, as they say.

Seriously, wasn't it just last week that the crocuses (croci?) popped up? Then the first daffodil? Then LOTS of daffodils? Then, poof, they're gone. Or, rather, they're just husks. Entire fields of husks — along Memorial Drive and/or the corner of America's Cup and Farewell, between the cemeteries — with specific instructions warding off aggressive lawn-mowing practices, lest all those sunny daffodils not pop again next year.

I dunno — it's just sad.

It makes me want to try really hard to concentrate, to really NOTICE each thing I'm doing, each step I'm taking (fat chance), so they don't all blend/blur into one another without leading anywhere in particular ...

wedding bells?

2011-04-26T22:12:00.021-04:00

In fact, wedding bells are NOT what I heard today ... though I guess we'll be hearing them soon enough (from the opposite side of the the Atlantic). All I heard today were foghorns — it was seriously foggy. Foggy like I imagine Maine to be foggy. Foggy like Mr. Betty's and my long ago wedding is foggy. Sort of — in other ways it's as clear as can be. What am I driving at? I haven't the foggiest idea. It (what?) is just something that occurred to me as I looked up at the lost-in-fog steeple of St. Mary's Church this afternoon and considered Newport's own erstwhile royal wedding ...

Oh, and do click HERE to hear the bells.

kids

2011-04-12T08:35:00.053-04:00

I took a really nice walk on the Cliff Walk recently. The best part was the second half. People often think of the earlier stuff (Forty Steps, even Ruggles) as the highlights. They are highlights. They're terrific (!). But the best stuff most definitely comes later: that little beach at Marine Avenue, the funky tea house at Marble House, the dark corrugated (creepy?) tunnel shaped somewhat like an Easter Egg that socks you in, in blinding darkness, while promising a return to light at the other end ...

But before I got there — to the tunnel & beyond — as I was just about to pass Rosecliff, I spied some kids. It's all relative, of course; anyone younger than oneself is a kid. Or that's how it seems after a certain age ...

Anyway, these kids — who may have been 20-somethings, though I've really lost all ability to judge — were engaged in assorted harmless if dubious activities such as skateboarding (on the Cliff Walk?) and climbing up for a peek over the Rosecliff wall.

I felt such pleasure at their pleasure ... then I got on my way. Past the tea house, through the tunnels, on toward Rough Point, all the way to Ledge Road, where I turned around. On the way back I saw other things — that's always the way — including any number of numbers I'd never noticed before and a weird T-shaped bar driven into a rock.

Then I saw the "kids" again ... and they saw me looking at the T-shaped bar.

"Did you get some good pictures?" the leader of the kids asked, with amused (cynical?) innocence.

Kids. They think they're the only ones who do stuff, who try stuff, who break the rules (a little), who know how to have fun ...

[N.B. Click any image to enlarge.]

identity

2011-03-28T09:27:00.074-04:00

At some point over the weekend I was walking along Bellevue and passed that big, thoughtful-looking man who sits in his chair at the corner of Narragansett, at the traffic light, outside what is now Preservation Society Headquarters. And it occurred to me — as I stood there waiting for the "walk" signal — that I had no idea who he was. Is.

That happens a lot, actually; there are so many all-too-familiar statues and structures (and people!) around & about town whose history is a mystery. To me, anyway.

The big man's identity was easy enough to determine, as a name appears handsomely/prominently below his big boot. Except that's not who he is. I should have known better. I should have looked harder. I should have thought harder about the two initials that appear after the name — J.Q.A. Ward, SC — indicating John Quincy Adams Ward was the sculptor, not the subject. A significant sculptor, as I learned (thanks to Wikipedia) after I got home from my walk. That's probably why his is the name set in stone so visibly at such a visible corner, i.e., the artist is a real somebody ...

So the question remains: Who is the man??

I headed out to the intersection again this morning for an answer. It had to be there, right?? But only after cutting through the bushes onto the Preservation Society's front lawn (which made me feel like a bit of a trespasser) could I find it. There on a tiny plaque, in the back, at the base of the big man's chair, below the bronze fringe, is the name August Belmont. He was/is a very big deal in his own right, in his own day, as I learned (thanks to Wikipedia again) after I got home with statue-on-the-brain for the second time in as many days.

And along the way, I passed another big man I've passed more times than I can count: Commodore Matthew Perry, standing tall in Touro Park. His sculptor, as evidenced by the name below his sword, was .... guess who??

snow?

2011-03-23T15:53:00.096-04:00

I knew when I was riding my bike around Ocean Drive at some point last week (without mittens!) that spring wasn't really here. It always teases. Stops and starts. Comes and goes. The days seem to be on some sort of on/off switch: blue, gray, blue, gray. Temps, too: warm, cold, warm, cold.

But snow?? That's a serious step backward. That's going a bit too far ...

So, as I sit here on a cold gray late-afternoon in late-March looking out at snowflakes (just a few, but still) drifting down, I can't help pondering that erstwhile ride. The warmth. The sights: boats, geese (they're everywhere), assorted visitors on seaside benches looking out toward familiar profiles such as Horsehead, Clingstone and a few other things that define the landscape/seascape as time and tide sweep past. There are sounds, too — most notably wind in my ears. That's pretty much all one hears when riding a bike. Then there was that other rider headed in the opposite direction somewhere around Hazard's Beach who said to me, as he passed, "I like your outfit."

I almost said "thank you" before realizing it was a joke. He was wearing exactly the same thing as I: black wind pants, day-glo green jacket ...

Which brings to mind another bike ride a few days earlier and another rider who passed me closer to town — where Coggeshall becomes Spring. I said to him, though I'm pretty sure he passed too fast to hear it, "I like your optimism."

He was in shorts ....

salvation

2011-03-14T20:10:00.028-04:00

I pass by the Salvation Army on Memorial with some frequency, and I try to garner inspiration from what's posted there. Really, I do. But sometimes I have trouble, especially when real-life occurrences seem so far beyond comprehension. Beyond benevolence. Beyond meaning, even. Sad to say, I relate somewhat better to the other Salvation: Salvation Café, on Broadway. But that didn't help much when last I visited — no salvation, however fleeting, to be found in teriyaki salmon and crispy spinach — as the place was closed. Chairs upside down on tables; nothing but reflections in the windows. Salvation had its last night (last supper?) not long ago, not sure when, though signs do indicate it'll be back. Sure hope so. Meanwhile, what to make of everything that's happened and keeps happening?? Where to go with it?? Where to go ...

today

2011-03-12T17:05:00.033-05:00

Hmmm, what to say??

Today is/was St. Patrick's Day,
in terms of the parade anyway ...

OK, so the sight of a guy in a kilt made me tilt ... or, um, sway??
Compared to last year (click here), it was a pleasant day by the bay.

yesterday

2011-03-05T17:31:00.042-05:00

In the time it took me to grab a cup of coffee this morning — at "A" Market (as opposed to "B" Market?) on Bellevue — it turned into a nice day. Which reminded me that yesterday was a nice day ....

I'd been feeling a little lonely, especially as Mr. Betty was out-of-town on business all week, thus felt the need to get out and do something. Something that meant something. Something (other than grabbing a cup of coffee) that might inject energy into my existence. Something like taking a walk.

So I headed to the Norman Bird Sanctuary, just 'cause I hadn't been there in a while. Wait, come to think of it, I was there a week or two ago, but my walking partner & I were so engrossed in conversation that I barely noticed my surroundings, which when we're talking Hanging Rock are decidedly worth noticing. Anyway, back to yesterday, just as I was heading out behind the NBS barn toward the trails — seeking a do-over, I suppose, of my less-than-conscious visit a few weeks prior — I ran into a friend whose son went to school way back when with Darling Daughter. This friend, who works at the sanctuary, was with a dog — unleashed! This surprised me, as dogs are not allowed at the sanctuary. They'd scare off the birds, right? But this dog lives at the sanctuary, my friend explained. Furthermore, this was a sweet dog (to the extent that excuses bending the rules) who came right over and gave me a few licks. Which makes everything OK as far as I'm concerned. He/she was mid-to-big in size, yellow-orange in color, orange collar to match, nice white stripe down its forehead and nose, the only issue being mismatched eyes. One of them was entirely white or too-light blue or something slightly disarming to look at, though — judging from this dog's alacrity and acuity (with licks, among other things) — it seemed to function just fine.

I finally set off down the trail. Thing is: the sweet dog/doggie followed me. My friend called out in confirmation of what was apparent, "He may follow you!" Must say, the company was welcome ...

So we walked to the pond (still frozen but with plenty of soft spots), hooked a left for The Ridges, hiked along planked boardwalks and muddy pathways generally leftward and upward onto the puddingstone, worked our way over increasingly tricky footing to the end. Doggie didn't follow me so much as accompany me. Escort me, maybe? He'd run way ahead, lag way behind, stray significantly into the woods in either direction then come racing/chasing back at breakneck (seriously!) speed threatening to take my knees/legs out from under me. At one point, he totally wiped out in the crags — was it his eyesight? At another point, he leaped off the rocks after spying some sort of animal who had let out a surprised screech (this was not a small animal) before crashing off through the woods with Doggie in hot pursuit. On repeated occasions, he stood with paws at the utmost edge of the rocks looking out over the road, the beach, the empty parking lots, the sea, the reservoir with its retreating ice, the yellow-orange fields of waving grass/reeds/whatever and seemed to consider his prospects ...

For my part, I just watched. Walked. Yelled "No, Doggie!" and "Be careful, Doggie!" a few times — to which, of course, he paid no attention. I'll admit to feeling some measure of relief upon delivering him (or did he deliver me?) safely back to Sanctuary headquarters, where I ventured inside to ask my new friend's name, which I guess I really should have asked in the first place: Mango.

march

2011-03-01T23:19:00.011-05:00

I looked out the window at some point this afternoon and — realizing it was a beautiful day — set out on a walk (a march?). Sometimes it's necessary to force oneself out the door. Or window, as it were. Out, shoo, git.

I didn't git far: just from town down to First Beach, where I sat with my back against the wall in a sheltered spot on a rock thinking it felt almost warm enough to shed a few layers — hat and mittens anyway — and be reminded that spring would/will come again.

About the time I was convinced — to the point of loosening my scarf and unzipping my jacket halfway — a torn, brown leaf fluttered down out of nowhere and landed on the thigh of my jeans. It surprised me actually. Where had it come from? There weren't any trees around. Yet there it sat. While I sat. Amid the wreckage of tumbled rocks, aspiring sea glass, mangled clam shells and empty egg cases as cars whizzed past, heard but not seen, above and behind me on Memorial.

I'll admit to being relieved when the leaf finally blew off, at which point I got up and marched back home again ....