rusty

It's been a while ... for no particular reason other than I find myself with so many little strangely-interdependent projects going on that somehow my mind ends up in a tangled mess of things that should make sense and do make sense if only I could make sense of them. Know what I mean? Then when I'm not sure what to do next, or even first, in the daily chain of events, I resort to the logic that the fresh air afforded by a walk or bike ride might help clarify matters, might even point the way, but usually it just takes up time on top of adding something else to the pile of stuff to think about.

Then there's the pile itself to think about, and that's enough to get me feeling entirely unhinged ...

Things aren't really that dire; sometimes I just get carried away. I guess works in progress and a state of general rustiness offer their own sort of beauty. Still, a bit of direction (other than downward) would be nice ...

FYI: The sea wall at Brenton Point as well as the one at Easton's Beach along Memorial Boulevard apparently were built by way of the WPA; there are plaques in the concrete in both locations. That big rusty tank or weight or whatever-it-is (above) lies on the southernmost tip of Sachuest Point, whereas the graphic signage is a quasi-new feature of the Cliff Walk. As for Rochambeau (see him pointing boldly forward at King Park?), I frequently look to him when in need of focus or resolve ...

surfing

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 ...

identity

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??

hats

At 10:45 yesterday morning, my cell phone rang. It was Mr. Betty asking, "Did you see that clipping I left on the kitchen counter?" I hadn't. If I had (and how did I miss it?), I would have realized there was an event starting at 11 a.m. — in fifteen minutes — at Marble House, one of the most gilded of the Gilded Aged mansions, in celebration of the 90th anniversary of the passage of the 19th Amendment, granting women's right to vote. Alva Vanderbilt Belmont was quite the suffragette, apparently, hence the venue at her long-time (lovely) home.

Ever accommodating — and quasi-interested himself to see/hear Lisa Starr, Poet Laureate of RI, one of the speakers at the event who also happens to run a B & B on Block Island — Mr. Betty took a break from work, just a few blocks away, and came home to pick me up. I hopped on the back of his scooter (miraculous cure for parking woes) and we zipped out Bellevue (as fast as one can zip on a scooter) to Marble House, where the guard informed us that the gathering was taking place on the rear terrace. There, with a standing-room-only crowd, under marble cornices and carved balustrades and women in various poses (in bas-relief) and a perfectly-practical green awning — reminding me that it was now not then — we heard assorted speakers and introductions. RI boasts an unusual number of women in positions of political (and historical) prominence, and many of them were there: Representative Amy Rice, Former State Senator June Gibbs, Lt. Governor Elizabeth Roberts, Senate President Teresa Paiva-Weed and Newport Mayor Jeanne-Marie Napolitano.

Then we heard Amber Rose Johnson. Correction: I heard Amber Rose Johnson. Mr. Betty had received a cell-phone call necessitating that he head back to the office almost as soon as we'd arrived. Poor Mr. Betty (and poor me, who now lacked a ride home).

Anyway, Amber Rose Johnson is a 16-year-old, high-school student from Providence who won this year's national "Poetry Out Loud" project. She was, well, amazing. Lisa Starr, too, was amazing — along with her friend Jim McGrath, who helped close the event with a rousing (fitting) rendition of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, with lyrics by Julia Ward Howe, another noted suffragette. In fact, the whole scene was amazing, maybe even inspiring — not for its opulence (there's that) and stunning location on a stunningly beautiful day (all the more appreciated after several days of rain) but for its meaning. And all that associative history. And for the reminder: One line of Johnson's recitation of a poem by Margaret Walker said something about "the gone years and the now years and the maybe years." I liked that.

I also liked another speaker's take (she's a colonel stationed in Newport with the Navy) on the word "impossible." She said, whenever she hears it, she prefers to break it down into pieces and say it aloud as it appears: "i-am-possible." Yes, I know: that may sound too-cute or too rah-rah or too-perfect (or something like that), but it was perfect given the reason for yesterday's celebration ...

And, looking around me, at women (and men) of all ages sitting on gilded chairs, in assorted hats, with assorted perspectives — including the perspective of the little girl insisting that she walk through the grounds of Marble House rather than ride in her stroller, and the slightly-bigger girl with the pink-princess backpack whom I followed for a bit as I wended my way the mile-or-two back-to-town along the Cliff Walk when the festivities were over (I had no ride, remember) — I was filled with some sort of feeling about the different hats people wear and how it all (in a perfect world) makes some sort of sense in the end, as all those little girls grow up to speak up, each in her own way ...

That's Amber Rose Johnson; click here to see/hear her winning delivery.



And that's Lisa Starr, on the left. She apologized for being slightly late for the gathering at Marble House, but she had to serve breakfast at her Block Island B & B before heading to Newport (did she zip over on a speedboat?). As she said, "Right about now, my guests have run out of decaf and cream cheese ..."

lightbulb

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