re-entry

Wow, it's hard to get back-to-it, whatever "it" happens to be, after a break/pause/vacation. Is this how the kids feel heading back-to-school, where Darling Daughter is heading tomorrow, after summer break?? I can barely recall, though there must be some level of similarity, however microcosmic. Anyway, she (Darling Daughter) and I had a most delightful time Up North, where we engaged in a "NH bonding experience" — that's how DD entered it on my calendar, so I wouldn't forget. The highlight-among-highlights was trekking along a tiny portion of the Appalachian Trail and spending the night in a hut in Franconia Notch, opposite the much-missed Old Man of the Mountain and Cannon, a ski area whose tram and trails (where we've spent many happy past-tense times) were visible across the way. Our chosen path upward — 3 miles and it took us 3 hours, i.e., we were traveling at 1 m.p.h., meaning we're super speedy — was the Falling Waters Trail. Did we tackle it in the counterintuitive direction?? Somehow it seemed easier to climb up all those tumbling granite boulders beside waterfalls than down them. But, once up, following the rocky ridge (Franconia Ridge) for another 3 miles or so as it rolled narrowly-but-clearly along from peak-to-peak and cairn-to-cairn was, well, amazing. Trying to sleep that night on the bottom level of a triple-bunk with strangers snoring (or just breathing loudly) all around and mice scurrying & squeaking & scratching through Darling Daughter's backpack in search of gorp a.k.a. trail mix (who doesn't love trail mix??) was less amazing. Or less pleasurable at that particular moment — though, in hindsight, it was no big deal. In hindsight, it even added to the memorability, as challenges often do, mice being a definite part of the scene. Just as lichens were part of the scene; I've always liked lichens. And butter — yes, butter — carved with a leaf insignia by the croo (not crew, croo) who served us the best best dinner and breakfast at the AMC's Greenleaf Hut was part of the scene. And little white flowers struggling to grow above tree-line — mountain sandwort, I later learned (mention of "sand" reminding me of another familiar habitat); they were part of the scene. And the sunset. Well, the sunset. And the morning glimpse of foggy currents winding among smaller mountains (hills? foothills?) surrounding the one where we were standing, not so unlike the tides flowing in & out along the rocky sea-level coast back home, where we'd be headed, down the trail (being the Old Bridle Path), soon enough ...

pause

I was walking down Mill Street not too long ago (relatively speaking) — on that day I went looking for the yellow lobster, back when it was so incredibly hot for weeks on end — and experienced the simple joy that's really not-so-simple of running into a friend. I was below Spring Street, past assorted privet hedges, just past that long yellow-ish fence after which comes the huge cobbled courtyard, across from the Christmas shop (with joyful ornaments hanging year-round between lacey curtains in the windows) at the old fire station (now housing a contemporary art gallery). And I'd just spied a cute Vespa — it'd be so cool to have a Vespa — when I saw Harry riding uphill, up Mill, on his bike. I could tell immediately that he'd gotten a haircut: Harry's long graying curls had become short graying curls. So, I called out, as he pedaled past, "Harry! I like your haircut!" To which he called back, "Me, too!" And that was that. Then, at the bottom of the hill, at Aquidneck Lobster, where the yellow lobster was nowhere to be found, I walked out to the end of the dock and looked down into the water, where I saw a menu. A menu?? Yes, it was odd to see a menu from the nearby Landing Restaurant (where so many go to enjoy a lobster) floating in the water, sending out ripples in every direction on the surface of the harbor's dark depths. And then — at dinner just the other night at a restaurant other than The Landing (not that there's anything wrong with The Landing) — another friend said she'd heard the yellow lobster didn't make it. He'd experienced so much stress due to the media attention and resulting extra handling that by the time he got to the URI Aquarium, where he was supposed to live a long lucky life "going to college" (that's how the media played it), he died. Now I know he was "just" a lobster, and that if his shell weren't yellow he may have found his way to a restaurant, Landing or otherwise, on the unfortunate end of the dining experience, but this news made me sad. Very sad. I mean, I met this rarer-than-a-blue-moon lobster (eventually, at the Fish Pier). I even commented (criticized?) that he didn't look all that yellow to me. Looking back, I wonder if his shell was changing colors — from sunny yellow to blue — as a result of the very change in circumstances that seemed so fortuitous at the start. Honestly, it gave me pause ...

And the reason I'm bringing it up today is that I'm taking a pause: I'm heading North — always a welcome break from heading south — with Darling Daughter for a few days to climb a mountain or two (real ones) before she heads back to college. That dear Darling Daughter even helped me out this morning by sharing a snapshot. She came back from the beach the other day, where she'd been lounging in the sun with a friend, and said, "Wanna see a cool seagull pic?"

Sad tale of the yellow lobster aside (RIP Yellow Lobster, intended with all sincerity), that's joy ...

That's DD's shot (right there ^^). And, I dare say, if you click on the top watery snapshot to enlarge it, you can probably read the menu ...

progress?

I was headed over-the-hill on my bike — riding through the Top-of-the-Hill a.k.a. Kay/Catherine Street neighborhood — a week or two ago. In fact, I was headed down Catherine, beside the swooping wall of Hillside, approaching the bottom somewhat rapidly, when suddenly I thought, "Where am I?"

The reservoir looked different; it was bigger somehow. It took me a second or two (or three) to realize that the view had opened up because the carriage house (fancy name for a garage?) at the bottom of the hill was ... gone!

I'd always liked that carriage house; Mr. Betty and I considered it (in our dreams) a potential home at one point, when it was for sale. But it was a "project" — to put it mildly. It had been divided into units, as many carriage houses are, and undergone a period of relative neglect. Or so it appeared from the outside; we never actually went in.

Oh, but all those wonderfully-weathered (rotten?) shingles, one wall of which now remained, awaiting the final stages of demolition. And that cupola — mirroring the swoops of Hillside — sitting by a dumpster beside the road. I trust/hope/assume the new owners plan to duplicate it or at least pay homage to the design in some fashion. It'd be a shame, however practical, to throw such a thing of historic significance and (admittedly-subjective) aesthetic appeal away.

So, as I stood there, gawking at the trashed cupola, craning my neck to consider its shingled slopes and angles, a construction worker noticed me.

He said, "You want it?? Twenty bucks."

He then said he was kidding, but I wasn't quite sure ...

scale

It seems early for cruise ships, but there was a big one in the outer harbor last weekend. Depending upon one's shoreside vantage point, the way these ships loom behind Goat Island makes them seem bigger than Goat Island. And from the water, they seem bigger than the bridge. They're not that big, of course ... but they're big. Like some sort of floating city (or starship??). And those little (in comparison) lifeboats ferrying passengers back-and-forth to town are a definite part of the picture. One must watch out for them (!!) as they zoom right along, taking tight turns around buoys, paying limited attention to local craft. Or that's how it seems when you're the one in the local craft heading out for a little joy-ride/look-see on a breezy, sunny Sunday ...

Mr. Betty and I headed north instead of south, for a change, under the bridge and around Jamestown to Dutch Island, where we thought we'd be in the lee — very important for swimming, picnicking and reading the paper — and where we saw some sort of amphibious inflatable. I'm serious. It rolled down to the water as if it were a lifeboat on stilts, then the stilts folded forward and back allowing it to sit/float in the water. Then it zoomed off.

I thought I was seeing things.

Same story when I saw the guy headed toward shore in a sailing dinghy with a heart on the sail — wait, what?? A heart on the sail?? Is that like a heart on a sleeve?? More likely, it's just a design or class I've never encountered ...

And somehow that made me think (as one thought/thing always leads to another) of all those Optimists, the teeny-tiny boats that kids learn to sail at Sail Newport. I'd seen them racing everywhere in the bay, under the bridge, even out in the ocean in recent days and weeks — there was some sort of major Optimist regatta going on. Such large fleets of such small boats looked bizarre — and, yes, optimistic — like schools of white minnows flitting on (instead of in) the big blue sea. The rules dictate that they must sail to their races but they can be towed home, or so I've been told. That explains why we saw teams being towed back toward the harbor as we headed back toward the harbor ourselves ...

But Mr. Betty hit the gas at that point, so the Optis disappeared all-too-quickly in our wake as we made tracks (not really) to the mooring.

dinner

Darling Daughter sent me to the farmers' market a.k.a. Aquidneck Growers' Market just before closing time yesterday with instructions to get some sort of grainy bread and fresh greens. She and a friend were planning dinner ... for the grown-ups, too.

It's not uncommon, actually — the kids, when they're home, running the show when it comes to dinner — as I've gotten dreadfully negligent (lazy??) about such things. Someone will ask that age-old, ultra-important, perfectly-logical question at some point toward the end of the day, that question I've heard I-don't-know-how-many-times over the years: "What's for dinner??"

And my typical response is: "I have no idea."

Case in point: Just a few weeks ago, Mr. Betty and I sat outside on the patio, where we'd been sent to shuck corn, and watched as Super Son and a bunch of friends talked and laughed (and drank) and prepared dinner ... in our kitchen. We were watching through our own windows. It was weird.

Isn't it the kids who were always sent outside to shuck corn??

Anyway, on my way home from the farmers' market yesterday, where I'd gotten everything my daughter requested and more, I was walking back through the dappled light along that wide recently-reconcreted sidewalk under the trees along Memorial, and I passed a woman seated on a bench.

She asked, "Do you have a dime?"

"Sorry," I said, though I hate saying that. Of course I had a dime — several dimes, most likely. Dimes are always hanging out in the bottom of my dirty catch-all bag/pocketbook (that word makes no sense: "pocketbook") waiting to be dredged up for something very important like a cup of coffee. But I had no intention of stopping and sharing. Furthermore, I was carrying too many things: the bread, the greens, some great-looking peaches, some seriously-ugly heirloom tomatoes (the uglier the better), a corn-and-pesto covered pizza, not to mention the dirty catch-all pocketbook. It's impossible not to buy more than one sets out to buy at the farmers' market — and the same goes for Saturdays, when it takes place in Middletown, out by Chaves and Newport Vineyards. In other words, my biggest problem/excuse with respect to the woman in need of a dime was that my arms/hands were too busy carrying stuff to stop and dig one out of my bag. I gave her a shrug to go with the "sorry" (she could see the problem, couldn't she??) and kept walking.

But I'd gotten no more than twenty-or-so steps — treading upon two-or-three of those huge sadly-new concrete pads (don't step on a crack, or you'll break your mother's back; what sense does that make??) — when I started wondering why she wanted a dime. What can one buy with a dime?? The notion of "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime" is hopelessly outdated ... when considered literally, anyway. There's no food or drink to be procured with a dime. One can't make a phone call with a dime. Do phone booths even exist anymore?? And penny candy?? Those were the days ...

That's when I realized I'd misunderstood. She'd asked for the time. Now I really felt like a jerk. No doubt this woman thought I was so uncaring and self-absorbed that I couldn't twist my wrist forty-five degrees to read the watch so clearly visible on my arm and do her that one small all-important (assuming time is important) favor.

So I turned around, headed back to the woman's bench, tried to explain/excuse myself — though, really, there's no excuse — and told her it was six o'clock ...

Come to think of it, I found a dime on a Newport sidewalk once (ten times the luck??), but that was Broadway, not Memorial ...




Yes, I know: that clock's in Bristol. I do get out of Newport on occasion ...



We did have fish for dinner, but not that fish ...



And those leftovers are even farther up the bay in Barrington, where certain docks (as everywhere, for legitimate reasons) have limited access ...