chalk

I did NOT write that (right there ^^). It's just something I stumbled upon — or, more accurately, stepped over — at the Trinity Church Pumpkin Patch the other day, being John Lennon's birthday. The chalk that enabled the long-gone scribe was still hanging out in the grass nearby. As was an irresistible array of little pumpkins, artfully arranged along the web of brick sidewalks weaving through Queen Anne Square. As were people picking just the right pumpkins for whatever their purpose might be. As was the young couple trying to balance a bizarrely-formed pumpkin on their daughter's head for just the right photo opp. How well I remember such photo opps ... although I never (to my recollection) said to Darling Daughter, as this couple was saying to their young'un: "There you go. Now you're a pumpkin head!" Whatever that means. But it doesn't sound altogether complimentary or encouraging. Not that I didn't say plenty of dubious things when focused on capturing just the right moment of autumnal/familial bliss on film (remember film??).

Anyway, a bit downhill from the pumpkin patch on that picture-perfect lawn (which used to be a neighborhood) is the smash pit. The smash pit! Pumpkin-purchasing patrons are invited to vent their frustrations by hurling their seed-and-slime-filled orbs at a rock. Now I know smashing pumpkins (hey, isn't that a band??) is arguably a ne'er do well activity, and maybe the folks at the pumpkin patch are trying to remove some sort of stigma or help the community by making this tradition-bound reality more legitimate, but I just don't know if it'll work. I'm not sure anyone can curb the appeal of pumpkin-smashing (not that I've ever engaged in it) as an il-legitimate activity.

Chalk it up to good intentions ...

stuck

I'm still stuck on Saturday, when I took a bike ride around Jamestown, where I ended up climbing that windmill, which wasn't turning, which in turn made me wonder when it turned last. But before I could wonder too hard (let alone seek an answer), a cheerful volunteer asked, "Wanna go up??"

Of course I did, though it turned out to be somewhat creepy. The stairs were narrow, the planks were rickety (with wide gaps), and there were some alarming-looking ropes and trap doors and assorted other contraptions at the top level. But the view was lovely, even or especially because I was looking from shadow into light ...

Then on toward town, where I bought a cookie and a banana for sustenance (as if that matters) and continued southward. I parked myself and my bike just long enough on the sand at Mackerel Cove to eat said cookie and banana and to watch a very cheerful black lab roll in the seaweed, not once not twice but three times, much to the chagrin of his/her master, who kept leading the dog into the water in order to rinse off, just in time for the dog to emerge and do it again. It reminded me of so many trips to the beach with our sweet (late) happy dog, P, who never rolled in seaweed. P never rolled in anything — he never rolled over at all — and he was terrified of the water, as were Darling Daughter and Super Son before each managed to get over the fear and ended up loving it. They both spent HUGE amounts of time in/on/around the water from that point on. Just sitting and watching (while trying not to stare) at the beach reminded me of all that ...

And then it was over — the weekend, that is. It didn't happen quite that quickly, but I know you know what I mean: time flew. I did take time to visit Columbus, before his day was through, at the corner of Bellevue and Memorial, where he stands in the shadows across from Pasta Beach. Can you imagine his journey (and that of everyone else sailing the ocean blue in 1492)?? The waves, the sea, the seasickness, the fear??

Then there are all those Peter Pan-ish notions of planks and hooks and that funny bonnet-wearing dog Nana ...

hay

What's that they say (whoever "they" are): Make hay while the sun shines?? Mr. Betty and I tried to make some serious hay over the weekend, as the sun was shining BIG-time, and one never knows when it might stop.

So, among other things, I took a bike ride — no surprise there, except this one took place on the other side of the bridge. The BIG bridge, I mean; I ventured to Jamestown. Mr. Betty was busy doing his own thing, including yard work, which may or may not have included mowing the lawn, which might be considered — if you consider it loosely — making hay.

How I wish one could ride one's bike across the bridge, though I guess it'd be pretty scary. And windy. And potentially dangerous. So, instead, one must pack it up or load it on top or do whatever-one-has-to-do to get across, thus paying a toll just to take a bike ride in an ever-so-slightly different locale. I did it anyway: I threw the bike (gently) into the back of the car and drove across in order to ride more-or-less the perimeter of Conanicut Island. I'm not sure how far it was/is: 20 miles or so?? Not impossibly far, but far enough that it took awhile, especially as I tend to stop a fair amount.

To do nothing in particular, I might add (and I guess I just did), other than a whole lot of standing, sitting & looking around ...

Once, years ago, I thought it'd be a good idea to take the Jamestown Ferry across in order to take a bike ride, but by the time one took into account the fee to cross with a bike in addition to the extra time needed to heed the ferry schedule in addition to the fact that we (my bike and I) required a round-trip fare, the adventure lost some of its practical appeal. Too bad; it should have been a good idea.

But back to Saturday: After I'd rounded the northernmost point of Conanicut/Jamestown, where I spied some really inviting roadside/bayside chairs in which I didn't sit, as they were on someone's lawn, and that would have been trespassing (and there were plenty of signs to remind me or anyone who might be tempted), I headed south — sigh — along the westerly side then up Windmill Hill. I liked the sound of that, though I'd never heard of it, and there was no windmill in sight (!). Maybe when you're in a car, and you're familiar with the terrain, the windmill seems close to the sign announcing its presence, and you know you'll get there momentarily, but when you're pedaling uphill on a bike, and you're NOT sure there's a windmill, or if or when it might be visible from the road, it takes much longer to get there. But at last -- pedal, pedal, pedal -- there it was. What a nice spot (!), from which I could also see the just-crossed bridge; it was cool to see the two landmarks (old and new) at the same time. The bridge, especially, is such a fixture. It shows up out-of-the-blue; it's hard to avoid it. One can't avoid it. Suddenly it'll just peek out at the end of a road or on the horizon. Especially at night, with all those lights. In Jamestown, it even rises above the marsh along that long straight no-nonsense middle road, which gave me a quasi-new angle on it. On lots of things, actually. It's hard to imagine a time before the bridge (isn't it?), 'though it really wasn't so long ago that it didn't exist. Before 1969, everyone had to take a ferry across, or drive a long long way around, every time ...

IMAGINE!!

You'll have to imagine the second half of my bike ride, too (if you want to), because my battery — my camera battery, that is — ran out before I got to Beavertail. How silly of me not to charge it before I left. Makes me feel like a turkey. Although, strange as it sounds, having no battery allowed me to speed up, cover more distance, make more hay ...

trash

At some point over the summer (I can't believe another one has passed), Mr. Betty and I came upon a mess of roses floating in the bay. They were in the channel, actually, right at the entrance to the harbor, and looked like the typical clump of grass, seaweed, bubbles (and trash) until we were nearly on top of them. They became far more lovely, of course, after we "saw" them — really looked — to realize what they were and why they were likely there.

Anyway, that got me thinking — and I was reminded of it again the other day (I'm reminded of it frequently) — how familiar things often suggest different things when removed from their usual contexts. How things that climb, drag, bob and float can make you really think about climbing, dragging, bobbing, floating. They may even mark the way ...

And don't get me started on knots. Thorns. Barnacles. Certainly not waves.

That's an incomplete thought — a real mess (a bit of trash??). Just thought I'd throw it out there ...

rushing

It was one of those gray (or is it grey??), spitting days — my day-off, as luck would have it. Not only that: my alarm clock failed to operate for some reason this morning, so I awoke just in time to race down the hill to an early appointment (okay, a hair appointment, where I may or may not have been coping with gray of a different sort), which didn't get me off to the greatest start. I say that; I actually like my hair appointments (as my hair guy is a pal). And maybe the rush put me in high gear for the rest of the day; I did manage to catch up on all sorts of things on the home front. Gray, spitting days are like that: they take away the allure of being outside, doing all manner of outward/active things, and force one's inner/inward attention. That's how it works with me, anyway. By the end of the day, though, I was really craving some fresh sea air, however thick with mist/spit/whatever — to breathe some ions (isn't there some healthful argument for that??) — so I raced down to First Beach, i.e., in the opposite direction of my morning venture, before it got dark. The surf was up — not just rushing but roaring — the surfers were out, and I was engaged by the silliest sight: a pair of gray slip-on sneakers tucked beneath a gray car with two gray tailpipes — perfect Os — above the gray pavement. There was just something so cool-ly monochromatic about it. And smart, too, as the shoes were not getting spit/spat upon while their surfer/owner was no doubt out enjoying the waves. Why the shoes weren't simply in the car is another question, one for which I'll never have an answer — how frustrating to know I'll never have an answer (!). Then, back home, around dinner time, an alarm went off. Not a dinner bell or an inner bell (with some sort of answer: "Oh!"), but my alarm clock, which apparently I had set for p.m. rather than a.m. in my rush to get to bed last night (seriously, I couldn't wait). So it went off a half-day late. And having that minor mystery solved did, I must say, bring a measure of satisfaction, if not quite a rush. And tomorrow's forecast is rain ...

You know that rushed feeling??
As in, "Am I coming or going??"


He knows where he's going ...

squash??

I feel like a goofball for never making it to the Harvest Fair this weekend — it's such a tradition. But, somehow, I've lost interest with no kids in tow; I couldn't muster the oomph to get up and go. I could barely muster the oomph to get out of bed this morning, as these cooler temperatures (it happened overnight!) are just so cozy/comfortable for sleeping. And I was too busy dreaming. I ultimately did get up (of course), because Mr. Betty came home from wherever he'd been bright-and-early and told me I had to get up and check out the squash. Not at the fair (where there were plenty, no doubt) but in the park. Someone — a phantom family of squash artists?? — had left their traces skewered atop the rusty fence surrounding Channing, near the tower in Touro Park. (That park is just full of mysteries.) And, once up, I managed to keep spinning my wheels, i.e. riding my bike, to the car show at Fort Adams, where images — from cool to amusing to weird to painful —were lurking in & around highly-polished vehicles and bumpers and rear-view mirrors ...

Truth is: I did get to the Harvest Fair — a few days before it happened (does that count??). And I could see/hear all the cars, kids, fun & games and even occasional tears due to bumps & bruises & not-wanting-to-go-home even though there was no one (not a soul) in sight, based on having been there, and to other harvest-type fairs, so many (plenty!) of times before ...