balance

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

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

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?

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

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

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??