Watch Hill, RI 02891

Watch Hill, RI likes to pretend it has it's own zip code, but it doesn't, matter of fact it's technically a part of Westerly- and if you were to mail something to someone who lived in Watch Hill- but happened to put Westerly on the envelope- truth is, it would get there just fine. But they won't tell you that.
You have to drive through Westerly in order to get to Watch Hill too, take 78 and keep going straight through the light, then take a left and head towards the water. Unless it's the summer- only tourists will take that route, and the rest of us will arrive en route another way.

So when you hang that left, not long afterwards you'll get to No Bottom Pond- and while I'm sure the pond does have some sort of floor to it, I will admit that it's fairly far down...so it seems to be endless. It has the classic wooden sign half tilted to the right that warns of such. I remember one afternoon when my Mom and I took a detour through the No Bottom residential area, and what they don't have in the bottom of that pond, they make up for in their housing, I assure you.

Up and on the right is Sun Up, a rather eclectic art and jewelry gallery where we often found birthday and Christmas presents. More often than not, there is a large, and rather modern sculpture on the front lawn of Sun Up and now to the right is a pottery place as well. You know, paint your own and what not.
Keep going, and on the left is the house with the hill of a front yard, only truly interesting because the owners of this home have well gardened this front..hill. It must be some sort of disaster if anything starts to slide, it's a wonder that garden doesn't gather at the bottom after a hurricane.
Speaking of which, the fire department will eventually also appear on the left, both my Father and brother were volunteer firemen, Dad even did the book keeping for them up until last year. Some of my clearest memories were playing in the firehouse at night while Dad did his office work. It had a very distinct smell about it, not bad, just distinct- as most fond memories do. And since he often left the lights off, the room I played in the most was left to be illuminated by the light of the soda machine. If I could scrounge up change it would be a toss up between orange and grape.

Next door to the firehouse live my great aunt and uncle. I can't put them into words much, mostly because they transcend them in many ways. They live, yknow? They tell my Dad he should travel, and when he questions why, they ask- whyever not? Last time we stopped by, we talked about Bend, OR. We share a mutual respect for that small town in the very middle. She is tall and has whitish blonde hair that is permed just like any other woman over the age of 70. You know what I mean. He is slightly stooped as he gets older, but in no way has it affected his stature in any other way, at least not to me. Shep and Marion can be found at the same spot on the Watch Hill beach during the summer. Well, not just them, but anyone who lives in Watch Hill. It's just the way it is, every family has their own accustomed location. They are right at the entrance and a bit to the right. We are down a bit farther and to the left, right at the corner. But that's getting ahead.

While their road was to the left of the firehouse, ours was directly across the street- Nepun Road, to be exact. I was sad when we moved from that house, but Mom assured me that it was better in my memory than it was in real life. I think she was speaking from her own experience, it was the same house that she grew up in. I remember the day that we moved, her intuitive and loving wisdom had sent me off to go ice skating with my cousins. That way, I never saw the change, it just happened. She saved me from any painful last memories, turns out she would do that a lot.


If you were to go through our back yard, past my grandfathers small guest house, you would walk into another yard- the front yard of my aunt's house to be exact. I didn't realize how unique that situation was until right now. Especially seeing that my Mother and her sister were not particularly close. Mom had my cousins over all the time though, and while the age gap between myself and my siblings keeps my memory fairly limitied, I do remember holidays at their home.and swimming in their pool. On the whole, however, I preferred our home to theirs, it was more peaceful.
We lived in a community of large houses that kept generations of familes in them, and while some still do, many have become summer homes for young families who live in cities. Including ours.

You could walk into downtown Watch Hill from our home, and we did, especially during the summer. We walked into town to get ice cream and watch the sun set. You have to sit on the sea wall to do that the best.
Downtown has changed a lot in some ways, and in others it has remained exactly the same. There will always be a popcorn machine at the last corner before the beach with an old woman who works it during the summers. She's worked at it for my whole life. Or there's the Olympia Tea Room, it's owned by a man who has two daughters. My sister went to school with the elder, and I went to school with the younger. Now that I think of it, they're a Jewish family.
The Candy Box is as pink and ruffled as any good candy store should be, and it smells like mint and chocolate. If nothing else, go in for the smell/ But if you don't want food or candy, just get a Dels and call it a day while you watch little kids on the Watch Hill Carousel. It's the oldest one in America and there are two rows of horses, the big ones on the outside are the coveted ones. If you run into the ring to get one fast enough it means you will also have a chance to grab at the brass ring when you go around. As the ride starts a long shute gets put out where rings will fall down, the brass ring is the last one, the rest you collect on the horses ears. Get the brass one and win a free ride.I'm much to big to take part anymore, but every chance I got to go to Watch Hill this summer always ended with Dels and watching others bring their children to the carousel. Someday I would like to take mine there to. And I will show them where their grandmother and I grew up, where I walked to the beach to find white stones, and where the Ocean House once stood.

The Ocean House was a huge hotel right on the water and surrounded by other Watch Hill mansions. They completely tore it down a couple of years ago and are now in the process of rebuilding it. There was an auction for all of the furniture and I went with my parents, I remember that my Mom was very sad and I feel certain that there will always exist the regret that they didn't buy anything. I have a photo of the Ocean House at the end of my bed now though, I found it at an art festival in Westely last summer, he was asking for a lot but I didn't mind. In some ways he wasn't asking for anything at all.
How could I know that days before Christmas, sitting in bed with music on and watching more snow fall, I would curl up with my Watch Hill sweatshirt on and look up at the foot of my bed and take the time to remember what was- and what will be, you know, when I bring the kids and all.

drive.

There is something very right about driving home late at night with the heat blasting and windows down so that I can smell the crispness of the snow and the accompanying woodstove smoke. I had my music on and I had it up. I had it up loud. And like I said, it was very right. I got lost, intentionally. I like to do that, it makes me learn how small places really are. It also provided me with more opportunities to take in the Christmas lights on the houses. I’m glad I live in New England- they do it right with white lights and candles in the windows. “And it might not be the prettiest thing you’ll ever see…but it’s a new day…” that’s what was playing.

I wonder if making decisions in life feels like getting lost, only to learn how small and intricately connected life is to begin with. Maybe it only seems like the long way because it isn’t familiar or isn’t the norm. I think that our culture confuses what is normal with what is right. I really do. And I wish more people challenged that.
I think that taking the normal way only means you know what’s coming, it means you can multi task and still get there, or let your mind wander while you maneuver along the well lit road with others. Sometimes we get to places and realize that we have no recollection of the drive.

I don’t want to live my life like that.

I’m petrified of arriving at the end, with a gasp at the realization that I was unaware of how I was spending my time.
Because the reality of that would be that it was wasted…and no one desires to face that kind of tragedy about the most precious gift they could have been given. Surely no one does.

And I don’t care if it’s hard, or seemingly long and out of the way- and perhaps therefore lonely at times. I don’t care if it stings when it slaps, I don’t care if it makes me cry, I don’t care if it hurts. If it means that I am intrinsically aware of what is going on at all times, and that I am taking in the necessary details as I go, then I think it perhaps how it was supposed to be…unpredictable, challenging, fault finding, and inevitably an opportunity to grow- or perhaps learn? Both.

And if I’m to take it a step further and apply it to my faith, I think it falls into place a little bit. I was given life, and then, in a way, I chose to give it back. To say that although the choice is mine, I have decided to suppress what I think I know, in order that I may listen to someone else’s directions. Although listening to direction isn’t so easy. It requires constant attention to detail and doesn’t leave room for any lack of involvement on your part.
So that regardless of what I have already seen and understood, regardless of what I think I know, or even do know- I am instead to disregard it as normal and normal as a waste of time- although it may not seem like it at first. It will seem like that in the end.

By the end of my wanderings I had rolled the passenger window down too. I was leaning forward so that my arms were covering the top of the steering wheel and my chin was almost resting at the top. I was eventually dumped out onto Essex Street, and as I passed the small green street sign that inherently said to me- "now you know where you are"- I was happy to pay less attention to what I was doing and more to what had just been done. Which, in effect, then led me here.

I don’t want to live my life only to arrive and realize that I hadn’t paid attention to how I got there. Not for a moment.

windows.

there were two chairs, one on each side of a small, round table. and i opted for the one to my right, seeing this option would allow to me to look out the window too. which i like to do quite a bit.i tried to read, i was on the last chapter but his comparison of christ and the church to romeo and juliet just wasn't doing it for me. disappointing, it being the final chapter and all. but it had hard competition. a little girl, her mother, and her grandmother had come in. while they waited for their drinks, the mom gently held the fingers of her tiny daughter- who therefore twirled around in circles, consistently delighted each time her mom smiled and asked "oh my, are you a ballerina??". each time she twirled around she began to catch my eye and grin, we all laughed together when she finally dizzily drifted out of motion and her mom had to scoop her back up into her arms to keep her from bumping into things as she walked. she was a good mom. she exuded warmth. and i noticed that the socks that peeped out from her jeans didn't match...i think that's the sign of a mom. that and the glittery scrunchy on her wrist, which i suspect was not her own accessory.i watched the three of them leave and thought about it for a long while, thankful to be near a window.

that afternoon i drove around with the heat on and the windows down. i like the windows down, more than i like being warm. but i also like the feeling of breaking the rules when i treat myself to both.i drove this way to winslow park, or at least that's what the sign said. it was the perfect combincation of beack and trees, and i chose beach first. having ordered my sandwich to go, i was soon happily sitting on the dock with a brown paper bag, a bottle of water, and my camera.and i sat for a long while.i was soon joined by a father and his two sons. they walked by me, down to the end of the dock and into the rocks; it was low tide. he was the kind of dad that seemed content to listen to their commentary, only occasionally offering a precautionary warning as they neared slippery rocks. although, he did correct the eldest's notion that a clam's age could be told by the number of marks it had. his son predicted his find to be the ripr, old age of anout a hundred years. his dad suggested that "stuffers" the clam was a year and a half at best. although, to my dismay he didn't explain to them how he knew this.i sat and looked out at the water and listened to them for a while. when i left to walk into the park, i passed him lying on the dock in the sun, with his hat over his face and his hands folded over his chest. meanwhile his two sons crawled around the dry rocks, continuing their educated conversations amongst themselves, occasionally including him in their conjectures.

i got cold after a while, so driving back into town to head to my final destination i stopped for tea, which i brought with me into the woods. you see, as i had sat on the dock, i thought about how being outside is such an easy way to find God. perhaps it sounds cliche, and perhaps it is. but it's true. the leaves were a perfect ochre yellow, the reflection on the water made mirrors look like the man made fabrications that they are, and the only thing i could hear was the sound of the trees. it reminded me of the first time i fell in love with the outdoors. i was sitting outside outside our house in an adirondack chair, and i just listened. since then, i can't not listen if given the opportunity.so while i sat on the dock and walked in the woods, i thought about this. this gift that is the manifestation of the God i strive to serve. this ability to find HIm in the quiet existence of His creation. it's like walking around someone's home, and after seeing how they choose to live, they seem to make more sense to you. and then even if they're not there in the home, you feel as though you are with them nonetheless. it's like that. i thought about how easy it seemed to be to find him when life was quieted down and what surrounded you was what He chose to surround Himself with. having also given considerable thought to the christian church, i was content to find that He seemed so much more here then inside the walls we so often seek to find Him in.so when i turned a corner on the path to see two branches bent across like a catherdral window, i could only stop and marvel. i laughed too, but there was no one to hear me, not that i minded.

the circumnavigation of violets.

For the past nine months I have lived in one of the quaintest and most highly sought after towns in the North Shore. Rockport, MA has approximately three ice cream shops, one coffee shop, about 6 t-shirt stores, a pizza place, three of the same silversmith store, and one all around local café It is called the Greenery and it is where I am currently sitting. I’m a local. I walk into town at night for my coffee and a rendezvous with the ocean. I’m one of those. Those people who have essential needs in life that involves the smell of salt water and the sound of the waves, who like mountains, but prefer water. As a result I am also typically surrounded by those people, except I have differing opinions on them. As I walk through Rockport at night and see their large houses and picturesque views of the ocean, I realize they are more often than not- inside, not home, too busy. And I think, what a waste, I would appreciate it more.

Except, I’m not so sure that I have. For many of these nine months I have spent my nights with people, at work, traveling, or simply sitting in my tiny apartment. It has warmed up in the past few weeks though, and I stretched my “local” legs, so to speak. I gave up going to the gym in order to invest time in life. Rather that life should invest in me actually. Life looks like the bright purple violets in the window boxes outside the café, the lacy curtains in that white house with red shutters, the red fishing boat called the Sweden, the flat stone on the left of the bend in the road that’s perfect to sit and stare out at the ocean, and the older couples who walk into town every night and talk about life. That is, they talk about the purple flowers, the fishing boat, and themselves. And then my thoughts are this, when does life start? “So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around?”. That’s kind of it “shopgirl”, when do I stop walking around feeling like I’m just an observer, a local only for a time, a nomad, an observer? Or will it stop? At what point does someone sit back and think “ah yes, my life- here it is, I’m in it”. Does one always feel like they are circumnavigating their own story, writing it out so as to have a reference for how it started? Next to me are two women talking about their ambitions, but also their accomplishments. The younger is bragging to the older, and much like her tiny face contrasted with the broad shoulder pads of her tweed blazer, is she aware of the contrast of how she has defined life as compared to what it is? Namely the violets outside the window that she can’t see from her position. I wonder.

I am just as guilty. I have not sufficiently taken into account the blessings of where I am and what or who has gotten me there. Except, unlike this woman’s preoccupation with her board meeting, I believe I am too preoccupied with the future, and believe it would be in my best interest to take a couple of steps back and see the lines in the sand that this tide has left. My best friend once said that she would like to sit with me with tea and scones and simply honor the past by remembering it. I think this is one of the most loving things she has ever told me. Perhaps this too is key, to have the ability to stop and recognize. To let the future be mentored by the past and recognize the purpose of the correlation between the two. Or perhaps to simply remind one another of the beauty of where they are, despite the complications of life- or what we have defined it as: accomplishments. Oh that we should point out the deep purple of the violets and say yes, this is a gift.

The older woman has turned down the younger’s offer to come back and see her house. I can’t say that I’m surprised. She has talked about herself quite a bit, and now the sun has set, she can no longer see the flowers that are hidden in the dark and perhaps the older woman would like to go to her own home and remember them. Perhaps she too has spent time circumnavigating life and would like to live it instead. Or perhaps I am thinking of something I read in a book…

chutzpah and hersheys.

when i was a senior in high school i did that Special K diet. every day I brought a container of cereal with me for lunch and bought milk in the cafeteria. for two weeks i was quite good about having my cup of cereal with milk and as much fruit as i wanted. good in the sense that a: i love special k and this was no hardship whatsoever; and b: not too long in i started swapping skim milk for chocolate.it's a step up from childhood though, most kids like cocoa pebble or lucky charms (sick if you ask me) i took sugary cereal to a whole new level. special k and hershey's syrup. dad would shake his head and scoff, mom told him to stop it, i would grow out of it and let me enjoy it while i could. i was a good kid, gimme a break. she was right, not the part about me being a good kid- although i was. rather, i grew out of it (and moved on to much more odd combinations, i assure you). i was given the time to work through it, and eventually moved on.

i got through the special k diet differently though, i mean...who can eat cereal twice a day forever? at some point you wake up to the reality that - heck,this is boring... and you know...my body wasn't built for "lighly toasted rice cereal" twice a day. they should put a disclaimer on the box: sure this works, but let's be real- at some point you snap and eat normally again. or worse. perhaps you go a little bit crazy and lo and behold gain weight. i suppose that wouldn't be there best line though. you know: lose 6 lbs in 2 weeks, gain 12 lbs in 4.

so as i sit on my bed, next to a fairly empty box of the aformentioned backfire. i think this- why do we do this to ourselves and say that as long as the short term seems right, the long term will follow suit. that dealing with problems accordingly means focusing on how it should be- as opposed to the reality of facing what is and the potentially long road that it takes to get there. to be so real and honest as to say, this might take a while- but in the best interest of not gaining 12 lbs in 4 weeks. let's just be real. and hey, who said the long road is bad? slow it on down.

that said.

as i drove home tonight in the rain i thought about dealing with grief. and not just grief, but sadness, loss, and hurt. when my mom passed away i was told that very day and quite often in the days to follow...that i should be happy. more often than not, this recollection leaves me speechless.you know, many people use the word chutzpah thinking that it means boldness or bravery. lies. it means rather audacious- the neve! let me tell you, it takes a vast amount of this so called chutzpah to tell someone who just lost their best friend and mother, that they should be happy.

Christans are loaded with it.

i remembered this painful lesson i have had to learn. that there was a small contingency of people who told me to grieve, to be in the present and let it be the horrible nightmare it was, and is. i only wish more people had told me it was ok to cry. that this emotion was normal, expected, and above all- healthy. healthy is not a 2 week cereal diet in the expectation of lifelong change. healthy is also not focusing on what you think you should be, so much that you are no longer facing what is. until you break, and the full swing back to normalcy feels much like the food binge at the end of 2 weeks of rice cereal. face it, healthy involves indulging in the hershey's.

today was the commencement for the class of 2007. i remember all too well the torrential downpour of my own graduation, expecting to have to take a gondola to the gymnasium. it rained again this year, and as i drove i thought about conversations i had had over the past week. conversations regarding transitions, or rather the lack thereof, during graduation. it is simply not normal to ask an entire class to finish exams, move out of their apartments, say goodbye to the friends and faculty that they have had for four or more years with, find jobs, and all the while...be happy about it. if ever asked to speak at a commencement i will sit on the stage with my legs on the side, lean on my knees, and admit to them what no one else will...whispering to them "this is hard, isn't it?".

sunsets are beautiful, but they are also slow- and in that slow time, we sit and watch- appreciating them for this slow transition. but you know, they also mark the end of a day. and looking ahead is exciting, but it does not condone neglecting the reality of what it will take to get there. so go ahead, take some time....transition.

tell me, why is there such an emphasis on the future at ceremonies like commencement? i have worked four long years to get here, do you think we could talk more about that for a bit before we move on? spend some time looking things over and closing the door before trying the latch at potentially new ones to open?

anyone who knows me will know that i am not encouraging the excessive indulgence of emotions. and perhaps it is odd to compare special k with chocolate syrup, to the transition out of college or through life changes. but to me, it makes perfect sense. i think mom was right, this is the only time you can do it. so go ahead and enjoy the moment. you'll grow - in some cases you'll grow out of it, in others you'll just grow. and that's ok. because it's healthy. sit down and realize what just happened, how you got here and why. don't rush through it, a lot has happened to get to this point. honor the past by remembering it. chocolate syrup and all.

l'chaim.

on my walk into town i pass a few things...

a yellow house with peeling white shutters, bright yellow wreaths, and granite steps. it is for sale, and in the interest of pasting one of the fliers into my journal for vision's sake, i pulled out one of the ads as i walked home. it has four bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a colonial kitchen, fireplaces, and most of all- the pride of boasting itself as the home of yet another one of rockport's random historical figures. all over town there are signs that say "home of...." in stately, crisp black lettering. i admire the history, but marvel at the irony. although, today i did pass one that explained the historical figure as a player in bunker hill. this was helpful and provoked a bit more respect from me.

i pass street signs that never cease to bring me pleasure. simple ones such as harbor street, tuna wharf, and atlantic ave (i like this mostly because unlike many others, it is quite true) but then there are other signs that make you think "well, naturally" in a slightly ironic tone of thought. my favorite says "way to old boat ramp". it's true, it is.

there are also 3 different weathervanes. one sits atop a very stately yellow home with black shutters. i can't tell, but it looks a bit like a crescent moon. another is a fish, and i can only see it from a distance, and seeing as it is typically always the same time of day when i walk, it is consistently set against the sunset. i like this small fish. it is all things new england in a simple, understated instrument probably no longer referred to. again, my favorite is probably the simple wooden whale off of one of the side streets. it always seems to point east.

and my latest curiosity - one art studio that stays open. it is small with two doors. on the right is best seen the man who owns it, the artist. he is always inside, standing at his easel and painting, even when i walk into town at night. he faces away from the door and he is small and round and looks a bit like pavarotti. he is always wearing a beret and rather brightly colored clothes, today was a layering of hot pink and lime green- somewhat like his whimsical paintings, although these are a bit more tame. the canvas he was working on yesterday was different than today's- and i wonder what has happened...