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.