Comfort...Foster Style.

Lately I have been thinking about my childhood. I am not going to pretend that I am old; I am only twenty two years old...god willing I have my whole life ahead of me. But for those of you who are more experienced in the game of life than I am, I am sure if you think back to twenty two, you will remember a time of changes. I will say that up to this point I have never experienced so many changes in my life at once. Sometimes I just sit on my bed in my dorm, throw some music on, and remember the good old days. I can remember cold November days at Capt. Issac Paine school, playing football with all of my friends in the field next to the playground. The ground was hard and tundra like, and the sky was cloudy...but good cloudy...snow cloudy! We would pick teams, and then spend our ten minutes competing for bragging rights and maybe for a glance from the girls (which we would never admit at the time). When we weren't walking in the footsteps of our gridiron heroes, we may have been causing all sorts of mischief underneath the many walkways of our large wooden playground. I will fill you in on a little secret (if you have ever been a teachers aid at Paine School, you already know), but many children have been burrowing tunnels underneath that playground for well over decade. With some stealth one can navigate his or her way from the sandbox, to the tree in the center of the playground (a distance of about ten feet) all underneath the very wooden platforms our elders walked on. If you were caught however...it was to the princpal with you..for long interogation sessions (some of which ran a whole 15 minutes!). Then I think to the South Foster Fire Station holiday bazaar. I remember when it was held in the old fire station in Hopkins Mills. I remember seeing Grandma in her red ladies fire auxillary shirt, and my mother buying me tickets to put in the cups. The best part was getting a few dollars to buy some cookies or some hot chocolate. Although I like the new fire house, there was something about that old basket mill-turned-firehouse down in the mills which made the bazaar something special. Then there was summer time. Shortly after my parents were divorced, my dad started a short lived (but in retrospect great) custom. We would go to either Shady Acres, or Expresso's pizza in Johnston a few nights a week, followed by a swim in Shippee Mill Pond (Whilloby's to locals). It would be dark but the moon usually lit up the pond enough where my dad would hold onto me and swim. It is one of my most cherished memories. When we got back to our house, he would put me to bed, and I would fall asleep to the sound of distant hooting and hollering, and the view of a soft glow on the tree line from a bonfire. Foster's future adults were enjoying their summer nights in the traditional Foster way. Many times I think about Ponaganset High School. I think about the many crushes I had, the smell of the woodshop, the heat of the upstairs rooms, and seeing the number "79" spray painted on the guard rail in the parking lot...a relic of the graduating class of 1979. To me that seemingly insignificant grafitti was like a picasso or something...it held the memories of the class my mother graduated in...it was almost like a time warp. Since then the numbers have been painted over, and the school has changed dramatically...but thats the beauty of memory...those feelings will be with me forever...and I only need to walk into Country Builders in order to get the smell of the woodshop again. I think of these times (among others) and realize that those memories are not the end of the line. Change always happens no matter who or where you are. I am so happy and thankful that I spent my childhood in Foster, where my mom grew up, and where; if I can manage, I would love for my children to grow up. For now, I look forward to creating many more memories in Foster as I will be returning in December as a college graduate!

Rip van Winkle Awakens in Westconnaug

Keeping pace with the news these days is a dizzying experience; things are changing drastically by the week, often faster! Since my last post on October 2nd, it seems there is a new world out there, not to mention a proposal for a new Town right here.
In fact, the buzzword of the day is "change". Although heard mostly from the bullhorns of politicians, the stark reality of the choke hold it already has on us is staggering! Having been ill this past winter, I spent an inordinate amount of time napping. When I spied my old woodchuck friend emerging from hibernation the other day, I had visions of Rip van Winkle. My furry little neighbor and I have awakened to a new Town that might soon be known by the name of Westconnaug. Or --- did we slip back in time to the year 1662 when the land now called Foster was named Westconnaug?
In 1662, the tract of land bought by three Providence proprietors (land developers/speculators---some things never change) from Narragansett sachems Newcome and Awashouse, was known as Wishquatnoke, a name soon anglicized to Westconnaug. Organization of the Westconnaug Company to apportion the land occurred in June, 1678. However, it was not until 1755 that the Providence Proprietors made their final division, and all lands included in the future town of Foster were apportioned. We ought not then to dismiss the proposed super town out of hand, falling back to sleep for the next several decades while change occurs right under our noses, with a snore our only comment---
We invite you to read about the historical Westconnaug and the proposed super town on our new "Current Events" web page at http://www.fosterpreservationsociety.org/. Wherein lies preservation?
You can share your thoughts as Comments to this post.

Apple Tree Diary - Position

Have you ever considered your position in terms of where you are physically placed as a factor that influences your perception? Here I sit at my table, everyday at mealtime, looking through a west-facing window at an apple tree. Now that the days have cooled enough to close the window, twenty four panes of glass segment the tree into individually framed scenes. Every few seconds each scene changes as the sun rises higher in the sky casting a variety of shadows, a breeze tickles a few leaves, a pair of sparrows play tag in the branches. If I could “cascade the panes’ as the computer Windows’ program lets me “cascade the tiles”, I could drag the ripe apples to the bottom branches for easy picking. Ah, Fantasy.

If perception is reality, as they say, it would seem to follow that where and how we position ourselves (allowing that choice in the matter is, in itself, innately debatable) is pretty important---to understate the case. So I ask myself, “why sit and look out the window then---especially one that obstructs a clear view with divided lights?” And here comes the muse, rising like the jinni out of the lamp.

Divided lights --- yes, we all live by our own divided lights, our unique perspective, our position. A topic for endless exploration. The utterly amazing realization is that every single individual on our spinning earth has a unique position, a unique perspective, a framed view of their own. No wonder there is a great deal of gunfire beyond my apple tree --- literal and figurative.

One prominent public figure in the news has surely put a great deal of thought into his position in recent months. Alan Greenspan, our former Federal Reserve Chairman (age 81), is heavily invested in the process of repositioning himself. This is a fascinating story of power, personality, policy and politics (we won’t discuss money). Some are asking whether the mighty has fallen.

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Ohh! How beautiful the Blue Jay is high up in the apple tree against the backdrop of bright red fruit! The little sparrow down below seems not to notice him though, oblivious to the danger of dislodged apples from above.

Perhaps relative to none of this --- is a quote from a letter inviting me to my 45th high school reunion at St. Mary’s Academy of the Visitation:

“Don’t ever let age wrinkle your spirits. Remember, Grandma Moses began to paint at age 78; at age 81, Benjamin Franklin played a major role in the writing of the US Constitution; and at age 60, Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel.”

It is a generally accepted opinion that Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Chapel in an upside down position. Come to think of it, Greenspan’s new book, The Age of Turbulence: Adventures in a New World is disturbing to some for its reversal of his former position. It all brings to mind a vision of Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole in her Adventures in Wonderland. Ah, Fantasy.

Fall Away From Home

The last time I spent Autumn in Foster was my junior year of High School in Ponaganset in 2003. Fall of 2004 I started college in New Hampshire, and I have not seen the leaves change in my hometown since. Some people would say I was lucky to spend the fall in New Hampshire, but I say no way. Living in the North East, I can see the colors of fall pretty much anywhere. To me, Autumn is not about the leaves but rather the feelings, and home (Foster) is the only place it seems; where I can capture them.

Autumn makes me feel a few different things. The season makes me sad, but not in a bad way...if you can understand that. The Leaves start to die and fall off the trees, creating beautiful deep oranges and reds, but also exposing things hidden by summer. The seemingly random holes in the ground where a home, barn or even an old mill once stood show their bare walls when the leaves fall. They always remind me of people that came before me who might have lived there.

Get Off at Any Exit!

After a doctor’s appointment in East Greenwich yesterday, I decided to drive up to Providence to have lunch with my husband. On most days, when faced with the choice, I will take any roundabout route to avoid I-95, but on this day nothing else made sense (except to forget it and go home). I took a deep breath as I chose the I-95 North entrance instead of South to retrace my steps to the hinterlands of Foster.

By the time I reached the Thurbers Avenue curve (that infamous commuter traffic barometer), forward progress had slowed to 4mph. The crawl continued to the State House exit. I could see the dome--- and as it turned out, I could have reached my destination more quickly if I had walked (or, the thought crossed my mind, jumped into a boat). Trapped in four lanes of shoulder to shoulder steel hulks spewing noxious gases, revving engines and throbbing rhythms, the tension heightened; a momentary urge to get off at any exit!

Freeways (Interstate Highways), though, are a way of life from which there appears to be no exit. In Jean Paul Sartre’s play of that title, i.e. “No Exit”, he traps three people in a room with no way out. From their misery in each others’ company arises his statement "l'enfer, c'est les autres" (Hell is other people). My sympathies were with that view yesterday. Yet, for a bedroom community like ours, highways are a lifeline to jobs and sustenance.

We can associate freeways with so many of the environmental woes plaguing us these days; (their entangled nature somewhat like the child’s rhyme, Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly, remember?) energy needs, air pollution, climate change, sprawl, and now the expanding price of pasta in Italy ( less grain, of course); not to mention freedom as a way of life and all that it entails. We really can’t get off at any exit --- can we?

Thoreau said he could walk to his destination faster than his neighbors could work to earn their train fare. And he did. But he never got on the freeway to begin with I guess. He knew from day one about the logic of raising the price of pasta to lower the price of oil.

There was an old lady who swallowed a horse - She's dead, of course.

“The construction of the U.S. interstate highway system was the largest public works project in human history, and has altered our landscape more than any other project.” Read more at this link for an interesting perspective on freeways.

An Apple for Breakfast

6:40 am: As I munched my banana from some exotic land, my little wall neighbor worked for his breakfast right outside my window. As I read last evening’s Pro Jo article about “---small agricultural fairs struggling to stay open”, a shaking of leaves caught my attention. Huh! What’s he up to (should I apologize for my gender bias---). Up and down the branches; quickly, hurry, reminding me of Alice’s White Rabbit, “I’m late, I’m late”.

Back on the lowest branch he found what he’d apparently been after, a fair sized apple. He straddled it, worried it, twisted, turned and generally beat on it until it fell. Ah! It fell at the base of the tree, behind the wall, out of my view. Darn!

I left my banana to go take a look, crept as quietly as I could. Yes! He didn’t hear me; there he is, tucked safely into the tiger lilies. Oops! a squeak/scold/leap, all in a blink, into the wall. I felt a little pang of guilt, believe it or not, but I had to see the whole breakfast routine unfolding just outside my window.

Back to my banana and the “fair” article. Past President of the Middlefield, MA fair is quoted saying, “You beat yourself up year after year, and it reaches a point when you ask yourself what we’re doing this for.” “It’s mostly about tradition. But it gets to be a real soul search.”

FPS is currently researching the history of Old Home Days for a book that will be ready for OHD in 2008. Thanks to Earl Hopkins for loaning the original journals of the Old Home Association, started in 1904. Tradition is alive in our hands as we read them.

A Good Book

Here is a link to a complete online copy of John Burroughs' 1916 book, Under the Apple Trees. I had never read Burroughs work until I discovered this wonderful book online when I "googled" Apple Tree Diary out of curiosity, lest I was infringing on a copyright by using that title. If you enjoy observing the wild creatures amongst whom you live, and have time and taste for a philosophical view of their kingdom, I recommend this wise and soothing book by this renowned naturalist.