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This is Aldo's new friend known variously as Mimi, Fifi, Luna and, most frequently, Stop!. We got her from a local pet supply store that rescues cats from the Mohawk-Hudson Humane Society. They have the cats neutered and provide them with all preventive shots. They are well cared for. Mimi was about 4 months old when we brought to home just before Christmas. She and Aldo have become very good friends. Aldo loves to chase her and does so all the time. If she doesn't want to be chased she hides, jumps up out of reach or just lies down. She also like to bat Aldo in the back when he walks by unsuspectingly. She's part Maine Coon and has a very soft coat and gentle affectionate nature. Her legs are long and so is her tail. She's a leaper-flyer. So far we've only lost a few small bowls. She tried to eat a cactus, once.
Aldo is our French bulldog. Bulldogs are the incarnation of stubborn determination. They do not give up. Ever. No wonder they are the mascots for so many sports teams. Aldo will keep playing until he can't any longer. Despite the fact that he was born without any rear hip joints, he gives all he has. When he doesn't want to walk, he won't. He plants himself and takes root in the ground like a sapling. Try as you might, you can not put him on his back. It's impossible. When the weather is nasty like it was today, he lets you know that he doesn't want to be outside. He heads for home pronto after an obligatory raise of the leg or two. His stolid bulldoggedness is no match for me. Bulldogs are masters of resistance and tenacity. They know their power and advantage. Their low center of gravity enables them to see the world close to the ground. When Aldo wants to play, you play. It's impossible to do much else. He does know that I will not play when we are eating dinner. Before and after, I/we are fair game. He will retrieve a toy and remind you that he wants to play. Insistently. Persistently. Steadfastly. Nothing or no one that I know can outdo Aldo's ability to staunchly holdfast.
Above: Napatree Point before the 1938 hurricane
Below: Napatree point on Friday March 20, 2009.
This part of the coast holds a lot of memories for me. It is a blessedly desolate nature preserve marred only by the ugly plywood cabanas of the Watch Hill Beach Club. Watch Hill has old and new money cache. Mostly old and mostly plentiful. Einstein stayed with friends here and used to sail alone without a life jacket even though he could not swim. The behemoth Ocean House is rising again after being demolished. This incarnation is in the form of rooms and condos. Some people are doing quite well in the depression of the new millenium. You don't see anyone jumping out of the condo at the top of the Ocean House. Large round windows with a view that is panoramically sweet and precious. Very nautically yours, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
My uncle George used to bartend at what was then called The Narragansett Inn in Watch Hill. I went to a few wedding receptions there and used to stop in for a drink when I knew my uncle was holding court at the bar. He was a good bartender. He knew how to make a drink and he knew how to work a crowd. One night while in high school we stole beer from under the place and took it out on a small boat where a small group of young stupid guys spent the night. Everyone knew that the beer was stored under the Inn in an unlocked space enclosed with wooden lattice. Watch Hill was where the preppie crew congregated. Misquamicut Beach was more proletariat, except for the exclusive Misquamicut Club where at that time no Jews or African-Americans were allowed as members. I used to caddy there and hated every minute of it. The caddies were confined to a concealed shed that reeked. The card sharks grabbed all they could from unsuspecting souls like me. It only happened once to me. The caddie master was a cantakerous invalid. He gave the best bags to his relatives and friends. The 11th hole's tee is elevated and looks out to the Altantic and the osprey nests sitting atop telephone poles. There is a road between the tee and the fairway that leads to the green surrounded by small mounds and sand traps. It was my favorite hole, not only for the view, but also for the fact that I knew that there were only 7 more holes to go and most of these were cooler due to the sea breezes. Near the tee is a rock noting the highwater mark of the 1938 hurricane. I was always fascinated by that and tried to imagine the water covering the road by a good 30 feet or so.
Some of my most enduring memories are from the good times at the beach during the summer. The music on the car radio from Murray the K on WINS from NYC, the endless procession of cars up and down the beach at night, fried clams, the sea, sun and hot sand, black bikinis, the Blue Sands night club, my friends, the sorority girls from Hartford and Springfield, the initiation rites of young boys and girls, the smiles and softness of beautiful young women...
A little later in life, I had some interesting experiences at Watch Hill during the spring and fall. They centered around the lighthouse and Napatree Point. Maybe it has something to do with the ghosts of the Niantic Indians that haunt the shores. I remember a vivid red-purple winter sunset at the lighthouse while the conversation drifted along with the setting globe of fire. Going back further, I was in a mid-college crisis and not wanting to become an aeronautical engineer anymore than the man on the flying trapeze. This was the time that I first read Jung's introduction to the I Ching. Synchronous happenings that have formed me to this day. Am I getting too archetypal? The ocean air is a balm despite my sinus-allergy affliction.
I dined early at Go Fish. At the top of the raw bar menu were Watch Hill oysters. I have been wanting to taste them for years and finally did in all their sweet brininess. It's at the tail end of oyster season but I know the purveyor there and I trust him. It has been at least 5 years since I first spotted them on an UWS seafood restaurant menu. They are in demand in seafood establishments up and down the east coast. Then there's that fellow I met at the Avondale boat yard a few years back who can get me some in the fall.
As I walked into the Knickerbocker later that night, I was impressed by the care with which it has been restored. It seemed a bit smaller than I remembered it. What is it about shrinkage of spaces? Like the street I drove down in Westerly's north end that seemed like a cow path in width. The lighting at the Knick is very well suited to the room. It brings out the best in it. How many times had I been there for wedding receptions? The sound system is top shelf. Great depth, but not so much as to overpower the space. Bigger and louder is not always better. Most sound people tend to overdo it rather than tailor the system to the acoustics and dimensions of the space. The Mystic Horns were in excellent form. I believe the beefed up horns might have had something to do with it. They blew pretty hard and everyone gave their all. The keys were pounded and the guitar and bass strings got a workout. The drums were rock steady and relentless. The dancers felt it and so did the listeners. If they can retain that level of intensity and spunk, they will draw consistently on Friday nights.
Rich Lataille, tenor & alto sax
Carl Querfurth, trombone
Fox Mills, guitar
Tommy Mahfood, piano, accordion, baritone sax, vocals
Neil Govin, drums
Rory MacLeod, upright bass
Christine Clooney, vocals
P.S. Later in the evening, I had the pleasure of talking with the talented and friendly, Elaine Mills, spouse of Fox Mills.
Ninth Street Espresso in NYC has changed its blend. We always stop there for coffee when in the city. One of its locations is in the Chelsea Market where there are also Lipari capers in salt and jars of fiery red peppers from Tutto Calabria at Buon Italia.
From today's Writer's Almanac "Adam's Curse" by WB Yeats.
We'll be boiling breakfast later today to celebrate St. Patrick's Day and the wearing of the green!
Martin Hayes: Download 09 The Lafferty's-Grogans-Star of Munster
