Love and Bob Seeger

My husband has lived in this location for thirty some-odd years. I have lived in this location, directly in town, for a little over seven. My husband and I both agree (put on your hard hats, folks, the sky is falling!) that this week-end is by far the worst of any week-end of any holiday ever. Now, I know BIB might tell me that it's just the trade off of having the priviledge of living here, but I ain't buying it this time, y'all.

Last year, the whole drunken melee in Old Harbor at the end of the parade route thing took all of us off guard, not just our new Chief of Police. This year, even though I steeled myself for something similar, nothing has prepared me for the sheer chaos that reigns supreme here in town. It is an anarchist revolution by revolutionaries who are just too drunk and daft to understand that they are, at times, seriously close to bringing down Marshall Law upon us. If not truly social anarchists, then at least poorly dressed and verbally challenged anarchists. They're all probably wearing black socks with their sandals, too.

Unless you live in or very near town, you honestly don't have the slightest idea of what's going on here. You think driving through town this morning to get to the Depot was bad? The traffic is piddly squat, my friends. I'm sure the West Side is going through their own share of angst over increased traffic, more moped horns than they care to contemplate and probably increased renter rowdiness. I don't know what the boat crowd in New Harbor is like, but I can guarantee you they can't hold a candle to the boat crowd in Old Harbor which has integrated with the bar crowd in Old Harbor which has cross-sectioned with the party on your porch crowd in Old Harbor. At 9 p.m. this evening, a group of girls (or young men's who have yet to experience the drop) somewhere on Calico Hill began screaming at the top of their lungs. Nothing with words. Nothing as an alarm. Nothing but (perhaps drunken? but they really sounded much too young) screaming for the sheer joy (?) of it. And, after many long and tedious minutes, an answer was resounded from the balcony of The Island Manor. I'm not talking Jeanette McDonald/Nelson Eddy "Indian Love Call" yoo-hooing back and forth here. I'm talking more of a verbal incarnation of the wave at the ferry from the breakwall kinda thing. And it went on. And on. For a very long time. I only take a small amount of pleasure in knowing exactly what the nubbins on these folks vocal chords will look like in a few short years.

Every year there's the usual "sneak" attack of illegal fireworks. A little pop here. A roman candle or two there. A few whistles as we all wait to hear if a bottle rocket and a roof have met. But this year has been the most blatant disregard of the law concerning fireworks that I have ever experienced. Don't get me wrong. I grew up with fireworks. I almost set the neighbors house on fire because of unsupervised bottle rocket experimentation. I love to blow on the punks and feel a sense of accomplishment when I can actually use one to get a Black Snake going. Last night, after a beautiful (sounding) fireworks display, I went to bed. I had to be up at 6 this morning to be able to play for the 8 am service. I know people don't like to think that there might be someone like me who is asleep by 10:00, but I think I've earned it. All I can say is, thank goodness the baby actually slept through almost all of it. But there was a private fireworks display - some of it at the end of our driveway, from what I understand and saw evidence of this a.m. - right here in Old Harbor that lasted, off an on, for close to 15 minutes. And the boat horns blasted. And the woo-hoos shouted. And all were having a good time. Except the two morons on Chapel Street who tried to actually sleep. My husband sleepily said to me "Do you think we should call the police?" and my thought was "There's no way they can't know about it already. If they're not there themselves by now, there's probably a pretty good reason, God bless 'em." Can you imagine what those poor boys/girls in blue (and some in bike shorts) are going through this week-end? I'd say "Hug your local policeman today" but at this point they're probably more apt to shoot you than look at 'cha. All night long and into the way past wee hours of the morning the fireworks and loud partying went on. And the drag racing. Apparently Chapel Street is on the loud muffler muscle car/motorcycle circuit and they were cruisin' it up and down time and time again. And the guy who's always a day short and a dollar late whose extremely loud car was only matched by his even louder stereo blaring out Bob Seeger at 4:30 in the morning. I don't even like Bob Seeger at 4:30 in the afternoon, much less being woken by him well before my appointed time.

My daughter wants to go to the parade by herself and meet up with all her friends. Maybe even walk in the parade. It's a right of passage here and usually is something that one can feel fairly safe about. But this year, after having seen, heard and experienced the kind of drunken, ill responsible, poor judgement riddled mayhem...I'm frightened. I don't want her walking in the parade. "We'll carry Super Soakers". Woah. Over my dead body will you carry any soakers, squirt guns, water balloons or variation thereof. The BIB had a good point when illuminating us on the fact that people don't show up with digital cameras and camcorders, cell phones and Pentaxes to have them ruined by some kid with a Super Soaker. So she's forbidden. But I can't forbid any of the other kids. And she'll still be with them, even if she's not holding. Things are so volatile and short fused in this arena anyway, with the added burden this year of some kind of out of control brain wave machine that's making normally nice, well mannered people (I ASSUME) behave like complete idiots, that all it takes is one ill-fated squirt at the wrong person. I cannot guarantee her safety while walking in the parade. I certainly can't guarantee her safety at the end of the parade. God knows it would be mortally embarassing to have her father follow her as a body guard (and probably cause more damage than it deflects). But I can't deny her. All her classmates (I hesitate to use the word 'friends') will be there. At least the ones she talks to. It's her last year. I doubt ever. Like I said, it's a right of passage and I'm loathe to deny her. But if you have been experiencing this alongside of me these last few nights, you know why I have every good and some not so good reasons to be frightened for my barely a teen-aged daughter's safety.

Again, I have to say that I don't come from a tourist culture. This is all still very foreign to me. I am little enamored of the sea, so I don't get the week-end party boater mentality. I am ashamed for many of my fellow men. What is it about Block Island and a holiday week-end that makes people behave so? Other than the booze. Do people actually say "Let's go to Block Island, raise hell and try to get arrested?" Are there folks who actually think assault and battery were a good idea at the time? Let me guess, since Block Island's 12 miles off the coast, laws of the mainland don't apply?

I feel for Chief Carlone right now, I really do. Short of locking down the island, he is the proverbial salmon against the stream. Of course they know about all the fireworks going off. Of course they're aware of the drunken displays and the public disturbances. It's just that these things are probably pretty low on the priority list right now. And that scares me, too. The police are making lives and safety (and probably public exposure of private parts) the topmost and everything else falls under "major nuisance we'll get to if we can". Drunk driving is a priority, drunk walking probably isn't. Open brawling is a priority, open containers are not.

To touch on something the BIB said in one of their latest blogs, that if you've been here more than five years you obviously love it...I disagree, from a purely personal point of view. I love my daughter who loves her grandparents. I love my husband, though he is in no way worthy of me. I love my dog and his freedom and his love of running in the surf. I love the people - not the drunks both visiting and resident, etc. I love the Lamb's and their stealth package deliveries. I love Lillian Martin and her beautiful hair and impish smile. I love the way Lorraine Cyr gets things done and her charitable nature with her no holds barred attitude. I love the new vicar at St. Anne's and her instant love of the island. I love the way Anna L. constantly puts down her piano playing and knew the minute she arrived on island that this was THE place for her. I love all the voices in the Ecumenical Choir and all the kids at the school (well...most, at least). I love several of the teachers. I love a lot about this place, but not the place itself. I love Carrie Todd and Molly O'Neill, Vin McAloon and Anne Henault. I love the Mitchells and Paul Q's tuba. I love watching Hutch mow his hill with a mower and some rope. I love Peter Gempp's answering machine that tells you in no uncertain terms that this number is not the phone company. I love Luis and Madeline, Maureen and Shannon, Lisa and Susie. I love so many.

I, especially, am NOT feeling the love this week-end as I am about to go calm the baby who has been awoken yet one more time - this being the third time in two hours.

Please forgive my cynicism. I even love the tourists in their own special way. I just wish the majority of them would go home. Now.