I did not get to watch the fireworks this evening. Although they sounded just lovely. It wasn't out of protest that this was a July 2nd celebration, nor was I boycotting to demonstrate my lack of support for the themed parade. I held the baby. I figured, as tired as this kid is, he would probably be able to sleep through most of it as long as I rocked him. He, in fact, snored through the whole damn thing. Can't sleep through the jingles on the dog's collar, but he can sleep through the entire Independence Day display?

An interesting thing happened, though, while I was rocking him in the darkened room. I had a chance to exercise my considerable imagination - old actors never die, etc. As I rocked and cuddled and closed my eyes, I realized there were no cars, no loud motorcycles, no drunken Leonardo DiCaprio wannabes outside my window (a la 4:30 this a.m.) screaming "Woo-hoo, happyF-in' New Year" (I'm not sure if he realized that New Year's is in the winter). Instead, for just a few minutes, there was simply the sound of the fireworks. Which, with very little effort, quickly became the sound of revolution.

I could see myself in an old Colonial home, rocking chair by the window, babe on my lap (although back then it probably would have been my grandchild, or my last child of fifteen), my dress stained and smelly from working all day and my hair hiding under one of those cute little dust caps they all wore; probably not because it kept their hair clean, but because it kept everyone from knowing how incredibly lazy they had been that day and napped instead of brushing one's locks. I could envision myself listening to the sound of cannons from shore and return fire, perhaps from ships or more distant British Artillary. It wasn't that much of a leap to imagine the smaller musket fire and the sound of thickly soled feet running down Chapel Street in an effort to defend the buildings and families of the town. Perhaps I would have been sneaking peeks from between the window shutters, afraid of cannon or musket balls launching themselves through. Maybe I would hold my breath and pray that the British army would see the black chimney my husband had painted as a show of support for King George and our homeland. Or perhaps I would have been a tad less affluent and was listening to determine the pitch of the battle, waiting for my husband or father or brother - town militia - to walk through the front door with the news that it was all over and we had chased the British to the next town. That we escaped death or the burning of our fields and buildings yet one more time.

I could easily look at my beautiful, sleeping baby boy and wish - Torrey or Guerilla - that his future hold promise, ambition and fulfillment and that he would reap whatever he sowed. I would pray for him, just as I did tonight, that he know great love, God and patriotism. I would whisper to him that he should live life with little regret and never sell out his dreams - that he be true to himself and his upbringing.

Luckily, I put my son down in his crib to sleep and then headed back to the present and my refrigerator with the Cherry Garcia ice cream in the perfectly working freezer.

Tourist Traps?

Lordy, Lordy, Lordy...it's days like these when I have to ask myself "Why in the hades did I ever move to a tourist spot?" Not being from one - or at least, the tourists in Kansas City are only identified by their fingers pointing out of the car windows - I find this whole circus frustrating, degenerating and sometimes degrading. It was actually suggested to me today that a summer resident (one who doesn't even need to rent their house to pay the mortgage, mind you, and shows up for a few weeks each summer and sometimes in the fall as well) who "actually owns a house here and pays the property taxes that send your kid to school" made this person "technically" more of a resident than I. Today I almost (accidentally) plowed into two taxies doing u-turns on curves (both on the Southwest side, too), had a girl yell in my window because I had to stop in front of where she was walking rather than run her over as a car passed in the other lane, had several people (I think coming from Kittens) step right out in front of my car (while the kids were in it, of course) and cross the street and never once looked to see if traffic were coming, even as they crossed the other lane and into the bank parking. I had people park in back of me at the Depot and, while I was doing a rather decent job of trying not to make a three point turn as I backed out of my parking spot and around their vehicle, another car (now I know why they're sometimes referred to as Massholes) apparently tired of waiting for me, backed out and almost into me, and forced me to block the two empty parking spots that the cars in the road were stopped for...what a mess.

Many of you know that I am bitterly embroiled in the saga of the non-sleeping baby. Trust me, I do everything I can short of dipping the ol' rag in wine. I can't tell you how frustrating it is when somebody in the two block radius decides - at 2:30 in the morning - that surely all these houses, B&Bs and hotels in the area surely wouldn't mind if they shot off their illegal fireworks. Hey, I love bottle rockets as much as the next sleep deprived person, but if I have to follow the law, don't you? And when it cuts through the air filter (which runs right next to the crib) AND the fan and still manages to wake up the little guy, then I'm extra cranky and not the least inclined to laugh it off as drunks being kids.

Tonight I heard on the news that over 80 million people worldwide suffer from hunger. And I'm not talking "I really ought to get some onion rings to soak up a little of this fourth mudslide" hunger here. Honest famine, political, economic, war and disease induced, "we don't even know the meaning of poverty" hunger. And when I heard this, I blushed. How many times have I turned up my nose at the wax beans served to me on my $20 dinner plate? There are people who get up every morning from sleeping on the dirt, who don't get to decide which outfit doesn't make their butt look bigger than it already is, could care less if this damn fog makes their hair unmanageable, and certainly are completely unconcerned whether the Ten Commandments is in their courthouse. They pick through gutters, trash and sometimes things too unmentionable for me to keep down my ground turkey taco salad not to find breakfast, but to find any food at all for the day - hell, maybe even the week.

My husband and I own three cars between us. Two real pieces of crap that get us where we need to go here on the Island. One very nice car on the mainland that gets horrid gas mileage. And yet there are places in the world where a bicycle is considered a sign of "making it". And my daughter has the guts to complain that her friend's house on the West Side is too far to bike?

There are women in this world who do not lay out on the beach in bikinis (okay, there's women here on Block Island who don't do that, either, but that's our choice), who do not pick which lip color shows off their eyes, who do not drive cars, vote for their politicians (or choose not to vote, as the case may be), go to school, become independent in any way much less doctors, lawyers, chief justices and teachers. There are still women in this world whose fathers and then husbands actually get to tell them what to do with every minute of every day, how to talk, what to say, whom to say it to, and what they may purchase at the market. And while it does sound suspiciously like my marriage, I, at least, have the option of not listening, not following and not accepting.

There are countries all over this world where people, just like you and I - some of them funnier or more charming or more likely to make a bigger difference in this world with just a tiny chance - never leave their homes for fear of their lives. There are men in Iraq (and I'm not talking politics or right or wrong of the war here, just guts) who show up every day to fulfill their duties as policemen - some simply because it's the only way they can feed their families - even though there is an astronomically high risk that they will not go home that evening. You think our guys have to deal with some unruly people?

Who are we to complain about the open container laws? Who are we to bitch and moan that we can't bring our cars to Block Island and now we have to walk - or worse, take a taxi. Who am I to complain that I'm not taking the weight off fast enough when there are 81.5 million people who'd give their left arm for just such a problem? Who am I to sigh in exasperation that my baby isn't sleeping well in his beautiful honey stained crib with the Sealy Baby Mattress as I toss and turn in my Company Store sheets and pray to God while staring at the non-leaking roof over my head?

God Bless America, folks. Land that I love.

The Train Wreck

I can't help myself. Every time it's on the TV; whenever I see a little blurb about it on my MSN home page...I can't stop myself from watching/reading/gawking at the unbelieveable train wreck that is Tom Cruise.

I grew up with this guy's career. I saw "Risky Business" and the silly football movie and "Top Gun" in the movie theatres. I've never really been a huge fan, which is probably why I'm even more into this macabre downfall than ever. But every movie I've seen him in (except, maybe, for Mission Impossible - what WAS the plot or the point?) I've enjoyed. Especially The Last Samurai. I even kinda like the fact he's become the main guy for a really, really good director. But this is all small talk fluff. The real stuff is all about his mid life crisis.

And make no mistake, folks, this is a very public, very painful to watch midlife crisis. Let's see, normally cool, polite, unflapable guy who has always been very capable of keeping professional and private separate suddenly is acting like...well...remember that girl in the lunchroom who wanted everybody to notice how vivacious and outgoing and funny and cool she was and so was always talking too loud, laughing too much, over-reacting in "pleasant" ways...just too much and too insincere? Don't 'cha think this guy is acting the same way? Forty some-odd years old, twice divorced and he's going this publicly gaga over some girl half his age after only six weeks????

And yet...I can't turn my eyes away even for a second. The sheer arrogance of his interview with Matt Lauer. Yeah, guy, you're the only one in the world who knows the history of psychiatry...and because of that history, all the good in the world that it does is null and void. Shall we talk about the history of a religion based on science fiction books? Even Mary Baker Eddy didn't go that far. How about how modern medicine started with vivisectionists? Puh-lease. Oh, oh, what about the role of public religion in the first place? And the history of orthodonture? Or...wait...this is a good one...how about the depletion of our planet's resources and the greed of burning petroleum that could otherwise be used for better screen actors makeup by the wasteful burning of fuel in race cars? I'm sorry, did I say makeup? I meant tupperware/diesel fuel/almost anything made in the world that actually contributes to our quality of life.

It's a train wreck. I can't look. I shouldn't look. It's wrong to look. And yet, I can't tear my eyes away.

At least I now have more lunch date conversation than who the Block Island Blogger may possibly be.