High Rise painters

My son took this picture for me yesterday, they have started to paint the condominium across the street. When I have my bed turned facing out from my bedroom window , I can lay here and watch them for hours. An interesting job. I wonder how much they get paid? . Do they get windy day compensation ? good weather right now, no wind and very dry .

Narragansett – preview of first three chapters

Preface

 

The cool autumn air refreshed his lungs as he hiked through the forest towards the top of the small mountain. His backpack was lighter than usual—he only carried six seedlings today. The shovel and two gallons of fresh water he carried presented most of the weight. His legs were still strong and he relished the climb.

He stopped at a small clearing at the midway point and admired the view. He was in the southeastern part of the Big River Management Area, near Henry Brown Road. The busy city of Warwick was to his left. To the south, he could see North Kingston and the Jamestown Bridge in the distance. Narragansett Bay stretched out before him, east towards Prudence Island and south towards Newport and the open ocean. Even this far inland the salty ocean breezes mixed with the clean smell of freshly fallen leaves. He breathed in deeply, letting the orchestra of his senses intertwine with his memories.

It was still early morning, the overnight fog had not yet completely dissipated, the town of North Kingston, now considered a full-fledged city, was waking up to another noisy day. He could hear the sound of traffic even though he was more than five miles from nearest highway. The commute for thousands to Cranston and Providence had started before dawn. The drone of an occasional airplane making their approach into Wakefield airport, added to the background noise. He was grateful for the buffer that the hills and forests provided. He stood amazed at their ability to absorb the impurities modern civilization produced.

Further out on the bay, closer to the ocean break, but still several miles inland, Narragansett's many piers and wharves were bustling with activity. Most of the boats had left before dawn and were far out into the bay and salt ponds, but the processing and packaging houses were busy. The harvest was good this year. It was just his third harvest since retirement, so not being a part of the action was difficult for him. His shoulders ached to be pulling in a large catch bag or lied of oysters. He longed to be the first to gauge the ripeness of a large oyster. His sons and grandsons had that honor now.

However, being here in the forest was therapeutic and allowed him to continue to participate in the life of the bay on his own terms. He turned to face the top of the mountain and resumed his leisurely climb. The forest was younger here, less than twenty years old. He recognized the trees by name—Maple, Birch, Aspen, Oak, Poplar, Elm, Dogwood. He had planted most of them. Their brilliant autumn colors added to the older growth forest further down the mountain. He breathed in the oxygen they created and bent down to examine the decaying layers of leaves on the ground. He brushed away the newly fallen yellow, orange, and red leaves, and dug his bare hands deep into the soft compost surrounding the roots of a Maple tree. The soil was heavy with moisture, life, and nutrients. The rich earth had a sweet fresh smell to it. This was his harvest now—he was satisfied with the forest's progress.

The trail opened into a wide meadow. He had reached his destination. There were only a few pine trees here, none older than a couple of years. The rest of the meadow was grass and low bushes. No indigenous trees had taken root here since they were clear-cut over forty years ago. He veered off the path and came to a place where the grass was less dense and the bushes had been cut back. In this patch of about fifty square yards, twenty young trees were thriving. He set his backpack down and rested for a moment.

He looked across to the neighboring mountains and hills. There was still plenty of work to do. Forests were slowly making a comeback, but there was still too much open land. Almost every mountain and hill in this region had been clear-cut during the last few centuries—the lumber had been used to build the cities and towns of New England. Cleared acreage had been needed for pasture, farms, and suburban sprawl. Humanity's insatiable appetite for development had reshaped the landscape.

Over the last fifty years, some of the land had been reclaimed by slow growth forests. Unfortunately, however, fast growing Pine trees dominated most of the forests that were repopulating the hillsides. They were easy to grow and a favorite of the commercial lumber industry. Pine, to him, looked out of place here. The tall, straight evergreens belonged in upper elevations and colder regions. Their pine needles covering the forest floors looked clean and inviting, but they didn't hold the rain and nutrients that a thick layer of deciduous leaves could manage.

Some of the native forests were returning, like the one on this mountain, and some old growth forests had survived. He felt optimistic—if he did his part, and the Sierra Club and Arbor Day Foundation movements continued with their efforts, eventually indigenous forests would reclaim their proper place surrounding this beautiful bay.

He checked the young trees that had been planted over the last several months. They were growing well. He trimmed away some of the grass and weeds around their slim trunks and gave each one a drink of fresh water. He talked softly to the saplings as he tended them. He enjoyed the solitude of the moment and contemplated his place in this ecosystem as he worked. In some respects he felt as if it was his divine duty to plant the trees—an ancient tradition practiced by native and colonial fishermen long ago. They knew instinctively what he now understood scientifically. The health of the forest is intimately connected to the health of the bay.

Satisfied, he moved to the last young tree facing the west side of the meadow. He carefully removed the six saplings from his backpack and began to prepare the ground for planting. Out of the quiet forest below him he heard the sound of voices. A couple of hikers were approaching, enjoying the beauty of the mountains and forest on a cool autumn morning. He was not a possessive man. He welcomed visitors to the forest. Nor, was he a solitary man—he treasured the joys that friendship and working together could bring.

When the grandfather and his grandson emerged from the shade of the forest into the bright sunlight of the meadow and greeted him, he responded cheerfully.

"Good morning to ya."

"We have a few trees to plant, can we join you?" The grandfather asked.

"Of course, I see you've come equipped," he responded, noticing that the grandfather was carrying a well-used steel shovel and his grandson had a worn looking combination rake-hoe.

"I'm Jackson Hazard, very pleased to meet you," the grandfather said, "This is my grandson Jamie."

"Jackson Hazard, of the Hazard Bank in Newport?" He asked, as he stood up and reached out his right hand in greeting. His family had kept their money at Hazard's bank for generations. He had met Hazards from Kingston at various functions and even the occasional holiday party, but he rarely mingled with the extended family from Newport or towns further north.

"It is a pleasure, I'm Wilson Williams."

"My grandfather founded Hazard Bank, and my son runs it now. Call me Jack."

"A fine bank and a good family," Will said smiling at the young boy.

"Thank you. We have three Red Maple saplings to plant today. Can you direct us to a good spot for these beautiful trees?"

Will sensed something familiar about Jack as he guided them twenty yards or so up the meadow. His memory had never been that great, but now that he was pushing eighty it took much longer to pull up faces and names from the past.

"This would be a great spot for some Red Maples, plant them in a triangle about twelve yards part," Will said with confidence, "ten years from now this will make a beautiful spot for a picnic."

"Great, and when were done we'll give you a hand."

"I always accept offers of help when it comes to preserving the forest," Will said as he turned to go back to his saplings.

"Hey, aren't you Will Williams of Narragansett?"

"Yep, I sometimes go by Will."

"Do you remember me? We worked together over forty years ago to purchase land for Tom Beaufort's Christmas tree farm near Rome Point. We were able to stop the nuclear power plant from being built."

A broad smile came to Will's face, "Yes, I remember you now, very well."

Part One: The 1600s

 

Chapter 1

 

The oyster and twenty of her brethren were ripped from the oyster bed with a rake-like instrument and shoved into an open-mouthed basket woven from dried strands of Sweetgrass. The basket, attached to a thin cedar pole and a length of hemp rope, was pulled fifteen feet to the surface of the bay and dumped into a flatbed canoe. She was quickly separated from the shells, rocks and mud that had been her home for the last three years, washed clean in the brackish water and dropped into another basket. The crabs, sea anemones, shrimp, barnacles, mussels and other small animals that lived in the nooks and crannies of the oyster bed with her, were thrown in another basket or tossed back into the ocean.

Her razor-sharp cover valve did little to deter the human hands that were now examining her. She instinctively constricted her abductor muscles tightly closing her bivalve shell. At the same time she blew out any excess water from her gills creating a vacuum affect. She was impenetrable now to even the most efficient predators. There was a sharp tap on the top of her shell and then a moment of silence as if the human was expecting an answer. Suddenly, the slightly curved end of a short, thick knife was forced into the hinge holding her two valves together. The blade vibrated slightly and twisted, popping her shell apart. She didn't feel any pain—oysters don't have a central nervous system.

The knife slid upward and cut the abductor muscle, completely opening the shell. Her flat top valve was tossed away. She was fully exposed now, lying helplessly on her slightly concave bottom shell. Her body, soft and tender in appearance, was dominated by her abductor muscles and mantle. Her small three chambered heart continued to pump colorless blood through small thin-walled vessels to all parts of her body. Her gills continued to exchange gases across her mantle. Her two kidneys located on the underside of her muscular body never stopped removing waste products from her blood. She was still alive.

The knife slid under her belly and severed her body from the shell. A few seconds later, as her heart continued beating, she was crushed by the human's molars and swallowed. Her death had all taken less than ten seconds. As far as an oyster is concerned, being shucked and swallowed whole by a human being was actually a quick and easy way to perish. Being smothered by silt, suffocated by algae, dissected by a blue crab, smashed to bits by a hungry otter, or slowly digested by a starfish, were much more traumatic ways to die.

She had lived a good life and grown to a large size for an Eastern Bay oyster. She had been spawned six years ago in the month of June when the waters in the bay had warmed. She had been one tiny egg amongst several hundred million floating in the shallows of the salt pond. Her cilia had propelled her through the water into a massive cloud of sperm. The odds of being fertilized and developing into larvae were not that high, but she was lucky, and her precious journey through life had begun.

She developed into a healthy larva and swam through the brackish water for couple of weeks, growing daily, but still infinitesimally small compared to the world around her. Somehow she had avoided the shoals of fish, shrimp and other feasting predators of the bay. She finally attached herself on the decaying flat shell of a large grandfather oyster that had been a part of the natural oyster bed in the salt pond for generations. In a few days, she had transformed into something called a "spat"—a baby oyster about .25 millimeters long. She had begun her life as a filter feeder.

In a healthy ecosystem the life of the filter feeder is a good one. She spent every hour, of every day, drawing water over her gills using her perfectly adapted cilia. Delicious plankton and other edible organisms in the water were trapped in the mucus of her gills, and from there the food was transported to her mouth, where it was efficiently eaten and digested. She grew quickly and within a year, she reached maturity. By that time, she was filtering over a gallon of seawater per hour.

During the first couple of spawning seasons she had participated as a male, sending clouds of sperm into the water. By her third year, she began producing eggs—releasing millions of them each season. Even though she started out as a male, she identified herself as feminine. Her life was devoted to the survival of her species—creating sperm as a young male, and then producing eggs as a mature female. Over the course of her lifetime she brought life to thousands of oysters.

Her existence was "keystone" to the entire ecosystem where she lived. She filtered the water in the bay, keeping it free from impurities. She devoured the plankton that flourished in the water and converted it into energy. At the bottom of the food chain she provided nourishment for countless animals. Her outer shell combined with thousands of other oysters to create reefs and beds where hundreds of animals lived and thrived. She ensured the propagation of her species. As the oysters thrived, the bay prospered.

The Narragansett native that swallowed her whole said a short prayer of gratitude for her life and the nourishment she provided the people and animals of the bay. As her life energy combined with his, her spirit was released to once again nurture the natural world.

 

Chapter 2

 

Manatauk's senses of touch, smell, sight and taste all became sharper after eating the first oyster. He was fully present and engaged. He felt the pulse of the oyster's heart beating in his stomach as he absorbed its abundant nutrients—the result of six years filtering the water of the bay. He was alive to the world and receptive to the signals the bay was sending.

He indulged himself and expertly unlocked another oyster. He let his fingers glide over the razor-sharp edges of the top valve before tossing it into the salt pond. He observed the slight pink, green and purple hues mixed within the shiny pearl finish of the bottom shell. He checked the ivory flesh for the appropriate plumpness, and admired the animal's firm freshness. The contrast of the tender flesh against the hardness of the flat shell was striking. The anticipation of the oyster sliding down his throat created a flood of saliva and a slight pain in his stomach.

The oyster was at its strongest. The cool waters of autumn had turned on its instinct to feed voraciously before the icy cold waters of winter arrived. During the winter, it would have lived off the stored reserves it garnered during the fall season, but instead, Manatauk and his family would now claim the energy.

He preferred the oysters of autumn, but the catch in the spring and summer also had their satisfactions. Oysters in the spring were less plump and had a richer butter-like taste because of the fat produced by the warm waters during the spawning season. If they were collected at just the right time, the shells would be filled with eggs and sperm, making a delicious and nutritious culinary delight—a perfect addition to Spring Harvest soups. Later, in summer the oysters were thinner and more muscular, making them tougher to chew raw. However, they were often laced with spicy or sweet algae, which offered further explorations of taste and texture.

He tilted the shell at just the right angle and let the still living oyster slide into his mouth. After the initial sensation of salinity and ocean freshness, he chewed to get the full body of the oyster. At first the springy texture of the oyster resisted, but then it surrendered to his molars, releasing its full flavor.

A mature oyster takes on the taste of their environment. The waters of Narragansett Bay offered the perfect mixture of fresh and salt water, making these autumn oysters an excellent addition for tonight's festivities—not too much salinity and not too diluted by the freshwater. Oysters with too much salt are crunchy and overpowering, you cannot eat too many at one sitting. Oysters without enough salt, taste flat and unfulfilling. This catch was ideal, offering a wonderful salty ocean taste at first, and then allowing the body and earthiness of the bay to come through.

He swallowed, and let out a breath of pure satisfaction. A slight aftertaste of the salt pond filled his mouth as the oyster slid smoothly down his esophagus. Then, and only then, did the full body of the oyster reveal itself. Next to the salinity of the ocean and the freshness of the bay, strong flavors of copper, zinc and iron mixed together to give the flesh a pleasant metallic taste. Manatauk believed this is where the power of the oyster was revealed. It was strong enough to absorb the minerals of the land, minerals that energized his system and made him a fertile and potent lover.

Manatauk was pleased with today's catch. The oysters would make perfect appetizers—no one fills up on them alone, but they are an excellent pre-dinner snack. Manatauk and his family ate oysters for the energy they provided and sheer enjoyment of the experience. They were not a staple of their diet like corn and fish. Oysters were a special treat, a luxury enjoyed during feasts when visitors arrived, or on cool autumn nights when his wife would be receptive to the aphrodisiac symptoms the delicacies provided. The oysters would go down well at the Wigwam tonight.

 

Chapter 3

 

As dusk settled over the bay, the men sat cross-legged around the fire near the front of the wigwam. The women stayed busy cooking and chatting around the larger fire in the back of the shelter. The children, still full of energy after a long day, ran in and out of the wigwam playing games of tag. The open design of the wigwam allowed the cool autumn breezes to enter undeterred and provided ample room for the children to dart to and fro, deftly avoiding each other. Manatauk's home was comfortable, open and inviting. The Narragansett generously welcomed strangers at any time of the day. If the family is eating they will always ask visitors to partake, even if there is little to sustain themselves. It doesn't matter if the visitors arrive late at night or early in the morning, they are offered hospitality, tobacco and food.

It was a typical evening for the clans residing on the southwestern point of Narragansett Bay. Throughout the summer months and into early autumn, families would gather in the evenings and share the catch of the day in the larger houses of the village. Manatauk had one of the largest wigwams as was fitting his position as the brother of Minnetonka, one of the eight Sachems of the Narragansett tribe.

The chill of winter was present this evening, so the men covered their usually bare shoulders and chests with blankets, deerskin jackets, and vests or robes made of beaver, otter or other skins. Manatauk wrapped himself in an especially comfortable throw made of cougar and beaver. As the evening progressed the chestnut and birch bark walls to the wigwam were lowered to keep the cold out, the entrance was left open, so that the children and visitors could come and go freely. The small gathering of men smoked and ate the raw oysters Manatauk had harvested earlier in the day with still warm strawberry flavored cornmeal biscuits his wife had made. They discussed the news brought by messenger the evening before and sought Manatauk's counsel.

Manatauk was proud of his older brother, the Sachem Minnetonka, and when he was not present, Manatauk graciously accepted the honor and responsibility of leadership. The men, women and children of the neighboring wigwams were always welcome into his home. He offered sincere hospitality and sound counsel. Narragansett people take the bond of brotherhood seriously, so he shared his brother's status, wealth and power. The people of the tribe listened to him and gave him the respect he had earned. Conversely, when his younger brother could no longer pay his debts or behaved disrespectfully, which he did on occasion, Manatauk had to step in and make things right.

When the messenger had arrived late in the previous day, shouts and howls were sent from house to house along the coast for several miles. The men were invited to attend a meeting at the central fire pit next to Manatauk's house. Within a couple of hours forty to fifty men sat side-by-side around the raging fire. Each man smoked, most with small pewter or brass pipes of their own making. The Narragansett had become quite adept at forging delicate pipes from the pewter and brass utensils the English settlers provided. A pewter plate or brass cup was a prized possession, but made even more valuable when molded and combined with hardwood into a tobacco pipe. While waiting for the messenger to share his news, the men compared tobaccos and talked about the upcoming move inland to their winter homes. Clouds of tobacco smoke mixed with smoke from the huge fire.

Tobacco was an important plant for the Narragansett men. It was the only plant men cultivated; all other planting was done by the women. Tobacco was used as a medicine to fight rheumatism and soothe toothaches, as well as a substance used to revive and refresh the body throughout the day. Sharing special blends of tobacco and comparing strains to others was a frequent pastime, and especially enjoyable at large gatherings like tonight. If one man's tobacco was deemed especially potent or tasty, it would be loaded into Manatauk's largest pipe and shared—passed from man to man, garnering extravagant compliments.

Tonight the great pipe, given to Manatauk from a Seneca chief, was loaded with strong European tobacco reportedly imported from islands far to the south. The pipe was more than two feet long, carved from wood and stone, with a large engraved brass bowl at the end. Decorative animals, bear, deer and several types of birds adorned the beautiful instrument. After several bowls, Manatauk stood up and introduced the messenger to the gathering.

"We have important news, brought to us by messenger from my eldest brother, our Sachem, who is now residing at our winter home near the English settlement of Providence." The smoking and talk politely resided, only the fire continued to speak.

"Listen, then, as is our custom, each man will have his opportunity to question or speak."

The messenger, a young man, slender from his occupation of being a runner for the Sachems, stood up proudly and addressed the gathering. His voice was clear and strong from several years of practice speaking in front of large crowds on behalf of his revered Sachems.

"Your Sachem, Minnetonka, elder brother of Manatauk, sends greetings. He prays that you and your families are doing well and that the summer season has been good for all." He paused before continuing.

"The Pequots, our rivals living to the north of our beautiful Bay and west of our inland territories, have once again been making trouble with the white settlers. Warriors from the Niantic and Pequot tribes have murdered an English trader and his crew from the settlement of Boston. This unfortunate incident happened a few moons ago on Block Island, just to the south of our summer homes," he said as he pointed south. Murmurs of acknowledgment rustled through the gathering.

"The Pequot, as you know well are a troublesome people. We have had to beat them back from our lands on several occasions. The English are full of anger and our Sachems believe this could lead to war. If war comes, it may be difficult for our people to stay neutral, but this is our Sachems' current thinking."

"He speaks true!" Several men shouted, giving praise to their respected Sachem, Minnetonka.

"Minnetonka and the other seven Sachems, are asking the great Narragansett tribes to be alert and begin the migration towards our winter settlements as soon as possible. A great meeting of all the Sachems and secondary chiefs will be held in one month's time at Minnetonka's winter home. At that time we will take counsel with Roger Williams of Providence, and the leaders of the Nipmuck, the Niantic, Wampanoag, and Manissean bands living within our territories. The Sachems of our friends the Mohegan tribe have also been invited."

"Minnetonka sends this message to you with his love and respect. Prepare well for the winter months to come and travel safely," the messenger concluded.

The voices of the gathered men broke into lively conversation. Manatauk let them converse and argue amongst themselves for a while. Then, he stood up and asked for silence.

"The messenger has brought us great truths. Now, that you have had time to think about this message you may address the gathering or ask any question on your mind," he said.

"Can we stay neutral in such a war? The Pequot hate us and will use a war with the English as an excuse to attack us or take our lands," one warrior explained.

"The English, sometimes have difficulty distinguishing between the tribes, they may declare war on all the native peoples," another man said.

"You speak true, but we hate the Pequot, let's join the English and defeat them once and for all," another shouted.

"We should punish the Niantic tribe for their part in the murders. They don't deserve our protection anymore." Several Warriors shouted their agreement.

"Yes, let's capture the perpetrators and turn them over to the English in Boston."

"But, we cannot trust the English, they have stolen lands and treated neighboring tribes dishonestly since they have arrived. I don't trust them. I trust our native brothers more easily, but still with caution," an older man lamented.

The discussion went back and forth for almost an hour, each side giving ample evidence for not trusting the English or the Pequot. But, it also became quite apparent that staying neutral in such a war would be difficult.

Finally, Manatauk said, "It is up to our Sachems to decide. The conversation is good and I have faith that they will listen to all arguments and make the right decision for our people. For now, I say this gathering is concluded. Do as our Sachem, Minnetonka, has asked. Prepare for winter and move to our winter homes as quickly as possible. Thank you for coming and lending your allegiance to my brother," he said as the meeting ended.

Thanksgiving and other thoughts

It seems like Thanksgiving is coming earlier lately, then when I looked at the calendar I realized that it actually is coming earlier – the 22nd this year! I googled this question and found out that Thanksgiving was originally declared November 26, By George Washington, but later changed to the fourth Thursday of the month of November, By Abraham Lincoln and others. So now were stuck with the cycle of Thanksgiving coming earlier each year for a while, then it will cycle back eventually to the latter part of the month. Interesting trivia but relatively meaningless – the real meaning has to do with being thankful, grateful and expressing your gratitude with family and friends over a comfortable meal. Each year for the last 15 years, my good friend, Bob and his wife, have joined us for Thanksgiving dinner. For the first 10 years or so, we used to go out for Thanksgiving to one of the hotels or restaurants – preferring just to be gluttonous and not worry about cooking or cleaning up. That's was always fun, but expensive. For the last five years, since I've been living with ALS and cannot get out as easily, Bob cooks the turkey and brings it over to our apartment. It's a small affair, but enjoyable and a wonderful tradition. I hope that all of you, my friends and family, have your own tradition of gathering together. Enjoy the time together – ignore all of the ridiculous commercialization on television and at the stores. Be safe, loving, and thankful for every little thing. I love you all and thank you for your continued friendship and support.

Democracy Plaza in New York City

A very good friend of mine who lives and works in New York City sent this photograph of him At Democracy Plaza near the NBC studios. I just thought I would share this as, to me, it just shows how wonderful our United States really is... Even though, as the population is pretty much evenly divided on so many issues – we still have a sense of humor and a sense of civility. We can vote and express our opinion without killing each other. I'm grateful to live in this great nation.

I'm back!

It's been quite a while since I worked on this blog, "The View for Rick's Window" – I'm slowing down a bit on my story and novel writing, so thought it might be a good time to add some new thoughts to this. First, I need to plug my books for sale on Amazon! Pardon the advertisement, but I would really like to sell a few of my books this year. I do believe they are worth reading, but of course that's my opinion – the author – I'd like to know what some of you think. Please check out what novels/stories I've written on Amazon.com.RK Raker author's page on Amazon