Field Trip

Less than two hours away from us, a small Rhode Island town hosts stone-lined roads, squaring off blocks of rolling green fields dappled with bulky hay bales. Over the floss of corn stalks crowding Route 77, strips of sea lay under a cloudless horizon. For thirty years I’ve wanted to visit  Little Compton.   Yesterday, my husband and I did. 

I wondered how different it could be from my own New England fishing village and the answer to that is “very.”  Where we drive up and down twisted roads that run into and emerge from pine needle shadows, Little Compton’s lined drives point straight to the distance; their inclines, gradual.  In spite of twisted oaks guarding the road, the land lays unabashed like a fertile woman, welcoming all the light the sun can muster. 

Farm stands dot the main road, and after purchasing last-of-the-season peaches and passing on the temptation to pick apples, we finally stopped for butter pecan ice cream in Tiverton Four Corners. As we peered toward the windows of an art center, then stopped for tastes at an immaculate cheese shop, something became clear.   Our Sunday had began early in the morning with a service of remembrance.  It finished with a reminder of all that remains.

Oh, and Anne Gallagher, at Piedmont Writer, these pictures are for you.