Blue Highways: Westerly, Rhode Island

Unfolding the Map

Westerly, Rhode Island, brings us to questions of bravery and cowardice.  William Least Heat-Moon (LHM) relates a humorous story of a general in a forgotten American rebellion, but we'll explore the theme a little as he prepares to drive into Connecticut.  To locate Westerly (hint: it's in the west of Rhode Island), click here for the map.

Book Quote

"I started down the coast.  If 'down' means southward, and you think of the Atlantic seaboard strking a longitudinal line, you'll be disoriented in Rhode Island and Connecticut as you follow the ocean.  The coastine runs almost due east and west.  Hence the name Westerly, Rhode Island, a town just off the Atlantic and west of everything in the state.

"It was here, so I read, during the Dorr Rebellion in 1842, that General John B. Stedman was charged with maintaining martial law in the town.  At one point, when he thought an attack imminent, he told his troops, 'Boys, when you see the enemy, fire and then run.  And as I am a little lame, I'll run now.'"

Blue Highways: Part 9, Chapter 6

Downtown Westerly, Rhode Island. Photo by Daniel Case and hosted at Wikipedia. Click on photo to go to host page.

Westerly, Rhode Island

I was going to write a little, based on this quote, about how some place names show the history of US westward expansion.  After all, at one point in our history, it is probable that Westerly, Rhode Island, was not only the westernmost point in that state but also the beginning of the frontier.  At one point, perhaps in the westernmost point of Westerly, the owner of the most westerly house in that city could step out their front door, look west and believe if not truly be the edge of European settlement in North America.  But I believe that I've already made comments to that effect in these posts.

No, today I'm going to get something off my chest.  The second part of this post has to do with bravery and cowardice.  That's where I'm going to go today, even if it embarrasses me.

A little framework is needed for LHM's quote.  He mentions the Dorr Rebellion but does not give any context about it.  I know that all you ever really wanted to do was learn about this little known event in Rhode Island and US history, so I'll enlighten you.  Dorr's Rebellion happened in the 1840s in Rhode Island, and it was about voting rights.  I often teach my political science students that only a small part of the electorate was enfranchised in the early years of the United States. Most states only allowed white male property owners the right to vote.  Blacks, Native Americans, poor whites and women were not allowed to participate in the most fundamental right of our democracy.  In Rhode Island, a white man had to own at least $134 worth of property to qualify to vote in elections.  It was the only state by that time to not allow all white men to vote, so by the early 1840s, only 40 percent of white men could participate in the vote.

Thomas Wilson Dorr started an insurrection whose aim was to change the state constitution to allow a greater number of people to vote.  He initially supported the inclusion of black men, but then reneged on that promise.  As a result, black men fought against his rebellion.  The rebellion was unsuccessful in many ways, and Thomas Wilson Dorr was tried for treason and insurrection, found guilty and sentenced to life.  He did succeed in many ways too.  He only served two years in prison, and in 1849 the right to vote in Rhode Island was expanded to all white men.  However, the ordeal broke his health and he died in 1854.

I want to reflect a moment on the part of the quote that LHM finds a little funny, where General Stedman exhorts his troops even as he prepares to flee.  It reminds me of the old joke where the general is getting dressed, and his aide comes in and says that the enemy is mustering.  Get me my white shirt, the general orders, so that my troops will see me on the field and be rallied by my presence.  Then another aide comes in, and says that the enemy has attacked.  Get me my red shirt, orders the general, so that if I'm hit the troops will not see any blood and be inspired by my strength.  A third aide comes in, and gives the news that the line has broken, and that the enemy is fast closing in on the general's position.  Get me my brown pants, the general orders.

Most of us may not have ever faced a situation where we have been in mortal danger from other people.  For those few that have, there is often a split-second decision that has to be made, and the results of that decision could indicate bravery or cowardice depending on what is seen.  Recently, just following the Aurora, Colorado theater shootings, I read a story of one of the survivors.  He and his girlfriend and their small son were at the theater.  When the shooting began, the father jumped over the balcony, leaving behind his small son and girlfriend.  His girlfriend was eventually shot in the leg before the shooter left the scene.  As I read that account, I questioned the father's action.  It appeared from all intents and purposes that he ran instead of defending his family.  I had by that time read of some accounts of heroism.  I had read of another man throwing himself in front of his girlfriend, taking bullets that would have hit her, and who died.  So it was easy for me to condemn the man who ran at first.

But how many of us would have the presence of mind, when the shooting starts, to say "today's my chance to be a hero?"  I ask because I faced situation once, and in my mind at the time my actions were correct, yet in the end I've always felt that I failed.

I was living in Milwaukee in my first year of volunteer service with a group of other volunteers.  We lived in the inner-city, and for a number of months our house had been broken into regularly.  Police finally caught some kids, and my roommate was called to testify in court that he nor any of us had ever granted permission for those individuals to come into our house.

One chilly October evening, a small group of us decided to walk from our house to a bowling alley a few blocks away.  After we had gone a couple of blocks, a car screeched to a stop in front of us and a group of young adult men got out of the car.  One walked right up to my roommate, said "you've been picking on my brother," and hit him across the face.  A melee ensued, as more of our group were attacked.  In the end, my roommate was beaten badly around his face and head, my other roommate suffered a wound to her head which was consistent with a blunt object, another friend was also hit and hurt, and all of us were traumatized.

My initial reaction at this attack was to seek help.  I ran down the street looking for someone.  Around the corner, I knocked on the door where I saw a light.  A woman pulled me in and told me to keep out of sight and they called the police.

Since that time, I have always berated myself because I felt that I abandoned my friends.  Could I have changed the situation by being there?  Maybe or maybe not.  But over time, I've felt more and more like a coward.  Since then, I've always had fantasies of being the guy who knocks the gun out of the potential shooter's hand, or the guy who beats the bully down.  I've never been judged by my friends for my actions that night, at least to my knowledge, and all of my regret is self-imposed.  I know that these fantasies are only my mind hoping to get another chance at redemption.  Yet, in the face of danger, I still live with the fact that I ran at that particular time. 

So, on one level I see the humor in General Stedman's position.  On another level, I've been in his situation, a situation of danger, and I didn't necessarily like the aspect of my nature that came out.  It gives me a little more understanding and compassion for the guy who ran in the theater, even as I still recriminate myself.

Musical Interlude

The tale of "brave" Sir Robin from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

If you want to know more about Westerly

Genealogy Trails: Westerly
Greater Westerly-Pawcatuck Area Chamber of Commerce
Town of Westerly
Visit Westerly
The Westerly Sun (newspaper)
Wikipedia: Westerly

Next up: Pawcatuck, Connecticut

Blue Highways: Newport, Rhode Island

Unfolding the Map

As we pull into Newport, Rhode Island with William Least Heat-Moon (LHM), do you feel a bit of nostalgia?  Do you have some melancholy associated with a place that was, but now feels different?  As I come home again, I feel it keenly, and will share some thoughts with you on the subject.  If you wish to visit the years gone by, you'll only be able to do that in your memories.  But if you want to see where Newport is located, navigate to the map.

Book Quote

"....I went on toward Quonset Point, the homeport of the ship I had been assigned to."

"....At the end of the road, a mile in, the big pier was empty.  Nothing but rusting stanchions and bollards, and weeds along the railroad tracks.  The whole bay stood open and vacant.  The Champ, the Essex, the Wasp used to fill the sky with gray masses of hull, gun, and antennas.  The great carriers were gone, and also tugs, tenders, big naval cranes, helicopters, jets; the shouts and hubbub and confusion of sailors and machines and aircraft, all gone.

"....I had lived and died walking off and on this pier and many times had dreamed of the day I'd come back as a civilian, free of the tyranny of the boatswain's pipe and his curses, free of working in a one-hundred-twenty-five-degree steel box.  I felt cheated.

"Where the hell was the diesel oil of yesteryear?  Where the drawn faces when we left, the cockahoop faces when we returned, the sailors kissing girls and lugging seabags, mahogany statues, brass platters, straw hats, and black velvet paintings of bulls and naked native women; trucks honking, the sailors on duty cursing down from the deck and offering services to the women, the sea wind snapping the flag from the jackstaff, the last smoke blowing grit on us from the tall stacks?...Christ.  I knew you couldn't go home again, but nobody had said anything about not getting back to your old Navy base."

Blue Highways: Part 9, Chapter 5

Downtown Newport, Rhode Island. Photo by Daniel Case and hosted at Wikimedia Commons. Click on photo to go to host page.

Newport, Rhode Island

It's often jarring when you go back to someplace that you frequented after an absence of a number of years.

While my absence from my home town hasn't spanned as many year as LHM's absence from Newport, Rhode Island, it still astounds me every time I go back and something has changed, landmarks have disappeared, and I am left sometimes with a profound sense of loss.

Of course, time moves forward whether we want it or not.  But when one wants to capture something of the past, some marker that reconnects us to previous eras of our lives, and it is no longer there or has changed in some unalterable way, it can be a shock to the psyche.

LHM goes to Newport expecting to see something of the old Navy base out of which he served.  When he gets there, what was once a huge industrial facility for maintaining ships of the fleet, including the big aircraft carriers, is now gone.  All he is left with are the memories of the base and Newport as it once was.  His reaction is one of shock and annoyance: why are there lobster fisherman where there once were the finest of the Navy.  He even references Thomas Wolfe.

It may be that one can't go home again.  I often say now that I'm "going home" to visit my mom, or to see old friends.  In reality, home as it was in Fort Bragg, California has really ceased to exist for me.  The house where I grew up has changed too much.  Gone is the horrible brown carpeting, replaced with a durable wood floor.  My room has become a guest room, with nothing left to mark my years of passage there.  An acre of our big yard, where I used to play football with friends and where I constructed two holes of a six hole golf course, has been sold to the neighbor and now there is a shop and a bunch of his equipment on it.

The lumber mill where my father worked, and where I spent four summers as a worker and a security guard, is gone.  When I drive down Oak Street toward what used to be the main gate, it still shocks me to see the ocean rather than the huge sawmill building that rose higher than any building in the town.  Along the whole of the downtown, in fact, the only thing that separates the town from the sea is a vast tract of silent oceanfront property that once housed mills, drying sheds and what seemed like endless stacks of cut lumber stretching far away north and endless decks of newly cut logs that stretched far away south.  Now, the steam-powered rattle and noise of the mill machinery, the revving motors of the forklifts and carriers, and the signature noon whistle that could be heard all over town are all ghosts on the ocean breeze.

All this is coming back to me now because it is the advent of my 30th high school reunion.  Recently, on the trip home to attend that event, I learned that an old college friend had come out to California for a conference and decided to stay with some friends in the wine country.  We talked a little about old times, but mostly we looked at each other and, at least for me, a certain wistfulness about the time that had passed and the changes in us.  While much change has been good - for him, a debilitating disease in remission, a stable relationship, and a good job in Maine - one still cannot be unaware that time is marching and we've gotten older.

At my high school reunion, as I walked into the room I saw some people who I've kept in semi-regular contact with over the years, either by seeing them when I come home or through media like Facebook.  Despite that, I saw a couple of people that I hadn't seen for those 30 years.  A number of people I didn't recognize through the changes that time and experience had wrought.  A number had trouble remembering my name.  High school seemed to be such a huge part of our lives that it has grown out of proportion to many of our other experiences.  A classmate that I spoke with put it in perspective.  I went to school in a small town and was with most of my classmates all through my school years.  He reminded me that all of my classmates, at the age I now am, were a part of only about a third of my life.  Yet that period, and especially the three years of high school I attended, seem like such a huge thing.  All of the successes, and all of the failures, have been magnified.  All of the slights and praises from classmates, while hidden under the veneer of my adulthood, still rattle around in there if I choose to go back and remember them.  I suspect that a small few of our alumni don't come back to the reunions because of the trauma they faced in high school from an equally small number of cruel classmates.

That's where I would modify Thomas Hardy and LHM.  One can come home again, but sometimes one might not wish to.  Home is in the past, and home can connote much that might be painful to relive.  When I think of what was home to me thirty years ago, it consisted of a dysfunctional family, a tortured and negative sense of self, and a longing for something different.  When I think of what is home now, it consists of a more positive sense of self, many accomplishments, and different family dynamics albeit with echoes of the past.  The nostalgia of the past is often best left as a place to visit, at a time of our choosing, and not as a place to dwell in.

Musical Interlude

The song that best encapsulates the melancholy of the past, at least for me, is Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days.

I'm not sure why, but I get a melancholy homesick feeling when I listen to America's Ventura Highway off of their aptly named Homecoming album.  And I didn't even live in southern California...

If you want to know more about Newport

City of Newport
Discover Newport
Newport's Cliff Walk
Newport Daily News (newspaper)
Newport Mansions
Wikipedia: Newport

Next up: Westerly, Rhode Island