Summer Goals

Now that school is over, and I’m finally starting to feel like school is over, it’s time to turn my attention to what to do with all of this spare time.  Lately, I’ve been coming home feeling guilty about schoolwork that I don’t want to be doing, then when I realize that there is no more schoolwork–for now, I wander around my apartment listlessly doing nothing, snacking, eventually half watching a movie or half reading a book feeling like I’m forgetting something.  That is finally fading, I need new goals.

1. Pay off Visa bill– this is a big one, but I think I can do it, maybe.  I’m certainly going to try, anyway

2. Learn Hindi alphabet, and start learning Devanagari script, work on vocabulary

3. Run at least 10 miles per week

4. Read Moby Dick

5. get a tan

6. Read The Diary of Anne Frank– I just can’t get through that stupid thing, it’s a long story, but I have a lot of history with that book.

7. paint ceiling in bedroom, and do faux-finish to walls– I know that faux-finishes are beloved of Trading Spaces fans the world over, but I think I can do it in a way that won’t look stupid.  Also, my room is too dark and gloomy, but I do like the wall color, hence, faux-finish!! I can retain the lovely base tone while bringing more light into my life.  I require light.

8. Make a perfect dirty martini

9. Wait and see if landlady plans to clean up the backyard, then, if she doesn’t, do it myself.  Then utilize backyard in a lounge chair/cocktail manner

10. Go on a picnic

11. Go to the beach– technically, I’ve already done this, but it was really cold, and there was no swimsuit involved.  Goal is: Go to the beach for real

12. repair table

13. Fix fridge door so I can line up condiments without worrying that they will fall and break everytime I open the fridge door.  I imagine I can accomplish this with thick string and adhesive

14. Go to movie theatre where they have the self-service butter dispensor and $5 movies before noon (sounds like a magical place)

15. Read A Passage to India– I read it as an undergrad, but that was before I was obsessed with India.  I think it may resonate more now

16. Watch All Quiet on the Western Front, since, apparently, the one I saw was a made-for-tv version and the real one is kick-ass

17. write

I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but whatever.  This is a good place to start out.

 

 

The standard by which I now judge people

Thursday, I was working from home, so my Jewish friend and I decided to go on an adventure (to put off working and being at home).  We racked our brains for something fun, inexpensive, and (as we seem to have adopted a true Rhode Island mentality when it comes to travel), not too far away.  We settled on the beach, specifically, the RISD beach at their farm campus in Barrington, RI.  Why RISD needs a farm campus is beyond me, I suppose the artists can draw inspiration from the sea– like I’ve always tried to do, or, as my Jewish friend put it “you spend $42,000 per year for school, you get perks”.

I left Fargo to come to Rhode Island one week before my brother left Fargo to go to Minneapolis.  I spoke to him on the phone shortly thereafter and he expressed how wonderful it was that my father had lent him his GPS (Global Positioning System, but everyone knows that)  It was so much easier to navigate a city he had visited dozens of times with this wonderful device barking out directions every 1000 feet.  Upon hearing this, I called my parents and explained to them exactly why it was ridiculous that my brother had a GPS to help him navigate a city that is a perfect grid, while I’m struggling with a part of the country that is designed like a broken wheel of cowpaths. 

Honestly, I didn’t want a GPS.  I was unemployed when I got here, and for the next seven weeks as well, so I had lots of time to get lost and figure my way around.  Now I impress people with my ability to navigate this ridiculous place, and even people who grew up here get lost all the time. 

A few months after my light-hearted chastising, my mother told me that she got a good deal on a GPS and she was sending it to me (I don’t know why all of my complaining about not having a camera didn’t stick– I’m still trying). So now I have this ridiculously expensive thing, which is named Susan, that I’d love to sell, but that really does come in handy at times (though using it makes me feel like such a weiner).

In Barrington, neither of us knew where the RISD farm campus was.  We drove around, took in the adorable quaintness of New England, saw lots of water all around us, but could not find the beach.

“We could ask Susan.” I finally said. “She can pull up a list of attractions for each city.”

Susan let us down and did not have our beach on her list of attractions, so we called someone to have him find the address online.  He looked, and looked, and finally after ten minutes or so gave us something.

My Jewish friend shut her phone and looked at me “He really has poor researching skills.”

“Sounded like, that took forever.”

“Well, it’s a bit tricky to find, but man, he’s just not good at finding things.  He apologized though, and said that I must be very frustrated with him, which I kind of was.”

don’t you people know yet that my mail is really not worth stealing?

I feel like my neighbors have my house staked out waiting for me to foolishly leave mail where they can snatch it. A couple weeks ago, I was working from home, and therefore assumed that it was safe to leave my mail sticking out of the slot waiting for the mailman to come and pick it up. I did this strategically. The mailman comes at approximately 12pm, so, in case he was running a little early, I put my mail in the slot at 11:50am, and then repeatedly went to the window to make sure that his truck was there meaning that he was making the rounds.

With all of the energy I put into this, I could have just gone to the post office, but that means leaving the house, and is really not the point of working from home. Finally, I hadn’t heard any mail coming through the slot and hitting the floor, so I made certain (again) that the truck was still there– it wasn’t. I quickly re-grouped and went take the out-going mail back inside when I heard the distinctive squeak of the metal flap. I ran to the door, but there was no one in sight.

So fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, fool me three times– I guess I’m just a sucker.

Here is a complete list of the items that the crackheads in my neighborhood have stolen from me:

Netflix dvds: It’s always Sunny in Philadelphia season 2 disc 2, Waging a Living, Sweeney Todd

From Amazon: Extras the complete first and second seasons, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix special 2-Disc set, All About Eve

At least one book, possibly two from the Quality Paperback Book Club (they just keep sending me stuff even though I wrote and canceled my membership)

My course of study form for the URI GSLIS program

Business cards that are of no use to anyone but me.

My wise lawyer friend pointed out that the kind of people who are willing to commit the felony of mail theft are the kind of people who can always find someone willing to pay for what they steal– but honestly. There’s a woman down the street from me who spends each day sitting on her stoop selling old clothes, used shoes, and assorted household knick-knacks. I can’t imagine that she makes any money doing this, but it must be worth her while since she’s putting a lot of time into it. Of course, every time I drive by her, I crane my neck looking for something that might be mine, but never see anything. I imagine my stuff goes fast.

So take the DVDs in their Netflix envelopes and sell them for $2, but my course of study, my business cards? I wish that they would take the stuff, see if it’s worth their while, and when it’s not– just bring it back. I wouldn’t even get mad.

a feeling of impending doom

I forget, every winter, buried under sweaters and scarves and coats, that it will one day again be warm. When the warm comes, the first few days are glorious. I romp, I bask, and then it gets too hot for me, and I whine. The other thing I forget about is that horror of horrors that hasn’t gotten me yet this season, but certainly will before the summer is out– the male tank top.

Some men look good in tank tops, and I have a thing for masculine arms, but also one of the things I hate the most ever is a sloppy, unkempt, chubby man in a tanktop that’s basically a phy-ed pinney sweating, and breathing heavily while the tank top, which is not a shirt but just enough of a drapery to keep him from getting kicked out of restaurants, shifts and eventually exposes hairy shoulders, neck, and nipples. When I say hairy, I mean the kind of hariness that goes completely unchecked, wild locks of curls that cause the pinney to stand a full inch above the shoulders of the man and occasionally brush his earlobes.

These men usually have dirty hands as well, axel grease or somesuch thing caked on not because they work on cars daily, but because they rarely wash. There is the occasional regrettable tattoo, often elaborate, but shockingly stupid. These men do everything in their tank tops– usually there’s only one. While the one is in the wash, they loll topless in the recliner, resting a cool “Natty Ice” on the hairy lump that serves as a midsection. Once washed (and this only happens once a week), the pinney is put back on haphazardly, but happily these men can still see the tv even while dressing because of the giant arm-holes.

I live in fear of this.
I avoid theme-parks because of it.
I work in a public library– I can’t avoid it.

I have a very hard time providing customer service to men who’s nipples I can see. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it. It’s the odd/gross fascination like “really, you left the house like this? Do you not have a mirror, or just eyes?”

Those partying Pentecostals may be back!

I rolled into Providence on September 1, Labor Day weekend. It was a rather odd way to start live in a new city as businesses had limited hours, and after a ridiculous time of trying to negotiate the narrow, full of people roads during Waterfire on Saturday night, the city seemed to empty out Sunday morning while I slept in. I was so overwhelmed and dazed from being in the car for three days, that I didn’t care about much of anything.

So Jill (human traveling companion) and I walked downtown every day to get the lay of the land, coffee in the morning and beer in the afternoon, etc. En route to what was called “Downtown Arts District” when I moved here, now is called “Downcity Arts District” (why? why? who cares?), I walk by a rather non-descript Pentecostal church . It’s not a pretty church, like every building in my neighborhood it has a chain-link fence, and it looks like it was designed for some other purpose, but the people who go there seem to have some of the most fun I’ve ever seen.

Not being of a religious persuasion myself, I really don’t know much about organized religion. I took “World Religions” as an undergrad, but that covered mainly the non-christian religions of the world outside of America and Europe. Frankly, aside from having a friend of family in the town one grows up in, I don’t know how people know anything about these other Christian denominations. I know that this church is Pentecostal because there is a sign on it.

Anyway, when I had heard the word Pentecostal before, it was generally referring to the more strict, skirt-wearing religions (correct me if I’m wrong). The people who go to this church do not fit the descriptions I’d previously associated with Pentecostal. They’re all African-American, most wear these all-white outfits complete with a kind of hat one might use to deflect the sun at the beach– and they feast.

For two days they were inside the chain-link, in what looks like it should be a parking lot eating, and dancing, and generally making merry. There are tents set up, and giant silver buffet dishes– it’s very elaborate. In the late afternoon, things would be quiet and we’d see a couple people setting up, but as soon as the sun set– the revelry began. It was a sight to behold, and made me feel more positive about religion than I possibly ever have.

Then they vanished.

Since September 4th, I have not seen anyone going in or out of that church. The sign is still up, I assume they haven’t moved, but I just don’t know. I looked forward to walking by their celebrations, or hearing the whooping on nights when my windows are open, but I didn’t get to, sadly.

The other day though, I walked by, and there were two men in the faux parking lot/party space looking like they were making plans of some kind. So I don’t know if the partying Pentecostals are coming out of hibernation, but I certainly hope so.

What is wrong with you, Lurlene McDaniel?

My cousin Sara’s cat used to eat books. He would masticate away at the corners until they were rounded and indented with tiny tooth-holes. I was visiting that part of the family one summer (they lived in Wisconsin, about 8 hours away– so we only saw them once or twice a year), and Sara asked me if I’d like some of her old books that she had already read, and grown out of.

Since Sara was cool and older, I gleefully went through her bookcase looking for titles that sounded appealing. I left a stack of books on her floor for her to approve, and then, late that night– her cat gnawed on them. Most were still readable, so I took them home and read them. Sometimes, it was a struggle to make out the words in the upper corners, but I am nothing if not persistent. I tried to lend one of the books to a friend in the “ohmythisissogoodyouhavetoreaditsowecantalkaboutit!” way that pre-teen girls do. Then I was reminded that my better friends at the time didn’t much care for reading– even if the books had been intact.

One of my favorite of the bunch was Six months to Live by Lurlene McDaniel. It’s a story of a girl, a little older than me at the time, who gets juvenile leukemia. She suffers chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant, and her best friend dies. By the end, she’s in recovery and optimistic. She looks through her dead best friend’s things and hugs her teddy bear.

After reading that book, I assumed that I would get cancer. Anytime I cut myself and it took to long to clot– must be leukemia, if I felt fatigued– leukemia, if I lost more hair than usual while washing or brushing it– leukemia (which really doesn’t make sense because I certainly wasn’t going through the chemo that would make my hair fall out– but logic is not at play here). I was going to get cancer– Dawn Rochelle did, and she was a normal girl like me.

Until last week, that was the only Lurlene McDaniel book I was aware of. Actually, I couldn’t have told you who wrote that book because I read it the same summer I read A Summer to Die (oh pre-teen angst), and I tend to confuse the two. Last week I was at job #2 (public library) looking for missing books in the YA section. One of the books was by Lurlene McDaniel, and when I found it I saw on the cover it said “a companion to Six Months to Live.“

It seems that there are four books in the series, and poor Dawn Rochelle has relapse after relapse, one bone-marrow transplant after another all while dealing with the grief of missing her dead best friend (who she met in the cancer ward), and the social stigma of being known as “the cancer girl”. Life is hard for Dawn Rochelle, and it makes one wonder why Lurlene created a character just to torture her through a series of increasingly slim and poorly-written volumes.

Then I found out that this is all Lurlene McDaniel does. She write books about kids who are dying from one malady or another, and depressed teenagers eat them up. It seems incredibly sick and wrong, and her explanation that she did the research initially when her youngest son was diagnosed with diabetes, really doesn’t make it ok.

I learned a lot of about juvenile leukemia reading six months to live, but it made me paranoid. I’m pretty level-headed– so what the hell is this writing doing to other kids? Well, what’s done is done. Lurlene actually seems like quite a nice lady; we’re now friends on Myspace and she thanked me for adding her.

Here is a list of some of the most ridiculous titles she’s ever written, courtesy of lurlenemcdaniel.com:

Mother, Help me live

Let Him Live

Mourning Song

Please Don’t Die

She Died too Young

Sixteen and Dying

Someone Dies, Someone Lives

Don’t Die, My Love

Baby Alicia is Dying– this one is my favorite

When Happily Ever After Ends

Letting Go of Lisa

Time to Let Go

Somewhere Between Life and Death

so hard to be the Mayor

A while ago, at job number 2, a nicely-dressed, middle-aged man, and his son came into the children’s room. A co-worker immediately said “Hello, Mayor.”

I assumed the kids name was Mayer, but it seems that the middle-aged man is in fact the Mayor of the town where this particular library is, and my co-worker addresses him by the office, rather than his name, which I find a little odd, but have since gotten over.

So while co-worker was helping the Mayor’s son find a book, the Mayor sought me out and proceeded to tell me how hard it is to be Mayor. “I bet it’s much harder than being a librarian,” he said, “I bet you have no idea.”

“I’m sure it depends on the day.” I told him, and tried to run away.

He followed me. “No, it’s really hard.” heavy sigh, “I can’t even explain how hard it is to be Mayor.”

“Well, I don’t plan on finding out.”

He sighed again, heavily, “No, I wouldn’t recommend it.” Then he collected his kid, and left.

So I’m left wondering, was this some kind of strategy? Is it the “feel sorry for me and vote for me cause I work so hard for you” approach? He doesn’t know that I can’t vote for him, why would it ever be a good idea to come into the library, complain about his job for which he was chosen (potentially by me), and insult my work as well?

Perhaps I just don’t understand politics. Perhaps he’s not running for re-election.

Armchair Traveller

It’s that time of year again where I really, really want to go on vacation. As a result, my travel documentary watching has gotten a little out of hand (again). I was at friends’ house on Monday for dinner and the hosts were telling tales of far-flung locales and trekking up mountains. My contribution: “In Indonesia, for a nominal fee, you can watch a pack of Komodo Dragons eat a goat.”

Host replied “That’s true, have you been?”

“No, I just watched a travel documentary about it.”

Now, I don’t want to go watch Komodo Dragons eat a goat (certainly I wouldn’t pay for the privilege), but it would be nice to hang out in Indonesia (or anywhere, really) for a while. I know this time of year does always get to me because this is when I was in England two years in a row, and various spring break destinations other years– but it seems too, that I tend to surround myself with adventurers. That’s cool, I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it makes me jealous. So, Best Friend by Proxy (BFbP): I’m glad you had fun in Bali and Thailand; Boss lady: I’m glad Granada was lovely, Hosts from Monday night dinner: I loved being able to try a bunch of weird-ass food, and I WILL come visit you in Jakarta– try and stop me.

In other culture shock news, I now live in the most Catholic state in the Union– who knew. Also, not caring much for organized religion, who knew that it would affect me? Yesterday was St. Joseph’s day. I didn’t know there was a St. Joseph, but apparently he’s Mary’s husband– father of Jesus, makes sense that he gets a day. He’s the patron saint of workers and Sicilians (interesting combo). Presumably, he’s had this day as long as I’ve been alive, but not being Catholic, and not being one to learn about saints, I had never heard of him.

Yesterday, I got schooled in Italian pastry. Rhode Islanders love their pastry as evidenced by all of the Dunkin Donuts in the state, and the fact that they all seem to do brisk business, but Italians, apparently have pastry needs above and beyond that of the average Rhode Islander. On St. Joseph’s day, you must eat zeppole, which is a cream filled pastry (I have one sitting on my counter, but wasn’t hungry enough to eat it last night– I’m such a heathen).

I shouldn’t be totally surprised because I’m sure a lot of these people don’t know what lutefisk or lefse are… maybe. I honestly have no idea where the pastries I ate growing up even come from because my dad’s family is Norwegian, my mother’s is English, Irish, Swedish, and Bohemian, and Minnesota and North Dakota have a lot of Germans and Icelanders.

Maybe what I’m reacting to is just the fact that I came from the land of Germans, Norwegians, Swedes, and Icelanders to the land of Italians, Irish, Portuguese, and Cape Verdeans, or maybe I’m reacting to the fact that the bloodlines in this state seem to have mingled less and there are distinct communities. Although Mountain, ND is apparently the most Icelandic city in America, and I got schooled on Italian pastry by a woman who admitted that she is neither Italian nor Catholic, and she had also made Irish soda bread.

So, this week I have eaten, as far as food I had never eaten before: Irish soda bread (plain and with raisins); Kimchee; some fermented tofu that I don’t know the name of; a fermented rice dessert that I don’t know the name of, but the liquid tasted like sake (which makes sense), I have a zeppole at home, and a pot-luck on Saturday (who knows what I’ll find there!). I guess even though I’m not traveling abroad, I’m still experiencing new cultures and trying new foods– and watching tons of travel documentaries.

stocking up

I have my commute completely sorted out. In the morning, I listen to NPR, specifically BBC World News. I arrive at work a bit depressed, but nevertheless proud of myself for knowing things. This knowledge came into play pretty early on when I was able to rant in a very informed manner about how bullshit it is that all of our tech support is outsourced to India, and when one of the undersea cables that connects us to India was severed recently, it certainly didn’t inconvenience anyone except the consumer. Not Fair!

I’ve also become more paranoid about the state of the economy, in particular, the rising cost of food.

In the afternoon, I listen to recorded lectures. Currently, A History of the English Language, next “Waking Dragon: The emerging Chinese economy and its impact on the world”– to feed my paranoia, or at least inform it.

I’ve also started hoarding food not unlike (I imagine) a family during the depression. I eagerly scan the weekly grocery store circular for deals on non-perishables, and stock up. I just did a quick inventory: I have 58 bags and boxes of rice and pasta, 25 cans of soup, 12 cans of tuna, and a giant vat of plain white rice that I actually brought with me from North Dakota.

For whatever reason, when Pasta-Roni, Rice-a-Roni, or soup is on sale 10 for $10, I don’t allow myself to buy more than ten, but when it goes back on sale, I can’t wait to buy more. Right now, for example, I’m itching to get back to Stop’N'Shop to grab another ten boxes, even though I’m running out of room for it.

For the past week, I’ve been subsisting on cheese that I got for free from job #1. The Chairman from the National Endowment for the Arts was in last week, reading poetry. His presence necessitated a glorious spread of crudités, which resulted in a lot of leftovers, which I have been taking home in sandwich bags every time I work. I should be able to clean out the fridge this week, since I think my co-workers are losing interest.

Maybe I’ll get scurvy living this way, or maybe I’ll be completely set with the recession truly manifests. Time will tell. I should probably buy some vitamins.

Smitten with this Woonsocket

I’ve gotten a powerful response to my previous blog about Woonsocket, so I decided to make it a two-fer. Mostly because I’ve been there now! Yay!! Despite all of you doubting Thomasinas, I ventured to this Woonsocket– and found it lovely.

Two friends from the prairie came to visit recently: Heidi and her husband Zac Echola (who wants his name out on the internet as much as possible). I had to pick them up in Shirley, MA and on the drive back to Providence, Zac Echola asked if there was anything we could stop and do along the way. I thought for a bit, then remembered The Museum of Work and Culture in Historic Woonsocket.

“What is that?” Zac Echola asked.

“I believe it’s a museum dedicated to the Québécois who moved here and worked in the mills.”

“Let’s go!” Zac Echola cheered, and his wife rolled her eyes.

So we found the museum, went in, and waited at the desk for approximately three minutes before an old, old man shuffled out of the office and realized we were there.

“It’s only $5 today because there’s a bridal shower going on in the Union Hall.”

“Ok.”

“Are any of you students?”

“Yes,” we told him, “We all are.”

“Student rate is $5,” he paused, “but that doesn’t matter to you cause that’s what you’re paying anyway.” He pulled out a map and a fine point crayola marker– purple. “You’ll start here at the farm house, and if you push this button here,” he drew a dot on the map, “you can hear Jessie and Simone’s conversation about leaving Canada and coming to the New World. Then you go here and push this button here,” another dot, “to watch the movie. After that you go here, and then you can go upstairs. Now usually you’d watch the TV in the Union Hall, but there’s a bridal shower in there today, so I moved the TV upstairs and put out four chairs,” he drew four little marks and a box to represent the television, “here. Then you go here, and there are devices to listen here, here, here, don’t use this one, the sound is so low you just can’t hear anything, and here.” He handed us the newly marked map, “Good luck to you.”

So we went into the farmhouse and listen to Simone and Jessie’s good cop/bad cop routine about coming to America:

Simone: “America is a magical land full of opportunity.”

Jessie: “But we’ll lose out culture and our religion.”

Simone: “In America we can work in the mills and make life better for our parents.”

Jessie: “I don’t want to leave our homeland.” etc.

The exchange lasted a good three minutes, and I couldn’t help thinking: Girls, you are going to go with your parents regardless of your personal feelings about it, so quit wasting my time. Thankfully, it wasn’t translated into Québécois as well, though that may have been more interesting. After Simone had pretty much sold everyone on how glamorous life in America is, we watched a brief documentary about how much it sucks to work in a mill. Nuts to you, Simone.

In the children’s portion of the museum, we had a bobbin sorting contest (Heidi won), I punched in on an old-fashioned time clock (Heidi tried to convince me that it was an antique and I wasn’t supposed to touch it– why would they have sample punchcards there then, hmmm??), and the movable displays sprang to life without our having to push buttons (which after Simone kept us all standing in the farm house for way too long, we decided we were just going to skip from now on), and scared the crap out of us.

On the second floor, I flipped through old yearbooks in the schoolhouse, played the piano in the parlor of the triple-decker (we skipped watching the TV that the old man had lugged upstairs for us, but cheered when we saw the four chairs, just like he had told us), and found the listening device that just doesn’t work (although, someone did attempt to fix it with duct tape– my kind of people).

Then it started to snow on Magical Woonsocket. So we watched it come down, and noticed an outdoor skating rink just across the square, which we didn’t go to, but instead, had a conversation about how outdoor skating rinks are pretty awesome.

We rounded out the day with a walk (in the snow) down the sidewalks in Downtown Historic Woonsocket. Zac Echola marveled at the sheer number of signs advertising “hot weiners”, and bargained poorly for a used CD. Here is a reenactment of the bargaining:

Zac Echola: “I want to buy this CD. This is awesome, Heidi, give me money.

Heidi: “I don’t have any cash.”

Zac Echola: “Andria, do you have any cash I can borrow.” I didn’t put a question mark at the end of this question because Zac Echola doesn’t use question marks.

Me: “I have some cash, but I’m not contributing more than $2 for that stupid thing.”

Zac Echola: “I wouldn’t pay more than $2 for this anyway– I’m going to bargain.” Zac Echola walked determinedly over to the purveyor of the pawn shop, “How much for this CD, my good man.”

Good man: “$2.”

Zac Echola: (brief pause) “Sold.”

Zac Echola then walked back to where his wife and I were openly mocking him and said, “I think he heard us.”

Now to give credit to all of the glorious comments I got on Fascinated by this Woonsocket:

Jenna says:

Q: How many lightbulbs can you screw in Rhode Island?

A: One! There’s only Woonsocket.

– haha, very funny, Jenna

Lex says:

Don’t go

–too late, Lex, and I’m going back. You can come with me.

Sarah says:

Just blog surfing here…I live in Woonsocket. There really is nothing spectacular about it. We don’t even have a bookstore. The Starbucks just recently closed. If you like bargains I’d suggest going to the CVS Warehouse Store Mark Stevens (hours are 10-6 now). If you knit I’d suggest checking out Yarnia.

– I did check out Yarnia. It was a bit out of my price range, but I laughed at the name for the rest of the day. Actually, I’m chuckling about it right now. I will check out the CVS warehouse, because I love bargains, and any town that can close a Starbucks is a-ok in my book.

Joanharvest says:

I was born in Woonsocket, R.I. 58 years ago. My mom and dad owned a grocery store on Manville Road.I went to Mt. St Francis which is now a nursing home.I am half French Canadian. The last time I visited there just to see what things were like was about 15 years ago. My mom had 12 brothers and sisters so I am sure I still have relatives there though we are not in contact. Her maiden name was LeMay. When I lived there it was a textile mill town. I would like to visit again someday.

– Very interesting family history Joan. From my limited time in Woonsocket, I can tell you that it still looks like a mill town, but has adapted with the times. I recommend that you do visit again someday, as it is lovely.

Alf says:

I am bummed that the Starbucks closed. I used to stop on my way to work in Cumberland.

On a positive note, I just discovered a really great restaurant in Woonsocket called Vintage.

–sorry about the Starbucks, Alf, I too appreciate a road coffee on my way to work. Also, thanks for the restaurant recommendation.

There you have it, I have my next trip to Woonsocket all planned: Shopping for bargains, maybe going back to Yarnia, driving down Manville road to see if Joan’s parent’s grocery store is still there, and dinner at Vintage. Maybe I’ll go early enough that I can have lunch as well, since I’ve heard that fish ‘n” chips place across from the Museum of Work and Culture is pretty renowned.

I am a Woonsocketeer.