Caitlín R. Kiernan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greygirlbeast) wrote2004-07-03 02:00 pm
greygirlbeast) wrote2004-07-03 02:00 pm
rust
Today is mine and Spooky's second anniversary. We are two today.
Yesterday, we headed back to Woonsocket. This time, to avoid the frelling tourists, we took back roads instead of going through Providence: State 2 to State 102, through West Greenwich (Spooky tells me there are actually people up here who pronounce that "Green Witch"), Summit, Clayville, past the Scituate Reservoir, through Chopmist, Chepachet, Slaterville. There was some thunder and lightning and very heavy rain, and we guiltlessly hoped it was soaking the beaches. We entered Woonsocket from the west late in the afternoon.
Sprouting from the banks of the Blackstone River, from the mills that fill the narrow valley, Woonsocket has impressed me as a town afflicted with the meanness that too often comes with fallen industry. Imagine a strange fusion of small-town suspicion and inner-city threat. There's a museum of "work and culture" (or something like that) downtown, and some half-hearted attempts at gentrification, but these attempts to foster myths of a heritage of proud workers only seem to underscore the squalor and poverty that one encounters at almost every turn. The big houses along South Main Street, before the descent to the river, have a similar effect. I can imagine nothing good in this place. It seems to radiate slow, smoldering hatred, this town. You can see it in the eyes of the people, especially the younger people. I would not live in Woonsocket for a million dollars. Really. Almost every place I go I see ghosts, but it's not often they seem to possess such a terrible despite.
We stopped first at the dam, a waterfall long used to generate energy for the mills, and I took pictures until Spooky began to complain that the fumes rising from the polluted green-yellow-grey water were actually starting to burn her eyes and throat. The river slips through spillways and thunders down onto the ancient Precambrian rocks below, flowing away beneath a stone bridge built in 1903.
After the Blackstone River, we got shots of the mills, the town in general, and St. Ann's twin bell towers, then headed south again. I actually felt relief at leaving Woonsocket, moreso than I'd felt when we left it Tuesday evening. Part of this was undoubtedly my mood and my need to be home again, but I think we saw more of the town, too, and in a clearer light than before.
Three days to go. I still haven't tried an Awful Awful, a doughboy, or Autocrat coffee milk. I still haven't seen the last house in which Lovecraft lived (originally located at 66 College Street, relocated to 67 Prospect Street). There's still a lot to do, really.
Here are three photos from yesterday:
The dam (or is that "damn"?) at Blackstone Falls, looking west.
Mills along the Blackstone River.
St. Ann's Church.
Yesterday, we headed back to Woonsocket. This time, to avoid the frelling tourists, we took back roads instead of going through Providence: State 2 to State 102, through West Greenwich (Spooky tells me there are actually people up here who pronounce that "Green Witch"), Summit, Clayville, past the Scituate Reservoir, through Chopmist, Chepachet, Slaterville. There was some thunder and lightning and very heavy rain, and we guiltlessly hoped it was soaking the beaches. We entered Woonsocket from the west late in the afternoon.
Sprouting from the banks of the Blackstone River, from the mills that fill the narrow valley, Woonsocket has impressed me as a town afflicted with the meanness that too often comes with fallen industry. Imagine a strange fusion of small-town suspicion and inner-city threat. There's a museum of "work and culture" (or something like that) downtown, and some half-hearted attempts at gentrification, but these attempts to foster myths of a heritage of proud workers only seem to underscore the squalor and poverty that one encounters at almost every turn. The big houses along South Main Street, before the descent to the river, have a similar effect. I can imagine nothing good in this place. It seems to radiate slow, smoldering hatred, this town. You can see it in the eyes of the people, especially the younger people. I would not live in Woonsocket for a million dollars. Really. Almost every place I go I see ghosts, but it's not often they seem to possess such a terrible despite.
We stopped first at the dam, a waterfall long used to generate energy for the mills, and I took pictures until Spooky began to complain that the fumes rising from the polluted green-yellow-grey water were actually starting to burn her eyes and throat. The river slips through spillways and thunders down onto the ancient Precambrian rocks below, flowing away beneath a stone bridge built in 1903.
After the Blackstone River, we got shots of the mills, the town in general, and St. Ann's twin bell towers, then headed south again. I actually felt relief at leaving Woonsocket, moreso than I'd felt when we left it Tuesday evening. Part of this was undoubtedly my mood and my need to be home again, but I think we saw more of the town, too, and in a clearer light than before.
Three days to go. I still haven't tried an Awful Awful, a doughboy, or Autocrat coffee milk. I still haven't seen the last house in which Lovecraft lived (originally located at 66 College Street, relocated to 67 Prospect Street). There's still a lot to do, really.
Here are three photos from yesterday:
The dam (or is that "damn"?) at Blackstone Falls, looking west.
Mills along the Blackstone River.
St. Ann's Church.
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
It wan't my intention to offend, though I knew I would, or to sell the town short. Most of the things you've said here about the town I either knew or suspected. I'm wary of that whole "they are just good, friendly folksy-folks" bit, especially being who and what I am, but I won't argue the point. You have more experience with the town than do I. I was seeing it as an outsider, as someone who's an outsider almost everywhere but in some places much more than others, and my statements were emotional reactions (which I stand behind). It's a sick town with a dead river flowing through it. Desperation breeds cruelty and anger and despite.
For what it's worth, by the way, I wouldn't live in New Orleans, either.
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
I really hope that my needling didn't detract from your RI experience. Despite what Spooky might say RI is a fantastical place, both in history and lore. There are scads of her Pop's comrades that can attest to this.
Thanks for putting up with us, and hopefully someday spooky will realize all she's forsaken...
(sorry, but just dipping my toe below the mason-dixon gives ME the creeps...)
All My beast.
Uncle
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
I think you need to read what I've written more carefully and not make assumptions about things I didn't say.
and hopefully someday Spooky will realize all she's forsaken...
Spooky loves Rhode Island and wants very much to live there again. She hates the South. She's forsaken nothing, as regards Rhode Island.
I also love Rhode Island, and would like to live there, but fear the winters, as I have spent most of my life in the South.
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
yeah. what she said.
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
Works for me.
I generally don't mind when someone disagrees with something that I've said, which is why I allow comments to these entries. But I very much do mind someone not taking the trouble to know what they're talking about before he or she begins disagreeing.
Re: In Defence of Woonsocket.
Despite what I say? And how do you know what I say?
What makes you think that just because I have moved away from a place means I no longer want to be there? That I have somehow "forsaken" it?
sheesh.
I can tell you that I lament aloud at least twice a week the absence of the ocean, that part of the ocean. Never mind the times I only think it. That I miss that history and creepiness that surrounds you at every turn in New England. The slate grave markers. The 18th century houses that line the streets in many towns. The tiny family plots that pepper the state, only some of which actually have historical marker signs posted at the road. I know of at least 3 that don't, in my old stomping grounds alone.
The only things I really hate about RI are the strip malls popping up everywhere, and the way people drive. The tourists annoy me, but I do realise their importance, and know how to avoid the hoards.