Late afternoon in the village. The Pawtuxet River still flows past the village to its juncture with the Narragansett Bay...past the colonial homes that were built when this site was an active ship-building port, past homes that were built for the textile magnates who harassed the river's power to run the mills that once lined its banks, past the homes of managers of the Rhodes casino and dance hall that brought throngs out from Providence on the trolley on weekends, and now past the homes of those with wealth enough to "live on the water" and past the shops (restaurants, wine bars, tea shops) that crowd around the small bridge that crosses the water.
Charlotte and I came down to the village for a glass of wine, taking a break from waiting with Ingrid for the imminent birth of her second child. We've been out for a week so far, helping with housework, childcare for first daughter Freya, and moving at a pace much slower from that at home. So we've been a bit house-bound (well that is the meaning of "husband") but the new baby will come when she, yes a she, comes.
In the meantime, it's daily trips to the village (for the New York Times and the morning's first capuchino) and for a walk around a part of the country, so different from the colorado town we call home.
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