Tiverton, The Place I Still Call Home

As I continue to travel south on Route 24 I start to notice all the Massachusetts license plates fading away, thus making room for more and more vehicles armed with the standard issue Rhode Island blue wave plates. My eyes dart from bumper to bumper searching for the always elusive grey sailboat plate design that acts as an alternate option; I make it all the way to the I-195 split before I finally spot one.  I merge right and up ahead I see the big green sign I’ve been waiting for. EXIT 8A. Tiverton RI/Newport RI. ½ Mile. Just before reaching my exit, I see the Fall River Government Center off in the distance. When I was much younger I used to literally hold my breath every time my parents and I drove under the tunnel for fear that the concrete support panels above us would at some point crumble and fall on our car, unavoidably killing everyone inside. People thought I was crazy. Until it actually happened, back in March 1999, causing an accident involving six or seven vehicles. I can remember hearing the news and racing to the telephone to call my mother at General Fitness (at the time known as Body Building Plus). “I told you it would happen. I told you. I knew that building was unstable.” Luckily no one was killed.

I take EXIT 1A South towards Adamsville. Adamsville, Rhode Island (shaking my head). A town that is no larger than a village square yet claims to have the oldest operating general store (Grays Store; not to be confused with ) in the country. Nowhere on this Earth could you find a more audacious statement from a more insignificant place. And before anyone jumps down my throat, I’m not hating on Adamsville; I freely admit that is a wonderful little grocery market, the Rhode Island Red granite monument is a staple for all the historic culture buffs out there, and the has hands down the best shrimp mozambique eggs benedict I have ever had in my life. But that’s what I love about, what I like to call Rhode Island’s ‘Over-the-Top’ State Pride. We’re constantly trying to justify our existence as being part of the continental United States. We’re ridiculously paranoid; like the other 49 states are all conspiring against us, devising a plot to disenfranchise our way of life in an evil act of national espionage. I’m convinced our entire state demographic suffers from Napoleon Syndrome. It’s hilarious. Always puffing out our chests and persistently feeling the need to drop some pretentious boast to “outsiders” about some mundane historical fact we think (believe is probably a better word) is culturally important. Honestly, how many times in your lifetime have you heard a parent or grandparent tell someone that the Bristol Parade is the oldest Fourth of July celebration in the United States? Or that Robert Gray was the most prominent sea captain in the last 250 years? I’ve even overheard a few of my close friends from threaten the lives of a couple undergrads from Connecticut, stating cold-heartedly that James Woods is a quintessential figure in pop-culture and arguably one of the greatest actors of all-time. I mean, come on people, some of these assertions border on mental psychosis. But for me…its home.

Granted I no longer live in Rhode Island, but for countless reasons I will always call it home; more specifically, the Town of Tiverton. And to quote the infamous Chris Bishop, “It’s the Town we’re livin’ in” (anyone reading this that attended between 1998-2002 just laughed so hard they spit whatever they were drinking all over their computer screens). Ain’t that the truth? Tiverton is a quirky place. It truly is the epitome of a small town. And I don’t care what country song you’re listening to that’s going on about painting your name on a water tank, mama’s front porch swing, and the good ol’ boys and their backwards ways; those aren’t small towns. Those are metaphors and images that give people the indication of the “Small Town USA” ideal. Don’t get me wrong, I love those songs; but they aren’t real and tangible.

To me, real is a place where I can look down during homeroom my freshmen year and see my mother’s initials carved into the lower right hand side of my desk. It’s a place where my babysitter as a child, would grow up to marry my step-brother. It’s also worth noting that her mother was my 1^st and 4^th grade teacher. I’m looking at you Mrs. Lefebvre (Hey Jeff Cooley, remember when I tried to cut off a wart on my finger with dull construction paper scissors in her class? Gross). It’s a place where if you said you were going hiking, it meant you were going to get high in Weetamoo Woods. A coffee frappe from Gray’s is an essential part of our diets and remains an important item on the food pyramid. There are places we will never forget; places like the , Helgers, , , Buddys, , Alcheldos, , , Ponta Delgada, the Po-Cat ( – the place that produced some of Tiverton’s fastest athletes, who all  irrevocably had attitude problems), Sakonnet Point, Guimond Farms, Barcelos, Benjamins, , Famous Pizza (after you’re done reading this, go order a chourico and chip grinder, I dare you), George’s Root Beer, and of course the mack-daddy of all things detrimental to your health, well-being, and soul; the m----- f------ . Honestly, I could write a book on all the absurd and unlawful behavior I have seen at this joint over the past decade, but I’ll do my best to restrain myself. I’ll just say this, the last time I was there I witnessed the most awesomely bad, yet horrifying, rendition of ‘Gangsters Paradise’ karaoke, performed in front of a sellout crowd by a few female members of the THS class of 2001 reunion ensemble. I won’t mention anyone by name, but you know who you are.

Tiverton is a place where expressions like “Having the Eye of the Tiger” meant you had the uncanny ability to bounce back from such a vicious and heinous hangover that it would kill most human beings. It’s a place where our varsity athletes (you know the ones who got into the most trouble in high school) become part of the Town’s and Departments. It’s funny to visualize small underage drinking parties getting broken up by the people who used to help organize and throw the same kinds of parties when they themselves were in High School. It’s a place where you can flip through a yearbook and without hesitation name everyone, who they used to date, and their parent’s occupation. I mean who doesn’t know that Doran’s Smith dad was (and maybe still is) a rock n’ roll star, who’s performances with the Sporadix at the Water Front Festival were legendary. I still have a ‘Second Wind’ (his original band) tee-shirt that I stole from Doran in my top drawer (sorry Dor). I suppose I should also mention that I had Doran’s mother as a Social Studies teacher and her uncle, Mr. Clarke, as an English teacher.  Who by the way, for anyone who had him, was  one of the oddest human beings with the driest sense of humor I have ever met in my life (Let’s take a break. Breaks over. NEXT!). 

My trips home are always special in one way or another. I always find it interesting to go back and visit some of the places I remember growing up and see how they have changed. I have to admit that some of the recent development trends and all the new subdivisions popping up is an eye-sore, but I understand that a place can’t stay the same forever.

Before I leave and head back to New Hampshire I stop in at to meet my Dad to pick up some sweetbread from Lou’s Bakery down on East Main Street in Fall River (best sweetbread around). He sends me back with a fresh loaf and a jar of cherry peppers stuffed with prosciutto and cheese. And just before I jump into my car to make by way north on Route 24 I stop, smile, and take one last look around. No matter where this life takes me and no matter where I end up, this will always be the place I call home.