CHIMES
ickfordVillageinRhodeIslandisoneof
thoseidyllicplaces inNew Englandnes-
tledontheAtlanticcoast,unspoiledbythe
modernworld.Itlooksmuchasit didtwohundred
yearsago,whenitwasa vibrantfishingvillage.As
I walkdownMainStreet,I marvelatthetwo-story
clapboard homes, many having been built in the
eighteenthornineteenthcentury.Onewhitepicket
fenceis herdinginsomewaywardlilactrees,their
branchesstrewnabout,heavy withfragrantpurple
andwhiteblossoms.
I ambledownPleasantStreettotheYachtClub,
whereI heara roostercrowtwice.I takea leftdown
to Ocean Avenue, which is on a
cove.Thereis a circleoffthisthor-
oughfare that curves along the
water’sedge. There I findseveral
tiny cottages with window boxes
overflowing with red, white, and
pinkimpatiens.Onmystroll,I see
a small elderly woman bending
downtowateryellowflowersinherfrontyard.I stop
toadmirethem,andshesays,“Mynameis Dorothy.”
Sobegana friendshipwithDorothy,andlaterher
husband,Don,thatspannedmorethantwodecades.
Overtheyears,conversationsblossomedintodinners
andpartiesateachofourhomes.I recallsittingonthe
couple’sfrontporch,whichlooksoutonto thecove,
relaxingonanoverstuffedsofaandsippingDorothy’s
homemaderaspberrytea.Severalyearslater,I reluc-
tantlyleftfora jobinFloridabutreturnedtoWickford
annuallytostaywithDorothyafterDondied.
Ononesuchvisit,whenDorothywaseighty-four,
I asked her ifI could havemy friendSheryl come
up from Florida and give a concert at her house.
I explainedthatthiswouldbejustlikea traditional
performanceina theatre;the onlydifferencewould
bethevenue.
“Whata greatidea!”Dorothysaid.“Whenwould
youwanttodothis?”
“I thought Saturday night would be good,”
I rathersheepishlysuggested.Mindyou,it waspres-
entlyWednesday.
“Fine,”Dorothysaid.“Thissoundsexciting.”I quicklymadeflyers,andDorothyand I delivered
themtothehousesonhercircle.Ateachstop, Dorothy
wouldbegin,“Ihavesomethingforyou to read, and
I needyoutotakea lookatit nowandtell me what
youthink.”Neighborafterneighborwould skim the
flyerwithinterestandthensay,“Dorothy, we’d love to
come.Wewilldefinitelybethere.”Soon we had sold
twentytickets.
Thenextday,Sherylarrived.“This reminds me
ofNewportBeach,California,whereI grew up,” she
remarkeduponseeingWickford.“It’slovely.” Sheryl,
Dorothy,andI enjoyedanhourontheporch, relax-
ing with a cup of raspberry tea while the two got
acquainted.Wealldecided to serve
a meal withthe concert to make
theeventevenbetter.
Aftera flurry ofactivity, it is
now seven o’clock on Saturday
evening, and theguests have all
arrived. At a quarter past the
hour,Sheryl,a performer for more
thanthirty-fiveyears,beginshersetwith “Fine Art of
DoingNothing,”a jazzytunethatreminds us to set
asideourresponsibilitiesandrelax.Later, she jumps
intoa moreup-temponumbercalled “Don’t Trade
theTruck,”a comicaltaleabouta father’s advice to
hisdaughterregardinghermanysuitors. Sheryl fi n-
ishestheshowwiththepoignant“Is There Room in
ThisHouseforLove?”Thisballadinvolves a heartbro-
kengirlwhoseekssolacewithhermother.
Attheendoftheprogram,theguests mingle with
the musician,andthe houseis warmwith laughter
andthespecialfeelingonegetswheninspired by tal-
ent,havingwitnesseda liveperformance that delights
andfeedsthesoul.
Wheneveryoneelseleaves,Dorothy says, “Before
wedoanycleaning,let’ssit,havea glass of wine, and
talkabouttheconcert.”I askDorothyif she is tired,
butsheinsiststhatshefeelsenergized.So we sip our
wineandlaugh,reminiscingaboutallwe have expe-
rienced.Byoneinthemorning,thehouse is in order
andwedriftofftobed,happilysavoring memories of
thenight.I thinkabouthowamazingDorothy is and
baskinthewonderoffriendship.TEXTCHRISTINEREILLY“The“Thehousehouseis warmis warmwithwith
laughterlaughterandandthethespecialspecial
feelingfeelingoneonegetsgetswhenwhen
inspiredinspired by talent.”bytalent.”
A Seaside Concert at Home
113 Victoria October 2019