A week ago, at 10:40 a.m., I sat in a parking place marked “Taxi Stand” in Kennedy Plaza, waiting to taxi my daughter-in-law from her stern gray bank to see my granddaughter perform in “Cinderella” across the city. For twenty minutes I was immersed deep in the metropolitan heart --- in a place teeming with an astounding variety of human beings hurrying in pursuit of their affairs. In my horseless carriage, fresh from the pumpkin patch, I felt more like an alien in a hover craft from the far reaches of the cosmos. Let it be noted that I was born in Providence.
As long as I have lived in Foster, it has never ceased to amaze me that we can travel to and from another world in barely more than a half hour. The Federal Census, in fact, tells us that most Foster residents of working age do just that at least five days per week. We are a bedroom community, not a rural community as we like to imagine. Yet we manage to maintain our imaginary sense of place rather well in spite of the every-so-often threats to our land development and more than a few intrusive architectural blunders.
I am thankful for the collective imagination that has, so far, kept Foster a place apart. Yet, a vague and haunting guilt clouds the joy of life so removed from the pressing problems of the teeming cities --- a bit like the mist suspended above the rusty grasses of the field at dawn.