Scituate, I hate you. From your picturesque dirt roads to your undying family spirit, I wish I could erase you from history so that nobody would have to experience the hatred I feel. Scituate, what you lack is an ability to disappoint. Your heroic tale began in 1915 when stories of your citizens defending your land at gunpoint spread through Rhode Island. You see, back in 1915, there was a bill passed by the Rhode Island General Assembly to build a reservoir in the middle of Scituate. This reservoir would provide water for the city of Providence. While I would imagine the citizens of Providence were quite happy to hear about their nice new clean water supply, the 3,342 residents of Scituate were not. About 1,195 buildings were torn down to build the reservoir. Five villages and portions of the remaining villages (North Scituate, Clayville, Hope, and Potterville) were erased from history. For many years, Scituate residents held a mighty big grudge over this, but we now know Scituate would not be the place it is today without the hundreds of acres of protected forest land. It is the 101st birthday of the Scituate Reservoir and it now provides water to 60 percent of the state (you're welcome).
This is not the only reason I hate you, though. Having an amazing historic background doesn't get you off that easily. When I am relaxing in Newport every summer, minding my own business miles away from your vast array of trees and woodland creatures, I find myself faced with the question, "Where are you from?" "Scituate." My immediate response is normally followed by, "Oh! Scituate Mass! I go there all the time!" I sigh and start explaining that no, there actually is a Scituate, RI. "You know, where the Scituate Art Festival is." "Oh my gosh, you live there! It's like a step back in time going there. I love it!" Yes...I actually had someone scream that at me in Newport.
The Scituate Art Festival — our one and only claim to fame. This year is the 50th anniversary of this disgustingly amazing event. Travelers young and old pack our already-too-narrow dirt roads (OK, they are not all dirt, but some still are), walk for miles (from their air-conditioned cars) on Columbus Day weekend to eat apple dumplings, kettle corn, and buy overpriced things they don't need. Now as a somebody who grew up in Scituate my entire life, the Art Festival is actually quite horrible for us. The streets become so overcrowded with cars and people that you have to take a 20-minute detour to leave town, sometimes involving driving up into Connecticut and back down just to avoid Scituate village. Schools are closed the Friday before the festival (conveniently placed teacher in-service day) which sounds nice until you realize you're going to be spending that entire day helping various people set up their booths for the weekend. Then the glorious weekend comes when we either work all weekend at various booths, boy scouts, girl scouts, Booster club, church, fire station, parking duty, etc. Or we hide in the woods just far enough away from the main traffic but close enough to get food (come on, it's still really good).
I don't know how else to say it, but I hate how much I love Scituate. My hugegraduating class of 130 was one of the largest classes in Scituate history. All of them feel like my family. I received my diploma with the same kids I went to preschool with, where we performed the story "Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See?". The dad of the famous movie star Robert Capron, aka Rowley Jefferson, was my T-ball coach. When a beloved member of the class of 2013 lost her battle with cancer, the funeral was announced over the school loudspeaker. The funeral home right down the street said it was the largest number of people ever to attend a funeral there. These are some of the reasons I love you so.
Scituate has made me laugh at people in cities who say they have big back yards. That white picket fence can't compare to the big tree next to the rock that marks my property. Scituate, you have made me incapable of loving any town where my neighbors are not trees and I don't know every single resident's family tree. I will brag about my town that has a memorial complete with framed picture and balloon for the brave beaver that died crossing the road in front of Horshoe dam. I will never miss an Art Festival. I will always pull over at the reservoir to take a picture of the watercolor sunset, I will always pretend to hate the Providence Water Supply Board and I will never lose the family you provided me with. I hate my stupid small town but I wish it was big enough to hold the world.
