“Poor Little Rhode Island,” is a jaunty ditty that was featured in the Hollywood film “Carolina Blues” in 1944. For some reason, both its first line and its tune have remained lodged in my memory ever since.

Were I to quote its other lines, you would appreciate the song’s overall fatuousness. For example, in stanza two, the state is addressed (without a noun) as “You’re such a teentsy weentsy.”  Affectionate, possibly, but definitely smarmy.  

A two-week vacation in Rhode Island this summer prompts my reference to this absurd relic of the World War II era. Any time spent there serves to belie the condescending attitude of the song’s creators.

This season’s experience, like that of a sojourn in Matunuck, R.I. two summers ago, makes me wonder why so few Great Boston residents appreciate the virtues of that state as a vacation site. I’m no real estate flack but I value stylish houses and graceful shore lines when I see them.

Rhode Island’s beaches rival those of Massachusetts for beauty and grandeur. Where it has the advantage is the accessibility of these sites, at least by comparison with the notoriously jammed approaches to Cape Cod. Traffic sometimes causes delays on I-95, the main drag through Providence heading south, but these tie-ups seem exceptional rather than the rule.

One of our motives for visiting Rhode Island was the opportunity to be near a favorite cousin who lives in the town of Wakefield. Spending time with her always brings pleasure to us and other family members.

Our vacation this year meant house-sitting in our cousin’s neighborhood for people not previously known to us. Part of the experience involved getting to know the workings of a home quite different from our own. The challenge of finding this structure’s virtues and coping with some of its surprises proved a continual source of fascination.

The presence of the family’s cat, Java, offered a special challenge. He, it turns out, is remarkably vocal and insistent on his own ways. My general approach was to give him as much time outside the house as possible. But my wife, who served as interpreter between us, was charmed by his affectionate temperament and exotic good looks.

Some readers will remember that we had 13 years of previous experience at home with an ornery cat, Phileas J. Fogg, by name. Phil was never cuddly and would often pose non-negotiable demands. We missed him when he was gone, though, and our recent experience reminded us of the joys and frustrations of having a pet.    

Wakefield is a charming place, by and large. The neighborhood where we stayed features houses with large porches that often curl around the whole front of the structure. Part of the daily pleasure of being there turned out to be the breezes that, almost invariably, cooled the porch. It proved to be the best site for reading and conversation.

Early mornings, I would stroll down to the local old-fashioned shopping center where I bought newspapers at Healy’s store. The proprietor, with whom I share a first name, proved a genial fellow with whom I immediately found common ground. A procession of customers, most of them male, would also come in to get their newspaper. Sales of the Providence Journal boosted my morale: newspapers continue be a vital, if ancient, technology.

Papers in hand, I would often proceed to “Appetites,” a local coffee shop, for morning tea and muffin. There, more of the town’s old boys would sit and exchange local gossip.

One of them, Tom, announced one morning that he was not at the top of his game. He was definitely not feeling his best.

“What’s wrong?” I asked with the innocence of a visitor. “My dog died,” Tom replied. Summoning up such sympathy as this canophobe could muster, I expressed condolences to the man.

Soon after, he informed me that he was “just kidding.”

With a next door neighbor I fared much better. Born in 1924, this tall slim man immediately seemed to me remarkable for his physical abilities. Conversation revealed that he left college in his freshman year to enter the Army Air Corps. After training, he piloted a B-17 over Italy, bombing German positions in the north.

It fascinated me that he could take on such responsibility at age 19, commanding an 11-man crew and managing such a large plane. With modesty typical of the man, he dismisses these feats, quoting one of his flying instructors who told his pilots-in-training: “It’s just like driving a car.”

This veteran also dismisses talk of “the greatest generation.” Instead, he feels that the war gave to his age peers a definite structure for their young lives. It was easier, he thinks, for them to find themselves in the world than it has proven for many young people these days.

Who knows? This Rhode Island sojourn may at last root out of my head both music and lyrics of that silly old song.

Richard Griffin