LAST NIGHT ON THE VINEYARD

I've been invited out to a News Year's Eve party this year. It's been going on for years with people joining and dropping out--you know how it goes. This year's hostess saw fit to invite me. From what I understand it usually breaks up about 10:30 pm. That's ok with me. The only time I see midnight these days is when the insomnia kicks in. This was previously published in the anthology Martha's Vineyard Writing. Got ten bucks.

Last Night on the Vineyard

I think New Year’s Eve is an over rated, made up holiday. An excuse to party to excess and kiss your neighbor’s wife. When I was a kid I got just as excited as the next guy. I wasn’t always cynical. But really, what is there to celebrate? Unless it’s your birthday when midnight arrives, your just one day older, which can be said for 362 other days of the year. If the last year was a bummer you’re glad to see it go, but let’s face it, the next one could be worse. Not to mention all the checks you’ll have to void because--riiight--it’s a new year.

It’s one of those holidays which has great potential but frequently lets you down. There’s so much build up to the big night. Reservations, new outfit, gather enough friends for a big table, the tension of the countdown then--what? A sip of champagne, toot a horn, kiss your husband? Big deal. Let’s face it--unless you stay home--your chances of getting a speeding ticket are greater than any other night of the year. A cop that would let you go any other time, is going to be mad because he’s missing all the fun and you’re not.

My husband and I started spending New Year’s on the Island a few years ago. We had been going off to have a good time with family. Nice home cooked dinner, Dick Clark, trying to keep the grandchildren awake, the ball in Times Square, hitting the sack at 12:01 am. It wasn’t exciting but on the other hand, there was no post holiday let down. Since we were going to be alone here he suggested we look at ads in the Gazette for a festive party at one of the local venues. “Lambert’s Cove is having a party,” I said. “How much?” he asked. “One twenty five a head,” I said. “But they’re gonna have a singer and piano player.” “Sounds nice. I think we should go. Make a reservation,” said he. “It says ‘formal’,” said I.

He immediately went to his closet to try on his old, and I mean old, tuxedo. “It fits,” he said. “Make a reservation.”

When the reservation had been made I asked the fellow on the phone what the ad meant by ‘formal’. He replied that it meant black tie. I said that I just wanted to make sure because here on the Vineyard most people think formal means socks with your sandals. “No, no,” he said without a hint of jocularity. “Black tie means a tuxedo.” He must have put a big red asterisk next to our name in the reservation book because when the gal called back to confirm she made sure we understood that the event was BLACK TIE.

When people asked what we were doing for New Year’s I proudly announced our intentions. My friend Janice asked what dress I was wearing. “Are you kidding? I live on Martha’s Vineyard,” I said. “I don’t own a dress.” The men were required to wear tuxedos. I, on the other hand, could be presentable in velvet pants and a glamorous blouse. Ladies fashions being what they are you can pretty much get away with anything that’s not jeans or sweats. I also suggested to my husband that he wear sneakers with his tuxedo, after all they said black tie not black shoes, but he didn’t think they would appreciate the joke.

So the big night came. I was about as excited as I get when I’m going out to dinner any other night of the year--which my husband would tell you is pretty excited. He always says if you want to see a bunch of happy women, go to a restaurant. The problem was we usually go out for dinner at six but our seating was for eight thirty which is practically my bed time. I hoped I could stay awake for all the festivities, especially after gorging on a splendid three course meal.

The ride to the inn wasn’t too bad except for all those cars being pulled over. Since there was a seating time everyone arrived at once, but the staff was efficient and had us seated with our wine open in short order. Who would have thought there were so many tuxedos on Martha’s Vineyard? They weren’t rentals either because some of them hadn’t been in style since the Kennedy administration. To be fair to the flavor of the Island, most of the other diners were summer people spending the holiday here with friends. I overheard lots of talk about Back Bay parking stickers and the possibility of an increase in T fares.

After a sumptuous meal we were all ushered into the library for the entertainment. I overheard the singer (after she had taken a gander at the crowd) ask the pianist to get out her oldies song book. And, as usual, after an evening of imbibing most of the audience sang along. They did not sound like the all-Island chorus, but then the chorus usually knows all the words. As midnight approached there were horns and noisemakers aplenty as well as silly hats, which my husband and I refused to wear, since we were still sober (booze makes it harder to stay awake).

The count down was noisy and then it was over. I kissed my husband. He said, “Get your coat, and don’t forget the doggie bag.”

CLAUS-TRO-PHOBIA

Been eating too much myself this season. Extra days at the gym. We should be able to spread all this cheer throughout the year instead of cramming it into one month. This essay was printed in the Martha's Vineyard Gazette. Again...no check.

Claus-tro-phobia

The uproar denouncing obesity has reached to the very heart of the Christian world. Santa Claus has become a bad influence on our children. A recent newspaper article condemned the jolly old elf’s rotundity and showed pictures of numerous department store Santas taking aerobics classes. Outrageous!!!

St. Nick was not always obese. Apparently Santa developed his bowl full of jelly belly in the early 1930’s in a Christmas Coca Cola ad, the purpose of which was to show prosperity at a time when there was little. Up until then, as far as anyone can tell, Santa was of average girth. And some people think he should return to his original healthy size.

One has to wonder if it wasn’t all the milk and cookies that did it. Tradition is nice but not if it affects your benefactor’s cholesterol. Which begs the question if you can’t leave Santa milk and cookies, how do you show your annual appreciation? Skim milk and low fat cookies would be a start but that only helps cut some calories. If he has to eat them at every house he visits, he will still consume more than he can work off in one night.

There must be something Santa would like that isn’t a food product. Children love to make Christmas gifts. Hand prints and ash trays are okay for a parent who loves you but I think Santa deserves something a little more spectacular. Someone I know leaves a condom but I’m not sure Mrs. Claus would appreciate his coming home with several million. Besides, I think the reindeer deserve a break on the trip home. All night long they look forward to that empty sleigh and they should have it. After all, how would Santa bring all our goodies were it not for Rudolph and the rest.

A shot of Bourbon might do. I’m sure that on a cold night he would really appreciate it but imagine the scandal of a drunken Santa crashing his sleigh or eight reindeer running loose and leaving piles of reindeer poop all over town. And the question of nutritionally empty calories is still there. No, I guess booze isn’t the answer.

Santa will become the equivalent of great aunt Sadie. She has everything, needs nothing, but you are still obligated to give her a gift that says, “You’re wonderful.” And forget Aunt Sadie’s will, Santa could cross your name off next year’s list.

I simply can’t think of anything that would delight Santa. A spa membership might shut up those health nuts. A nice colorful banner that says WELCOME FAT MAN? (The kids suggested that.) Tickets to the Rose Bowl? He’ll probably still be sleeping off Christmas Eve. A stripper? She’d have to be pretty fast. Don’t forget he’s only in your living room for two and a half minutes. And a stripper without finesse is just a gal getting ready to take a shower.

Well, compromise is the name of the game here and maybe a few calories won’t kill him. If he promises to get a little exercise during the rest of the year I suppose a little low fat milk (no egg nog) and a Frookie or two might be in order. Just don’t tell the health nuts.

CHRISTMAS DINNER

It's that time of the year again. I just did a mega shop for the holidays. Whew! Good thing I had coupons! My loving daughter will be with us so I'm making all her favorites. We will go out for Christmas dinner again this year. And as usual, our plans for a post prandial hike will most likely be all talk and no action. A version of this essay was printed in the Martha's Vineyard Times. I did get paid for that one.

CHRISTMAS DINNER

My Christmas holidays used to be filled with big family gatherings, including many kin I only saw at that time of year. They would travel from far and wide to be close enough to New York City to see the Rockettes do their thing. Since moving to Martha’s Vineyard, Christmas just isn’t the same.

Have you ever noticed that all those relatives who are more than willing to drop by for a week or so in August find the trip just too trying in December? “It’s just too hard to get ferry tickets,” they cry. “Little Johnny is in the pageant this year and needs to rehearse,” they moan. What they really mean is, “You can’t go to the beach that time of year.” Or, “All the nice restaurants are closed by then.”

Well I don’t miss them at all. First of all the lack of company has simplified my life in many ways. Take meals for instance. My family likes to have lobster for Christmas Eve dinner. This evolved because a previous in-law was Italian and Catholic and her family always did seven kinds of fish for that meal. I’ve since been told that it’s neither and Italian nor Catholic tradition but since my husband likes fish it stuck. We’ve whittled it down, however, to lobster and clams casino, and the fewer people I have to feed, the fewer lobsters I have to buy. This makes my wallet happy. I also don’t have to come up with a non fish eaters menu. There’s one in every family, isn’t there?

Before I moved to the Island I had holiday food issues. In the Hudson Valley seafood isn’t as plentiful as it is here. I had to go to the local fish store and order those lobsters two weeks ahead of time. One year I showed up for my dinner on Christmas Eve morning and they couldn’t find it. I had to make do with whatever was left in the display case, a couple of African rock lobster tails, a few crabs legs, a couple dozen shrimp. As we sat down to this amalgam of saltwater misfits the phone rang. They had found my lobster order in a bag behind the freezer. I never felt safe again. My food anxieties followed me to the Vineyard. The first time I went into the fish store to order my Christmas Eve lobsters the guys laughed at me. No need, they said. It took me years to trust them.

It’s a scientific fact that you can’t cook big meals for many years without having a few food mishaps. I would hesitate to call them disasters except for the year the non fish eater’s wife developed a near fatal allergy to lobster right in the middle of dinner. Fortunately she has other allergies and carries an adequate supply of Benedryl with her. She was a true lobster lover and very disappointed at this turn of events. Then there was the time the new (southern) daughter-in-law insisted on making her mother’s recipe for corn bread which turned out to be more of a pudding than bread. Many tears on her part required a telling of my own history of food catastrophes, which eventually cheered her up at my expense and started a new family game called “tease the cook”.

Food traditions grow as families do and after having numerous in-laws join us the number of side dishes (tomatoes Provençal for one daughter-in-law, corn bread and oyster stuffing for another) grew exponentially to the point where the only thing I didn’t serve was that green bean-french fried onion-mushroom soup thing. We had to have Mom’s broccoli casserole, and Katie’s sweet potatoes and marshmallows (she told me when she grew up I could have skipped the sweet potatoes and just cooked the marshmallows), Cathy and Diane must have my napa cabbage salad--you get the picture. The table looked like the buffet at the Harbor View, which is were we go now. The biggest benefit is no leftovers. Which is especially helpful since the refrigerator is already full from the night before, because I still cook some of those traditional side dishes.

Yes going out to the Harbor View is great. It bustles with cheerful holiday revelers who stuff themselves with multiple trips to the dessert table then go home for a long winter’s nap. We are no different. Our pre dinner plans to take a long walk afterwards always fizzle out. You’d think we’d be more realistic.

FINDING RELIGION--VINEYARD STYLE

Christmas time always makes me think about church more than any other time of the year. As a child the ritual was as much a part of the holiday as the tree and presents. I still haven't found the right church for me but that's ok. I'm still a good person. This essay was previously printed on the Vineyard Gazette op ed page. That means you don't get paid!

FINDING RELIGION--VINEYARD STYLE

I was a lapsed Methodist when I retired to the Vineyard. Up until then I had had what I thought were good reasons not to go to church. I worked many Sundays and spent lots of weekends away from home. Church was low on my list of priorities. Besides, when I was young I went, you could say, religiously. I sang in the choir and taught Sunday school right through college. Then I got a life. A busy one. There wasn’t room for a lot of things. I didn’t lose my faith, whatever faith I had, but I didn’t feel it was necessary to take part in most of the rituals. Flash forward to retirement. Now I had time. But I wasn’t sure just how or where or what rituals were right for me. The last time I went to a church service I became uncomfortably aware that the church, as I had known it, had changed. So I decided now was a good time to find a new fit.

I had an opportunity to look at churches when my new Island friends started to die off. Funerals give you a reason to go to a church without the pastor or congregation looking at you like a potential new member. In this day and age of closing and merging parishes new members are at a premium. The first funeral was at an Edgartown church. I won’t say which one. Now I’m a good person and I feel I’ve led a pretty good life but the first thing I spied when I walked in the door was a large banner proclaiming ‘REPENT!’. Okay, it was Lent, but Jeez a church that assumes I need to repent without even knowing who I am is not for me. Besides, the incense gave me an asthma attack.

Church number two was a little better, no sign demanding repentance but the service was almost identical to the previous one, incense and all. There also seems to be a requirement now that the service stop briefly for everyone to shake hands and say ‘peace be with you’. This made me feel silly and I worried about being shunned if I refused to take part during flu season. I didn’t get discouraged. After all, there are twenty nine churches listed in the Martha’s Vineyard phone book. One was bound to agree with me.

The many friends I made here all encouraged me to go to their church. The ones that went to church, that is. The rest tried to interest me in what floated their boat: birding, sailing, gardening, painting, yoga or rug hooking. Everyone on the Island seems to have something that connects them to nature, and thus God, in one way or another.

One winter there was an article in the paper describing a round table discussion to share feelings about Christmas traditions. One member held a degree from Harvard Divinity School, was raised in a Protestant Community Church, and now attends the Unitarian-Universalist Church. One was a retired Lutheran pastor, now a member of an Episcopal Church, and one, the granddaughter of an Orthodox Rabbi, is a cantor at the Hebrew Center and a practicing Buddhist. I knew that if I couldn’t find my niche on the Vineyard, I never would.

The longer I live on the Island the more I realize that you must live your life by what you believe. I was taught good values growing up. Be kind, be honest, be helpful. I internalized these things by watching my parents live. I treat everyone as an equal, not necessarily because they deserve it but because that is the kind of person I want to be. I recently read a quote that made a lot of sense to me. “Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than being in a garage makes you a car.”

I’ve learned that the all encompassing church of the Island is the concept of charitable works. This has become my religion. My congregation. The rite of working to make life better for others. Now, instead of church, I go to meetings and raise money.

I think God would approve.

A PILGRIM TO MECCA

Living on an island that has only two chain stores, Ace Hardware and Stop & Shop, the word 'mall' has the same physiological effect on me that the word 'sex' has on my husband, except I drool more when I hear it. I took a bus excursion to Providence Place yesterday with a group of women who were so happy you would have thought their daughters had just married investment bankers. For Islanders, shopping has become a sport and people buy stuff they don't even need just because they never see it here, or because it's cheaper. I've had my fix and I'm good to go for a while.

A PILGRIM TO MECCA

When I moved to the Vineyard my sister-in-law, who retired to Florida said, “How can you live in such an isolated place?” What she really meant was, “How can you live without malls?” Shopping is a way of life for some of us. Actually the only thing that can lure me off Island is the prospect of visiting a shopping center. Like a pilgrim to Mecca.

People don’t come to the Vineyard for the shopping. At best it’s eclectic, at worse outrageously expensive. It’s almost impossible to buy an article of clothing that doesn’t say “Martha’s Vineyard” on it, which means it’s meant for tourists or directionally challenged Islanders, and priced accordingly. This isn’t to say you can’t shop here. People who are determined to shop will find a way and go home with bags full of overpriced merchandise.

When I retired to the Vineyard, my friends who were still working, and not necessarily reluctantly I might add, asked me what I did to keep busy all day. In my mind, keeping busy was not a goal of retirement, but to admit this seemed sacrilegious to the American work ethic, so I would reply with the retiree’s mantra, “I’m busier than ever!” And in a sense this is true. As any retiree or lottery winner can tell you, a chore or activity shrinks or expands to fit the time available. So if you have a whole day to fill, as long as you have one thing to do you’re good to go. If you have two, you’re even busier. And if you don’t get to do them both you’re ahead of the game for tomorrow.

To guarantee that I always have something to do I live like a Parisian and shop on a daily basis. This can be either a quick trip to pick up a steak or a leisurely stroll through the aisles to see what’s new, fresh or different. It’s there that I see my friends and catch up on gossip. Most Edgartonians use the post office for this, but we have rural delivery so I must make do with the Stop and Shop.

My friend Jonathan is quite tall. Shopping at Cronig’s is like a charity event for him. As he strolls the aisles looking for items on his list he is stopped repeatedly by short women gazing longingly at things on the top shelves. He often wonders if they would starve to death without his intervention.

My friend Jules likes the pastries they sell at the local grocery store, in spite of my repeated warnings that they act as landing strips for the local fly population. Every time I look in the Plexiglas bins it reminds me of the butchers and fishmongers in Mexico before they built a Sam’s Club. The perishable food was not individually wrapped like the food we’re used to. In fact most of it wasn’t even on ice. You could hear the buzzing before you entered the building. Ick. No wonder it was the home of Montezuma’s revenge.

The other day I was shopping with Jules when he stopped in the pastry aisle. “See, look,” he said. “Nary a winged creature in sight.” With that he pulled open a pristine, see through door and, like a dog waiting for the cook to drop a tasty morsel, a big fat fly dive-bombed onto the nearest danish. Consumed with guilt at abetting this rat’s cousin, Jules stuck his arm through the door and started waving frantically over the doughnuts. This had no effect on the fly, but did make Jules look as though he was hailing a cab in a rainstorm. Seeing the creature make its way to the far end of the shelf, Jules slammed the door shut and ran down the aisle, pulled the last door open, shoved his arm in and waved some more.

Just to show how laid back Vineyarders become in the winter, not one shopper so much as glanced in his direction.

For some people shopping is a religious experience. I watched an old man pushing an old woman in a wheelchair past several stores. Suddenly her hand shot up, fingers splayed, looking like a school crossing guard with a stop sign. When he stopped she gripped the arms of the chair and slowly rose, like one of the faithful at Lourdes throwing away her crutches, and walked into a jewelry store. That was as close to a miracle as I’m ever likely to get.

'TIS THE SEASON

It's that time of the year again. Christmas shopping can be difficult when you live on an island so in spite of the following essay, I love my catalogs.

‘TIS THE SEASON

There are so many catalogs arriving in my mailbox every day that my postman has been wearing his truss. They started coming the day after Halloween. I used to wonder when Christmas had turned into Ramadan. Now we’d be lucky if the season only lasted a month.

It seems to me that when I was a kid there were two catalogs and they came once a year. You were either Sears and Roebuck people or Montgomery Ward people, so there was only one catalog in each home. Around Christmas time the Sears kids--whatever happened to Mr. Roebuck?--would check out our “Monky Wards” catalog when they came over to play. My mom called it the wish book and it held the inspiration for our letters to Santa. We spent hours pouring over the toy section, changing our minds about a million times, since, in those days kids didn’t get everything they wanted.

These days my Christmas catalog is J.C. Penney. Every item on the first 19 pages requires an energy source. I was twelve before I got my first Christmas gift that needed batteries. Now they have video games, computers, and cam corders for pre-schoolers. No wonder we have global warming.

I got a catalog the other day called Things You Never Knew Existed. It has such wondrous things. For $39.98 you can buy a remote controlled skunk. “Just like the real thing--minus the spray, of course.” I’m sorry but if I were to spend that kind of money on a practical joke I’d want the real deal.

Want to look like a he-man at the gym but keep your day job? For $12.98 you can purchase flesh toned full-length fake tattoo sleeves. Black and white or color.

Yes, this catalog has something for everyone on your holiday giving list. All those hard to shop for relatives. Along with the rubber chickens, imitation vomit, fake snot, itching powder and bullet hole decals they have an electronic watch dog for only $99.98. This is a motion sensored recording of a dog barking. Perfect for your Uncle Joe who has all those allergies.

Here’s something I wish I had been able to get my hands on when my daughter was in school and I had to drag her--kicking and screaming--out of bed each weekday morning. A flying alarm clock. At the set time it launches a propeller which flies around the room. The alarm continues to ring until you get out of bed, find the propeller and return it to the clock. Speaking of clocks, for the person on your list that is time challenged they have one that only has the days of the week on the face. I supposed it would be okay if you’re retired. At least you’d know when to go to church.

The book section was interesting. There was a pop up bra book for your precocious nephew and a ketchup cook book that would be perfect for a new bride who was raised on french fries. White Trash Etiquette: The Definitive Guide to Upscale Trailer Park Manners piqued my interest. It included information on how late in the evening you can politely call your bail bondsman. I have a daughter who has trouble swallowing her anger. I bought a copy of The Book of Yiddish Insults and Curses for her. If she can learn to say them calmly with a smile on her face it could go a long way to restoring her mental health.

Some of these items make me happy I don’t have the kind of relatives and friends who would like to receive them. I don’t know anyone who would enjoy getting an electronic yodeling pickle. I shudder to think what it would be like to live with a child who requested a terrarium with ten plants that trap, drown, starve or paralyze insects for their dinner. Or a roll of crime tape. Or a worm observatory. There’s a radio controlled fart machine for $14.98. If you buy two they’re only $12.98 each. I don’t think I’d care to know the person who would find this an incredible bargain.

I admit it. I’ve always been sophomoric enough to enjoy bathroom humor. $16.98 will buy you a farting gnome but a farting Santa only costs $12.98. The Santa just farts but the gnome says things like, “Did someone step on a duck?” Worth the extra four bucks don’t you think? Of course I’m sure that the engraved toilet paper and toilet shaped dog dish are gag gifts. My personal favorite is the George W. Bush toilet brush. I’m sure it’s a gag gift. Isn’t it? I’ve also been musing about what I’d record on the talking toilet paper holder. “Don’t forget to flush,” comes to mind. Or how about, “The room freshener is under the sink.”

Got a kid who rebels at bath time? Buy him a bar of money soap. Guaranteed to have anything from a one to fifty dollar bill inside. Don’t get more than one, however. When the kid uses it up and realizes he only got a buck--you didn’t think it would be more did you?--he won’t bathe again for a month.

I got a catalog today that bills itself as The Most Important Gift Catalog In The World. It’s from Heifer International and encourages you to buy animals for poverty stricken people the world over. Now it’s not that I think the concept is funny but I had to laugh at some of the captions under the pictures. There was one picture of a little boy holding a Guinea Pig and the caption read “Two trios of Guinea Pigs will help a family in Ecuador add protein to their diets.” I wouldn’t want to be the person who tells the kid what’s for supper.

For $1000 you can purchase a “Milk Menagerie” which consists of a cow, two goats and a water buffalo. I’m sure they’d let you know if your impoverished family was lactose intolerant. The catalog recommends sending a pig to Honduras where they will eat rejected bananas and damaged yams. I can’t help wondering just how hungry humans have to be before they consider eating a damaged yam. And suppose the family doesn’t care for pork either?

It’s not just catalogs that are filled with unusual gifts this time of year. I was in a Wal-Mart the other day and they had a pre wrapped ‘pig on a motorcycle’ cookie jar. Now I don’t know about you but if I had to stare down a pig every time I wanted a cookie it might improve my diet, though I’m not sure it would work for everyone. I’ve seen pig faces you can mount on your refrigerator that oink when you open the door. Do people really think they can buy will power? If only.

Paging through these catalogs amuses me no end. The one that I enjoy the most, however, is filled with beautiful and expensive jewelry. Now I have to ask. Do you know anyone who would spend $1200 on mail order diamonds?

COWS IN MY BACK YARD

I got up the other morning to see a herd of what my girlfriend Janice calls 'oreo cows', because they are black with a white belt, grazing on the new runway of the Katama Airport. I guess the town had to let the landscapers go because of the recession. Unfortunate for the landscaper. Fortunate for the tax payers. This essay was previously printed in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

COWS IN MY BACK YARD

Even before I moved to the Vineyard I knew the local fauna was, at the least, eccentric, at most downright weird. Like a lot of non-resident homeowners I subscribed to the Gazette to keep up with local events. Articles regarding feral turkeys, tree roosting chickens and neurotic skunks appeared routinely in its pages, particularly off season when there was less bad behavior and fewer moped accidents to report. This should have prepared me for my own run-ins with crazed quadrupeds; but it didn’t.

I have grown used to frequent sightings of wild, feral and domesticated two and four footed creatures in my yard, but occasionally, something strange even by Vineyard standards occurs. Take the case of the red footed falcon. One summer a directionally challenged bird migrating from Africa to Argentina landed in Katama taking up residence on a sign in the airport across the street. I got up one morning to hundreds of bird watchers clogging Herring Creek Road. Taxis by the dozen from ferries and planes brought people who stayed just long enough to eyeball a species that had never before set foot (or rather, talon) on North American soil. After adding this sighting to their life list, they turned around and headed home without purchasing so much as a coke. Once here you’d a thought they might enjoy some of the other natural beauty around them, but no, birders, apparently, are just as single minded as, say, golfers, sailors or fishermen. I once came across a bunch of them on a beautiful Pacific beach. They were sitting in lawn chairs, staring through binoculars with their backs to the ocean! Go figure. (Did I go out and eyeball the falcon, you ask? No. There was a picture of it in the paper. That was good enough for me).

A crazy skunk took up residence in our yard last year. She mated, though I never saw him, and produced half a dozen skunkettes whom she abandoned every time she heard a sound. When quiet returned she would come back and round up her babies who had spent the interval blindly running around in circles completely exposed to any and all danger. This back yard activity did not sit well with dog who, until his first run in with mama had been allowed free range. You would imagine that after being half blinded, dog would have avoided skunks at all cost, but having the short term memory of a turnip, and being more territorial than a street gang in Dorchester, every time he saw the skunk he would leap, snarling and snapping, as far as the leash would allow.

Loony behavior is not limited to loons. Sometimes the people who care for animals go overboard too. Like the fellow who had DNA testing on some hair he found to prove the neighbor’s dog guilty of raiding his hen house. Probably could have bought a lot of chickens for what that cost.

On occasion rush hour traffic, such as it is on Island, can be held up by feral tom turkeys fighting, presumably, over an attractive hen. When I think of birds fighting my mind drifts to a smoke filled cellar or garage with two roosters trying to peck each other’s eyes out. This is not the way turkeys do it. They entwine their necks and do a kind of turkey trot, tug-o-war. Back and forth across the road they go, ignoring ‘scats’ and ‘shoos’ of the tired people on their way home from work.

Of course I must give a mention to Cramer the magical donkey. Our neighbor Ernie Boch rescued him from a petting zoo that was about to go belly up. No one else would take him so Ernie figured he’d get along with the llamas. He was magical because, for one thing, he could open the door and go into the house whenever he wanted. I’m sure Mrs. Boch was thrilled.

This all brings us to the point of my little tale. I live half way between Katama Farm and Herring Creek Farm. Before rising in the morning I can tell which way the wind is blowing by what sounds I hear. The crash of the surf, lowing cows and in good weather, which runway is being used at the airport, all tell me if the wind (and there is always wind in Katama) is coming from the east, north or south.

I awoke the one day to exceptionally loud mooing, and since I knew the herd had been at Katama Farm I figured the breeze was light and coming from the east. In fact I could have sworn they were in the back yard. But that would be silly, wouldn’t it? I got up and looked out the window anyway and there they were. A dozen or so black and white cows, using the trees for scratching posts and munching on my carefully tended lawn, surrounded by a half dozen confused farm workers.

It seems the Farm Institute had been moving the cows from farm to farm on foot, via Herring Creek Road. This particular morning the lead cow decided to make a break for it and the rest of the herd followed. After trying several methods of wrangling, these New England cowboys finally got them back on the road. The rest of the trip was not uneventful with two more attempted escapes before reaching their destination.

Retired life can be dull. I get a lot of milage out of this story. Not with Islanders though. They just shrug. They’re used to strange behavior, both animal and human.

BEAN THERE, DONE THAT

I consider myself a foodie, though there are things that are not on my menu. Raw fish for example. If God had wanted us to eat raw food he wouldn't have given us the Weber grill. Raw clams, a gourmet item for some, is like a little glob of salty snot to me, although I love liver, an item at which most people turn their noses up. Now there's an awkward sentence! I've sent this essay off to a food magazine. Haven't heard. I guess the real gourmands don't find anything funny about food.

Bean There, Done That

When I moved to Martha’s Vineyard after living most of my life near New York City I realized that the food I had been eating was regional and I’d best get used to something new. The New Englander’s palate was just, well, different.

Back then, when I invited people to my home for a Saturday night dinner party, I usually prepared a prime rib of beef or rack of lamb with the appropriate starch and a green salad. You can imaging my surprise the first time I was invited out on Island and was treated to the traditional Saturday night baked-bean dinner, excuse me, supper. Hot dogs and brown bread rounded out the menu. Don’t get me wrong, I happen to like baked beans but it is not a meal I, nor anyone I have ever known, would have served to company.

Now, technically, if you look at the food pyramid, this should be a well balanced meal. You’ve got your meat, your legumes (the onion in the beans counts as a vegetable) and your grain. Of course in the form they took all three are on that list of foods you should rarely or never eat that nutritionists try to (you should pardon the visual) shove down our throats. These people, however, had been eating this exact same supper every Saturday night for their entire lives. They looked pretty healthy to me, although I can’t vouch for their blood pressure.

Another of the regional foods that I find odd is the lobster roll. I simply don’t understand why they take one of the most precious, gourmet foods in the world, boil it, chop it, mix it with mayonnaise and celery and slop it on a toasted hot dog bun. Some anti-chef must have come up with that one. I’ve never been to Russia but I can pretty much assure you they would not do that with caviar. I have been to Paris and, believe me, if I had asked for a fois gras roll they would have laughed me out of the country. I guess it’s just that Yankees aren’t food snobs.

Then there’s the New England boiled dinner. Where I come from they call it stew but they cut the stuff up into smaller pieces and make gravy. And I still can’t get used to the clam bake. Digging a big hole to cook your dinner just seems like too much work. Although cleanup is a snap. Just throw everything in the pit and cover it up with sand.

They are big on regional cook books here. Every organization has published one, and the local stores are very generous in putting them out on a shelf. I’ve looked at a quite a few. Have even bought a couple. Most of the recipes seems to start out, take a quart of mayonnaise and a package of lime jello.....

One thing I got used to quickly is Quahog chowder. Now that I no longer pronounce it kway-hog I order it everywhere I go. It’s always delicious but varies from thin and watery to so thick that when you spoon it up it sounds like a mule pulling its hoof out of the mud. I tend to favor it on the thicker side and full of potatoes. When we have company from off Island, the chowder is always a consideration when we choose a restaurant.

Pot luck suppers and parties take a little getting used to. Back in New York nobody ever asked if they could bring something when invited to dinner. In fact if you asked them to bring something they would have been insulted. Bring your own food to a party? In New England they are insulted if you don’t ask. It took me a long time to convince my friends not to bring anything. I had to be firm. I like getting all the accolades when I entertain. If you show up with a warm apple crisp for dessert I have to share the spotlight. So stop it!

Ice cream is a regional food that’s easy to get used to. It has become a necessary part of my diet. Every town boasts its own homemade variety. The only problem is that you can’t get it on Martha’s Vineyard off season, which is why I tend to pig out during the summer. You can get ice cream anywhere, it’s true, but I’m betting if Ben and Jerry had lived in New Jersey instead of Vermont they would have bought a Burger King franchise rather than inventing Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey.

When I relocated to the Vineyard the fact that I couldn’t get good French bread or bagels was more than off set by the wonderful Portuguese sweet bread. As the years go by, though, I find that to please our seasonal visitors the stores are bringing in more and more items that I hadn’t realized I’d missed. The world is getting smaller and palates are becoming more sophisticated. When you can get a lobster roll at a McDonalds in Iowa, I’ll know that regional food is a thing of the past.

WINTERING THE VINEYARD

I got a call last night from a 'fan' who is a recent wash-ashore. He told me that when people ask him what it's like living on Martha's Vineyard he refers them to my blog, so all you non-Vineyarders are going to have to put up with essays about things you are probably unfamiliar with, but this is what our life is like! The weather is starting to turn coolish and the days have suddenly gotten shorter so here's what it's like to be on Martha's Vineyard in the winter. This essay was previously published in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

WINTERING THE VINEYARD

Anyone can summer on Martha’s Vineyard. All you need is money, love of a beautiful place and more taste than those who go to the Hamptons. The people who come here for ‘the season’ are very proud of the fact and are eager to let the world know, ergo the demand for T-shirts, hats and MV stickers. There are vastly more cars off Island with those stickers than there are on Island. Wintering here is a seagull of another color and produces a stubborn, quiet, yankee sort of pride. A ‘we survived it together’ pride.

When seasonal residents’ thoughts turn to the Vineyard they remember beautiful weather, wonderful meals and summer fun. The rest of us know that summer is only one of four Island seasons; summer, fall, winter and fall, again. Every ‘spring’ all you hear is, “It feels like November. When’s it gonna’ get warm?” We really don’t have spring. We have a sort of reverse fall. Just think September to November and turn it around. March comes in like a lion and leaves like one, and the gentle April showers that are supposed to bring the May flowers are more like nor’easters. But eventually the grass turns green, the trees leaf and the flowers come up in time for Memorial Day (sometimes even for a late Easter if we’ve had a mild reverse fall). Our winters aren’t typical of New England either. Instead of white our winters are shades of gray, varying from fog to aged cedar shakes. Be that as it may, most year rounders will tell you they love the Island in the winter.

Why is that you ask? For one thing you don’t have to worry about dinner reservations. Of course most of the restaurants close off season. The stores have no lines to speak of. Of course many stores close off season. There’s a fraction of the traffic in winter. Of course there aren’t many places to go off season. It’s cheaper and easier to get a ferry ticket in winter, but that predisposes a desire to go off Island which isn’t a given. On the other hand, the air is clearer, the beaches are cleaner and people nod and say hello because they know you’re not a tourist, and they smile in that ‘don’t you just love this time of year’ way. You don’t have to wait a month to get your hair cut and the staff of just about any business you enter is glad to see you and has time for a chat.

Just like Avis we try harder in the winter. There are plenty of activities to keep us busy. From Christmas in Edgartown to the Boys’ and Girls’ Club Ball and winter walks run by the Trustees of the Reservations you can always find something to do. You can ice skate, go to lectures in a variety of venues and see movies, old and new. You can dance, see plays and go to concerts. The schools provide a variety of sports events to watch, and there is time to socialize with neighbors and browse the book stores. We do chores we’ve been putting off and work on hobbies we don’t have time for in summer. Organizations that suspend in the summer (usually due to lack of parking) resume meeting and there’s time for planning all those summer fund raisers that take from the rich and give to the poor.

I’ll never forget the first winter I lived here. One night I came out of a midweek matinee at the Edgartown Cinema. It was about 6:30 pm and pitch dark. The street lights were glowing on a car-less main street and a few snow flakes were gently falling. There wasn’t another soul around. I could hear my steps echoing on the sidewalk as I walked to my car. It was such a remarkable contrast to the streets on the fourth of July.

Unlike the snow birds who go south to continue the party, for us life slows to a more manageable pace and we get a break from off Island visitors. It’s time to recharge our batteries and build up enough energy to get us through the next summer of beach, BBQs, grandchildren and lines in the post office.

SILLY SIMILIES

I write because I read. I read because I love language. Rules of English are not always easy to understand. Don't ask me about grammar although I think I know what syntax is. I'm a pretty good speller, good thing too because I can't figure out how the spell check works on my new computer. The girl who does my nails is from Viet Nam and is a pretty quick study and I always feel like an idiot when she asks me to explain idioms and such that I've been hearing since I was a tot. I get them but can't explain them.

Silly Similes

Do you ever wonder where most of the old similes we use come from and why we still use them when they have become hopelessly out of date? Take “working like a dog” for instance. I guess there are some working dogs somewhere, sled dogs and sheep dogs, but most dogs are house pets and work about as much as a slacker brother-in-law on the dole. Take my dog for instance. He spends the vast majority of his time sleeping. Bathroom and food breaks pretty much account for his day. He thinks his job is being a guard dog but has gotten so lazy that when he hears an unidentifiable noise, such as someone at the door, he just lifts his head and spits out a couple of semi-ferocious woofs and lies back down. It doesn’t make me feel any safer and, frankly, has become annoying so I wish he’d stop making the attempt. I guess it’s easier to use arcane similes rather than find something more appropriate. “Working like a dog” rolls off the tongue much easier than “working like a Japanese schoolboy” would.

Another one that has me baffled is “happy as a clam”. Who decided clams were happy? And how do they know? Now I’ve never seen a clam in its natural habitat. Maybe they do something that indicates joy but when I see them they’ve been chowdered, linguinied or casinoed and the adjective I’d use is yummy. The only thing I can figure is that when you look at a clam shell the bottom arc does look like a smile but I think I’m reaching here. Happiness is, of course, subjective. I don’t want to go all existential on you but shouldn’t we define it before we bandy it about in context to clams? I think “happier than an ugly girl on her wedding day” might be truer but, again, doesn’t roll off the tongue.

Blind as a bat would imply cave floors strewn with the creature’s little bodies after knocking themselves senseless slamming into walls. In fact bats have a sophisticated system of echo location not unlike sonar which enables them to get around quite nicely thank you very much. In fact they function just as well in daylight as night time, an advantage over most animals, including man. Takes the punch out of the simile though doesn’t it.

You can’t prove that loons are crazy. Not the way you can prove that a fruit cake is nutty. And how do we know peacocks are proud? Maybe they just have sore feet--strutting around nature’s catwalk like they do. It’s really not easy to take candy from a baby you know. Sure, it can be done but it’s hard to shut them up afterwards. If you have sensitive ears it’s not worth it. Get your own candy. Just to let you know, when I’m in an awkward situation I do not flop around like a fish out of water, and it doesn’t kill me either. But sometimes I do sleep like a log.

Some similes are downright prejudicial. Why are bees busy while hornets are angry? Why is a goose silly but an owl wise? All dirt is not old. There’s some brand new dirt at the bottom of my compost heap.

Maybe that’s why the new generation doesn’t use similes any more. The word “like” has become the unspoken simile. “I was like....you know” has become common usage. I guess we’re supposed to listen to the rest of the sentence and fill in the blank with something appropriate. In this case dumb as a box of rocks comes to mind.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

Living on an Island means you have to worry about your trash. The recycle center takes glass, newspapers, plastic, and cans for free. Anything else you must pay to get rid of. A small TV? $25. Old computer? $35 and up, depending on size. This is the driving force for yard sales. Spring and Fall there are a plethora of them. It's better to sell something than have to pay someone to take it away, eh? If you can't sell it you'd be surprised at the junk people will exit your yard with if it has a big sign on it that says FREE. I love to go to yard sales as well as have them. I imagine that some day I will attend one and everything for sale will have once belonged to me! A version of the following essay was published in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

My girlfriend Janice saves the papers for me when I’m off Island. I’m always afraid I’ll miss something that is destined to become Island lore, like one year’s biggest derby fish--just shy of fifty pounds dragged aboard a boat by a twelve year old girl. There are things so uniquely Vineyard that you wouldn’t want to miss them.
The papers are in pristine condition except for the yard sale sections. These ads are circled, crossed out and accompanied by comments in the margin. Janice knows just about everyone on the Island, so she knows where the best stuff will be. The last time I picked up the papers she was beside herself with glee. A local summer celebrity (I won’t mention her name because we Island people aren’t impressed by such) was staging a yard sale with the proceeds going to charity. The two things Vineyarders love most, yard sales and charities. Naturally I had to go.
I arrived at the sale about a half hour after it began and all that was left were a few chipped coffee mugs and a pile of dog eared books. There was a truck in the driveway filled with mismatched furniture. The new owners of this, let’s be honest, heap of used stuff were in seventh heaven. I’m willing to bet they would have turned their noses up at my own, far superior, furniture. I realized then that this celebrity was, like the rest of us Vineyarders, just trying to avoid a large dump fee.
I saw a woman walking around with an item no one could identify. Not even the owner. It looked like a slinky welded to a flat rectangular piece of metal. She forked over four dollars and announced, “It’ll be a conversation piece.” Well, I thought, maybe if someone figures out what it is. How can you have a conversation about an unknown object? I don’t know about you, but six people sitting around saying, “Maybe it’s a...” is not, in my opinion, a conversation.
There was a long line snaking into the house. Don’t ask me why but I just can’t resist a line. I always join. I guess because I have faith in people. I figure if there’s a line there must be something good at the other end. The crowd was humming like a high tension wire. I guess it was the thrill of seeing a celebrity in her own house. Now as for me, I never want to know too much about famous people. It takes away their ‘aura’. Gee--she has a toilet and a garbage pail--hmmm.
At last my part of the line made it into the house. There she sat, surrounded by her minions, smiling benevolently. The only thing missing was a throne. On the table in front of her sat a stack of autographs ($5) and signed photographs ($10) that one assumes, had it not been for the yard sale, would have gone in the trash with the rest of the unwanted items.
Sometimes I’m wrong. Sometimes there isn’t anything I want at the front of the line. I wondered what this famous celebrity would have done if, in true yard sale fashion, I had offered her a quarter for an autograph.

THREADING THE NEEDLE

We just took our boat to dry dock for the winter. It's always a sad day, especially since we've gotten so good at sailing. After 11 years we are no longer the two stooges--and we no longer yell at each other. We've had just about every mishap possible and now stop and think before panicking. This essay was previously published in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

THREADING THE NEEDLE

My husband and I had always planned to retire to Martha’s Vineyard. It was a dream we shared. Along with the dream of having a little day sailer in Edgartown Harbor, and two million in the bank, and our daughter graduating from college in only four years........you get my drift. Dreams sometimes stay just that. Dreams.

We retired on Friday, February 13, 1998. February 14th we went to a boat show at the Javits Center in New York City. By the end of the day we were proud owners of a twenty nine and a half foot Hunter sloop that sleeps six. They really shouldn’t be allowed to sell beer at boat shows. We took lessons from Captain Steve. We learned how to put up the sail, how to tie up and cast off (completely different than knitting) and were in business.

We used to fly small Cessna airplanes. (He flew, I just went along for the ride.) If your hobby is flying then you have to find places to fly to. The best way to do this (if you only have one day to get there and back) is to use a map and a compass, one of those little tin things you stick a pencil in, and trace a circle around where you keep your plane. Then you look at the map to find interesting destinations. That’s how we found Martha’s Vineyard. We figured boating would be equally exciting. It’s not. Not if you are true fair weather sailors like us. First of all our top speed is five knots which will get you to Nantucket or Cape Cod in about five hours if the wind is just right. This rules out going for lunch. Second, the wind is very rarely just right which means a lot of tacking and gibing which is a lot of work but not very exciting (unless you’re like my friend Tom who was taught to never, never gibe. In that case you’d spend the whole day coming about in little circles, also not very exciting). So we have settled into a routine of sailing to nowhere for a couple of hours and having cocktails at the mooring for a couple of hours. Not exciting but it suits us just fine.

Frequently the most challenging part of the trip is navigating the harbor. We never do this under sail and have only the highest regard for the captains who do. Unfortunately the captains who do (who pilot everything from twelve foot cat boats to fifty foot charter sail boats) turn the harbor into an obstacle course. The rule of the sea is that boats under power give way to boats under sail. Throw the yacht club classes that scoot around like water bugs into the mix and it can be down right daunting, which brings me to the point of this little tale.

Our first summer in Edgartown Harbor my husband chose the job of casting off the mooring and let me pilot the boat to the outer harbor where we could safely raise the sails. I became quite good at it, if I do say so myself. Our second season, when he suggested that we alternate jobs so we both learned to do everything, I was a little nervous. I’ve always been a terrible back seat driver and once drove all the way to Florida so I wouldn’t have to co-pilot my mother (who was known as Lead Foot Lee in her day). Our first few trips in and out went off without a hitch. We must have always timed our trips just right because the On Time ferry had never even entered our thoughts. One Saturday we had some guests from the mainland who were looking forward to a sail. Our experience in getting people to go sailing with us had always been bad. I guess we just didn’t look like able seamen. So we were delighted to have company. The sail went smoothly, even though Saturday in Edgartown Harbor is like Five Corners when the ferry unloads. On the way in, with hubby proudly at the wheel and sailboats passing through the ferry lane with impunity, he suddenly realized that the On Time II and On Time III had started to cross and were too close for comfort. We were not the only ones motoring through. Two large sailboats and a cabin cruiser were about to become headlines in the local newspaper. To add insult to injury the ferry captain blew his horn at us! My husband panicked (not that I wouldn’t have done the same) and turned sharply to starboard where he almost crashed into another vessel. Fortunately the other boat also turned sharply to starboard and gave us room to come about. Needless to say we made it back in one piece (though our friends seemed a tad too happy to set foot back on land). Thanks to the Chappy ferry we once again have an exciting hobby.

A CRAPPLE A DAY

Unlike my daughter I have issues with technology. I'm not so good with anything that has an instruction booklet much less the things that come without said booklet.


MY NEW COMPUTER

I recently bought a new Crapple computer. My first computer, an iCrap, is nine years old and people kept telling me I was living in the dark ages. So I went out and got myself a laptop CrapBook. Well, the dark ages have gotten even darker since my purchase. For some reason they don’t give you instruction manuals with a computer. They assume you know how to work it. Or you know how to get the information. Even my bread machine came with a book. If you don’t know what you’re doing how the hell are you supposed to find out? They didn’t even show me how to turn the darn thing on!
My iCrap was purchased in 2000--a millennium in techno years, but it took me that long to get comfortable with it. Now I’m in a black hole and spending hours doing the same thing over and over again trying to figure out how to change my preferences. These are things that you want your computer to do your way. Unfortunately my computer was set up at the Crapple store by a young male geek who doesn’t know me and didn’t even ask me what my preferences were.
At best my relationship with technology is one of those love/hate situations. I love the idea that I can save tons of papers without any paper at all. Very neat. I hate the idea that I paid for software that I am unaware of and don’t know how to use. There are applications on my old computer that were never opened. Even though I didn’t need them they are on my new computer, as well, along with about a gazillion new ones that have come out in the past nine years.
I love the idea that I can hook up to the Internet and I have the knowledge of the world at my fingertips. I can even Google myself and get stuff. Unfortunately, the minute I went on line with my new computer I felt that it wasn’t new any more. It became a little dirty--and every site I take it to makes it less pristine. Things have drifted in from cyber space. It’s like when my kid started school. Suddenly she had memories that we no longer shared. I didn’t know everything about her any more. It made me feel lonely, and left out.
Computing has a language all its own. Early on I figured out the difference between software and hardware but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I think I know what an application is but not well enough to define it for anyone, or how it differs from a program which I’m pretty sure is some kind of software. I bought myself a copy of Crap for Dummies thinking it would help me solve some of the mystery. Well, the guy that wrote the book seems to be in cahoots with the people who make and sell the computers. It’s the same old thing. He assumes that you know a certain amount about your computer. They wouldn’t give you a driver’s license without giving you a driver’s manual to study and a test that proves you know how to handle a car but anyone can walk right in and buy a computer. They just assume that you’ll find the “help” menu and get all the information you’ll ever need. Unfortunately it’s like moving to Spain after taking one year of high school Spanish. Hello! In the valley of techno-speak the nerd is king.
To be perfectly honest, except for email I probably only needed a word processor. It’s pretty much all I use my new CrapBook for. It has a different program than my iCrap did, though. I simply can’t figure out how to edit my work on it so I’ve come up with a solution that will be fine until my old iCrap dies. I write on the new computer then email it to myself, cut and paste it into the old CrappleWorks application so I can edit it, then email it back to the new computer. It a little cumbersome but it works for me.

BIOLOGICAL CROCK

Every time I think about the fact that I've been out of high school for 45 years I ask myself, "Where has the time gone?" But I really wouldn't want to be in high school again. I keep telling myself I'm not getting older--I'm getting better. And you know what?? I'm starting to believe it!!!

BIOLOGICAL CROCK

Aging should be for wine, cheese, and balsamic vinegar, not people. My mother used to tell me not to get old but she didn’t tell me how to avoid it. If she knew she surely would have used every trick she could lay her hands on. She fought it kicking and screaming. She used to say, ”Getting old isn’t for sissies.” I’m beginning to understand what she meant. She also said, “Getting old stinks but it’s better than the alternative.” I always understood what that meant but now I’m not so sure I agree with her. Not in every case anyway. Now that I’m getting old I’m desperately trying to reverse the process. I’m spending a fortune on anti-aging creams but all they do is make you feel greasy. Lubrication is good I suppose. I still look like parchment but don’t crack quite as much.

Being retired is looked upon by the young as Nirvana. Nothing to do and all day long to do it. I must admit that’s what it was like at first. Plenty of time to do whatever I wanted. Unfortunately it didn’t last long. Pretty soon I was spending time making repeated trips to the store to get things I forgot the first time. Then I started making lists, which I forgot to bring. Then I started to remember the lists but there is always something I don’t write down because it is such a necessity I know I won’t forget it. Ha! By the time I get home I’m exhausted and need to take a nap. I’m retired for heaven’s sake. I don’t do anything. Why should I need naps? And if I don’t get my nap why am I so cranky? You’d think I was a toddler instead of a sophisticated, urbane woman of sixty.

Soon your health starts to slip. Most of the people I meet on the ferry are going off Island to a doctor’s appointment. Along with all the normal requirements to stay healthy, mammogram, colonoscopy, cholesterol checks, etc. aging adds a lot of neurotic worries. Palpitations? Everyone has them but at my age what do they mean? I made the mistake of asking my doctor. After an EKG, cardiology consult, cardiac ultrasound, 7 day heart monitor, and a trip to Boston for a nuclear stress test, all of which cost approximately $11,000, I got a message on my answering machine from the cardiologist that there was no organic cause for my palpitations so I shouldn’t worry about them. Is that supposed to soothe me?

I have developed a terrible fear of falling. You have no idea how hard this is for someone who used to ski, ice skate and dance every chance I got. You’d think this fear would come after a fall. No. This fear came from watching too many commercials for new osteoporosis medications. Aging boomers have become a target of the pharmaceutical industry. If you don’t have it they’ll convince you you’re going to get it; probably sooner than later.

I can’t wear high heels any more due to plantar fasciitis and a Morton’s Neuroma. If I drink wine with dinner I doze off during the evening news. And then when I do go to bed I toss and turn and get up with the birds. Speaking of dinner--the old digestion isn’t what it used to be. I’m practically back to Gerber unless I want to be up all night with GERD, something we used to call heartburn.

Nobody warns you that these things are going to happen. That everything will change and things that were good for you when you were young are now poison. Ice cream for instance. When you’re a kid it’s good for you, loaded with calcium and protein. When you get old it’s full of cholesterol, sugar and fat which will kill you. The same with peanut butter and jelly which I wouldn’t touch when it was good for me but now I crave it like water in the desert.

My mother used to admire my hands. I couldn’t figure out why. Now that my body has settled into its self destructive mode I see all the things she used to fret about. What she used to call liver spots I prefer to call sun spots and if I had known what I was going to look like I would have worn a burka every time I left the house. I was never a sun worshiper but even the little exposure I got took it’s toll.

I had a cataract removed last week. The upside is I can see clearly without glasses. The downside? I’m going to have to spend more time cleaning my house.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION BLUES

In anticipation of my 45th high school reunion, I've been searching Facebook and Classmates.com for fellow grads. If I'm honest with myself it's just curiosity. If I was really connected to these people in high school I probably wouldn't have lost touch, eh? A couple of years ago I was contacted by an old friend and she inspired this essay.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION BLUES

I have the High School Reunion Blues. A girl, (yes, I persist in using that term even though my contemporaries and I are well past girlhood) my best friend from Elementary and High School, whom I haven’t seen in nineteen years, recently made contact with me through Classmates.com. This is a web site that makes its money from people’s prurient interest in former schoolmates. They encourage you to post, for free, a profile with just enough information to pique the interest of others. If you are lucky enough to find someone you might want to catch up with, you must join the site for five dollars a month in order to send or receive an e-mail. Up to now only the losers of the class of ‘65 have wanted to get in touch with me. Nobody that I cared about. I was delighted that Bev finally made contact. Even though it took her five years.

In her e-mail, the one I had to cough up fifteen dollars (it’s a three month minimum membership) to respond to, she said she noticed I lived in Massachusetts and wondered where. I proudly replied that I had moved to Martha’s Vineyard upon retiring. She seemed to be surprised and pleased, announcing she had been vacationing here for many years and would come again in August. (Was I overly suspicious to think she somehow found out where in Massachusetts I lived?) This explains my High School Reunion Blues.

When you communicate via e-mail you can delude yourself into feeling eighteen again. When you meet in person you can’t hide those extra twenty pounds or granny flaps, gray hair, false teeth, reading glasses--need I go on?

Ever since we agreed to meet I have been having a recurring nightmare that she will look exactly as she does in our yearbook and I will look--well--like I do. She will have no way of knowing that in the intervening years I have gained and lost thirty pounds, gone completely gray (which of course no one but my hairdresser knows) and given up dancing.

I keep reminding myself of all the things I’ve accomplished since High School. I graduated Summa Cum Laude from college, became a published writer, raised a daughter who has never been to prison, and managed to retire long before I was eligible for social security. It doesn’t help. Nothing short of Bev having varicose veins, rampant wrinkles and an aversion to exercise will help. (By the way, did you know that at any given time thirty-five percent of women in every health club in America are trying to get into shape for a High School Reunion?)

The only thing I have going for me is that I’m not a grandmother yet. Which is another thing that has me concerned. What will we talk about? Up until seven years ago Bev and I lived in the same community but never ran into each other. This leads me to believe we probably didn’t have much in common. She’ll undoubtedly want to talk about her grandchildren. Not me. I barely tolerated my own kid. I really don’t care for other people’s. They are always described as beautiful and brilliant. What I want to know is, to whom do all the dumb, ugly kids (and there are plenty of them) belong?

Bev did mention in one of her e-mails that she likes to travel. We could talk about that, I suppose, as long as it doesn’t turn into dueling trips. She’ll say Rome, I’ll counter with the Greek Isles. She’ll say Hawaii, I’ll respond Paris. I really hate to play “Can You Top This?”

Also don’t want to talk about dead parents or friends. I find that unpleasant. Don’t want to talk about classmates that became famous or wealthy either. Hmmm. The list of things I don’t want to discuss is becoming longer than the things I’m curious about. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my fifteen dollars. High School was far from the best time of my life and Bev’s impending visit is making me recollect things I’d prefer not to. I can only hope she feels the same.

DOGMA

Since I've e-mailed this blog address to just about everyone on the planet I'm guessing some of you have never been to Martha's Vineyard so I will add an essay that is not Vineyard-centric. I have sent out a book proposal called "Deep Thoughts from a Shallow Mind" which will include essays like the following.

DOGMA

I’ve been thinking lately that it might be fun to be a dog. Not a working dog or a fighting dog but a plain old everyday house pet. They really have the life. Their only job, if you want to call it that, is to bark at every living thing that invades their territory, which really isn’t hard work for a dog. For that they get a warm place to sleep, protection from the elements and from one to three squares a day (depending on the dog and the owner). In exchange they need only provide undying devotion to said owner. I could do that.

Since puppies have so much energy the ideal family would be one with children who like to romp about in the back yard, throw things, and play tug-o-war. The dignity of an adult dog would require someone who likes to jog and drives a pickup truck. Older dogs prefer widows who live a good distance from the grandchildren but still have a nurturing nature, preferably someone who equates food with love.

Yes, the benefits of being a house pet are appealing. Take the way they greet each other. No boring small talk or formal introduction requirements. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to size others up with an ogle and a sniff? It’s probably more effective in assessing their true nature than anything they would have to say about themselves. What a time saver that would be.

Another thing about dogs I like is they can have names like Killer or Barkley and no matter how ferocious or silly no one makes fun of them at the dog park. If you’ve got four legs (give or take) and a tail (even if it’s trimmed) that’s all they’re interested in. They don’t care what breed you are either. Nobody looks down their nose at you. There is no class system in the canine social order. Not like going off to the first day of kindergarten with a name like Philomina, which would undoubtedly be morphed into “Meanie” for the next twelve years. Dogs aren’t cruel. If you threaten them they bite, otherwise they pretty much live and let live.

I have stood, countless times, staring into my closet trying to decide what to wear. Being a dog would solve that problem permanently. Their clothing options are nonexistent. Most dogs have only one accessory, a collar with a dangling license. It’s around their neck at all times. If you’re one of those little designer dogs you see on TV eating gourmet food from a cut glass dessert dish you might also have a bow in your hair, but that’s it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know you are dressed properly for any occasion that might arise when you get out of bed in the morning? As for bathing--that’s optional. Your family will decide when it is necessary and then do it for you. And speaking of hygiene, wouldn’t it be nice if every time you went to the bathroom someone was waiting to pat you on the head, say, “Good girl!” and give you a cookie?

One thing I like about dog culture is their apparent lack of self consciousness when they beg. Children are taught at an early age that begging is taboo, and behave with appropriate embarrassment when doing so. But for dogs, even though it fails ninety-nine out of a hundred times, just one success reinforces their “ya’ never know” attitude. They never give up. I can identify with that kind of optimism. Like dogs, I’ve always been a glass half full kind of gal. Besides, who can say no to a panting, tongue lolling, tail wagging bundle of hope?

Then there’s most people’s uncontrollable urge to pet dogs. Forget about getting your significant other to rub your feet after a long day at work, but let the lazy canine in your life jump up on the couch next to him and he’s good for at least an hours worth of stroking. I could live with that.

Dogs aren’t picky eaters. I hate it when I’m disappointed with a restaurant meal. I always feel like I’ve missed an opportunity for a really enjoyable experience. Dogs don’t mind lousy food. In fact I’ve seen dogs eat stuff I wouldn’t even classify as food. Most of them would consider a big bag of smelly garbage a gourmet treat. They go crazy at the dump. You’d think it was the world’s largest salad bar. It would be nice to be thrilled with whatever landed in your bowl. Satisfaction is important in life. The lower the bar, the more satisfaction.

Yes, being a dog would have a lot of advantages. They don’t worry about paying taxes or who’s running for president. They didn’t worry about the “bomb” during the cold war and they could care less which picture wins the Oscar. Their needs are simple and basic. Some food, some love and a long walk. Yeah. I could live with that.

VINEYARD CRIME

Driving to Vineyard Haven one day I found myself behind a pickup truck with three bullet holes in the tail gate. My curiosity was piqued. How did they get there? This started me thinking about guns and crime in general. Now I know there must be plenty of guns on the Island, but the only ones I’ve ever seen have been unnecessarily strapped to law enforcement officers. Crime on the Vineyard is as unique as the Island itself. Most people would say that the term Island crime is an oxymoron. Not so. We have our share--it’s just different than in the rest of the world.

We even have a prison. It’s not much of a prison as prisons go. More of a jail. More like high school detention. We occasionally get off Island cons who are shipped down because it’s the only safe place for them to be. Guys who would be seriously harassed in a regular prison. You know, Arab princes and such. One, after serving his time, ran away with the sheriff's wife. Ahh. Sweet revenge. A local fellow found his incarceration so confining that he would escape through a window after lights out to spend a few hours with his girlfriend. He was always back for breakfast which, incidentally, was prepared by a gourmet chef; also doing time.

If you’re looking for murder, that most heinous of all crimes, you’ll have to find it in the pages of Cynthia Riggs’s and Philip Craig’s books. No, Vineyard crime is of a more benign nature. It can be split up into season and off-season varieties. The seasonal type does resemble off Island crime and is usually perpetrated by off Island criminals. Hence our need for a police force. Off season crime falls more into the category of mischief and can frequently be punished by firm parenting or community service.

The worst crime wave I can remember was a few years ago when there was a rash of street sign thefts. This, of course, resulted in a flurry of angry letters to the editor (the usual result of Vineyard crime...and just about anything else that can draw comment). Turns out the signs were decorating the dorm rooms of homesick UMass freshmen. Maybe at graduation they should hand out a street sign or two along with the diplomas. Just a thought. I’m all for preventing crime.

Mailbox bashing is another serious problem here. This one really bothers me since innocent mailboxes can’t fight back. I guess it’s too much of a temptation for teens with new driver’s licenses. The kid riding shotgun has nothing to do. Seems to me this is energy that could be channeled. Maybe we wouldn’t need the wind farm in Nantucket Sound.

Poaching out of hunting season is another biggie. I guess we need laws to protect the world’s poor beasts from the superior brain (?) and firepower of man, but when the animals start to out-number the locals I can’t get excited about an illegal turkey shoot.

Car theft is not an issue here. Without a ferry ticket where would you go? Old Islanders, used to the lack of crime, do not lock their doors. House or car. My friend Bob takes this one step farther and also leaves his keys in the car. His reasoning is life’s short and he doesn’t want to waste time looking for them. Now, Bob is friends with the local constabulary who constantly warn him about this habit. One day he parked in the lot next to Town Hall and went in to do some business. One of the local police officers strolled by, saw keys dangling from the ignition and drove the car around the block, parking it on School Street. When Bob inevitably called about his ‘lost’ vehicle the officer drove him around town looking for it. Another officer, in cahoots, drove Bob’s car back to the Town Hall lot, where it sat waiting for him. Bob found this amusing, if time consuming, but continues his life long habit of leaving the keys in his car.

Most Island crime by far consists of running afoul of political entities. God forbid you put up a shed in your back yard without a building permit! It’ll take months for the letters to the editor to die down. Not to mention the fines and law suits flying back and forth.

Yes, Virginia, there is crime on Martha’s Vineyard. But like everything else it’s kinder and gentler than over ‘there’.

I pondered for weeks how those bullet holes got in that truck. Hunting accident? Angry wife? Jealous husband? If he had been escaping from a bank robbery (not likely--there’s still that ferry problem) I would have read about it in the Gazette.

I had a dinner party the other night. When I mentioned I had seen a bullet ridden pickup my friend Phil said, “No you didn’t”.

“I most certainly did,” I replied indignantly.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he said, guffawing heartily. “What you saw were decals.”

Decals. I felt duped, but Island crime being what it is, why should I have been surprised?