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.