'TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

I saved this one for today. I am industriously writing new essays for the new year. If you have any suggestions let me know. In the mean time you can view me on demand reading from my blog at www.MVTV.org Go to on demand and look for Pretty Funny.


‘TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

‘Twas the night after Christmas
Not a creature astir
(Even the escaped gerbil was nesting in the fireside chair)
The stockings were empty
The games were all played
Ma in her new nightgown (two sizes too small)
And I in my new pjs (two sizes too big)
Settled in to sleep off
All the stuff we did swig.
My eyes barely shut
There arose such a noise-
The damn kids were playing
With all their new toys
My eyes popped open
My face held a frown
I jumped out of bed
And hollered “Pipe down!”
The stairs were all littered
With torn paper and bows
I was tripping and cursing
And stubbing my toes
The boys how they fought
Over Playstation Two
The girls were both whining
Their gifts were too few
Why those miserable ingrates
Their behavior was shocking
What they really deserved
Was coal in their stocking
“Quit complaining,” I said
“Push those thoughts from your heads-
Dash away, dash away
Up to your beds!”
St. Nick was gone
Christmas was not without stresses
I heard a kid exclaim
As he disappeared from view
“Next year my list will have web site addresses.”

FOOD POLICE

This will be my last formal essay for a while. I'll be taking a rest but you can drop in occasionally to read more deep thoughts from a shallow mind.

FOOD POLICE

Is it just me, or are people I don’t even know trying to control my diet? I am being inundated by rules and regulations about what I can or rather should be eating and drinking. It’s not my fault that the Industrial Revolution and modern technology has turned us into a country of hippos. I find it incredibly unfair that the French continue to eat butter, cream and croissants and drink gallons of wine and their average weight doesn’t seem to change. They call it the ‘French gene’. It certainly insures that genetic engineering will get my vote.
I also feel that the ‘fattening’ of America is caused by an improvement in the taste of food. I don’t remember, as a child, food being so good that you didn’t stop eating it until it was gone. Don’t get me wrong. My mom was a pretty good cook but she was a non-working housewife, one of my favorite oxymorons, and in those days that meant you were lauded for taking the cheapest cut of meat you could find and making it edible. Only Italians had herb gardens, and you could only get vegetables in season, so even in New Jersey--The Garden State--that was pretty much June through September. The rest of the year we ate frozen or canned. My mother’s favorite flavor was butter. Everything I ate was drenched in it. So why was I such a skinny kid? She also liked to use sugar on fresh tomatoes and grapefruit and salt on green apples and melons. She baked every day. A meal on our table consisted of a relish tray (you remember--carrots, celery, olives and sometimes radishes or cottage cheese) or salad, meat, potatoes and gravy, at least two vegetables, bread and dessert. Dessert was usually pie or cake. We didn’t consider fresh fruit dessert like they do now. Unless it was in ice cream, of course. So how come we weren’t whales? I’ll tell you why. We ate a little bit of everything and let it go at that. We weren’t required to belong to the ‘clean plate club’, weren’t made to feel guilty because there were children that went to bed hungry, and weren’t interested in sitting in front of the TV all the time because we only had one and you can imagine the type of shows my father, who controlled the dial, liked to watch. (That was in the days when we children took the place of a remote. "Susie, put on channel 4.")
Another thing that the Food Police have become irate about is how much liquor we consume. In my parent’s day a cocktail or two or three a day was the norm. It gave dad a chance to unwind before dinner and mom a chance to tell him which child needed a talking to. Now it’s one glass of red wine a day for your heart, that’s it. Ha, Ha. I don’t know anyone who follows this rule. (It irks me that now that wine is good for your heart it gives me terminal GERD.)
I understand the concept of a ‘dry town’. I can appreciate that some people don’t want noisy bars in their neighborhood. What I don’t understand is the BYOB concept. These people want to control what is being drunk next door so they don’t allow liquor to be sold, but they okay the option of diners bringing coolers full of beer, wine and other potent potables to the local restaurants and for a few dollars corkage they can drink any or all of it. It seems to me that this takes all control of who drinks what out of the hands of the establishment. When selling liquor you can cut someone off when you perceive he or she has had too much to drink. If it’s the customer’s own liquor, bought and paid for, what can you do?
When did carbohydrates become the Pariahs of the food world? When I took health in school they were an important part of the food pyramid. I don’t think it’s fair that they bleached all the nutrients out of an entire genre of food to make it taste good then turn around and tell you it’s bad for you. I’m talking about white bread and pasta. The greatest comfort foods ever invented. They also turned the pyramid upside down and made the biggest part the broccoli and salad section. What’s with that?
As I was saying bread and pasta have become the wicked step sisters of eating. Now I can live without pasta (when did we stop calling it macaroni and spaghetti?) maybe six days a week but not bread. Bread, as you can tell from the description of what was on my family table, is a once per meal item. Toast for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch and a roll or two with dinner. I don’t care if it’s made out of that hideous white flour, wheat flour or corn meal. As long as I can spread butter on it (of course we use unsalted for our health), I’m good to go.
My friend Jules and I went to a pretty fancy restaurant the other day. You know, ten dollar martinis and thirty to forty dollar entrees. After we ordered and got our cocktails Jules said, “I’m hungry. She must have forgotten to bring our bread.” The next time the waitress sailed by we caught her eye and asked about bread. “I’m sorry but it’s not our policy to serve bread.” Can you imagine? The chef must be an Atkins convert.
After cursing the person who recommended this place we enjoyed our entree and left. I said to Jules, “I guess this is a BYOB joint.”
“No,” he replied, “They serve liquor.”
“Yeah, I know. I meant Bring Your Own Bread.”

DUST TO DUST

I just finished cleaning for Thanksgiving now Christmas is coming up. Does it never end???


DUST TO DUST


I like to get a bang for my buck with housecleaning. That's why I don't do it until the TV is so dusty I can no longer see the face of the anchor on the six o'clock news. Sometimes I have to invite people to dinner in order to have a reason to clean. Being a child of the sixties I've never really been into housework, which is, when you think of it, a misnomer since it isn't the house that works. It just lays around and gets dirty. I worked outside the home and so felt justified in hiring a cleaning woman. Now that I am retired I no longer feel justified. Ergo my dirty house. I must say I am very jealous of women who don't work but have a cleaning lady anyway. No, I guess jealous isn't the right word. Envious? No. Pissed? Yeah…pissed.
The Oxford Unabridged Dictionary defines housework as "the work of cleaning, cooking, etc. to be done in housekeeping." Even though this is a very large book I guess they didn't have enough room for all that needs to be done, hence the etc. It defines a housewife as "a married woman who manages her own household." I guess they figure when your husband dies you stop cooking and cleaning and doing all that other endless etc. It goes on to state that housewife has become a somewhat derogatory term in some circles so suggests houseperson since we now also have househusbands. I prefer houseperson since wife implies a marriage and I don't have that close a relationship with my house. Especially the parts that need to be cleaned.
Everyone's standard of cleanliness is different. I guess it's partially due to how we are raised. My mom stayed at home and had a distinct schedule of chores scattered throughout the week. A day for grocery shopping (payday of course), a day for laundry (which included ironing, bed linen change and sewing buttons back on), kitchen and bathroom cleaning (of which we only had one--can you imaging--a family of four with only one bathroom??) and all the other responsibilities of a housewife. Of course there was always time in her day for her soaps and a chat over the backyard fence with her neighbor. One of the biggest chores was ferrying the kids (both of us) around town to various activities and play dates. When we grew up and were no longer a factor she started celebrating cocktail hour with a neighbor lady since she had all that free time. That, needless to say, ended badly when, one night, she completely forgot to make supper and my father, figuring she needed something to keep her busier, got rid of all the formica and polyurethane covered furniture and replaced it with real wood which needed to be polished on a regular basis. But, as usual, I digress.
As I said, standards of cleanliness are different. Your standards even change as you grow older. Most people go through phases--sloppy youth, neat middle age and then when you age you return to your youth. I always thought that the homes of elders were not as clean as they could be because their eyesight was failing. Now that I'm older myself I realize it's just because we are tired and lazy, and our philosophy is 'it's good enough'.
I imagine for a young bride it must be a daunting task to shop for cleaning supplies. When I was starting out there were only a few choices. Now-a-days, unless you stick to the brands your mother used, it could take an indecisive person a week to choose her products, three quarters of which she doesn't really need. Dishwasher cleaner for instance. How dirty can the inside of a dishwasher get? I notice no one has imagined that the American houseperson is stupid enough to buy a cleaner for the inside of a washing machine, otherwise it would be there on the shelf next to the other unnecessary items.
Some things have to get done like laundry and food shopping but most of the other chores in my house get done on a need to do basis. Take ironing for instance. It is such an odious job that I only do it twice a year, spring for summer clothes and fall for winter clothes. In fact, I frequently shop for new rather than iron. My laundry room looks like the inside of a Salvation Army bin. My sister-in-law has never ironed. She informed my brother while they were still on their honeymoon that her wrists were too weak to iron.
I still can't decide whether she is a genius or my brother is a moron.

GLOBAL WARMING

One of my faithful readers (probably the only one) asked for more poetry so here goes.

GLOBAL WARMING



My bed is cold
Colder with you than without you.
Cold because of anger
You turn your back
Refuse to touch me
The cold is palpable.
All because we don’t agree
Clipped verbal responses
Make me feel
Small
Unwanted
Useless
I feel bad; then bristle; then cajole
It doesn’t work
I wait for the thaw
Which always comes
Making me feel warm again.

WOMAN'S CLUB OF MARTHA'S VINEYARD

I missed the first two meeting this year and so was very happy to attend the November meeting on Monday. It was a fund raiser for the Red Stocking and as we have done for the last three years or so Janice Belisle was auctioneer to a bunch of 'treasures' the members brought in. It's a fun way to raise money without just writing a check. Just like yard sales, eventually you start to recognize the items that are on sale!

THE WOMAN’S CLUB

I had been living on the Vineyard just short of three months when I met the president of the Edgartown Woman’s Club. Entering the third year of a two year term she was quite passionate about my joining the club. She introduced me to two other members and they were equally passionate. The Woman’s Club, she carefully explained, is probably the oldest service organization on the Island. It was founded in 1898, joined the State Federation in 1924 and the General Federation in 1926. In fact, she went on, the list of past presidents and members reads like a who’s who of Island history. I assured her that I was grateful for the invitation but I really wasn’t into selling wrapping paper or baked goods. I had done enough of that when my daughter was in school.
Oh no, she assured me, the ladies don’t actually fund raise. They prefer to write checks. (They used to fund raise but when one member complained that the cake that cost her ten dollars to make had been sold for five dollars...) Three times a year collections are taken for Island charities; October for veterans, November for Red Stocking and April for the high school scholarship. Any leftovers go to Hospice, the Historical Society, Community Services and other assorted deserving causes.
This seemed a somewhat novel approach for a service organization so I agreed to go to their next gathering to see what it was all about. The next meeting was in September (the group only meets September through June excepting February when all the snowbirds are in Florida and it might snow and there is no place to park in July and August) and wasn’t a meeting at all but the annual fall luncheon. It was in what used to be the Dunes Restaurant out by South Beach in Katama. Approximately twenty five members (one of whom was a man--I must say that threw me) attended. When I was introduced as a potential new member I was met with hugh smiles and open arms. Every woman there spoke glowingly of the club, welcomed me and seemed genuinely thrilled that I wanted to join. (Later I found this was a far cry from the old days when they actually used white and black balls to vote on new prospects. These items were donated to the Historical Society back in the mid seventies, by President Norma Bridwell.) I must say I was hooked by the warmth, especially since I was such a recent washashore.
Over the course of the next year I met some fascinating women and made some good friends. I became so impressed with these women and their charitable works I didn’t think twice when asked to be Vice President (after I was assured that I wouldn’t have to be president if I didn’t want to-hah!) Of course once I was in office it was obvious to everyone but me that I was being groomed to take over. In my naivety it never occurred to me that the vast majority of members had already been there done that, some more than once. No wonder they had been so anxious to welcome me! In May of 2002 I cheerfully started my two year term. The main thrust of my presidency was to enroll new members. It would be a terrible sin if this Island institution didn’t survive. Maybe you’d like to join. I promise you won’t have to be president!

KATAMA WIND

The wind is howling. For those of you who only visit the Island in the summer you should know that if Martha's Vineyard wasn't heaven sometimes I'd think it was hell.

Katama Wind


The wind lives in Katama
Challenging trees and birds.
Trees bend like crippled old men,
Birds struggle to stay in place.

No gentle Trade
The Katama wind is a stern parent
Keeping dunes in place
Pruning plants, rolling the fog.

Sometimes it roams the Island
Stirring up ponds, piling leaves,
Disrupting power;
Stopping the ferry.

But it always comes home.
Home to Katama.

PHONE-Y BUSINESS

Did they really have to pass a law forbidding texting while you are driving? Duh. I feel sorry for people who can't spend one moment alone with their own thoughts.


PHONE-Y BUSINESS

My friend Jules has finally accepted cell phones as a fact of life. This is no small accomplishment since he is America’s anti-techie. He was the last person on this continent to purchase a telephone answering machine, and although he does use a computer, he is still clueless about sending e-mail. Cell phones were the last novelty of the information age to win him over. How you might ask? Well, he was on his way off Island for his annual month in Mexico and like most Islanders asked a friend for a ride to the ferry. When they arrived he unloaded his baggage, said good-bye, and started walking to the boat. Jules suddenly realized he had left his carry-on bag with all his cash in the car. Needless to say Alice was long gone.
He ran into the terminal, called her husband and got her cell number. Thankfully she had her phone with her and returned with Jules’s bag in time for him to catch the ferry. This experience forced Jules to accept the fact that cell phones can be helpful.
He still complains about their use by people driving cars, when they ring in movie theaters or if people use them in restaurants. He’s always happy to go somewhere that has a ‘no cell phones’ sign, and yearns for the days of old fashioned telephone booths where you could shut the door and have a private conversation without disturbing everyone around.
Of course Jules used to think that cell phones were a phenomenon of women. One day he set out to prove it to me and did an informal survey throughout the day. He had to admit that usage was pretty much fifty-fifty, but he still feels that men use them for business and women primarily to chat. This has been confirmed over and over again since one cannot help but overhear one end of all cell phone conversations in one’s immediate area.
My introduction to cell phones was many years ago when they were still rare. I went into the ladies room in a restaurant and there was a conversation going on in the lone stall. I of course figured it was a mother and child but as time passed I realized that this woman was speaking to another adult. This, I must say, had me not only confused but intensely curious. Finally out of the stall came a well dressed woman draped in gold jewelry, a cell phone glued to her ear. I wonder to this day if the party on the other end heard the flush.
We were in the grocery one day waiting to place a deli order when a woman, who was obviously a summer visitor since she was clad from head to toe in designer duds, grabbed a number and proceeded to make a phone call. When her number came up she was deep in conversation and so was passed by. When she finished her call and noticed the current number she started waving her ticket and yelled at the clerk. “They passed my number,” she said to everyone around her. I informed her that they did call her number but she didn’t respond. “But I was on the phone!” she replied.
Cell phones make it impossible to be incognito. If you don’t turn them on and someone wants to reach you they get highly irate and leave nasty voice mails encouraging you to join the twenty first century. My daughter always says the same thing. “Mommmm. Why do you have a cell phone if you don’t use it?” I guess it hasn’t occurred to her that I have a life and I might be doing something I don’t want disturbed by a phone call. I always feel embarrassed if I get a call when I’m out in public. I don’t know why. Nobody else seems to. Riding on the T in Boston it always amuses me when all the college kids with phones stuck to their ears announce in unison, “I’m gonna lose you, we’re going underground.” At least the disconnection is complete. I hate it when the service is intermittent. It’s bad enough you have to listen to half a conversation but when they yell and repeat themselves I want to scream.
Walking down the street surrounded by people on cell phones can be disconcerting. A friendly, chatty, woman I know always assumes people are talking to her until she turns around and looks at them. And those little technological wonders people leave sticking in their ears really creep me out. How important are these people?
My friend Jonathan shops in Cronig’s. One day he was in the soup aisle and a gentleman was holding a cell phone to his ear. By the look on his face he was apparently listening to a diatribe. When he hung up, which you can’t really do with a cell phone, my friend asked if he could help in any way. “I don’t think so,” the gent said. “My wife wants ten bean soup mix. All they have is five and fifteen.” Jonathan suggested he buy the fifteen and let her pick out the ones she didn’t like. Of course if the shopper hadn’t had a cell phone, he wouldn’t have been in this quandary. He would have had to make a decision and live with it. Still, it’s not unusual to see and hear husbands who have been sent to the store, checking in with the little woman to clarify the list.
I guess the place that annoys Jules the most, where cell phones are concerned, is the beach. Going to the beach is sacred to him and he feels everyone else should treat it with the reverence it deserves. Unfortunately others do not feel the same. His new beach chair has a cell phone pocket attached to the arm.

PURPLE POWER

Football season is here. Although the team didn't do so well last week we can pin our hopes on winning the "Island Cup" coming up Thanksgiving weekend.

PURPLE POWER

I’m not much of a sports person. I never really got football, the main object of which seems to be to knock your opponent down and steal their ball. It doesn’t strike me as very sporting. I can dredge up a little enthusiasm for the Super Bowl (I don’t usually care who wins unless the Patriots are playing) or the Rose Bowl or any game Notre Dame is playing. There is one game, however, that I actually go to and cheer at. I go to see Martha’s Vineyard trounce Nantucket in the annual Island Cup game. I scream as loud as anyone.
Living on an Island with only one high school makes it ‘our’ team. I have no connection to the school, no children who are students, I only know one of the teachers. But I have lots of friends who have children or grandchildren that go to Island schools. And they all show up for this game. In fact hundreds of people show up for this game. It’s like homecoming for adults. It’s an annual reunion, whether here or on Nantucket. They’ve been known to run a special ferry when the game is ‘over there’.
The Island fans are a strange and wonderful group. Everyone is decked out in school colors. Hair ribbons, feather boas, hats, sweatshirts, jackets; if an article of clothing or other item of adornment comes in purple someone will surely be wearing one. It doesn’t seem to bother the team that they look like a bunch of Barneys running around the field. They get so much support that if the school colors were pink and white they would wear them just as proudly. The coaches are traditional Vineyard macho men in their khaki shorts no matter the weather, proving what mom always said, body heat escapes from your head. As long as you have a hat on you’re ok.
These fans don’t just dress the part. Purple flows through their veins and they want the opposition to know it. They make so much noise you’d think you were in Fenway Park when the Red Sox are playing the (excuse my language) Yankees. They have ‘clackers’, cow bells and whistles. If it makes noise someone has one. There’s an elderly woman that has an old beat up brass horn. It sounds like a tractor trailer without breaks bearing down on you. I get a little annoyed until my husband points out that she only blows it when the Nantucket Quarter Back is calling a play. The object is to drown him out so the team didn’t know what to do. Once I know there’s a method to her madness I accept the periodic blasts with good humor. Anything to help ‘our’ team. (On the other hand I hope no one has a vuvuzuela this year)
The fans don’t just support the team with their voices and clothing, however. There is much to be purchased at these games and the fans open their wallets and spend freely. There is a constant stream of people climbing up and down the bleachers with hot dogs, hamburgers, pizza, delectable baked goods, and (God help anyone in the way) steaming cups of chowder. Hats, sweatshirts, t-shirts, hair ribbons, and buttons could all be had, and the 50/50 raffle took in over $2000.
The cheer leaders were trying really hard but they lose control of the crowd about halfway into the second quarter. Their cheers are wonderful, combining dance routines, gymnastics and clever vocals but they can’t compete with the fans. Guys bellow “Go D” so loudly I wouldn’t be surprised if they hear them in Falmouth. But the real competition for the girls was when everyone starts yelling “We want the cup, we want the cup”. Now if you happened to be here without knowing anything about the Island cup this would sound like a very odd cheer to be sure since most football fans know that ‘the cup’ is an item of protective gear worn by the players. But back to the cheer leaders. When I was in high school only the prettiest, thinnest girls got to be cheer leaders. I am gratified to see this is no longer the case. It is good to see that enthusiasm and school spirit are now more important than body type.
It’s a good game. I say that because we usually win. Community spirit and rabid fans can make a difference. Do make a difference. When the boys in purple get tired, all that love and approval lifts them up and keeps their momentum going.
When the game is played over on that other island, win or lose, everyone greets the returning ferry. There are police cars and fire trucks with their lights flashing and sirens blaring; and these tired, sometimes disappointed sometimes jubilant warriors surely know where they belong.

LOW OVERHEAD

I'm thinking that the high unemployment rate is due to the lack of entrepreneurial education in schools today. We need to teach our young to be adventurous when it comes to business. Here's my suggestions.


LOW OVERHEAD

I read about a student at the School of Visual Arts in New York who had long felt that packaging is more important than product. A classmate challenged him to prove it and he turned trash into cash by packaging garbage in an attractive way. He’s selective about the garbage. Nothing that rots, of course. Limited edition garbage is best, such as Opening Day at Yankee Stadium or New Year’s Eve-Times Square. Unfortunately the 2004 Republican Convention did poorly and is now selling at a reduced price. He picks it up, dusts it off and packages it in an attractive lucite cube complete with eye catching graphics and a signature of authenticity, then charges a hundred bucks a pop. Which only proves what I have long felt; some people will buy anything.
This got me pondering what it takes to start a successful business without an expensive college education or a rich father.
If you must start from scratch, low overhead is essential. Pick a product or service that is needed but doesn’t require a large investment. It’s best of all if the package is the product. Selling rocks, for instance. They’re all over the place. They’re free. They can be used for many things such as driveways, stone walls, and fireplaces, not to mention the Mafia’s use as submersion devices. You don’t have to plant or water them. And busy people are willing to pay you to either bring some or take some away. All you need is a truck and a strong back.
When I was a kid we moved to a new house. The lawn was nonexistent. Having lived through the depression, my father was a do it yourself kind of guy. It never occurred to him to hire a landscaper. (In those days ‘landscapers’ were called lawn guys and very few people had one.) Every day after school, and for one entire summer, my brother and I picked up rocks. After what felt like a life sentence at San Quentin, dad ordered a gazillion yards of top soil to fill in the holes. When the trucks rolled in and started dumping dirt into the yard I was astounded. People buy dirt! There you go. Another low overhead business. All you need is a shovel and a dump truck. It’s literally everywhere, except Martha’s Vineyard of course, where you would have to sell sand. Again, some people will pay you to take it away and other people will pay you to bring it to them. And there are many, many uses for dirt. Too many, in fact, to list.
Then, of course, there’s wood. Not the lumber yard kind, but cut up trees. All you need is a saw and that truck I keep talking about. This is yet one more business where people will pay you to cut them down and take them away and others will pay you to bring them some. Unfortunately, unless you want to go all the way into the lumber business, which will require overhead, the only use for logs is in fireplaces, so you pretty much need to live somewhere that’s cold a good part of the year.
In order to sell a manufactured product one needs to know the difference between wholesale and retail. Wholesale means having to buy large quantities of a product and retail means buying just one item. There is a great savings if you can buy wholesale but most people cannot use, say, fifty thousand hair nets, so the middleman has evolved. He makes money betting the rest of us want to use our closets, basements, and attics for things we love and want to pass on to our children rather than for storing paper towels and dog food. All you need is credit good enough for a loan and you are in business. If you’re really good all you need is a telephone and post office box, or better yet an internet web site. You can buy, sell and have everything delivered by someone else without ever leaving your La-Z-Boy. A very successful business can be built this way, assuming you do not buy five hundred Edsels.
My mother used to spend a few weeks in Florida each winter. I drove her down a couple of times and my favorite part were the stores along the way that sell items made out of sea shells. Mom would drive home with a trunk filled to the brim with shells she gathered on the beach using them to decorate lamps, mirrors and picture frames. There was no market for these things in the Northeast but I always thought if she went south for the whole winter she would be able to find work.
If you like animals, probably the lowest overhead business around is dog walking. You don’t even need a truck or a shovel (unless it's a really big dog). Just a plastic bag from Stop and Shop. And if your business fails, as do 50% of all small businesses in their first year, you won’t have to go into Chapter 11, since your assets and losses will pretty much amount to nothing.
Antiques and old collectables have become a thriving industry. All those things we remember from our grandmother’s house are being grabbed up by Baby Boomers with a bent for nostalgia. If only I had all the stuff that came through my hands from old relatives, I could open an auction house that would rival Sotheby’s. I knew a lady who had a yard sale every Sunday. How could she do this you ask? Every Saturday she would go to other people’s yard sales, buy stuff then re-sell it the next day. She did pretty well considering she only worked week-ends.
Yes, all you need is an idea and a way to convince people that they want what you are selling. Remember the pet rock? That was entrepreneurship at its best. The only thing that would be better is if you could find a way to have people give you money for nothing. Oh. I forgot. That’s called government.

RAISING CAIN

Here's my take on parenthood for when the babies start arriving.

RAISING CAIN

I was thirty-three when I realized that my mother didn’t have all the answers. Up until then she was Einstein, Glenda the Good Witch and a warm puppy all rolled into one. The event that precipitated this sudden revelation was the delivery of my first child. I had just assumed that with her birth would also come wisdom. Boy, was I wrong. In fact the only wisdom that came my way was the certainty that I didn’t know a thing; and my mother wasn’t far behind. We were both clueless. Oh, she learned a lot raising my brother and me, but we weren’t exactly the perfect children. Besides, that was before Penicillin. Times had changed. This baby had potential, if her father and I didn’t screw it up.
Unfortunately, parenting is a learning curve that doesn’t benefit the first born. There are books out there, Dr. Spock and all, that claim to help, but who has time to read while nursing on demand and doing endless loads of baby laundry? I read the LaMaze book on the way to the hospital--in labor. So, for better or worse this little bundle of joy, this blob of human skin and bones, this tiny human being, would be raised just like all the other first children in the world. By trial and error.
Parenting skills are safe from scrutiny while the children are toddlers, but Oz’s omnipotence slips a notch when they go to school and start trading information with the other kids. That’s when ‘because I said so’ starts to lose its muscle. They start comparing you with their teacher, the only other adult that has direct power over them. “Miss Smith says you should give me more green vegetables.” Even though the kid makes a gagging sound if you put more than six peas on her plate. “Miss Smith says you should read to me for at least a half hour every night.” Even though the kid always falls asleep after five minutes. By the way, the only thing Miss Smith knows about children is what she learned in college. No trial and error here. The only way to maintain an appearance of wisdom is to enter into a conspiracy with Miss Smith and the other parents. As they say, knowledge is power. This will keep you at least half a step ahead of the children.
It’s surprising more children don’t walk around in a state of perpetual confusion. They must wonder why they get yelled at, not the first time they do something, or even the second or third, but somewhere around the twelfth or fourteenth time. They don’t realize that it’s not the activity but the repetition of the activity that eventually gets your attention. I have yet to meet a child who has any idea that bouncing a basketball against a wall five thousand two hundred and six times could be even slightly irritating to an adult trying to pay bills or concentrate on taxes. Believe me–if they understand this and do it anyway, God help us when they choose our nursing home!
My daughter learned a neat trick when she was around seven, the so called ‘age of reason’. Any time her father or I started to scold her for an infraction she would pipe up with, “You never told me not to do that. You can’t punish me for doing something I didn’t know was wrong!” Then she’d slip away leaving us standing, speechless, in a puddle of logic. Needless to say, she avoided a lot of lectures. This continued until she was old enough for the ‘common sense’ rebuttal. Believe it or not children do eventually hit an age when they can figure a lot of things out for themselves. Then they hit an age when they know more than their parents. Then they hit an age when they realize, as I did, that they don’t know anything.
Thank God for the pediatrician. A light in the darkness. In 1980 when my daughter was born, there was a big controversy about how babies should sleep. Back? Front? Side? My husband and I, being medical professionals, should have known the answer to this one but it wasn’t a simple question anymore. For lack of an answer we put her down on her side, wrapped like a papoose, propped from behind, just as she had arrived by my hospital bed from the nursery. That worked for a while until several women who had much more experience than I (their babies were a few days older than mine) needed to disseminate advice. “Her head will get flat. Put her on her back!” I have to admit being a nurse can be a disadvantage here. I saw my little darling spitting up (which is a euphemism for vomiting) and choking to death. Ergo my first call to the doctor, who remembers his patients by name but calls their female parent ‘mommy’. “Put her on her back, mommy,” was his sage response. Oh well, if something terrible happened I would have someone to blame.
And so it goes–mountains of incoming data from people who don’t have credentials any better than your own. Plenty of old wive’s tales from my mother, who was, after all an old wife; and advice shouting at me from every TV, radio and newsstand I passed.
Now that my daughter is on her own I can heave a temporary sigh of relief. She doesn’t have a husband and won’t be a parent any time soon, one hopes. It will be a while before she learns the sad truth. The function of a parent is to keep kids from poking their eyes out, playing in traffic and running with scissors until they can take care of themselves.

BABY BUMPS

My daughter's friends are all getting married. She was in two weddings in two months this summer. I figure it's only a matter of time before the babies start arriving. Here's some information and advice, for what it's worth. It's been almost thirty years for me.

BABY BUMPS

Women who want to be grandmothers lie to their daughters. It may be a lie of omission but it is a lie none the less. They coo over babies. They tell you how wonderful being a mother is--the remarkable rewards. They make it seem like nirvana. What they don’t tell you is what will happen to your formerly pristine body and sanity.
The woes of pregnancy are legion. Nausea, unquenchable thirst, constipation, varicose veins, backaches, swollen ankles. Fertility means you grow things. Not just a baby but skin tags, hair in undesirable places, fingernails and toenails that will rival an eagle’s talons. Which, unless you keep trimmed, will shred your sheets. Oh, wait. That assumes you will get any sleep, which you won’t because you will be spending the night traveling back and forth to the bathroom. And forget sleeping on you stomach ever again.
There are only two positive results to pregnancy as far as I can tell. Besides the wonderful child you will produce, and believe me--yours will be the greatest thing since the flush toilet--the porn star boobs will amaze you and the great thing is that as long as you nurse you will keep them. I imagine this is why some women don’t give it up until their kids are ready for kindergarten.
Pregnancy itself has evolved over the ages from a natural event to a disability and back to a natural event. This is why men invented birth control. So pregnancy could be planned and thus not interfere with their lives. When my husband was born, towards the end of the great depression, his mother, a school teacher, was forced to take a five year unpaid leave. Presumably from the first visible signs of a pregnancy bump, so as not to give ideas to her teen-age students, through the stages of weaning and teething, until the kid itself went to school. I suppose they felt parental bonding was important. Pregnancy was viewed as a little shameful, even if you were married, which is what kept the teens scared to death to have sex.
This was around the time that pregnancy went from being a natural event to a disability. When employers had to start paying for disabilities it went back to being a natural event. Go figure.
The actual process of pregnancy has also changed over the years. No, I don’t mean how you get pregnant or the mechanics of growing a fetus. I mean the advice you get. Everyone from your doctor to the grocery store check out clerk will have something to say to you. An entire library of books to tell you what to do. Old wives tales, fond memories, horror stories--you’ll hear them all. Just smile and glow. You can’t avoid it. My suggestion would be to listen to the doctor and let the rest roll off your back. Of course a little good sense doesn’t hurt, and keep in mind that even medical advice goes in and out of fashion.
When I was pregnant thirty years ago the rule of thumb was three alcoholic drinks a day. That may explain why my daughter has such tiny ears. Now the trend is to treat your body like a temple and only eat and drink pure, organic, chemical free food, and if your child doesn’t get accepted to Harvard you have a good shot at a malpractice suit. My mother drank, smoked and whooped it up. She took no prenatal classes, went to a general practitioner rather than an OB specialist, and almost delivered me in a taxi, yet my IQ is 140. Explain that.
The farther away from old wives you can get the better. Especially if they are strongly ethnic. They suggest things like drinking beef blood if you are anemic, and they’ll dangle needles over your swollen abdomen to predict the sex of your baby. Even though these things have been made obsolete by vitamins and ultrasounds, old wives will insist their treatments are safer and you really can’t argue with them. Even coffee and regular tea have been implicated in fetal damage. Tea. Can you imagine? Must be why the Brits lost the Empire.
Which brings us to what a pregnancy can do to your mind and emotions. When your husband tries to get you a prescription for lithium because your mood swings are scaring him, quietly and patiently explain to him that your behavior is normal. Or you could scream it at him...your choice. These mood swings will include a lot of yelling, throwing things, and weeping. Try to confine this behavior to your home. If done on the street people will assume your husband just told you he wants a divorce.
Just keep in mind that pregnancy is nature’s joke on woman, woman is nature’s joke on man, and children are nature's joke on everyone.

TAKE A HIKE

Boat's gone for the winter. Beach is windy. Hiking is the preferred outdoor activity this time of the year.

TAKE A HIKE

I’m not what you call the outdoorsy type. Oh I don’t mind a couple of hours on the beach, as long as I have a comfortable chair, umbrella, good read, and a beer. Don’t tell anyone about the beer. I don’t even bring food because I don’t like to eat sand and frankly I really don’t want to stay long enough to need nourishment. And swim? Forget it. It’s the North Atlantic, for Pete’s sake. Unfortunately this does not make my husband happy. He accepts it because I have other attributes that are best not mentioned in a family publication.
This Island was made for him. Any place that has organized walks twelve months a year is his kind of place. It’s not so much the walk per se, but the camaraderie of like minded individuals that pleases him. The information disseminated on these ‘winter walks’ is not of paramount interest to him. He really doesn’t care how much erosion has taken place in the last hundred years on the bluffs at Lucy Vincent. What he enjoys is the company of people who go out in all kinds of weather with walking sticks and hiking boots. However, even he is suspicious of people who wear shorts and sandals in March. He loves to hike, swim and do all those things I wasn’t born with the genes for. But--marriage, thy name is compromise, so I go along occasionally just so he’ll owe me one.
He bought a couple of those “Hiking the Vineyard” books hoping to get me interested. “Look honey, they put in more trails at Brine’s Pond.” Or “Here’s a walk that’s only 3.5 miles and promises a view of Vineyard Sound that can’t be seen from anywhere else on the Island.” Big deal. The Island is covered with gorgeous, unique views. I can see most of them from the front seat of the car, which is where I prefer to do my sight seeing. There seems to be a conspiracy against me in the Vineyard Gazette’s calendar. “There’s a walk to the brickyard. They only do that once a year.” Or “Seven Gates. They haven’t done that for a couple of years.” Not only does the Conservation Society take you places that aren’t open to the public but they reward you with cider and cookies! I can’t win.
We were the only ones who showed up for a walk in the state forest once and I thought for sure it would be canceled. No such luck. These people are real tree huggers. They love their job. If it were the stone age they’d be sporting ‘Save T-Rex’ buttons. Another thing. Can’t these walkers keep their mouths shut and just walk? Why do they have to ask all those questions? “What’s a terminal moraine?” “Could you show us an erratic?” And do they have to point out owl pellets and other disgusting natural phenomena? Jeez. It’s like a sixth grade science class. I do enjoy the vernal pools, though. I think the fairy shrimp have the right idea. Hibernate when the weather isn’t to your liking and come out to play when it gets nice.
May, June, September and October are the ideal hiking months on Martha’s Vineyard. Nice weather, not too many tourists, and you can find a place to park. The other day we went to the Fulling Mill Brook Preserve. There was one other car parked in the lot, which isn’t unusual off season. We walked the entire trail and didn’t see another soul. When we got back to the parking lot the car was still there. I have one question. Where were these people? The walk wasn’t enough? They had to climb a tree maybe?
Waskosim’s Rock Reservation is one of my husband’s favorites. We frequently get lost there. Usually, just about the time we feel we’ve had enough and turn back, we lose track of the trail and go in a huge circle. The trails are marked about as well as the Island roads were prior to the 911 system. Which may be why he likes this particular preserve so much. He can get a couple of extra miles out of me.
My favorite is Long Point. The ride from the winter entrance is longer than the actual walk. I also like the Caroline Tuthill Preserve. There are maps with little tidbits of information about points of interest on the trail. In June (so it says) there is a large stand of Lady Slippers. These indigenous orchids are protected by law because they are very fussy about where they like to grow and are untransplantable, though God knows many have tried. I finally saw them last year and was so excited I sent an item to the Edgartown gossip column in the Gazette.
I guess it’s not the walking I dislike so much as where we do it. I much prefer malls, where I can indulge in my favorite exercise. Shopping.

LET'S STEAL FROM THE RICH

The fund raising season is over. For now. Many people ask me what we do here in the winter. Well, we think up ways to part the tourists from their cash during the following season.




LET’S STEAL FROM THE RICH

Islanders are ingenious at finding ways to separate the summer people from their money. Auctions seem to have become the method of choice these days, silent or otherwise. I attended one for the Boys’ and Girls’ Club about thirty years ago. There was no admission fee and they served free punch with crackers and cheese. I got a gold charm for $45. That’s about what they were going for in the stores, so I got something of value, felt good about helping a worthy cause and everyone was happy. Unfortunately, auctions for charity no longer offer such a big bang for your buck.
Take the Possible Dreams auction. Admittedly the biggest event of the summer, but not so different from the rest. You have to cough up $25 and this doesn’t even get you a seat. Bring your own or they’ll be glad to rent you one. Now this wouldn’t be such a bad deal if you got to eyeball all the celebrities that attend, but noooo, they are all sequestered up front so unless you have a special talent for recognizing people by the back of their heads it’s just like waiting in line at the post office (but wait--that’s free). I don’t mean to sound snarky and I know that the money raised is a godsend to us year rounders but come on--nothing like feeling left out at your own party.
It wasn’t always so, I’m told. My friend Janice likes to talk about the old days. Now, don’t get me wrong, she still loves the Island dearly and hates to leave for any reason including fabulous vacations but she likes to tell me how much fun it used to be. The incredible things they did in the off season for entertainment, wait, no, I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about that.
Fund raisers in the old days before the rich and famous found Martha’s Vineyard were for the people and by the people. The things you would find on the auction table were lube jobs at a local garage, a day on a working fishing boat (including a fish for supper), breakfast or lunch at a fancy restaurant (including the recipe for the main dish) and maybe a private concert by a local musical group. These items were frequently bid on by a consortium of people to keep the cost down. Breakfast for four, for instance, would be bid on by a group of four friends who would each kick in a quarter of the price. This allowed for a nice donation without costing any one person their kid’s tuition money. Since the items to be auctioned were listed in the paper, these arrangements were all made ahead of time so no one got too carried away during bidding.
After the rich and famous arrived the auction became a war between people who had much more money than the local dry cleaner or plumber, essentially cutting us out of the fun. But, hey, we’re not complaining. We get to keep the money.
Then there’s the Woman’s Club of Martha’s Vineyard. When I joined they informed me that they no longer did any active fundraising. This puzzled me since the General Federation of Woman’s Clubs is known as a philanthropic organization. It seems that one year after a bake sale a member complained bitterly that a cake that had cost her ten dollars to make had been sold for five. “In the future,” she announced, “just ask me for a check.” Which is what they have been doing ever since. It sure beats those five mile ‘walks’ that have become popular on the mainland.
It’s amazing how much money we collect just by setting out a little basket on the dessert table at every meeting.

A FOUR WAY STOP IS NOT A STATIONARY CLOVERLEAF!

I'm going off Island for a shopping spree tomorrow. I will have to refamiliarize (is that a word?) myself with the way the rest of America drives. Stop lights--oh my.

A FOUR WAY STOP IS NOT A STATIONARY CLOVERLEAF!

I realize that Island drivers are familiar with four way stops. I conducted some research asking my brother, cousin, daughter-in-law and three people from a soap opera chat room, and have learned that people from New York and New Jersey have probably never seen one before. They’ve put up ‘signage’ and turned what used to be the blinker light intersection into a four way stop. There were lots of complaints and debate, but let’s face it, everything causes complaints and debate around here. So in addition to the signs they left the blinker light but put red bulbs in both directions.
After living in Edgartown for several years I have gotten used to and even become fond of four way stops. I have to go through four of them just to get to the store to buy a quart of milk and a newspaper. I believe they are a very civilized traffic option as long as everyone follows the rules. Yes. There are rules. There are things you always, always do, things you never, never do and some things that are a good idea and some things that are a bad idea. I offer them up for our ‘guests’ from off Island, and those from up-Island who rarely venture down.
For instance, it is a bad idea to try to make your way through a busy four way intersection while chatting on a cell phone. It’s a good idea to keep track of all four cars stopped so you’ll know when it’s your turn to go. Never, never try to cross the intersection if it isn’t your turn. Always, always cross when it is your turn or you’ll create confusion and the driver behind you will start beeping. If you’ve lost track, the polite thing to do is wave the opposing cars through then go forth. This will teach you to stop chatting on that damn cell phone and pay attention.
Now it’s very important to remember that no matter how long you’ve been stopped, it doesn’t count unless you’re first in line. It’s not like a red light where everyone stops then everyone goes. And don’t try to sneak through if you are making a right turn. I repeat--it is not a red light. It’s also important to remember that occasionally you will come across drivers who have never encountered a four way stop or are daydreaming or yelling at their kids and will not follow the rules. So keep an eye out.
In order to successfully negotiate a four way stop you need to become familiar with the local use of hand signals. Everyone knows that a smile and Queen Elizabeth sideways wave means either, “It’s your turn” or “Please, be my guest.” A peace sign means, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention--go ahead.” A frown accompanied with a shaking fist means, “It wasn’t your turn, damn it!” And the universal clenched fist with middle finger pointing skyward means, “You are a jerk. If you can’t figure this out go back where you came from.”
Now that you know all the rules and regulations for navigating a four way stop I have one more heads up for you. There are certain individuals who do not believe the rules of the road apply to them since their vehicle has only two wheels. Nothing will foul up a four way stop faster than a string of bicyclists who blithely sail past the stop sign looking like a family of ducks headed to the nearest pond. These people think they are pedestrians and have the right of way. They aren’t, yet they go anyway. Look out for them unless you want to end up in traffic court charged with vehicular homicide.
The Barnes Road intersection has become as safe as the Cook Street crossing. Remember when everyone had a bumper sticker that said, “This car made it through the Cooke Street intersection”? Maybe the powers that be should consider a five way stop for you know where.

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

The hurricane was a big fizzle but it successfully ended the season. Almost everyone had their boat hauled out of the harbor and the exodus seems to have been permanent. Streets are lonely again except for the senior bus trips. And everyone is complaining about business. This isn't new, however, there is never enough business for the entire summer for everybody.

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

Business is down. Everyone’s complaining. It happens every year. The MVJCCC (Martha’s Vineyard Joint Chamber of Commerce Commission) is burning their midnight oil looking for solutions. They’ve put suggestion boxes in all the town halls and are doing surveys on the ferries. The number one thing the tourists want is - Ta Da! Who would have guessed it? - sunshine! We used to get a lot more tourists before everyone started watching the weather channel. Maybe we could hack into their computer....
The problem is, word got out that the Vineyard isn’t as exclusive as it used to be. That there are actually vacancy signs at some inns; even in August. This is not good for business. So suggestion number one is to take down those signs and burn them. Do not rent rooms after March 15. And make sure they pay up front, have a three night minimum and a no refund policy. There may be a drought next year but after that our reputation will be restored. That should pretty much take care of rentals.
The restaurants are complaining too. One of them has even stopped serving bread to cut costs. They’ve gotten so upscale that you practically need a microscope to see your portion of fresh Island sea bass with pesto-orange cream sauce and asparagus risotto. This has something to do with not being too rich or too thin, but I’m not sure what. Word’s out that you can get into some of these establishments without a - gasp - reservation. Suggestion number two has the MVJCCC speaking to the boat czar about playing music on the ferry with subliminal messages to make the tourists hungry for veal cheeks with poached ramps. Just don’t stand in their way as they stampede off the boat in search of a meal they will have to take out a second mortgage to pay for. This should help the food industry.
The souvenir industry tries very hard. Every year there are new T-shirts with new slogans. Unfortunately the only way to sell them is to get the celebrities to wear them (or take them back as souvenirs for their interns). Now there isn’t a self respecting celebrity who will wear a T-shirt that costs less than oh say $300. This is not good because your average day tripper will not spend more than $25 for a shirt unless the slogan is really hysterical or really dirty. The suggestion box, however, came up with a gem. The MVJCCC has made a deal with a few of our Island celebrities (you know who you are) to wear some of this year’s selections when they are out and about. That should help the economy. I can’t wait to see Spike Lee in a bad dog tee. Or maybe Diane Sawyer sporting one from the Monster Shark Tournament. When we start seeing Ag Fair shirts on the national news we’ll know business is back.
Now if they could only do something about the temperature of the ocean.

GREETINGS!

Sometimes I think if it weren't for those vitriolic political, religious, and cheap viagra emails I wouldn't get any emails at all. I can't help wondering if instead of spending all our time on Face Book or porn sights and we were more productive maybe the economy would be better. I think I'll sit down and write a letter to someone.

GREETINGS!

Technology has taken the pleasure out of collecting the mail. Once I received chatty letters from friends and relatives. Now my mailbox is a repository for bills, catalogs and typewritten letters from people who want to sell my house. The only fun is an occasional Hallmark card with a hastily scribbled signature. At least I know someone is thinking of me.
My computer's mailbox, however, is bombarded on a daily basis with notes and jokes from friends and strangers written in espeak which, apparently, does not include capitol letters or punctuation. The spelling, except for certain homophones, is usually correct thanks to spell check. When did you turn into u and are turn into r?
I can't remember the last time I received a personal letter. Oh, you'll say, the telephone took the place of letters, but those of us who dislike talking on the phone--and there are plenty of us--continued to write letters right up until we got a computer. Now everything is e-this and e-that. Between keyboards and text messaging it's a miracle anyone uses pen and paper for anything other than a grocery list and I'm betting some people even use their laptops or Blackberries for that.
I had to pick up a birthday card the other day. As I wandered past the racks I was amazed at the number of occasions they have cards for. Besides the usual things, birthdays, anniversaries, births, deaths and holidays I found some truly unusual cards. For example there was one for someone who just bought a new car. Seems to me that one isn't worth a five cent stamp much less half a buck. Instead of congratulating someone who just got their license, a card should be sent to warn other drivers that there's a new, inexperienced driver out there on the road. There was a card for the anniversary of a bad time. I'm sure your out of work cousin really wants to be reminded that he lost his job a year ago.
The cards that really amuse me are the ones designed for relatives. The modern family has become so twisted they actually have cards for step children and other people you are related to by that tenuous thread called marriage. Step aunts, step uncles, in-laws and pseudo grandparents abound. A card commemorating a divorce will come in handy here.
I like the cards that are from the dog, or cat. I wonder if the people who send them put a pen in their little paws and trace their name like I did with my daughter before she learned how to print.
There was a card congratulating a new citizen. Unfortunately it was in English. One regarding weight loss might not be appreciated by someone who never thought of herself as fat. It's nice when someone sends you a card congratulating you on a new apartment, house or promotion. But I think sending one mentioning your vacation is going a little too far. After all, you're getting a vacation--what more do you want?
I read somewhere that Emily Post felt that sympathy cards from Hallmark were the height of crassness. She says, " A sympathy card with no personal note need not be acknowledged." We all know how Emily felt about acknowledging communications. Although I don't think she commented on the one noting the loss of your pet.
The day of the personal note is over. We don't communicate face to face any more due to technology, and the postal service is going broke because no one sends letters. Some day there will be a mass computer crash and they'll have to start up the Pony Express again.

LOCAL OR TOURIST?

The summer is winding down, although you wouldn't notice it with the president here. The massive 10 day traffic jam in China is nothing compared to what it was like yesterday in Edgartown when Michele and the girls came for lunch. The weather was crappy and if you got caught behind the yellow tape when they arrived, as did my friend Dave, you were stuck there until they finished eating and got back into the caravan. At least he got his picture in the Globe!

LOCAL OR TOURIST?

Every couple of years there’s an article in one of the Vineyard publications about how to tell a native from a tourist. Sometimes it’s in the form of a list. They usually start out with something like--real Vineyarders never wear Black Dog T-shirts. Which isn’t true you know. A real Vineyarder will wear anything he can buy for a fraction of what it costs in August and loves to wear something he found abandoned on the beach, even if it’s a Black Dog T-shirt. We would be happier if it was a Medeiros Appliance T-shirt or a hat that says St. Barths but we take what we can get. Of course, for some people, the older and rattier the better.
People who move here with a full wardrobe of normal clothes find that after a few years the items that wear out are replaced with things that say Martha’s Vineyard. Which is why almost everyone on the Island during the ‘off’ season looks like they belong to the high school booster club. During the summer, of course, everyone looks like a tourist. In fact people who smile and cheerfully greet me in the winter often ask me in the summer where I come from. This used to irk me. I feel that since I have survived many an August and March on this Island I deserve credit for being a local. A ‘washashore’ local at least.
Which brings up another point. There are several types of Islanders each with their own genealogy of contact with Martha’s Vineyard. There are, of course, the real true multi generational Islanders. People who are Wampanoags or have names like Mayhew, Norton, Pease and Coffin, or are related to the aforementioned. Then there are the ‘washashores’ who were not born here but settled here sometime during the last century. I have a friend who has been on the Island since before World War II who is still considered a ‘washashore’. Then come the ‘snow birds’. People who have retired and spend close to half the year in some warm climate where they can sun, golf and do all the things you can’t do during a New England winter. Next are the summer residents. This is a subgroup unto itself. It includes people who are much like the ‘snow birds’ except they consider their off Island home their permanent residence. Then you have homeowners that come only on weekends and during their vacation. Even renters that spend more than a week or two consider themselves summer residents. And of course there is the work force that comes to the Island and lives in less than comfortable circumstances to earn an obscene amount of money on tips so they can afford their next semester at college. Last but not least are the true tourists. The people who come for a day or week. These are the people who buy the Black Dog T-shirts for full price, eat $4.50 oysters, and generally keep the souvenir stores, hotels and expensive restaurants in business. They are also the people who give the locals something to complain about; traffic, mopeds, crowded beaches and harbors, noise, long lines at restaurants and all the other annoying things that come with being a summer resort.
If someone asked me the difference between a local and a tourist I would say it’s the way we (yes, I am considering myself a Vineyarder) think. If everyone thought the way the people of Martha’s Vineyard do it would be a wonderful world to live in. The Vineyard is a community in the truest sense of the word. Community isn’t just a word. It is a state of being. The dictionary defines community as “a social group of any size whose members reside in a specific locality, share government and often have a common cultural and historical heritage”. This is only partially true about the Vineyard. It is true about the core of the community; which, much like the earth’s center, holds together a larger mass, made of unique but inseparable parts. Anyone who comes within the gravitational pull of Martha’s Vineyard is forever changed. Many come back again and again. Those lucky few who are able to live here, whether for a month or year round, find themselves drawn into the community. “Washashores” are absorbed like paint into new wood. A friend recently described this phenomenon as being like links in a chain link fence. You can’t touch one without being touched by three others; and this is how the fabric of our community has been built.
While looking up the definition of community I came upon a word that I think fits us even better. “Communitas” is an anthropological term meaning “the sense of sharing and intimacy that develops among persons who experience liminality as a group”. Living on an island is our liminality. We are all in the same boat, or rather dependent on the same boat. This insular lifestyle does not induce a feeling of isolation, however, but of independence and self reliance. We care for our own. We don’t wait for the government to do it. Every time there is something to celebrate the whole Island celebrates. Every time there is a tragedy someone organizes a fund raiser.
I’m sure there must be other communities like ours. I hope there are. Wouldn’t it be nice if they were all like ours. Then there wouldn’t be a difference between Islanders and tourists and everyone would proudly wear their own community’s name on their shirts.

NO FREE LUNCH

Went for a manicure and pedicure today. My 'nail care professional' has become an old friend and she frequently uses me as a guinea pig when she's learning a new technique. I don't complain cause she hasn't raised her rates (for me) in ten years.

NO FREE LUNCH

Ya get what ya pay for. This is just as valid today as it was when my mother liked to remind me, “If it seems to good to be true, believe me, it is!”
After getting my nails done the other day my manicurist asked if I would like a free eyebrow wax. Guessing I looked a little shaggier then usual, I vowed to wear my reading glasses for any future face inspections. Now, eyebrows aren’t something I spend much time thinking about. Mine are blond and not a particularly noticeable feature so they have never been a priority. No unibrow issues. I get regular haircuts, touchups and manicures but I’m from the school that says if a woman of a certain age spends more than a couple of hours a month in a beauty parlor then she is downright vain. This said I am also from the school that says never turn down a freebie. My ‘nail technician’ assured me she was very good so without further thought I accepted her offer.
Now don’t get me wrong about my personal grooming habits, this wasn’t the first time I had gotten my eyebrows waxed. No sir. This was actually the second time, so I knew what to expect. Positioned in a reclining chair, I would feel the warmth of the wax, placement of the removal strips and a few quick seconds of tear producing pain. The whole affair would last about five minutes and for a few weeks my brow would compare to a Hollywood starlet. That’s what would happen. I thought.
I got the reclining part right. The wax wasn’t very warm so the application process pulled and jerked the hair that was destined to be removed. Instead of doing the tops and bottoms of the brow which would have cleaned up both in four painful but manageable motions, she started dabbing little globs of barely warm, very sticky wax on small areas, affixing the cloth strips to the wax then slooowly pulling the strip, wax and hair off my face. I was beginning to think this girl wasn’t as experienced as she claimed but what the heck, I reminded myself, it’s free even if she was removing one hair at a time.
By the time she finished my right brow I was hearing my mother’s early warnings about gift horses sometimes turning out to be Trojans. I blinked the tears away and took a critical look at my torturer’s eyebrows. Highly stylized, there was a collection of no more than six hairs over each eye. I remembered the time I went to Vidal Sassoon’s in New York to get what I thought would be a really good haircut. I was greeted by a ‘stylist’ with a purple and white Mohawk. You can imagine my trepidation.
Between the waxing and tweezing (I thought the waxing was supposed to make the tweezing unnecessary) the whole job took a good half hour and left me afraid to look in the mirror. When I finally got up the nerve I didn‘t look too bad although my skin stayed red for a couple of days and it took elbow grease to remove the waxy residue. Oh well. You get what you pay for.

BEACH SONGS

It's still summer here on the Vineyard. BOY is it summer!

BEACH SONGS

There was something in the air at Menemsha the other day that inspired music. I don’t mean the boom box kind that’s so common on some beaches. I mean real music. I’m a people watcher (and listener). I watch people where ever I go; restaurants, grocery stores, movie theaters, the ferry. One of the best places for people watching is the beach. I’ve found that when people shed most of their clothes they also shed a lot of their inhibitions. Let’s face it--when a woman bares her upper thighs what more does she have to lose? The beach has a symphony of its own. The rhythm of the sea lapping on the shore and kadima balls being batted back and forth. The shriek of children playing in the surf, indistinguishable from the cry of gulls soaring over head. The drone of conversations and the tinkling cascade of laughter. They all come together like the instruments in an orchestra, or a church choir.
When you live on Martha’s Vineyard, going to the beach becomes as much a ritual as a Passover Seder or Christmas dinner. You have long ago separated the necessary from the expendable. The parking space you find can be either two steps from the sand or a fair trek to the walkway that leads to the sand, so it pays to pack light. Even when I had small children we never took much more than a towel, sun tan lotion and a gallon of lemonade. Now that I’m older with a bad back and a fear of skin cancer I need a chair and an umbrella, but true to the beach going spirit of my youth, they both fold up and fit neatly in a sack with a shoulder strap. I often look at young couples with children, coolers, tents, strollers, toys, and umbrellas spread out on the beach around me and think that if these young men had been smart they would have insisted on prenuptial agreements delineating the amount of stuff they would be required to drag to the beach. Some things are more important than money. But back to Menemsha.
I had arrived, copped a parking space right next to the sand and in one trip set up my camp for the day. Sitting in the chair, I had just opened the latest Victoria Trumbull mystery by my friend Cynthia Riggs. Suddenly the air filled with the muted tones of a Chopin piano concerto. I looked around and realized this surprising choice of music was drifting in from a sailboat in the mooring field. A pleasant change from the usual beach fair that even my daughter calls ‘rap crap’. (I realize this sounds harsh considering how many millionaires the genre has produced but my feeling is if it doesn’t have a melody it isn’t music. Even some of Aaron Copeland’s music sounds like a car accident to me) Shortly thereafter I enjoyed a second musical interlude when a family of four arrived and distributing their ‘stuff’ sang several impromptu choruses of Take Me Out To The Ball Game. I sometimes think the sheer joy of vacationing in such an eden as Martha’s Vineyard can cause people to bubble over with pleasure.
The rest of the afternoon passed in relative quiet until just before I decided to pack it in for the day. I was gazing out to sea enjoying the incredible view when a distinguished looking middle aged gentleman somewhat to my right suddenly laid down his book and spontaneously exploded into song. To my delight it was a favorite aria from Tosca. In Italian no less! I’m sure the book didn’t inspire this uninhibited display even though it was one of Phil Craig’s. No, it must have been the sheer joy of a beautiful day at the beach.

FRIENDS FOR LIFE

Sorry I'm so late today posting my blog. I have an old, old friend (from third grade) visiting and I'm having too much fun to think about my obligations!

FRIENDS FOR LIFE

Husbands come and go but a good girlfriend can last a lifetime. Unfortunately even good pals have an occasional squabble. Therefore I am setting down a list of rules, a Pre-Friendship Agreement using Ten Commandment form (although I presently only have seven), that will make life-long friendships manageable for anyone interested. I do admit there are people out there that do not require, or desire friends. If you are one of them please feel free to skip this blog.
I. Thou shalt not complain. If you introduce two of your friends and they wind up liking each other more than they like you, this only proves that neither of these chicks was worthy of your friendship in the first place.
II. Thou shalt not commit boyfriend swap. Never date your girlfriend’s ex. Never, never, never. There are no exceptions to this rule, even if the guy is loaded and has all his hair. There is no man on earth that can replace your best friend. Not even if he’s a movie star and your 10th high school reunion is coming up. Trust me he’ll just dump you the way he dumped her. Probably at the reunion.
III. Thou shalt not leave old friends for new. Replacing old friends with new ones is risky. You will only piss off the old ones, and once the new ones get to know you they may realize you ain’t no prize and drop you like a soapy dish. Remember, your old friends know all about you and hang out with you anyway. That says something.
IV. Thou shalt not criticize. The quickest way to end a friendship is to criticize your pal’s significant other or children. A true friend listens to all the complaints but never comments. If a verbal response is required a "hmmmm" will do. It doesn’t matter if the boyfriend is the ugliest, nastiest, most shiftless excuse for a human being, you must not speak out, because sure as shooting one of these days she is going to realize for herself that he is a worthless dog and when she does she’ll hate you for pointing it out on all those occasions when she was crying into your beer.
V. Thou shalt not borrow. Money has split up more friendships than death has. Do not borrow or lend money to a friend without a written IOU. Even if it’s just a dollar to buy a lottery ticket. And needless to say if the ticket hits you must give her half plus the dollar you borrowed.
VI. Thou shalt not blow off favors. Unless you have a damn good excuse. You can’t have a friendship without favors. It is necessary, therefore, to decide just what kind of favors you are willing to do and have a really good excuse for the ones you won’t do. “I’d love to, dear, but I’m having my mammogram that day,” will not cut it. A request for help on moving day, baby or dog sitting require nothing less than a death or out of town trip. Even then the death must be a close relative or the trip must be for business.
VII. Thou shalt not gossip. Gossiping has gotten every woman on earth in trouble at one time or another. Only a saint refuses to listen, but we have all lost a friend or two because we couldn’t resist passing along that little nugget that was shared during a vulnerable moment. I know it’s fun but you must only gossip about women you don’t care about, no matter how juicy, no matter how earth shattering, you can never repeat anything your best friend tells you in confidence. Especially to your husband.
I’d like to tell you that if you follow my rules your best friend will never desert you. I can’t. But barring death or a move to Borneo it should make it less likely.

SUMMER RAGE

Well--it's the end of July. The "August People" will be arriving soon then before you know it we will have our Island back, thank god!

SUMMER RAGE


I have summer rage. I have tourist, bicycle, pedestrian, jogger, traffic jam rage. And if I see one more chest sporting a big black dog I’m going to use it for target practice.
Could someone please tell me when they turned Dock Street and Mayhew Lane into a pedestrian mall? Now I know that when you live in a resort area it’s politically incorrect to sport a bumper sticker on your car that says “If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?”, but come on--we all have some ambivalence. Even the Islanders who make all their money from our summer visitors find ‘the season’ somewhat trying. Not that we’re any different when we go away. I, too, gawk at the storefronts and wander into the street as thouogh I have an IQ of six. But I only do it for a week or two at a time, whereas here I have to live with it for at least four months every year.
Why is it when people are on vacation all the rules are suspended? Let the kids stay up until they’re so cranky you want to drown them? Sure. In fact, when they start screaming with frustration and exhaustion that’s when we’ll take them out to a restaurant to eat. They won’t mind standing in line for an hour. Bicycle helmets? Nah. We’re on vacation. Mad Martha’s for dinner? Why not. Let the kids enjoy a sugar high.
One of the things that made moving to Martha’s Vineyard so appealing was the festive atmosphere of the different towns during the summer, but after spending ten years here full time I yearn for the blessed quiet of winter, of empty streets, even if most of the stores and restaurants are closed. I don’t care. I can’t afford to eat or shop in them anyway. In summer everyone is so busy with their company I don’t get to see any of my friends. Most of us feel as if we run a B&B from June till September. And the ferry is a disaster. Off season if we find the need to go anywhere we just run up to the airport and buy a ferry ticket. During the summer, if you haven’t made long term plans, fuggedaboudit. Short of an appointment for open heart surgery, you’re not going anywhere. It’s not the Authority’s fault. It’s the unavoidable consequences of being a resort.
Look at the Gazette. In the winter it’s a nice, newsy little weekly that tells you what you need to know. In August you could get a hernia carrying it home, what with all the stuff going on. Then they have the nerve to print one on Tuesday for the overflow. This doubles my weekly newspaper budget.
And what’s with the cell phones on the beach? You’re on vacation, dammit! Oh. You’re making a reservation for dinner? You mean you didn’t do that in March when you got your ferry tickets? You’ll either have to eat before your lunch is digested or after the evening news. As for me--I don’t patronize restaurants that close in the winter, or refuse to make a reservation for fewer than six (or twelve) people. And a parking lot is a big plus.
The grocery store is another place that inspires rage. It’s not uncommon for the shelves to be bare, even if a nor’easter hasn’t been predicted. Fortunately I’m of the Yankee ‘make do’ persuasion--it’s the Stop and Shop that loses out. I used to shop at Cronig’s but what with the traffic and price of gas...don’t get me started on that.
Really, I’m thrilled and proud that Martha’s Vineyard is so beloved. I adore it when I’m off Island and someone asks me where I’m from, and I watch their eyes get wide with envy when I tell them. And I guess it takes the frenetic summer months to make us appreciate the deep, dark winter months. But in the midst of my summer rage I’m always reminded of an acquaintance who retired to the Cape. He loved it in winter but always went back to Brooklyn for the summer. Go figure.

ANTHRO-CONS

Technology via the internet has allowed people who once thought they were the only person on earth with their own peculiar proclivity, to meet up with multitudes with the same bizarre desires.

ANTHRO-CONS

I recently read an article in the paper about a weekly gathering of ‘furries’ who, it turns out, are people who like to dress up in animal suits and the people who like to hang around with them. I can only guess that these people were taken to a Disney theme park at a very impressionable age. Being curious I Googled (v) ‘furries’ and much to my surprise there was an endless list of conventions for the active participants of this compelling hobby. This made me realize that the Internet has opened up a whole world for people who always feared they were weird. They have learned they are not alone. This can be either good or bad depending on the hobby, fetish, or god forbid, perversion.
Of course then I started wondering what other types of conventions there are and found myself on a site called dactylmanor.org/fanboy. In 2009 alone it lists 329 conventions. Not medical or dental or literary conventions mind you. No, these conventions had one thing in common. They were basically designed to give hobbyists, fetishists and, god forbid, perverts a chance to gather together to exchange information and play.
Back to the ‘furries’. Among the many, many conventions listed (who are these people?) there was one called Feral! and it was a camping event. I don’t know about you, but I for one would not want to sleep in a tent in the woods dressed as a bear, unless of course I was looking to have a little cub of my own.
Most of the conventions have something to do with sci-fi, Japanese anime and culture, comic books, Star Trek, you get the idea. These people have a problem with reality. They become obsessed with television shows, movies and reading material that is only sold in comic book stores. Don’t get me wrong--whatever floats your boat is okay by me. But those of us who get along fine in the real world tend to find it silly.
One type of convention that amused me is in the taxidermy field. Now you could argue that that is a bona fide profession but do they really need so many conventions? In 2009 alone they had fifty one. I assumed they would be in places where the big game roam, but no, they even had one in New Jersey. I was curious to see what kind of game was hunted so I clicked on the web site. There, much to my surprise was a picture of the “Best in Show” which looked to me like a big horn sheep. I grew up in New Jersey. The only wildlife I ever saw was an occasional rat down by the shore, but I can understand why nobody would want to stuff one of those. While I was perusing this particular topic I started to think how easy it would be today for Norman Bates. He could have used the Internet to order all of the taxidermy equipment he needed to keep his mother in the pink.
Among the many conventions for tattoo artists was the one being held, appropriately, at the Harley-Davidson Museum in Milwaukee. Tattoos and motorcycles. Love and marriage. My, my. The tattoo convention billed as the “Biggest on Earth” was being held in Las Vegas and you can vote for your favorite on their web site which I didn’t access because I still have dial up and it would have taken a week.
The Queen City Kamikaze convention had a big Japanese flag on their site. I’m old enough to remember WW2, so I passed that one up not knowing if it’s about pilots or the Japanese. It was held in Canada, if that’s any help.
The one listed as ‘Fandemonium’ had no web site or description of the event. I guess they were having too much fun. I’m tempted to buy a pair of horn-rimmed glasses for my daughter and send her to Geek.Kon which advertises all things geek. Her current insignificant other is no Bill Gates.
My personal favorite--I guess it’s because I married an Irishman--is called LepreCon. I don’t know what they do there but I bet there’s beer.

VINEYARD CELEBRITIES

'Tis the season when celebrity sightings are abundant. They try to avoid us, we try to avoid them. Went to the Flea Market last summer and was talking to Linda Ferrini about her oil cloth floor covers. The chat was going nicely until Amy Brenneman showed up and suddenly I was invisible. Not that I blame her--I wasn't going to buy a $3000 item!

VINEYARD CELEBRITIES

One day while waiting for a bus at Mayhew Lane, I observed a scene that made me think about the meaning of celebrity. John Kerry and a friend of his strolled up from the wharf, went into the Town Provision store and ambled back towards the water, heads bent in ernest conversation, carrying a bag of ice. Interesting, I thought, he’s not as tall as he looks on TV. I overheard several surprised comments from others sitting on the bench. I then experienced news traveling fast because within seconds a young waitress came running out of Among The Flowers yelling, “Where is he??”
“Where is who?” asked one of the bystanders. “Jim Carrey, Jim Carrey!” she crooned. When informed it had been the former democratic candidate for president not the rubbery faced comic she pulled a disappointed look and returned to work.
It reminded me of a sultry midsummer day I was walking past what was then The Stand By Diner. Spike Lee came out of the diner, jumped into a jeep and was driven away by his wife. Two adolescent African American boys (I apologize if this is not the politically correct term; I can't keep up) spied him and started jumping and hooting. “Spike Lee, Spike Lee!” they shrieked. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been Alan Dershowitz exiting the diner, getting into a Mercedes SUV and a couple of pre-law students were passing, would the response have been equally effervescent. Young people seem to be more impressed with Hollywood type celebrities. I suppose the idea of being ‘discovered’ is still a reality to them.
Vineyarders have a live and let live attitude about the local rich and famous. Once they become neighbors or friends we tend to treat them like neighbors or friends, which is to say, in the summer we are pretty much too busy for anything more than a nod or quick hello. And in the winter they’re like a lot of our other neighbors...gone. Although when my friend Janice ran into Tony Shaloub at the Farmer’s Market she had to tell him how much she liked his show, “Monk”. But I figure that would be like telling Frank Perdue that you like his chicken. Certainly not star struck behavior, just polite chat.
You only see the Hollywood type during the summer. When they move here full time they are in danger of a change in status. Walking to South Beach on Christmas day I passed David Letterman jogging in yellow shorts and a Ball State tee shirt. He greeted me with a smile and boomed out, “Hello, Merry Christmas,” At that precise moment he went from celebrity to neighbor.
Most Islanders are much more entranced by local ‘characters’. People who are so friendly or notable for one reason or another that every one either knows them or knows of them. Urban, I mean Island, legends abound about such people. For instance, who brought the first skunk to the Island? A reputation could be broken, or made, depending on your point of view, if your name became linked with such a nefarious deed. On the other hand the whole Island shared in the shame of being unable to save the last of the Heath Hens. That one of God’s creatures became extinct in our neighborhood is nothing to be proud of. This explains why we do such a song and dance for the piping plovers each year. Atoning for past sins I suppose.
If a transplanted celebrity lives on the Island long enough they might become elevated to ‘character’ status. Which is to say, they don’t run shrieking if they are approached by someone with a camera or asked to be involved in a fund raiser. Art Buchwald, Patricia Neal, Walter Cronkite, Carly Simon Mike Wallace, and the Taylors come readily to mind. Not necessarily part of Island ‘lore’ but close enough.
Vineyard celebrities, writers, artists and Nobel Prize winners, tend to be more approachable and three dimensional than the actors, actresses and politicians that cause an uproar when seen in public. If you had stopped Phil Craig on the street you were more likely to hear about where the Blues were running rather than his last book. Cynthia Riggs will rant about the good ole boy network in West Tisbury politics. Rumor has it that between Chappy and Chilmark there are more Nobel Prize winners per capita than anywhere else on earth. For my money, these are the real celebrities.
Flash forward a couple of weeks after my John Kerry sighting. Sitting on the bench waiting for a bus again. A transplanted celebrity walks up the street, dressed all in black, long sleeved shirt, slacks and shoes. (Shoes! You can take the boy out of Hollywood...) I nudge the woman sitting next to me and whisper, “That’s Marty Nadler.” “Who?” she says, looking completely baffled.
Everyone has their own version of fame.

FOGGY FOURTH

I don't know why they call them the dog days. The dogs look even more miserable than I feel. This essay is in honor of our nations birthday.

Foggy Fourth

Every year I suggest to Jules that we spend the Fourth of July on our boat in Edgartown Harbor. For one reason or another we always found ourselves with something more attractive to do. A party on the parade route, a neighbor’s BBQ, there was always something that made the boat second choice. Besides, getting to the boat on the Fourth could be an ordeal. We usually park at the Deep Woods lot and take the free shuttle into town. But a few years ago they put up a sign that prohibited overnight parking. Unfortunately the closest twenty-four hour parking is in Oak Bluffs. That doesn’t help us. So it was either beg a ride from a friend or take a taxi. If we were feeling really energetic we could shlep our stuff a half mile out to Herring Creek Road and catch the South Beach bus into town. This leaves a bit of a hike to the harbor launch (the harbormaster had talked us out of our own dingy-no place to leave it, they get stolen, etc.), and since we never travel light this would certainly be a last ditch choice.
A couple of years ago, after a stretch of lousy weather and no other offers, we finally did our overnight. We got a ride downtown from my friend Janice, early, before the streets were closed, had lunch in town and, carrying enough baggage for a week, took the launch out to our boat. Normally I refuse to go anywhere that doesn’t have room service but our boat is relatively comfortable. It’s supposed to sleep six but, as Jules always says, you’d have to be very good friends.
The day was simply gorgeous, one of those ‘perfect Vineyard days’ that had been few and far between. The wind was favorable and we sailed farther than we ever had for a day sail. Back at the mooring, tired and gratified, we enjoyed a nice dinner while listening to the Edgartown parade. The harbor is always packed for the weekend of the Fourth and that year was no exception. Most of the moorings had two or three boats rafted together. The mooring anchors must be the size of refrigerators to keep them from drifting.
There were three modest (for Edgartown) power boats moored nearby. They were the most patriotic group I’ve ever seen. Balloons, streamers, every imaginable type of red, white, and blue decoration was draped over these boats. It was obvious the families loved this holiday and equally obvious the children were waiting for the fire works with baited breath. Their excitement level and voices were rising like a siren. While I finished cleaning up after dinner my first inkling that the night was not going to go as planned was a low moan above decks and a soft “Uh oh,” from Jules. “What’s the matter?” I asked, popping my head up through the hatch. He didn’t have to answer. I could see for myself. The fog was rolling in from Katama, not on little cat feet, more like a tidal wave.
Unaware of the fog’s potential our neighbors continued their gleeful celebration. The show was to begin at nine. Shortly after eight thirty, hoping to salvage the night, the loud booms began, but by then it had become so murky we could no longer see the other boats in the harbor much less the fireworks. After each concussion the sky would be tinged with pink or green. Used to the fog--we live in Katama after all--I took it in stride and went below out of the damp.
Boaters, however, don’t let adversity spoil their fun. After each boom and tinge of sky I could hear our fellow sailors ooh and aah. After all, it was the Fourth of July!

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

Well summer is in full swing. How do I know? People keep asking me for directions. Never happens off season!


A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

Was it Shakespeare who said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”? I wonder how many would stop to smell it if it were named skunk cabbage.
Most people don’t realize what an awesome responsibility it is to choose a name for someone or something. This has become evident to me as I listen to the Coast Guard channel on my boat radio. I’m pretty certain that the guy who thought he was being clever never believed he’d have to use the words “naked lady” and “is sinking” in the same sentence. Thank God the Coast Guard is staffed with well trained professionals or I could imagine them taking their time to aid a boat named AK-47 or Lucky Bastard.
Boat names say a lot about their owners. I pass one on the West Tisbury road that has been in dry dock for years, which is just as well, since it’s named M.V. Brew Crew. Manning the tiller under the influence is frowned upon these days. Joke names can get you into trouble too. I wonder how the congregation would feel if their minister named his boat Second Collection. You can always change the name of a boat, however, even though they say it is bad luck. My friend Jules bought a used boat named Brenna. He changed it to his wife’s name. He said it would have been bad luck not to.
Naming people should be a very serious business, since a name can shape a person’s entire future. Adolf was out of fashion for many years as you can well imagine. Jesus is popular in the Latin American countries but I don’t know of a single one in the English speaking world. Rhyming names should be forbidden by law. I recently read an article about a minister named Floyd Flake. As if Flake weren’t bad enough. I’m sure he became a minister because he felt that the only place people wouldn’t snicker was in a church. I went to school with a Donald McDonald. It could have been worse, I suppose. They might have named him Ronald. What do you name a kid if their last name is a first name? John Peter would be one. Then there are the parents that think a last name makes a sophisticated first name, like Smith Jones.
My friend Jonathan has been eternally grateful that when he came along his mother won the name game, otherwise he would have gone through life as Raoul. A little dramatic for day to day usage, don’t you think?
I don’t agree with giving a child a name with the intention of permanently using a nickname. A nickname should evolve naturally due to an outstanding trait (my brother’s flaming red hair garnered him “Carrot Top” in his youth and “Cherry” in High School) or because the birth name is too long or formal for a kid (so the nickname is something a slightly older sibling usually coins). I knew a John who was called Jack his whole life. I couldn’t figure out why you would give someone with a four-letter name a four-letter nickname. Of course everyone thought I was being picky. Then there are the Nadlers who named their son Charlie. When someone suggested they might want to name him Charles they replied, “That’s his nickname.”
The names of streets, geological formations and bodies of water can be just as vexing for me. Necks, for instance. There are lots of necks on the Island; Felix Neck, Starbuck’s Neck, Scrubby Neck, North Neck. I could go on. No one is able to tell me exactly what a neck is though. And what is a bottom? Waldron’s Bottom and Deep Bottom have me pondering.
You have to admit the people of Martha’s Vineyard do not have a lot of imagination when it comes to naming streets. A sense of humor but not imagination. When 911 went into effect there was a mass scurry to name all the streets, lanes and avenues that had up to now been known as the first right after the big oak, or the last left past the fishing shack or whatever. They tend to use the same names over and over, too. Herring Creek is popular. There is one in Edgartown and two in Tisbury. Meetinghouse? Three in Edgartown one in Chilmark. Church Street? That’s not fair. Every town in the country has one. After all, America was settled for religious freedom. My favorite? A toss up between Old Dirt Road and Goah Way.
Just like with people, the name of a street can shape a neighborhood’s fortunes. I understand it is hard to sell a house on Old Squaw Lane. I know I wouldn’t want to have that on my stationery. A town in Wisconsin has an Easy Street--might be nice to live there. Don’t think I’d care for Dirty Ankle Road in North Carolina. But for me, Waukesha, Michigan takes the cake, though, with Psycho Path. I have to say there are days...
The trouble with not naming streets as soon as they come into existence is that they develop names over time that mean something to some people but not to others. The Edgartown-Vineyard Haven Road (or the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road depending on which end you’re at) is a case in point. In Edgartown they call it the Vineyard Haven Road and in Vineyard Haven, well you get the idea. In a place where the average tourist asks the average Islander directions an average of 500 times a summer, this can get very confusing.
Then there are the streets that have several different names. There is a road in West Tisbury that goes from Scotchman’s Lane to North Road that is not very long but on the map it has three sections, each with a different name--South Road, State Road and North Road. Clevelandtown Road turns into Meshacket Road, but I’ve never been able to discern why, or maybe more important, where.
Most of the waterways on the Island have sensible names except for Lagoon Pond. Is it a lagoon or is it a pond? The great ponds are either named for the town they are closest to (with the exception of Tisbury Great Pond which is nearest to West Tisbury), or better yet have Wampanoag names. I think this is eminently appropriate even though it takes wash-ashores like me years to learn the pronunciation. Maybe that’s good though. Maybe you’re not a true Vineyarder until you can pronounce Sengekontacket, Wequobsque and Wasque correctly in a sentence.