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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
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.
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.
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