COWS IN MY BACK YARD

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

COWS IN MY BACK YARD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEAN THERE, DONE THAT

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

Bean There, Done That

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WINTERING THE VINEYARD

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

WINTERING THE VINEYARD

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

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

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

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

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

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

SILLY SIMILIES

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

Silly Similes

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

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

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

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

THREADING THE NEEDLE

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

THREADING THE NEEDLE

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

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

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

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

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

A CRAPPLE A DAY

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


MY NEW COMPUTER

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