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.