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.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
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.
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.
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