A SHOT IN THE DARK

Well the Swine Flu vaccine finally made it to the Island. This is good since they are predicting a second wave to come through. I survived the first wave but since I'm going to be on an airplane next week I decided it couldn't hurt to get the shot. This time the clinics were held in each town, they only had about four volunteers working and it only took three minutes. They must have had enough vaccine because the Community Health Nurse spoke at the Woman's Club (that's another blog) and she had an entire cooler full in case anyone had been missed.

I've decided in the future I'll just encourage all my friends to get the shot then I'll be safe. If they don't get sick neither will I!

A SHOT IN THE DARK

I got my flu shot in November. As with everything else the Vineyard does off season they turned it into an all Island song and dance. They said it was a pandemic drill and would be this way from now on. I always thought a drill was a once in a while thing just so everyone would know what to do if necessary. I guess I was wrong.

I've been getting flu shots on Island for the last nine years and this time was by far the most complicated. They must have had fifty gazillion volunteers running around doing pretty much the same thing. It used to be you just showed up at your local fire house and they gave you a shot. Yeah, just before you got jabbed someone would ask you if you were allergic to eggs, but that was about it for the formalities. Afterword they had hot soup, cookies and coffee for those who wanted to hang around and socialize. This was good in case you missed your own town's clinic you could go to another one since they were always held on different days.

A couple of years ago they decided an all Island clinic would be better so everyone had to truck up to the high school. Still not a problem. They'd screen you at the front door then send you to the gym for your shot. It wasn't as neighborly but still worked okay. This year with Swine Flu in the forefront of the news, the powers that be decided to prepare for a pandemic, in spite of the fact that all they had was the regular seasonal flu vaccine. Everyone, it seems, had flu phobia.

The first thing they did was set up staging areas. There was one at the Ag Hall in West Tisbury and one at Alley (formerly known as Waban) Park. I figured Oak Bluffs would be closer for me. The clinic was running from 8 to 12 and I couldn't decide when it would be the most crowded so I just went when I got up. Upon arrival at Alley Park there were signs directing me all the way around the park to an entry where they checked how many people were in the car then sent me off to line up. Now this wasn't too bad, kind of like getting on the stand-by line. Unfortunately I was in the fourth line. I cursed and wished I had brought a book. I don't think I would have gotten to read much though, since about sixty volunteers knocked on the window to make sure my previously obtained forms were filled out. I spent so much time telling them that my papers were in order that before I knew it I was on my way, following a line of cars to the high school. It seems that everyone had their favorite way to get to the school so the line disintegrated in short order. Finding my way to what was formerly the blinker light intersection I noticed that a grave error had been made. The sign for the flu clinic pointed down Barnes Road toward the airport. Since I knew this was a mistake I calmly turned left to go to the school. Of course as soon as I turned I saw a policeman blocking traffic and waving everyone back to Barnes Road. Who knew there was an access road through the state forest to the high school? Not me, obviously.

There were so many police directing traffic I started to wonder who was taking care of the rest of the Island. After passing through many more checkpoints (I bet it was easier to get into West Berlin when the wall was still up) I arrived at the spot where the walkers were separated from the non walkers. Yes, they had a drive through where the infirm could just stick their arm out the car window and quickly be on their way. Apparently I was looking pretty healthy since I was waved around the school to the parking lot. I entered through the Preforming Arts Center where I went through another gauntlet of paper checkers--how could they have possibly thought I had gotten there without already being checked a few million times?--and it was a good thing I'm healthy because from there to the gym where they were doling out the vaccine was a walk of about three quarters of a mile. Someone at the door to the gym was loudly proclaiming, "Have your coat off and sleeve up," over and over. I expected to see pandemonium but most of the nurses were looking around for their next patient. It took all of about thirty seconds to actually be vaccinated. Then of course the long walk back to my car.

There was an article in the paper the next morning describing the flu clinic. They had given 400 shots during the first hour, compared to 800 during the first hour last year. So much for pandemic drills improving performance. They had run out of vaccine by 10:30, which shouldn't have surprised me if they had inoculated all the volunteers first. The reason for the rigamarole was--why else--it was mandated by the government along with the grant money. And here I thought the whole thing was thought up by the Vineyard gas station owners.

ISLAND DRIVING

Learning how to drive is a right of passage for teens even though here on Martha's Vineyard you can't go very far. This essay was previously printed in Martha's Vineyard Magazine.

ISLAND DRIVING

People who learn to drive on Martha’s Vineyard are at a distinct disadvantage driving anywhere else in the world. Not just Boston or Rome but even Falmouth can present a ‘first time off Island’ driver with things he has only read about in the driver’s manual. Street lights, for instance. Oh, everyone here knows about them. There has even been talk of putting one where Barnes Road crosses the Edgartown-Tisbury road (which provided months of fodder for the Gazette op ed page) but saner voices prevailed. Now they are talking about a round-about which to my knowledge only exists in Massachusetts. But I digress.

For drivers used to four way stops, a very genteel way of dealing with an intersection in my opinion, a stop light doesn’t always register. In fact, after living here for nine years I find myself completely confused at stop lights when off Island. It takes me a while to figure out why nobody is stopping to let me out. At first I figure it is just rude off Island drivers. Then I think maybe the drivers aren’t used to the rules (like in the summer). Then it slowly dawns on me that it isn’t a four way stop. By that time the light has changed and I sheepishly go on my way.

Another thing an Island driver gets no practice at is going over 45 MPH. MPH, incidentally, means Maximum Per Hour here on the Island, but not anywhere else. On every other road in the world it means Minimum Per Hour. Or at least I think that’s what it must mean because when I drive the speed limit ‘over there’ I am always the last one to get where I want to go. People whizz by me like I’m standing still. This can be unnerving if you’ve never experienced it before. It can be unnerving even if you have. Not to mention if it’s a tractor trailer that’s doing the whizzing. I think maybe the drivers ed instructors at the high school should be given permission to have at least one class in the middle of the night when they can take the students down the Edgartown-Tisbury Road full speed ahead so they will know what it feels like. Who knows? Maybe they would get it out of their system so they won’t be tempted to speed other times. Not that I’m naive enough to think the kids on this Island don’t speed. My own daughter has paid a couple of those inflated fines. I do think it is less common here than in other communities, however. Who wants to be embarrassed by a cop who says, “Wait till I see your dad.” Or, “I’m gonna tell your mom to take your keys away for a couple of weeks. How would you like that?”

Since there aren’t any highways on the Island there aren’t any entrance ramps. This is something I still feel inadequate about. Umpteen years ago when I took my drivers test (a humiliating experience at best-even if you pass) the testers (usually off duty corrections officers from the local prison) just made you parallel park and do a three point turn. As long as you didn’t have an accident or speed in a school zone you passed. How did this prepare me for driving in the real world? I still equate the entrance ramp with the Indy 500, and frequently pull a nerve in my neck trying to merge into the traffic. Should I go slow and wait for an enormous space between two cars or should I go like a bat out of hell and hope they look out for me? This is not something that was covered in the drivers manual. And what chance does a kid who learned how to drive on Martha’s Vineyard have?

One thing they won’t have to worry about off Island are generous, polite drivers. You know the type. They stop to let you out of Cronig’s parking lot just for GPs. Or they wave you ahead if you’re both headed for the same parking space. This just doesn’t happen anywhere else that I have ever driven a car. I love it when I’m cruising a lot for a space and someone with a gift shop bag in their hand waves and says, “I’m leaving. Follow me.” Where else does anyone even care that you’re looking? The thing is, here on Martha’s Vineyard, if the drivers didn’t care about each other there would be chaos.

Maybe there should be a requirement for all drivers in the state to come to the Vineyard and drive around for a few days in August in order to get their drivers license. This would either decrease or increase road rage. I haven’t figured that out yet.

DON'T ASK AND PLEASE DON'T TELL

When you live on an island where the newspaper only comes out once a week, gossip takes on a whole new meaning. I find the men of the Vineyard are just as big at gossip as the women. In fact Edgartown has it's own personal town crier. Bob works at the Stop $ Shop and knows everything that happens. He must listen to a police scanner because after listening to Bob there is nothing new in the paper except obscure facts and letters to the editor. The kind of gossip he doles out won't get him into trouble like the following tidbits might.

Don’t Ask and Please Don’t Tell

I’m one of those people folks like to tell their troubles to. I’m sympathetic, compassionate and keep my own counsel. You’d think this would make me a lot of friends. Not so. The minute people unload their deepest darkest secrets they suddenly realize that the relationship is uneven. They start to resent the fact that they’ve spilled their guts to me and soon drift away.

I had a girlfriend (the operative word here is had) who one day out of the blue told me that her husband had recently confessed, by e-mail no less, that he was a transsexual. Before I had a chance to say, “Too much information”, her skeleton had rattled itself over into my closet. Being a confidante is a no win situation. If word gets out it looks like I blabbed. I could tell the minute she told me, it was only a matter of time before she would no longer be able to look me in the eye unless I confided some equally humiliating factoid about my life.

After endless therapy, which did nothing except make my friend believe she had an honorary degree in psychoanalysis, she spent the next couple of years trying to convince me that I should open up to her about my troubles. When I finally said there was nothing I wished to discuss with her she announced we no longer had anything to talk about and hung up on me. I haven’t heard from her since. I can’t help thinking if I were more self centered and my shoulder was less waterproof these things wouldn’t happen.

A summer visitor friend who happens to be a writer told me recently that when she goes home she’s meeting a man for a drink. Now, that statement might sound innocuous to you but when you’re a woman of a certain age, as she and I are, it is fraught with meaning. It’s a euphemism for you know what. She was getting close to the too much information line but like a dummy I didn’t stop her and now I know her dirty little secret. The thing that really bothered me about this confession is that with great glee she followed up by saying it was going to make a great book. This woman is close to seventy and when she told me her paramour-to-be is forty I pictured a dust jacket with Fabio pushing a wrinkled old bleached blonde around in a wheel chair.

I was soon getting a weekly call and blow by blow, you should pardon the expression, description of her geriatric love life. Due to various reasons that aren’t important to my story she didn’t hook up with the original guy but, having made up her mind, like a lion stalking prey, she systematically hunted down someone else perfect for her. Not wanting this to become common knowledge, hence her confiding in someone who lives 1,000 miles away, she chose a pilot who is only in town two days a month. She calls me to let me in on her latest adventures and she actually giggles like a teenager. Is it just me or is this a little unseemly? I happen to be fond of her poor husband.

After my mother had been a widow for a few years she developed a relationship with a younger man. She of course couldn’t tell any of her friends about it so she bubbled over one day in my presence. I tried to forget about it but at a dinner party I attended the conversation took an ugly turn and the sex lives of oldsters was discussed. It was the consensus that they don’t have or want one. I couldn’t let it go. I mentioned my mother, albeit obliquely, naturally not mentioning names. As luck would have it there was a woman there whose sister was my mother’s neighbor and come to find out was also dating her gentleman caller and had seen his car in my mother’s drive. Needless to say this woman was not as closed mouthed as I usually am and my mother didn’t speak to me voluntarily for several months. Again--trouble caused by a secret that I hadn’t really wanted to hear.

This event, however, did finally provide me with a solution to my problem. I realized that if people thought I would blab their confidences all around town they would no longer use me to unlock their vaults. Since it is against my nature to actually do that I enlisted my best friend who, either has no secrets or more likely doesn’t feel the need to share them. With my permission she told everyone we know that I was on the short list to take over the gossip column in the local paper and anything they confided in me might find its way into newsprint. It must be working. I haven’t lost a friend in months. No one tells me anything any more.

FETE NOIR

I think there's something unique in living in a tourist mecca, whether it's a beach resort or a ski town. I don't know if it's the tourists or the people that make money off the tourists that inspire odd events but they abound anywhere people go for their off time.

FETE NOIR

Even though I have lived on Martha’s Vineyard for more than nine years I still read the New York Daily News on Sunday. My friend Jules switched from the Times to the Globe, but not me. I’m used to the guys who write the headers for the articles. They amuse me no end. The reason I bring this up is that on Sunday in the summer their travel section lists festivals. All kinds of festivals. Everyone wants summer people to come to their community and spend money. Trumped up festivals, events and contests abound. You can’t blame them. We’ve all seen tourists buy over-priced food and clothing. We’ve done it ourselves. Americans are some of the hardest working people on earth and even if they have to go into hock (I once knew a nurse that took out a new credit card each year for her annual family outing) they are going to enjoy their vacation, damn it! It’s only once a year. Right?

Some of these festivals appeal to me. The Great American Beer Festival in Denver, for example. New York’s Ugly Dog Contest is probably good for a laugh, if you’re not too sensitive. But how many Garlic Festivals can the tourism industry support? And believe me, there are Garlic Festivals everywhere garlic is grown. Bird circuses, twin fests and lumberjack championships have limited appeal, I believe. You’d need something a little more exciting to lure me to Wisconsin.

Lots of towns have turned their fifteen minutes of fame into annual events. Roswell, New Mexico, Steubenville, Ohio, Buffalo, New York, and Hoboken, New Jersey. Roswell, of course, has a UFO fest, Stubenville has a Dean Martin fest, Buffalo a wing fest, and we all know who came from Hoboken.

I recently picked up a small handbook called Beauty From Afar: A Medical Tourist’s Guide to Affordable and Quality Cosmetic Care Outside the U.S. It says you can save 50% to 80%. Now that’s where I might spend my tourism dollars. How about a facelift to go with your culture.

Reading about all these odd-ball festivals piqued my interest. I started to wonder just how far a community would go for money. This curiosity led me to a web site called Festival.com which boasts listings for 25,000 annual festivals world wide. I found many of these events common to all cultures. Fairs, seasonal and food-themed (pumpkin, lemon, apple, strawberry, seafood), there’s a ramp (whatever they are) festival in West Virginia, and a dried bean festival--can’t say that one sounds very exciting, or even tasty. Music festivals abound, featuring jazz, folk, bluegrass, rock and zydeco. Film festivals are growing exponentially and culture fests are big; Greek, Portuguese, Hispanic, and Celtic being the main ones. I’m having trouble with the Salem, Massachusetts culture fest though. In my opinion the words “culture” and “burn at the stake” do not belong together.

Back to Festivals. com. This web site has a map on it and you can check out any country in the entire world. I limited my search to the US since I really can’t imagine traveling to, say, Germany for a wurst eating contest. That’s another hot summer event. Eating contests. I don’t see the point in stuffing an abnormal amount of food down your throat in order to be the last person who barfs. This is supposed to make your mother proud?

Hoping not to be too embarrassed, the first state I visited was my home state of Massachusetts. The first festival that caught my eye was the Hyperflite Skyhoundz Festival in Tewksbury. My friend Jules is a private pilot so, of course, my orientation led me to believe it was an air show. Not so. It’s for frisbee-catching dogs. Believe it or not I found one in every state I visited. The Santa Lucia festival in the North End of Boston sounded pleasing. Lucy’s the Patron Saint of the Eye, but since they boast 100 food push carts, I think they should have chosen the Patron Saint of the Stomach. And in Hawley, Massachusetts, a town of 375 people, they have an entire day of festivities surrounding a pudding contest. Don’t ask me what they do with the pudding.

Next I visited a state that I have always considered having a high level of sophistication. New York had its share of county fairs but the one I found just too soignee for words is held in the Brick Theater in Brooklyn. This year’s play festival is aptly entitled “The Pretentious Festival”. Previous years have included “The Hell Fest, The Moral Values Fest, and The Sell Out Fest”.

Then there’s the Barefoot Dancing Festival in the Bronx. I lived in the Bronx and believe me, I didn’t go barefoot even in my own apartment.

As you would expect, California has an eclectic mix of events. Jules said the Belly Dance Fantasy Festival appealed to him, but we can’t imagine what they do at the Silicone (with an e) Valley Moon Festival besides draw a lot of adolescent boys, and I don’t want to know anything more about the Up Your Alley Street Fair in San Francisco. Especially since it isn’t ”suitable for children due to nudity and X-rated behavior”.

Finding some of these annual events a little weird, I decided to try a couple of states in the heartland. Middle Americans are the salt of the earth. Surely their festivals would be rated PG.

Here again I’ve been proven wrong.

Montana is holding its 25th Annual Testicle Festival. I didn’t check their web site as you had to be eighteen to enter, which always makes me suspicious I’ll see something I’d rather not. They also have a Pagan Pride Day. Well, I guess Montana isn’t one of those Bible Belt states. I was surprised that Minnesota celebrates Mexican Independence Day. I’d have bet most of our south of the border neighbors had never heard of Minnesota much less gone there to live. It’s probably just an excuse to get blitzed on Margaritas. Their Tree Frog Music Festival could show the Vineyarders a thing or two. How about an annual Pinkletink Fest?

If the Vineyard didn’t already welcome more visitors than we can handle, my Internet tour of American festivals would certainly give us plenty of ideas. Other towns can bring in the tourist trade with Fallen Bridge Day and concrete canoe races. If Martha’s Vineyard can have a successful festival based on a movie about sharks that eat tourists, we ought to be able to do more. How about an Annual Tick Fest?

LAST NIGHT ON THE VINEYARD

I've been invited out to a News Year's Eve party this year. It's been going on for years with people joining and dropping out--you know how it goes. This year's hostess saw fit to invite me. From what I understand it usually breaks up about 10:30 pm. That's ok with me. The only time I see midnight these days is when the insomnia kicks in. This was previously published in the anthology Martha's Vineyard Writing. Got ten bucks.

Last Night on the Vineyard

I think New Year’s Eve is an over rated, made up holiday. An excuse to party to excess and kiss your neighbor’s wife. When I was a kid I got just as excited as the next guy. I wasn’t always cynical. But really, what is there to celebrate? Unless it’s your birthday when midnight arrives, your just one day older, which can be said for 362 other days of the year. If the last year was a bummer you’re glad to see it go, but let’s face it, the next one could be worse. Not to mention all the checks you’ll have to void because--riiight--it’s a new year.

It’s one of those holidays which has great potential but frequently lets you down. There’s so much build up to the big night. Reservations, new outfit, gather enough friends for a big table, the tension of the countdown then--what? A sip of champagne, toot a horn, kiss your husband? Big deal. Let’s face it--unless you stay home--your chances of getting a speeding ticket are greater than any other night of the year. A cop that would let you go any other time, is going to be mad because he’s missing all the fun and you’re not.

My husband and I started spending New Year’s on the Island a few years ago. We had been going off to have a good time with family. Nice home cooked dinner, Dick Clark, trying to keep the grandchildren awake, the ball in Times Square, hitting the sack at 12:01 am. It wasn’t exciting but on the other hand, there was no post holiday let down. Since we were going to be alone here he suggested we look at ads in the Gazette for a festive party at one of the local venues. “Lambert’s Cove is having a party,” I said. “How much?” he asked. “One twenty five a head,” I said. “But they’re gonna have a singer and piano player.” “Sounds nice. I think we should go. Make a reservation,” said he. “It says ‘formal’,” said I.

He immediately went to his closet to try on his old, and I mean old, tuxedo. “It fits,” he said. “Make a reservation.”

When the reservation had been made I asked the fellow on the phone what the ad meant by ‘formal’. He replied that it meant black tie. I said that I just wanted to make sure because here on the Vineyard most people think formal means socks with your sandals. “No, no,” he said without a hint of jocularity. “Black tie means a tuxedo.” He must have put a big red asterisk next to our name in the reservation book because when the gal called back to confirm she made sure we understood that the event was BLACK TIE.

When people asked what we were doing for New Year’s I proudly announced our intentions. My friend Janice asked what dress I was wearing. “Are you kidding? I live on Martha’s Vineyard,” I said. “I don’t own a dress.” The men were required to wear tuxedos. I, on the other hand, could be presentable in velvet pants and a glamorous blouse. Ladies fashions being what they are you can pretty much get away with anything that’s not jeans or sweats. I also suggested to my husband that he wear sneakers with his tuxedo, after all they said black tie not black shoes, but he didn’t think they would appreciate the joke.

So the big night came. I was about as excited as I get when I’m going out to dinner any other night of the year--which my husband would tell you is pretty excited. He always says if you want to see a bunch of happy women, go to a restaurant. The problem was we usually go out for dinner at six but our seating was for eight thirty which is practically my bed time. I hoped I could stay awake for all the festivities, especially after gorging on a splendid three course meal.

The ride to the inn wasn’t too bad except for all those cars being pulled over. Since there was a seating time everyone arrived at once, but the staff was efficient and had us seated with our wine open in short order. Who would have thought there were so many tuxedos on Martha’s Vineyard? They weren’t rentals either because some of them hadn’t been in style since the Kennedy administration. To be fair to the flavor of the Island, most of the other diners were summer people spending the holiday here with friends. I overheard lots of talk about Back Bay parking stickers and the possibility of an increase in T fares.

After a sumptuous meal we were all ushered into the library for the entertainment. I overheard the singer (after she had taken a gander at the crowd) ask the pianist to get out her oldies song book. And, as usual, after an evening of imbibing most of the audience sang along. They did not sound like the all-Island chorus, but then the chorus usually knows all the words. As midnight approached there were horns and noisemakers aplenty as well as silly hats, which my husband and I refused to wear, since we were still sober (booze makes it harder to stay awake).

The count down was noisy and then it was over. I kissed my husband. He said, “Get your coat, and don’t forget the doggie bag.”

CLAUS-TRO-PHOBIA

Been eating too much myself this season. Extra days at the gym. We should be able to spread all this cheer throughout the year instead of cramming it into one month. This essay was printed in the Martha's Vineyard Gazette. Again...no check.

Claus-tro-phobia

The uproar denouncing obesity has reached to the very heart of the Christian world. Santa Claus has become a bad influence on our children. A recent newspaper article condemned the jolly old elf’s rotundity and showed pictures of numerous department store Santas taking aerobics classes. Outrageous!!!

St. Nick was not always obese. Apparently Santa developed his bowl full of jelly belly in the early 1930’s in a Christmas Coca Cola ad, the purpose of which was to show prosperity at a time when there was little. Up until then, as far as anyone can tell, Santa was of average girth. And some people think he should return to his original healthy size.

One has to wonder if it wasn’t all the milk and cookies that did it. Tradition is nice but not if it affects your benefactor’s cholesterol. Which begs the question if you can’t leave Santa milk and cookies, how do you show your annual appreciation? Skim milk and low fat cookies would be a start but that only helps cut some calories. If he has to eat them at every house he visits, he will still consume more than he can work off in one night.

There must be something Santa would like that isn’t a food product. Children love to make Christmas gifts. Hand prints and ash trays are okay for a parent who loves you but I think Santa deserves something a little more spectacular. Someone I know leaves a condom but I’m not sure Mrs. Claus would appreciate his coming home with several million. Besides, I think the reindeer deserve a break on the trip home. All night long they look forward to that empty sleigh and they should have it. After all, how would Santa bring all our goodies were it not for Rudolph and the rest.

A shot of Bourbon might do. I’m sure that on a cold night he would really appreciate it but imagine the scandal of a drunken Santa crashing his sleigh or eight reindeer running loose and leaving piles of reindeer poop all over town. And the question of nutritionally empty calories is still there. No, I guess booze isn’t the answer.

Santa will become the equivalent of great aunt Sadie. She has everything, needs nothing, but you are still obligated to give her a gift that says, “You’re wonderful.” And forget Aunt Sadie’s will, Santa could cross your name off next year’s list.

I simply can’t think of anything that would delight Santa. A spa membership might shut up those health nuts. A nice colorful banner that says WELCOME FAT MAN? (The kids suggested that.) Tickets to the Rose Bowl? He’ll probably still be sleeping off Christmas Eve. A stripper? She’d have to be pretty fast. Don’t forget he’s only in your living room for two and a half minutes. And a stripper without finesse is just a gal getting ready to take a shower.

Well, compromise is the name of the game here and maybe a few calories won’t kill him. If he promises to get a little exercise during the rest of the year I suppose a little low fat milk (no egg nog) and a Frookie or two might be in order. Just don’t tell the health nuts.

CHRISTMAS DINNER

It's that time of the year again. I just did a mega shop for the holidays. Whew! Good thing I had coupons! My loving daughter will be with us so I'm making all her favorites. We will go out for Christmas dinner again this year. And as usual, our plans for a post prandial hike will most likely be all talk and no action. A version of this essay was printed in the Martha's Vineyard Times. I did get paid for that one.

CHRISTMAS DINNER

My Christmas holidays used to be filled with big family gatherings, including many kin I only saw at that time of year. They would travel from far and wide to be close enough to New York City to see the Rockettes do their thing. Since moving to Martha’s Vineyard, Christmas just isn’t the same.

Have you ever noticed that all those relatives who are more than willing to drop by for a week or so in August find the trip just too trying in December? “It’s just too hard to get ferry tickets,” they cry. “Little Johnny is in the pageant this year and needs to rehearse,” they moan. What they really mean is, “You can’t go to the beach that time of year.” Or, “All the nice restaurants are closed by then.”

Well I don’t miss them at all. First of all the lack of company has simplified my life in many ways. Take meals for instance. My family likes to have lobster for Christmas Eve dinner. This evolved because a previous in-law was Italian and Catholic and her family always did seven kinds of fish for that meal. I’ve since been told that it’s neither and Italian nor Catholic tradition but since my husband likes fish it stuck. We’ve whittled it down, however, to lobster and clams casino, and the fewer people I have to feed, the fewer lobsters I have to buy. This makes my wallet happy. I also don’t have to come up with a non fish eaters menu. There’s one in every family, isn’t there?

Before I moved to the Island I had holiday food issues. In the Hudson Valley seafood isn’t as plentiful as it is here. I had to go to the local fish store and order those lobsters two weeks ahead of time. One year I showed up for my dinner on Christmas Eve morning and they couldn’t find it. I had to make do with whatever was left in the display case, a couple of African rock lobster tails, a few crabs legs, a couple dozen shrimp. As we sat down to this amalgam of saltwater misfits the phone rang. They had found my lobster order in a bag behind the freezer. I never felt safe again. My food anxieties followed me to the Vineyard. The first time I went into the fish store to order my Christmas Eve lobsters the guys laughed at me. No need, they said. It took me years to trust them.

It’s a scientific fact that you can’t cook big meals for many years without having a few food mishaps. I would hesitate to call them disasters except for the year the non fish eater’s wife developed a near fatal allergy to lobster right in the middle of dinner. Fortunately she has other allergies and carries an adequate supply of Benedryl with her. She was a true lobster lover and very disappointed at this turn of events. Then there was the time the new (southern) daughter-in-law insisted on making her mother’s recipe for corn bread which turned out to be more of a pudding than bread. Many tears on her part required a telling of my own history of food catastrophes, which eventually cheered her up at my expense and started a new family game called “tease the cook”.

Food traditions grow as families do and after having numerous in-laws join us the number of side dishes (tomatoes Provençal for one daughter-in-law, corn bread and oyster stuffing for another) grew exponentially to the point where the only thing I didn’t serve was that green bean-french fried onion-mushroom soup thing. We had to have Mom’s broccoli casserole, and Katie’s sweet potatoes and marshmallows (she told me when she grew up I could have skipped the sweet potatoes and just cooked the marshmallows), Cathy and Diane must have my napa cabbage salad--you get the picture. The table looked like the buffet at the Harbor View, which is were we go now. The biggest benefit is no leftovers. Which is especially helpful since the refrigerator is already full from the night before, because I still cook some of those traditional side dishes.

Yes going out to the Harbor View is great. It bustles with cheerful holiday revelers who stuff themselves with multiple trips to the dessert table then go home for a long winter’s nap. We are no different. Our pre dinner plans to take a long walk afterwards always fizzle out. You’d think we’d be more realistic.