There's Something About The Vineyard

For those of you who have enjoyed my blog I have published a book of Vineyard centric essays called There's Something About The Vineyard. If you would like a copy please send a check for $17.50 (this includes postage) to me, Carolyn O'Daly, 9 Plains Court, Edgartown, MA 02539 and your very own copy will be in the return mail! As soon as I sell them all my next book will be published entitled Deep Thoughts From A Shallow Mind.

TAXMAN

Let me tell you how it will be*¨*•♫♪¸¸.•*¨*•♫ There's one for you nineteen for me….*¨*•♫♪¸¸.•*¨*•♫Taxman*¨*•♫♪¸¸.•*¨*•♫If five percent appears too small*¨*•♫♪¸¸.•*¨*•♫ be thankful I don't take it all……Cause I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman.‎*¨*•♫♪¸¸.•*¨*•♫
Many people think the Beatles had it right. Not me. I don't mind paying my taxes. I really don't. I think that the state and local governments give me a good bang for my buck. Roads, schools, water, police protection, lots of things I really couldn't provide for myself. The feds? Not so much. I think the decisions made in Washington could be better and I just wish they were a little more careful with my money. Take the US Mint for instance. Do we really need cash any more? Everything is electronically transferred these days and now that you can buy a pack of gum with a credit or debit card I'm thinking maybe we could do away with that particular governmental department. Or at least let it go public like the Post Office did, although they're not doing so well either but at least Mr. Taxpayer isn't paying for it. Unless, of course, the government decides to bail them out. Don't get me started.
I believe in scientific research. I really do, but I really resent spending money on frivolous scientific studies. The least the government could do is ask me if I want them to give $50,000 to someone who wants to study why toddlers fall off their tricycles. (It's because they bump into things, in case you wanted to know.) The scientific community would have you think we'd still be in the dark ages if it weren't for their research and studies. I think most grant money goes to subsidize Phd programs and the 'publish or perish' milieu of colleges and universities. In fact a lot of the 20th and 21st century's greatest achievements have occurred in garages by college drop-outs.
I subscribe to a weekly magazine that has a science page. You wouldn't believe some of the wacky things people get grant money for. Researchers at Cornell University, for instance, have spent the last two years analyzing the tweets of 2.4 million people in 84 countries. They discovered a daily pattern that closely follows our innate biological rhythms. Happiness peaks between 6 am and 9 am, falls to a low between 3 and 4 pm then rises to another high after dinner. I don't know how much this cost but I could have given them the same information for nothing.
Another group of researchers videotaped thousand of hours of crickets in the wild and discovered that male crickets will risk their lives to protect females. I must admit I was relieved to know that the taxpayers of the UK paid for that one. A Princeton biologist spent 9 years in Kenya analyzing baboon droppings and discovered the alpha males had 10 percent higher levels of stress hormones than the beta males. I was married to both an alpha male and a beta male and, again, I could have told them that. It's stressful being an alpha male. I'm just trying to figure out how this information will make my life better. Maybe instead of asking a date for his CV girls should ask for a stool sample.
New research by a paleontologist at the University of Texas shows that prehistoric mammals developed larger brains in order to detect smells better. It's ironic to me that once we got bigger brains, detecting smells stopped being so important. MA College of Liberal Arts has a swearing scholar (my question is does he swear or does he study swearing?) whose research suggests that by the time children go to school they are saying all the words parents shield them from. It seems that the kids learn the words from their parents. It's interesting to note that though English has more than 70 profane options, 80 percent of swearing involves only 10 words. Wonder how much that study cost.
Here's a study for which I would have gladly paid. Scientists found that people who reported eating the most chocolate were 37 percent less likely to develop cardiovascular disease and 29 percent less likely to have a stroke than those who ate the least. I'm thinking that people who are deprived of chocolate must drink themselves to death before that plaque can form. And when scientists fed mice a brew of bacteria usually found in yogurt, cheese and bread the mice produced fewer stress hormones. I know I always feel mellow after a baguette and chunk of Brie.
Here's a study I'm thinking was a monumental waste of money. After surveying 13,900 incoming freshmen at 167 schools, a study at George Mason University determined that how much and how frequently a student drinks alcohol is one of the best predictors of the grades they will get. Well, duh!
Never one to complain without offering up a solution I suggest that the government appoint a panel of taxpayers to determine who gets grant money. This should limit the spending to research that will really improve our lives. It could be worse I guess. The French government is paying to research ways to include protein rich insects in their diet. Bugette anyone?

IT COULD BE WORSE...

If you think the good old US of A is going to hell in a hand basket, I'm here to tell you the rest of the world is even weirder. Take Canada for instance. A stand up comic was fined $15,000 for making fun of an audience member and causing "injury to her dignity and feelings." I may be wrong but isn't that why the rest of the audience laughed? Most comedians are funny because they haven't singled YOU out to pick on.
In Rio de Janeiro city officials complained about the shanty towns that are marked on Google's map. Seems to me they should be doing something about the poverty instead of surfing the net. And in India, a country famed for its poverty, a treasure worth at least $22 billion was found in a temple vault after a local lawyer asked for an audit. After a dispute over ownership, India's Supreme Court ordered the trove preserved in a museum. I wonder how much food and health care $22 billion would provide. In another Supreme Court ruling, the Brazilians now have the right to demonstrate for marijuana reform. Up till now it was illegal to encourage criminal activity.
Buenos Aires commuters responded to a several hour delay due to a derailment by setting fire to eight trains and smashing 3 ticket booths. I'm betting they were trying to get home after a long day at work. If it had been in the morning they probably would have just sat and read their papers. I guess it's a good thing they don't have trains in Somalia. The southern rebels hold a month long Koran contest for kids. The 17 year old winner was given an AK-47, two hand grenades, an anti-tank mine and a computer. Our church used to give out Bibles.
The German police were using trained vultures to locate bodies but they had to go back to dogs because the vultures were eating all the evidence. They do strange things in China too. The management of a factory that makes iPads and iPhones responded to a wave of suicides by overworked employees by forcing new hires to sign pledges that they would not kill themselves. Jeez…in this country they'd be killing themselves because they didn't have jobs. Ever looking for ways to raise more food, Chinese farmers used a growth accelerant on a large watermelon crop. The melons grew so fast they exploded. Ya think they should have tried it on a few plants first? A theme park called "Love Land" will be opening in China in the fall. China Daily quoted the park manager as saying it is to "help adults enjoy a harmonious sex life." I'm not sure this is entirely necessary in a country with 1.3 billion people but what do I know?
Politics in Russia are worse than here. The president and prime minister have been exchanging their jobs and intend to continue doing so it seems. The presidency is limited to two consecutive terms but these two have developed a way to maintain a dynasty without breaking the law.
Apparently the rulers of Bulgaria can't take a joke. A monument to the Soviet army that liberated the country from the Nazis was painted over to look like a group of super heros. Considering what the liberators had become you might have thought they would see the humor but noooo, the authorities had every drop of paint sandblasted from the monument and announced that the perpetrators would be found and prosecuted. Scary.
In Belarus the government is so repressive that all demonstrations are forbidden. Smiling and clapping were the only ways the citizens could express their opposition to the fraudulently elected president. Evidently he caught on to the sarcasm and now anyone who claps at the dictator, his troops or his security services will be arrested. I think Independence Day is going to be kind of quiet this year.
I like the way New Zealanders protest their government. An artist who felt that the Environment minister was soft on dairy farm pollution, sculpted a bust of him out of cow manure. It sold for over $2000 on EBay.
After hearing what it's like in the rest of the world if you still dislike our government you might relocate to Belgium. They haven't had a government in more than a year. The elected officials couldn't agree on anything (sound familiar?). That's okay though because they have a king and he appointed a caretaker administration to run the government. Their economy is doing fine in spite of the global recession. Perhaps the original Tea Partyers was a little hasty?

PERSON SEEKING PERSON

Personal ads can amuse and amaze you once you learn to read between the lines. People who write their own ads go from uber egos to no egos at all but there is one thing they all have in common. None of them are completely truthful. Take Sensitive Guitar Player. He’s a young looking 57, considered cute (how many men do you know that use that word?), plays tennis, guitar, and loves animals. What is he leaving out? Is he an unemployed musician? Tennis pro? Is he four feet tall?
If you read the same paper every day you get to know the people who advertise. You start to feel sorry for the ones who are there day after day, week after week. Either that or you think they are being just too fussy. Some of the ads could be worded better…don't the personals have an editor? Like the guy who enjoys 'music, writing poetry and a lot of other things.' Who's he trying to kid? There aren't that many Renaissance men out there any more. The guy who works as a life coach probably should have left that out of his ad. He certainly won't get any clients when they find out he needs to advertise in the newspaper for a date. If he can't help himself how's he supposed to help them?
Some of the ads are very detailed and some are vague. I image the really detailed ones don’t get too many replies. The vague ones can be almost anything the seeker wants them to be. How about Athletic Single Guy who’s looking for ‘ a female’. I guess he figures that pretty much covers it. I’m betting this is his first ad and after getting pictures from a few dozen bowsers he’s going to be more specific next time. I mean, he must have a few standards.
Some are asking the impossible. Take Pretty and Petite in central Jersey. She is looking for a “sane, kind, communicative, intelligent, warm man.” Come on honey--what planet are you from? Have you ever met one?
There are certain buzz words that the naive don’t understand. If you want to snag a man you need to mention things like football, pizza, beer, and Harleys. If you want to snag a woman list long walks on the beach, dinning out, the theater, and children. Gay men might mention antiques, show tunes, and feng shui and lesbians should probably include horses and feminism. Cliches are cliches for a reason.
If the SWF says she’s interested in a man with a good personality you don’t have to look like Brad Pitt but if she is looking for someone who is employed I’m betting if you’re a barista at Starbucks she won’t be impressed.
Other descriptions I don’t get. What is a semi-professional? And just how much money constitutes ‘financially secure’? I guess it depends on your budget.
It's imperative to be able to translate the language if one wants to find love in an ad. For example under Men Seeking Women, someone is looking for a gal who 'has something going on for herself'. Anybody got a clue what that means? How about a guy that says children are a plus? My first thought would be he's a pedophile. I've always been a suspicious sort and the kind of guy who would be thrilled to take on a passel of someone else's screaming brats sounds too good to be true. I know the guy who likes romantic evenings at home is bound to be a cheap skate (I was married to one of those). And don't most 42 year old men have all their hair and teeth? Why would he need to mention it unless that's all he has. I can't figure out why the 82 year old guy would think that his condo's 'very large rooms' would be a draw. He was the same guy who was interested in possible marriage. Boy won't his heirs be pleased to hear that. The guy in his late 70's wants to spend time getting to know each other. At that age there isn't a lot of time. And the 80 year old looking for friendship, maybe more. Someone should tell him that soon there won't be any more. Personally I think the possible marriage ruse is just a way to get dates. Most men aren't really interested in marriage, just sex, and with Viagra age is no longer an issue.
I notice a lot of health related ads. I don't think the guy who describes himself as an HIV positive male in good health will get many takers, and you know the men who are looking for nurses must be old geezers who need someone to change their adult diapers. The term 'flexible' comes up in ads a lot. I would think if it's a man he means he's not stubborn. If it's a woman it might mean she's good in bed, but I'm just guessing here.
Even though there are about equal numbers of ads from men and women the women's ads are just more thoughtful to me. They seem to have more experience delineating what they want. Like the woman who's ad is entitled "Seeking Wonderful Man." Well…aren't we all? The women want men who are financially secure (and if you're over 65 this does not mean you are living on social security), communicative (a communicative man? there's an oxymoron if I ever heard one), and honest and easy to get along with. Another oxymoron. Now let's face it, if he's truly honest he won't be easy to get along with especially when you ask him if the pants you have on make your butt look big.
The men's needs are simpler if less likely. They tend to describe themselves rather than the women they want. Remember the 42 year old guy with all his own teeth and hair. Basically, I think most of them are just looking for another mother.
Grandkids are always asking "how did you and grandma meet?" hoping to get a romantic answer like "I watched her throw a coin into the Trevi Fountain and walked up to her and told her her wish had come true." Somehow "I found her in the classifieds" just doesn't sound romantic.

THINGS I REALLY NEED...

I made the mistake of ordering something from a catalog. Apparently this put me on every mailing list in existence. I get so many catalogs I think I may personally be responsible for the demise of the rain forest. Unfortunately this is a common mistake among people who move to the Vineyard. The abrupt withdrawal of shopping venues turns women into buying fanatics. I say women because men don't have a shopping gene. Straight men, that is. My friend Jules says it must be on the leg of the second X chromosome that women have. He doesn't understand why I like to browse the stores. He follows me around looking about as bored as a person can look and still be conscious. I keep telling him that I can't possibly know what I might need unless I know it exists. His feeling is that you shouldn't even enter a store unless you know exactly what it is you want and where in the store you will find it. This eliminates impulse buying, he says. He doesn't see the connection between impulse buying and the health of the country's economy. But I digress…which my friend Ronnie says should be on our tombstones.
Back to the catalogs. They are filled with items I have a hard time imagining anyone would buy, yet they must or else where would the money for new catalogs come from? Take the fish agility training set for example. I can't remember the last time I saw an aquarium in anyone's house. And I would think that the fish would be about as agile as they are going to get. For $12.95 (plus tax and shipping) you can get a plaque that says, "Never trust a dog to watch your food." Isn't this something that everyone with a dog has learned long ago? We don't need a sign on the wall to remind us. Then there's the marshmallow shooter (marshmallows not included) that will shoot a mini marshmallow over thirty feet. I'm thinking this is something the cleaning lady will truly love, not to mention the ants and other hungry vermin roaming around your house.
I don't need an electric whoopee pie maker, I buy mine pre-made, or a tea infuser, that's what tea bags are for. And beauty products. I saw an ad for a wrinkle fighting skin care cream that's made of stem cells from an apple. They can't fool me--haven't we all seen apples a little past their prime? They get wrinkled! Maybelline has come out with a vibrating mascara wand. I have enough trouble putting regular mascara on without smearing it all over. I don't need one with a motor in it.
I have come across a couple of items that could be helpful. TriSlide silicone spray for thighs is meant to prevent chafing. As Martha Stewart would say, this is a good thing. With the price of oil ever on the rise, an electronic pajama warming pouch could be useful. It heats up your pjs to 118 degrees. Comfy!
The catalog I find has the most expensive yet useless stuff doesn't come in the mail, it is in every seat pocket on every airplane you and I have ever been in. Yes I am referring to the infamous Sky Mall Catalog. The early spring 2009 edition featured on the cover the limited edition Star Trek Captain's Chair life-size replica. It features light-up controls and sound effects from the original TV show. It costs $2717.01 ($400 shipping and handling) and only 1710 have been made. Not to mention the world's only swim mask that has an integrated waterproof (it would have to be wouldn't it?) digital camera. Or the mahogany finished hardwood luxury pet residence--just because it looks nice doesn't mean it's not a cage. This catalog, ladies and gentlemen, is why your airline fees continue to soar.
The Sharper Image has a Delux Nose/Ear Hair Trimmer (batteries not included) that has a built in vacuum. Don't think I've ever seen a guy with THAT much nose hair! My personal favorite is the Mangroomer. It's a do-it-yourself electric back-hair shaver, "fully extendable and adjustable to reach all areas of the back for only $39.99." If there's anything I hate it's a man with back stubble.

MUSINGS

I watched "A Streetcar Named Desire" with my husband the other night. Whatever happened to the Stanley Kowalski's of this world and the women who loved them? (Does anyone else find it incongruous that a man who spent so much time in a 'wife beater' wore silk pajamas to bed?) I was attracted to Stanley in a visceral sort of way. My husband, a gentle, educated man, never could understand that. He couldn't see the connection to his fondness for Marilyn. Marilyn. It must be something to be so famous you don't need a last name. Marlon, Liz, Cher, Madonna, Elvis.
"STELLA!" What woman wouldn't get a thrill from a knock dead gorgeous man serenading her from the street?
My husband loves Turner Classic Movie Channel. I hate watching old movies with him. They are always movies he has seen before. Since it's my first viewing he feels the need to keep me in the loop. Like I'm not going to understand what's going on. Ladies, you've all been there right? "Watch this. Watch this." What's worse, his long term memory isn't so great any more. He doesn't always recollect correctly. He explains this away by insisting they changed it or that it must be a director's cut.
His short term memory is a little off too. When we watch something complicated on TV he always has a laundry list of questions before he feels he understands the plot. "Who was the guy in the red cap?" "That was the killer." "Oh." I don't mind if he leaves the questions until the end but he usually asks them during the program and then I get hopelessly lost. And he always wants to know things that haven't been explained yet. He doesn't trust that we will eventually learn what we need to know.
We pretty much limit our viewing to sit-coms these days.

MVTV

Well fans--as you can see I've been unproductive for a while but will soon be giving you some more laughs. In the mean time you can see me reading my essays on www.mvtv.org Look for Pretty Funny. Will be filming another one tomorrow.

'TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

I saved this one for today. I am industriously writing new essays for the new year. If you have any suggestions let me know. In the mean time you can view me on demand reading from my blog at www.MVTV.org Go to on demand and look for Pretty Funny.


‘TWAS THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS

‘Twas the night after Christmas
Not a creature astir
(Even the escaped gerbil was nesting in the fireside chair)
The stockings were empty
The games were all played
Ma in her new nightgown (two sizes too small)
And I in my new pjs (two sizes too big)
Settled in to sleep off
All the stuff we did swig.
My eyes barely shut
There arose such a noise-
The damn kids were playing
With all their new toys
My eyes popped open
My face held a frown
I jumped out of bed
And hollered “Pipe down!”
The stairs were all littered
With torn paper and bows
I was tripping and cursing
And stubbing my toes
The boys how they fought
Over Playstation Two
The girls were both whining
Their gifts were too few
Why those miserable ingrates
Their behavior was shocking
What they really deserved
Was coal in their stocking
“Quit complaining,” I said
“Push those thoughts from your heads-
Dash away, dash away
Up to your beds!”
St. Nick was gone
Christmas was not without stresses
I heard a kid exclaim
As he disappeared from view
“Next year my list will have web site addresses.”

FOOD POLICE

This will be my last formal essay for a while. I'll be taking a rest but you can drop in occasionally to read more deep thoughts from a shallow mind.

FOOD POLICE

Is it just me, or are people I don’t even know trying to control my diet? I am being inundated by rules and regulations about what I can or rather should be eating and drinking. It’s not my fault that the Industrial Revolution and modern technology has turned us into a country of hippos. I find it incredibly unfair that the French continue to eat butter, cream and croissants and drink gallons of wine and their average weight doesn’t seem to change. They call it the ‘French gene’. It certainly insures that genetic engineering will get my vote.
I also feel that the ‘fattening’ of America is caused by an improvement in the taste of food. I don’t remember, as a child, food being so good that you didn’t stop eating it until it was gone. Don’t get me wrong. My mom was a pretty good cook but she was a non-working housewife, one of my favorite oxymorons, and in those days that meant you were lauded for taking the cheapest cut of meat you could find and making it edible. Only Italians had herb gardens, and you could only get vegetables in season, so even in New Jersey--The Garden State--that was pretty much June through September. The rest of the year we ate frozen or canned. My mother’s favorite flavor was butter. Everything I ate was drenched in it. So why was I such a skinny kid? She also liked to use sugar on fresh tomatoes and grapefruit and salt on green apples and melons. She baked every day. A meal on our table consisted of a relish tray (you remember--carrots, celery, olives and sometimes radishes or cottage cheese) or salad, meat, potatoes and gravy, at least two vegetables, bread and dessert. Dessert was usually pie or cake. We didn’t consider fresh fruit dessert like they do now. Unless it was in ice cream, of course. So how come we weren’t whales? I’ll tell you why. We ate a little bit of everything and let it go at that. We weren’t required to belong to the ‘clean plate club’, weren’t made to feel guilty because there were children that went to bed hungry, and weren’t interested in sitting in front of the TV all the time because we only had one and you can imagine the type of shows my father, who controlled the dial, liked to watch. (That was in the days when we children took the place of a remote. "Susie, put on channel 4.")
Another thing that the Food Police have become irate about is how much liquor we consume. In my parent’s day a cocktail or two or three a day was the norm. It gave dad a chance to unwind before dinner and mom a chance to tell him which child needed a talking to. Now it’s one glass of red wine a day for your heart, that’s it. Ha, Ha. I don’t know anyone who follows this rule. (It irks me that now that wine is good for your heart it gives me terminal GERD.)
I understand the concept of a ‘dry town’. I can appreciate that some people don’t want noisy bars in their neighborhood. What I don’t understand is the BYOB concept. These people want to control what is being drunk next door so they don’t allow liquor to be sold, but they okay the option of diners bringing coolers full of beer, wine and other potent potables to the local restaurants and for a few dollars corkage they can drink any or all of it. It seems to me that this takes all control of who drinks what out of the hands of the establishment. When selling liquor you can cut someone off when you perceive he or she has had too much to drink. If it’s the customer’s own liquor, bought and paid for, what can you do?
When did carbohydrates become the Pariahs of the food world? When I took health in school they were an important part of the food pyramid. I don’t think it’s fair that they bleached all the nutrients out of an entire genre of food to make it taste good then turn around and tell you it’s bad for you. I’m talking about white bread and pasta. The greatest comfort foods ever invented. They also turned the pyramid upside down and made the biggest part the broccoli and salad section. What’s with that?
As I was saying bread and pasta have become the wicked step sisters of eating. Now I can live without pasta (when did we stop calling it macaroni and spaghetti?) maybe six days a week but not bread. Bread, as you can tell from the description of what was on my family table, is a once per meal item. Toast for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch and a roll or two with dinner. I don’t care if it’s made out of that hideous white flour, wheat flour or corn meal. As long as I can spread butter on it (of course we use unsalted for our health), I’m good to go.
My friend Jules and I went to a pretty fancy restaurant the other day. You know, ten dollar martinis and thirty to forty dollar entrees. After we ordered and got our cocktails Jules said, “I’m hungry. She must have forgotten to bring our bread.” The next time the waitress sailed by we caught her eye and asked about bread. “I’m sorry but it’s not our policy to serve bread.” Can you imagine? The chef must be an Atkins convert.
After cursing the person who recommended this place we enjoyed our entree and left. I said to Jules, “I guess this is a BYOB joint.”
“No,” he replied, “They serve liquor.”
“Yeah, I know. I meant Bring Your Own Bread.”

DUST TO DUST

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.