THREADING THE NEEDLE

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

THREADING THE NEEDLE

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

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

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

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

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

A CRAPPLE A DAY

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


MY NEW COMPUTER

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

BIOLOGICAL CROCK

Every time I think about the fact that I've been out of high school for 45 years I ask myself, "Where has the time gone?" But I really wouldn't want to be in high school again. I keep telling myself I'm not getting older--I'm getting better. And you know what?? I'm starting to believe it!!!

BIOLOGICAL CROCK

Aging should be for wine, cheese, and balsamic vinegar, not people. My mother used to tell me not to get old but she didn’t tell me how to avoid it. If she knew she surely would have used every trick she could lay her hands on. She fought it kicking and screaming. She used to say, ”Getting old isn’t for sissies.” I’m beginning to understand what she meant. She also said, “Getting old stinks but it’s better than the alternative.” I always understood what that meant but now I’m not so sure I agree with her. Not in every case anyway. Now that I’m getting old I’m desperately trying to reverse the process. I’m spending a fortune on anti-aging creams but all they do is make you feel greasy. Lubrication is good I suppose. I still look like parchment but don’t crack quite as much.

Being retired is looked upon by the young as Nirvana. Nothing to do and all day long to do it. I must admit that’s what it was like at first. Plenty of time to do whatever I wanted. Unfortunately it didn’t last long. Pretty soon I was spending time making repeated trips to the store to get things I forgot the first time. Then I started making lists, which I forgot to bring. Then I started to remember the lists but there is always something I don’t write down because it is such a necessity I know I won’t forget it. Ha! By the time I get home I’m exhausted and need to take a nap. I’m retired for heaven’s sake. I don’t do anything. Why should I need naps? And if I don’t get my nap why am I so cranky? You’d think I was a toddler instead of a sophisticated, urbane woman of sixty.

Soon your health starts to slip. Most of the people I meet on the ferry are going off Island to a doctor’s appointment. Along with all the normal requirements to stay healthy, mammogram, colonoscopy, cholesterol checks, etc. aging adds a lot of neurotic worries. Palpitations? Everyone has them but at my age what do they mean? I made the mistake of asking my doctor. After an EKG, cardiology consult, cardiac ultrasound, 7 day heart monitor, and a trip to Boston for a nuclear stress test, all of which cost approximately $11,000, I got a message on my answering machine from the cardiologist that there was no organic cause for my palpitations so I shouldn’t worry about them. Is that supposed to soothe me?

I have developed a terrible fear of falling. You have no idea how hard this is for someone who used to ski, ice skate and dance every chance I got. You’d think this fear would come after a fall. No. This fear came from watching too many commercials for new osteoporosis medications. Aging boomers have become a target of the pharmaceutical industry. If you don’t have it they’ll convince you you’re going to get it; probably sooner than later.

I can’t wear high heels any more due to plantar fasciitis and a Morton’s Neuroma. If I drink wine with dinner I doze off during the evening news. And then when I do go to bed I toss and turn and get up with the birds. Speaking of dinner--the old digestion isn’t what it used to be. I’m practically back to Gerber unless I want to be up all night with GERD, something we used to call heartburn.

Nobody warns you that these things are going to happen. That everything will change and things that were good for you when you were young are now poison. Ice cream for instance. When you’re a kid it’s good for you, loaded with calcium and protein. When you get old it’s full of cholesterol, sugar and fat which will kill you. The same with peanut butter and jelly which I wouldn’t touch when it was good for me but now I crave it like water in the desert.

My mother used to admire my hands. I couldn’t figure out why. Now that my body has settled into its self destructive mode I see all the things she used to fret about. What she used to call liver spots I prefer to call sun spots and if I had known what I was going to look like I would have worn a burka every time I left the house. I was never a sun worshiper but even the little exposure I got took it’s toll.

I had a cataract removed last week. The upside is I can see clearly without glasses. The downside? I’m going to have to spend more time cleaning my house.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION BLUES

In anticipation of my 45th high school reunion, I've been searching Facebook and Classmates.com for fellow grads. If I'm honest with myself it's just curiosity. If I was really connected to these people in high school I probably wouldn't have lost touch, eh? A couple of years ago I was contacted by an old friend and she inspired this essay.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION BLUES

I have the High School Reunion Blues. A girl, (yes, I persist in using that term even though my contemporaries and I are well past girlhood) my best friend from Elementary and High School, whom I haven’t seen in nineteen years, recently made contact with me through Classmates.com. This is a web site that makes its money from people’s prurient interest in former schoolmates. They encourage you to post, for free, a profile with just enough information to pique the interest of others. If you are lucky enough to find someone you might want to catch up with, you must join the site for five dollars a month in order to send or receive an e-mail. Up to now only the losers of the class of ‘65 have wanted to get in touch with me. Nobody that I cared about. I was delighted that Bev finally made contact. Even though it took her five years.

In her e-mail, the one I had to cough up fifteen dollars (it’s a three month minimum membership) to respond to, she said she noticed I lived in Massachusetts and wondered where. I proudly replied that I had moved to Martha’s Vineyard upon retiring. She seemed to be surprised and pleased, announcing she had been vacationing here for many years and would come again in August. (Was I overly suspicious to think she somehow found out where in Massachusetts I lived?) This explains my High School Reunion Blues.

When you communicate via e-mail you can delude yourself into feeling eighteen again. When you meet in person you can’t hide those extra twenty pounds or granny flaps, gray hair, false teeth, reading glasses--need I go on?

Ever since we agreed to meet I have been having a recurring nightmare that she will look exactly as she does in our yearbook and I will look--well--like I do. She will have no way of knowing that in the intervening years I have gained and lost thirty pounds, gone completely gray (which of course no one but my hairdresser knows) and given up dancing.

I keep reminding myself of all the things I’ve accomplished since High School. I graduated Summa Cum Laude from college, became a published writer, raised a daughter who has never been to prison, and managed to retire long before I was eligible for social security. It doesn’t help. Nothing short of Bev having varicose veins, rampant wrinkles and an aversion to exercise will help. (By the way, did you know that at any given time thirty-five percent of women in every health club in America are trying to get into shape for a High School Reunion?)

The only thing I have going for me is that I’m not a grandmother yet. Which is another thing that has me concerned. What will we talk about? Up until seven years ago Bev and I lived in the same community but never ran into each other. This leads me to believe we probably didn’t have much in common. She’ll undoubtedly want to talk about her grandchildren. Not me. I barely tolerated my own kid. I really don’t care for other people’s. They are always described as beautiful and brilliant. What I want to know is, to whom do all the dumb, ugly kids (and there are plenty of them) belong?

Bev did mention in one of her e-mails that she likes to travel. We could talk about that, I suppose, as long as it doesn’t turn into dueling trips. She’ll say Rome, I’ll counter with the Greek Isles. She’ll say Hawaii, I’ll respond Paris. I really hate to play “Can You Top This?”

Also don’t want to talk about dead parents or friends. I find that unpleasant. Don’t want to talk about classmates that became famous or wealthy either. Hmmm. The list of things I don’t want to discuss is becoming longer than the things I’m curious about. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my fifteen dollars. High School was far from the best time of my life and Bev’s impending visit is making me recollect things I’d prefer not to. I can only hope she feels the same.

DOGMA

Since I've e-mailed this blog address to just about everyone on the planet I'm guessing some of you have never been to Martha's Vineyard so I will add an essay that is not Vineyard-centric. I have sent out a book proposal called "Deep Thoughts from a Shallow Mind" which will include essays like the following.

DOGMA

I’ve been thinking lately that it might be fun to be a dog. Not a working dog or a fighting dog but a plain old everyday house pet. They really have the life. Their only job, if you want to call it that, is to bark at every living thing that invades their territory, which really isn’t hard work for a dog. For that they get a warm place to sleep, protection from the elements and from one to three squares a day (depending on the dog and the owner). In exchange they need only provide undying devotion to said owner. I could do that.

Since puppies have so much energy the ideal family would be one with children who like to romp about in the back yard, throw things, and play tug-o-war. The dignity of an adult dog would require someone who likes to jog and drives a pickup truck. Older dogs prefer widows who live a good distance from the grandchildren but still have a nurturing nature, preferably someone who equates food with love.

Yes, the benefits of being a house pet are appealing. Take the way they greet each other. No boring small talk or formal introduction requirements. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to size others up with an ogle and a sniff? It’s probably more effective in assessing their true nature than anything they would have to say about themselves. What a time saver that would be.

Another thing about dogs I like is they can have names like Killer or Barkley and no matter how ferocious or silly no one makes fun of them at the dog park. If you’ve got four legs (give or take) and a tail (even if it’s trimmed) that’s all they’re interested in. They don’t care what breed you are either. Nobody looks down their nose at you. There is no class system in the canine social order. Not like going off to the first day of kindergarten with a name like Philomina, which would undoubtedly be morphed into “Meanie” for the next twelve years. Dogs aren’t cruel. If you threaten them they bite, otherwise they pretty much live and let live.

I have stood, countless times, staring into my closet trying to decide what to wear. Being a dog would solve that problem permanently. Their clothing options are nonexistent. Most dogs have only one accessory, a collar with a dangling license. It’s around their neck at all times. If you’re one of those little designer dogs you see on TV eating gourmet food from a cut glass dessert dish you might also have a bow in your hair, but that’s it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know you are dressed properly for any occasion that might arise when you get out of bed in the morning? As for bathing--that’s optional. Your family will decide when it is necessary and then do it for you. And speaking of hygiene, wouldn’t it be nice if every time you went to the bathroom someone was waiting to pat you on the head, say, “Good girl!” and give you a cookie?

One thing I like about dog culture is their apparent lack of self consciousness when they beg. Children are taught at an early age that begging is taboo, and behave with appropriate embarrassment when doing so. But for dogs, even though it fails ninety-nine out of a hundred times, just one success reinforces their “ya’ never know” attitude. They never give up. I can identify with that kind of optimism. Like dogs, I’ve always been a glass half full kind of gal. Besides, who can say no to a panting, tongue lolling, tail wagging bundle of hope?

Then there’s most people’s uncontrollable urge to pet dogs. Forget about getting your significant other to rub your feet after a long day at work, but let the lazy canine in your life jump up on the couch next to him and he’s good for at least an hours worth of stroking. I could live with that.

Dogs aren’t picky eaters. I hate it when I’m disappointed with a restaurant meal. I always feel like I’ve missed an opportunity for a really enjoyable experience. Dogs don’t mind lousy food. In fact I’ve seen dogs eat stuff I wouldn’t even classify as food. Most of them would consider a big bag of smelly garbage a gourmet treat. They go crazy at the dump. You’d think it was the world’s largest salad bar. It would be nice to be thrilled with whatever landed in your bowl. Satisfaction is important in life. The lower the bar, the more satisfaction.

Yes, being a dog would have a lot of advantages. They don’t worry about paying taxes or who’s running for president. They didn’t worry about the “bomb” during the cold war and they could care less which picture wins the Oscar. Their needs are simple and basic. Some food, some love and a long walk. Yeah. I could live with that.

VINEYARD CRIME

Driving to Vineyard Haven one day I found myself behind a pickup truck with three bullet holes in the tail gate. My curiosity was piqued. How did they get there? This started me thinking about guns and crime in general. Now I know there must be plenty of guns on the Island, but the only ones I’ve ever seen have been unnecessarily strapped to law enforcement officers. Crime on the Vineyard is as unique as the Island itself. Most people would say that the term Island crime is an oxymoron. Not so. We have our share--it’s just different than in the rest of the world.

We even have a prison. It’s not much of a prison as prisons go. More of a jail. More like high school detention. We occasionally get off Island cons who are shipped down because it’s the only safe place for them to be. Guys who would be seriously harassed in a regular prison. You know, Arab princes and such. One, after serving his time, ran away with the sheriff's wife. Ahh. Sweet revenge. A local fellow found his incarceration so confining that he would escape through a window after lights out to spend a few hours with his girlfriend. He was always back for breakfast which, incidentally, was prepared by a gourmet chef; also doing time.

If you’re looking for murder, that most heinous of all crimes, you’ll have to find it in the pages of Cynthia Riggs’s and Philip Craig’s books. No, Vineyard crime is of a more benign nature. It can be split up into season and off-season varieties. The seasonal type does resemble off Island crime and is usually perpetrated by off Island criminals. Hence our need for a police force. Off season crime falls more into the category of mischief and can frequently be punished by firm parenting or community service.

The worst crime wave I can remember was a few years ago when there was a rash of street sign thefts. This, of course, resulted in a flurry of angry letters to the editor (the usual result of Vineyard crime...and just about anything else that can draw comment). Turns out the signs were decorating the dorm rooms of homesick UMass freshmen. Maybe at graduation they should hand out a street sign or two along with the diplomas. Just a thought. I’m all for preventing crime.

Mailbox bashing is another serious problem here. This one really bothers me since innocent mailboxes can’t fight back. I guess it’s too much of a temptation for teens with new driver’s licenses. The kid riding shotgun has nothing to do. Seems to me this is energy that could be channeled. Maybe we wouldn’t need the wind farm in Nantucket Sound.

Poaching out of hunting season is another biggie. I guess we need laws to protect the world’s poor beasts from the superior brain (?) and firepower of man, but when the animals start to out-number the locals I can’t get excited about an illegal turkey shoot.

Car theft is not an issue here. Without a ferry ticket where would you go? Old Islanders, used to the lack of crime, do not lock their doors. House or car. My friend Bob takes this one step farther and also leaves his keys in the car. His reasoning is life’s short and he doesn’t want to waste time looking for them. Now, Bob is friends with the local constabulary who constantly warn him about this habit. One day he parked in the lot next to Town Hall and went in to do some business. One of the local police officers strolled by, saw keys dangling from the ignition and drove the car around the block, parking it on School Street. When Bob inevitably called about his ‘lost’ vehicle the officer drove him around town looking for it. Another officer, in cahoots, drove Bob’s car back to the Town Hall lot, where it sat waiting for him. Bob found this amusing, if time consuming, but continues his life long habit of leaving the keys in his car.

Most Island crime by far consists of running afoul of political entities. God forbid you put up a shed in your back yard without a building permit! It’ll take months for the letters to the editor to die down. Not to mention the fines and law suits flying back and forth.

Yes, Virginia, there is crime on Martha’s Vineyard. But like everything else it’s kinder and gentler than over ‘there’.

I pondered for weeks how those bullet holes got in that truck. Hunting accident? Angry wife? Jealous husband? If he had been escaping from a bank robbery (not likely--there’s still that ferry problem) I would have read about it in the Gazette.

I had a dinner party the other night. When I mentioned I had seen a bullet ridden pickup my friend Phil said, “No you didn’t”.

“I most certainly did,” I replied indignantly.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he said, guffawing heartily. “What you saw were decals.”

Decals. I felt duped, but Island crime being what it is, why should I have been surprised?

BEACH WAGONS HO!

People on Martha’s Vineyard have a special relationship with their cars. Only a true Vineyarder understands what an Island car is. I realized this when my friend Cynthia and I had to explain to a fairly recent wash-ashore that we are not insulted when a complete wreck of a car is referred to as an Island car. In fact we are amused and even proud of the fact that rather than trading in our automobiles every two years as some do, we keep them until even magic can’t make them run. Cars that have spent fifteen or more years on the Island, even if garaged, will never win a beauty contest. Mostly what cars are used for around here is to go fishing and to the beach. Unlike the pretentious Brits who call their station wagons estate cars, no self respecting Vineyarder would call it anything but a beach wagon.

An automobile or truck can become an Island car in several different ways. Much like when the doctor told you that Grannie needed more care than the family could give her at home, your mechanic will sit you down, pat your hand and say you shouldn’t take your little Cabriolet off Island any more--it has become an Island car. Or when the power steering, electric windows, air conditioning and heat no longer work and you don’t bother to get them fixed--you have an Island car. And especially, when you develop the habit of leaving the keys in the ignition and the car running when you do your errands because, sadly, you know no one would bother to steal it--you have an Island car.

I heard that the duct tape people took a survey here regarding the use of their product. Fully expecting an answer that included some sort of marine use, we are an island after all, they were astounded to learn that most of the tape sold on Martha’s Vineyard is used to hold Island cars together. When this tape is exposed to the salty fog of Martha’s Vineyard, however, it tends to peel off and flaps around in the wind like the flags at Daytona Speedway. Which is why a lot of Island cars look as though they are doing the hula.

Some people try to camouflage the fact that they are driving an Island car by decorating it with rubber ducks, plastic flowers or even gluing on fabric to lend it an upholstered look. No matter how they look, it’s important to keep them in running order. The prestige of having years of Lucy Vincent Beach stickers on one’s window cannot be underestimated. When an Island family makes it they have two Island cars and park one in the Steamship Authority off Island lot for runs to BJ’s and Wal-Mart.

Island cars carry the recent political history of the Island through their bumper stickers. “Save our Sound” is popular right now and the perennial “Mopeds are Dangerous” is always out there but on a true Island car there will be a faded “I Survived the Cook Street Intersection”, “Secede Now” or “Save the Substandard Bump” sticker.

I saw an Island car that was so awful looking even the owner was ashamed of it. It had a bumper sticker that said “Not My Truck!” The one thing I don’t understand is why someone would spend the money for vanity plates on a car that looks as if it spends most nights in a junk yard. You know who you are.

When an Islander does have to say good bye to his Island car you would think it would be a good excuse to go off Island and buy a brand new shiny SUV. Not so. They look around for another Island car. Someone told me that Island cars get traded around like girlfriends in the winter. Car aficionados believe that what’s under the hood is what counts. That sounds good when you’re driving an Island car, dammit!

Getting rid of an Island car isn’t easy since most people have an abnormal attachment to them and the $200 it costs to ship it off Island. There is John Leite’s junk yard in Oak Bluffs but this seems like an ignominious end when nothing short of a Viking funeral would do. There are those that remove the plates and consign their beloved vehicle to an honored corner of the yard. Unfortunately Island law permits only one per property. What to do in twenty five years when the next Island car gives out? I can only think of three alternatives. Bury it ala that Viking funeral, donate it to Featherstone for their metal sculpting class, or take your blow torch to it and turn the pieces into Island souvenirs.