IslandRoar

Gardening Girl

Daughter #2 asked me to take her to the gardening store this past Memorial Day. Now this is a very dangerous thing for me to do, especially at this time of year. I go in to buy some Miracle-Gro and come out with two-hundred dollars worth of perennials, annuals, and decorative pots I just had to have.

But D #2 is the only one of my children who seems to share the gardening bug, and I want to encourage her. So I peeled off my muddy gloves, climbed out of the tangle of weeds I was lost in, and off we went.

Last year we dug out a patch for her to plant with anything she wanted. She was on and off in its care and maintenance, but filled with ideas for this year.

"I want to grow flowers that are tall enough for cutting," she decided. "And lots of color."

We picked out some of the usual suspects: zinnias, cosmos, mums. For every pot she picked, I grabbed two. It's embarrassing, but I have no self control in a place like this.

The ironic thing is, without D #2 in my life, I don't know if I ever would have become a crazy, dirt-loving gardener. Born in May, she was the Baby-That-Would-Not-Nap. I had no time to write, no time to myself, not one second alone all day. The occasional mother's helper pitched in with my two older kids, but my adult sitter took summers off, and there was no one I could really trust with newborn D #2.

Except her father. Our marriage was already starting to unravel at this point, which only added to my sense of urgency for some time alone. So each day shortly after my (now ex) husband walked in the door, I handed off D #2 and escaped outside.

Where I started by planting impatiens and weeding. This was followed by experimenting with perennials and poring through gardening books. Soon after I was Miracle-Gro-ing, deadheading, and mulching like a mad woman. That fall I plunged my very first crop of bulbs, roughly 500, into the ground all over my yard. I was officially obsessed.

By that next summer, D #2 had learned to nap. And when she was awake she followed me around the garden. She learned early the difference between flowers and weeds, and she delighted in scrunching sprigs of lemon balm, mint, and lavender in her tiny fists, then shoving them under both our noses to smell.

After this recent plant buying frenzy, we returned home with our booty. While I was putting groceries away, I watched out my kitchen window as D #2 bent over her patch of ground, weeding.

Absolutely a sight for sore eyes.

Genes

Black Irish

My dad is coming up for my daughter's high school graduation in a couple of weeks. I just ordered one of those DNA testing kits, the kind where you do a cheek swab and mail it in for analysis.

I've been meaning to do this for at least a year and I keep forgetting. Both my parents are coming, but for now I'm only interested in testing my dad. For one thing, those kits are expensive, at least a hundred bucks. But the other thing is that my parents had two daughters, me and my sister. No sons. This means that some components of my dad's DNA, those that  travel only on the Y chromosome, have not been passed down.

Sure, he has brothers who have sons, and these cousins of mine no doubt share plenty of the same DNA my dad has. But what he got pure and true from his parents? Well, that will die out when he's gone.

Ever since I found this out I've been meaning to order this DNA testing kit. I started researching them on line last year. But then I kept forgetting. It's as though some part of me wants to go on blithely assuming he'll be here forever, and we can do this test any old time.

I don't see him very often. And he's had a tough time the past year. He's only (only!) 77, but he had tuberculosis when he was 19 and has fought respiratory battles ever since. He's always been in great shape, walking every day instead of hopping on the bus all those years he worked in Manhattan, lifting weights, swimming.

But his lungs fight him every step of the way. I'm a nurse. I know the drill. I know better than to take one single day for granted.

My dad is full-blooded Irish. Both his parents were immigrants here in the early 1920's, from Belfast. Yet he has black hair and dark brown eyes. Whether his "Black Irish" looks come from the Spanish Armada shipwreck myth, the ancient Irish legend of Milesians who settled Ireland from Spain, or some other long forgotten, gene-induced mystery, remains to be seen.

But I have red hair, freckles, and green/blue eyes like my mother. My kids are blue or green-eyed.

My father has always been somewhat of a mystery to me. Mapping his genes may not change that. But I'd like to do it all the same.

Confession

Cell Phones in School

This is sort of an embarrassing thing to admit because, after all, I'm a grownup, and I really do know better. Let me just come right out and say it: I text my kids when they're in school.

Go ahead, tell me what a horrible mother I am. How, instead of being part of the solution, I am perpetuating, even creating, the problem. I know, I know. But the truth is, I won't stop. I refuse.

I don't do it all the time. And I only do it because I know they have their phones on "vibrate," so nobody in the nearby vicinity will be disturbed. I lecture them frequently and at length not to pull out their phones while they're in class, irregardless of who is vibrating. Wait, I tell them, until you're out of class, in the bathroom, or huddled by your locker. Be discreet. Don't get in trouble, by which of course I mean: Don't get caught.

I realize I shouldn't be doing this. I worked at their high school for three years. I witnessed first hand the trouble cell phones can cause, from disturbing a class to aiding and abetting cheating.

I also saw a divide on how teachers felt about them. Many older teachers wanted the existing ban on cell phones strictly enforced. But others, younger teachers or those with teens of their own, had mixed feelings.

"I know nobody could make me give up my cell phone," one teacher stated.

"I'd rather they had them," another said. "What if something happened? It's a safety issue."

One day there was an unofficial lock-down at the school. An administrator stuck his head in the classroom to tell me and the teacher I was working with to keep the door closed, and not to let the class leave when the bell rang until an "all clear" was announced. Out the window, we saw a patrol car pull up and officers enter the building.

"Does anyone have a cell phone?" the teacher asked the class. "Just in case we need it?"

It was a small group. With not one cell phone among us, including that teacher and myself. Unusual but true. Everything turned out fine that day, but I never left my cell phone in the car again.

I text my kids when I need to remind them to bring something home, or that I won't be at the bus stop to pick them up.

They text me if there's a change in plans and, occasionally, with some funny or interesting bit of news.

Could we survive without this? Sure.

Should we? I don't know.

What do you think? Am I the only one who ever crosses this line? I bet not. All I know is, I'm not changing my habits any time soon.

And if you mention this to anyone, I'll deny everything.

Island Life

Choices

There are not a lot of choices when you live on an island. I was well aware of that when I decided to move here. In fact, for me it was one of the many allures. I was a little fed up with entire aisles in the grocery store devoted to fruit snacks or toothpaste. I figured I could make it with fewer options and far less traffic in my day to day life.

And, for the most part, I was right. Even on a damp day like today it is amazingly grounding to catch, in the distance, a glimpse of the sea when I am out running errands or on my way to work.

But life has its drawbacks no matter how close to paradise you might live. There is nothing grayer than this island in winter. The trees are gray, the roads are gray, so many of the shingled houses and store fronts are weathered gray; by February it seems that even our clothes and skin are starting to turn gray.

Then there is the wind. Anyone who lives by the sea knows the wind is a living thing. It can stop the boats and planes from running, slashing plans and trapping us for hours or sometimes days at a time. And while I love hearing the wind at night, lulling me to sleep, I hate the way it can suck the warmth out of an otherwise perfectly sunny spring day.

But all I need is one March afternoon with mild breezes and blue skies to remind me why I came here. We hit the beach, watch the dogs running in and out of the waves, and smile into the faces of fellow islanders, encouraging one another to hang in there. We've made it through so many other winters; we'll get through this one too.

Eventually April arrives, but while the calendar may say it's spring, the biggest reminder out here is that the Dairy Queen reopens. I never cease to be amazed at how quickly word spreads. This year I was at the bank and one of the teller's kids had just called to make sure she had the big news.

"Well, you better be done with your homework before I get there," she  whispered her warning into the phone, "if you expect any ice cream tonight."

By the time I got home, Daughter #1 already had her sister and friends in her car, and they were waiting to take my order before heading over. Their anticipation was palpable.

How could anyone not love living where the annual opening of the local ice cream store inspires such excitement?

It's all about choices. And sometimes when the choices are few, the ones we have are all the more precious. Even if we're just talking about ice cream cones.

Age of Aquarius

Hair

I haven't mentioned the fact that I have a page on my blog where I've been posting some of my poetry each week. I'm still trying to figure out technologically the best way to do this, but I know most people aren't into poetry, and those that are will, hopefully, stumble upon it on their own.

I like to think the work speaks for itself and shouldn't require explanation. Still, my post today is somewhat related to this week's poem, "We Danced."

I went to see "Hair" on Broadway this past weekend, a trip with a friend to celebrate her 50th birthday. It was an amazing experience. At the end of the show, audience members are invited up to dance on stage with the cast. My friend and her two sons were among the first to head down the aisle.

I hesitated, not wanting to abandon Daughter #1, who I know would rather eat nails than hit that stage. But I also knew if I didn't go up there I would regret it. So I ran down that aisle and grabbed onto the hand of the actor who played Berger. He pulled me onto the stage with a huge smile and a "welcome," and I joined my friends, clapping and dancing to "Let the Sun Shine In."

I looked up past the blinding stage lights and out into the theater. The audience was on their feet, singing, clapping, as they watched the group of about 50 to 75 of us on stage with the cast.

I am center stage in a Broadway theater, I thought. How cool is this?

And I thought of my mother, and the poem I posted this week, which I wrote long ago. "Age of Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In" was one of the first 45 records my sister and I owned. One winter morning we put in on and started dancing in our enclosed front porch, still in our long flannel nightgowns. We were maybe nine and ten years old, our long hair flying as we moved. I know this because my mother got out the camera and took a picture.

But then she did something that I have never forgotten. She put down the camera and began to dance. And I mean dance. My sister and I stopped, jaws dropped, eyes wide. You've got to understand, our mother did not often lend herself to spontaneous outbursts in this way. We were entranced.

"What?" she challenged us, when she was through. "You didn't know your mother could move?"

How appropriate, I thought while I was on that Broadway stage, that this is the song I should be up here dancing to. It seemed, in a bizarre way, as though it was some karmic tribute not only to my friend's big day and the past generation of flower children, but to my mother herself, and my relationship with her.

Let the sun shine in...

"Hold onto this," I directed myself. "This is one of those life's moments. You need to remember it forever."

Oh, let it shine...

I savored every second.

Men I Have Dated

The Dylan Date

I have not dated a lot so this wouldn't be a long post even if I were to talk about all of them. But I'm only going to talk about one man. I think he might actually have been the first man I dated after my marriage ended. But my memory is highly unreliable (as my kids remind me daily) so I could be wrong.

I had a friend come out to visit shortly after I moved to the Vineyard. She was newly separated from her husband and wanted to go out dancing every night (lucky for her it was summer or we would have had to turn on the stereo and get down in my living room).

Anyway, I met this guy and, because I was a pathetic newbie at the dating thing, I gave him my number. He called a week later and we met for a couple of walks on the beach, low key things like that.

He actually called me one night and told me to go outside and look at the moon.  I suppose if the right man did this very same thing, I might've thought it was the most romantic suggestion in the world. I did go out and look, and it was pretty and all, but, seriously??

There weren't any sparks; he never kissed me and I never wanted him to. Now of course, this would be a big, blinking neon sign telling me don't bother to continue with this charade. But back then I was all into giving things a chance.

Then he tells me he has tickets to see Dylan in Boston and would I like to go? Separate hotel rooms, of course.

Okay, I say. What the heck?

Well, we drive onto the ferry in his car, and not two minutes go by before he asks me would I mind walking off the boat when it docks, and meeting him on the block next to the ferry terminal. You see, he's worried that his not-yet-ex-wife might be on the line to board the next boat, and he doesn't want her to see him drive off with me.

I know, I should've said fine honey bunny, and then taken the next boat back home my damn self. Instead, I smile gallantly and say sure.

Things only got worse. He was argumentative and then silent when we got to Boston. He stressed three times we were only getting "a small salad" before the concert, as if I struck him as someone who might order a five course spread.

I tried to get him to talk all through dinner. It's what I do. I'm a youngest, the peacemaker, the entertainer. I did everything short of dancing on the table around those flipping salads.

During the show he sat there, not uttering a word, not tapping even his little toe to the music (which was awesome, by the way). At some point, I simply gave up.

The two hour ride back the next morning was awkward and painful. I was way past caring what he thought, and hanging onto "polite" by the tiniest thread. As I shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, I vowed, as God was my witness, that I would never go off-island with a guy I didn't know again. Well, not unless I'd dated him for a while. And was crazy about him. Or he looked like "McSteamy" on "Grey's Anatomy". Or "Jack"  (Matthew Fox) on "Lost." Okay, maybe also "Sawyer" (Josh Holloway) on "Lost" too.

Not that invitations to go off-island on weekend dates have been piling up or anything. (Heavy Sigh)...

I'll save some other dating adventures for another time; I wouldn't want to use up too much of a good thing.

Got any dating stories to share, bad or stupendously good? I'd love to hear them. After all, I live in hope.

The College Pickup

I went to pick up First-Born-Son at college last week. I was very excited to be bringing him home for the summer. We double-parked outside his NYC dorm and he came down to sign us in. Then I went up to help him while my ex stayed with the car.

I couldn't believe it when he opened the door to his room. It's small and it's a single, but we could barely both fit in the door due to his junk. Clothes, books, paper, shoes (Lord, how many pairs of sneakers can one boy have?), mysterious cables and electronic wires, empty cans, wrappers, bottles. Oh, and did I mention clothes?

"You're not packed," I said to him. "Why aren't you packed?"

"I was waiting for you to bring my trunk." He looked around nervously, as though seeing it for the first time. "And crates. I had nothing to put anything in."


Well, this was true. But could the boy not have organized his stuff? Could he not have made piles? And how about Hefty bags? He had a whole box of those. They absolutely qualify as luggage in a pinch; I saw several other students that very day who apparently agreed with me and were hauling their stuff out in them. Sure, those parents did not have to spend two hours packing up their kid.

"I'll let you two handle things up there," my ex offered, via cell phone. "I'm sure it's too crowded for me anyway." And they say chivalry is dead.

I set to work, sorting, folding, and finally, just shoving things into bins. I found his eyeglasses, missing apparently since the week he moved in. I discovered a take-home exam he had yet to email his professor. It didn't take me long to start pocketing stray change. I think I made at least five bucks.

"Oh, look," I said to him, well past an hour into it, "I see you still have almost a full box of diapers left. Good, you'll obviously still need those."

I know. Can you believe any decent mother would utter such evil, sarcastic words to her own offspring?

First-Born-Son, fortunately, has the self esteem of a Greek god, and the sense of humor to match. "Okay, okay," he laughed. "This'll never happen again."

You bet your sweet little bottom it won't, I thought. But I remained silent and kept on packing. There would be plenty of time for me to speak my mind.He'll be here all summer, after all...

Procrastination

I am devastated. Okay, maybe that's too strong a word. Not devastated, but definitely irritated. I took one of those quizzes on Facebook, the ones that ask you a few lame questions and spit out what kind of tree you'd be if you were a tree (or maybe that's Barbara Walters?). Have you ever tried any of them? Fun, right?

Anyway, I was supposed to be spending quality time working on my writing, so of course I was messing around on Facebook. I took the quiz to see if I was right-brained or left-brained. It was absolutely a no-brainer for me because I knew what the result would be. After all, I'm a writer, a poet, an artist. If I'm not right-brained, who is?

Except apparently, according to this highly scientific and in depth quiz, I'm not. I'm left-brained. Organized, meticulous, and by the book.

So yes, I'm irritated. Big time. Because you know what happened, don't you? Motherhood. Babies, children, carpools, schedules, and routine; that's what happened. I've spent years being a Parent with a capital "P." I've made meals and lists and doctors' appointments, and singlehandedly run the lives of at least four people (sometimes five, if you include the occasional overlapping life of my ex).

And I've been doing this now for nearly all of my adult life. At first I was a disorganized (yet artistic) mess. But I slowly evolved. So much so that if I picked up a paintbrush and palette these days, the only thing I'd wind up painting would probably be a list.

Do I really believe my brain has switched sides? No, I don't think so, but the fact remains, it's definitely been debriefed and reprogrammed, so to speak.

So enough with the Facebook quizzes. Or at least, next time I'll maybe try one that's harmless, like "What Disney Character" might I be. Except that I think of myself as a Pocahontas or a Mulan, and what if it tells me I'm more of a Cinderella?

I guess I'd better just stick to the writing. It's obviously a lot safer.

Memory

Class Rings

Daughter #1 got her class ring today. I don't know about where you all live, but class rings are not a very big deal around here. My son never even wanted one. When I worked at the high school, there were always a few kids talking about ordering rings, but not like it was when I was back in high school.

I couldn't wait to get my ring. We ordered them as sophomores. They were big and clunky, unlike the delicate ones they make today, designed for feminine hands. My signature in my own handwriting was transcribed along the inside of the band.

Getting our rings generated a lot of excitement. My school had the tradition of asking your friends to "turn" your ring after you received it. You were supposed to get it turned (while it was on your finger of course) the same number of times as the year you were graduating, although I remember getting a lot more than 79 people to turn my ring.

Everyone ran around for a couple of days, sticking out their hand requesting, "Will you turn my ring?" Your best friend was supposed to turn it first, and your boyfriend or girlfriend, last. I didn't have a boyfriend, but when I got one the following year, I informed him I had saved turn #79 just for him. He didn't go to my school and was definitely confused by the whole thing, but he was obliging none the less. This is the same boyfriend whose very expensive class ring I wore for a year and then lost, but that's a whole nother story.

Has anyone else ever heard of the ring turning tradition? Or were there any other traditions surrounding the whole class ring deal in your high school, or maybe your kids' schools today?

D #1's ring is silver with an amethyst stone (purple for the Vineyard). The sides are embossed with her name, the year, and a clef to symbolize her involvement with music. It's beautiful.

And, best of all, she let me turn it.

"You know, we don't do this," she informed me, holding out her hand. "You'll be the only one turning it."

"Yes," I said. "But it'll make me feel better."

And so the tradition continues...

Potty Mouth

The "D" Word

Can someone please explain to me what the deal is with the sudden explosion of the word "douche" on family television? When did it go from the kind of word I wouldn't want to hear my kids use in the casual company of their friends, let alone in front of adults, to being bandied about on the likes of "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," "90210," "Parks and Recreation," "Lost," and "Greek," just to name several of the ones I've actually witnessed over the past few months alone (can you tell I'm watching TV with adolescent girls?)?

I don't know about you, but when I was young, back in the dark ages when we actually had to get up to change the channel, "douche" and "douche bag" were shocking, soap-in-the-mouth inducing No-No's.

But then, other words were loaded back in the day as well. In seventh grade Angie Beals was suspended from our middle school field hockey team because the coach heard her utter the fateful words, "Hackensack sucks." And when I told my mother what had happened, she self righteously snapped, "Serves her right."

For me it was a lesson well learned. To this day I cringe at the uber-casual way adults and kids alike sling the word "sucks" around. Not that I don't occasionally use it myself, but not before carefully glancing around to make sure no one over the age of 65 is close enough to hear me.

I have a friend, just over 60, who does not approve of the expression "to blow something or someone off." I suppose for him it conjures up a tawdry description of vague and illicit sexual innuendo from his youth. But I use it quite complacently, as in, "You better not blow me off (by not showing up to my party, for example)," or "Come on, blow off work and let's go to the beach," without blinking an eye.

So is the shock value of words guaranteed to fade slowly as one generation ages and another pops up to take its place? Is it a foregone conclusion that one day my (as yet unborn) grandchildren may jump off their teeter-totter and run to greet me exclaiming, "Grandma, we're so F___ing glad to see you; we missed you so F___ing much!"

And I will disapprovingly glare at their parents, my children, who will of course merely laugh and say, "Oh Mom, you're soo old fashioned. Don't be such a douche."

I hope not. But you never know. Because the last thing I expected to see last month, when Daughter #2 and I went to the movies, was baby-blue-eyed, teen heart throb Zach Efron calling another character a "douche bag" in the recently released film "17 Again."

Am I the only one? What words are deal breakers for you? I'd really like to know. So please, leave a comment. I'd really rather you didn't blow me off.

Barbie Girl

Daughter #1 is graduating high school next month. We're planning a graduation party and she tells me she wants the theme to be "Barbie." Seriously.

Where have I gone wrong? I encourage feminist ideals. When she was a young child, I read her empowering books (I can't think of any offhand, but I'm really sure I did). She's amazing at math and science.

Yet she loves freaking Barbie. As in, the doll that cannot stand on her own two tippy-toed feet without pitching headfirst onto her triple-D'd chest.

She wears Barbie T-shirts and makes Barbie videos with her friends, creative, quasi-sophisticated, intelligent young women like herself. Their video, "Pregnant Barbie Gives Birth," has had something like a million hits on YouTube. And, no, I'm not going to give you the link; if you want to view the evidence of my shame, you will have to look it up yourself.

The sound quality is terrible, and the lighting poor. The director's (that is, my daughter's) voice can be heard in the background, giving instructions to the friend holding Barbie. We're so proud.

"Look at you," I said to her. "Top of your class, going off to college, and wearing a Barbie T-shirt."

"Well, who's the one who bought me all those Barbies?" she countered.

She has a point.

I started off with my son, her older brother, trying to be all politically correct. But the boy begged for a Barbie, and, in a compromise (unfortunately, the first of many), I bought him Doctor Barbie. He immediately stripped her, bent her in half, and pointed her at the cat.

"BANG!"

But that in itself is a post for another day. The point here is that my daughter wanted a Barbie. And we talked about the stereotypes. Harmless, I thought. A phase. After all, I had Barbies once too. Many, many moons ago. And I moved way beyond it, right? I assumed she'd grow older and wiser and get over it as well.

Alas, that's not what happened. Instead, she tracks down specialty Barbies on line, collector's items like Barbie posing as Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind. Then she asks for them for Christmas.

And I (gulp) ... I buy them.

I know what you're thinking: that I'm getting what I deserve. That her graduation cake should have a big fat Barbie head plunked in the center of it, and that will be my karma.

Not so fast. You see, she's sharing her party with her best friend. Who is not so in love with Barbie (smart girl). And hey, since when do graduation parties have themes anyway? Graduation is the theme; am I right?

Does anybody out there have their own Barbie stories? Do you love her, hate her, or maybe you just don't care? The gal was 50 this year, so I think it's okay if we give her more than a passing thought.

...

Okay. There, I'm done. How about you?

Prom

It's prom season and many bloggers have been abuzz with their personal prom tales. Some are brave enough to post their actual prom photos. Their courage amazes me because, although I enjoyed my own prom, the photos taken that night are better left fading in the closet.

It was Prom this past Saturday night here on the Vineyard. In a place so small, it seems as if everyone living here is aware of the big event. The island holds its collective breath, watching the weather, monitoring for traffic on these dark, twisty island roads at night, and exhaling in relief the following day when it appears the night was celebrated without any major or newsworthy mishaps.

Our Prom is considered a Junior Prom. I suppose it's assumed seniors have enough going on, from brunches to awards nights, to graduation. The Junior class gets first dibs on tickets, and any that are left over are offered to seniors and their dates.

There are six towns out here, and the venue changes from year to year. Last year, when Daughter #1 attended as a junior, the prom was up-island at the very chic Beach Plum Inn. This year it was held at the Ag Hall, a big, rustic barn-like island landmark in West Tisbury.

Daughter #2 reported prom pictures were already posted on Facebook early the next day. I like to see the spots people use for Before-Prom pictures. When you live in a place that is basically one big photo-op, the choices are endless. There are always lots of pictures near water. Some kids hit the beaches. My daughter and her pals posed by a beautiful pond on a friend's family property last year, while my son and his group took their pictures in someone's scenic backyard, a hill overlooking the Lagoon. D #2 already has big plans for her prom photos, which are two long years away.

She had her sleepover birthday party on prom night this year, and decided to go with a prom theme. The basement family room was decorated with streamers and balloons, and the girls came all decked out. She even picked out tiny tiaras to appoint her own prom queen.

Where I grew up, the event was called "The Prom" and usually involved a trip to the Jersey Shore the next day, or maybe even all weekend. Out here, there are the requisite all night prom parties, followed by breakfast gatherings, but thankfully, the kids stay on-island.

Driving, of course, is actively discouraged. Last year my son played chauffeur for my daughter and her friends, who'd procrastinated too long in the limo department. He drove them all in my huge, gas guzzling Expedition (see May 10th Post). Three years earlier he and a large group of friends had rented a monstrous vehicle known as a Stretch Hummer, the interior of which was lewdly equipped  with plush seats, multiple fridges and TV's, and disco lights. This year, the word is that there were three party buses, which I believe is an island record and seems a much more eco-friendly means of transportation to me.

Prom entry requirement on the Vineyard is a Breathalyzer test. This started a few years ago after it was rumored some kids apparently showed up under the influence, and an administrator may or may not have been struck in the face by an intoxicated student while escorting said student home. I had mixed feelings about the Breathalyzer when it was first proposed; it seemed such a radical statement. I heard kids at the high school, where I worked at the time, swearing they would not attend Prom if they couldn't "party" beforehand. But in the end they did, and now it's become just another element of the Prom experience.

I enjoy hearing about the various prom traditions practiced in different parts of the country. Some places host elaborate dinners before prom, others run carefully planned after-events. But they all seem woven around the common denominator of our kids being dressed to the nines, and the community's concern for their safety.

What are the prom traditions where you live, or maybe even the ones in place when you attended yourself, back in the day?

Out here, we seem to have made it safely through another Prom season. Here's hoping you've all been so fortunate.

Memory

Trains

I love trains. There is nothing more soothing than the lowing of a distant whistle on a train passing through town in the middle of the night.

I have a long history with trains. My parents are both from New York City, and, although I was born and raised in New Jersey, we spent a lot of time on city subways when I was a kid visiting relatives. Now, a subway isn't really the same as a train, but sitting in a subway seat, gently rolling back and forth with the motion of the car along with everyone else on board, can be a surprisingly soothing experience.

Growing up in northern NJ, there were always train tracks running through town. I can remember many times sitting in our car, stuck at a railroad crossing, gate down and red lights blinking, waiting for the train to pass. It seemed the longest ones were always at night, when my boyfriend and I were rushing frantically to deliver me home before curfew. My father never believed the train was the cause of my being late.

"Didn't you hear it?" I would implore uselessly.

No, he didn't, because of course that is one of the wonderful things about living in a town where the trains pass through; one grows so used to the sound that it barely even registers.

Every so often a train would simply stop dead on the tracks, stretching so far in either direction that we were essentially trapped on one side of town. My sister and I once stood for the longest time, waiting to see if the train would resume before choosing a spot between two rail cars to climb quickly up and over, so that we wouldn't be late for Sunday school. It was a crazy and potentially treacherous move, and I still remember looking for secure handholds as we scurried over the interlocking connection between the cars, telling myself I would need to hold on tightly should the train start up again mid-scramble.

The tracks ran both ways in my hometown, and on more than one occasion I recall purposely getting trapped in that middle ground in between as trains converged on either side in both directions. The air seemed thicker there, and we could barely hear the sound of our own voices without screaming, but I have never forgotten how dangerously cut off and wildly exciting it felt.

We'd place a penny on the tracks of an oncoming train, then stand back and wait, trying to catch that split second when the wheels hit it, bouncing it off into the nearby gravel. Waving triumphantly at the conductor, who always seemed to be stationed in the caboose, we'd clamber over the tracks, searching for as long as it took to find that flattened penny. No two were ever alike.

There are no trains out here on this island. And, as with so many things, I had no idea how much I would miss the rattle of the wheels on the tracks or that bleating, far off moan in the night, until they were gone.

Patients I Can't Forget

Bessie

Bessie was one of my earliest patients. I was 16, working after school as a nursing assistant in a nursing home. Bessie was what we affectionately called a "Walkie-Talkie." Except that she walked, but she didn't talk. Ever. Patients in nursing homes who grow up with English as their second language often resort to their first language as they age. But Bessie resorted to no speech at all.

She was extremely affectionate, hugging us, stroking our hands. She would grow frustrated at times, pulling us to follow her so she could show us what she was trying to say. It was a great mystery to me.

There was no medical reason for her lack of speech. She could do much of her own care. Yet she was like a child, trying to get the staff to dance with her in the hallways or walk down the corridor holding hands with her, swinging arms like kids at play.

She exasperated the hell out of her roommate, Mrs. Crosby, who was perhaps my favorite patient. Mrs. Crosby was significantly more fragile. She could not get around on her own, and she was often forgetful. She became convinced that Bessie was evil, very likely due to her lack of speech, and she kept the curtain drawn down the center of the room so she could avoid her as much as possible.

"She sneaks up and down this hall, spying on people," she'd whisper to me. "I don't trust her at all."

In the room across the hall lived Gussie, a woman who spoke only Italian in a deep, guttural voice. Gussie was a creeper, and if she was not tied into her bed at night, she might wind up anywhere. Once she stole into Bessie and Mrs. Crosby's pitch black room in the middle of the night, and climbed into bed with Bessie, who was only too happy to have someone to wrap her arms around and cuddle up with.

But Mrs. Crosby was sure it was a man who'd snuck into their room, and she never forgave Bessie for welcoming this male intruder into her bed. I couldn't convince her that Bessie was not some cheap hussy, compromising her morals under our very noses.

One time Bessie pulled me over to her side of the room to show me photos. There she was with her husband and another couple, maybe ten years earlier. They were smiling, arms around each other, and clearly in the middle of an animated conversation.

I looked from the Bessie in the photo to the one by my side. To me, at 16, the one in the picture was already quite old, easily in her 70's. And I realized for the first time how old age, like every other stage of life, has phases to it. Bessie was clearly past the first stage of her old age, the part where we retire to spend time with friends and spouses, our health maybe starting to decline, but still able to be independent and enjoy the things we love.

It's a time that no doubt passes far too quickly, especially if it's cut short by the onset of illness or the loss of a spouse. Maybe something catastrophic had occurred and stolen Bessie's voice. Or maybe she just found she didn't have anything else she really wanted to say.

Now, in my 40's, I think of Bessie's photos and I think of my parents, who are old but not old, still in phase one.I hope they will be around for a long time. And I try and remember to listen, to hear what they have to say while they still want to say it.

Splash Award

I got the nicest news yesterday. My new pal from Forever A Jersey Girl has "splashed" me with the above award. Apparently the Splash Award is given to alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive, and inspiring blogs. Sounds good to me! When you receive it you must:
            -put the logo on your blog/post
            -nominate up to 9 blogs that allure, amuse, bewitch, impress,
            or inspire you
            -be sure to link to your nominees in your post
            -let them know they have been Splashed by commenting on their
                blog
            -remember to link to the person from whom you received your
            Splash Award

Well, being so new at this, it's a pretty difficult decision; I've been enjoying so many fine blogs. But here goes...

            1-nightlight confessions-written poignantly by a single mom

            2-Emergiblog- written by a nurse, but interesting to everyone
            3-Dancing Backwards In Heels-smart and feminist
            4-manic mariah-a funny mom
            5-The-F-Word.org-about women and society's conflicting
                                        relationship with body image and food
            6-Tangerine Times-reflections and info on raising teens

There could be so many more, but I'll stop there. Check these out and let me know what you think.

Remembering the "Lasts"

Daughter #2 (D-2) turns 15 today. Of course, I think of all of my three kids as my babies, but she is the actual baby. My youngest.

Fifteen is a real person. By that I mean I can actually remember being 15 quite clearly. What I was thinking, what I was wearing (and I have the journals to prove it).

Motherhood becomes a very different thing when your baby is 15. It was only two Halloweens ago that, for the first time, I did not join the swarm of kids and parents that converge every year in town for Trick or Treating. Daughter #1 (D-1) drove her, kept an eye on her throughout the night, and delivered her and her candy safely home.Just last June when D-2 graduated from elementary school, I ventured into my garden, realizing I was about to cut the last teacher-bouquet I would probably ever send in to school.

We celebrate so many "firsts" as parents that the "lasts" are often lost in the shuffle. And maybe that's as it should be. When was the last time I picked up a child of mine, the last time I was called in to soothe a bad dream in the middle of the night? I don't want to think about the last time I'll drop one of them off at college, or the last summer they'll come home because they really still live here. But those times will arrive just the same.

So today D-2 is 15. No doubt she will be short tempered and irritated enough with me to wash away any last traces of sentimentality I might be clinging to. And if there's one thing I can be sure of, it's that it definitely won't be the last time for that.

Island Life

Seasonal Shuffle

I've always appreciated nature and the changing seasons. It's why I love the northeast. Even when I lived in the New Jersey suburbs I had a bird feeder positioned on the front lawn where I could see it from my front windows. I quickly learned which birds were year-round residents and which were warm weather visitors.

Each spring I watched a pair of squirrels who wintered in the cozy hollow of a tree in my front yard as they dragged leaves up the tall tree in my backyard for their summer nest. They seemed to know they had to make way for the starlings that summered in their hollow tree each year.

I always felt bad for them, moving out of that choice piece of real estate, but they never seemed to mind. They knew the tree would be theirs again when the weather turned cold and the nights were long and dark.

Living on an island has made me even more aware of seasonal shifts. The sun rises through the front window of my bedroom in the winter, then moves slowly over the passing weeks till, by the summer solstice, it peeks through the bedroom's side window each morning.

It's almost there now. Summer is on its way and, like the squirrels, many people out here get ready to clear out of their winter homes to make room for the summer people. Some folks leave the island or move into small rooms, sheds, tents, or other makeshift dwellings so they can rent out their houses, earning enough to pay the mortgage for another year. And then there are those who do the "Island Shuffle," moving to a different place each year, changing with the seasons, all to stay in this place that they love.

Everyone who summers here knows what a beautiful paradise this is. But most of them only see it when the sun is strong enough to warm the breeze and bake the beaches. They can't imagine the sound of the wind during a January nor'easter or the way the ocean looks during a snowstorm. They have no idea how many seals share our beaches each winter or the bounty of shells the waves deposit on the sand when there aren't nearly so many hands waiting to snatch them up.

Right now we're all ready for summer. We look forward to longer days and hot sand under our feet, and we brace ourselves for sharing it with the carnival of tourists. Because we know that just when we think we've had enough, the wind will pick up and the sunrise will start crawling back towards my front window each frosty morning.

The island will  come back to us, as it does every year. And, just like my squirrels in New Jersey, the best spots will be all ours once more.

Supreme Court Pick

Half Court Press

So with the retirement of Justice Souter, President Obama gets to nominate his first Supreme Court Justice. The media is abuzz with choices. Everyone seems to agree the only candidates that don't have a shot are those that fall under the traditionally favored category of white male.

No argument here. Personally, I don't care if his nominee is Asian, African American, Hispanic, white, or purple, so long as it's a woman. This should be a no-brainer. There are nine judges and just one is a woman. Only two women have ever been Supreme Court judges. Come on, we make up over half the population; it's time we made up half the bench. And the time to start is now.

It's not just about politics. We need to see women in more positions of power. When they are, the world becomes a better place. Look at Sandra Day O'Connor. I remember so clearly the day President Reagan announced her nomination. A woman! He'd picked a woman. I was in college. 1981. I wasn't extremely politically active at the time, but I was keeping tabs. I remember people predicting Reagan would pick a very conservative justice, and there was the ever present buzz of Roe v. Wade being overturned.

Then he went and picked a woman. Not that it wasn't about time, but still, I was shocked. Ecstatic. And while many of those around me were more worried about her politics, I was busy celebrating the fact that a woman had finally made it to the Supreme Court.

A woman who wound up surprising a lot of people, Democrats and Republicans alike, with her thoughtful and often unpredictable decisions. A woman who helped me understand you can't let the media have too much influence on your political opinions until you get a chance to see for yourself what people are really capable of.

It was an exciting time. Sort of like last year when Hilary captured history as the first woman to make a serious run for the White House. And while I'm happy with Obama, and will continue to cheer Hilary on like mad as she takes on the world as Secretary of State, I hope one day to see a woman in that ultimate US position of power.

Until then I'll settle for more women on the highest court in our land. I may or may not agree with all their politics, but I'll be happy that they're there. Women should be judges; after all, everyone knows which sex is more intrinsically fair, don't they?

Confession

Environmental Hall of Shame

I have a confession to make. I hesitate to even bring it up because you don't know me very well yet, and I hate to have you make a premature judgment about what kind of person I might be. But here we go:   I drive an Expedition.

Yes, that's right. One of those monstrously huge hulking vehicles that guzzle gas a the rate of about a mile-and-a-half a gallon. What can I say? That it was not my fault? That my ex bought it years ago and I had no idea it sucked up gasoline like a frat boy at a kegger, and by the time I discovered this there was no turning back?

I know, I know, ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law. But it's true. I live on an island, one loaded with back roads covered in dirt and sand and potholes the size of a small Corolla. When I moved here from New Jersey I drove a cheerful gold minivan. Its wheels spun uselessly on the sandy roads near the beach, and it skidded wildly off my unploughed, icy back road again and again that first winter.

You would think I should have known better than to believe my ex when he said the Expedition would be the answer to all my prayers. You would think...

Though I have to admit, it's served its purpose. On more than one occasion I carpooled half my younger daughter's elementary school class in one shot. Last year I hauled both my new washer and dryer home from the store off-island. And this past winter, I singlehandedly towed my older daughter's car out of a ditch she'd slid into on the side of the road one icy morning on her way to school.

Despite all this, there can really be no excuse for keeping such a greedy gas monster. Except that I cannot afford to get rid of it. I realize I'm spending more on gas, and of course there is no way to measure the cost to the environment, but I simply don't have the cash flow to solve my problem right now. So I hang my head in shame and save my pennies for one day...

At least, I did hang my head in shame, until I heard through the infamous and always reliable island grapevine that a certain man I'd dated a few years back had confessed to being appalled by the fact that I drove an Expedition.

"Yeah, she was fun and pretty and all," he reportedly admitted to a friend of mine at a party recently, "but then I saw the Expedition. There was no way I could date a woman who drove an Expedition."

Are you freaking kidding me?? Can you believe this guy? And this from a man who insisted on casually announcing to me his yearly income in the first hour of our one and only date. He obviously (and mistakenly) assumed I would be impressed by this number. Yet that did not prevent him from appearing insulted when I did not offer to help pay for my bowl of soup and one glass of Cabernet at dinner (full disclosure: I do NOT pay, or even offer to pay, on the first date; if a guy can't afford it then he should suggest a moonlit walk on the beach).

Well, ever since his comments were leaked to me, I have climbed behind the wheel of my Expedition with a whole new outlook. Instead of shame, I think of it as throwing down the gauntlet. After all, if a man is going to judge me based on the car I drive, without bothering to get to who who I really am, then what kind of man is he really? Know what I mean?

I still feel badly about my contribution to global warming, but now I am looking for a real man, one that will want to meet me despite the car I drive.

Happy Mother's Day! Thanks for stopping by.

LAUNCHING ISLAND ROAR

Cougars? A Collective Roar

Is it just me? Or are there scores of single, middle-aged women out there (and by middle-aged I really mean any woman 35 and over) who enjoy being labeled a Cougar? Because the way the word is tossed about so freely these days, one would think it has a resounding Every-Woman Seal-of-Approval.

Well, not this woman. I may be an unattached female in her 40's, often distastefully referred to as "on the market" (translation: I wouldn't turn down a date with the right guy). I have even entertained the notion, should the opportunity present itself, of dating a younger man. BAM!

That's all it takes to raise society's eyebrows and stamp the word "Cougar" across my forehead in the imaginary social register. As though I am some skulking feline, ready to pounce on my unsuspecting prey.

If there's an equivalent term for an older man dating a younger woman then I haven't heard it. "Sugar Daddy" comes to mind, but it doesn't reek with condescension or contempt like so many labels for women. "Spinster" for example, or "slut."

Making matters worse, the term lately seems to be spreading to include any single woman of a certain age who's not in a relationship, irregardless of whether she is stalking said younger man or not. As if crow's feet and the looming threat of perimenopausal mood shifts weren't trouble enough, now I have to worry what the neighbors will think because I dare to leave my regular Friday night Netflix and pint of Haagen-Dazs to venture out for a drink with a friend? And God forbid I wear earrings (Gasp!), and makeup, or (Oh, no!), maybe even heels?

Women "past their prime" are taken to task if we let ourselves go, or we don't stay in shape, or we don't go out and get a life in the wake of a failed relationship. But when we do take care of ourselves we are labeled "Cougars." There is something raw and insidious being implied here, a penalty for having the nerve to be middle-aged and looking good.

And it seems to me, though I could be wrong about this, that women deemed unattractive are rarely called Cougars. Is this because it is assumed they have accepted their station in life and there is no need to punish them with condescending sexual innuendo? How equally insulting.

Cougars are sleek, beautiful, graceful animals. And while I admire that immensely, I am not fooled for one second into thinking the word is meant to be a compliment when it is applied to women.

What do you think? Does the term bother you on any level, or have you not given it a second thought? Let me know. Because it occurs to me that, by our collective silence, women everywhere are sending the message that it's okay to call us Cougars, that maybe we're even a little amused by the term.

But it's not okay. So I am filing my one-woman protest right here, right now, and hoping it grows from a single voice into many, a tidal wave. One huge collective roar.

I'll have more to say on what I think about a lot of things in the weeks and months to come. I'd love to hear from women (and men) everywhere. So thanks for stopping by and please stay tuned...