IslandRoar

Estrogen-soaked

The Boys are Back in Town

I don't think I realized until my son came home for the summer how I'd been literally drowning in estrogen this past school year. Well, maybe not drowning. But certainly floating. As in, barely keeping my head above water?

Seriously, I've been a woman surrounded by women. Two daughters, five pets (although two of these pets are biologically male, they've been neutered so long I'm fairly sure they no longer technically count as boys). And I broke up last fall with the man I'd been dating for over a year.

Gone were the days when my basement was filled with loud, writhing boys, wrestling for the xbox controller or the last handful of Doritos. Burping, farting, cursing, while upstairs my daughters and I rolled our eyes and shook our heads.

Not that there was ay shortage of eye-rollilng here in Hormonal Who-ville. It appears to be, for my daughters, an autonomic body function, akin to say, breathing. Eye-rolling and sighing and muttering under one's breath without actually moving, are the common responses when asked to do some monumental and entirely unreasonable task like, maybe taking out the trash or walking the dog.

And let's not forget the poor dog. She may not be male (or even female, if I'm sticking by my previous definition of neutered), but she'd clearly been jones-ing for a big dose of Boy Playtime, the kind where my son wrestles her to the family room floor, or chases her around downstairs until I command sharply "Enough," freezing both of them in their tracks.

Without my son here to break out the chips and sit down to ESPN, I'd been gorging on adolescent estrogen-soaked TV: Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill, 90210. I actually began looking forward to America's Next Top Model (Tyra-mail, anyone?).

You're wondering why I just didn't get up and leave the room. Go upstairs, open a newspaper. I could've, yes, but some bizarre powerful mothering enzyme kept me hovering close by, attempting to share my daughters' world (always a set up for heartbreak).

Possibly this is the same enzyme that caused me to memorize the names of every dinosaur so that I might be conversant with my raptor-loving little boy when he was three (to this day I can tell the difference between a pachycephalosaurus and a parasauralophus; try beating that for cocktail party banter). No doubt, the same substance that caused me to learn all the words to the soundtracks of Rent and Wicked when Daughter #1 was consumed by them, and to spend hours traipsing the muddy farm Daughter #2 worked at for years, when I would so much rather have been shopping for shoes.

But summer is here. I have survived the estrogen onslaught. My son came home in May so things are a little more balanced. There are boys at the dinner table once more, and several more gallons of milk and loaves of bread in my kitchen. There is more noise and arguing and even wrestling (and not just with the dog).

At the end of August he'll go back to school. But this year, D #1 will leave as well. It'll just be me and D #2 for this next school year, a whole new dynamic I can't even begin to fathom. I don't know what I'll be drowning in come September. But I sure hope someone remembers to throw me a life-line!

Lightning Bugs

Summer's Here?

When I took the dog out the other night at 9:00, some big bug tried to get in the door. As I swatted it away, I realized by its lazy, drifting method of flight, that it was a firefly. And even though it was late and I was tired and impatient and chilly, I got a little excited.

Lightning bugs! They're here!

I watched through the window and sure enough, its little lantern blinked reassuringly as it drifted off the deck and out into the dark backyard. Part of me wanted to run and get the kids. Come on gang, let's go. Head out into the night and instigate the traditional catch-and-release.

But Daughter #1 and First-Born Son were still at work. And Daughter #2 was studying anxiously for her last final exam. I was on my own. Not that they would've jumped up and followed me, cheering, even if they were around. But I may have been able to use my rather vast and impressive "Mom Powers" to twist their arms and convince them to frolic in the yard with me.

It's no secret how wet and chilly these last weeks have been in the northeast. Even as the south and midwestern parts of the nation bake in the heat, we've had little more than one or two tantalizing glimpses of summer peeking through the clouds. The northeast winds that blew out here last Monday did more damage to the harbor on that, the second official day of summer, than they did all this past winter.

I may live in a summer paradise, but I've yet to put on a pair of shorts or a bathing suit this year (unless you count that aberrant, crazy-hot beach day in April).

June on the Vineyard is always a crap shoot I think, as I watch with pity the vacationing families, bundled up in sweatshirts, painfully dragging bored children through town in the rain. But this year is downright spooky. We all greet one another with jokes about the end of the world, but we are only half kidding.

Summer will come, I know that rationally. As my friend Bill puts it, "It does every year," and he's personally witnessed 86 of them so I have no reason to doubt.

But then I saw that lightning bug a couple of nights ago, and I really started to believe. After all, there can't be lightning bugs without summer, correct?

And there it was, glowing brightly on and off, moving further and further away till I was left alone with the dog in the darkness. Yet I'd heard it loud and clear: Be patient. It's almost here.

I looked down at the dog. "You heard that too, didn't you girl?"

She just looked up at me with bored indifference.

Yeah, right.

Naked in Living Color

Skin Check

I'm doing this post late because I had to go to the dermatologist before work today.

I go every year. What can I say? I'm Irish, with red hair and freckles. My grandmother had a melanoma removed from her face in the 1960's. My dad's had three of them over the years, not to mention a variety of less serious types of skin cancer. I've already had a basal cell cancerous growth cut off of one shoulder, and a couple of pre-cancerous little blips on my face. They're hard to distinguish from the gobs and gobs of freckles.

It's no big deal. I just go every year and strip down for the dermatologist and let him have a look-see. Now, nobody likes getting naked for a doctor, but I've had three babies, and I'm a nurse after all. I think that's supposed to give me the go-ahead to tear off my clothes any time, any place, with wild abandon, so long as someone flashes a medical license.

But this doctor has to do a skincheck, which is an embarrassingly thorough examination of every bit of my epidermis (you know, all the parts of it that are showing). I'd like to flash him small portions at a time and keep the rest covered snugly under those lovely ass-peeping gowns they're kind enough to provide, but he'll have none of that.

He wants to see all of it at once. First front, then we flip to the back. So every year I peel off the gown. And every year he says, "Man, you're white!"

Now, normally I wouldn't bother to mention a person's race, but I think here it lends some context. See, this doc is African American, and when he stands there gaping at the paleness of my whiteness, I'm not sure how, exactly, I should respond.

He then asks me to turn over, which is bad enough on its own. But then he says it again. "God. You. Are. So. White."

Yeah, I think. Um-humm. Got it.

Really, what am I supposed to say? "Gee, thanks," or "I know, I'm so sorry."

He might as well be standing there laughing and pointing or whispering to his nurse. I mean, what would he say if I looked him square in the eye (or ass, as he is probably looking at my big, pale, white one that very moment), and said, "Yes dude, and you are so very black. What do you think we should do, write a song about it?"

Maybe this would've been the year I actually said it.

But this year, things would be different. The doctor was overbooked, and I was only too happy to schedule an appointment with his nurse practitioner, a woman.

I really didn't think it mattered if she was black, white, yellow, or polka dotted. I'd have bet anything she wouldn't stand there mocking my freckled, pale, Irish lack of pigmentation.

Women, I believe, are just more sensitive about these kinds of things (translation: she'd at least wait until I got my clothes back on, paid the bill, and walked out the door). At least that's what I was hoping. And I think that's what happened.

I didn't hear any whispering as I left the office. But you never know.

Here's Looking at You...

Movie Night

Tonight I go off to another of my odd and unrelated jobs. I take care of Bill. It's another pretty nice gig.

Bill is 86. I cook him dinner and we eat together. He watches the news while I putter about. We chat, and I catch him up on the details of my life and my kids. I make sure he takes his meds and that he's set up for the night.

Oh, and here's the best part. We drink bourbon and watch old movies.

Yeah, life it tough. Actually, Bill is really the one drinking bourbon. But it makes him happy if I have a drink with him. His son, a good friend of mine who gave me the job, encourages this seemingly reckless behavior. I don't drink hard liquor, so my bourbon is mixed with lots of ice and water. Even Bill gets a little twinkle in his blue eyes when he sees my watered-down glass on the coaster.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?" he says, every time.

And when I bring him his second shot, he announces like clockwork, "You're a sweet, sweet girl." Add that to the fact that he tells me every week how nice I look, and he is pretty much the definition of my fan club these days, not a thing to be taken lightly.

He forgets a lot, Bill does. Each time I have to remind him which of my kids is at which school, and what they're studying before he nods. "Oh yes, I knew that." The short-term memory stuff is hard. But the long-term memory is sharp as a tack. When we decide which movie to watch he tells me "You're the boss," but he makes his preferences clear.

We watch the same films over and over, and for each one he can remember where he was the first time he saw it. "I was in the army in Basic Training," or "I saw that in Philadelphia in 1940." John Wayne in Stagecoach, Gary Cooper in High Noon, Robert  Montgomery in Night Must Fall.

And then there's Bogie. Bill adores him in The Maltese Falcon, and Key Largo, and he'd probably watch Casablanca every night if he could.

"I think it may be the best movie ever made," he'll say, and wait for me to agree.

Bill lives in an old island house that's been in his family for generations. There's an authentic whaling harpoon hanging over one of the fireplaces, and an original document signed by Abraham Lincoln on the opposite wall.

He ran his family's newspaper for many years, and with his wife raised five children. Now he spends his days reading, watching the news, and waiting for evening to come so he can have a couple of shots of bourbon and watch a movie with one of his kids or, sometimes, me.

He turns to me during certain scenes as we watch our movies, and grasps my hand with surprising strength. I know he's remembering some moment long gone, maybe from the first time he saw this film as a young man, or maybe something special about the person he saw it with.

"Do you like Humphrey Bogart," he asks, yet again.

I assure him I do, but what I really want to tell him is that, for the rest of my days, I will never hear Bogie utter those famous words, "Here's looking at you, kid," without thinking of him.

Spin Cycle: Jealousy

It's Not Easy Seeing Green

Jealousy? Even writing the word makes me think of dark evil characters, usually women, like Cinderella's stepmother, or the queen who was so jealous of Snow White. Of course men get jealous too, but why is it we so often see it illustrated in the movies or on TV by women, pulling each other's hair and clawing at one another in some over-the-top cat fight?

I don't think of myself as a jealous person, not in any big way. I have frequent little bouts of it certainly, as in:

                "Oh, I wish I'd had such a great marriage, like them,"
                 or,

                 "How come my ass doesn't look like that in a pair of jeans?"
                 and, 
        
                 "Oh my God, she just inherited a million dollars! Why can't I
                   inherit a million dollars (no lie, I know two people this
                   happened to in the last few years)?"

But in general, it just seems to me to be one of those negative emotions that sucks all the life out of the person feeling it. I don't have time for that.

Maybe this is because I grew up in the shadow of a sister who was frequently jealous. Of everything and everybody, me included. I don't want it to sound like some ego trip because, believe me, she had nothing to be jealous of. She was pretty and clever and lots of fun.

But that's the point. When you're a jealous person, it really isn't about the other people. It's about your own dissatisfaction with yourself (oh hell, I sound like some low rent shrink. That'll be $100 please).

But I'm not kidding. It didn't matter what I did or what I had; my sister was convinced it was better than her's. In her eyes, my parents loved me more. I was better looking. I got better grades. And on. And on.

Sometimes it seriously pissed me off. How dare she assume things came easily to me, that I didn't work for them?

"I knew you'd have a boy," she said when I gave birth to First-Born Son after she'd had two daughters.

Then, after Daughter #1 was born, this: "Of course you'd have a son and a daughter. The Perfect Family."

How's that for warm and fuzzy?

Don't take this the wrong way. I love my sister. I wish we could be closer. But I've learned to see that the distance between us has very little to do with anything real or rational.

Maybe her life the first 19 months was all chocolate milk and golden pacifiers, until I came along. Maybe it went downhill after that. I'm not sure there's anything I can do to fix it. I'm tired of it.

Jealousy's exhausting. For everyone it touches. I repeat, I have no time for it.

But man, when I hear women talk about how close they are to their sisters, I really wish it was me.


Go check out Sprite's Keeper for more Spins on Jealousy. But only if you promise you won't think they're so much better than mine...

The Ideal Man

Star Wars Geeks

After long and deliberate consideration, I have decided that the man I am looking for, the man of my dreams, is very likely a Star Wars geek.

You know the type I mean. They come in all shapes and sizes, old and young, out in the open or in-the-closet with their Star Wars affection.

But they know the characters, from each and every Jedi to the evil assortment of "Darths." They can give you details on all the Star Wars vehicles and weapons, and they know which planet has two suns (come on, that was easy; even I knew Tatooine). They probably also really liked all the Lord of the Rings movies, and this latest installment of Star Trek.

It's not that I'm some big science fiction freak myself. And, although I like Star Wars, I am not over the moon about it (sorry, First-Born Son, but maybe it's time you knew the truth...).

But I've been paying attention. And the nerdy guys, the Star Wars geeks, they're funny. They make me laugh, a skill that should never be underestimated. Many of them aren't the most polished or sophisticated guys around, but I've been there, done that. I'm on the market for sincerity, big time.

Sincerity and creativity. If there's one thing a Star Wars geek is, it's creative. I am sick to death of being the only one in a relationship with any ideas about what to do or where to go.

It's not as though my expectations are unrealistic. I'm not talking about freaking Prince Charming here. I just want someone to pull out their lightsaber, slash a few stormtroopers, and whisk me away at light speed. I want a guy who knows what the Jedi Mind Trick is. And knows how to use it, if you know what I mean. There's got to be some guy out there who understands how to have fun. And I'll bet he's a Star Wars geek.

There's only one thing. I hope it doesn't cause anyone to label me as superficial, but it would be really good if he didn't look like Yoda. Or Jabba the Hut. Or a droid. Anything else, I'm pretty much open.

May The Force be strong with you.

*My apologies to all the non-Star Wars geeks out there

Dancing Queen

Last Recital

This weekend was Daughter #1's final dance recital. It was surprisingly difficult  for me. Last week at her high school graduation I got off easy, just a lump in the throat when they marched in to Pomp and Circumstance, and when she got up to receive her diploma. But this recital was tough.

D #1 was born six weeks early, after a difficult pregnancy and a placental abruption. I was a pediatric nurse, and I recognized right away that she was hypotonic, or low in muscle tone. I would've charted that she was a "floppy baby."

She didn't roll over till she was a year old, and she didn't walk until almost two. We joke that she could speak in complete sentences before she could climb on to the couch. There were years of physical therapy, in addition to the recommended Gymboree and swimming classes to help her gain some muscle strength and coordination.

When she was in kindergarten I enrolled her in dance. She started with tap and ballet, and over the years she tried modern, lyrical, and jazz as well. But tap was the one that stuck. She was a child who could not ride a bike until she was 12, but she tapped her way around the house as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Recitals have been an annual part of our early summer ritual for 13 years. The dress-up trunk in my basement is filled with old costumes that none of us, myself included, can bear to part with.

This year D #1 was in the advanced tap class with only three other girls. The routine they performed was incredible. Their feet were moving a mile a minute. Yet the smile never left my daughter's face. I was more than proud; I was in awe of how far she has come.

As she bopped around the stage I saw her at four, kicking her way down the lap lane at the Y, clutching the floating dumbbell and trying to keep her face above water while I sat watching her, holding my breath.

I saw her bouncing on the therapy ball at two, the physical therapist encouraging her to crawl up the ramp "just one more time," then her falling asleep with her fingers in her mouth on the short car ride home because she was so exhausted.

If someone had told me then she would be up there tapping this way, it would have been hard to believe, although I know I would have wanted to. But I could only have guessed at how difficult the road ahead would be, and I had no idea how quickly it would arrive. I'm not sure I'm ready.

Wasn't it just yesterday I was tying the ribbons on her first pair of tap shoes and taking her picture on that fist day of dance class? It can't be 13 years ago that she tapped her way through "Cruella De Vil" in her very first recital, costumed in black and white polka dots, a downy feather pinned to her hair.

A long chapter in both our lives is complete. And  last night, in the darkened auditorium, blinking back the tears, I found myself surprised at just how sorry I am to see it go.

Roadside Memorials

Solution

The memorial down the road, from the accident I wrote about earlier this week that killed one girl and forever changed the life of another, is growing.

There is a large, white wooden cross and a smaller one nearby. There are flowers, photos, and stuffed animals amidst the broken trees and crushed brush.

I don't know how long this memorial will stand. Several years ago two boys died here in an accident on the road by South Beach, and the huge outpouring of flowers, photos, and handmade gifts by the side of the road eventually gave way to a permanent memorial, planned and dedicated by a small group of the boys' friends.

Those two boys died that night because they weren't wearing seat belts. Their car had been going too fast, but there was no alcohol involved. In this recent tragedy, it appears as though perhaps alcohol, speed, and/or reckless driving may have been factors.

At Class Night last week, not quite 24 hours after the crash, local scholarships were given out to this year's graduating seniors. The mood was somber as, several times, parents of young people killed in past car wrecks took the stage and handed out scholarships in their dead child's name.

"Please," one parent entreated, "put Driver's Education back in the schools where it belongs."

Would doing this keep our children safe? Would it make them buckle up each time, prevent reckless speeding, or keep them from drinking and getting behind the wheel? Would it help, maybe even a little?

I don't know. If it saved just one life then surely it would be worth it. But our kids don't believe in their own mortality. Even in the face of their classmate's death, I know mine don't really think it could happen to them. No matter what we do or say, scientific studies show their brains are not developed to the point of understanding the very real consequences of risky behavior until they're in their mid-twenties.

So what do we do? We can't do nothing, merely watching as the roadside memorials multiply and the scholarships increase every time a kid dies. I don't know what the solution is, but I'd love to hear what you think.

After the boys died out by South Beach, bumper stickers encouraging the use of seat belts spread all over the island.

"Maybe this time they'll make a bumper sticker that says not to drink and drive," Daughter #2 said to me yesterday.

She sounded so hopeful. She is barely 15, naive enough to believe this is a problem that we can solve. And, for just one moment, looking at her, so did I.

Summer Job

Library Lady

I just started a summer job at the library. Daughter #1 was kind enough to point out for me that I am:
    1-a middle-aged woman
    2-single and ALONE (you might wonder how I know she said this in
       capital letters; just trust me on this one, okay?)
    3-I have five cats, and now,
    4-I work in a library

I suppose she's insinuating that this makes me some sort of cliche. But, as I'm sure life will eventually point out to her, aren't we all?

I've had a bunch of odd jobs the past few years. It's a very Island-y thing to do. A lot of work is seasonal, and many of us are trying to pursue some artistic career that may not pay very well. You've got to grab the opportunities as they come.

I worked at the high school till last year. I've done some subbing at a nursery school and a little private duty nursing as well. But I'm digging this library gig. It's kind of like being a kid in a candy store (yet another cliche).

I almost took a job in a jewelry shop, another area in which I have a personal interest. But messing with the merchandise there could turn into a very dangerous, very expensive disaster.

Daughter #1 worked in a book store last summer. This is another place that seems quite harmless on the surface. Yet for certain people, such as my daughter and myself, it could actually be quite insidious (by the way, the fact that we both love books almost more than life itself has nothing to do with us being related. We are, she informs me repeatedly, nothing alike. Any similarity in our personalities, eye and hair color, sense of humor, or interests, is purely coincidental).

By working there, she got a discount on any books she purchased, and this is where the trouble started. I'm not sure what percentage of her earnings she recycled back into the store, but all I'm saying is I know who paid for her gas last winter, and it wasn't her.

I won't, of course, have that cash flow problem working at the library. I may be exposed to constant temptation, but at least all of it's free.

As for D #1, she wisely realized that she needed to earn more and spend less. So this summer she's got some heavy duty babysitting jobs lined up. She loves kids, says she can't wait to have her own.

I say, bring on the babies. Because, unlike jewelry and books, prolonged exposure to other people's children does not generally lead to an uncontrollable desire to posses one of your own. Especially not when you're an 18 year-old independent young woman with college and a career and your whole life in front of you.

But I better be careful; I wouldn't want to make her sound like a cliche or anything...

Spin Cycle: Memories

Movies In The Park

When I was growing up, my New Jersey town would show movies in the park one night a week all summer. They weren't kiddie movies and the crowd was often older, but I don't remember anything shown being explicit. "The Music Man" and some Vincent Price thrillers particularly stand out.

My sister and I went with the other kids from our block. We'd bring blankets and snacks and, at nine or ten years old, we thought we were the coolest things in the world. I can't imagine sending my kids off this way at night, but I guess it was a different time.

The movies never started until it grew quite dark. I remember grownups in lawn chairs telling us to be quiet and quit fooling around, but with none of our parents there to enforce anything, I'm not entirely sure we complied.

The biggest thrill was the night we were convinced we'd been offered drugs by the small group of teenagers that hung out at the park's entrance. We were on our way home and it was really dark. This being the early 70's, the "hippie" drug culture was in full swing, and we'd all been warned by our parents about the evils of both hippies and drugs. These long-haired, fringe-flaunting kids smoking cigarettes clearly fit the bill, at least in our drama charged minds.

"They're popping pills," I remember my neighborhood buddy Joey whispering. "I saw him take some."

They must have heard us and decided to teach us a lesson. Because, whether the pills Joey thought he saw were acid or Tylenol, I am pretty darned sure they were not trying to push them on us.

But they did, at that point, offer them. To scare us, no doubt. And it worked. We screamed, "Drugs!" and ran like the wind, certain they were on our heels in hot pursuit.

We didn't slow down till we reached the safety of our street, several blocks away. Of course, when we told our parents what had happened, they wouldn't let us go back for any more movies in the park. For years after that we passed by there with exaggerated caution, convinced some pill-pushing derelict was going to emerge from the bushes and grab us.

Ironically, this same park, years later, became a major hang out for me and a certain male friend of mine when we were teenagers ourselves. And no, we didn't go there to pop pills. But maybe that story is best left for another time.

For more of this week's memory Spins, head over to Sprite's Keeper.

Privacy

How Much Do We Need to Know?

Have you ever been tempted to read your kid's diary (many still do keep them, you know, despite this techno-age)? How about go through their private stuff or their room?

I haven't done any of these, but I don't know if I think they're always the worst things in the world. I mean, if I seriously thought my kid was in trouble, doing drugs or acting out in some way that had me seriously worried, I'd probably do anything. Including searching their room and anywhere else that might give me a clue.

But I think there are people who are just curious (or nosy) about their kids. They go through their stuff because they want info, not because they have something to worry about. But when you're dealing with adolescents, you just might stumble upon some alarming tidbit that you really didn't want to know.

Privacy is big. They're going to screw up. And probably get through it and past it just fine (nine times out of ten). So do we really need to know everything?

I ask this because when I was a senior in high school, my mother read my diary. She said it fell off the radiator in my room, and when she went to pick it up, it opened to the page she confronted me about.

Of course I don't believe that. I figure she must have been reading it for a while, and that particular page freaked her out so badly that she needed to blow her own cover.

I was standing in front of the mirror in my room brushing my hair when she suddenly stood there, looming in my doorway. "So," she said in an ominous voice. "You think you're pregnant."

I was so blown away I didn't even attempt to lie. "You read my book," I blurted out. "How could you do that?"

It was one of my least favorite days in the long history of my life. I wasn't pregnant. But I was young and stupid and obviously not being careful.

I later tried to lie my way out of it, telling her she'd read it wrong. I even went back, added words, and left it out for her to read again. But it was too late. My mother knew I had a sex life.

Teachable moment, right? Not exactly. I was grounded, and for a short while I thought my life as I knew it was over. But I was a good kid. I got A's and I didn't get in trouble. Gradually, they eased back on the restrictions.

I'll never know what my parents said about the whole thing to each other behind closed doors, but neither of them ever brought up the topic of sex or birth control or pregnancy to me. Ever.

So would it have been better for all involved if they'd never known? In this particular case, I really think so.

I had a hard time writing in my journal for the longest time after that. I found myself writing to whomever might be invading my privacy and reading my words, uninvited.

Weeks later I was in the car with my mother, and she very casually said, "I'm sorry I read your book."

It didn't take away what she'd done.

But it meant a lot.

Graduation

Grief

The past few days have been bittersweet here on the Vineyard.

Yesterday, Daughter #1's senior class of 203 students graduated in a beautiful ceremony. This weekend there were Graduation parties everywhere we turned, D #1's included. The long lost and nearly forgotten sun made a highly anticipated and longed for appearance Saturday and Sunday, much to everyone's surprise.

Friday night at Class Night, a large majority of this year's seniors were awarded with scholarship funds to the tune of well over half a million dollars, donated by our very generous and supportive community.

All this after, on Thursday night, two of our island kids, one a graduating senior, and the other back after having just finished her first year of college, were involved in a horrific car crash, leaving one of them dead and the other with a long and painful recovery.

Daughter #2 called me Friday morning from school in tears. For one brief, insane second I thought she was crying because she hadn't made the extracurricular choral group she'd recently auditioned for. But then she said, "Mommy, there was an accident last night." And I felt, momentarily, as though I could not breathe.

"How can there still be Graduation?" D #1 asked later that day.

I understood her confusion. How could they, or any of us, reconcile the tragic events that had just occurred with the joy of Graduation?

The answer is that they can't, of course, be reconciled. But life is like that. Neither sadness nor joy take place in a vacuum. We are capable of feeling two very different, even conflicting, emotions at the same time.

A classmate who could not be there to cross the stage to receive her diploma, and one who is lost forever, were both, nonetheless, very much present in every part of this weekend's ritual. There were tears, a moment of silence for a dead friend, and a spontaneous standing ovation by the graduates at the ceremony yesterday for their injured peer.

It is a painful yet powerful lesson to learn that we can celebrate and mourn in tandem. And how poignant that these kids learn it now, as they stand paused at this crossroads between childhood and the rest of their lives.

There is a makeshift memorial by the side of the road at the sight of the crash, flowers and photos lying tenderly among the snapped-off trees and mowed down brush.

I cannot drive by it without feeling both a heart wrenching sense of despair at the loss, and an overwhelming rush of gratitude that my children are still here today to hug.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

I never changed my name when I got married. Which really irritated my ex mother-in-law, who claimed I was just trying to make things easier for myself if the marriage ended.

My ex took the whole keeping-my-name thing in stride. "What about our kids," he wanted to know. "Will they at least have my name?"

"Oh sure," I told him. "I have no problem with that."

Then I got pregnant. I don't know if it was the crazy-ass hormone shifts or the nausea and sciatica, but round about the sixth month, I started having second thoughts.

"I knew it," he pounced. "I knew you'd change your mind." It may have been the only time in our marriage he had me pegged correctly.

I mean, it just seemed like I was doing all the work in making this baby. Sure, he'd contributed some piddly little sperm, but the actual baby construction and maintenance was occurring in My Body. The least the little sucker could do for me was carry my name in addition to his dad's.

But how to do it? Space? Or hyphen? I didn't care for either. Then I read an article suggesting couples create a whole new name for their children by stuffing their two names together,without spaces or hyphens (or pretty much any common sense).

My husband was skeptical, but I somehow managed to convince him that this was the cutting-edge solution to our problem. What can I say? We were young and stupid. Too ignorant to see into our unborn children's futures, as person after person calling out or announcing their last name proceeded to completely annihilate the hell out of it.

Okay. I get it now. The hyphen or space is like directions on how to say it. Who knew?

"Wow," people inevitably comment. "I never heard that name before. What nationality is it?


Try Naive American, circa 1987. If I had it to do over, I'd probably give them their father's last name and use mine as a middle name. It really would've made everyone's lives a lot simpler. But somehow, when I was 25, that seemed way too much like settling.

Ah, youth.

People never know what to call us. I have my last name, my ex has his, and the kids have...well...theirs. We all pretty much answer to anything, which isn't a bad lesson in life to nail at a young age.

The ex and I agreed a long time ago we would be fine if any of our kids decided to drop one of our names and go by the other when they're older. And I think we meant it, really, I do.

But now, I'm kind of having second thoughts...

Summer Time Spin

This week's Spin Cycle has to do with summer. Don't forget to head over to Sprite's Keeper and check out the other Spins.

It may be June, but as I noted yesterday, here on the Vineyard it hasn't seemed very summery. Every year I need to remind myself: summer rarely makes much of an appearance before the end of June. But this year's chilly, wet spring is wearing thin.

I've always loved summer. When the kids were younger, the rigid school year schedule, with its extracurricular kid activities and homework battles, morphed into a relaxing mosaic of days in the garden or at the pool, evenings filled with barbecues, ice cream, and movies in the park.

But now that they're older, it takes on a whole new meaning. Summer is the only time that my kids all actually live at home for any length of time. First-Born Son has been away at college, and Daughter #1 leaves at the end of August. They'll be here for holidays and short visits, but it's very different when they actually live here.

It's not that I get to spend hours and hours of time with them. They're busy with multiple jobs and being with friends. And living in a seasonal mecca like this, there is plenty to keep them on the run.

But I love knowing this is their home base, the place they come back to every night. I go out of my way to coordinate family dinners on the days everyone's schedules allow them to be home at the same time. I entice them with off-island excursions to shop for what they need for school. And I try and plan some overnight family trip where we can all be together for a short time, a time when the old sibling alliances and rivalries, and stupid family jokes that only we get, can rear their sarcastic yet affectionate heads.

This summer is my 30th high school reunion in New Jersey, fairly close to where we used to live eight years ago. So months earlier I sent out the memo: Attention children of mine! You will put in for these four days and three nights off from your summer jobs before you even start. We will be taking a Family Road Trip to New Jersey, and you will be there, come hell or high water.

They rolled their eyes and grumbled, but I know better than to pay any attention to that. They're secretly looking forward to it as much as I am.

They used to be here all the time. And I spent so much of my time figuring out how I could score some precious hours to myself. Now they're mostly gone. And I spend time plotting how to rope them back in for some hours together. Right now, summer seems to be that time.

Who knows how many more summers they'll all be here? One, maybe two if I'm lucky?

Summer. My favorite time of year. Now, if the weather could just give me a reason to pack away the sweaters and break out the sunscreen...

Here Comes the Rain...Again

Pardon Me While I Rant

As I drove toward work last evening, it was impossible not to take note of the lush green island vegetation on all sides. Spring has been wet and chilly this year, and things have blossomed and are growing at an alarmingly prolific rate.

Everywhere, islanders have had to take dramatic measures to avoid being sucked into the overgrowth. How much time would it take, I wondered as I drove, for the island to grow in and over our walkways and driveways, up the front steps and over the roofs?

Mother Nature, I decided, is one greedy, cocky bitch. If we let her go unchecked, how long before she swallowed up any sign that we were ever here?

Okay, the rain was pelting on the windshield for about the 100th day this month, and the air was the damp, yellow-green color of melancholia. I had on my heavy barn coat and sheepskin boots to protect me from the chill, and it's June, remember, June!

About the tenth person, that day alone, had just informed me they can't make it to my daughter's Graduation party this weekend, the one I have been planning for months.

I have a horrible feeling, right about now, that the only people who show may be me and my parents, who will be exhausted and still complaining about the horrors of having to travel so far, by plane, bus, and boat, to get to this "God-forsaken-place" where I live.

How sad will THAT be, the three of us sitting in a huge party tent in my backyard, in the rain of course, and probably wearing parkas and gloves, surrounded by the multitude of purple "Class of 2009" decorations I've purchased, and eating many slices of the huge, very expensive cake my daughter insisted she had to have.

She will be, at that point, nowhere to be seen, having run off with her friends to other graduation parties, where the parents are more fun and had actual guests show up (and where, dare I say it, the sun may actually be shining).

Wow! I feel a whole lot better, having gotten all that out of my system. I had no idea this blogging thing could be so damned therapeutic. Now excuse me while I go screw in the many purple, very Vineyard-y light bulbs that just arrived yesterday to go in the lampposts that line my driveway.

I think that might be the sun I see peeking through those huge clouds...

Family History

Remembering the Questions

The last survivor of the Titanic died recently. She was 97, only an infant on that tragic night.

My grandmother was born in 1900, so she would have been 12 when the Titanic went down. I wish I'd thought to ask her about it while she was alive.

I think like that a lot now. I'll read about how the Spanish Influenza pandemic  killed almost 700,000 Americans in 1918-1919, and I wonder what that was like for my grandmother. Surely she must have known people that got ill or died.

Don't get me wrong. I was very close to my grandmother. She lived to be 94 and I had many revealing conversations with her from the time I was young. My mother, for instance, was unaware that my grandmother had been engaged three times until I told her. She didn't realize there had been three additional siblings of my grandmother's that had died in infancy.

Like many parents, my grandmother was busy with her four children. Her husband died when they were still very young, and she had to go out in 1946 and work full time to support them. No doubt she didn't have much time for sharing old stories. But that had changed by the time she became a grandmother.

She told me stories about my mother, like the time she mistakenly made dates with two different boys for the same night, and they both showed up. She told me how she tightly bound her breasts to flatten them for the flapper styles of the 20's, and how she believed doing so had forever destroyed their shape.

But I was young. Not yet a mother myself, and still caught up in thinking she'd always be there. Now I wonder, what was it like to raise four children in the 40's and 50's alone? Did she date? How was it to live through World Wars I and II? To be 20 years old and the first generation of young women to get the vote?

I encourage my kids to question their grandparents about their lives whenever they see them. But ironically, it often seems we're unaware of what big questions we might have until it's too late to find out the answers.

What was it like to be a 12 year old girl in 1912 and hear about the sinking of that famous ship?

If only I'd thought to ask.

Forms of Protest

When we were off-island to see "Hair" a couple of weeks ago, I made the requisite supply run to Walmart.

My friend stayed in the car with her son. It seemed he was boycotting Walmart based on certain of its practices he'd learned about, and my friend wanted to respect his dedication to this cause.

I could relate. Back in the 1980's, I went for years without eating one of my favorite foods, tuna, because dolphins were reported to be getting tangled up and dying in the tuna nets. My husband at the time, and any tuna-loving friends who frequented my home, were forced into this boycott by their association with me.

I didn't delude myself into thinking I could change the world. But that didn't mean it wasn't important to try.

Six years ago now, when the Iraq war started, First-Born Son, a freshman in high school at the time, participated in a protest at his school in the form of a walkout. I recall the look of apprehension on his face when I picked him up at the bus stop that afternoon.

"I don't want you to be mad," he precipitated his tale, as he got into the car. "But they took attendance during the walkout. I think we're going to be in trouble."

I wasn't mad. In fact, I was proud of him. It's hard to remember now, but at the time we still were fairly sure Iraq had weapons of mass destructiion. I wasn't completely sure how I felt about the war, but I was proud my son had stood up for his convictions.

At the same time, I also supported his school and the principal, who invited all those who'd walked out to turn themselves in and accept their consequences. Most of the kids did, and they received Saturday School (detention). The principal came in herself that morning, and talked with the kids about their opinions concerning the war. It was, for my son, a memorable experience.

What causes, little or big, have you or your kids taken up over the years? Did you learn anything as a result?

Sometimes I think I don't take on enough causes. But I know people (my mother, for one) who would probably disagree with that. I need to remember, we don't have to set the world on fire to make a difference.

Eventually, the tuna industry changed the way they caught their fish. And the dolphins triumphed.

Every little bit counts.

Graduation

Top Twenty

Every year out here on the Vineyard in June, our two newspapers run special graduation issues, honoring that year's seniors. Photos of every graduate are published, as well as highlights from commencement and the many generous island scholarships and awards. The top 20 students are highlighted along with what colleges they'll attend next year.

And every year, someone somewhere suggests we stop publishing this "Top 20" list, arguing that it stresses the academic ability of some small few, and makes other students feel inferior when they should be celebrating their own accomplishments.

I say: Oh please. Give me a break!

Daughter #1 is in this top 20. She's not on any sports teams and, although she's always done chorus and dance, those are areas she's happy to take a back-seat supportive role. She is shy and quiet; teacher conferences have always been a reiteration of telling me she needs to speak up.

Academics is her thing. She loves to learn, and she put in the long hours over the many years required to get into this very elite group of her peers.

Firstborn Son, a bright, gregarious kid, could not spare the time to even attempt to achieve such an honor. But he did not begrudge his classmates who did.

So this is D #1's moment. Sure, I'm proud of her. And I can't deny it will be an honor for me as well. But this belongs to her. She's earned it.

Each graduate has a reason to be proud of themselves. Some kids have difficulties with learning and, no matter how bright they are or how hard they work, they will not be in that top 20. But every motivated kid will find their own way to shine. We can't get so caught up in being "politically correct" that the achievements of these dedicated kids are allowed to fade into oblivion.

At D #1's eighth grade graduation, four years ago, the school superintendent asked the athletes to stand. Then those on Student Government. There is no honor roll at this elementary school, another attempt to equalize the masses and avoid feelings of academic inadequacy, no doubt. But what about the kids whose academic adequacy is their strength? What about the D #1's of this world?

I am so happy for her. I can't wait to see this year's Graduation Issue of the island papers. You better believe I'll be purchasing quite a few copies. This is D #1's moment. One of many, I'm sure.

You go girl!

"At Your Service..."

All year long my older daughter has driven Daughter #2 to and from school. But since she's a senior and done now, these last weeks D #2 is relegated back to the bus, and me driving her to and from the bus stop.

She usually calls or texts me as she's leaving school each day to let me know she's not staying after or going anywhere (and because she thinks I am an idiot and will forget to pick her up if she doesn't call, and she may have to, God forbid, walk).

Some days she's chatty, and i recognize from her voice that I am merely a pawn in her little act of getting attention from someone around her as she "talks to Mom" on the phone. Other days she is unusually curt.

"Be at the bus stop at 2:15."  Click.

It's as if I am the next stop on the underground railroad or a character in a Jason Bourne film.  Leave the package by the well under the light of the new moon.

Okay, I can roll with it. She's my third child to barrel through the treacherous slope of adolescence and the second girl. I believe girls take the dangerous double black diamond slope, as opposed to the merely steep blue square (I'm not a skier myself, but I'm told these are the correct analogies; feel free to let me know if I'm wrong). The point is, I generally feel capable of handling whatever crap they dish out. Bring it.

But yesterday...

Yesterday I receive the call, with the above mentioned "Click." I was emptying the dishwasher, D #2's daily morning chore. But this morning she overslept and, while I would usually leave it for her to do after school, I was feeling generous. She has a huge English project to complete, and a science one yet to start, in addition to her usual homework.

Ah, I think innocently, as I selflessly perform her chore for her, these end of year crunches, they're a killer. And I envision her freckled face lighting up in gratitude when she sees what I've done (okay, maybe not, but I was at least thinking what a nice person I was; who wouldn't want me for a mom?).

I glance at the clock. 2:13. Okay. Let me just put these last glasses away. I head out the door, pausing to deadhead the pot of pansies on my front stoop (curse you, pansies; this is all your doing!).

I hop into my monster truck and cruise down to the bus stop at the end of our road.

Now mind you, this is just under a mile from our house. A flat, paved lane curving through the countryside, the occasional house set back here and there. The day is perfect. Sunny and warm, but not hot, a mild breeze barely light enough to ruffle one's hair.

I drive around the last curve before the bus stop and there I see D #2 walking on the side of the road. By how far up the road she's come, I can judge she's been walking about 30 seconds to a minute.

Which means, of course, that: I  AM  LATE.

I slow down, wave to a neighbor passing by in her minivan, and smile broadly as D #2 swings into the truck. God, she's adorable, in her denim shorts and flip flops, her hair held to the side of her face in a clip.

You know how sometimes you're just so glad to see them? Kind of like when they were babies and they're down for a nap. No matter how many naps or how many mornings you'd been through the same routine, no matter how tired you were or how many times you'd been up with them the night before, when you opened that door they'd be standing up in their crib, their drooling face lit up with joy at the sight of you, holding on to the crib railing and rocking back and forth in anticipation of you picking them up. And all your exhaustion, all your irritation, would just melt, because they were so glad to see you that they made you feel like you were the most important person in the whole world?

And you know, sometimes even now, you feel like that when you see them?

Yeah. Well, I was feeling it. And so I smile and watch my amazingly cute-as-a-button baby girl get into the car. And she looks at me with her steely blue-eyed gaze and says:

"When I say 2:15, I mean 2:15."

...Sigh...

Welcome to my world. I know you know exactly how I feel.

Mothering:

One Degree of Separation

When I was away last weekend, First-Born-Son called me on my cell phone to whine.

"I'm so sunburnt," he complained. "I was on the beach for six hours."

"Did you use sunscreen?" I asked uselessly.

"No," he admitted. Then, "I know. But it hurts!"

Great, I spend the first 12-plus years of his life meticulously applying SPF 200 in the effort to prevent loss of life and limb from future melanoma, and he destroys it in one careless afternoon.

"I'll mix you something to put on it when I get home," I promised him. "But for now, take some ibuprofen. And wear something really soft."

It's not like he didn't already know to do these things. But I knew he needed to hear them from me as much as I needed to say them.

Last February he called from school and I knew instantly, by the sound of his voice, that he was sick.

"I can't keep anything down," he moaned. "I have a fever. I'm so cold."

If he wasn't a boat ride plus a four hour car trip away, I'd have hopped in the car. But as helpless as I was, I knew he'd feel better just telling me how sick he was. I helped him make a list of things that he could ask a friend to pick up for him. We talked several times a day over the next couple of days as he slowly got better. It's a new phase of mothering for us both.

Parenting a 21 year old young man is an elusive thing. If I've done my job, he should be pretty much taking care of himself (and using sun screen, damn it!). But that doesn't mean he still won't require regular doses of mothering. Or that I don't need to feel needed. Especially if he's sick or in pain.

When I got home last weekend, I mixed him the promised concoction of aloe and lavender, and applied it to his face, neck, and tops of his feet. Places that, despite their growth, I know like the back of my hand.

And afterward, we both felt better.