IslandRoar

Mischief Night

 
Spin Cycle: Halloween

Do they call the night before Halloween "Mischief Night" where you live?

Back in New Jersey, Mischief Night was big. People left their porch lights on and listened for bands of roving kids in the dark, looking to smash pumpkins and armed with toilet paper, shaving cream, or eggs. Police cars cruised the streets.

Growing up in northern New Jersey, our town actually called it "Cabbage Night." And no, I have no idea why. One theory was that the name stemmed from farming days when kids would trash the fields and throw around the cabbages. But who knows?

My mother took Cabbage Night very seriously. We were not allowed out of the house, and she would sit in the dark at the front windows of our house, guarding it from potential marauders.

My sister and I would be up in our rooms seething, furious that we couldn't hit the streets with at least a roll of toilet paper. But then one year it was rumored boys were roaming around spraying Nair on girls' heads instead of shaving cream, causing them to lose their hair. Cabbage Night participants were urged by the authorities to stay home or, if they must venture out, to at least cover their hair with a hat.

Although we personally never knew anyone this happened to, the mere suggestion of losing our hair was enough to stop our complaining for at least several years.

Mischief Night is pretty nonexistent on the Vineyard. I don't know if this is just the island or all of New England. Any shenanigans out here tend to occur on Halloween night.

Trick or Treating is usually over before 9 pm, but the police stay on alert for possible paint ball incidents or teenagers plotting a dramatic "rumble in the park," both of which have occurred (but were quickly subdued) since I moved here nine Halloweens ago.

What's the protocol in your neck of the woods? Any shaving cream or toilet paper streamers decorating the trees in your past?

For more Halloween Spins, check out the treats over at Sprite's Keeper.

Sibling Sleepover

When we finally pulled into the parking lot of Daughter #1's dorm for Parents Weekend, Daughter #2 had jumped out of the car and was hugging her sister before I could even swing my car door open.

Daughter #1 returned her sister's embrace in her typical cautious manner, but the smile was spread wide across her face.

Who were these girls? They chattered away like two long lost friends all weekend, walking together far ahead of The Ex and me, who were strolling lazily and snapping photos as we made our way across campus Saturday.

Daughter #1 had to report to the Biology Lab to check on her paramecium, and we tagged along to watch our hard-earned collegiate dollars in action. She assigned D #2 the chores of cleaning her slides and putting her supplies away, and I watched in amused wonder as D #2 nodded and set to work.

If we'd been at home and Daughter #1 had bossed her around like this, she'd have told her in no uncertain terms to stick her slides where the sun don't shine.

Later, D #1 called us at the hotel before we picked her up for dinner, and reported that several kids in her dorm had decided to have a sibling sleepover. Daughter #2 was invited to spend the night. She was elated.

But first we had tickets to a show at the college. My daughters sat side by side in the row in front of me, heads bent together, whispering and giggling.

At least that's how it started. But by the time the show ended, D #2 stood up and whirled around complaining, "She's so mean. She said people were staring at me because of the way I laugh."

"It's true." D #1 shrugged. "She's loud and people keep looking at her." To D #1, being noticed is the kiss of death. "Why does she draw attention to herself all the time?"

D #2 turned to her sister, furious. "I hate you," she said. And right then and there in the theater, she hauled off and slugged her in the arm. Hard. Okay, I thought. Now these are the girls I know and love. Well, most of the time.

The Ex, who had far surpassed his usual allotment of Family Time, sighed heavily in my general direction in a way that could only be interpreted as: Do Something. Now. Then he went on ahead to have a cigarette.

"Take it outside," I told my daughters. "There'll be more room for you to really hurt one another."

They glared at me condescendingly and rolled their eyes.

See what I have to put up with all on my own, now that you're gone, Daughter #2's expression clearly said.

I'm so sorry, Daughter #1's return glance concurred. I'd almost forgotten how embarrassing she can be.

Then, united in their daughterly disdain, they scurried ahead of me out of the theater, towards their Sibling Sleepover.

I followed in triumph. If only it could always be this easy...

A Time To Frost

Am I the only one who's always a little relieved here on the east coast when the first hard frost finally hits?

Oh, there's a part of me that's annoyed as well. All that work during spring and summer so we can finally enjoy the minimal efforts required each autumn, with the dahlias and mums, the last frantic blooms of annuals.

And then one night, a few short hours of lowered temps, and it's all gone. Just a gray-brown withered mess. Very sad.

Except that then I know I'm done. Yes, I'll clear the gardens and mulch. Maybe even sink some new bulbs before winter, grumbling all the while. But the weeding, watering, feeding, staking, and deadheading is over for another season.

It happened the week after Columbus Day this year, reasonable for this little frost pocket I happen to live in. Sometimes I make it another few days, but there's only been one year since I moved here that it didn't frost till early November. And of course there was that one frustrating season we didn't even get through September.

In New Jersey my garden often survived well into November, and once, that I can recall, even early December.

But I was younger then, not yet 40. Now I'm old and ready to hunker down for winter. Light a fire and put my PJ's on right after dinner. I'd rather read a book (or blog) in the time I would be gardening.

I know I'll feel differently come March when the first snowdrops and crocuses poke their little heads through.

Then I'll be so glad I took the time to plant all those bulbs.

Child's Play

 

 

I am so enjoying working at the library. Now that I have a permanent job there I get to spend a lot more time at the circulation desk.

And I am here to tell you that stamping out books is just as much fun in real life as it was when I was a kid and my sister and I played "Library."

Realizing this, I got to thinking about other games we played as kids, games where we were attempting to mirror reality.

I remember being forced to play "Bride" once, by the daughter of one of my mother's friends who'd recently acquired her mother's veil. Watching her hog the veil and make out with the cement pole impersonating the bridegroom put me off that game for life.

In the same way, I would quickly tire when my sister enticed me into playing "House." Believe me, I loved being home with my kids when they were little (generally speaking...), but that had pretty much nothing to do with the tedious chores that "House," real or imaginary, is made up of.

Although it was always challenging to see how long we could keep the poor cat, trapped in baby clothing, in the game before she escaped to the basement, dragging her baby bonnet still half tied on.

Oddly enough, my sister and I played "Funeral." Did anyone else out there do this? It started, of course, with the death of a goldfish, and my father's idea to bury said fish in a small cardboard jewelry box behind the garage.

This was followed by the eventual deaths of several turtles, motivating my sister and I to pull on old high heels, gloves, and hats, and traipse out behind the garage with faux tears to say a prayer and bemoan the demise of these so-called pets, who were obviously more dear to us in death than they could ever have been in life.

One of my favorite games was "Rollerskating Restaurant." Our mother was a neat freak, which meant the cement floor of our basement was always clear. On rainy days, my sister and I would strap on our roller skates and take "orders from the imaginary "customers" seated at our old kitchen table, which now lived in our basement.

We'd then roll over to the "kitchen," cook up the order, serve it, and then clear the table for the next customer, all in our metal skates. You remember, the kind that needed a key?

On humid New Jersey summer days, our basement was the coolest room in the house and, to stay even cooler, we'd often play the game in our underwear. Which made it, I guess, a whole different kind of restaurant...

What games mirroring actual life did you play as a kid? And were they more or less fun than the real thing?

College Bound

 

By the time this entry posts, I will be pulling my Expedition onto the boat, on my way to Daughter #1's first college Parent's Weekend.

It's a long ride, so poor Daughter #2 is being ripped out of school on both Friday and Monday, which I know makes me a terrible parent who will no doubt be incurring the wrath of her teachers, very nice people that used to like me when I worked at the high school for three years.

D #1 has big plans for us. Friday and Saturday nights there are theater events and dinner plans with new friends. During the day she's made it clear we are to take her shopping to the nearby factory outlets, and to buy her a bike to use on campus.

Now, the outlets I get. That's the daughter I know. But a bike?

It's not that I don't think it's a terrific idea. I do. But D #1 requesting a bike is a little like Lance Armstrong saying he's passing up this year's Tour de France to take a Quantum Physics class (no offense, Lance).

Last month it was a tattoo. Now it's a bike. I'm a little nauseous, wondering what next month might bring. A change in major? A live-in boyfriend? Surely I jest.

But this is college, right? A time for experimentation and self discovery. Who am I to stand in the way of that?

Here's hoping she hasn't changed so much that I can at least recognize her when I see her. I'll be so relieved, I'll buy her the most bitching bike we can find.

Trick or Treat

Halloween may be the one night of the year I wish I still lived in New Jersey.

It's not that it isn't a big deal on the Vineyard. It is. Shops are open for the little ones to Trick or Treat during the day, and there are Halloween parties everywhere.

Our favorite was always at the Ag Hall where families get to take a hayride in a horse-drawn wagon, down the pitch black road and through the old West Tisbury cemetery. There, police officers and firefighters wait, dressed in spooky costumes, ready to jump out from behind the tombstones and chase the wagon as everyone on board screams in horrified delight.

People who live in Tisbury decorate their homes, eagerly awaiting the throngs of kids who hit "town" at dusk to Trick or Treat. Parents walk around with their kids right on through middle school and often in costume themselves.

I was a little nervous our first year as I watched my kids disappearing with the others into house after house. That's a major no-no where I come from. But here people have haunted houses set up inside, or baskets full of candy waiting for the kids to choose from. Older folks keep buckets of change by the door, reminding the kids to whip out their Unicef boxes.

But all that happens in town. Out where I live, the houses are far apart and well off the road. There aren't any Trick or Treaters. And, although many kids, including all of mine, Trick or treat all the way through high school here, I haven't been a participant for the past two years.

In New Jersey, a bunch of us met with our kids shortly after school and Trick or Treated in our suburban neighborhood. Then we'd head home in the dark, light up the jack-o-lanterns, and enjoy the next phase of the night: answering the door and handing out the candy.

I miss that. Now I sit home and wait to pick up my daughter and her friends, and watch them spread their loot out on the floor to count it. If I'm lucky, she'll toss me a mini Milky Way or Snickers bar.

Is Halloween a big deal where you live? What's your favorite part?

Here's hoping you have your share of Tricks AND Treats!

Spin Cycle: Recipes

Do you have any secret recipes, ones you refuse to share with anyone? Or maybe you share the recipe, but you leave out the fact that you add a certain extra ingredient or double another?

My ex-mother-in-law makes, hands down, the World's Best Potato Salad. Years ago my Ex managed to pry the recipe from her, but it wasn't easy. He had to watch her several times, pen and paper in  hand, because she basically claimed it only existed in her head.

And he now makes the World's 2nd Best Potato Salad. Hands down. But, you know, there's something missing. We remain convinced his mother's batches contain a pinch of something she may never share.

Daughter #2 read in some cookbook years ago that one should always double the amount of vanilla called for in a recipe. While I'd always been generous with the vanilla, I'd never gone that far. But we started doing it and it works, nearly every time.

Speaking of vanilla, I have a French Toast recipe with one secret ingredient. My kids love my French toast, especially if it's made with Portuguese sweet bread, very big on the Vineyard as are all things Portuguese. I have yet to share the complete recipe with anyone.

"That's so stupid, " Daughter #1 tells me not infrequently. "What if you die and we never know how to make it?"

Valid point. I'm this close to telling her. Maybe next time.

But then, alas, I will have no secrets left.

 

Realizing I may have cheated a little by not posting an actual recipe, I suggest you head quickly over to Sprite's Keeper for some legitimate Recipe Spins.

 

"Mommy Blogging"

 

What do you think of the term "Mommy Bloggers?" I don't write about my kids all the time, but I'm sure I do it often enough to be categorized somewhat as a "Mommy Blogger."

Then of course, there are the "Mommy Wars." Because apparently women  really believe there's only one way to raise a child: theirs. I don't know any of these women. The women I know are generally pretty damned supportive of one another whether they work outside the home or not.

How about "Chick-Lit?" I know I've felt guilty more than once the last few years when I read a novel about women that is light and breezy or, God forbid, romantic. And forget about wanting to write one. As though the only reading material on any of our nightstands must surely be Faulkner or Proust.

Why all the divisiveness and negativity when it comes to female labels (like if they can keep us fighting amongst ourselves, maybe they can stop us from taking over the world?)? I've mentioned this before when I blogged about how insulting I find the term "cougar." And don't get me started on what's happened to the word "feminist."

Growing up, I thought the word "feminist" stood for strong women who supported the rights and choices of all women, but now it's become such a dis, nobody wants to admit to being one, even the women I look up to for their so-called feminist ideals.

When I blogged about the term "cougar," some people suggested I embrace the word. But I'm not so sure.

Like the words "Mommy Blogger," there is something derogatory and condescending about so many of these labels. I'm not really on board with helping them become mainstream terminology.

But I think I'll throw caution to the wind and start calling myself a Feminist once more. What do you think?

In my opinion, it's the ultimate F-word.

Madame Librarian

 

Well, my summer library job has just morphed into a permanent year-round position.

I'm pretty relieved. No more scrambling to find yet another odd job to support my writing habit until I become rich and famous and immortalized in the halls of literary fame.

Yet I don't need Daughter #1 to remind me (though no doubt of course she will) that this latest employment opportunity only serves to clinch my place in the annals of future Crazy-Old-Lady status.

Before, I was just going to be that Weird-Woman-Down-the-Street. You know, the one who lives all alone, with all those cats (for the record, I have only 5 cats, but the way some people talk, you'd think there were at least 20)? I mean, it wasn't like I was some eccentric old spinster librarian or something.

Except now I kind of am. Maybe not full time, and minus the Masters in Library Science, but close enough.

Although I'm not sure if one can actually be considered "a spinster" if one was once married. Or if a sexist word like spinster is any longer even considered politically correct.

Probably not, in which case I can be the Eccentric-Old-Lady-Librarian-Divorcee. However "divorcee" sounds rather racy and provocative, and therefore probably doesn't jive with the whole "librarian" personna.

Or does it?

I think it's time to cast aside stereotypes. Or maybe, just start a whole new stereotype. What do you say to a Brilliant, Single, Writer/Librarian who loves all animals and dances on tables when the notion strikes?

I'll let you know, but I think we might be onto something...

Spin Cycle: Photo Essay

The Little Red-haired Girl

Being a red-head, the invisible but much loved Little Red-haired Girl was always my favorite Charlie Brown character.

So you can imagine my delight when Daughter #2 was cast in this very role last year in her school's production of You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

The only problem was, Daughter #2 is not a red-head. She knew I wouldn't be too excited about her permanantly dying her hair, so the director suggested red henna.

 

 

D#2 loved her new look so much that we now repeat the rather messy process every few months.

 

 

This then, is how one creates a Little Red-haired Girl of their own.

 

 

 

When I was growing up and people complimented my hair, my mother always said, "Oh, but mine was much redder." I vowed if I had a red-haired child I would never say that.

But when I hear comments on how much D#2's hair is like mine now, I have been known to say, "Oh yes, but my color is actually real."

 

For more photo essays go visit Sprite's Keeper.

Award Time

 

I recently received This Lovely Blog Award from Pumpkin Delight, a blog I've enjoyed for a while now.

Such honors naturally come with rules, and these are as follows:

        -Post this award on your blog, along with a link to the Lovely Blogger that 
           gifted you.
          -Pass it on to 15 other blogs you've recently discovered.
          -Contact these bloggers to let them know they've been chosen.

While I enjoy many blogs, I will follow Pumpkin's lead and pass this along to 5 other bloggers.

        1-Whoa My Horses: I've followed her for a few months now, but I never cease 
           to be intrigued by her life on the ranch.

        2-Picture Imperfect: This is a new photo blog I recently discovered. Her nature 
           shots and commentary are both worth the visit.

        3-Single Mom Survives: Another recent find. I love reading the spirited posts of 
           this gutsy single mom.

I have been following these last two bloggers for a couple of months. I would read anything they wrote.

        4-From the Inside...Out

        5-Theycallmejane's Blog

I suggest you go visit these people now. Their blogs are more than Lovely.

 

A Life Well Lived

 

A friend of mine died last week. She was 87. At first I was really sad. But then I started to think about the celebration her life had been.

Meg was a poet. An only child, she'd married a gifted, eccentric artist and had five children. They lived in a huge mansion in Connecticut that they couldn't afford, because everything was sacrificed to her husband's whim and he wanted the house. The more frustrated he grew with his struggling career, the more mentally and emotionally abusive he became.

Her own work was buried by his, but when the children were grown she decided she'd had enough. Already in her 60's, she found the courage to leave him. She walked away with nothing and wound up taking a job as a house-mother at a women's college in Connecticut. There, she was able to take classes and save a little money. Most important, she was finally on her own.

Eventually she decided to place a call to her old friend and family pediatrician, Dr. B. His wife was dead, and he was at least 15 years her senior, but he was still practicing medicine in a rather dubious section of Brooklyn.

They dated for a while, and then Meg moved to Brooklyn and they married. Somewhere along the way, they bought a house on the Vineyard, and it was here that they came when Dr. B finally retired at age 90. They had 12 happy years together before he died.

Meg stayed on in the Vineyard house. She traveled and cooked and returned to her early love of writing poems. It was through poetry that she came into my life. She hosted fabulous parties with all her many friends: artists, writers, professors; she had an eclectic assortment of people that she collected and held dear.

A few years ago she moved to Boston to enjoy the conveniences of city life. When I went to stay on weekends, it was clear she'd already developed a network of friends. She was swimming and had season tickets to the theater. She'd started a Facebook page to keep in touch with her younger friends and family. I wasn't really that surprised the day I received her "friend request."

She had her own table at several neighborhood restaurants, and she'd published a book of her poetry. She even told me about her steamy affair with a man little more than half her age.

Two years ago she took her granddaughter to Europe. And, despite a broken hip, cardiac bypass surgery, and stomach cancer, all in the last year and a half, she was still living alone and planning a trip to Greece this winter. And she was gathering poems to publish a second collection.

She'd called me just a few weeks ago to invite me to her annual New Year's Day party, and we were making plans to get together on her next visit to the Vineyard over the Jewish holidays. But she never made it.

I'll miss Meg, but I was blessed to have her as my friend. She found joy in everything, and no matter how many years had gone by, she never gave up believing there was even more joy to come.

But she put it best herself:

            Our lives were always a little less and more than that which we had 
        bargained for.

And:

            Light is fading; we must go. Oh world, oh world, I love you so.

No Place Like Home

They call us "Wash-ashores," people who are not originally from Martha's Vineyard but choose to call it home.

There are thousands of us, obviously. And we are just as intrigued by each other's stories as we are by our own. What, after all, causes a person to leave the mainland, with its highways and shopping malls, its opportunities, conveniences, and necessities, to move to an island surrounded by the sea, an island reachable only by plane or boat, modes of transportation that are annoyingly dependent on the whimsical behavior of the sea and sky?

People land here on the promise of a job or because they are following some great love. They come to "borrow" the seasonal home of a friend for one winter and wind up staying for life. A place like this draws its share of artists and dreamers, but there are just as many so-called "sensible folks" who feel the pull, folks like teachers and lawyers, scientists and builders, plumbers and chefs.

We may come from scattered backgrounds and live our lives in varied ways, but there is something about this island that speaks to a similar place deep within us all.

I was blown here on the timeless wind of young love. The Ex spent summers here as a kid. It was, and still is, one of his favorite places. My aunt and grandmother vacationed here for years, but I had never been.

I felt it the very first time the car rolled off the boat. The Aaah feeling, as though every worry in the world just dripped off my body and disappeared. I supposed that was the way you should feel on vacation. But there was more to it. I knew I would come back. I needed to come back. Again and again.

I felt as though I was returning to the place where I was supposed to be. Every time. Even after almost 25 years of rolling off the boat and 9 years of calling it home, I feel it still. Every time.

Have you ever felt like that about a place? Maybe it's something about islands. We have a friend who's spent time in both the Philippines and Fiji, and he claims to have felt it in those places too.

"Wash-ashores": many islanders who are not natives are insulted by the term, but I kind of like it. After all, that's what happened. I washed ashore.

And thank goodness I did.

Vineyard Vice

So the word on the street is that there's a drug dealer living in our neighborhood.

Oh, the house looks nice and normal, and I even see them walking their dog, who's pretty cute. But unfortunately the info comes from several reliable sources, so it's probably true.

A few years ago there was a registered sex offender living a couple of roads away. This was easily verified on the internet. My kids walked right by his driveway on their way home from the bus stop.

A friend thought I should make sure they had a ride so they would never have to walk past his house. But that wasn't always possible. My youngest was in middle school by this time, old enough for me to sit her down and talk about how to stay safe, and what to do if she was approached. By anyone.

Nothing ever happened and the guy is long gone.

But now we've got the damned drug dealer.

"Maybe I should get better locks." I voiced my anxiety to the Ex. "I don't want to get robbed."

"Why would they rob you?" he asked. "Don't drug dealers make a lot of money?"

Seriously? This is a man who travels the world dealing with all kinds of people and their businesses. I mean, it's not like he's confined to some island or anything.

"Ummm, I was thinking more of his customers?" I said. "You know, high, desperate people who steal anything they can get their hands on so they can buy drugs?"

"Oh. Yeah. Maybe you're right."

You think??

I know, I know; it doesn't matter where you live. There's trouble brewing everywhere. And I've got to figure in a neighborhood like our's, this can't go on for very long.

A couple of my neighbors and I are determined to get them out of here sooner rather than later. But we need to come up with a really good plan. Preferably one that doesn't involve sending any of us in under-cover, or a middle-of-the-night drive-by.

I don't watch any of those TV crime shows, so I'm at a loss here.

Have any of you ever had undesirable criminals as neighbors, or heard a good story about someone who has?

All ideas welcome. Just leave out the weapons of mass destruction. Please.

And Then There Was One

I never wanted to be an only child. I liked having my sister around to deflect a portion of my parent's attention, and it's comforting now that someone out there knows exactly what life was like growing up in my family.

I never wanted to have an only child, either. Don't misunderstand; there is nothing wrong with having one child if that's what you desire. But I knew I wanted more. And if I'd been unable to have more kids after my son, I know I would have adopted. I was that adamant about giving my children siblings.

Although I purposely waited over three years after First-Born Son to have Daughter #1, there was a little part of me that worried the whole time. What if something happened to me and F-B Son was left without a brother or sister?

When finally I placed D #1 in his arms, my relief was palpable. At least if I died now, I thought, they would have each other. And when I added D #2 to the mix, I felt more of the same.

So it should come as no surprise that now that I am down to one child at home, I'm less than thrilled. This, after all, was not the plan. I wanted noise, arguing, laughter, the patter of little feet. A bit of chaos, if you will.

But now. It's awfully quiet.

It's not that D #2 isn't good company. But she's a busy girl. School, field hockey, homework, friends. Not to mention that whole other world of her cell phone and Facebook.

There's no one to cook for. Her palate is, let's just say, limited, and I tend to eat a lot of salad. We're pretty boring.

The other day I was driving her home from practice and I started to recite the list of things I needed to accomplish that evening. I suppose I was just thinking out loud.

But suddenly she interrupted me and asked, "Why are you telling me all this?"

I stopped to think. I guess before I had three of them to talk to each day, and now the little boring stuff that used to get spread around was all falling on her. Poor thing.

"Well honey, it's just the two of us now." I smiled sweetly and patted her hand. "So we're kind of like an old married couple."

"Ewww, don't say that," she shrieked.

Then, "Hey, can we get ice cream tonight?"

"Sure," I told her. "Why not?"

I guess being an only child has its bright side too.

Spin Cycle: Arts & Crafts

 

 

I've always been an artsy person. When life is tough or I'm trying to make my way through something, I have a long history of flipping on a new creative switch.

I probably even did this as a child, but the first time I recall doing it purposefully is when I was 19, in college. My long time love had dumped me and life was especially bleak. I felt that if I did not find something to catch hold of, I was in very real danger of drowning.

So I tried out for a campus play and attempted to find myself in the creative energy at rehearsals. I decided to teach myself calligraphy, bought a set of pens, and borrowed several books from the library. I'm no professional, but I got good enough so that, a few years later, I calligraphied my own wedding invitation envelopes.

I also began to paint, something I'd done a little of in high school. Two of my favorites, a painting of a horse and one of my cat, actually still hang in my basement family room today.

Maybe doing all this is a way to replace pieces of myself that have been lost, build myself up so that I am bigger, better, stronger than before. A new bionic me.

Years later, I repeated this pattern as my marriage slowly unraveled, throwing myself into making elaborate scrap books for my children. I got a part in a local theater production of the Irish play, Dancing at Lughnasa. And, to escape the tension in my home when my husband and I were both there, I banished myself to the yard and became a gardener.

Stronger, better, smarter. Bionic.

And always, there's been the poetry, the writing. My life line.

How about you? Are there any creative outlets that have, on occasion, been known to save your soul?

 

To see how crafty some other bloggers might be, zip over to Sprite's Keeper for more Spins.

Rescue Me

 

When I walked out of my daughter's Back-to-School Night, some time after nine o'clock one night last week, I was met with the distinct odor of gasoline.

There was already a fire truck and numerous blinking lights in the high school parking lot as volunteer firefighters arrived on the scene.

The object of all this chaos was a little red Corolla. My son's Corolla, the car I have been using since he went back to college so I could feel better about not driving my monstrous, gas-guzzling Expedition.

Several firefighters were peering under the Corolla's rear end when I ran over. There was a puddle of gasoline that started underneath my car and slowly trickled its way across the parking lot.

"Did you just fill up?" a firefighter asked.

I nodded. But the car had been in my driveway for hours without leaking before I drove it to the high school.

"Maybe it's because you're parked at an angle?" The firefighter, who was pretty cute, offered a guess.

"This has happened before," I tried to explain. Two years ago the Corolla had a leak in the gas tank, again only occurring after my son had filled the tank and was parked on an incline. My Ex had fixed it then.

And damn it, he would fix it now.

"Can't I just drive it home?" I asked.

"The Chief's on his way," I was told. "He'll decide."

The Chief arrived about the same time as the police. Who called all these people? You'd think an oil tanker had run aground or something.

They cordoned off the area and started hosing down "the spill" with some specialized crap. Then they dumped powdery gunk over it to contain it (pardon my scientific terms; I hope I'm not confusing anyone).

Meanwhile, parents were leaving Back-to-School Night and strolling by this whole embarrassing scene on the way to their own cars, cars that weren't leaking gas and requiring every firefighter in town, from age 18 to 60, to stop by and see what was going on.

The Vice Principal hovered nearby supportively. "You okay?" A few people called out from the darkness beyond the swirling lights of the fire trucks.

"Oh, sure. Just craving a little drama to end my night."

Once again, I approached the Vineyard's Finest.

"Please can I go?" I was begging now. "My Ex will meet me at the house. He'll take care of it." I held up my cell phone as if to prove my point.

The firefighters turned to the cops. "What do you think?"

The cops backed away, their hands spread in the air. "This is a fire situation. Don't ask us."

In the end I was released, and I jumped in the car and took off before they could change their minds. I absolutely expected the gas tank to be down significantly, but I saw it still registered as nearly full.

Gasoline is like blood, the nurse in me thought ruefully. A very little bit spreads and spreads, and everyone freaks out, thinking it's a lot and turning it into some big emergency.

My poor Corolla, the object of such major overkill.

But still, that firefighter was pretty cute. Too bad I didn't get his name.

"Surprise!"

"I have a surprise for you," Daughter #1 says to me on the phone a couple of weeks ago.

Words to chill a mother's soul.

"You dyed your hair." I take a guess.

"Why would I do a stupid thing  like that?" she snaps. "Besides, no hints. It's a surprise."

I can handle that. I like surprises.

Except I know this isn't that kind of surprise. I can hear one of her roommates, one of The Margarets, laughing evilly in the background.

"You have to wait till I see you," D#1 tells me.

I'm driving down to Manhattan with a friend to see First-Born Son's apartment, which he shares with the Mole-Person, the boy who holed up in my basement for a week this summer. D#1 is taking a train from college to meet us.

You might think that's sweet, that she misses her mother and can't wait to see me. Or, you might be a more regular reader of this blog and realize that's highly unlikely. And you would be right.

D#1 loves NYC. Broadway. Shopping. She's no doubt hoping to see a show and have me pay for it, along with cool clothes and free meals.

My friend and I arrive in Manhattan first. We're sipping wine in the hotel lounge when D#1 shows up. She's smiling and she looks happy. She actually allows me to embrace her for more than a millisecond and I am ridiculously grateful.

Then she says it. "Do you want to see the surprise?"

I nod, but she's already pulling up the leg of her jeans.

Daughter #1 got a tattoo!

Daughter #1 got a tattoo?

You have to realize, this is Miss Straight-A-Student. Miss I-Never-Get-In-Trouble-and-I-Scorn-Those-Who-Do. I have often thought I should buy her a six-pack or at least a fake ID (no, not really, but the girl could use a little trouble if you know what I mean).

The tattoo is on her inner ankle, a purple outline of the Vineyard surrounding a heart and a treble clef.

"Well," she says, "what do you think?"

My friend is watching me closely.

"I love it," I exclaim. "I think it's great."

And I do.

But then I panic. Maybe I should've said I hated it. Maybe now she'll be forced to get a "tramp-stamp." Or "sleeves." (See how up I am on the tattoo lingo?)

But she looks happy so I decide to enjoy the moment.

Now tell me, because I really don't want to be alone right now, what sort of "surprises" have your kids given you? Or, if you don't have kids, what "surprises" did you give your own parents?

Spin Cycle: Tradition

 

This is a story about a man and his flashlight.

When I was growing up, my father's flashlight was legendary. Every night he put the house to bed, turning out the lights and locking the doors. Then he would switch on his flashlight to check on me and my sister.

Mostly we were asleep, but I have memories of lying there, with my eyes squinted shut in the darkness, as the beam of his flashlight played across the room. It made us feel secure and loved; nothing could go wrong while my father was on duty.

For a time, my sister and I shared a room with bunk beds. One night I tossed my prized stuffed doll up at her on the top bunk. As she dangled it back down the side at me, we both pulled on it and an arm tore off.

I was devastated. I lay there, forcing my eyes to stay open, waiting for my father to make his rounds and check on us before he went to bed. Finally the door knob turned and the light hit me, awake in my bunk. In tears, I held out the doll and its amputated limb.

My mother had that arm reattached by the time I woke up the next morning.

One of our holiday traditions, and one that I've continued with my own kids, was for my father to read us The Night Before Christmas every Christmas Eve. Except that he did it by flashlight, while we lay in bed in the dark. He did the same thing the night before Easter, with our big book Here Comes Peter Cottontail.

He was the parent in charge of bad dreams. When I awoke, trembling, and called out, my father would appear, his flashlight lighting the way. He never seemed tired or impatient as he sat on the bed, talking to me in the flickering darkness until I felt safe enough to go back to sleep. It was a side of him I seldom saw during daylight hours.

Me, I don't use flashlights very often. I have a couple around for blackouts, yet I'm more of a feel-my-way-around-in-the-dark-kind of girl.

But when Daughter #2 and I were down in Florida staying with my parents last year, and I saw my father still using one every night as he closes up the house, the memories came flooding back. My daughter did not understand how I could be sentimental over a flashlight.

But I knew, without a doubt, that I would sleep safe and sound the whole time I was there.

 

Now go on over to Sprite's Keeper to check out some other Spins on Tradition.