IslandRoar

What Do We DO All Winter??

 

Today I'm guest-posting over at Motherese. It's part of the Won't You Be My Neighbor series started at The Never True Tales a while back.

Please click on over and say hi. I can almost promise you'll be glad you did. Aw hell, I do promise. And leave me a comment too. Because that'll make me really happy.

I'm going to Manhattan this weekend. In the snow. To visit my son and meet the new girlfriend. Hopefully, that'll make me really happy too.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

 

 

Spin Cycle: Confessions

I'm not big on confessions. Maybe because you already know everything about me there is to know.

 

I tend to share the small stuff freely. The big stuff you probably couldn't pry out of me with a ten-foot pole.

 

So this post is really about the ability to withhold a confession. A major confession.

 

Over ten years ago my mother got a call from her brother informing us a long lost cousin had popped up. Well, she really couldn't be classified as long lost. More like never-before-heard-hide-nor-hair-of.

 

This cousin, who supposedly resembles my mother, had been given up at birth for adoption. She'd had a good family, a happy childhood, yet always wondered about her birth parents.

 

When, as an adult, she'd managed to get a copy of her birth certificate, she'd discovered she was born at a baby hospital in the Bronx. Her mother was my beautiful, eccentric great aunt, my grandma's baby sister.

 

Little by little the story emerged. My great aunt, whom we'll call Mary, was unhappily married with two small sons. Apparently she'd had an affair with the Italian grocer, gotten pregnant, and given the baby up for adoption.

 

I try to imagine how trapped she felt, her anguish at finally having a daughter, yet relinquishing her in order to save her marriage.

 

My mother recalls Mary and her two boys coming to live with them at my grandmother's for several months when she was a child, no doubt during the pregnancy. No questions were asked, but she insists there were long talks between Mary and my grandmother. Voices raised. Tears.

 

Imagine how strained the marriage must have been when she went back. But also, what joy she must have felt, nine years later, when she gave birth to another child, another daughter.

 

What amazes me most is how Mary and my grandmother, and lord only knows who else, kept this secret. Literally took it with them to their graves. Both of them were long dead before this cousin found our family. Before she discovered she had two brothers and a sister.

 

How did Mary go the rest of her life without confessing this to her children? To anyone? And what other secrets are out there in my family, your family, that might change everything, yet will never be revealed?

 

Got any to share? Click over to Sprite's Keeper and see what other bloggers dare to confess.

 

525,600 Minutes

 

Daughter #2 is an actress.

Last week Martha's Vineyard Regional High School premiered its musical production of Rent.

My daughter, 15, had a small role. She was the drug dealer. Leggings, hot pants, and leather jacket, a stage cigarette hanging from her mouth, she leaned against the set wall like a hooker.

I was so proud.

Frankly, I'm amazed the human eye can remain open with that much eyeliner and sparkly eye shadow applied.

Now, you must understand, Rent is practically iconic in our house. Between my three kids, they've seen it performed on stage in New York or Boston five times. Not counting the film.

I've also seen both. And I am not one of those gushing, Oh, everything My child does is fabulous kind of moms. So let's just say my expectations were adequately adjusted.

But let me tell you, these kids knocked it out of the park.

First-Born Son managed to make it home from The Big Apple to see his younger sister strut her stuff (literally). Playing Danny in the school's production of Grease his senior year, and having considered, briefly, becoming an actor himself, he's a rather severe critic. And even he felt compelled to give the show his Big Brother Seal of Approval.

If you know this show at all, you realize it's pretty heavy: drugs, sexuality, Aids, transvestites. Some of the more objectionable profanity was removed, but otherwise the production was pretty authentic. Actors and audience both dealt with the mature subject matter with the appropriate mixture of laughter and tears.

The auditorium was packed for each show. Yet another thing I adore about this community: the way it shows up and supports its kids. Standing ovation. Every time.

But my favorite "review" had to be long distance, via telephone from my mom. She called to wish Daughter #2 luck.

"Tell her to break a leg," she directed. Just like she used to say to me, whenever I performed as a kid.

Then she added, "And you tell her to PUSH those drugs."

Aw, did you ever hear anything so sweet?

 

Island Cars

Living on Martha's Vineyard, there are certain things that inevitably bear the prefix or label "Island."

There is "Island Time," an abstract concept akin somewhat to a New York Minute, except on the opposite end of the spectrum.

There are "Island Kids," which may sound self-explanatory, but is often more than just any kid growing up here. An Island Kid somehow personifies this place, with it's particular combination of unique, laid back ambition and off-beat talent.

Then there are "Island Cars." It's not actually a derogatory term but it's no huge compliment either. You have your Island Cars that never leave the Vineyard; they're too old or unreliable to chance driving out in the real world.

Then you have your cars that, regardless of age or model, are just, well, "Island Cars." You wouldn't mistake them for anything else.

They're crusted with a muddy film in the winter and dust in the summer. The interior is home to a requisite amount of fine Vineyard sand, and the tires are obviously no stranger to off-roading.

Tiny scratches adorn both sides from maneuvering down narrow dirt back roads bordered by scrubby overgrowth. You might rub them off with a little effort, but why bother when you'll just be trekking down those same roads again tomorrow or next week?

As surely as we mark the Vineyard seasons by the number of tourists or hours of beach time, so too might we mark them by the cars on our roads. Some time in May, there is an influx of clean, shiny vehicles rolling off the boat, boasting sparkling hubcaps and streak-free windshields.

"They're back," we chant to one another, noting the vast colorful array of out-of-state plates. New Jersey, New York, Maryland, Connecticut, places where an occasional car wash and regular waxing aren't commonly viewed as a waste of time and money.

Then, just when we've grown used to the annual summer road-bling, autumn arrives. The meticulously detailed cars head for cleaner and less abusive well-paved roads, and the proportion of Island Cars jumps once more.

A sure sign to year-rounders that it's time to kick back and settle in for winter. Long, gray Island Days.

On Island Time.

Is there anything particularly characteristic about the cars in your neck of the woods?

 

 

Spin Cycle: What I Can't Live Without...

I really hate to admit this, but I love my cell phone. In fact, I'd hate to think of life without it.

Oh, I'm sure I'd get by. After all, it took me long enough to break down and get the damned thing, so I know I could do without it if I had to.

But I don't want to.

I got my first cell phone when First-Born Son was in middle school. Suddenly he was going places and we needed to reach one another when neither of us was at home.

For my kids and their cell phones it may have been love at first sight, but it's only the last two or three years that I've felt this way. And that has everything to do with texting.

Texting is like magic. It really is. If I try and call my college-aged kids, it's a crapshoot whether or not they'll answer their phones. I understand. Life is busy. They're in a class or a bar (I kid!) or otherwise indisposed.

But, usually, they can text. And it's never long before I get a reply. It's an amazing way to keep in touch.

My kids will text me at the nicest times. To wish me a happy Valentine's Day. Or a happy New Year at midnight. To tell me they just saw a great movie. Or need money (okay, I admit it; it's not all fun and games, but it's pretty darned close).

Here's a good one. A while back, Daughter #2 and I went to a movie and the film was out of focus. Not so much that we couldn't watch it, but just enough to drive us crazy.

I don't know about the real world, but here on Martha's Vineyard this is not an uncommon occurrence. Somebody usually gets up to inform the management and within minutes the problem is solved.

But this was a weeknight, and there were only about 20 people in the theater. Twenty lazy people, myself included.

It was driving Daughter #2 bonkers, although apparently not enough to get up and do anything about it.

"I'm texting First-Born Son," she finally said, pulling out her cell phone. 

"Why?" I asked. First-Born Son was in Manhattan, miles away. What could he do?

Then I realized. The kid in charge of the theater that night was First-Born Son's good pal. My daughter was texting her brother to text this friend, who was no doubt a mere 50 feet away from us in the lobby at that very moment, so that he would go and fix the focus.

Which he did, in less than two minutes time. Done, First-Born Son texted back to Daughter #2.

But of course, by then, we already knew.

Has technology changed anything about your life in a significant way?

 

For more Spins about the things we can't live without, visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

 

Keeping My Head Held High

It's been almost three weeks since I had surgery on my sinuses, and I'm not quite up to speed. Which is annoying the hell out of me.

Thus, I've been posting a bit less and have not been as present with my comments on all of your wonderful blogs. Hopefully, you'll indulge me for a couple more weeks as I attempt to recover my misplaced mojo.

During my surgery, the ENT actually inserted little balloons deep in my sinuses, pumping them up to enlarge the openings. If things go as planned, this should result in better drainage and fewer sinus infections.

He also determined my septum was severely out of whack and needed straightening.

Not my nose itself however, which was too bad. It isn't that I don't like my nose, but hey, if he had to crack open my face, the least he could've done while he was in there was lift my eyes, give me better cheek bones, or maybe some new, cute-as-a-button nose.

At my age, I would have taken whatever I could get.

But no, same old me. Same old nose. Let's just pray this improved one works better.

When they discharged me from the hospital, the nurses cautioned me not to sleep flat while I was healing, but to attempt to keep my head more upright.

Ha! They needn't have bothered. Due to years of sinus trouble and migraines, I've been sleeping nearly sitting  up since college.

Pillows are my friends. Lots of them.

My poor Ex. When we got married, he confessed he'd always envisioned his wife falling asleep with her head nestled snugly atop his chest. Not too much to ask, right?

But it was not to be. Alas, most nights he would look up at me, high above him on my mound of pillows, and holler, Good night up there!

Small wonder it didn't last, huh?

 

A Bag By Any Other Name

I grew up calling my handbag a pocketbook. This is what my mother called it. And her mother...

Purse or bag might be the trendy terms for this today, but in our house, a bag came from the grocery store, and a purse was something you put change in. Women carried pocketbooks.

My daughters have apparently inherited the term, and for this they give me major grief.

"Do you know how weird it is to call it a pocketbook!" they say accusingly. "People laugh at us. They think we're old ladies."

"Just tell them you're unique," I advise.

I know they're right. And I'm trying to amend my ways, so that the words bag or purse will flow easily and elegantly from my mouth.

But old family habits die hard.

We grew up not eating fish unless we were at home. Family Mythology held that my mother's father, who'd died when my mom was only 13, had eaten fish from a restaurant and died that same night from food poisoning.

One of my mother's little brothers grew up to be a doctor, and he now disputes the accuracy of this, but he was merely six years old at the time, so what does he know?

All I can tell you is we were raised that to order fish in a restaurant was akin to drinking year-old milk, or swimming with your boots on; it just wasn't done.

Naturally I thought the entire world was in on this secret.

So imagine my shock and horror when, one week into college, my roommate told the cafeteria lady she'd take the fish.

"But they made that here," I insisted, tempted to fling it from her tray. "You can't eat that."

"Why not?" She stared at me like I was insane.

"Because it might kill you." For the first time, as I said the words out loud, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.

I watched her eat the fish. And live.

I might not have eaten it that night. Or for many nights to come. But I live on Martha's Vineyard, for goodness sakes. Of course I eat fish.

Now, if I could just keep reminding myself there is no such thing as a pocketbook, I might actually be getting somewhere.

How about you? Are there any old family legacies in your life better left behind?

 

Babysitting Blues

I've been through the three stages of babysitting.

 

I was babysat, I did babysit, and now my kids babysit. It gives one quite the perspective.

 

My parents went out a lot when my sister and I were young, almost every weekend. Karen was our favorite babysitter, but then she outgrew us and her sister Jerry took over.

 

I loved Jerry. It was the late 60's, and she had dark hair that cascaded dramatically down her back, and wore bell-bottomed jeans long enough that she walked on the frayed ends.

 

She played Hide and Seek, chased us around the house, and of course she let us stay up way past our bedtime. I would sit behind her on the floor and run a wide-toothed comb through her hair for as long as she'd allow.

 

Once, I walked back and forth along the top of the sofa from arm to arm, convincing her that my parents would find this behavior entirely acceptable. The next day my sister told on me, and, you guessed it: was I in trouble!

 

I've never been fond of tattletales.

 

When we moved to a bigger house in the next town, it was still close enough for Jerry to be our babysitter. One night she asked my mother if a friend could drop by.

 

But it was more like four or five kids who pulled into our driveway shortly after my parents left.

 

Long-haired hippie types. Guys with ponytails, the very kind my father had warned my sister and me about endlessly. We were entranced.

 

The two of us settled on the couch in our pigtails and nightgowns, ready to join in the party. But Jerry sent us upstairs and yelled when we attempted to spy on them. Their laughter and cigarette smoke wafted up the stairs while we fumed.

 

She didn't even tuck us in.

 

So naturally, speaking of tattletales, it was her last job at our house.

 

I once found one of my sitters with her friend and three boys, one of them her 19 year-old brother, all suspiciously lined up in a row, seated on my couch when I arrived home. Two year-old First-Born Son was safely in bed, but something felt quite wrong. I never called her again.

 

Another time I told a sitter not to allow First-Born Son and Daughter #1, then three and six, to watch TV. It turned out she locked herself in my bedroom and watched a soccer game after telling them to go upstairs and play.

 

Another one bit the dust.

 

What are your personal limits when it comes to babysitter behavior? Any terrifically funny or terribly awful stories to share, from either end, or maybe the middle, of the babysitting spectrum?

 

Do tell!

 

Spin Cycle: Valentine's Day

Senior year of high school my BFF and I planned a romantic Valentine's dinner for our boyfriends.

We held the event at BFF's house because her mother would be out with her own boyfriend. And frankly, my parents were hovering pains-in-the-neck who hated when I used the kitchen, and would rather die than do anything that might encourage my (in their opinion) out-of-control relationship with my boyfriend.

BFF and I didn't want to waste lots of time cooking, if you know what I mean. No, seriously, we were coming straight from play rehearsal and elected to use any spare moments in preparing ourselves rather than the food. We were, after all, 17.

The main course was pizza. We cut the dough in the shape of a huge heart. Adorable, I know. Homemade apple pie for dessert. A lot harder to make that crust heart-shaped, but we tried. 

When the pie was ready we displayed it on a heart-shaped platter with a very carefully chosen assortment of candy hearts arranged around it, their tiny, endearing words intended  as one long, suggestive love note. Which of course we read out loud to them in tandem when the time came to serve dessert.

We were nothing if not age-appropriately sentimental.

The lights were low, candles lit, and a fire in the fireplace. There was no alcohol, since we had no idea when BFF's mother was due home.

I know my boyfriend and I exchanged gifts, and I'd love to say I remember what they were, but I don't. What I do remember is the knot in my stomach when he asked why wasn't I wearing his class ring, a ring I'd had in my possession for a year and half, and one that, only days before, I'd discovered I'd misplaced.

I managed to bluff my way out that night, and avoid confessing that I had no idea where the damned ring was.

I believe I may have been saved by BFF's mom returning home and commencing immediately to blow out candles and turn on lights, glaring at the four of us like we were frolicking naked in a hot tub rather than reading sappy love notes written with candy hearts.

The odd addendum to all this is that BFF had no memory of this night whatsoever when I tried to remind her of it recently. How Twilight Zone is that?

Now she's got to come up with some equally spectacular thing we once did that I have no memory of.

Hear that, BFF? The clock is ticking...

 

For more Valentine's Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. And give her my love.

 

 

We Rock

I slept on curlers the other night, for the first time in a long time. The soft, foamy kind. Electric rollers don't work so well on my hair. It's kind of thick and stubborn. Like me.

I like my hair a lot. I've said this before. I consider myself a pretty humble person, but, for the record, I realize I've made a point of stating here that I like my hair and I think I smell nice.

Oh, and my feet. I think I have pretty feet.

I try to take photos of them in a variety of exotic warm weather locations. It's a love found late in life.

Believe it or not, I didn't start polishing my toenails until I was over 40. It seems the older I get, the more of a girly-girl I become. But a tough girly-girl. I am, after all, from New Jersey.

I'm a little worried that by admitting this stuff, you might think I have an inflated ego. Because of my feelings for my hair and my feet and how good I smell.

Why is it that we as women are so often hesitant to admit the many good things about ourselves, to praise ourselves? Are we worried other women will label us conceited bitches?

I've noticed most of us are pretty quick to point out our faults. I'm trying to stop doing this. I could name five negative things about myself right now in the blink of an eye.

But I won't. Instead, I'm going to tell you three good things about myself. Things I like.

And I'm going to have the nerve to ask you to do the same.

Here are mine: (in addition  to those I've already mentioned) I think I'm a generous and fun person; I like to think I have a really good sense of style; I like my fair, freckled, Irish coloring.

Okay, your turn. Come on, three things you like about yourself. Really, I want to know.

We all do.

 

Spin Cycle: Pet Peeves

Whenever I read about Martha's Vineyard (aka, my home) in the paper or see it featured on TV, one of the first things inevitably mentioned is how it's a playground for the rich and famous.

And I suppose, in the summer, maybe it is. But while there are nice enough shops and some wonderful restaurants,  it just doesn't compare to my idea of a real playground for the rich and famous, say, Beverly Hills or Manhattan. There are no chic clubs here, no "right side"of the tracks. And of course, no paparazzi or screaming fans.

Just miles and miles of dirt roads and beautiful beaches that are, for the most part, not crowded with houses. Not a boardwalk in sight. The rich and famous come here to escape all the other stuff. The noise, the crowds, the designer bullshit. The allure of the Vineyard seems to be a whole lot of nothing.

Those of us who actually live here know this. But we get a little sick and tired of the world thinking we live in a resort community. The words conjure up visions of gated neighborhoods and beautiful people, clad in tennis-whites, riding around in golf carts.

Nothing could be further from the truth. For the roughly 14,000 people who live on Martha's Vineyard year-round it's merely our home. Our beautiful, bustling-in-the-summer, gray-in-the-winter, out-of-the-way home. 

We work hard to be here because we like living where there are no shopping malls or highways. The Vineyard is an accepting environment, one where artists and ideas flourish, and it's an amazingly kid-friendly community.

But because it's an island, and everything has to be hauled across the water to get here, the cost of living is higher. Sixty percent more than to live in mainland Massachusetts. So obviously that must mean we're all rich, right?

Actually, the average islander earns 30 percent less than mainland Massachusetts residents. Fewer people, fewer choices, fewer jobs.

The Vineyard is an open, supportive community, one that sure as hell isn't gated. There's an eclectic mix of people, many working multiple jobs to make ends meet. Others rent out their houses each summer to pay the mortgage for the year, or work their butts off non-stop during the tourist season so that they might scrape by the rest of the year.

We talk a lot here about "affordable housing," but what that really means is just housing that's realistic for the average islander: the schoolteachers, police officers, business owners, nurses.

Could we all live somewhere else, somewhere cheaper?  Sure. But we choose to live here. Where we can see the waves every day and where we know our neighbors. Where there's not a lot of cursing-out the other drivers on the road, because those same people will no doubt be in front of you in line at the grocery store the next day.

And where, come July and August, it's a veritable playground if you're rich and famous. Or so they say...

But actually, it's not too shabby for the rest of us either. The average and mundane, or even, the poor and infamous.

Let's face it, we all have ideas in our minds about lots of places that in reality couldn't be farther from the truth.  Places like Southern California, Florida,  Brooklyn, or Maine. Or how about the Jersey Shore?

What's the one thing people think about the place where you live that drives you crazy? That's just completely misunderstood?

To read more about other bloggers' pet peeves, be sure to visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

Martha's Vineyard: The Boat

Everyone knows this place where I live, Martha's Vineyard, is an island. Surrounded by the sea on all sides, the only way on or off is by boat or plane.

Most of us rely on the boat, or ferry. Planes are quicker but they're less reliable and more easily grounded by weather. They go to places like Boston, Hyannis, New Bedford, and Nantucket, with a few other stops like Providence, New York or New Jersey, and DC thrown in during the summer.

They're expensive. And, of course, they're tiny. Some hold as many as 20 passengers, but most carry around 10. I've actually enjoyed the times I've flown on and off-island, but for convenience, you really can't beat the boat.

There are generally two big ferries making the trip to the Vineyard carrying cars and people. In addition there are a couple of freight boats (those that take trucks) that'll squeeze on a few passenger-cars or walk-ons.

Fast-ferries run to the Vineyard from New Bedford and Hyannis, but not all year, and some people don't like them because it's easier to get seasick. I've never been seasick but, as any experienced sailor will tell you, there's always a first time.

The actual boat ride lasts about 40 minutes, but we measure the distance of any and all trips by how long it takes to get to or from the boat. Logan airport? Just under two hours from the boat. Manhattan? Four-and-a-half hours. Hyannis? Forty-five minutes (from the boat).

It's as though the 40 minutes on the ferry to and from Woods Hole doesn't count. In fact, over time, I think most islanders see the ride as a bonus.

During the summer the boat is loaded with tourists, all revved up for some island magic. But most of the year it's a meeting spot for islanders to reconnect and catch up on each other's lives.

Some of us nap in our cars. Others curl up with a book or watch the waves. Island kids may start out running around, looking to see who else is on board, but most quickly fall into a semi-hypnotic  state of tranquility.

"Where are you headed?" we ask. Shopping? Doctor's appointment? Vacation?

We stop and chat in the snack bar, pause by each other's seats as we head back to our vehicles, or gather in the parking lot while we wait to board.

Although year-rounders do get a discount, it's not cheap to take your car to the other side, or America, as some call it. There are islanders that pay monthly to park a car in the Falmouth lot to avoid the possibility of not getting passage on a fully booked boat.

Naturally this is very appealing in the summer, when spontaneous trips off-island are pretty much a pipe dream. Then again, who in their right mind wants to leave Martha's Vineyard in the summer if they don't have to?

If someone's sick or there's an emergency, the Steamship Authority is pretty helpful. If you really need to get on or off this island, there's always a way.

Unless of course, the winds kick into overdrive and the sea goes wild. Then it doesn't matter whether you're on-island or off; you're stuck.

My first eight years living here I was never caught on the other side. Then, over nine months, it happened three times. Experienced vineyarders make a speedy run for the local hotels that offer a discount to marooned islanders in need of a room for the night.

Phone calls are made to the neighbors to please feed the pets, and to employers who, along with our island teachers and families, have no choice but to go with the flow.

Broadly speaking, folks who live on an island seem to, by necessity, possess an extraordinary amount of flexibility.

After all, the next time the boat stops running and someone's stuck, it just might be them.

 

Thanks to everyone for your healing words and wishes as I recuperate from this sinus surgery. I'm still a bit "under the weather," but hope to be back on my usual bloggy rounds before long!