IslandRoar

Native Islanders

 
  

The Wampanoag are the Native American people that first settled Martha's Vineyard thousands of years ago.

Tribal legend has it that the Wampanoag giant, Moshup, dragged his toe in the ocean and formed the islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard.

The scientific explanation is that the islands were once part of the mainland, and that, as the sea rose after the last Ice Age, the people who were to become the island Wampanoag merely decided to stay.

The Tribe was federally acknowledged in 1987. Today, the up-island town of Aquinnah is home to the Wampanoag. Here are most of the Tribal-owned lands, Tribal housing, and the Tribe's museum and cultural center.

The Wampanoag influence is an integral part of present day Martha's Vineyard culture.

Recently I was thinking about what it must have been like, to be part of the Tribe back in the day, before the white settlers. When nobody had ever heard of Martha's Vineyard, but instead, called this place Noepe, the Wampanoag word for land amid the streams.

There were several different villages scattered throughout the island, but even so, there must have been reasons to push the birch-bark canoes into the sea and venture off-island, seven miles across the sound to the mainland.

Tribal councils with the mainland Wampanoag? Hunting trips pursuing animals that didn't live here, such as bears or wolves? Marriages arranged to bring new blood on-island and off?

Then I thought, were these early islanders the same type of curiosity that modern-day vineyarders appear to be to many folks? Did the mainland Indians come up to them at, say, a wedding feast, and ask, "So, what's it like to live on an island?" Or, "What do you all do out there all winter?"

Because, though day-to-day Wampanoag living was probably much the same on or off-island, just as it is today for vineyarders and mainlanders, like today, there must've been some obvious differences.

Wampanoag from Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket were whalers extraordinaire. They are said to have taught the early white settlers this trade, thus kick-starting the whole whaling industry.

No such whaling on the mainland. But more human interaction maybe? Better game? Easier trading? Certainly, like today, more choices. And without having to paddle your canoe for hours across the sea, fighting the wind and waves.

It takes a certain type of person to live on an island. Let's face it; it takes a certain type of person to live just about anywhere you can think of.

And maybe it's just wistful thinking or plain craziness, but it dawned on me that I might have a lot more in common with these early Native islanders than I ever could have imagined.

 

Mush!

I've already shared with you the joy of my winter wonderland getaway. But if you'll indulge me for one more post, it seemed to me that our night time dog-sledding adventure deserved something more.

Have you seen Balto, the animated film depicting the real life sled dog that delivered anti-diphtheria serum over the frozen tundra in hurricane winds at temps of fifty below,helping save the lives of children in Nome, Alaska in 1925? There's even a statue of him in Central Park.

Maybe it was Balto I had in mind when I made our dog-sledding reservations. Starlight, adventure, and speed, followed by a crescendo of inspirational music and a poignant, happy ending.

Alas, I had not factored in the wind-chill factor or the frostbite warning. Not to mention the odor of dog poop.

Did you know that when you are lying in a dog sled at ground level your nose is just about even with the butts of the eight adorable husky dogs on your sled team. Dogs who apparently wait until the sleds are in motion to relieve themselves.

Daughter #1 and I shared a sled, her lying in front. The parts of me she covered would be my last remaining body parts with any sensation.

"Umm-bye!" our musher called. The dogs made a half hearted attempt at moving our sled. Then stopped. "Go dogs, go," she yelled, as they stalled several times on the trail like a car out of gas.

She sounded like an inexperienced parent entreating their toddler to stop dawdling. Say it like you mean it, I silently begged.

The sled carrying First-Born Son and Daughter #2 raced by us. "Umm-bye!" their musher called out in an authoritative voice. Now that's what I'm talking about!

We rounded a curve in the trail and the sled stuck in the snow, dangling precariously at an odd angle. "Do you need us to get out?" we asked, clutching the sides.

"Oh, no." The musher ran forward to move the dogs and pry us loose.

Not a foot above our faces, pine branches laden heavily with snow swayed in the wind. I pulled my hood further down over my head and held my arm over Daughter #1's face, much like I had many times over the years when she was in the front seat of the car with me and I'd stepped on the brake.

But, no matter. The sled loosening jostled the tree and a miniature avalanche landed on us both.

"I'm so cold and tired," Daughter #1 whispered. "I just want to shut my eyes."

"Me too," I replied, "but don't fall asleep."

I didn't have to add, Because we might never wake up; the words hung in the air along with our frozen breath.

We laughed about it later. The inexperienced musher. Our frost-bitten digits. Our big, arctic adventure.

I'm glad we did it. The woods are beautiful at that time of night. Completely still and white. Huge evergreens shimmering with snow, lighting up the trail. Glorious.

No doubt infinitely more so than in the lush green of summer or the fiery blaze of autumn, the only two ways, incidentally, I plan on viewing them in the future for any extended period of time outdoors.

And if there are any dogs around, you can bet I'll make damned sure I'm several feet above the level of their butts.

 

Scent of a Woman

 

I once, for over a year, dated a guy who had no sense of smell.

There's an actual name for this, anosmia, and, unlike most people who get it, either from an illness or injury, he was born that way.

I know what you're thinking: free pass for the days when you skip a shower or those nights you have too much Mexican.

He too, seemed to be under the impression that the world was full of noxious odors like rotting fish or cat pee, and that he was much better off not smelling it. He  considered the ability to smell fairly useless.

I wasn't so sure. My sense of smell is extremely acute, and for that I'm generally very grateful. Life is filled with things that smell good: an herb garden, freshly baked cookies, lilacs......me.

Seriously, I happen to have it on very good authority. People lean in all the time and say, "Ooh, you smell really good." Could they all be lying? Possibly, I guess, but tell me, what would be the point?

This man had no idea that every person had their own unique scent. That rain smells different than snow, or that the scent of Halloween is different than that of Christmas.

How about the fact that our sense of smell evolved to protect us? What would've happened to all those cave men and women in the woods doing all that hunting and gathering if they couldn't smell fresh saber-toothed tiger poop? Or fire?

Think about the consequences today if you couldn't smell a gas leak, or that your dinner was burning. Or that your house was on fire.

This guy, ironically enough, wound up with a family of skunks wintering under his porch. Sure, it didn't bother him, but it was killing me. Okay, maybe I don't mean actual death, but the smell was giving me migraines which is pretty damned close to dying. Not to mention my kids started to complain that I came home reeking of Eau de Skunk.

I finally gave him an ultimatum: me or the skunks. He thought I was being dramatic. Nevertheless he set several traps and got out his gun.

Well, what did you expect? That some petting zoo flew on to the Vineyard and offered to capture them, surgically remove their scent glands, and then re-release them into the wild where, even today, they return to eat nuts from his hand and winter under his porch?

Come on people, this is Martha's Vineyard Real World, Off-Season Edition; there are probably as many guns here as there are skunks (and no, I don't own one).

But alas, even skunk-less, our relationship was not meant to be. That's okay. From now on I only date men who know what a good thing is when they smell it. And yes, I mean me.

 

Lilah's Big Adventure

Have you ever lost a pet?  Maybe they got out or ran away? Did they turn up eventually, after days or weeks, or has their fate become one of life's unsolved mysteries?

My old cat, Lilah, went missing last week. Of my five cats, four are strictly house cats, including Lilah. It took me a couple of days to realize she was gone.

I know that sounds terrible, but life is busy. And with five cats, I don't always register which ones I haven't seen that day. When finally it dawned on me, I scoured the house with a sense of foreboding. Lilah is almost 16; it was entirely possible, I knew, that she had crawled off somewhere to die.

I searched under beds, behind furniture, in closets,  calling her name all the while, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, snapping my fingers. All her favorite calling sounds. No Lilah.

Then I happened to glance out at the backyard from my bathroom window. There she sat in front of my annual beds, front paws daintily side by side, looking up at the house.

I screamed. I couldn't help it. I was so happy to see her alive. I ran outside but, predictable feline that she is, she took off into the scrubby overgrowth behind the pool fence and wouldn't let me come near.

I put dishes of food out on the deck and went to work. When I got home, the food was gone. But no Lilah.

"We have to find her!" Daughter #2 was frantic as she left for a sleepover. "Text me as soon as you get her. No, send me a photo. I need to see her!"

"Set a trap," First-Born Son directed when I called to report the news.

"Who do you think I am?" I asked. "MacGyver?"

"Get a cardboard box and prop it with a stick. Put the food under it and attach a string to the stick."

He was serious. I had visions of Elmer Fudd or Wile E. Coyote's futile attempts to trap their elusive, much more clever prey. "Then pull the string when she comes to eat."

I decided to give it a try. Understand, my 16 year old arthritic, pansy-ass kitty was out in the wind and rain for the second night in a row. I was desperate.

In the end the wind knocked over my trap and the rain rendered the cardboard box soggy. But we were lucky. We'd also left the garage door open as backup, and that's where I found Lilah at six the following morning.

She was skinnier and maybe a little dehydrated, but otherwise okay. For the next two days she couldn't get enough of us. Purring and meowing, following me everywhere.

But there's something else. Whereas before she was fairly low in the animal hierarchy at our house, she now seems to have risen to the top. The other cats make room for her on the couch and the bed. The dog, who enjoys a good kitty-chasing from time to time, goes out of her way to give her her space.

They clearly think she's a rock star.

I'd love to have a little video camera that could give me a playback of her two day adventure in the big bad world, but alas, I've no idea what happened to her out there.  

Whatever it was, though, it must have been something big. She left a timid old lady. But she came back one super cool cat.

 

Canine Confession

I am about to confess something shocking: I am not crazy about my dog.

You must understand; dogs are big on the Vineyard. They’re everywhere, running on the beach, riding shotgun in passenger seats and truck-beds, waiting patiently for their owners outside stores on Main Street, or trotting by their side at the yearly summer fair.

About fourteen-thousand people live here year round, but there are two dog parks, and that’s in addition to the miles of fields, beaches, and country roads, where every day dogs can be seen blissfully frolicking, devoted owners by their side.

To admit I’m not madly in love with my dog is basically like saying I hate my mother.

Which I don’t. Hate my mother, that is. And I don’t hate my dog either. I may actually love her in some minimally affectionate, obligatory sort of way.

I walk her, feed her, take her to the vet. She has a big yard to run in, food with special additives for her joints, kids to play with, a beach nearby to run and swim. Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for her; her life’s a party.

It’s just that I expected more. That whole mythical doggie devotion, that Lassie! Timmy’s stuck in the well; go rescue him, deal.

My dog, apparently, hasn’t watched any episodes of Lassie, or read the job description for Family Pet.

When my kids throw the tennis ball, she runs right by it. When we take her to the beach to play in the waves, she retrieves the toy we throw just often enough to lull us into a false sense of security.

Then, as soon as we lob one a bit farther out, she looks at us, unconcealed distain in those big amber eyes, shaking herself off at the water’s edge, and watching with a big doggie smile as her beautiful toy washes away in the waves.

It’s not that she’s a mean dog. She likes everyone. It’s just that she’s completely indifferent. She’d take food over people any day. And she’d knock over any kid or old lady blocking her way to get where she wants to go.

I know if she became accidentally separated from our family, she’d take off with the first person who pulled out a cookie, no questions asked.

Do you remember a few years ago, when a European woman apparently passed out, and her dog, for some reason never really explained, mauled off half her face?

I harbor no illusions. If I were to lie unconscious on my floor for any length of time, my dog might wait a while, until she’d eaten all her food and the cat food, and maybe even the cats themselves (whom she generally likes, by the way). But eventually, she’d get to me.

It wouldn’t be out of spite or viciousness. It’d just be because she’s a dog.

I have this dream of getting a smaller dog one day, a dog I can take with me wherever I go. I call it the “Grandma Dog.” Together we will visit my future grandchildren, who will love and adore it as much as it loves and adores me.

So I guess I haven’t completely given up on the dog-as-devoted-companion myth. In the meantime I’ll try not to advertise too much how I feel. After all, what type of person isn’t crazy about their own dog? What am I, some weird cat lady?

Well…maybe. Okay, yes. I have five. Cats are so simple. One holds such minimal expectations; thus any small show of personality or affection is a pleasant surprise.

But I like to think I live in hope, even when it comes to my dog.

So I’ll keep throwing those tennis balls. Because one day she just might bring one back and drop it at my feet, her big eyes looking up at me with an expression that clearly says, “Go ahead, get trapped in that well if you want. I’m here. I’ve got you covered.”

You never know, right?

A girl can dream.

Birthing My Blog

I'm starting to think that my decision to start a blog was a bit like deciding to have a baby. Do you know what I mean?

I was so excited to have a baby. I prepared for it. I thought I was ready. Really ready.

Then I had the baby. And he was there. All the time. Whether I felt like being a mommy or not. All the time.

Don't get me wrong. I loved my baby. And  I would make that same decision every time. But you know, some days, you just don't feel like being a mother. You're all mothered out. Yet you have to mother anyway.

I'm really enjoying my blog. A lot. It's keeping me writing every day, which was a major purpose in starting it. I've met some lovely people and I'm reading a lot of excellent writing.

And I think this whole overwhelmed, "What have I done," feeling is no doubt typical for being three months into this adventure. At any rate, it's helping me prioritize. Because I'd rather feel as though having a blog was more like getting a puppy rather than having a baby.

After all, a puppy is a big commitment. It requires lots of care and attention. But it doesn't take over your life the way a baby does. And it grows up much more quickly. Some days you can practically ignore it, so long as it's fed.

And, most importantly, you can put it in it's lovely little crate or yard when you leave, and go on about your life without feeling guilty. Try doing that with a kid (seriously, try it. It doesn't work. I know this for a fact).

Have any of you ever felt like this about your blogs, maybe back in the day when you were first starting out? Or am I the only one? Go on, tell me. I can take it. Just be gentle. Remember, I'm a new mom.

Wild Horse to Killer Whale

If you could be any animal in the whole world, what would you be?

When's the last time someone asked you that question? If it's been a while, has your answer changed since then?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a horse. A wild mustang. I guess that running free in the open range with a posse of other horses was what I found so appealing. But then I started hearing about herds of wild horses being shot at from helicopters, and sent to meat-packing plants. And horses can break a leg so easily, and then that's pretty much it.

So somewhere in my 20's, when my ex and I played this "What Animal Would You Be?" game, I decided to go with killer whale, or orca. You know, Shamu, except I wanted to be one in the wild.

It made a lot of sense. Whales have no natural predators except man, and they're not supposed to be hunted. They live in the water swimming, which I would absolutely love. But, unlike fish, they're mammals, so they get to nurse their young and hang out with their families, whom they also travel and swim with. And they can live to be 80 years old in the wild! Whales are smart. They  communicate with one another. They play and show affection.

And they get to jump around in the waves and blow water out the top of their heads. Sounds good to me.

My ex wanted to be a mountain goat. Figures. Lone and solitary, up in the mountains climbing, which he would enjoy. Interacting by butting heads.

Okay, I'll stop. I don't want to get mean and petty. But a mountain goat on a rocky cliff and a killer whale in the depths of the ocean???

I should've known it wouldn't last.