IslandRoar

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.

 

 

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!

 

 

Blog Roll Please...

One of my very fine bloggy buds recently pointed out to me that her blog was not listed in my blog roll.

She wasn't complaining, mind you. But she wanted me to get on it. Right away.

Which brought to my attention that I had not updated my blog roll in a mighty long time. I read a lot more great blogs these days, and have developed some wonderful relationships.

So last weekend I tried to go through my reader and bring some order to my  blog roll. There is no doubt in my  mind that I will have screwed up and omitted someone , so if you don't see your blog there, and you think it should be, please let me know.

I'm aware a whole bunch of you couldn't care less, but lots of you do, and with good reason. One of the best ways I've found to discover new blogs has been through your recommendations and your blog rolls.

And I know that the first time I saw my blog listed in someone's blog roll, I definitely felt a little thrill. Yes, I'm that simple.

So I thank that blogging friend for the kick in the butt. Now if only she could help me get the rest of my life in order so easily...

 

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve celebrations were tailor made for night owls like me. And some of mine have been rather memorable.

But this year I spent it completely alone. It was kind of weird.

It's not that there's always been a party. But if I was stuck without plans, at least one or two of my three kids were sure to be home, celebrating with or without their friends, running in at midnight to embrace and steal a sip of my champagne.

Not this year. First-Born Son and Daughter #1 were gone for the night with friends, Daughter #2 off at a New Year's sleepover.

And me? Well, no champagne this year. Instead I had a hot date with Netflix and a chocolate mousse brownie. Then I lay in bed and watched the ball drop in Times Square.

I wondered, did my parents feel this way when, one year, my New Year's Eve plans exceeded their own? Perhaps.

Yet it's different when there's two of you. You laugh at or with one another, and settle in for another boring night at home. Together.

It's not that I don't have friends. But they were off-island or with family. Or spending that boring night at home with their spouses.

I hesitate to even write all this down. I don't want anybody feeling sorry for me. Even though I might possibly feel just a wee bit sorry for myself.

Maybe not sorry, actually. Maybe just disappointed. I expect more. I want more. Dick Clark  himself would be hard-pressed to call this New year's Eve "Rockin'."

I'm not really worried about this becoming a habit, however. I like my late nights and social gathrings too much to settle for that.

And seriously, a New Year's Eve like this one is pretty much guaranteed to come along only once in a blue moon, right?

 

Spin Cycle: Cyber Santa

Jen of Sprite's Keeper very generously took the time to organize this Secret Cyber Santa Spin (say THAT five times fast). From a list of our favorite bloggers, she waved her magic wand and assigned us one lovely blogger on whom we were to post.

I get to rave about The South Dakota Cowgirl, Jen, one of my all time most fascinating bloggy buds.

I was first attracted to Jen's blog because her world is so completely different than my own. Originally from Texas, she rides horses in barrel events and lives on a huge cattle ranch in South Dakota.

Her days are filled with riding and training horses and helping her cowboy, Zach, with multiple ranch related activities, from herding and preg-checking cattle to rescuing horses stuck on wire fences.

It's clear from her posts that she's an awesome cook, but her creativity doesn't end there. Among her many talents, she makes gorgeous jewelry, plays piano and guitar, sings, and even writes her own songs. Her voice is lovely and definitely worth a listen.

I can't imagine what it's like to live on acres and acres populated with deer, antelope, rattlesnakes, jackrabbits and prairie dogs, but Jen's spectacular photographs and video give me some idea.

I may have originally followed SDCG out of curiosity, but I've stayed because of the sincere and generous person she is.

Like all of us, Jen has been through a lot, and I don't mean just upending her life in Texas to move to South Dakota. Her heartfelt writing reveals a woman who is courageous and adventurous, playful and stubborn, and very much devoted to her friends and family.

If you don't already follow SDCG, you should make a point to click on over there and take a look around.

One thing I didn't plan on when I started this whole blogging thing last May, was the extent to which I would develop actual relationships, however virtual, with fellow bloggers. Jen may be much younger than I, and our lives as different as night and day, but through her words I sense a kindred spirit.

She has been a fun and loyal cyber friend, and I truly hope she goes on sharing her world with us for a long, long time.

Jen may not know this, but it's entirely possible one day I just might show up at her door, ask her to throw me on a horse, and have her give me a personal tour of the ranch. I get the feeling we'll have a lot to talk about.

For more Cyber Santa Spins, go call on Sprite's Keeper. And give her a big holiday hug from me.

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Baking

When the kids were little I wanted to pass on the tradition of making Christmas cookies. They loved mixing the ingredients and decorating with colored sprinkles.

Neighbors gifted us with their holiday treats and we'd pack up some of our cookies to return the favor.

Over the years I tried new recipes. If they were a success we added them to the list of regulars. I gave cookies to neighbors and friends, people at work, the UPS man and the guy at the post office. I boxed them up and sent them to relatives.

Somewhere along the line I became a machine. A possessed, compulsive, cookie-making machine.

There are at least 10 types of cookies that must be baked to avoid loud squeals of dismay from the three adult-sized children in my life. Not including the buttermilk brownies, ginger muffins, cream cheese brownie bites, and chocolate cream pie.

I enjoy all this baking. Really. I do. And my kids are aware that, if they want to partake of their favorites, they need to pitch in with the process. Daughter #2 is a champion whipping up dough. Daughter #1 is a decorating queen. First-Born Son, these days, is mainly a taste-tester. Sexist, I know.

This year I am trying to restrain myself. A little. Maybe I don't need to populate the entire world with cookies. Maybe a few close friends and family are enough.

It's so easy to take a good thing and turn it into a weapon of self-torture. But with age has come wisdom.

If my cookie making starts to drive me a little crazy, that's kind of defeating the whole purpose, right?

My family and friends deserve to enjoy not just my baking this holiday season, but a merry, more relaxed me. Wouldn't you agree?

For more Spins on Holiday Baking that may actually include some recipes go visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Newsletters

 

Let me preface this by saying that I have, on occasion, sent out holiday newsletters and I may again some day in the far off future. I receive a couple each year and I'm always eager to find out what people are up to. But let's face it, some newsletters read more like an ostentatious listing of Can You Top This rather than a warm friendly note of catch-up.

This then, is my tongue-in-cheek version of how one such holiday newsletter might read. I know none of you would EVER send out anything even remotely like this...

 

To all our wonderful friends and family,

Can you believe another year has rolled by? If not for the photos of little Chloe's Yale graduation (magna cum laude of course,) and the new addition to our summer "cottage" finally being complete (see photos on other side), it wouldn't seem possible.

In this time of financial hardship for so many, we're blessed that Tim has received not one but two promotions. His Christmas bonus will just about cover next year's college tuition for the twins. Hughie, that little braniac, got into Harvard and is cruising toward clinching class valedictorian. But poor Louie is another story. He was wait-listed at Princeton and it looks like he may have to settle for either Brown or Columbia.

Baby Stewie is now president of his middle school class and captain of both his soccer and basketball teams, as well as first chair cello in the orchestra. He's raising funds for a class trip to Every-Country-in-Europe and he'd really appreciate it if you could purchase some candy or wrapping paper to show him you care (brochure enclosed).

Tim's work keeps him so busy that he's only been able to compete in three triathlons this year. His new BMW is small consolation. And Peg is her usual hectic self, running the PTA and the Junior League. But she still manages to volunteer at the hospital AND do her weekly Meals-on-Wheels deliveries. Her new organic beauty-care product-line has been a huge success (website below). You should definitely check it out!

Well, we hope everyone's had a terrific year. We're sorry we didn't get a chance to see you all, but with our Family Volunteer Vacation to rebuild New Orleans in February, and our two short weeks cruising the Virgin Islands in April, time just seems to fly by. Maybe next year...

If you're ever up this way please give us a call. Barring scheduling conflicts, we can meet for coffee or brunch at your hotel. Or maybe a drink at the airport before you leave. That will give us a chance to really catch you up on our lives!

Sincerely, The Mimi-Mee Family

 

For more heartfelt and less jaded Spins on holiday newsletters, check out Sprite's Keeper.

 

Spin Cycle: Being Thankful

Every year at the holidays my Grandma would sit at the head of the table and gaze fondly out over her very full plate of dinner to the faces of her loved ones spread out before her on either side of the table.

She'd be cajoled into making the first toast and she always said the same thing. "I'm just so happy to have my family gathered around me."

At this, her four grown children would start to laugh. "Oh Mother, here you go again."

They would wave their hands dismissively, the broad smiles on their faces giving away how happy they really were to hear Grandma's predictably mushy words.

These last years, my parents generally fly to Arizona on Thanksgiving to my sister's. With no family nearby, I, like many others, spend the holiday with friends.

They are my neighbors. My Vineyard family. They watch our pets when we go on vacation. They bring us food when we're sick. Our seven children think of one another as cousins.

We have Thanksgiving at their house and then Christmas at our's. We've been doing this for years.

On Thursday they'll make the turkey. The Ex brings his mashed potatoes. I arrive laden in desserts. Pumpkin pie, apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, holiday cookies. Sometimes there are miscellaneous friends or family members in attendance. Every year is a little different but the core remains the same.

It will be the first time since August that all three of my children are gathered together at one table. I will look out over our bountiful spread to these faces I so love and, as always, I'll think of my Grandma.

I didn't get it all those years ago. I thought she was being overly sentimental. But I get it now.

Oh yeah, I'm right there with you Grandma.

 

For more Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. Jen always gives us something to be thankful for, no?

 

 

At A Loss (part two)

 

If you haven't read Part One of this post, you can find it here.

 

After she got her hearing aids, Daughter #2's speech grew by big fat leaps and bounds.

In those first few weeks, she would cock her head to the side, exclaiming, "I hear sum-tin!" Then run to the door or window to check out what it was. I couldn't believe how much she'd been missing.

I steered myself for the years to come, the negotiations I would need to engage in, and the accommodations that would be necessary for her in the school system. In life. The uphill battle certain things would be for her, things I had so taken for granted with my other kids.

Do you know some people treat children with hearing aids like they're mentally disabled or slow? Yeah, they do. And some people are uncomfortable at the mere site of a kid with hearing aids.

Fairly or not, I came to judge my older children's friends by how they handled D #2's disability.

"Is she retarded?" One little boy asked, sneering. As though she wasn't even in the room. STRIKE OUT.

"What's your sister got in her ears?" another asked.

"Those are her hearing aids." I could see First-Born Son almost holding his breath as he said this. "To help her hear."

"Oh." The boy shrugged. "Like bionic ears. Cool." HOME RUN.

I started saving for the tiny, but enormously expensive, hearing aids that would fit inside her ear and be practically invisible, the kind the audiologist assured me would be perfect for her as an adolescent.

Then, before she turned five, on a routine audiogram, her hearing tested almost normal. We'd been going every three or four months, to our same amazing audiologist, Ellen, each time.

Ellen didn't know what to make of it. Neither did the specialists she sent us to in Manhattan.

"I guess you might call it a miracle," one doctor said. "Except I don't believe in miracles."

The director of her school took me aside and quietly suggested that I not share what had happened with the other parents; she didn't want to encourage false hope.

Today, D #2 still has fluctuations in her hearing and does much better if she can look at someone as they speak, but she no longer wears hearing aids. She sits in the front of the class by choice, and she works really hard to overcome the learning difficulties she has as a result of those early years. Really hard.

And really successfully. She is driven in a way my two other children never had to be. She wants it. Bad.

This then, is my very un-scientific theory to explain what happened: I was so sick for that entire pregnancy. I only gained 13 pounds, and she was 7lbs, 14oz, with the biggest placenta the nurses had ever seen. Looking back, I think I may have had some viral infection that was passed on to her, affecting her hearing.

Unknowingly, I continued to pass on this virus to her through the next year and a half of nursing. Gradually, after she was weaned, the virus dissipated, leaving only residual damage, in the form of fluctuations in her hearing.

At least, that's my attempt at a logical explanation.

But as for what I really think happened?

Well, let's just say that, unlike that doctor, I do believe in miracles.

Wouldn't you?

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.

Potluck Memories

 

We had a neighborhood potluck the other night. It was hosted at the home of my same friend and neighbor who threw my birthday surprise party three years ago, just to show you what kind of spectacular person she is.

Everyone showed up: the couple down the road who summer here and I invite down for drinks when my parents visit, because they're about the same age and my parents are happier when they have a playdate; the guy and his wife who live on the bend in the road, who magically showed up with a new baby, and most of us didn't even know they were pregnant (can't see a belly when you're waving car to car); the kids whom I no longer get to see every day at the bus stop since Daughter #2 started high school last year.

There was tons of awesome food and a bonfire for the kids to roast marshmallows. When it grew dark, we sat around the fire and told stories about our neighbor, Bo.

Bo always wore a cowboy hat and had a long white beard. He lived in a tiny cabin on our road with his beloved dog, Fraulein. We'd drive around the bend and see him playing with his remote control, battery-operated toy car, Fraulein chasing after it. He always tipped his hat in greeting, cigarette in hand.

Bo couldn't drive so he rode a moped, and when that broke, a bike. Or else he hitched. My kids were shocked the first time I picked him  up in our car.

"I thought you said never pick up hitchhikers," they protested.

"Yes, but it's only Bo," I explained. Everyone knew Bo.

We baked him cookies every Christmas.

When he got sick with lung cancer a couple of years ago, they didn't give him much time. But he was back on his bike before long.

Then he went into the hospital last spring and didn't come out. My neighbors brought Fraulein in to visit him every day. She was in bed with him when he died.

Then they convinced their friends to adopt Fraulein. And they arranged this potluck in his memory. We all got to talk to people we generally only wave at. And we got to share stories about Bo.

Our neighborhood is just that little bit different without him. Something missing.

I keep driving around the bend expecting to see him in the road, waiting for him to tip his hat one last time.