IslandRoar

Heat Wave

The past couple of weeks here on Martha's Vineyard have been some of the hottest I can remember.

I'm not complaining; I like a little heat. Growing up in NJ I was used to steamy summers. And when the kids were small our little house was often sealed up for days against the heat, air conditioning running day and night.

This is our 10th summer living on the Vineyard. There's not a lot of air conditioning out here. We just open all the doors and windows and let in that amazing sea breeze. Maybe turn on a fan or two when the temps crawl over 80.

But the thermometer in my back window has hit well over 90 several days recently, and over 100 at least twice. And suddenly my children (and I use the term loosely as they're 16, 19, and 22) morph from rather reasonably articulate beings into whining spoiled toddlers.

"It's sooo HOT. I'm dying," my youngest moans yet again, sprawling across the family room couch with about 10 (okay, four) fans blowing directly upon her. "Can you please put in an air conditioner?"

She is referring to the small window air conditioner we have stored in the garage that once spent its summers in a NJ attic bedroom.

But for some reason I dig in my heels. It's not that uncomfortable with all the fans going. I mean, you don't really need to hear yourself think over the whirring of the fan blades, right? And if I put in the air conditioner I'd have to hang up sheets in doorways to trap the cool air in the family room and keep it from drifting off into the rest of my sauna-like house.

"Why don't you hang out in the basement?" I offer one more time. This is actually a great idea. The basement is finished and has a wonderful cozy room complete with couches and TV and a game system. Most importantly, it's nice and cool.

"I don't want to be in the basement. I want to be up here," she wails. "But it's too hot."

Kids today.

When I was growing up we didn't have any AC. Just a pitiful attic fan that my parents pretended actually made our nights a little less unbearable when all it really did was blow hot air around.

My mother would command my sister and I to strip to our underwear and go play in our unfinished concrete basement to keep cool. Sure it was dark down there, but it was at least 10 degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

If we were really lucky she'd turn the hose on us or set up the sprinkler. Or maybe even send us over to call on the trashy neighbors she didn't approve of, but who had a swimming pool.

Do my children realize how fortunate they are to live on an island off the coast of New England? Are they aware how much hotter it is in-land? And how lucky they are to have a pool, a cool finished basement, and the promise of cooler nights, courtesy of the ocean mist that rolls in like clockwork each evening?

No, of course they don't. Because lord knows, each of them has at least one friend with AC so why can't we have it too? Maybe if they were over 65 and had heart conditions I'd consider it. But I'll choose to be stubborn on this one.

"You'll live," I tell my daughter, channeling my mother.

And perhaps, in the meantime, I'll take her out for some ice cream. Ice cream, I believe, makes everyone happy.

And... the store has air conditioning.

How are you surviving the weather where you live this summer?

 

Mother of the Year

Daughter #2 turned Sweet 16 last week. As part of her present I took her and two of her friends to a concert in Boston.

Now remember, we live on Martha's Vineyard, an island. And it was a school night. The concert tickets were for general seating, meaning we had to be there way before the door opened to get a good place on line.

I picked the girls up early from school to catch the boat and then drove to Boston in just under two hours. They would be late to school by 45 minutes the next day since the boats stop running by 9:30 pm and we were staying the night at a hotel in Falmouth.

On the one hand, this makes the whole thing that much more of an adventure. On the other hand, it's a flipping pain in the ass.

We stood in line outside the House of Blues in Boston for two hours, securing the girls a lovely spot in the area right in front of the stage. Then I wedged my way out of this mosh pit to lean on a railing further back at the edge of the room.

That's right, I leaned against a railing. There was not a chair to be found. Anywhere.

The House of Blues is a very cool space. A big stage with a large dance floor downstairs, surrounded by two upper level balconies on three sides. These were overflowing with shrilly screaming teeny boppers. But no chairs.

Parents wandered about aimlessly. A few tried to sit on the floor or against the wall but were quickly thwarted by bouncers in red shirts. Other parents found their way to one of the bars figuring, I'm assuming, that if they couldn't rest their weary butts, at least they could drown their sorrows.

I had half a mind to rally the bunch of us and organize some sort of coup. I imagined us overpowering the management, demanding they provide some succor for the over-40 set to rest our varicosed legs.

Did they not realize the medical consequences they were imposing on us from standing so long, the effect on our feet, our legs, our compromised aging circulatory systems?

The concert went on for hours. There were five bands. Five. 

Daughter #2 and her friends had been swallowed up by the crowd packed in front of the stage where, between sets, large burly bouncers trickled water into their upturned mouths like they were baby birds being fed worms by their parents. The occasional texts she sent me were the only proof I had that she was still alive.

Leaning against the railing beside me, a young couple made out passionately the entire time. Sure, I could've moved, but that choice spot to lean my aching back against was too rare and valuable a piece of real estate for me to recklessly abandon.

When finally the last band left the stage and the lights came back up, Daughter #2 emerged from the crowd and threw herself at me. "You're the most wonderful mother in the whole world," she exclaimed. "This is the best night of my whole life."

I knew how cranky she'd be by the time I dropped her off at school the next day. How short lived would be my glory.

But my legs were so tired dammit, my ass crying out for a chair. So I decided to go for it, accept the compliment. And, for one brief shining moment, I really was the best mother in the whole wide world.

 

Congratulations to Lisa at -Privilege, the winner of  my give-away and Aidan's book, Life After Yes. Thank you to everyone who left a comment.

 

"Yes"

"You have to come out and hear the echo," Daughter #2 calls from the front steps. "And you can hear the surf pounding," she goes on. "It's amazing!"

"I'm not getting up," I tell her. "I'm too tired. I just want to relax."

It's nine o'clock at night.

After a long day, I'm finally settled on the couch with my feet up and my laptop in front of me, totally ensconced in Blog Land.

Daughter #2 continues to yell into the dark deserted night, pausing to listen for the echo. "Come on," she entreats. "This is so cool!"

"No," I whine from under my quilt. "Not now." I can't hear any echo and I'm half tempted to accuse her of making it up in order to get me outside.

I'ts so damned easy to get caught up in our day to day stresses. So simple to be bogged down under a hundred different excuses, all of them legitimate.

I'm too tired;
I finally have five minutes to myself;
I just want to be left alone.

But where, exactly, does that leave me? Relaxed and alone?

In less than two and a half years Daughter #2, my third and last child, will go off to college; alone is definitely the operative word here.

I have raised children who appreciate the sound of the ocean. A daughter who laughs at the echo of her own voice in the star-filled night. Isn't this the kind of person I consider myself to be? The kind of mother?

"Okay. Yes, okay." I drag my sorry butt off the couch and out the front door.

"Yell something," Daughter #2 instructs. And I do.

And there, in the distance, I can hear my own words shouting back at me. I smile. And do it again.

Through the trees, the wind carries the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. It's as though they're right next door.

"I've never heard it this loud." Daughter #2's smile lights up her face. "Isn't it cool?"

"Yes." We go back inside. Continue on with our night.

Very cool, indeed.

 

This post was written as part of Momalom's Five for Ten. Click on over to see more blogger's posts on the topic of Yes.
 

Martha's Vineyard: Edgartown

Daughter #2 has just started working weekends at what will be her summer job. It's a clothing store in Edgartown, only a short bus ride away if I'm not around to drive her.

Of the six island towns, Edgartown is the quintessential New England village, brick sidewalks flanked by pristine white houses, many built almost 200 years ago by whaling captains.

It's a sleepy village in the winter with many shops and restaurants closed down, but in summer it's one of the most bustling places on the island and, except for dropping a kid off at work, catching a movie, or giving a houseguest the island tour, I try to avoid it at all costs.

Edgartown's the oldest English settlement on Martha's Vineyard, founded in 1642. The original Jaws was filmed here. Both my grandma and The Ex just happened to be out here that summer and got to watch some scenes being filmed, and a couple of my friends that grew up on the island were extras in the movie, playing kids on the beach when the shark attacked. In the film you can recognize many island sights, like Main Street in Edgartown, the area down by the pier and the Chappy ferry.

Although Chappaquiddick is a beautiful island unto itself, it's technically part of Edgartown. Two small, three-car ferries called the On Time II and III shuttle people back and forth from early morning till late at night. Some 200 people live on Chappy year round. And yes, Chappaquiddick is the site of the infamous Ted Kennedy incident back in the day.

Although Edgartown has plenty of wonderful places to eat, one of my faves is The Newes From America, a cozy pub that's been around forever and has a large number of year-rounders among its clientele.

Daughter #1 worked one summer as a dishwasher at the Edgartown Yacht Club and another at Edgartown Books, which is worth a visit just to check out the uniquely painted staircase. I believe more of Daughter #1's salary went into using her employee discount at the book store than into her bank account that summer, but this year she's working as a nanny so hopefully there will be a little more saving going on.

Daughter #2's not sure yet what her employee discount will be at this new job, but I'm already a little frightened by the gleam of excitement in her eyes when she talks about the clothing for sale.

I have a habit of comparing each Vineyard town to another place of which it reminds me, and I've always called Edgartown the "Connecticut of Martha's Vineyard." This is in no way a dis, because even though Edgartown's a pretty expensive place in the summer, it's breathtakingly beautiful, and if you come to Martha's Vineyard it's definitely worth a visit.

 

Stroll down Main Street to the harbor and check out the picture-perfect view of the lighthouse. And stop in and say hello to Daughter #2 while you're in town. Tell her wise women save more than they spend.

Maybe she'll actually listen to you. 

 

"Those People"

The Ex grew up in  New York state.

Being more of a city girl,  I was unused to the, shall we say, eccentricities of country living when he first brought me to his hometown.

"What's with all the yard-cars and porch-couches?" I asked.

He looked around in bewilderment. "Oh, yeah." Like he'd never noticed before.

Really, I wasn't being a snob; I was just curious. Does an upholstered couch on an exterior porch actually serve a purpose? Wouldn't it get all dank and smelly, too gross to sit on?

And what's with having two or three rusted old cars hanging out in the yard, usually looking as though their wheels haven't felt the road in at least the last decade?

These things are not tolerated in the pristine utopia that is suburban New Jersey. There are meddling neighbors and zoning laws in place specifically to prevent such atrocities.

Then I moved to Martha's Vineyard. An island. Down the end of a long winding road. Definitely the country. You can't see my house from our street, and this is a good thing.

The endless gravel drive is pretty rutted after this icy winter. The house is beautifully painted. On one side. Almost completely.

Because of course this is a job The Ex wanted to do with First-Born Son last summer. You know, the whole father-son-bonding while saving-money-in-the-deal thing?

What? Doesn't everybody's ex-husband paint their house? Seriously, we both own it and the man pays the mortgage; this was not a battle I chose to engage in. All I cared about was that the house would get painted.

But of course First-Born Son worked two jobs all summer. And on his days off there was his all important sleeping schedule. Not to mention The Ex is only available on the occasional weekend to begin with.

So the house remains partially painted. And I've learned to take deep breaths each time I pull up the driveway.

Then there are our old cars. Three of them. For when my college kids are home. At any given time at least one is generally having an issue with brakes or alternators or some such crap. So I'm glad to have a spare.

Except.

We've become Those People, haven't we?

My mother, who has always made a point of living in a palace, was quite upbeat about the house when she visited last summer. "Oh, the color looks so nice, Maureen," she crooned. "Just think how great it'll be when it's all done."

I don't think she'll be that positive this year if it's not finished when she arrives.

Maybe I need to move an old couch out onto the deck. You know, to avert her gaze from the house? Think she'll be fooled?

How about you? Are there miscellaneous pieces of furniture on your front porch, or can your house rock the cover of a magazine?

Come on, be honest. Clearly I'm in no position to judge.

 

 

Springtime Comes to Martha's Vineyard

It's springtime on the Vineyard. Do you know what that means?

Picture the scene from The Wizard of Oz, right after Dorothy and her pals have reached The Emerald City but before they get an audience with the wizard:

Rub rub here, rub rub there, whether you're tin or brass. That's how we keep you in repair in the merry old land of Oz.

Well, that's what spring is like out here. Everyone everywhere seems to be busily preparing for the approaching summer season.

Town crews cut tree branches, repair roads, and plant flowers. The air buzzes with the sound of saws as new shakes are shingled onto buildings. Hammers ring out repairing damage left behind by wind and winter.

On island roads trailers haul freshly painted boats back to the water, while on sunny weekends tourists can already be seen strolling down the Main Streets of Edgartown and Vineyard Haven.

And of course, our island Dairy Queen reopens.

That may not sound like much to you, but trust me, out here it is a very big deal. DQ closes in October, sitting there lonely and forlorn all winter until its opening day each spring.

Word spreads quickly, and by the after-school rush the line is out the door and down the driveway. Nobody complains though. We're all happy to talk to people we haven't seen all winter, happy to realize that waiting on this DQ line means summer's right around the corner.

Summer, the season of magic and chaos that every islander anticipates and dreads in almost equal measure.

But for now, we're satisfied to savor our soft-serve and enjoy this time when our island paradise is still, however briefly, ours alone.

 

"Wicked Good Post"

My kids and I swore when we moved from New Jersey to New England almost a decade ago that we wouldn't fall prey to the colloquial term wicked.

It isn't just the weather that New Englanders like to preface with this word. A person can be "wicked pissed off" as easily as a day is "wicked cold."

The kids caved first.

What did I expect? They were young, impressionable. They wanted to fit in.

"Excuse me," I interrupted Daughter #1 one night at the dinner table. "But did you just say you had a wicked long essay to write?"

She hung her 10 year-old head in shame.

Soon her siblings were saying it too.

The unusual colloquialism in my Northern New Jersey hometown was the word "spare."

I'm not sure exactly what part of speech it qualified as. We'd say things like,  "This whole day has been spare excellent," or "What's your problem? Spare bitchy?"

Sometimes we'd even just shake our heads and say, "Spare?"

As far as I know it was only my hometown that had this spare affliction. Over 10 years after I graduated and moved away, my friend dated a guy that had spent two years living there in high school.

"What's the deal with the word spare?" he demanded of me.

I could offer no reasonable explanation, but I was kind of glad to know the term was still floating around town.

On Martha's Vineyard the word dank has a unique meaning among the young. Rather than referring to something damp or dark, as the term suggests, dank here implies something is really good.

A new video game? Dank.

A new car? So dank.

The surrounding sea seems to have confined the expression to the Vineyard so far. But feel free to steal it if you'd like.

Any crazy local or regional words bantered about where you live or in your past? Please share them.

Because that would be, like, Spare Wicked fun?

 

Let There Be Light

Sunrise? Sunset?

What is it with humans and light? We joke about bugs being drawn to any light source, but really, we're not that different.

I'm old enough to remember when Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) was first recognized as an actual condition, and I've known several people in my life who use a lamp in the winter to fight it.

There are whose who mock the whole thing, as though people who succumb to SAD are just a pansy-assed group of wimps.

But if we think about it honestly, I believe each of us find ourself seeking out light in our own life. And I'm not being metaphorical here. I mean actual light.

Light is a huge factor in painting, photography, all of the arts.

And scientifically speaking, we humans were not engineered to function very well in the dark. Sunlight brought clarity, warmth, and safety.

Night? Well, night is dark. And scary. Cold and long.

Even though I'm a night owl, I've been drawn to light my whole life. I can never stop myself from glancing in the windows of houses I drive by at night; they always seem so warm and inviting.

I'm infatuated with candles, and twinkling lights of any sort. I love driving toward a city at night, its skyline lit up with the possibility of what might be going on behind each one of those glowing windows.

As a child, my favorite part of driving home from my grandma's was the approach to the George Washington Bridge at night, its spectacularly shining arches spanning the Hudson as we headed back to New Jersey from the Bronx.

But I'm picky with my light. It can't be flashing like a strobe light, or too bright as in fluorescent. When energy-saving bulbs first appeared I balked at their abrasiveness and wouldn't use them in the parts of my house where I spent the most time. Fortunately, they've gotten better.

I need my light to be soft and inviting, to wrap itself gently about me, not knock me around the room with its harshness.

What I liked most about camping was always the campfire. And here on the Vineyard, my favorite part of a great beach party is, without a doubt, the bonfire at the end of the night.

Flames are mesmerizing. Light come to life.

Perhaps this is on my mind because the days are slowly getting longer. A little more light, a little more hope, each day.

How about you? Do you find yourself affected by light, or lack of it? Are you a moth, like me, or do you run for cover, a true creature of the night?

 

 

Lucky Dog

 

Last weekend the weather was sunny and warm, the nicest it's been since October. The best part was there was no killer ocean breeze, usually the spoiler on early spring days like these.

We loaded the dog into the car and headed up-island to Lucy Vincent Beach in Chilmark. Savannah loves to chase the waves. And we're always hoping she gets a nice bath out of it.

Like many beaches on Martha's Vineyard, Lucy Vincent has beautiful cliffs made from many different colors of clay. Unfortunately, after a winter like this one, the erosion factor is big.   

There are so many huge rocks up-island, leftovers from the last Ice Age. I can actually get Savannah to climb up on this one, but she jumped off before I got a good shot.

Lucy Vincent has this very cool cave, right in the side of the cliff. As the waves roll in they crash right through it. I timed it pretty poorly on my way back and wound up kind of wet.

Of course, no visit to a Vineyard beach would be complete without the usual warnings. Luckily, it's a little too early yet to worry about poison ivy or ticks. But hopefully soon...

 No matter what beach we wind up at, Savannah always finds a few friends.

Every Vineyard beach has its own unique personality. Savannah pretty much loves them all. Me too.

Where's one of your favorite places to escape to on an incredible, early spring day?

 

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!

 

 

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?

 

 

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!

 

 

Martha Norton

Brothers and sisters torture one another. This is a fact of life. It's that whole love/hate thing. Maybe it's practice for the real world. Toughens us up so we can take whatever life might throw at us.

I used to tell my sister really outrageous lies. That we were moving, or that we were getting a dog. Things I knew she would start out not believing. But that was the fun part. I  would then spend the next half hour convincing her they were really true.

I would be solemn, straight-faced, and back myself up with fabulous false logic. Finally she would believe me. At which point I would pounce. "Gotcha! I can't believe you thought that was true."

Mind games. The worst type of torture. My two older children, First-Born Son and Daughter #1, have a habit of banding together against my youngest, Daughter #2. Before she understood much Spanish, they had her convinced, at age seven, that her name translated into Spanish as La Idiota.

Until the night she proudly announced it at the dinner table. "Well my name in Spanish is La Idiota." I couldn't help it. I laughed. Then so did she. The two older kids were visibly relieved. They were safe. This time.

For the last nine years since we moved to the Vineyard, they've been telling Daughter #2 she's adopted. A common enough sibling torture treatment, I realize. But they've added their own special twist.

They tell her she was adopted from Russia. Her real parents had 11 other children. But because she was hearing impaired (an injury apparently sustained when she was accidentally shot with a potato gun), her parents gave her up for adoption. Cruel, I know.

Her real name, they inform her, is Martha Norton. Now, Norton is an old Martha's Vineyard name, not exactly Russian. But Daughter #1 swiped it from a gravestone, and Daughter #2 never questioned its ethnic origins, so Martha Norton it remains.

This convoluted tale brings laughter or tears, depending on the day. Or hour. D #2 might scream, "I hate you," at her siblings, and run from the room sobbing as they high-five one another.

Or she may actually go along with the story. As she does when her sister's friends remark on how different the two of them are. "But that's probably because you're adopted," they'll say, completely in on the ruse. "Yeah," she'll nod. "I'm really Russian."

I try and stay out of it. No matter which side I come down on, I can only make things worse. And, as D #2 likes to tell me, no doubt only her real family, the one from Russia, would truly understand.

Got any good sibling horror stories, either your own or those of your children? Or are my kids perhaps more evil than even I could have imagined?

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

The Kindness of Strangers

I had a doctor's appointment off-island in Hyannis last week. And of course it turned out to be the day the whole east coast was slammed with a major storm.

The cape and islands (Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard) mostly got rain, but lots of it. Wind gusts were over 50 miles per hour. I was sure the ferry would be canceled. That happens when we get really bad "weather," as New Englanders like to say.

But fortunately the boats were still running, and, after a rocking, rolling passage, I drove off on the other side into the storm.

No off-island trip is complete without a supply run, if only because items cost so much less off-island, never mind the convenience and choice factors.

So even in the monsoon-like conditions, I stopped at Walmart, where I needed a bunch of miscellaneous crap.

When I finally got home late that evening and unpacked my stash, I discovered I had an extra Walmart bag that wasn't mine. It must've been left on that baggy carousel by whoever had been in line before me.

The bag held three clunky watches and three boxes with faux pearl jewelry, as well as three of those big plastic candy canes filled with Runts. No doubt this was someone's bag of stocking stuffers, or maybe even gifts for some kids in their life.

It wasn't as if I could drop it back at the store any time soon; I doubt I'll be off-island again before Christmas. But the next day I called the store to see if anyone had reported a missing bag. Nobody had, so they took my phone number and that was the end of it.

"Wow, this is really nice of you." The manager sounded surprised. "Not many people would call like this."

Really? I find that hard to believe. I have more than enough of my own junk; I don't need to confiscate anyone else's. I think most of us would at least drop the bag back at the store if they could.

What would you do?

Once in New Jersey, shortly after my marriage ended and my brain was not quite functioning to capacity, I left three bags of groceries underneath the cart in the parking lot. I packed up the car and drove home, where I realized pretty quickly I didn't have my fruits and veggies.

Not feeling very hopeful, I decided what the hell, and gave the store a call anyway.

Yup. Someone had brought in my bags from under the cart and left them with the manager. All my produce was there.

How surprising was that!

Have you ever been pleasantly surprised by the good will of perfect strangers?

I like to think that what comes around goes around. Maybe I'm hopelessly naive, but it's a hell of a lot better than settling for cynical and bitter, don't you think?

 

 

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.

 

Story Time

 

A few weeks ago the librarian at work who runs Toddler Story Time was off-island at a conference. They asked me if I would be willing to fill in.

As I generally aspire to be an optimistic, fearless sort of person, I smiled and said, "Sure."

Yeah. Right.

I had about two minutes to prepare. Okay, maybe it was closer to 30, but clearly I needed more. The parents and their tiny offspring assembled in the children's room, eying me with suspicion.

Perched with only half my ass on a kiddie-sized chair, I began reading from the pile of books the children's librarian had left for this purpose.

It was a tough crowd. The kids were all under two, but they were the least of my problems. I spilled out a bag of puppets onto the floor. Passed around bells. They were putty in my hands.

But their parents? Well, they expected more. Clearly I did not know the routine. Naively, they expected singing.

"Oookaay," I exclaimed brightly. "What should we sing?"

Then I drew a complete blank.

How embarrassing. There I was, a veteran mother with three ancient children. Not to mention the thousands I've cared for in the hospital. Although to be fair, sick or injured kids don't frequently require lots of singing from their nurses.

Maybe things would've run more smoothly if I could've administered IV antibiotics or listened to their lungs?

Meanwhile, the toddlers were waiting, bells at the ready. One adorable little babe sporting round pink eyeglasses stared at me with wide-eyed expectation. My heart melted.

"How about Itsy Bitsy Spider," one grandmother not much older than me suggested helpfully. And off we went. 

"You had to sing?" First-Born Son remarked incredulously that night on the phone when I recounted my tale of woe. "Those poor kids."

Do you see what I have to put up with? And he's the nice one.

Now that it's over, it doesn't seem quite so bad. Maybe I'll even do it again some time. Although I'll definitely bone up on my kiddie songs first.

I get to see that sweet little baby with the pink glasses each week when she and her mom check out their books. She always gives me a huge grin. I'm convinced she remembers who I am.

But I'm not quite sure if she's laughing with me or at me.

 

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.