IslandRoar

Scars

For Daughter #2's Sweet 16 we were going to go to Manhattan and see a show, Next to Normal. We bought the tickets months ago. Three tickets, because of course she wanted to bring a friend.

Then.

She discovered she was one of five kids picked to go on a leadership weekend. An honor right up her alley, and perfect for listing on a future college application.

Which is why she's planning a party with a tent and dance floor in our yard next month. And why, last weekend, I went with a friend from work and Daughter #1 to see Next to Normal without her.

If the choice had been mine, it is so not the show I would have picked. It's about the struggles of a woman suffering from bipolar disorder and the havoc it wreaks on her mega-understanding husband and perfectionist, spiraling-out-of-control daughter.

Oh, and it's a musical.

How, I thought, does one spin mental illness, psychosis, and familial dysfunction into song and dance? Trust me, they found a way.

I laughed. I cried. I was forever changed. Seriously.

And it wasn't just me. My friend felt the tears coming on before the first act ended. By the final moments of the play the sounds of muffled sobs along with noses snuffling and being blown echoed throughout the entire theater.

It's true, not everyone has a crazy mother or a mental disorder. But we probably know someone who does. And if not that, maybe we know someone who's battled a major illness, or the loss of a child or marriage.

Let's face it, we've all battled something. We do not get into our third or fourth or fifth decade of life without some killer scars to show for ourselves exactly how much we've lived.

And that's what I love about theater, love about art. How it can take the life inside us and reflect it back in a way that touches our innermost core. Our soul, if you will. And allow us to experience both sorrow and joy, love and loss.

Just like this play. Just like life.

 

I'm going to take advantage of this wonderful long weekend by hauling my butt out to the garden and taking a short bloggy break. See you all the middle of next week. Enjoy!

 

Spring Break Unplugged

Daughter #2's Spring Break is next week and the two of us are going to visit my parents in Florida.

Where, in their case, the year might just as well still be 1994 when it comes to technological advancement.

I'm serious. There is no DVR, no digital camera. Half the time their answering machine isn't even turned on. No Wi-Fi. No (gulp) internet access of ANY KIND.

And, dare I say it, there is No Computer. That's right. You heard me. No PC, no Mac.

Therefore, after a long and intense inner debate, I have decided to leave my laptop at home. Because really, what would be the point?

You know as well as I do that if I decide to bring it I'll spend hours roaming the streets in my rental car trying to "borrow" someone's Wi-Fi. Or I'll search for a library or Starbucks just to check my email.

Next thing you know I'll stop by Facebook. And let's face it, from there it's one split second click to your blogs. Daughter #2 will get cranky and impatient and make snide remarks. Then demand to use the computer when finally I am through.

It would not be pretty.

So.

The laptop will stay home.

I'm not sure whether to drape it in black as a sign of mourning, or to jump up and down with anticipated delight.

A whole week without a computer? Whatever shall I do? Read? Write? Lie in the sun and freckle? Do a psychosocial study on the daily habits of a certain retired couple who still insist on living in the dark ages?

The possibilities are endless.

Thus I beseech you, please excuse my absence from all your lovely blogs while I'm away. I'll be sure to stop by ASAP upon my return.

Okay? Are we good?

Great. Now I'm feeling really sad. What'll I do without you guys?

Just say a prayer for me that they still have electricity and running water, would you? I'm going to need all the help I can get.

 

Where's My Horse??

"Did you ride your horse to work?" One of my favorite wise-ass patrons directed this comment to me a couple weeks ago, glancing at my cowboy boots.

"Of course." I went along with the joke. "Didn't you see it tied up outside?"

I love my cowboy boots. They're the real deal. I've had some boots over the years that came close, but they had a zipper or were otherwise not up to snuff.

Daughter #1 goes to school in western Pennsylvania which, for the purpose of this post, could just as well be Wyoming. Seriously, I've been there. I kid you not.

After we dropped her off at college last August for the very first time, and as The Ex and I were starting the long, emotionally wrought trek back to Massachusetts, we passed by a big sign on the highway that read something like:

Western Wear! The Most Awesomest Boots in the Whole Wide World! Stop and assuage your broken grieving heart!!

Eureka!

"Pull off here. Quick!" I shrieked to The Ex, who was driving. And miraculously, he did just that.

Back in the day, when we were married, if I asked him to pull off the highway suddenly, for anything, he'd say ever so slowly, Oooh, soorrry, you tooold me tooo late, as he drove right on by. It was nice to see he was evolving.

Inside this amazing store was a real-life cowboy. Don't ask me to prove it to you; some things you just know. He had a western drawl and a very cool cowboy hat and a cowboy shirt and a cowboy belt.

I picked out three pairs of boots to try on. But no, he brought me an entirely different pair without even measuring my feet. And, you guessed it, they fit perfectly. Like butter.

Clearly he had cowboy magic. I've never had such comfortable boots in my life.

When we went back down there for Daughter #1's Family Weekend in October we stopped in again. Daughter #2 got a pair of tall red cowboy boots from that same cowboy. To. Die. For.

Daughter #1 claims she's not interested, but we'll see how long that lasts. As for me, I'm thinking she'll be at this college for three more years...

Roughly, that translates into three more pairs of cowboy boots, wouldn't you say?

 

 

Trusting My Gut

I was supposed to go to New York City the weekend before last, to visit my 22-year old son.

We had tickets to the Tim Burton Exhibit at MOMA (Museum of Modern Art), and First-Born Son had decided weeks ago where we absolutely had to go to dinner.

But then came the weather report. You guessed it: more snow. At least 16 inches were predicted for Manhattan.

I got all kinds of advice. Fly; drive to Connecticut and take the train; cancel the trip.

I've spent my whole life in the Northeast, so driving in snow rarely fazes me. I'd even driven to Manhattan in a raging blizzard once before (not on purpose; it involved Broadway tickets, last minute changes in the weather report that somehow got overlooked...don't ask).

That trip took eight hours and exposed every last raw nerve in my body. Nothing could ever be that bad again; of that I was certain.

I'd just read Vodkamom's post about listening to your instincts, trusting your gut. So I drowned out everyone's words and concentrated on what I really thought was the right thing to do.

And I went.

The road was somewhat crazy weather-wise. Rain, snow, sun-showers, sun-flurries. It changed every 20 miles at least.

Crazy weather, yes. But unsafe? No.

I rolled into Manhattan in just under four-and-a-half hours. Record time.

It was still snowing. Huge piles created by plows. Slush and ice everywhere. Central Park got almost twenty inches before it was over. For once I was happy to be behind the wheel of my gas-guzzling environmental monster of a truck.

But I got to see First-Born Son and meet the new GF. Tall, smart, lovely. The three of us walked all around Times Square in the snow Friday night before dinner.

First-Born Son and I hit MOMA on Saturday. Saw the loveliest little snow-person sculpted jauntily in the middle of Park Avenue. We shopped uptown and down.

He watched in triumph as I chowed down on sliders and a tall Guinness shake in his restaurant of choice on St. Mark's. Not exactly the menu I might have chosen, but delicious nonetheless. Even the Guinness shake. Especially the Guinness shake.

I wouldn't have believed it myself, but, like everything else about the weekend, I'm counting the days till I can try it again.

What chances have you taken lately? Or, what have you done that you weren't sure you should, and then were so glad you did?

 

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!

 

 

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.

 

Winter Wonderland?

I have determined that I'm not a cold weather vacation sort of gal.

It's something I've always suspected but I can now say, unequivocally, that it's a fact.

Last week we ventured into the mountainous New Hampshire wilderness for a family vacation. The fact that my kids now have three different winter breaks propelled me into scheduling a mini-vacation at a time convenient for all.

Reckless fool that I am, it didn't seem worth it booking a flight to some place warm for a mere four days. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Instead, I chose an historic resort in New Hampshire. The place was beautiful. The skiing was right down the road, in addition to tubing, zip-lining, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and dog-sledding (yes, dog-sledding!).

These all seemed like fun-filled and perfectly reasonable activities at the time. And they were, they really were.

Except.

The east coast had that post-Christmas cold snap. Temps shot down to single digits, negative five with the wind chill during the day. It never stopped snowing, heavy at times, but, up until the morning of our departure, there was an endless cascade of flakes. Beautiful to look at. At least for the first day. Or two.

Remember when your kids were little and you spent all that time bundling them up to play in the snow? Extra socks and mittens. Hats and snow pants. Boots and scarves. And then of course, they'd have to pee, a truly monumental endeavor at that point.

Well, that's how I felt the whole time I was there. Bundle up to brave the great outdoors, peel off the layers once back inside. Bundle up. Peel off. A never-ending array of damp clothing and snow streaked floors.

Static electricity on the clothes, in the hair. Dry skin. Hat head. Numb faces and runny, red noses.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun. Tubing was fun. And zip-lining over a ski slope. I've always enjoyed speed.

And there was laughter, at times hysterical. Especially on our horse-drawn sleigh ride in blizzard-like conditions, an experience none of us will soon forget, including Dave, our driver, or Glenn, his trusty draft horse.

"I'm cold, Mommy. I'm cold." This, from my 22 year-old son, curled in the fetal position on his bed after skiing.

Shut up and grow a pair, I wanted to snap at him. Except that I was too busy counting my own frozen digits.

Okay, we admit it. We're wimps.

We tried our best. We persevered. We can check one off the bucket-list.

"The next time we take a sleigh ride, it won't be in a blizzard," First-Born Son informed me.

"What next time?" I stared at him. "I don't know about you, but I'm good. For life."

And while nothing beats sipping a hot-toddy by the warmth of a roaring fire as the winds howl at the windows, I think I prefer a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella in it, while lounging poolside or on some warm, white sand.

Promise me you'll remind me of this next winter, okay?

 

The Middle Place

 

My parents, like a lot of people, have had a tough year.

My father, 78, has had one health problem after another. The last couple of months they've dealt with the removal of a rather deep melanoma (the most serious type of skin cancer) below his eye, then a complicated skin graft at this site.

It required three surgeries, drains, packing, multiple dressing changes for the large amounts of bleeding and drainage, and many different medications. My mother, never much of a nurse herself, has been the one to perform all these required tasks.

In addition, the hospital where the doctor practices and the surgeries were performed is over an hours drive from their Florida home. My mother hates to drive. My father has always done the driving for both of them. He even took her to the grocery store or the mall, and ran errands with her. Until now.

In reality, the past couple of years he'd also been there to offer her physical support. She suffered from polio as a teen, and these last years her muscles, never strong to begin with, have grown increasingly weak and, at times, downright unreliable.

I think my mother is upset that my dad, usually the strong one, has now put her in the unenviable position of caretaker. I don't blame her, but I also don't know if there's a solution.

It's been many years since they moved from New Jersey, where my sister and I still lived at the time. They hated the ice and snow. But originally New Yorkers, they were genuinely appalled when I moved my family to this "God-forsaken island."

My job and my younger daughter, as well as my finances, prevent me from hopping on a plane to buzz down there and help her out as I wish I could. Don't misunderstand; if my parents were very ill, or even required an extended hospital stay, I would find a way to be there.

But it's these smaller, ongoing, chronic if you will, episodes, so common as our parents grow older, that are the hardest to handle without family nearby.

I hope not to be in the same boat one day. But who knows?

"I should have had more children," my mother complained over the phone recently.

"But then they'd just be far away as well," I said (my sister now lives in Arizona).

"Maybe not," she argued. "Maybe they'd live close by and be here all the time."

"Yes," I agreed. "Our unborn children are always the most loyal, aren't they?"

Even she had to laugh.

Do you all live near enough to help out your folks if they need it? Or are you, like me, impossibly far away? I'm pretty sure both can be a blessing and a curse. But it'd be nice to know how other people are handling it...

 

Family Time: Mandatory

Are you, like me, your family's Cruise Director?

I used to think this job description only applied when they were younger. But I've realized recently how much more important the job is now that my kids have one foot out the door. If I didn't plan ahead and inform them that participation is mandatory it would never happen.

My own parents pretty much gave up on the concept of Family Time when my sister and I became teenagers. I can understand why.

My kids grumble and complain. They recite a hundred reasons why it won't work for them. "I can't get off work for a whole weekend." "I have too much homework." "I have my own life too, you know." I've heard it all.

But as I saw us scattering in several different directions a few years ago, I realized that the days we have left for Family Time are numbered. I decided then not to listen to their objections. For any and all excuses they throw my way, I counter with only this: Make it Work.

My goal is not to make them miserable. It's to make memories. Maybe if I was still married it wouldn't be so important to me; maybe I'd be relishing the couple-alone time after all that parenting.

But I've found that by enforcing Mandatory Family Time, my jaded older kids wind up having a blast. Whisked away from their outside lives and personas, old sibling alliances are rekindled, and new ones have a chance to ignite.

Well worn family jokes resurface, although we  inevitably wind up with new zingers for the memory book. Like the time Daughter #2 innocently read aloud a sign on a Florida highway as we drove by: Hooters, where everyone gets their own cheerleader. She was about 12 and had no idea what Hooters was. But her 16 and 19 year-old siblings did, and that line is now a family classic.

The idea is simple: Keep it brief. A long weekend may work better than a week for a mini family vacation.

Don't overschedule: I'm planning a mandatory hike up-island for the day after Thanksgiving this year. If the weather tanks, I have a DVD as backup. But I would never try both for the same day when they're only here a couple of days.

Don't ban technology: You can't fight City Hall but do use your discretion. I allow computers and cell phones. But only during down-time or at the end of the day, not in the middle of a car ride through the rain forrest in Puerto Rico.

It's important to remember that they will complain about being forced to spend time with the family. It's pretty much their job. Check your sensitivity at the door. Last summer, my kids kvetched right up until we left for our long weekend in New Jersey. Yet they're still talking about how much fun they had.

In fact, since realizing these family "adventures" aren't going away, they've taken to emailing me links for possible things to do and places to go. We booked the hotel for our mini ski vacation this year based on a suggestion from Daughter #1.

One day maybe not too far off I'm looking forward to handing off the mantle of Cruise Director to them. Then all I'll need to do is go along for the ride.

Do you think, when that day comes, they'll get the joke if I show up with my arms folded, cell phone in hand, eyes rolling belligerently? Nah, I wouldn't really do that. Someone's got to at least pretend to be the mature one, right?

College Bound

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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