It is a well known fact about life here: you can get anything delivered to your front door at all hours of the day. In my youth, we, after an evening spent drinking, would wake up, call out for breakfast, which would arrive, miraculously, at our door in the same amount of time it would take to crack eggs, fire up the stove and get the coffee percolated. This life where things, life's necessities, gets delivered is an aspect of life I've looked forward to with relish. It's not that I'm lazy, but rather I imagine the Mt. Everest size of time saved in one's life when you don't have to spend endless hours picking up dry cleaning, picking up prescriptions, and the real time gobbler, picking up groceries.
In LA, it was a constant emotional, physical, psychological drain to start my day with three or four errands on my 'to do' list. For reasons I've never understood, I would have completed a mere two by the noon hour, at which point the sheer exhaustion of maneuvering the traffic, parking lots, and the schlepping to get these mundane tasks completed would have made me give up the remaining last two items, which would mean another day with a longer list. It was, for me, mind numbing and a part of my life I found intolerable. Once when I started my usual whining about the woes of traffic in LA, a friend, who was happily ensconced in suburban New Jersey after having fled LA--yes, people do live quite contentedly in Jersey--pointed out that life in any suburban town would mean driving around. I had to agree, but I argued that driving in suburban New Jersey would not be as nerve wracking as driving in LA. To which she agreed heartily, I might add.
This new life of having things, even of the most mundane variety, delivered to my door is enticing indeed. I've yet to call out for a delivery of toilet paper or prescription refill yet, but the lure of this possibility is still ahead. I imagine the hours left to do other more important things since all that time is now relegated to someone else doing the errand running for you. This lifestyle where anything and everything can be delivered would be perfection if one was agoraphobic or in the throes of a deep, deep depression. I used to think life in LA would be nearly impossible for those suffering from any of those afflictions where being out in the world is not possible since delivery services were spotty.
The most remarkable thing about our new existence, a life sandwiched between others, is the view I have outside my kitchen window of the Chrysler building, or rather, the pointy end of the building which looks much like an elaborate pencil. I am constantly drawn to the windows in our place, my curiosity aroused by the glimpses of life happening around me. The early evening is the most ideal for a sneak peak into other lives since lights have been turned on, the shades not completely drawn. I watch unabashedly, noticing bodies walking past windows, plants decorating window sills, people walking home from work with brief cases in hand and a bag of food in the other. These reminders of life happening in and around you in such proximity is exhilarating for me, which is contrary to the idea of the writer and the need for isolation--all true qualities. For some reason, the man made isolation of homes in LA where the the world is kept at bay with gates, walls, or shrubbery, was much more suffocating. Perhaps it was that the privacy was such a fabrication since homes were close enough to remind you of life nearby yet the boundaries so clearly defined as to keep each of us so separate.
So, I stare out our large windows, taking in the views of other buildings, wondering whether I should order our groceries for delivery today or some other day--all things to mull over in this new life.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Union Square--Downtown Life
We picked this neighborhood as much for the number of green areas and play grounds as its proximity to TRADER JOES!!! Yes, there is a Trader Joe's within walking distance, or rather New York City walking distance since no one in LA would ever walk this distance, and certainly not to Trader Joes. And Trader Joes here sells the same items it sells anywhere else--I've now shopped in a Joes in cities: Boston, Maryland, and now in New York. Since we still had our car, we drove the few short blocks to load up the hatch with staples, all things one does when starting a new life.
I browsed, putting in bottles of condiments, frozen food items our family enjoys, taking in the bustle of this popular store. There were young people, mostly women, with fatigued parents in tow as they bought food stuff they would certainly need to survive their first year at NYU. Once home, I marveled at how full the bags had been, and yet I had still managed to forget basic staples. This oversight caused some consternation, still used to life lived in a car where each trip, no matter how short, to the market was nerve wracking.
See, here's the thing about life here that is amazing. Yes, there are no supermarkets, those humongous boxes with parking spaces galore, that are 'supposed' to make your life easier, more convenient, when in truth none of it felt convenient or easy. In place of this convenience, what is available here are a series, a never ending series of shops selling food items. My first meal cooked in our new kitchen came to a screeching halt after realizing I had purchased the wrong cheese for the dish. This type of error in LA would require me to abandon the meal entirely since the idea of getting back in the car to drive to the store was absolutely out of the question. But here, my son and I ran down the block to the gourmet grocery store, one of three small shops in our one block, to get the needed cheese, this entire exercise taking less than ten minutes.
The automobile invented for, here's that word again, convenience has, in my opinion, made life in areas, where life has to be lived behind the wheel, much more challenging. It's true your hands don't suffer the brutal ache of carrying heavy bags over many blocks. You quickly realize the need to hoard so much stuff becomes unnecessary since the proximity to replenish every day items is never far enough away to warrant such bulk buying. And in truth, who has the space to store the industrial sizes of items sold at Costco in New York? As I had started to suspect during my purge of all our excesses in LA, I'm now convinced that the sprawl of life in suburban towns has created a false void. Our large Subzero refrigerator wasn't large enough to hold food for a family of three, so that we purchased another smaller refrigerator to store the excess. For a family of three!
Our life here is new, metaphorically and physically. The refrigerator, the machine that reveals as much about a life as any other non-human entity, is uncluttered, free from becoming a catch all for those items purchased and never used. Each time I put a new item on the clean shelves, I'm aware of what is going in, taking note, so that five bottles of unused salad dressings don't line the shelf of the refrigerator door. This keen awareness is applied to every area of our lives since we are, each of us, creating something wholly separate from our past. It is time of deep contemplation, fueled by the multitude of visceral experiences. It is as if your five senses have been somnolent all these years, jolted to life by a cacophony of noises, images, smells, and experiences.
This city, of so many cliches, has elicited reams of writings from writers and artists in rapture with its idiosyncrasies and maddening quirks. And now I, too, join the ranks of those in love with this place that has a personality so separate from the imaginings of its inhabitants. The same shelf of writings extolling the virtues of a city ever reaching skyward has its counterpart on a separate shelf where the writings are more elegiac in tone, a bitterness permeating each line written from those who had been lured by the beauty of a sun-filled landscape. I've been thinking so much about Fitzgerald as I sit facing westward, trying to put into some coherent, artistic order my experiences in LA, particularly his book, Crack Up.
This process of comprehending my life is much like the process of writing itself--echoes of questions, the tiny shards of comprehension creating another louder echo of doubt.
I browsed, putting in bottles of condiments, frozen food items our family enjoys, taking in the bustle of this popular store. There were young people, mostly women, with fatigued parents in tow as they bought food stuff they would certainly need to survive their first year at NYU. Once home, I marveled at how full the bags had been, and yet I had still managed to forget basic staples. This oversight caused some consternation, still used to life lived in a car where each trip, no matter how short, to the market was nerve wracking.
See, here's the thing about life here that is amazing. Yes, there are no supermarkets, those humongous boxes with parking spaces galore, that are 'supposed' to make your life easier, more convenient, when in truth none of it felt convenient or easy. In place of this convenience, what is available here are a series, a never ending series of shops selling food items. My first meal cooked in our new kitchen came to a screeching halt after realizing I had purchased the wrong cheese for the dish. This type of error in LA would require me to abandon the meal entirely since the idea of getting back in the car to drive to the store was absolutely out of the question. But here, my son and I ran down the block to the gourmet grocery store, one of three small shops in our one block, to get the needed cheese, this entire exercise taking less than ten minutes.
The automobile invented for, here's that word again, convenience has, in my opinion, made life in areas, where life has to be lived behind the wheel, much more challenging. It's true your hands don't suffer the brutal ache of carrying heavy bags over many blocks. You quickly realize the need to hoard so much stuff becomes unnecessary since the proximity to replenish every day items is never far enough away to warrant such bulk buying. And in truth, who has the space to store the industrial sizes of items sold at Costco in New York? As I had started to suspect during my purge of all our excesses in LA, I'm now convinced that the sprawl of life in suburban towns has created a false void. Our large Subzero refrigerator wasn't large enough to hold food for a family of three, so that we purchased another smaller refrigerator to store the excess. For a family of three!
Our life here is new, metaphorically and physically. The refrigerator, the machine that reveals as much about a life as any other non-human entity, is uncluttered, free from becoming a catch all for those items purchased and never used. Each time I put a new item on the clean shelves, I'm aware of what is going in, taking note, so that five bottles of unused salad dressings don't line the shelf of the refrigerator door. This keen awareness is applied to every area of our lives since we are, each of us, creating something wholly separate from our past. It is time of deep contemplation, fueled by the multitude of visceral experiences. It is as if your five senses have been somnolent all these years, jolted to life by a cacophony of noises, images, smells, and experiences.
This city, of so many cliches, has elicited reams of writings from writers and artists in rapture with its idiosyncrasies and maddening quirks. And now I, too, join the ranks of those in love with this place that has a personality so separate from the imaginings of its inhabitants. The same shelf of writings extolling the virtues of a city ever reaching skyward has its counterpart on a separate shelf where the writings are more elegiac in tone, a bitterness permeating each line written from those who had been lured by the beauty of a sun-filled landscape. I've been thinking so much about Fitzgerald as I sit facing westward, trying to put into some coherent, artistic order my experiences in LA, particularly his book, Crack Up.
This process of comprehending my life is much like the process of writing itself--echoes of questions, the tiny shards of comprehension creating another louder echo of doubt.
Rude New Yorkers? Fugedit!
The stereotype of New Yawkers as being rude, pushy, loud, obnoxious may be the New York of its past, not the New New York where homicide is down, traffic ignored, and its inhabitants the one urban dwellers whose mortality rises as they live in this city that never sleeps. My son and I have walked and walked, exploring our area, heading to the Bed, Bath, and Beyond for various household items in need when storage is at a premium.
And in our explorations, we have not encountered a sideways glance as my son's constant prattle is heard a block away. Instead, people, old, young, black, white, Asian, all look at him with an expression of bemusement, sometimes saying 'hello' to him. Perhaps it is this constant contact with humanity, being surrounded by people everywhere that keeps people more humane. Whatever the reasons, my son and I have been the recipient of seats on a crowded bus, this precious commodity graciously handed over by men, who look harried and in a hurry. Cab drivers have driven us three short blocks without complaint, my son too tired to walk any further. And in all our years in LA, we never, not once, received a welcome gift from any neighbor in the multitude of neighborhoods we had lived. Here in a city where neighbors don't talk, or so they say, we were given a beautiful box of Italian pastries from our neighbor next door, certainly a first for our family.
Some people have written and complained about this new New York, their litanies dripping in sentimentality about the grittiness of the city's past. They don't understand this new city where kids in strollers seem to be outnumbering those fast walking power suits, a brief case in hand as they hurry to close their next deal. The writer in me can understand this nostalgia about this city's history, but as a mom and a newcomer, I am thrilled to see families living in the city, not having fled to any of the bedroom communities. I watch my son maneuver this new place, skipping down wide sidewalks, stopping on corners, not an ounce of fear in his face as we make our way down to subways. And when he tells me he needs to hail a cab, his little arm stretched skyward in that universal signal, I don't argue. His quick adaptation to this big city is the confirmation I need that this big leap of faith was not in vain.
And in our explorations, we have not encountered a sideways glance as my son's constant prattle is heard a block away. Instead, people, old, young, black, white, Asian, all look at him with an expression of bemusement, sometimes saying 'hello' to him. Perhaps it is this constant contact with humanity, being surrounded by people everywhere that keeps people more humane. Whatever the reasons, my son and I have been the recipient of seats on a crowded bus, this precious commodity graciously handed over by men, who look harried and in a hurry. Cab drivers have driven us three short blocks without complaint, my son too tired to walk any further. And in all our years in LA, we never, not once, received a welcome gift from any neighbor in the multitude of neighborhoods we had lived. Here in a city where neighbors don't talk, or so they say, we were given a beautiful box of Italian pastries from our neighbor next door, certainly a first for our family.
Some people have written and complained about this new New York, their litanies dripping in sentimentality about the grittiness of the city's past. They don't understand this new city where kids in strollers seem to be outnumbering those fast walking power suits, a brief case in hand as they hurry to close their next deal. The writer in me can understand this nostalgia about this city's history, but as a mom and a newcomer, I am thrilled to see families living in the city, not having fled to any of the bedroom communities. I watch my son maneuver this new place, skipping down wide sidewalks, stopping on corners, not an ounce of fear in his face as we make our way down to subways. And when he tells me he needs to hail a cab, his little arm stretched skyward in that universal signal, I don't argue. His quick adaptation to this big city is the confirmation I need that this big leap of faith was not in vain.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
New York City!!!!!!!!
After so much buildup, our arrival into the city was quiet, both of us so fatigued after a long day of driving, the heat, and just the emotional toll of what it took us to get us here, physically and mentally. We drove off the ferry, driving through picturesque Cape Cod towns until we got on the I-95. We whizzed through Rhode Island, stagnated through Connecticut, and made our way into the city. So many memories were stirred as we did this drive, almost a drive through of my life before husband, child, now. I recalled the trip to Brown to party with friends, my drive from New Haven, trying to flee from my shattered heart--only to learn those scars are now a part of your constantly morphing DNA. Our son fell asleep somewhere between Massachusetts and Rhode Island, leaving us alone as my IPOD shuffle played songs that mean different things to one another, this musical landscape of our past as teenagers, young adults, and then as a couple.
As our station wagon made our way down the FDR, I sighed in amazement that we were headed home. These initial feelings were so immense, so huge, so awe inspiring. This was now home, finally after having waited for over 10 eternal years. My first entrance into our new home was filled with the expected emotional fallout of something that had been built up to mythic proportions: shock, regret, oh no, anxiety. The morning light, as our son woke us up, brought the disorganization of our physical life into sharp view, throwing me into hyper drive to put our lives into instant order. My husband walked us across the street to pick from two bagel shops for our first breakfast in our new city. I could probably write an entire blog about my love affair with the bagel. And that first bite made me realize what I had been yearning all those years in LA when I would drive miles to Noah's. This dingy shop didn't have the brightness, newness of Noah's, nor did it have tables of Koreans noshing on this very Jewish staple. Instead, the shop was owned by Koreans, as are all the little stores in our neighborhood, it seems. But the bagel was sublime, perfection. I realized there was no need to buy a dozen bagels to hoard at home since I could walk across 1st Avenue each morning to satisfy this breakfast ritual.
Our first two days passed in a haze as I sorted through the remnants of our lives that had crossed 3000 miles in boxes labeled NY1. What had been designated for here are now arranged on shelves, drawers, and teeny closets. I feel the absence of all my many books, waiting for the day when they will be released from storage to fill up shelves. What few books did get picked for this part of my journey seem disconnected, like an archipelago of islands, each one alone to represent a writer, a form, a time period, missing its counterparts now hidden inside the cavern of boxes and a dark, dank warehouse.
I look outside my window that looks out on to a courtyard of sorts, facing other identical red brick buildings with an arrangement of windows. Some windows have shades drawn closed, some shades not visible, all of them a signal to lives unfolding behind those boxes of glass. This city, which had bewitched me since the age of 5, is now home to this middle aged adult. Funny, how life's turns and twists unravel in such a way to keep you always guessing.
My son and I walk down sidewalks, each of us absorbing the sights, sounds, smells of this place. Each turn around a corner is another adventure as we discover this city, our new home.
As our station wagon made our way down the FDR, I sighed in amazement that we were headed home. These initial feelings were so immense, so huge, so awe inspiring. This was now home, finally after having waited for over 10 eternal years. My first entrance into our new home was filled with the expected emotional fallout of something that had been built up to mythic proportions: shock, regret, oh no, anxiety. The morning light, as our son woke us up, brought the disorganization of our physical life into sharp view, throwing me into hyper drive to put our lives into instant order. My husband walked us across the street to pick from two bagel shops for our first breakfast in our new city. I could probably write an entire blog about my love affair with the bagel. And that first bite made me realize what I had been yearning all those years in LA when I would drive miles to Noah's. This dingy shop didn't have the brightness, newness of Noah's, nor did it have tables of Koreans noshing on this very Jewish staple. Instead, the shop was owned by Koreans, as are all the little stores in our neighborhood, it seems. But the bagel was sublime, perfection. I realized there was no need to buy a dozen bagels to hoard at home since I could walk across 1st Avenue each morning to satisfy this breakfast ritual.
Our first two days passed in a haze as I sorted through the remnants of our lives that had crossed 3000 miles in boxes labeled NY1. What had been designated for here are now arranged on shelves, drawers, and teeny closets. I feel the absence of all my many books, waiting for the day when they will be released from storage to fill up shelves. What few books did get picked for this part of my journey seem disconnected, like an archipelago of islands, each one alone to represent a writer, a form, a time period, missing its counterparts now hidden inside the cavern of boxes and a dark, dank warehouse.
I look outside my window that looks out on to a courtyard of sorts, facing other identical red brick buildings with an arrangement of windows. Some windows have shades drawn closed, some shades not visible, all of them a signal to lives unfolding behind those boxes of glass. This city, which had bewitched me since the age of 5, is now home to this middle aged adult. Funny, how life's turns and twists unravel in such a way to keep you always guessing.
My son and I walk down sidewalks, each of us absorbing the sights, sounds, smells of this place. Each turn around a corner is another adventure as we discover this city, our new home.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Party Like a Rock Star--Old School Style
Despite all of these years coming here, we never knew about the nightlife on this tiny island. It was like Rip Van Winkle waking up when I learned about this whole sub-culture of adults, who come here and get their groove on. The place that seems to be the center of this nightlife is a restaurant called, Lola's. We'd been there a few times for brunch, and for dinner, but never for a night out. Well, that all changed this summer. With my girlfriend from LA in tow, we headed to Lola's last night to check out what all the fuss is about since everyone I meet at the Inkwell seemed to live there once the sun set.
Well, the music was old school, but the crowd was many generations, all out to have some fun and to dance. A well kept 'grandmother' asked my girlfriend and I to dance with her grandsons, who were 19. Yes, 19! There was a dad dancing with his daughter, who was no older than 7. It was as if all the boundaries that separate us in our every day lives were removed, so that old, young, black, white, and everyone else gathered to have some fun. We hung in there for a few songs, each of us soaking in the evening. The room was packed as we made our way towards the exit, each of us doing a little shimmy. It was the perfect end to a great summer! And what a preview for next summer.
Well, the music was old school, but the crowd was many generations, all out to have some fun and to dance. A well kept 'grandmother' asked my girlfriend and I to dance with her grandsons, who were 19. Yes, 19! There was a dad dancing with his daughter, who was no older than 7. It was as if all the boundaries that separate us in our every day lives were removed, so that old, young, black, white, and everyone else gathered to have some fun. We hung in there for a few songs, each of us soaking in the evening. The room was packed as we made our way towards the exit, each of us doing a little shimmy. It was the perfect end to a great summer! And what a preview for next summer.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
TV Viewing
My time on the island is about getting unplugged from our hyper kinetic, hyper connected world, only half accomplished since I've become a Crackberry junkie. The television, which is never on during the day at home, remains black here. It's the evening viewing that is different since I don't have HBO to follow with lurid fascination the melodrama of the polygamist family. Instead, I have found myself idly watching whatever is on the three PBS channels on this island--it seems the island is situated to receive the Boston PBS Network, Rhode Island Channel, and one other that seems to come out of Connecticut. The other night I was caught off guard to see the MVY channel--usually relegated to televising the various towns' selectmen meetings, scintillating, really--airing a documentary about the momentous decision of Californians voting into law Proposition 13. It was odd to be watching this thorough documentation of the devastating effects of this one moment in the state's history--the long lasting effects will continue for so many more generations to come--while sitting so many miles away, so removed from the concerns all of these issues raised for me as a Californian.
The documentary laid out what I've known, witnessed, and predicted for the state and its upcoming years, a grim picture, indeed. This one proposition decimated one of the premier public school systems in the country in a matter of years, all accelerated by the boom of illegal immigration, the sheer number taxing a system already burdened by the shrinking budgets. What the documentary also pointed out was how this short-sighted law will continue to create ongoing problems for the state and cities, namely LA. If half of what they predict comes true, LA will truly resemble the fictional city of "Blade Runner," without the science fiction aspect of robots and such. Anyway, it was depressing in tone, view, and predictions, only reinforcing my general relief to no longer live there.
Another show that also added to my relief to not be in LA is the Bravo show, "Flipped." For those who have not had the enjoyment of viewing this fine, fine show, well, all of you are in for a real treat. A brief synopsis: a gay man with some means, although not unlimited, buys decrepit homes, refurbishes them to gay tastes, and the sells them for a profit. He is prone to psychics for guidance. He has held cleansing ceremonies for homes that have not sold. He is abusive to his assistant, a woman, who upon closer inspection is too old to be someone's punching bag. It is all meant to be entertaining, but is ultimately depressing. Some nights, I just find myself watching reruns of 'Law and Order,' since I know what to expect with them. All these other shows, so many of them reality based, make me despondent for our culture, our world, the world for our kids, and just life in general. It does make one want to drink heavily, if only I could find someone else to get up and be functioning for our son in the morning.
Just two more days till we get off island, ferrying away from this place, heading to our new life, as they say.
The documentary laid out what I've known, witnessed, and predicted for the state and its upcoming years, a grim picture, indeed. This one proposition decimated one of the premier public school systems in the country in a matter of years, all accelerated by the boom of illegal immigration, the sheer number taxing a system already burdened by the shrinking budgets. What the documentary also pointed out was how this short-sighted law will continue to create ongoing problems for the state and cities, namely LA. If half of what they predict comes true, LA will truly resemble the fictional city of "Blade Runner," without the science fiction aspect of robots and such. Anyway, it was depressing in tone, view, and predictions, only reinforcing my general relief to no longer live there.
Another show that also added to my relief to not be in LA is the Bravo show, "Flipped." For those who have not had the enjoyment of viewing this fine, fine show, well, all of you are in for a real treat. A brief synopsis: a gay man with some means, although not unlimited, buys decrepit homes, refurbishes them to gay tastes, and the sells them for a profit. He is prone to psychics for guidance. He has held cleansing ceremonies for homes that have not sold. He is abusive to his assistant, a woman, who upon closer inspection is too old to be someone's punching bag. It is all meant to be entertaining, but is ultimately depressing. Some nights, I just find myself watching reruns of 'Law and Order,' since I know what to expect with them. All these other shows, so many of them reality based, make me despondent for our culture, our world, the world for our kids, and just life in general. It does make one want to drink heavily, if only I could find someone else to get up and be functioning for our son in the morning.
Just two more days till we get off island, ferrying away from this place, heading to our new life, as they say.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Babysitter--Goodbye
Our sitter worked her last day with us. We ended her last day with a nice meal, although this year my son picked a loud restaurant that serves Mexican fare. She will get on an early morning ferry, heading to Logan for her final destination. It was a sad day for us all, as it is the signal of another summer's end. During these past three summers, she has become my 'summer daughter,' another child I care for when I'm here. When my husband is in the city, the three of us--my son, sitter, and me--become this family unit, doing things, eating meals, sharing stories and soaking up experiences of this island.
Watching her grow up has been wondrous for me to witness, a sneak peak into what is ahead for me with my son. She's more adult now than ever, feeling her way around the specter of who she may become. Our conversations reveal her desire to experience a world beyond the strictures imposed by parents, religion, and friends. Her need to explore is as it should be for someone her age. Her questions reveal her intellectual curiosity, characteristics which will keep her steady in turbulent waters.
After our dinner, we came home to give her some more time with my son. I could hear them giggling in his room, the drift of words floating down to me every so often. Too soon, we were all in my car, her load of clean clothes in a trash bag, her gift from us clutched in her hands, as we drove the short distance to the apartment she had shared with her cousin. We drove her up to a row of apartments that had seen better days, if they had ever seen them at all. My concern must have been written all over my face as I watched her searching for the keys among a small clump of bushes outside the door.
She walked over for our final farewell, her eyes watery. I hugged her tightly as we said something about talking soon. My son wrapped his arms around her neck, pleading with her to stay with him. An overwhelming wistfulness wrapped around me in a tight embrace. It seems our time now is about farewells, each of us saying goodbye to our past and those relationships of our previous life.
I drove away, noticing the beauty of the lavender sky as the setting sun revealed itself among the clouds that had lingered during the day. I drove down familiar country roads, the car reaching a small hill, where I glimpsed the blue waters of the Sound over the horizon. My son and I were quiet as we entered our house. Our wistfulness seemed to permeate from the walls of this house, as if it, too, knew that our season had come to another end. Sleep was fitful, awaking finally to the rustle of trees and the sun's filter through the tufts of clouds. Somehow the wistfulness of the night before seems to have evaporated, leaving behind a quiet. Another summer has been enjoyed, the laziness of sun soaked days now just a part of the cascade of pictures from this beautiful place.
Watching her grow up has been wondrous for me to witness, a sneak peak into what is ahead for me with my son. She's more adult now than ever, feeling her way around the specter of who she may become. Our conversations reveal her desire to experience a world beyond the strictures imposed by parents, religion, and friends. Her need to explore is as it should be for someone her age. Her questions reveal her intellectual curiosity, characteristics which will keep her steady in turbulent waters.
After our dinner, we came home to give her some more time with my son. I could hear them giggling in his room, the drift of words floating down to me every so often. Too soon, we were all in my car, her load of clean clothes in a trash bag, her gift from us clutched in her hands, as we drove the short distance to the apartment she had shared with her cousin. We drove her up to a row of apartments that had seen better days, if they had ever seen them at all. My concern must have been written all over my face as I watched her searching for the keys among a small clump of bushes outside the door.
She walked over for our final farewell, her eyes watery. I hugged her tightly as we said something about talking soon. My son wrapped his arms around her neck, pleading with her to stay with him. An overwhelming wistfulness wrapped around me in a tight embrace. It seems our time now is about farewells, each of us saying goodbye to our past and those relationships of our previous life.
I drove away, noticing the beauty of the lavender sky as the setting sun revealed itself among the clouds that had lingered during the day. I drove down familiar country roads, the car reaching a small hill, where I glimpsed the blue waters of the Sound over the horizon. My son and I were quiet as we entered our house. Our wistfulness seemed to permeate from the walls of this house, as if it, too, knew that our season had come to another end. Sleep was fitful, awaking finally to the rustle of trees and the sun's filter through the tufts of clouds. Somehow the wistfulness of the night before seems to have evaporated, leaving behind a quiet. Another summer has been enjoyed, the laziness of sun soaked days now just a part of the cascade of pictures from this beautiful place.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Values: East versus West
The inherent difference of values between the East coast and the West is most apparent in the offspring of the leisure class. Those children, fortunate enough to have parents who own houses here, work around the island, their summers a healthy combination of work and play. Kids, despite their parents' affluence, start babysitting or working as young as 14. Yes, they spend plenty of time hanging out at the beaches, traipsing around the three towns, and enjoying being young and here on this island.
As they get older, the jobs seem to get more taxing, their college summers spent waiting tables at any number of eating establishments. This parental expectation of kids working must be a result of the Puritan work ethic. Their counterparts in LA rarely pushed their kids to take on such responsibilities. In fact, my friends, whose kids were of working age, never seemed to view this as a possibility--as if working were something beneath their kids' stature in the world. This is not to pass judgment on their decision to keep their kids shielded from the grind of having to work since most will spend the bulk of their existence doing just that. Yet, is this prudent? Even for those with trust funds--although so few will be so fortunate--the drive to do something should be fostered, right? Isn't it realistic for those kids, who will have to face the reality of a life where they don't have the luxury to do nothing, be given some forewarning? To be given a preview, so to speak, when the stakes aren't nearly as dire.
Our baby sitter's work ethic, which is astounding for someone her age, is not a fair measure. She can out work even most grown adults, it seems. But her assumption she will work, and work hard, is something I didn't witness in most of my friends' kids. Most of my friends spent their time fostering a charade of life where their kids' main job was to move from one 'enrichment' activity to another, as if this were a preview of what their lives will be. And again, so few will be lucky enough to avoid the reality of life: going to work each day to pay for mortgages, cars, and all the other necessary every items. I can imagine the sense of disappointment these kids will feel once they realize that life isn't simply about merely doing things they want, that much of life is doing things that are far from exciting or enriching.
You see these teens, standing behind candy counters, ringing up your groceries, taking your order for a pizza and clam strips, all over the island. Some move from job to job each season, this dance for the perfect job an early preview of what their twenties, and possibly, their thirties will be. They may have missed some revealing moment about themselves and their interests from not having spent their summer at drama camp. But I would bet my money on these kids faring better than their counterparts, who spent their summers at camp or traveling. This advantage may not be apparent at the moment, but will reveal itself later, when the stakes are more important. My son, who is a mere four and a half, has identified places he would like to work once he gets of age. Of course, this list of potential jobs changes each day, but his expectation that he will work never wanes. We hope this imperative lesson of life will provide a sturdy foundation for him as he enters adulthood.
As they get older, the jobs seem to get more taxing, their college summers spent waiting tables at any number of eating establishments. This parental expectation of kids working must be a result of the Puritan work ethic. Their counterparts in LA rarely pushed their kids to take on such responsibilities. In fact, my friends, whose kids were of working age, never seemed to view this as a possibility--as if working were something beneath their kids' stature in the world. This is not to pass judgment on their decision to keep their kids shielded from the grind of having to work since most will spend the bulk of their existence doing just that. Yet, is this prudent? Even for those with trust funds--although so few will be so fortunate--the drive to do something should be fostered, right? Isn't it realistic for those kids, who will have to face the reality of a life where they don't have the luxury to do nothing, be given some forewarning? To be given a preview, so to speak, when the stakes aren't nearly as dire.
Our baby sitter's work ethic, which is astounding for someone her age, is not a fair measure. She can out work even most grown adults, it seems. But her assumption she will work, and work hard, is something I didn't witness in most of my friends' kids. Most of my friends spent their time fostering a charade of life where their kids' main job was to move from one 'enrichment' activity to another, as if this were a preview of what their lives will be. And again, so few will be lucky enough to avoid the reality of life: going to work each day to pay for mortgages, cars, and all the other necessary every items. I can imagine the sense of disappointment these kids will feel once they realize that life isn't simply about merely doing things they want, that much of life is doing things that are far from exciting or enriching.
You see these teens, standing behind candy counters, ringing up your groceries, taking your order for a pizza and clam strips, all over the island. Some move from job to job each season, this dance for the perfect job an early preview of what their twenties, and possibly, their thirties will be. They may have missed some revealing moment about themselves and their interests from not having spent their summer at drama camp. But I would bet my money on these kids faring better than their counterparts, who spent their summers at camp or traveling. This advantage may not be apparent at the moment, but will reveal itself later, when the stakes are more important. My son, who is a mere four and a half, has identified places he would like to work once he gets of age. Of course, this list of potential jobs changes each day, but his expectation that he will work never wanes. We hope this imperative lesson of life will provide a sturdy foundation for him as he enters adulthood.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Martha's Vineyard Agricultural Fair
Each August, the agricultural community of the island gets together to put on an old-fashioned fair to help promote the agricultural community on the island. They have exhibits where baked goods have been judged, an orange chiffon cake winning one of the prizes. The other exhibits celebrate and promote talents of those on the island. There are canning contests for the best berry jams and preserves, exhibits of children's artwork, and quilts and a kayak as drawing prizes for the raffle.
This enormous open field, which is normally home to a farm, is turned into a fair ground with rickety rides, stands doling out sugary confections and fried foods, and vendors selling home made items. There are pig races along with a barn full of roosters, chickens, cows, miniature ponies, for display. The best attraction were the Llamas. Yes, Llamas. The Llama farm is near our home and they were brought out for the fair, so that all of us could take a closer look at these exotic animals. There were sweaters made from Llama hair for sale, as well as hats and mittens. My son found all of it exciting and fun, especially the super slide, which he made his sitter go down with him four times in a row.
The drive out to West Tisbury for the fair is one I love. Imagine me admitting to loving driving anywhere. The scenery is pastoral, big open meadows and fields gracing each side of the two lane road, a canopy of trees shielding your car from the sun. The woods are interrupted by a dirt path, a mailbox at the entrance, letting you know there is a house tucked deep among trees and brush. My favorite part of this incredibly scenic drive are the 'stores' that you pass. There is the famous Eileen's pies shop, which is really her home turned into a store for the summer season. Eileen, a woman I've never met, but imagined, makes these delicious home made pies all summer, which people drive out to purchase. She sells her pies from a gazebo on her property. Chilmark Pottery is at the end of a windy dirt road. All the pottery is hand made by potters on the island. These delicate bowls, vases, and jars are in the hues of this island: greens, blues, some red, and yellows. There are a few antique stores also on this road with antique chairs placed outside to entice the driver to stop and browse.
But my absolute favorite part of the drive are the stone walls that border some of the properties. They are large sandy colored rocks, all different shapes that have been placed gingerly, one on top of another until a wall has been created. They are stunning in their simplicity. I always imagined Indians from long ago had made these walls, but of course that is not the reality. It is usually at this moment when I am passing a large farm, its borders defined by these walls, that I sigh in sheer happiness. I don't know what it is about these walls, but each time I see them I rediscover their singular beauty. Perhaps they are what each of us imagines when we read those Jane Austen novels, all set in the English countryside of sweeping meadows, trees, and these walls.
The news is full of gloom and doom about the ravages of hurricanes, high heat, and flooding. The onslaught of so much extreme weather should be worrying for us all. But yet, so few of us really consider our every day behavior and how each simple, uncomplicated task like driving two blocks to the market, can have such a devastating impact on our world. When I was in LA, a city that is not beautiful by any means, I thought less about the environment, other than how annoying it was that this issue had become so in vogue among the Hollywood set. But sitting here among the graceful wonders of nature, I consider the possibility of losing all of this to our thoughtlessness. The one outcome of this global warming is that the weather here has been glorious all summer. The heating of the planet has made this island ideal for all summer activities.
We left the fair, tummies full, each of us satisfied in this afternoon outing. There was nothing special about this fair, but the lack of special effects was what was so reassuring for me. The only disappointment was the fried dough stand, which was nothing like the funnel cakes of my childhood.
This enormous open field, which is normally home to a farm, is turned into a fair ground with rickety rides, stands doling out sugary confections and fried foods, and vendors selling home made items. There are pig races along with a barn full of roosters, chickens, cows, miniature ponies, for display. The best attraction were the Llamas. Yes, Llamas. The Llama farm is near our home and they were brought out for the fair, so that all of us could take a closer look at these exotic animals. There were sweaters made from Llama hair for sale, as well as hats and mittens. My son found all of it exciting and fun, especially the super slide, which he made his sitter go down with him four times in a row.
The drive out to West Tisbury for the fair is one I love. Imagine me admitting to loving driving anywhere. The scenery is pastoral, big open meadows and fields gracing each side of the two lane road, a canopy of trees shielding your car from the sun. The woods are interrupted by a dirt path, a mailbox at the entrance, letting you know there is a house tucked deep among trees and brush. My favorite part of this incredibly scenic drive are the 'stores' that you pass. There is the famous Eileen's pies shop, which is really her home turned into a store for the summer season. Eileen, a woman I've never met, but imagined, makes these delicious home made pies all summer, which people drive out to purchase. She sells her pies from a gazebo on her property. Chilmark Pottery is at the end of a windy dirt road. All the pottery is hand made by potters on the island. These delicate bowls, vases, and jars are in the hues of this island: greens, blues, some red, and yellows. There are a few antique stores also on this road with antique chairs placed outside to entice the driver to stop and browse.
But my absolute favorite part of the drive are the stone walls that border some of the properties. They are large sandy colored rocks, all different shapes that have been placed gingerly, one on top of another until a wall has been created. They are stunning in their simplicity. I always imagined Indians from long ago had made these walls, but of course that is not the reality. It is usually at this moment when I am passing a large farm, its borders defined by these walls, that I sigh in sheer happiness. I don't know what it is about these walls, but each time I see them I rediscover their singular beauty. Perhaps they are what each of us imagines when we read those Jane Austen novels, all set in the English countryside of sweeping meadows, trees, and these walls.
The news is full of gloom and doom about the ravages of hurricanes, high heat, and flooding. The onslaught of so much extreme weather should be worrying for us all. But yet, so few of us really consider our every day behavior and how each simple, uncomplicated task like driving two blocks to the market, can have such a devastating impact on our world. When I was in LA, a city that is not beautiful by any means, I thought less about the environment, other than how annoying it was that this issue had become so in vogue among the Hollywood set. But sitting here among the graceful wonders of nature, I consider the possibility of losing all of this to our thoughtlessness. The one outcome of this global warming is that the weather here has been glorious all summer. The heating of the planet has made this island ideal for all summer activities.
We left the fair, tummies full, each of us satisfied in this afternoon outing. There was nothing special about this fair, but the lack of special effects was what was so reassuring for me. The only disappointment was the fried dough stand, which was nothing like the funnel cakes of my childhood.
House guests!
It is an accepted expectation and burden once you own a summer home you will have visitors. I've heard, although yet to be substantiated, that people, relatives--even the most distant--, and acquaintances all vie for an invitation to come out and stay once word gets out you have a place in whatever idyllic setting it may be. I find this idea of visiting someone during their vacation, well, odd, really. It isn't as if those who come have invited us to join them on their holiday to the Hawaiian islands or some other far flung resort. Yet, this expectation that friends will come stay for free seems universal for those who have homes where visitors want to come.
During our time here, even when we were, ourselves, renters, we have had a flurry of guests come and stay--all free of charge. There are some friends, whose visit is simply a part of our annual ritual on this island. When we were in LA, it offered us an excuse to catch up with those whom we love, but don't get to see very much because of the sheer distance. But all the others, well, we are fond of our friends, but the idea of having them sprawled in your living room all week, waiting for meals to be served is too wearying even for this 'wannabe cruise director.'
We, as a family, have decided on a family 'one time only' rule. If you've been to visit once, your next visit should occur at your own rental or one of those lovely B&B's all over the island. If you have fallen so head long in love with this place, an easy thing to happen, then please avail yourself to the countless websites for rentals. We would love to have you over for dinner, meet up with you at the beach, have the kids run around in our meadow. Obviously, this rule doesn't apply to family members, who are expected to come, stay, and make a nuisance of themselves since they are family.
Since I've had the occasion to have hosted countless visitors, I've amassed a list of 'dos and don'ts' for those who want to come visit anyone. So, I will start with the Do's, a much shorter list.
-Do help out during meal times whether setting the table, stirring sauces, or simply standing around with a wine glass in hand offering company for the cook.
-Do offer to pay for something, even if the offer is rejected by the host.
-Do bring a very nice hostess gift--it's not what you bring, so much as the idea of this gesture that is paramount to setting a tone for your stay.
-Do clean up after yourself more assiduously than you would at home.
-Do offer to babysit, so your host can have an evening off--again, this will be rejected, but it is the gesture that matters.
-Do rent a car and plan activities that are for you and your family--never, never, expect chauffeuring duties to be included in your visit.
-Do follow all rules of the house, particularly pertaining to rules for children.
-Do offer dish washing duties nightly, even if rejected by your host.
-If babysitters are used, offer to help pay since it is more than likely your child was 'watched' in the process.
-Do invite your hosts for a visit to some place you are thinking of going, even if this offer is never taken seriously.
-Do leave a thank you note and a little token before you leave the house. Again, it is the gesture that is important.
The list of 'dos' are not as exhaustive as the list of 'don'ts.' We have some great family stories of people who have visited, whose conduct during their stay has helped create this exhaustive list.
-Don't let your child rule the roost--if your little one is known around your home as Emperor, it is advised to not let him or her run the show during your visit. This would mean the parents should spend all of their energies, making sure their Emperor or Empress is sharing, is not demanding, is following proper protocol of being a visitor in someone else's house.
-Don't go around changing things in the house, like moving furniture out of the way because your Emperor or Empress might hurt themselves in their frenzy to be the center of attention.
-Don't impose your differing parenting philosophies on to your hosts. If you don't believe your child has to share since you are raising the next Ted Turner or Rubert Murdoch, well, do force your child to make this concession during your time.
-Don't let your rigid food issues--other than severe allergies--be a source of consternation and anxiety for the hosts. If you don't like to eat meat, for whatever particular issue, just eat everything but the meat. If what the hosts serve is too offensive for your picky sensibilities, then go out and get your own food, which you should prepare once the kitchen is empty.
-Don't leave your rooms a mess each time you leave the house.
-Don't sit around sipping cocktails when you see your hosts working hard doing things for your comfort.
-Don't bring two kids and have only one parent be the one in charge. If you have two, then both parents should be actively parenting. For those with families where kids outnumber the parents, well, good luck since it is unlikely you will get invited to this house.
-Don't take over the house by having your things all over the place.
-Don't invite yourself to every outing your hosts may need to be attending--remember they are longtime residents here, so they will have occasions when they will need you to be self sufficient.
-Don't expect your hosts to drive you around, for whatever reason.
-Don't use up the last of house hold items without replacing it. Remember things on the island are three times the price of things you usually pay for at your neighborhood Costco.
-Don't invite others over to your hosts' home, for whatever reason. If you have others you know here, then meet them out.
-Don't hog up the home computer. If you need to stay connected to work or friends, bring your own equipment.
-Don't be a couch potato, if that is your idea of a vacation.
-Don't leave your dirty dishes in the sink, ever.
I'm sure as the years progress, we will be adding to this list. Those you hold with much affection don't necessarily translate into commendable house guests. We have had our range of great visitors--those usually get invited back--to the most horrifying. Again, we're waiting for that invitation for us to join our friends on one of their vacations, something that has yet to happen. We're quite happy to go to Puerto Rico--we are on the East Coast now--or any other tropical locale as guests of others.
During our time here, even when we were, ourselves, renters, we have had a flurry of guests come and stay--all free of charge. There are some friends, whose visit is simply a part of our annual ritual on this island. When we were in LA, it offered us an excuse to catch up with those whom we love, but don't get to see very much because of the sheer distance. But all the others, well, we are fond of our friends, but the idea of having them sprawled in your living room all week, waiting for meals to be served is too wearying even for this 'wannabe cruise director.'
We, as a family, have decided on a family 'one time only' rule. If you've been to visit once, your next visit should occur at your own rental or one of those lovely B&B's all over the island. If you have fallen so head long in love with this place, an easy thing to happen, then please avail yourself to the countless websites for rentals. We would love to have you over for dinner, meet up with you at the beach, have the kids run around in our meadow. Obviously, this rule doesn't apply to family members, who are expected to come, stay, and make a nuisance of themselves since they are family.
Since I've had the occasion to have hosted countless visitors, I've amassed a list of 'dos and don'ts' for those who want to come visit anyone. So, I will start with the Do's, a much shorter list.
-Do help out during meal times whether setting the table, stirring sauces, or simply standing around with a wine glass in hand offering company for the cook.
-Do offer to pay for something, even if the offer is rejected by the host.
-Do bring a very nice hostess gift--it's not what you bring, so much as the idea of this gesture that is paramount to setting a tone for your stay.
-Do clean up after yourself more assiduously than you would at home.
-Do offer to babysit, so your host can have an evening off--again, this will be rejected, but it is the gesture that matters.
-Do rent a car and plan activities that are for you and your family--never, never, expect chauffeuring duties to be included in your visit.
-Do follow all rules of the house, particularly pertaining to rules for children.
-Do offer dish washing duties nightly, even if rejected by your host.
-If babysitters are used, offer to help pay since it is more than likely your child was 'watched' in the process.
-Do invite your hosts for a visit to some place you are thinking of going, even if this offer is never taken seriously.
-Do leave a thank you note and a little token before you leave the house. Again, it is the gesture that is important.
The list of 'dos' are not as exhaustive as the list of 'don'ts.' We have some great family stories of people who have visited, whose conduct during their stay has helped create this exhaustive list.
-Don't let your child rule the roost--if your little one is known around your home as Emperor, it is advised to not let him or her run the show during your visit. This would mean the parents should spend all of their energies, making sure their Emperor or Empress is sharing, is not demanding, is following proper protocol of being a visitor in someone else's house.
-Don't go around changing things in the house, like moving furniture out of the way because your Emperor or Empress might hurt themselves in their frenzy to be the center of attention.
-Don't impose your differing parenting philosophies on to your hosts. If you don't believe your child has to share since you are raising the next Ted Turner or Rubert Murdoch, well, do force your child to make this concession during your time.
-Don't let your rigid food issues--other than severe allergies--be a source of consternation and anxiety for the hosts. If you don't like to eat meat, for whatever particular issue, just eat everything but the meat. If what the hosts serve is too offensive for your picky sensibilities, then go out and get your own food, which you should prepare once the kitchen is empty.
-Don't leave your rooms a mess each time you leave the house.
-Don't sit around sipping cocktails when you see your hosts working hard doing things for your comfort.
-Don't bring two kids and have only one parent be the one in charge. If you have two, then both parents should be actively parenting. For those with families where kids outnumber the parents, well, good luck since it is unlikely you will get invited to this house.
-Don't take over the house by having your things all over the place.
-Don't invite yourself to every outing your hosts may need to be attending--remember they are longtime residents here, so they will have occasions when they will need you to be self sufficient.
-Don't expect your hosts to drive you around, for whatever reason.
-Don't use up the last of house hold items without replacing it. Remember things on the island are three times the price of things you usually pay for at your neighborhood Costco.
-Don't invite others over to your hosts' home, for whatever reason. If you have others you know here, then meet them out.
-Don't hog up the home computer. If you need to stay connected to work or friends, bring your own equipment.
-Don't be a couch potato, if that is your idea of a vacation.
-Don't leave your dirty dishes in the sink, ever.
I'm sure as the years progress, we will be adding to this list. Those you hold with much affection don't necessarily translate into commendable house guests. We have had our range of great visitors--those usually get invited back--to the most horrifying. Again, we're waiting for that invitation for us to join our friends on one of their vacations, something that has yet to happen. We're quite happy to go to Puerto Rico--we are on the East Coast now--or any other tropical locale as guests of others.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Illuminations
Illuminations, an annual event in Oak Bluffs, was last night. The Methodist Campgrounds--long history--where gingerbread cottages are clustered like jewels are decorated with Chinese lanterns, each porch lit like a Christmas tree. Everyone gathers at the Tabernacle where music is played. Old timers, those whose families have been coming to the cottages for 50 years, gets up to speak and to give the signal for all the lanterns to be turned on. There is nothing grand about any of this, really, but in its quirky way, still charming. It is a tradition here that has been on going for a long time. It was my first Illuminations since I've never been able to stay this late into the season. I was invited for cocktails at our friends, who live here all year round. It was a lovely evening where long time residents took me into the fold. Everyone seemed to have a tale of how they ended up coming to live on this island full time. Some grew up here, leaving to seek new places, yet somehow being lured back to this place. For others, it is a place that seemed to grab them year after year, so that the decision to make this their permanent home the most logical decision.
This place is intoxicating in a subtle, Pinot Noir way. I've tried to figure out what exactly about this island has me so enthralled, enough to put roots here, even if only for four months out of the year. I may spend the rest of my life wondering what about this island fills me with so much contentment. This contentment is what keeps me dreaming about being here the rest of the year.
My son and I have started our count down till we leave. This bereavement starts at about the week mark when each precious day is spent savoring all that is a part of this island. Each day at the beach, each swim in the waters that are now a comfortable temperature, each meal of fried clam strips, each slice of pizza at Giordano's, each walk down Circuit Ave, all get tucked inside our memory bank for the Vineyard. This year, unlike all the others, feels less dramatic since we will be coming again in October. The proximity of the Vineyard to New York is a new element. I could, if I wanted, come up for a weekend retreat. Our family could come up to see the desolate beauty of Ocean Park blanketed by snow. I imagine we will spend some holidays here.
More important than my love affair with this island is that of our young son's. He seems to thrive here each summer, taking huge leaps in development. This summer he learned to swim in a week in the ocean, no less. He is now diving off of his babysitters shoulder into the Sound, riding his boogy board like a professional surfer. He likes to dive to the sandy bottom, grabbing stones before resurfacing. Any of his fears about being in the water, all produced I'm certain by LA parents' need to get their kids swimming out of the womb, has evaporated. He swims with complete confidence, so that most of his friends his age can't go swimming with him. His shouts for whatever friend to come out to the sand bar gets carried by the wind to everyone at the Inkwell. People now stop to comment on what a swimmer he is, and to ask his age. His confidence about meeting new friends at the beach swells each week. He is forever bringing his newest friend to wherever we are sitting, wanting to feed him whatever we've packed for the day.
His anxiety about all the radical changes to his young life gets revealed every so often. I can only hope all of the fun memories of this summer will buoy his spirit as he enters that new classroom for the first time.
This place is intoxicating in a subtle, Pinot Noir way. I've tried to figure out what exactly about this island has me so enthralled, enough to put roots here, even if only for four months out of the year. I may spend the rest of my life wondering what about this island fills me with so much contentment. This contentment is what keeps me dreaming about being here the rest of the year.
My son and I have started our count down till we leave. This bereavement starts at about the week mark when each precious day is spent savoring all that is a part of this island. Each day at the beach, each swim in the waters that are now a comfortable temperature, each meal of fried clam strips, each slice of pizza at Giordano's, each walk down Circuit Ave, all get tucked inside our memory bank for the Vineyard. This year, unlike all the others, feels less dramatic since we will be coming again in October. The proximity of the Vineyard to New York is a new element. I could, if I wanted, come up for a weekend retreat. Our family could come up to see the desolate beauty of Ocean Park blanketed by snow. I imagine we will spend some holidays here.
More important than my love affair with this island is that of our young son's. He seems to thrive here each summer, taking huge leaps in development. This summer he learned to swim in a week in the ocean, no less. He is now diving off of his babysitters shoulder into the Sound, riding his boogy board like a professional surfer. He likes to dive to the sandy bottom, grabbing stones before resurfacing. Any of his fears about being in the water, all produced I'm certain by LA parents' need to get their kids swimming out of the womb, has evaporated. He swims with complete confidence, so that most of his friends his age can't go swimming with him. His shouts for whatever friend to come out to the sand bar gets carried by the wind to everyone at the Inkwell. People now stop to comment on what a swimmer he is, and to ask his age. His confidence about meeting new friends at the beach swells each week. He is forever bringing his newest friend to wherever we are sitting, wanting to feed him whatever we've packed for the day.
His anxiety about all the radical changes to his young life gets revealed every so often. I can only hope all of the fun memories of this summer will buoy his spirit as he enters that new classroom for the first time.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Match Point
I started playing tennis over a year ago after not picking up a racket for nearly ten years. I found it incredibly relaxing to channel all of my fury into hitting, actually demolishing that yellow ball. It was less a game about finesse as aggression, my aggression, that is. I loved the running around, shamelessly grunting as I tried to kill this ball that had done nothing to warrant such ferocity. I was not out there to get a 'game' or to become a Tennis Bunny, the name I call all those women who make tennis their new found career. But rather, it was a way for me to relieve the excess amounts of stress that I suffer from for so many reasons, most of them genetically coded.
In LA, I knew a group of women, who all belonged to a particular tennis/swim club, most of their days spent playing in matches, practicing, and gossiping about all their fellow cohorts at this club--which I called THE CESSPOOL. I found them, as a group, quite off putting in their exclusivity and snobbishness about their particular world, which to me felt like a gilded cage or high-class prison. Their tennis playing was on some list, along with book club, scrap booking, and wine tasting, all of it designated for those aspiring or clinging to this precarious world of privilege. It is, I'm afraid to say, a world I know intimately. Yes, I do, did belong to a book club, although my club, I felt, was comprised of smart, interesting, intellectually engaged women, none of them remotely close to being labeled a Tennis Bunny. But that's my opinion, right? Someone outside our club may have found us lacking in so many ways, all of it depending on how smart, educated, and how intense their own snobbish meter.
So, in LA, I was relieved to be playing on public courts, far from the Cesspool that was the tennis club to which I would most likely have joined. It freed me to play as hard or not as I needed. There was no danger of running into one of those Tennis Bunnies, whose prying questions about what I'm doing or not would surely be repeated ad nauseum once they had walked far enough away to not be overheard recounting this discussion with someone on the other end of their cell phone. In fact, my tennis playing was something I didn't discuss with the members of the Tennis Bunnies sect. It was my secret, actually. Yes, I still engaged in the other activities that seemed de riguer for those in this class, but again most of it was far from the judgment of those that belonged to this particular group. My vehemence about the club and its members was something I thought just another aspect of life in LA I found reprehensible--a city that is not a city since it felt like living in a hyper-real Mayberry.
Oh, how wrong I was. It seems there are Tennis Bunnies everywhere, even on Martha's Vineyard. I found myself cringing in recognition at the same vapidness in the Tennis Bunnies here at Farm Neck. It seems there is some mold that churns out this particular breed in every state, every town, every Tennis Club. Or, is it simply that this particular sport, something which I enjoy so much, attracts all of those with characteristics I find so discomfiting? Yes, I am a hater of my own class, it seems. No matter how much I like to pretend to be a philosophical Marxist, I can't seem to shake my own inclination for, towards all those things that designate my class. See, I prefer playing at Farm Neck where the instructors, all male, all overgrown adolescents in adult bodies, are available to hit with me. The public courts in Oak Bluffs seem, well, dingy in comparison. Terrible to admit, but it is in fact how I feel each time I drive past these public courts.
So, I go to Farm Neck, gritting my teeth whenever a group of these women--why are so many of them blond?--come to play. I eavesdrop on their conversations about their 'kids--it seems all of their kids are in some baseball league together--,' 'book club'--everyone seems to be reading the newest written by the author of The Kite Runner--, and the mention of someone they are acquainted who is well-known for something--since this is the Vineyard and not LA, it is usually a writer and not a producer or actor. Their smugness is what I find so suffocating.
When I observe them, I can imagine them as they had been in high school, all of their insecurities or meanness barely hidden under the mask of adulthood. They are again vying for some top spot, although their 40ish, squishy bodies now makes it impossible for them to become the Homecoming Queen, if any of them were ever close to such a title. Instead, their competition is played within the arena of everything else in their lives: their spouses--whose makes more money, whose got the promotion, whose summer home is the grandest, who belongs to what yacht club--, and their kids, those unfortunate beings that are now shouldering the burden of the failures or disappointments of their mothers and, in most cases, their fathers. I assume, rightly or wrongly, most of them don't work, and have no real desire to do so. I know, I'm being incredibly narrow-minded in my own judgments since some of them, much to my shock, might be a Cardiologist, Professor, Marketing Executive--a glorified term for those who sell s**t we don't need--, and perhaps, even an anthropologist. Yet, I find this highly unlikely since most of my friends with rigorous careers have so little mental pr physical time for tennis, other than a quick hour lesson or run around on the courts, and certainly no time for the endless, inane discussions.
This being inside particular worlds, yet not truly inside is a familiar place for me. Perhaps it has do with being a child of transnationals. Perhaps not. I am starting to think this may be the way I am built, this need to be an observer, no matter how involved I am in whatever particular world. And so, I watch. And I take note. What I'm discovering is that class, this thing our country claims it doesn't abide by, is constantly in play at all times. It is the master behind all the chess moves of all the players--us. Whether we become pawns or the Queen is what most of us spend our entire lives battling. And then throw money--the desperate need to accumulate, the desperate need to spend what we accumulate--well, that is just the match to a building of sticks, dry sticks that is. So, I head off again for another lesson at Farm Neck, bracing myself for the most inane discussions I will, most likely, overhear. I wish I could say I find these women amusing instead of the profound sadness I feel for me and for them.
In LA, I knew a group of women, who all belonged to a particular tennis/swim club, most of their days spent playing in matches, practicing, and gossiping about all their fellow cohorts at this club--which I called THE CESSPOOL. I found them, as a group, quite off putting in their exclusivity and snobbishness about their particular world, which to me felt like a gilded cage or high-class prison. Their tennis playing was on some list, along with book club, scrap booking, and wine tasting, all of it designated for those aspiring or clinging to this precarious world of privilege. It is, I'm afraid to say, a world I know intimately. Yes, I do, did belong to a book club, although my club, I felt, was comprised of smart, interesting, intellectually engaged women, none of them remotely close to being labeled a Tennis Bunny. But that's my opinion, right? Someone outside our club may have found us lacking in so many ways, all of it depending on how smart, educated, and how intense their own snobbish meter.
So, in LA, I was relieved to be playing on public courts, far from the Cesspool that was the tennis club to which I would most likely have joined. It freed me to play as hard or not as I needed. There was no danger of running into one of those Tennis Bunnies, whose prying questions about what I'm doing or not would surely be repeated ad nauseum once they had walked far enough away to not be overheard recounting this discussion with someone on the other end of their cell phone. In fact, my tennis playing was something I didn't discuss with the members of the Tennis Bunnies sect. It was my secret, actually. Yes, I still engaged in the other activities that seemed de riguer for those in this class, but again most of it was far from the judgment of those that belonged to this particular group. My vehemence about the club and its members was something I thought just another aspect of life in LA I found reprehensible--a city that is not a city since it felt like living in a hyper-real Mayberry.
Oh, how wrong I was. It seems there are Tennis Bunnies everywhere, even on Martha's Vineyard. I found myself cringing in recognition at the same vapidness in the Tennis Bunnies here at Farm Neck. It seems there is some mold that churns out this particular breed in every state, every town, every Tennis Club. Or, is it simply that this particular sport, something which I enjoy so much, attracts all of those with characteristics I find so discomfiting? Yes, I am a hater of my own class, it seems. No matter how much I like to pretend to be a philosophical Marxist, I can't seem to shake my own inclination for, towards all those things that designate my class. See, I prefer playing at Farm Neck where the instructors, all male, all overgrown adolescents in adult bodies, are available to hit with me. The public courts in Oak Bluffs seem, well, dingy in comparison. Terrible to admit, but it is in fact how I feel each time I drive past these public courts.
So, I go to Farm Neck, gritting my teeth whenever a group of these women--why are so many of them blond?--come to play. I eavesdrop on their conversations about their 'kids--it seems all of their kids are in some baseball league together--,' 'book club'--everyone seems to be reading the newest written by the author of The Kite Runner--, and the mention of someone they are acquainted who is well-known for something--since this is the Vineyard and not LA, it is usually a writer and not a producer or actor. Their smugness is what I find so suffocating.
When I observe them, I can imagine them as they had been in high school, all of their insecurities or meanness barely hidden under the mask of adulthood. They are again vying for some top spot, although their 40ish, squishy bodies now makes it impossible for them to become the Homecoming Queen, if any of them were ever close to such a title. Instead, their competition is played within the arena of everything else in their lives: their spouses--whose makes more money, whose got the promotion, whose summer home is the grandest, who belongs to what yacht club--, and their kids, those unfortunate beings that are now shouldering the burden of the failures or disappointments of their mothers and, in most cases, their fathers. I assume, rightly or wrongly, most of them don't work, and have no real desire to do so. I know, I'm being incredibly narrow-minded in my own judgments since some of them, much to my shock, might be a Cardiologist, Professor, Marketing Executive--a glorified term for those who sell s**t we don't need--, and perhaps, even an anthropologist. Yet, I find this highly unlikely since most of my friends with rigorous careers have so little mental pr physical time for tennis, other than a quick hour lesson or run around on the courts, and certainly no time for the endless, inane discussions.
This being inside particular worlds, yet not truly inside is a familiar place for me. Perhaps it has do with being a child of transnationals. Perhaps not. I am starting to think this may be the way I am built, this need to be an observer, no matter how involved I am in whatever particular world. And so, I watch. And I take note. What I'm discovering is that class, this thing our country claims it doesn't abide by, is constantly in play at all times. It is the master behind all the chess moves of all the players--us. Whether we become pawns or the Queen is what most of us spend our entire lives battling. And then throw money--the desperate need to accumulate, the desperate need to spend what we accumulate--well, that is just the match to a building of sticks, dry sticks that is. So, I head off again for another lesson at Farm Neck, bracing myself for the most inane discussions I will, most likely, overhear. I wish I could say I find these women amusing instead of the profound sadness I feel for me and for them.
Fall in the Air
These last few days have hinted at the coming of fall. The humidity, which comes and goes all summer, has lifted, it seems, forever. It is still sunny during the days, the ocean water gloriously warm after the sun heating it up these past few months. The preview of fall occurs with greater insistence at night as the air gets cool, the morning dew glistening on the grass as the sun rises a bit slower. These gradual changes are just enough to suggest what is ahead. Fall here must be glorious, the expanse of trees no longer green, but in dramatic splashes of gold, yellow, and rust. The season here has now expanded to October, which means the die hard devotees must be lingering, desperate to soak up the last of the beauty of the island before closing up homes, loading up cars, and getting on the ferry headed to land.
Fall is, and has been, my favorite season. The colors are more splendid than the rainbow hues of spring. I love the first day when a sweater is required before heading outdoors. It is as if we are all readying for the quiet of winter when the world is observed from behind a window. It is the time of year when parents seem to sigh collectively as backpacks are hoisted on to their kids shoulders as they head for another year of school. It's ironic how fall is, metaphorically, the end, yet this is the time when school begins. Why doesn't school begin in the spring, the time of new beginnings? Oh, I guess that would mean their 'summer break' would be occurring in the winter months, not such a fun time for parents to be cooped up indoors with bored, restless children. I am looking forward to fall since I will be here for it. October was usually about the time when my churlishness about LA, its never-ending heat, usually reached a fevered, hysterical level. I would be downright mad that it was still too warm for me to wear nothing but a tank top to survive the sun-soaked days. The few trees that needed to drop their leaves would turn a brownish color, nothing close to the colors of fall from my childhood.
My son and I seem to be aware our time here is coming to a close, all too quickly. A Vineyard acquaintance, who lives in the city, has come back again. Our time on the beach is spent with her peppering me with questions about how emotionally ready I am to be heading to a new home, a place I had actually only seen when the walls were bare, beckoning the new family to hang up their photos, artwork, to make this place their new home. My first week back home, to this new place that is now our home, will be a flurry of doctors appointments, school shopping, and trying to get used to the dramatic newness of our lives. It is hard to imagine taking my son to school by walking two short blocks instead of the half hour drive through the spirit crushing traffic of LA. Come to think of it, the families who lived close to his preschool in LA drove to the school, walking simply not an option for people so accustomed to life lived inside automobiles. I am, like most parents, having a hard time comprehending the significance of my son starting Kindergarten--the true start to his academic life. I'm bracing myself for a few moments when I will need to gulp down the enormity of him taking this huge step.
The Inkwell is less crowded, although August is supposed to be the busy season. This year has felt quieter than in years past. Everyone is talking about the precarious state of our economy, uncertainty compounded by so many factors. I worry for the shop owners here, whose survival is determined by these few short months. I know this place has survived all the vicissitudes of lackluster economies, wars, and even the country's amnesia about its existence. And it will, again, survive this slowing economy as families shorten or forgo vacations, all of their extra money guzzled up by the insatiable appetites of cars.
This week promises to be another good one for heading to the beach. I, like all the Vineyard lovers, plan to sit there, savoring the sun, the spectacular colors of the Nantucket Sound, and the uniqueness of this place, a place I now call home.
Fall is, and has been, my favorite season. The colors are more splendid than the rainbow hues of spring. I love the first day when a sweater is required before heading outdoors. It is as if we are all readying for the quiet of winter when the world is observed from behind a window. It is the time of year when parents seem to sigh collectively as backpacks are hoisted on to their kids shoulders as they head for another year of school. It's ironic how fall is, metaphorically, the end, yet this is the time when school begins. Why doesn't school begin in the spring, the time of new beginnings? Oh, I guess that would mean their 'summer break' would be occurring in the winter months, not such a fun time for parents to be cooped up indoors with bored, restless children. I am looking forward to fall since I will be here for it. October was usually about the time when my churlishness about LA, its never-ending heat, usually reached a fevered, hysterical level. I would be downright mad that it was still too warm for me to wear nothing but a tank top to survive the sun-soaked days. The few trees that needed to drop their leaves would turn a brownish color, nothing close to the colors of fall from my childhood.
My son and I seem to be aware our time here is coming to a close, all too quickly. A Vineyard acquaintance, who lives in the city, has come back again. Our time on the beach is spent with her peppering me with questions about how emotionally ready I am to be heading to a new home, a place I had actually only seen when the walls were bare, beckoning the new family to hang up their photos, artwork, to make this place their new home. My first week back home, to this new place that is now our home, will be a flurry of doctors appointments, school shopping, and trying to get used to the dramatic newness of our lives. It is hard to imagine taking my son to school by walking two short blocks instead of the half hour drive through the spirit crushing traffic of LA. Come to think of it, the families who lived close to his preschool in LA drove to the school, walking simply not an option for people so accustomed to life lived inside automobiles. I am, like most parents, having a hard time comprehending the significance of my son starting Kindergarten--the true start to his academic life. I'm bracing myself for a few moments when I will need to gulp down the enormity of him taking this huge step.
The Inkwell is less crowded, although August is supposed to be the busy season. This year has felt quieter than in years past. Everyone is talking about the precarious state of our economy, uncertainty compounded by so many factors. I worry for the shop owners here, whose survival is determined by these few short months. I know this place has survived all the vicissitudes of lackluster economies, wars, and even the country's amnesia about its existence. And it will, again, survive this slowing economy as families shorten or forgo vacations, all of their extra money guzzled up by the insatiable appetites of cars.
This week promises to be another good one for heading to the beach. I, like all the Vineyard lovers, plan to sit there, savoring the sun, the spectacular colors of the Nantucket Sound, and the uniqueness of this place, a place I now call home.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Music in Ocean Park
Last night I took my son and our babysitter for an evening of Boston Pops, Branford Marsalis, and Natalie, all performing in Ocean Park. The music was middling, although Branford Marsalis was the best part of the show. What was so enjoyable about the night was being able to sit in this gracious park on our blankets, feasting on a picnic of fried chicken and shrimp cocktail, as the sun traversed the sky, headed westward.
Ocean Park, nothing more than an expanse of grass, buffeted by homes around the perimeter and the ocean on the east, is what Griffith Park could never be. It is the place where children and adults fly kites, where families gather for a game of whiffle ball, where teenagers break into teams for tag football, where people sit on the grass enjoying just being still, where everyone is welcome. No one claims the park as their own, even the home owners whose houses line the perimeter. Those without money, those with money, those with homes, those without, all come to this park on a windy day to watch the sky decorated by the flutter of kites. Unlike Griffith Park that seems relegated to those without--no home, no yard--Ocean Park is really the island's park. And in truth, its simplicity is what makes it so inviting. There are no elaborate jungle gyms, no baseball diamonds, no barbecue stands, no picnic tables, no designated soccer fields. It is simply an expanse of emerald colored grass, circular in design. Perhaps its simplicity is what invites so much creativity. Or perhaps it is in its openness is the invitation that propels all of us there to linger, to pass an afternoon.
The concert in the park last night was what the Hollywood Bowl, I imagine, had envisioned when it first came into existence. Any concerts in parks means blankets, beach chairs, wine coolers, picnics eaten outside, seating just a scramble on the expanse of lawn, the music really just a backdrop to an evening spent with friends in the open air, the stars the main attraction. The Bowl, with its "boxes" and those horribly uncomfortable benches, took this ritual of summer concerts and created a hierarchy, again designating those who have and those who do not. And this arena is what constitutes for concerts in the park in LA.
The music was not spectacular. Natalie Cole trotted out her mawkish 'duet' of "Unforgettable" with the eery black and white video of her father playing on the large screens. What was unforgettable about the evening were the large numbers of people standing outside the gates, placed around the park for the event, enjoying the music despite not having purchased tickets. For those homeowners, whose houses ring the park, they sat outside on their porches, sipping wine, listening to the music coming from the stage.
My son exclaimed, "This is so much fun," as he tore into his third piece of fried chicken. For him, the music was secondary to the whole experience of being in the park at night. The only part of the show that got him excited was the song I described as mawkish. He thought it great that Natalie Cole sang with her dead dad. The evening was capped off with a surprise appearance of Carly Simon with her son, singing a duet of a song she had written about the Vineyard. The three of us walked back to the car, the drift of music fading as we made our way through town towards our car, the evening a success for the other reasons other than the music.
Ocean Park, nothing more than an expanse of grass, buffeted by homes around the perimeter and the ocean on the east, is what Griffith Park could never be. It is the place where children and adults fly kites, where families gather for a game of whiffle ball, where teenagers break into teams for tag football, where people sit on the grass enjoying just being still, where everyone is welcome. No one claims the park as their own, even the home owners whose houses line the perimeter. Those without money, those with money, those with homes, those without, all come to this park on a windy day to watch the sky decorated by the flutter of kites. Unlike Griffith Park that seems relegated to those without--no home, no yard--Ocean Park is really the island's park. And in truth, its simplicity is what makes it so inviting. There are no elaborate jungle gyms, no baseball diamonds, no barbecue stands, no picnic tables, no designated soccer fields. It is simply an expanse of emerald colored grass, circular in design. Perhaps its simplicity is what invites so much creativity. Or perhaps it is in its openness is the invitation that propels all of us there to linger, to pass an afternoon.
The concert in the park last night was what the Hollywood Bowl, I imagine, had envisioned when it first came into existence. Any concerts in parks means blankets, beach chairs, wine coolers, picnics eaten outside, seating just a scramble on the expanse of lawn, the music really just a backdrop to an evening spent with friends in the open air, the stars the main attraction. The Bowl, with its "boxes" and those horribly uncomfortable benches, took this ritual of summer concerts and created a hierarchy, again designating those who have and those who do not. And this arena is what constitutes for concerts in the park in LA.
The music was not spectacular. Natalie Cole trotted out her mawkish 'duet' of "Unforgettable" with the eery black and white video of her father playing on the large screens. What was unforgettable about the evening were the large numbers of people standing outside the gates, placed around the park for the event, enjoying the music despite not having purchased tickets. For those homeowners, whose houses ring the park, they sat outside on their porches, sipping wine, listening to the music coming from the stage.
My son exclaimed, "This is so much fun," as he tore into his third piece of fried chicken. For him, the music was secondary to the whole experience of being in the park at night. The only part of the show that got him excited was the song I described as mawkish. He thought it great that Natalie Cole sang with her dead dad. The evening was capped off with a surprise appearance of Carly Simon with her son, singing a duet of a song she had written about the Vineyard. The three of us walked back to the car, the drift of music fading as we made our way through town towards our car, the evening a success for the other reasons other than the music.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Small Town Paper
The Martha's Vineyard Times is very much a local paper. It is full of those odd stories, like the one discussing the upcoming Chicken Alley Art Show in Vineyard Haven, prevalent in those local papers where the citizenry knows all the goings on of their community. I usually scan the paper, looking for yard sales and upcoming events. The surprising thing is how much goes on here, despite it being a small island. There seems to be no shortage of writers here, hawking their newest books by giving readings or talks. Alan Dershowitz is here, giving a talk on his newest book. Stephen Carter is signing and reading from his newest novel. For someone without children, it would be an action packed week if you were to make an effort to attend all the goings on.
My favorite part of the paper is the lost and found section under the classifieds, something that can only exist in a small town. People place the ad, which is free, for lost items like the Saab Car Keys, or for those items, like the Ipod, found by strangers. The ads are rarely elaborate, although some seem to tell stories, or rather, read like the beginning of a story to me. "Found Prescription Glasses on State Beach at bend-in-the-road. Edgartown. Please call 508-693-6110." "Sold at Sunday Yard Sale! Five-drawer tall bureau purchased at yard sale on Sunday, July 15, at 599 Edgartown Road, WT had daughter's special books, etc., in top drawer. Please, please call 508-889-6734."
Can you imagine the idea of such a section in any other place? Forget New York and LA, but even a suburban town would find it difficult to have such a section without it bordering it on the absurd. I guess this column speaks to something we've lost: empathy for others in our community. We live in a world where people rarely give up their seat for the pregnant woman or the elderly. And if someone does extend such a gesture, there is something faintly old world about it. People rarely know their neighbors, especially in LA, where gates prevail, much less be concerned about those that live next door.
In our current culture where every parent seems to be raising their child in the hopes of them becoming a CEO, everyone desperate to imbue their offspring with a sense of entitlement, whether it is truly justified or not, this trend of only looking out for oneself seems destined to get worse. What happened to the adage of 'doing on to others as you hope others would do on to you'? If this saying were applied to our behavior today, we would be telling the world we want it to disregard me for whatever disability I am suffering, to sit by and watch with amusement as someone vandalized my property, to make me invisible because of my immigrant--legal or not--status, to not give a damn whether my kids were getting educated or not, to be unconcerned for the fact I have no health insurance, etc. It is a world that is constantly telling us and our children we are only responsible for ourselves. And f**k the rest of the world because their woes and worries have nothing to do with my life, particularly if my life is such where I don't have any of those concerns that seem to plague a certain, large, population of our country.
This is what makes this small town paper so precious in its refusal, or rather, in its determination to uphold those tradition of caring for the greater community, a value that had been the fabric of our country. This is a place where the various churches hold Lobster roll dinner nights, where every civic organization holds a pancake breakfast, attended by those in the neighborhood.
I realize how special, how unusual all of this is in our world. And so each week, I look forward to this odd little paper, devouring its unique stories about fishermen that have caught the largest striped bass of the summer. It is the newspaper that gives me a glimpse into a world that has long disappeared, yet the echo of such goodness can still be witnessed here.
My favorite part of the paper is the lost and found section under the classifieds, something that can only exist in a small town. People place the ad, which is free, for lost items like the Saab Car Keys, or for those items, like the Ipod, found by strangers. The ads are rarely elaborate, although some seem to tell stories, or rather, read like the beginning of a story to me. "Found Prescription Glasses on State Beach at bend-in-the-road. Edgartown. Please call 508-693-6110." "Sold at Sunday Yard Sale! Five-drawer tall bureau purchased at yard sale on Sunday, July 15, at 599 Edgartown Road, WT had daughter's special books, etc., in top drawer. Please, please call 508-889-6734."
Can you imagine the idea of such a section in any other place? Forget New York and LA, but even a suburban town would find it difficult to have such a section without it bordering it on the absurd. I guess this column speaks to something we've lost: empathy for others in our community. We live in a world where people rarely give up their seat for the pregnant woman or the elderly. And if someone does extend such a gesture, there is something faintly old world about it. People rarely know their neighbors, especially in LA, where gates prevail, much less be concerned about those that live next door.
In our current culture where every parent seems to be raising their child in the hopes of them becoming a CEO, everyone desperate to imbue their offspring with a sense of entitlement, whether it is truly justified or not, this trend of only looking out for oneself seems destined to get worse. What happened to the adage of 'doing on to others as you hope others would do on to you'? If this saying were applied to our behavior today, we would be telling the world we want it to disregard me for whatever disability I am suffering, to sit by and watch with amusement as someone vandalized my property, to make me invisible because of my immigrant--legal or not--status, to not give a damn whether my kids were getting educated or not, to be unconcerned for the fact I have no health insurance, etc. It is a world that is constantly telling us and our children we are only responsible for ourselves. And f**k the rest of the world because their woes and worries have nothing to do with my life, particularly if my life is such where I don't have any of those concerns that seem to plague a certain, large, population of our country.
This is what makes this small town paper so precious in its refusal, or rather, in its determination to uphold those tradition of caring for the greater community, a value that had been the fabric of our country. This is a place where the various churches hold Lobster roll dinner nights, where every civic organization holds a pancake breakfast, attended by those in the neighborhood.
I realize how special, how unusual all of this is in our world. And so each week, I look forward to this odd little paper, devouring its unique stories about fishermen that have caught the largest striped bass of the summer. It is the newspaper that gives me a glimpse into a world that has long disappeared, yet the echo of such goodness can still be witnessed here.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Full time Motherhood--Oh Vey!
This summer has been a time, making up for all of my previous negligence--I'm sure, of being a FULL TIME MOM. It has been eye opening on so many levels. First, I've not wanted to jump off the two bridges on this island. Second, it's much more manageable than I had previously imagined. Third, I've rather enjoyed it--shock, shock, shock. I, like most women like me--double degreed, pampered, spoiled--assumed doing this job full time was not suited for me. My first few months alone with our infant son I found myself in a state. There were many days when I tried to figure out ways to give the baby back to the hospital, to let them know what a terrible mistake this was for me and for him. The image of me with my lumpy body, sore nipples, and terrible hair--never cut one's hair when in this mental state--should have been on every poster for Post-Partum Depression. It was the first time in my life when I felt I couldn't cross this hurdle, when I felt ready to give up. It was a new emotion for me, a child who had always done well in everything I had set on my sights. To say this was shattering for me would be a mild understatement. It was the earthquake from which I am now recovering.
When our nanny arrived, I was torn between wanting, needing the help and not wanting to relinquish my role of being the only care taker, despite doing it all in a crazed state of shrillness. So, for the last four and some years, I've had the helicopter nanny, always hovering over me, ready to swoop down to relieve me of my responsibilities. Some days, I was only too happy to be granted the freedom. I got used to being able to walk away, to parent from a certain distance. Please don't mistake this statement to mean I didn't care. No, that's not it exactly. It was being given a filter for the panoply of emotions when one is a mother, affording me a perspective much needed given all of my tendencies to obsess, to be perfect. So, I became a strange hybrid of hyper-vigilant mom--the kind that reads labels on boxes before feeding the food item to her child--and a mom that maintained the rituals and routines of her previous life. I realize now I was the kind of mom most feminists would admonish for, oh, so many reasons. See, I didn't go back to work, to teach, until his fourth year. That didn't mean I wasn't working since I sat around in a numbed state of panic about my novel, my upcoming novel, and fueling all of my melodrama into personal memoir essays. Work was, like much else in my life at that time, sporadic, at best.
Each summer on the Vineyard with our helicopter nanny flown away to hover over her own family, I managed taking are of my son without having a nervous breakdown at the end of my time. In fact, I noticed the emotional, mental leaps he and I would make, each of us coming into our own, as they say. He is now at an age when he needs a teeny bit less supervision. I'm more at ease letting him outside without my constant look out for the foreseeable and unforeseeable dangers. I have discovered, to my amazement, how interesting he is, and will be. He still jumps, hops, runs, the full embodiment of rambunctiousness, making me wonder what it would be like to have a calm, quiet, little girl.
There are aspects to the new cultural mores for Parenting I find mind numbing. This new pressure for us to not just parent, but to be the source of entertainment for our children is a trend I find troubling. A little boredom never damaged children, did it? Boredom is what teaches us to be resourceful, creative, and, sometimes, mischievous. Our parents were not our play mates. And so, I refuse to play with my son. Whether he will talk about this with his therapist for years on end remains to be seen.
Last night, I found myself on the floor, piles of plastic pieces surrounding me in a circle. Being forced to be the only person in his life meant I had to put together a castle from Playmobil. I now have new bruises on my knees, my fingers scratched. What would take any other person half an hour took me two hours to put together this new toy. The thought of abandoning it was not a consideration since my husband would not be arriving for two days. And in truth, this time here has become another way for me to overcome those notions of myself that I had developed over the years like how inept I am about following directions to put things together. And so, I plodded on till the castle was finished, each character dressed in their proper armor. I took it up to his room, setting it on his floor, so it would be the first thing his eyes would see when he woke up. It was a proud moment for this reluctant Mom, now Full Time Mom.
When our nanny arrived, I was torn between wanting, needing the help and not wanting to relinquish my role of being the only care taker, despite doing it all in a crazed state of shrillness. So, for the last four and some years, I've had the helicopter nanny, always hovering over me, ready to swoop down to relieve me of my responsibilities. Some days, I was only too happy to be granted the freedom. I got used to being able to walk away, to parent from a certain distance. Please don't mistake this statement to mean I didn't care. No, that's not it exactly. It was being given a filter for the panoply of emotions when one is a mother, affording me a perspective much needed given all of my tendencies to obsess, to be perfect. So, I became a strange hybrid of hyper-vigilant mom--the kind that reads labels on boxes before feeding the food item to her child--and a mom that maintained the rituals and routines of her previous life. I realize now I was the kind of mom most feminists would admonish for, oh, so many reasons. See, I didn't go back to work, to teach, until his fourth year. That didn't mean I wasn't working since I sat around in a numbed state of panic about my novel, my upcoming novel, and fueling all of my melodrama into personal memoir essays. Work was, like much else in my life at that time, sporadic, at best.
Each summer on the Vineyard with our helicopter nanny flown away to hover over her own family, I managed taking are of my son without having a nervous breakdown at the end of my time. In fact, I noticed the emotional, mental leaps he and I would make, each of us coming into our own, as they say. He is now at an age when he needs a teeny bit less supervision. I'm more at ease letting him outside without my constant look out for the foreseeable and unforeseeable dangers. I have discovered, to my amazement, how interesting he is, and will be. He still jumps, hops, runs, the full embodiment of rambunctiousness, making me wonder what it would be like to have a calm, quiet, little girl.
There are aspects to the new cultural mores for Parenting I find mind numbing. This new pressure for us to not just parent, but to be the source of entertainment for our children is a trend I find troubling. A little boredom never damaged children, did it? Boredom is what teaches us to be resourceful, creative, and, sometimes, mischievous. Our parents were not our play mates. And so, I refuse to play with my son. Whether he will talk about this with his therapist for years on end remains to be seen.
Last night, I found myself on the floor, piles of plastic pieces surrounding me in a circle. Being forced to be the only person in his life meant I had to put together a castle from Playmobil. I now have new bruises on my knees, my fingers scratched. What would take any other person half an hour took me two hours to put together this new toy. The thought of abandoning it was not a consideration since my husband would not be arriving for two days. And in truth, this time here has become another way for me to overcome those notions of myself that I had developed over the years like how inept I am about following directions to put things together. And so, I plodded on till the castle was finished, each character dressed in their proper armor. I took it up to his room, setting it on his floor, so it would be the first thing his eyes would see when he woke up. It was a proud moment for this reluctant Mom, now Full Time Mom.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Off island
My son and I ferried off to go stay with some friends from LA, who have just purchased a home in East Dennis. The fast ferry covered the distance between Oak Bluffs and Hyannis in an hour. It was lovely seeing our friends. But I felt a bit like a character out of the show, "Lost," if they were to go back into civilization after being marooned for so many years on that sliver of land surrounded by turquoise waters. Shock was the main emotion to be back on the main land with freeways and distractions of civilized life. I hadn't realized how cocooned I was on this island for so many weeks where driving at 45 miles per an hour is speeding. This shock is ridiculous when you think about the fact I was on the CAPE, another vacation destination of small towns dotted with genteel homes, windy streets, and beaches. It isn't as if I had driven off the island on to the New Jersey Turnpike, for goodness sake.
I think the shock was coupled with a sense of displacement for being with an LA friend, someone intimately identified with life back there, the place to which I will not be returning. Our son, who had been stalwart about all of these radical changes to his life, finally succumbed and cried for all that he was leaving behind--namely, our house. His plaintive cries at 3:00 in the morning, despite my foggy head from the couple bottles of wine we had consumed, made me realize the significance of leaving the Vineyard for New York. How that ferry ride, as we crossed the Sound to get on land, will truly be the start of our lives starting anew. Our time here is too quickly coming to an end. And with its end will be the start of all the new beginnings of which I had yearned, dreamed, and wept for for so many years.
It was sad to say good-bye to our friends since we knew it would be a few months before we would see one another again. I wondered why it was we hadn't gotten together sooner since we were so physically nearby, all relative, of course. For me, this time to breathe, to face ahead instead of the constant gazing back, had kept me from calling to say we were coming, or to ask them to come here. I needed the time to put it all, our relationship, into context, I guess, a survival mechanism for me. All too quickly, our conversations will be sharing the larger details of our lives, to recount our lives in big brush strokes instead of the finer etchings we had shared. Our connections of people we had both known will fade as less of those relationships are maintained on my end and on theirs'. The disentanglement of my previous life from my life now has happened quickly, and in some way, with finality. There are few people I keep in touch with now. The need to keep up the daily correspondence all withered away with the distance and disconnection.
These last couple of weeks remaining on the island will give me time to prepare for what is ahead. I'm anxious to get started, to establish routines in the city. And I'm excited about finding the rhythms to work again, to throw myself headlong into this new longer project.
I think the shock was coupled with a sense of displacement for being with an LA friend, someone intimately identified with life back there, the place to which I will not be returning. Our son, who had been stalwart about all of these radical changes to his life, finally succumbed and cried for all that he was leaving behind--namely, our house. His plaintive cries at 3:00 in the morning, despite my foggy head from the couple bottles of wine we had consumed, made me realize the significance of leaving the Vineyard for New York. How that ferry ride, as we crossed the Sound to get on land, will truly be the start of our lives starting anew. Our time here is too quickly coming to an end. And with its end will be the start of all the new beginnings of which I had yearned, dreamed, and wept for for so many years.
It was sad to say good-bye to our friends since we knew it would be a few months before we would see one another again. I wondered why it was we hadn't gotten together sooner since we were so physically nearby, all relative, of course. For me, this time to breathe, to face ahead instead of the constant gazing back, had kept me from calling to say we were coming, or to ask them to come here. I needed the time to put it all, our relationship, into context, I guess, a survival mechanism for me. All too quickly, our conversations will be sharing the larger details of our lives, to recount our lives in big brush strokes instead of the finer etchings we had shared. Our connections of people we had both known will fade as less of those relationships are maintained on my end and on theirs'. The disentanglement of my previous life from my life now has happened quickly, and in some way, with finality. There are few people I keep in touch with now. The need to keep up the daily correspondence all withered away with the distance and disconnection.
These last couple of weeks remaining on the island will give me time to prepare for what is ahead. I'm anxious to get started, to establish routines in the city. And I'm excited about finding the rhythms to work again, to throw myself headlong into this new longer project.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Shopping on MVY...Hardly
My first few years on the Vineyard were spent browsing stores on Circuit Avenue, Main Street in Vineyard Haven, and the quaint cobblestone streets of Edgartown. Our child was a mere ten months old our first summer, limiting our beach time to an hour or so. It felt like we spent our entire time setting up, only to turn around and dismantle everything since we had to get home for our son's nap time. So, we browsed these streets, pushing his stroller as we meandered in and out of one store after another. What is reassuring each year we come is how little things change here. The same stores reopen for the summer season, hawking items that arrive on those brown trucks in boxes from far away.
Each town has its own character, apparent in the types of stores that they attract. Circuit Ave. is chock full of tacky shops, selling things that remind me of those stalls set up on fairgrounds where you're lured into taking home items that are nonsensical and absurd. There are stores on this street that make no sense like the Tibetan store filled with Buddha statues and incense. There is one teeny bookstore on Circuit Avenue that sells books about, and written by writers who come to the island. There is the one brand store, the thing that identifies you as a Vineyarder--The Black Dog Store. What started out as a bakery has spawned a cottage industry of Black Dog paraphernalia. There are mugs with the recognizable logo of the Labrador. There are belts with the logo, t-shirts, rain jackets, hats, and just about anything where this logo can be emblazoned. If you've spent any time here, you will end up with a healthy collection of Black Dog clothing, mugs, and in our case, a stuffed dog. There is the famous fudge store where you can watch West Indian men and women rolling out the fudge on to a marble table. They also sell brittle that is decadence in every bite. There are three ice cream shops on this one short block. And the arcade where kids are drawn as a bee to honeysuckle. There are restaurants where you can order the ubiquitous fried seafood platters and other assorted items that is New England, although it now seems there are as many sushi chefs in each of these restaurants, ready to whip up a spicy tuna roll along with your order of fried clam strips.
Vineyard Haven's main street feels less tacky, a bit more upscale. There are shops that sell beautiful pottery made by local artisans, or so they claim. There is one very nice kitchen gadget shop that feels like a mixture of Sur La Table, William Sonoma, and Bed Bath and Beyond. The largest bookstore on the island is here where they sell the same books found at any Barnes and Noble, but also those books about or written by writers from the Vineyard, of which there is no shortage.
Edgartown is Preppyness incarnate in each shop. Pink and Kelly Green are the two main colors for the town with each store competing with the other for the domain of Preppyness. Lilli Pulitzer is the main designer of choice for the 'fashionistas' here. It's hard to believe that grown adults wear belts adorned with whales.
What's surprising and also charming of being here is how we are shielded from the mass consumerism rampant everywhere else in our country. There is not a Target anywhere, although if one did open...the lines and traffic jams that would create in the parking. The island has worked hard to maintain its identity, allowing the idiosyncrasies be part of the character. Each store is owned and operated by a family, who are entirely dependent on the traffic of these months for their year's survival. It is the way our country had operated before convenience became top priority instead of the one on one connections of a community. So, I forgo the convenience of having a Target where I can buy toys, kitchen items, trash bags, and anything else that a household may require in one trip. But the popping into small stores for each item doesn't feel like an inconvenience, really. And having so few options narrows the scope of your needs, which is the most interesting thing to discover. We survive on less of the 'bells and whistles' that each of us is convinced we can't survive without. Instead of buying books at the Barnes and Nobles, we head to the public library. DVDs get rented instead of purchased. Food is purchased in small quantities, particularly produce which is gathered at the small farms on the island. Toys, needed diversions during those rainy days, is done so at a Five and Dime where action figures are placed alongside bed linens.
I know most 'All Year Rounders' go off island to do the bulk of their shopping, getting their Target fix at one of the nearby Cape Cod towns. And most summer residents fill up their cars at the Costco before driving on to the ferry. Yet, the proximity of these conveniences have not overshadowed this simplicity of life here. Granite's in Edgartown still does a mean business during these months as families traipse in for something that they had forgotten or discovered needs replacing. I pray each year that none of this will ever change, that a Walmarts doesn't end up arriving. And so far, so good since my prayers seems to get answered each summer I disembark off that ferry.
Each town has its own character, apparent in the types of stores that they attract. Circuit Ave. is chock full of tacky shops, selling things that remind me of those stalls set up on fairgrounds where you're lured into taking home items that are nonsensical and absurd. There are stores on this street that make no sense like the Tibetan store filled with Buddha statues and incense. There is one teeny bookstore on Circuit Avenue that sells books about, and written by writers who come to the island. There is the one brand store, the thing that identifies you as a Vineyarder--The Black Dog Store. What started out as a bakery has spawned a cottage industry of Black Dog paraphernalia. There are mugs with the recognizable logo of the Labrador. There are belts with the logo, t-shirts, rain jackets, hats, and just about anything where this logo can be emblazoned. If you've spent any time here, you will end up with a healthy collection of Black Dog clothing, mugs, and in our case, a stuffed dog. There is the famous fudge store where you can watch West Indian men and women rolling out the fudge on to a marble table. They also sell brittle that is decadence in every bite. There are three ice cream shops on this one short block. And the arcade where kids are drawn as a bee to honeysuckle. There are restaurants where you can order the ubiquitous fried seafood platters and other assorted items that is New England, although it now seems there are as many sushi chefs in each of these restaurants, ready to whip up a spicy tuna roll along with your order of fried clam strips.
Vineyard Haven's main street feels less tacky, a bit more upscale. There are shops that sell beautiful pottery made by local artisans, or so they claim. There is one very nice kitchen gadget shop that feels like a mixture of Sur La Table, William Sonoma, and Bed Bath and Beyond. The largest bookstore on the island is here where they sell the same books found at any Barnes and Noble, but also those books about or written by writers from the Vineyard, of which there is no shortage.
Edgartown is Preppyness incarnate in each shop. Pink and Kelly Green are the two main colors for the town with each store competing with the other for the domain of Preppyness. Lilli Pulitzer is the main designer of choice for the 'fashionistas' here. It's hard to believe that grown adults wear belts adorned with whales.
What's surprising and also charming of being here is how we are shielded from the mass consumerism rampant everywhere else in our country. There is not a Target anywhere, although if one did open...the lines and traffic jams that would create in the parking. The island has worked hard to maintain its identity, allowing the idiosyncrasies be part of the character. Each store is owned and operated by a family, who are entirely dependent on the traffic of these months for their year's survival. It is the way our country had operated before convenience became top priority instead of the one on one connections of a community. So, I forgo the convenience of having a Target where I can buy toys, kitchen items, trash bags, and anything else that a household may require in one trip. But the popping into small stores for each item doesn't feel like an inconvenience, really. And having so few options narrows the scope of your needs, which is the most interesting thing to discover. We survive on less of the 'bells and whistles' that each of us is convinced we can't survive without. Instead of buying books at the Barnes and Nobles, we head to the public library. DVDs get rented instead of purchased. Food is purchased in small quantities, particularly produce which is gathered at the small farms on the island. Toys, needed diversions during those rainy days, is done so at a Five and Dime where action figures are placed alongside bed linens.
I know most 'All Year Rounders' go off island to do the bulk of their shopping, getting their Target fix at one of the nearby Cape Cod towns. And most summer residents fill up their cars at the Costco before driving on to the ferry. Yet, the proximity of these conveniences have not overshadowed this simplicity of life here. Granite's in Edgartown still does a mean business during these months as families traipse in for something that they had forgotten or discovered needs replacing. I pray each year that none of this will ever change, that a Walmarts doesn't end up arriving. And so far, so good since my prayers seems to get answered each summer I disembark off that ferry.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Star Sightings on MVY
During our first year on the island, we took a tour on a bus, not because we wanted to go on a tour, but because the bus was air conditioned, the island suffering an unusual heatwave. On this tour we learned a few things of historical relevance about the island, but the driver, one of those charming New Englanders with an even more charming accent, was obsessed with James Taylor and Carly Simon--both island residents. Therefore, everything was in relation to Taylor or Simon. "Carly Simon's tour manager's house over there, James Taylor's roadie's house to the left, etc." It was beyond funny since Taylor and Simon have long fallen off the radar in the world of celebritydom. Yes, they do still have houses here. So, since this blog is titled Star Sightings, here goes my list of "Celebrities" on the island: Carly Simon, James Taylor, Mike Wallace--does he classify as celebrity?--, Jim Belushi, Ted Danson, and the newest resident, Meg Ryan.
I'm always a bit taken back when I see celebrities here, those creatures I associate with Hollywood. Ray Romano was in our bagel shop, hair longer than he wears on his show, ordering bagels. The owner was not impressed with him, treating him as gruffly as he treated everyone else. This island seems an odd choice for those who love being stalked, spotted, and documented. It is an island, after all, hardly an easy place to get to. And even the ferocity of those photographers must have their limits since their movements here do not end up on the pages of US Weekly, yet. Unlike the Hamptons, there is very little in the way of fine dining or entertainment, which leads me to wonder what they do here when they're here?
Meg Ryan bought a place on Chappaquidick. She has been spotted, including twice by me, with a retinue that includes her newly adopted Chinese daughter, babysitter, and assistant. Given the number of handlers with her, you would think she was someone really important, right? But that's Hollywood for you. The Industry seems to make sensible, able bodied adults into nearly drooling incapable infants, who are in constant need of 'care taking.'
It is rumored Hillary Clinton is to arrive this month for a round of fund raisers, which means the traffic will be horrendous up island. The Clinton's made this island famous during the Monica Lewinsky scandal when they decamped for the Vineyard to stay with their good friend, Vernon Jordon, who has a large spread up island. I believe Jessie Jackson arrived to offer them counseling during this crisis in their marriage, and for the country.
The celebrities don't hold much fascination for me. I did just leave the land of Celebritydom! After all of those years in LA, the one thing you learn is how much an illusion all of it is, really. Anyone can look good if you had people cooking for you, making you run, doing your hair, picking out your outfits, putting on make up, and prompting you in what you should say. With so much help, how could you not look good, sound semi-intelligent, and be thin? For those celebrities that implode, there is very little pity since they are surrounded, I mean surrounded, by people whose job it is to insure they stay primped and ready to be photographed.
The other thing that is fascinating about these 'celebrities' is how they behave when they're here. First of all, the invisible shield of 'get away from me' is the size of a helium balloon. Why come to be with us, regular folks, if you don't want to have anything to do with us? The contradictions of what drove them to fame and what drives them to seek solitude here is beyond schizophrenic. I'm sure one of the reasons why this island appealed to them was its 'normalcy.' Despite this being the main draw, they are incapable of being normal. This doesn't include those long time residents of the island, who are at ease with the ways of this small place. They don't wear that look of 'get away from me,' but are comfortable being seen and usually ignored or unrecognized by the rest of us. They, like the rest of us, settle into routines and leisure activities.
I doubt the new crop of celebrities, the Lindsay Lohans of the world, would find this place appealing since there are no star studded parties like on the Hamptons. But then maybe next summer season will see a new crop of celebrities trying to be "normal," while dragging their nannies, assistants, hair dresser, and stylist here for a little R & R.
I'm always a bit taken back when I see celebrities here, those creatures I associate with Hollywood. Ray Romano was in our bagel shop, hair longer than he wears on his show, ordering bagels. The owner was not impressed with him, treating him as gruffly as he treated everyone else. This island seems an odd choice for those who love being stalked, spotted, and documented. It is an island, after all, hardly an easy place to get to. And even the ferocity of those photographers must have their limits since their movements here do not end up on the pages of US Weekly, yet. Unlike the Hamptons, there is very little in the way of fine dining or entertainment, which leads me to wonder what they do here when they're here?
Meg Ryan bought a place on Chappaquidick. She has been spotted, including twice by me, with a retinue that includes her newly adopted Chinese daughter, babysitter, and assistant. Given the number of handlers with her, you would think she was someone really important, right? But that's Hollywood for you. The Industry seems to make sensible, able bodied adults into nearly drooling incapable infants, who are in constant need of 'care taking.'
It is rumored Hillary Clinton is to arrive this month for a round of fund raisers, which means the traffic will be horrendous up island. The Clinton's made this island famous during the Monica Lewinsky scandal when they decamped for the Vineyard to stay with their good friend, Vernon Jordon, who has a large spread up island. I believe Jessie Jackson arrived to offer them counseling during this crisis in their marriage, and for the country.
The celebrities don't hold much fascination for me. I did just leave the land of Celebritydom! After all of those years in LA, the one thing you learn is how much an illusion all of it is, really. Anyone can look good if you had people cooking for you, making you run, doing your hair, picking out your outfits, putting on make up, and prompting you in what you should say. With so much help, how could you not look good, sound semi-intelligent, and be thin? For those celebrities that implode, there is very little pity since they are surrounded, I mean surrounded, by people whose job it is to insure they stay primped and ready to be photographed.
The other thing that is fascinating about these 'celebrities' is how they behave when they're here. First of all, the invisible shield of 'get away from me' is the size of a helium balloon. Why come to be with us, regular folks, if you don't want to have anything to do with us? The contradictions of what drove them to fame and what drives them to seek solitude here is beyond schizophrenic. I'm sure one of the reasons why this island appealed to them was its 'normalcy.' Despite this being the main draw, they are incapable of being normal. This doesn't include those long time residents of the island, who are at ease with the ways of this small place. They don't wear that look of 'get away from me,' but are comfortable being seen and usually ignored or unrecognized by the rest of us. They, like the rest of us, settle into routines and leisure activities.
I doubt the new crop of celebrities, the Lindsay Lohans of the world, would find this place appealing since there are no star studded parties like on the Hamptons. But then maybe next summer season will see a new crop of celebrities trying to be "normal," while dragging their nannies, assistants, hair dresser, and stylist here for a little R & R.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Eccentrics Abound
If you spend enough time here on this island, you will notice the peculiar rhythms of its inhabitants, those that call this place home, people we call 'All Year Rounders.' As an island, everyone arrived here, crossing a body of water to seek whatever illusions, fortunes, or refuge that propelled them on to that ferry. Whether they found any, or all, of these desires may have been abandoned long ago, perhaps their first winter here when the island is, I imagine, desolate, making them subsume all else, simply burrowing inside for warmth. I've heard, never substantiated, that alcoholism is rampant among All Year Rounders. Perhaps warmth is found only inside an amber colored liquid.
The divide between these permanent residents and summer people is as vast as the ocean, separating Falmouth from Vineyard Haven. It is a precarious Pas De Deux that summer residents and All Year Rounders dance, each dependent on the other for their comfort and survival. Yet, each side does their part to insure the island remains unblemished by the normal fissures of class war fare that every other community engages.
Those drawn here, whether permanently or for four months out of the year, share a common spirit, I believe. The summer residents share similarities in privilege, most of which I abhor. Yes, I'm a hater of my own people, as they say. We are busy making certain our children will uphold, if not surpass, all of our accomplishments of our class: tennis, golfing, sailing, appearing at ease in all these particular social arenas. And eccentricities are there, just not that publicly.
The eccentricities of the All Year Rounders are much more visible, much more like a character out of a Flannery O'Connor story. These odd characters are as much a part of the landscape as the Flying Horses and the ocean. The paraplegic that drives around the town of Oak Bluffs in his automated wheel chair is hard to miss. He wears glasses, has long hair streaked with a bit gray, pulled back into a pony tail. His wheel chair zips around on the side walks of Circuit Avenue or along the sidewalk by the town beach. Each year I arrive, I unconsciously scan the town for his wheel chair, almost holding my breath till I've seen him, certain that his absence would foretell of a tragedy occurring during the winter months.
The 'Mayor' of Oak Bluffs is an overweight man, who holds court on the outside picnic tables of Giordano's. He sits, usually around dinner time, eating whatever was fixed in the kitchen of the restaurant, talking to all the regulars of Oak Bluffs. He says he is the mayor, but I think he may be the owner of the restaurant that is famous for their pizza and fried clam strips. I was fortunate enough to have met him--he introduced himself by asking where I was from--one night as my son and I sat on those tables indulging in one of our favorite meals here.
Another woman sat alongside us eating a large cheese pizza. She was older, her skin wrinkled from sun and age. Her hair, a steely gray, was cut as if she had been a back up member of the Flock of Seagulls. There was something just a bit off about her. Yet it was the way she ate her pizza that drew my stares. She first peeled off all the cheese on each slice, which she ate in one bite. She then tore the remaining doughy pieces into bite size chunks before popping one into her mouth. It was obvious she was a 'native' here. She and the 'mayor' shared gossip about people that stopped to say hello. When she learned I was from Philadelphia, she revealed her daughter--hard to imagine who this woman might be, look like--had graduated from Penn, University of Penn, not Penn State. I tried to hide my astonishment at this bit of information, still mesmerized by her inventive way of eating pizza.
Imagining what those long winter months here must be like is hard to do. First, I have to have been on the East coast for a winter, something I haven't done in about 7 years, not since I left grad school. But to spend those months here, an island of only 30,000, seems romantic, but is probably a bit grim. The landscape must be stunning in its vista of snow and water. The dark green of the woods that abounds during the summer would be bare, the trees looking skeletal.
Most towns seem to shut down, restaurants gone dark for the winter. Most places are extending the season to December instead of October. January and February must be the longest two months of the year here with so few distractions of life that most of us enjoy elsewhere. It makes sense the video store in Edgartown and the liquor stores must do a brisk business.
Each visit to a shop reveals another eccentricity of this island, another opportunity for me to take in another rhythm of this island.
The divide between these permanent residents and summer people is as vast as the ocean, separating Falmouth from Vineyard Haven. It is a precarious Pas De Deux that summer residents and All Year Rounders dance, each dependent on the other for their comfort and survival. Yet, each side does their part to insure the island remains unblemished by the normal fissures of class war fare that every other community engages.
Those drawn here, whether permanently or for four months out of the year, share a common spirit, I believe. The summer residents share similarities in privilege, most of which I abhor. Yes, I'm a hater of my own people, as they say. We are busy making certain our children will uphold, if not surpass, all of our accomplishments of our class: tennis, golfing, sailing, appearing at ease in all these particular social arenas. And eccentricities are there, just not that publicly.
The eccentricities of the All Year Rounders are much more visible, much more like a character out of a Flannery O'Connor story. These odd characters are as much a part of the landscape as the Flying Horses and the ocean. The paraplegic that drives around the town of Oak Bluffs in his automated wheel chair is hard to miss. He wears glasses, has long hair streaked with a bit gray, pulled back into a pony tail. His wheel chair zips around on the side walks of Circuit Avenue or along the sidewalk by the town beach. Each year I arrive, I unconsciously scan the town for his wheel chair, almost holding my breath till I've seen him, certain that his absence would foretell of a tragedy occurring during the winter months.
The 'Mayor' of Oak Bluffs is an overweight man, who holds court on the outside picnic tables of Giordano's. He sits, usually around dinner time, eating whatever was fixed in the kitchen of the restaurant, talking to all the regulars of Oak Bluffs. He says he is the mayor, but I think he may be the owner of the restaurant that is famous for their pizza and fried clam strips. I was fortunate enough to have met him--he introduced himself by asking where I was from--one night as my son and I sat on those tables indulging in one of our favorite meals here.
Another woman sat alongside us eating a large cheese pizza. She was older, her skin wrinkled from sun and age. Her hair, a steely gray, was cut as if she had been a back up member of the Flock of Seagulls. There was something just a bit off about her. Yet it was the way she ate her pizza that drew my stares. She first peeled off all the cheese on each slice, which she ate in one bite. She then tore the remaining doughy pieces into bite size chunks before popping one into her mouth. It was obvious she was a 'native' here. She and the 'mayor' shared gossip about people that stopped to say hello. When she learned I was from Philadelphia, she revealed her daughter--hard to imagine who this woman might be, look like--had graduated from Penn, University of Penn, not Penn State. I tried to hide my astonishment at this bit of information, still mesmerized by her inventive way of eating pizza.
Imagining what those long winter months here must be like is hard to do. First, I have to have been on the East coast for a winter, something I haven't done in about 7 years, not since I left grad school. But to spend those months here, an island of only 30,000, seems romantic, but is probably a bit grim. The landscape must be stunning in its vista of snow and water. The dark green of the woods that abounds during the summer would be bare, the trees looking skeletal.
Most towns seem to shut down, restaurants gone dark for the winter. Most places are extending the season to December instead of October. January and February must be the longest two months of the year here with so few distractions of life that most of us enjoy elsewhere. It makes sense the video store in Edgartown and the liquor stores must do a brisk business.
Each visit to a shop reveals another eccentricity of this island, another opportunity for me to take in another rhythm of this island.
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