Fall From Above

We went to the Vineyard to move in some of our things from storage. As boxes came off the moving truck, each one revealed familiar items I'd forgotten we'd owned. Again, I was struck by how much stuff we'd accumulated in LA, how much of it was meaningless. There were a few items, the Buddha statue from a dear friend which had sat under the oak tree, that brought out a chorus of happy, 'ohs,' as each of us reveled in being reunited with the familiar token. In a strange way, it was like Christmas, but the presents from items you'd had, neglected, or worse, never really noticed.

For us this trip to the Vineyard in October was a first. The island was noticeably quieter, the restaurants--those that were still open--barely full. My son was disappointed to find his favorite pizza and clam strip place shuttered already, the windows newspapered over, chairs on top of tables. There was an air of desolation that was beautiful, such a contrast to the bustle of the summer season. Ocean park was still as inviting, the water as blue. I could imagine the quietude of these months being soothing, an exhale of satisfaction.

The weekend was over too quickly as the small plane climbed up, providing a glorious vista below. I could trace familiar bodies of water, distinguishing towns amidst clusters of trees. I wondered how it was that I knew this island better than any other place in my life. As our planed headed toward Boston, I saw a painterly splashes of reds, a picture reminiscent of a Manet, if he were to pain the scenery from above.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Babysitter--Cultural Contrast

Three summers ago, we lucked into a babysitter, really a 'Mommy's Helper' on Martha's Vineyard. She was 14, here for the summer. Her paternal grandparents owned many acres on Chappaquiddick--unfortunately known for Edward Kennedy's alcoholic-induced fatal car wreck, the event that relegated him forever to the Senate. Each of the grandkids came for the summers to work, to go to the beach, to spend time with their grandparents. So, she came to us to be with our son as we went to the beach. And she's come back ever since as our summer sitter. She is now 16, going on 17, but with the maturity of someone far older.

The contrast of her against the usual nanny in LA is something worth commenting on. She is blond, blue-eyed, All American, and from Utah. Her father and mother became Mormon, and this religious faith has served as the foundation for their family. She indulges in all the teenage pursuits of dating, text messaging, and worrying about her weight, but without the precociousness of most teens that are exposed to far too much too soon. She is a wonderful combination of emotional maturity, yet untouched by boredom bred from privilege. College looms on the horizon, so most of our conversations are about how to get her academic life organized so the application process is not hellish. Her life, I imagine, will meander with some disappointments, but in the end will be much like most of ours: school, career, marriage, and kids. Her goal of becoming a pediatrician feels right when I watch her patiently listening to my son prattling on or demanding she go in the water again for the hundredth time that day. She will have opportunities that she won't even realize are gifts until it is much too late, a difficult lesson each of us learns.

Her life is, and will be, vastly different than the life of our Tia's pre-pubescent daughter, who already shows the lapses in educational opportunities and exposure that will relegate her to a life that will always be paces behind that of our summer sitter. The inequity is, I'm afraid, what our country has become.

I say this, knowing that even for our summer sitter, she faces challenges, perhaps not as steep as our Tia's daughter, but challenges nonetheless. OK. Let's put it in perspective, her desire to attend an elite, or semi-elite university is a far cry from a child, whose own educational future is dubious. If our Tia's daughter survives the current expectation of Latino students to drop out, or worse, to become young mothers, she may be able to propel herself to SMC, dreaming of getting to a Cal State for a BA, all of which will take her an average of five years, but more likely six or seven. Her BA from a fifth tier level school, if our current trend holds true, will enable her to get a job in some service department of a major company. She will be the voice on the other end of the phone when we call about our credit card bills or subscriptions. We will immediately recognize the accent as "Hispanic or Latino." If she's computer savvy, she may end up as Tech support, her voice among all of those with accents that are foreign, all evoking the exoticism of a world remote and distant. Her life will be different, hopefully an improvement from her parent's, but in the end, still on the outside margins to the epicenter of power and privilege of our society.

For our summer sitter, her dreams of university, beyond the state university most of her siblings attended, is achievable as long as she is able to maintain her grades. This jump from public university to private will be what determines whether her life will be middle class or better. Again, her life will still be paces ahead of our Tia's daughter, for the most obvious reasons, even as a Mormon.

The East Coast, unlike its Left Coast counterpart, is full of young children being pushed around its streets by West Indian nannies. These women, dark brown in color, are replicating our country's legacy of Black women raising white children. For us, this seismic shift, is something we are wrapping our heads around. The one advantage of being in LA was that our child's consciousness was taught, for better or worse, that those who 'served' him and others like him were Latino or Filipino. And so, for the first five years of his life, he has been shielded from our country's legacy of the Black woman as caretaker. Now, that is all changing as we move to New York where most babysitters in the city are women from islands far away, whose voices have the lilt of aqua colored waters.

Knowing all of the complexities of this is around the corner, I am hugely relieved and grateful for our summer sitter. Her time with our son has been invaluable in the conscious or unconscious information kids take in, especially at this age. He has understood that babysitters are many colors, ages, and sizes. They serve different functions, depending on the person and situation. His relationship with his Tia, who was more like his second mother, was that of parent and child. His relationship with his Summer sitter is that of friends. Yes, there is the gender stereotype that we are reinforcing since all of them are women. We did have a Manny for a brief period, but I'm afraid it was too brief to have made a difference. So, if we could just find the perfect Manny--Mary Poppins as a Man--then life would be perfect.

Victorian Houses--Being Nosey

Yesterday, the Cottager's Association held their annual tours of the Victorian cottages that dominates in Oak Bluffs. Of course I went. Was there any doubt I would miss out on an opportunity to go nosing around someone else's house? And these cottages, some dating to the 1800's are interesting in design and history. The Cottager's Association is an affiliation of African-American women, who are trying to preserve the relevance and history of these cottages--where many African-American families have owned homes.

One cottage felt more like a doll house, each room stifling in its miniature size. Some of these cottages have been lovingly restored, bringing 21st century amenities, yet preserving the bones of the house. I felt claustrophobic just standing in one of the teeny bedrooms, which is saying a great deal since I love Hobbit-like places. I walked from house to house, traipsing after a group of older women. I don't know why I always find myself participating in activities with those who are long past menopause. What this says about me, I'm not really sure. Hydrangeas, one of my favorite flowers, thrives here on the island. They are as much a part of this landscape as the woods, beaches, and lagoons. The flowers are that perfect bluish violet, the blooms clustered around a bush of green leaves. They decorate many front porches, another standard element of an island home where people sit and rock on their rockers. I tried to grow some hydrangeas in Los Angeles, but found the flowers looked anemic in color and vibrancy. They needed less sunlight and more water, which is either too plentiful or not plentiful enough in LA.

One friend left the island yesterday. I drove her and her many luggages to the ferry where we gave each other a quick hug. It's unlikely I will see her before next summer, although now that I'm on the East coast that may not be the case. Another friend, one from LA, who has summered her since childhood, arrives today. It is a steady stream of 'hello's' and 'goodbyes.'

The days are quiet here. They say those who come to the Vineyard are experts in the art of doing nothing. And this I would have to say is very much the reality. Metaphorically it's somehow significant that this island is the the connection to my life in LA and to my new life in New York. It's not as if I'm in a holding pattern here, but instead feels like my time here is the bridge between the past and the future.

I haven't spent much time gazing backwards. Yet, I'm not peering forward really, simply luxuriating in days that have very little shape or pull. Every so often, I am reminded of this new life taking shape, things getting sorted, as calls to the new pharmacy on 19th street, a Walgreens, instead of the Rite Aid on Western, gets made. I understand the significance of departing this island by driving our car off instead of having to take a plane. But none of it feels truly real.

When I was in LA, there were times when my loneliness was profoundly acute. Even though I was surrounded by many friends and acquaintances, the ache inside prevented me from enjoying my life. The isolation I felt would always come during the middle of the day, which is strange since for some people the melancholy occurs at the time of the day when the sun hasn't set, yet the day's end is imminent, when life's rhythm seems to slow. I bring this up because on the island, I spend more hours alone, yet that ache inside has not formed in the bottom of my stomach. The solitude here feels more like a cocoon, shielding me from whatever turbulent waters are just ahead. I'm certain this landscape that is so breathtaking would be quite bleak during the winter months when the island empties to a mere 30,000 inhabitants. But somehow the aloneness of being on this island feels more natural than the sadness and loneliness I felt in a city teeming with cars and people.

Rainy Summer Days

We finally had a bit of rain yesterday. I realized how much I love summer rain. Unlike the torrential downpours we had in LA during the "colder" months, a summer rain feels like the pause between songs on an album when you know that the silence will soon come to an end, bringing with it something new. The rain is not cold, so that riding your bike outside or going for a run doesn't feel unusual. The day started off cloudy with the darkness getting more ominous as the afternoon wore on. The anticipation is as enjoyable as the rain itself. People gathered in town, wandering in and out of shops that sell stuffed toys in the shape of lobsters, mugs with drawings of lighthouses, and salt water taffy in boxes. My son, our babysitter--who is my summer daughter, really--and I went to town for pizza and fried clam strips. The few raindrops fell from the sky as we left, making our way to the car. The library was full of kids spending the rainy afternoon reading, looking for diversions. Once home, my son and his sitter made a fort in his room with his blankets. In a culture where kids and parents are inundated with things that promises so much, it's amazing how something as simple as a fort made with a blanket is enough to make a young boy so happy.

The rain stopped by early evening, the darkness bringing lightning and the low rumbling of thunder. I've gotten used to how dark it gets here, the streets unmarred by street lights. And how quiet it is during the nights, the silence broken by the crunch of tires on gravel as a car travels down our street. I know many people here still leave their doors unlocked, car keys in the ignition. I'm too much of a city girl to go that far. And I know this island is slowly changing, the talk of occasional robberies cropping up each season.

This morning the rain is no longer falling, although the day is overcast with the occasional peaks of sun through the clouds. My son, who is now dressing himself in the mornings has decided to wear his Darth Vader cape to summer camp. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to surprise his friends with his costume. Such a simple idea is what makes a child happy. A lump formed in my throat as I realized how quickly such simplicity will be complicated by factors that none of us have any control over. And that this time next year, he will be less likely to be satisfied by a fort made with blankets or wearing a store bought cape to summer camp. In the end, it is my job to protect his joy in such things. Whether I'm up to such a monumental task is one I ask every day.

Lobster Dinners--Summer Friends

My friend, a summer friend really, has had us over to dinner for the last two nights since she is leaving tomorrow. We had met three years ago when my son was a toddler. In fact, we met in the kids play area of Logan Airport, a haven during those lay overs from the Vineyard to our connecting flights back to LA. She and I spoke briefly that day. A year later, she saw us at the Flying Horses, the carousel in our town, and reintroduced herself. She admitted rather sheepishly that she had taken a picture of my son without my knowledge that day because he looks so much like her sister. Well, that summer we got to know one another. Each summer brings a new level of knowledge about ourselves and our lives. During the year, we keep in touch via email. It is the perfect summer friendship with no expectations or responsibilities other than seeing one another once we get on to the island.

We've been here long enough to have amassed a small circle of summer friends. These relationships don't require much tending during the year when all of us resume our normal lives. Yet, they are as much a part of this landscape of trees and sea. We meet at the beach, our conversations one long strand. Each of us remember tidbits about each other's lives, each year adding a bit more to our connection. It is much like the friendships you make during summer camp, but obviously we are adults, or so we pretend.

The table last night was covered in newspaper. The lobsters in a big bowl. Our menu was a hodge podge of stuff each of us had in our fridge. Our kids ate, ran outside, and played. It's funny how all of those worries for the safety of our children gets relaxed when we're here. In LA, I would never have thought about letting our son be outside by himself unless it was in our yard, which was gated, and therefore protected. Last night, the adults sat and talked, drinking our wine as our kids' shrieks and voices came in through the screen door. I know all of this is a far cry from what it will be like in New York City. But it is yet another element of our summers here, as much as those lobster dinners that we enjoy.

Cable On--Oh, What I've Been Missing

Our cable got turned on yesterday. The few days of not being plugged into that black box came to a careening stop. And because I'm like everyone else when faced with the banalities that are offered hourly from that box, I sat down to flip channels--all ten of them--to find something entertaining. And what did I find? None other than VICTORIA BECKHAM, the former Spice Girl, who has spun herself off as style setter, wife of the very famous footballer, and now best friend of Katie Holmes. Yes, I do read that gossip rag, US Weekly, like everyone else to keep up the many downs of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Nicole Richie. Now, seeing that Bobble Head of a woman--no woman's head should be so much bigger than her teeny body, minus the unnaturally big boobs--being chauffeured around in a black SUV as she shops for an appropriate home, and meets with 'dignitaries' of Hollywood, well, what can I say? It was beyond compelling, it was more like a Farce.

Isn't it telling that a woman who was mocked, ridiculed, and made fun of in her own country--a place full of absurdities--is now being feted, petted, and treated like royalty in LA? The best part of the show was when she would speak directly into the camera to us, her barely concealed lower-middle class accent saying pithy things about her sons and her husband. Great television, I'm telling you.

I know summer is when the networks are off season, getting ready for that onslaught the public will suffer when they trot out their new shows, all promised as the new, "Friends," new "Seinfeld," or just plain new something. But really! I know it's bad when that maniacal chef, Gordon Ramsey, who does seem to froth at the mouth, is the most entertaining thing on. Granted, we don't have many channels here, in fact, it's almost like when I was growing up with the three networks and the two other channels.

What's so fascinating and also a terrible commentary on our current culture is how these "reality" based shows have taken over our national psyche. What about watching inane people doing inane things is important enough for us to sit for an hour? Very few of us could, or would, sit through an hour documentary on any number of important subjects, but a show where Victoria Beckham struts through one mansion of ridiculous proportions, well, that's a whole other proposition entirely. This reality show about Victoria Beckham is a new breed, indeed. You know I'm dying, absolutely dying, to watch Paula Abdul's newest addition to the growing shelf of stimulating shows. I think the tide turned to this strange voyeurism we are currently suffering when everyone watched, "Being Bobby Brown," another classic.

Tonight, since I have the option, I may or may not turn on the tube to see what other stimulating shows are on the air. Or I may just turn on C-Span and watch those law makers standing in twos and threes, their heads together as they gossip, I'm certain this is what they do when the microphones are turned off, about John McCain's Presidential campaign imploding.

Summer Reading

Summer reading, the required books we had to read during our breaks as students, is still something we, as adults, attempt to do during the summer months, as if somehow the days between June through August are any less hectic and stressful as the days during any other months. But this ritual of gathering books, usually much too ambitious than can be accomplished, is something all of us does consciously, much like getting ourselves mentally prepared to put on that bathing suit.

My summer reading has been eclectic, staring with a book I picked up during my conference in Aspen. I, like everyone else I know, read, devoured, savored, Ian McEwan's newest book. This wisp of a book is filled with the full emotional weight of a love that is lost forever because of the foibles of our nature--pride, unspoken words, hidden gestures, naivety, and the childish belief that you can recover what is lost.

I am now slogging my way through an annoying book, "Ten Days in the Hills," which is set in the hills of Pacific Palisades and Bel Air. The writing is not the problem, but rather the days the author describes. It is her attempt to provide a glimpse during the first ten days of the Iraq War, the war used as a pretext for the suspension of life for these assembled characters. None of it is believable, in the sense that the start of this particular war was so devastating for each of us to have barricaded ourselves within our houses. I don't recall the start of this particular war feeling ominous, really. I didn't see many of us fighting to prevent it from becoming a reality. Rather, it felt like each of us accepted it as a fait accompli. I think our passivity about this war was more a result of our country's collective shock over 9-11. It's only as the war has become what it is today, a terrible mistake, that people have become less passive about what is happening.

The characters are Hollywood types, or rather, people who live in and peripherally around The Industry. I guess if I hadn't left LA just a few weeks ago, I might be a bit more forgiving of this book. Each of these characters embodies one or more annoying characteristic of Angelenos. They are privileged, shielded from the ugliness down below those hills, and a caricature of the many types of LA people. The houses where the book is set is a character as much as any of the people speaking within the endless quotation marks. In many ways, the author did a remarkable job of describing characters, whose lives are untouched, unblemished by the vagaries of life lived below those eerily quiet hills. All of it feels much like a movie set, a replica of the real thing, all to be taken apart when the last frame of the movie is shot. Even their 'conversations'--and believe me, the entire book is one long conversation-- feels vaguely familiar, an assemblage of chatty talk lifted from various movies where the characters try hard to be seen as thinking, intellectual, and cerebral. It's as if the "Big Chill," got mixed with any of Woody Allen's movies, except there are no references to Kierkegaard. The worst insult about this book is the length. It is a very large book, and despite the size, the scope of what this author has to say is so slight. Funny, isn't it? Ian McEwan accomplishes within pages, about the size of one chapter in this tome, what this author is not able to in endless pages.

My compulsion about starting a book and finishing it is preventing me from giving up. Really, if I could dump it, I would. But my crazy, finish it at all costs nature is making me read on, regretting ever spending money on the hard cover, no less. I'm already looking ahead to what I will read next. After this fluffy ridiculous book, I am ready to sink my teeth into something that will give me pause, make me reflect, savor each sentence as one does a perfect summer berry.

Our cable at our house got shut off. It's fascinating what happens when you are no longer held hostage by the Box. Instead of the comatose viewing of endless PBS shows our child was doing earlier, he is now playing with his action heroes, his imagination engaged. Instead of getting our news from the local stations, we listen to NPR on the radio as I prepare breakfast. And after my son has drifted off to sleep, I sit and listen to music as I needlepoint. It as if we had transplanted back to the 19th century when women sat by the fireplace doing their needlework. The first few days without cable threw us into a bit of a panic. But as I thought about my son playing instead of numbing his brain by watching Clifford the Big Red Dog, I thought it might not be a bad idea to not have cable for the rest of the summer. I'm sure I will be singing a different tune at the end of this week if it doesn't get turned on. But it is still reassuring to know that one can survive, even thrive without being so plugged to the endless stream of dribble--otherwise known as television. I do admit I am missing some compelling new episodes of those obese kids Shaquille O'Neal is trying to whip into shape. But I'm sure that show will end up at some Video Store, so that I can view the entire season in one sitting.