Memorial Day, Arlington Cemetery

  Growing Pains Memorial Day is loaded with wonderful childhood memories for me. Every Memorial Day my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Art Krsnak, who still live on Broadway Ave in Sayville, would host a big family party. My aunt and uncle and my grandparents would usually have done the upkeep on the family plots around Memorial Day and I remember hearing reports about trimming away the grass around all monuments and plaques. Memorial Day meant that the end of school wasn’t far behind. On the Island, it means, open the flood gates, the tourists are a’comin’! I also had the experience of observing Memorial Day in the Armed Forces cemetery known as the Punch Bowl in the crater of the volcano whose image you always see in the background of any picture of Honolulu. Standing at the edge of a sea of crosses and stars of David marking the sacred resting places for WWII soldiers and others. I never thought I’d see a more emotionally arresting place until I saw Arlington National Cemetery. Looking out over stark white crosses in all directions and to the horizon, filled with the fallen from the Civil War, you are so overwhelmed you have to remind yourself to breathe. I thought about Arlington recently, and what it must have been like for the Southerners to accept that black people must be granted the same civil rights as white people. And I remembered a story I read about an incident in a southern church some years after the war. The church was mostly white, and on this day, for the first time, a black parishoner came forth to receive bread and wine along with whites. The pastor stood still, not knowing what to do. Shortly, a small, thin man came forth and quietly knelt next to the black man at the railing. It was written that you could hear a pindrop as the congregation realized it was the now elderly, General Robert E. Lee. We’ll never know if he approved of recognizing black people as full citizens, but we do know that he accepted it. As I watch my country struggle with the idea of gay marriage, I think we’re having the same growing pains the southerners did. No one has to compromise their religious beliefs and grant approval to gay marriage, but we all need to accept their entitlement to the same life, liberty and pursuit of happiness that all Americans are promised. And pause to consider, how many of those stark white crosses lay over gay soldiers.

Rock On!

Mar 23, 2012

The big story on Shelter Island last week was about a Wallstreet couple who purchased a 60 ton rock from Wainscott Sand & Gravel in Bridgehampton and had it transported to their home on the Island where it will sit at the end of a concrete bridge. An employee of the quarry said the couple had shopped for a big rock for nearly three years. It’s now our Official Shelter Island Book of Island Records as the single heaviest item ever transported by ferry to the Island.

The rock, which I am naming the Wallstreet Walnut, was transported to the ferry using big time heavy equipment and had it’s very own police escort from the ferry to it’s new spot on the Island. I guess they were worried somebody would try to steal it on the way to the house. But I suppose I can’t blame them because they no doubt this is one expensive rock. They paid a great deal to have this rock dug up, lifted by crane onto a flatbed truck, hauled slowly to the ferry, I have no idea what the ferry charge is for boulders this year, and then a big truck and crane to transport and deliver it, the total for this rock purchase had to between $100,000 and $300,000 I bet.

I began thinking (never a good sign), I’m sure that the couple that bought the rock are lovely people, from good homes, worked hard all their lives, give to Greenpeace, support local causes, and probably are humble about their wealth because people with money here, never seem to flaunt it. I’ve eaten hot dogs next to millionaires and but for their L.L.Bean uniforms, you’d never guess their wealth.

But seriously, how shopped out are you when you begin to shop for rocks - and not the kind measured in karats? I am very worried about the lady in this couple because somehow this guy misled her when he said, “Baby, I love ya. I’m gonna buy you the biggest rock on this Island!” I’m thinking she wasn’t thinking one that needed a crane... Maybe he plans to spray paint it gold, or have a stone worker carve their names in a heart on the rock. We’ll have to wait and see what happens to the Wallstreet Walnut next.

But there’s another matter to be concerned about. Has anyone stopped to consider the feelings of the Painted Rock by the camp? Is the new rock bigger than our old one? The big rock that was here first, even before Mr Sylvestor got here. The painted rock that has proclaimed the love of so many couples, and ruined so many reputations. Layers of secret messages painted there over the years would tell the entire story of our Island nation. The Indians believed that all of nature had spirit and feelings. I’m a little worried about our Painted Rock’s feelings. It’s awfully close to the water, what if it overhears people comparing it to the new big rock, thinks it’s been abandon, and rolls into the water and drowns itself?

Then again, maybe there’s a silver lining here. Painted Rock has been alone all these years. I don’t know if Painted Rock is a he-rock or she-rock because it’s never been turned over and just from the face, it’s too hard to tell with boulders. Perhaps Painted Rock and the Wallstreet Walnut could be friends - or more. Paint could give Wally the scoop about Island life and Wally would have a friend to talk to, because really, I think only a rock can understand where another rock comes from. They could dish the dirt together. In this era of superior technology, I think we could find a couple of old cell phones to tape to the rocks and let them chat. If it turns out that they are boy-girl, who knows but we may see pebbles by summer?

When is a house, more than a house?

Mar 16, 2012
 
Dan’s Papers 

Dan’ s Papers has moved into its new home. But I have to confess, I will miss the rickety converted old house that served as the office and hub of the Hamptons, aka, Dan’s Papers, for so many years.

I will miss the way the huge poster of Dan’s face next to the commode, watched your every move. I’ll miss how the toilet paper supply was on open shelves across the bathroom - just close enough that every once in a while you’d check to see if you had developed the ability to move TP with your mind. The walls were paper thin and it amazed me how many people thought the nook by the bathroom was a secure place to chat.

I’ll miss looking into the rooms where the Ad people were chained to their desks by the ankles, not unlike the galley scenes in Ben Hur. It was safe to walk up to the edge of the room and throw food and canned goods in, but it was best to stay out of their reach, lest they grab your car keys and make a break for freedom.

I’ll miss the late night Tuesdays (when the paper was being assembled for printing) when the layout staff would put electrified razor wire up around their desks to discourage any last minute changes. Even so, late changes would get through and you’d hear the wails of the exhausted and frustrated staff. One of them would always come out to make coffee for the group. Whenever I was there, if I had the extra, I’d slip some Xanex into the coffee to help calm the group down.

Then there was the Senior Editor, the one on whose shoulders, all things fall. When I began writing for Dan’s, it was with Bill Scurry at the helm. Many have passed through that job since then, yes, they come and they go, but the aggravation reminds the same. Whenever I was in the office on Tuesdays, the Editors were alert, cogent, and highly intelligent. I never saw them the next day, but I’d bet a paycheck that on Wednesdays, they’d have to pull out their Driver’s License to remember their names.

I will really miss what I called Telegraph Hill. The old place, in addition to thin walls, had this steep, narrow, rickety, very squeaky staircase that led to Dan’s perch upstairs. Anything heavier than a cat would make these stairs creak. If wasn’t long before you could identify who was coming or going by the heaviness and speed of their footfalls. The really senior staff could tell you if it was Dan in a good or bad mood, if he was carrying anything, or how much he had for lunch. It was fun to be able to tell who forgot something based on the partial descent, then cursing, then ascent, then a complete fast descent with more cursing. This staircase was so fragile, it actually would shake the whole house depending on the forcefulness of the footfalls. Of course, I never went on it. I knew the steps would never handle the pressure, plus there wasn’t enough DW-40 in the building for me to adequately coat my hips. If I needed to see Dan, I could just take a position at the bottom of the steps and wait. I always admired the fact that even though he could have easily slung a fire ladder out the window and escaped to the parking lot unnoticed, he never did.

Yes, I’ll miss the old house and all the hiding places it had. But the new place will be even better for brilliant people to fester, I mean, foster their talents in this new millenia of Dan’s Papers. I have been a DanFan since he had a two page flyer when I was a teen growing up on the Island. It was Dan’s writing, and later that of Mary Lowry of the Pacific Sun in California, that gave me inspiration to write - but don’t let it get out, Dan doesn’t need any ego boosting.

St Patrick and ugly sheep

Mar 9, 2012

Being Irish is sort of like being Jewish I think. You feel a strong affinity to the homeland, even if you’ve never been there. It’s like you can feel it in your blood. I’ve been watching a terrific show called, “Who Do You Think You Are?” which traces people’s ancestry. What I find very intriguing is that every person so far, says that they always felt drawn to a certain place that turns out to be the country of their forefathers. It makes you wonder...

St Patrick did a lot for the Irish in the 900’s. He brought the country out of the mode of warring pagan tribes and into civilization. He established the first schools and even universities. Considering what a routy bunch the Irish still are, I can only imagine what St Patrick had to deal with... wouldn’t surprise me a bit if blarney waas invented by St Pat himself.

“Poreg, you can’t marry a sheep and that’s that!”
“But Father Patrick, Daisy’s good to me, and far more faithful than any woman has ever been! Why can’t I marry her? She loves me, and she’s four years old, that puts her well above the age of consent for sheep.”
“It’s not about age of consent or love - well it is - but not when it comes to sheep. You can keep her as a friend, a pet, like a cat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Father, a man can’t have a loving relationship with a cat. Now, a sheep...”
“STOP! Poreg, people marry people and that’s the end of it.”
“Don’t make me choose between church and sheep, Father.”
“Poreg, if you choose the Church, we will have Whisky, invented by Irish Monks, in the eleventh century.”
“And how far away is this eleventh century now, Father?”
“Well, we’re in the ninth century now, tenth is next.... sure, the eleventh century will be here in just a few years. Just think of it, in a short time you’ll be drinking Whisky -the water of life- and isn’t that worth the havin?”
“You make a good argument, Father. Truth is, I was getting tired of Daisy anyway. She can’t cook and has terrible gas from eating all that grass, y’know.”
“There’s a good man, Poreg. Now, about the human sacrifices.....”
“Hold on, Father, I’m ahead of you there. You’ve gotten nearly all the tribes to stop it, and my tribe will be stopping it too.”
“I am relieved to hear it!”
“Just as soon as we get rid of Boobaa. He’s an idiot. We were going to trade him to another tribe, you know how we hate to sacrifice our own, we usually swap sacrificial victims, but we can’t find anyone to trade with no more because of you, so we’re toasting him at the next full moon. After that, we’re open for the new faith.”
“What if I take Boobaa off your hands, then you don’t have to sacrifice him.”
“That’s very nice of you, Father, I think the tribe would appreciate that. He’s such an moron. He’s the laughing stock of the tribe since he married Lola.”
“What’s wrong with Lola? She’s not a sheep too, is she?”
”Yes, but Father, she’s the ugly one.”

I Love Shelter Island

The Best Things in Life are Still Free

Last week, the Shelter Island Reporter ran a questionnaire: “What does Shelter Island lack that would make it a perfect place to live?” Great question, and the answers reveal more about the ‘ anweree’ than the actual subject.

“Im thinking a 7-Eleven,” a young man was quoted. I can certainly sympathize. I was once a teenager stranded on the rock, as were my two children many years later. I can see the logic in wanting a 7-Eleven, Greenport has one, so does Sag Harbor, and yet we are left bereft of Slurpees and cigarette butt strewn parking lots. As anyone who’s ever lived off Island can tell you, the parking lot of a 7-Eleven is a Mecca for tweens to gather. The essentials of their lives are compiled there; junk food, cell signal and peers with whom to ponder the night’s coming mischief. Shelter Island is the only place I know of where the kids hang out at school on the weekends, to the rest of America that constitutes an alternate dimension.

We have something better than 7-Eleven, we have Fedi’s. Fedi’s is quite possibly the best deli from here to Manhattan but sans that special blend of dodgy-dingy florescent lighting that makes a 7-Eleven so alluring. I challenge the youth to expect more from their weekend excursions. Think not what the rock can do for you, but what you can do for the rock. In other words, google a “living social” or “groupon”, tweet your fellow teens and tweens and take a charter bus to halfway decent destination. Your parents can satellite stalk you from a lounge chair at Sunset Beach and you can make your parental chaperone (or human sacrifice) walk ten steps behind you, and not talk to anyone, lest they embarass you.

Another suggestion was for more jobs. Shelter Island could use a small movie theater. Three screens is all it would take to appease three generations of bored “rockers”. While providing entertainment to the masses, it would provide job opportunities and a suitable parking lot paradise. Since Shelter Island doesn’t allow any chains, the theater would be our own. Impeccably decorated by local island women. We could venture beyond stale popcorn an have special concessions from Fedi’s and Primo Pizza. Evening shows could be dinner theater quality with clams and on the half and white wine for the adult sections. An acrylic walled smoking enclosure for the smokers. The chairs would be plush recliners, the carpet persian, and the parking valet. But the best of all would be a secret room the men could access from men’s lounge. Boys always love a secret hideout from the girls, no matter what their age. This way they can evade chic flix by excusing themselves to the men’s lounge and dipping into their secret hide out for the duration. Cognac, cigars and CNN Sports run while their wives and girlfriends watch the latest romantic comedy. I’m telling you, a theatre like this would so enrich the Island that we’d need to move the whole Island farther out to sea to discourage off-Islanders from coming just to be able to really enrich movie watching again.

High School Sucks

"I Learned the Truth at Seventeen..."

First off, congratulations to Kelsey McGayhey, whose basketball jersey is being retired, for her fantastic feat of scoring more than 1000 points in her high school basketball career. Kelsey’s mother, Patty is my best gal pal. Since I make Patty laugh, and that keeps her happy, which insures she makes meals and takes care of Kelsey, I figure I can take credit for at least five of those basketball points. I don’t want to make a big deal, I don’t expect a parade or anything, but without those five points, Kelsey would only have 995 points...no need to thank me Kelsey, it was my pleasure.

Of course, it’s easy for me to be happy about high school sports stars now, but when I was in high school, I hated them. They were so coordinated and moved so fast, they were always picked first. I was always picked last. Even when I was in shape, I wasn’t in shape. I never excelled, or even hit mediocre in any sport, unless you count dodgeball - I was good at dodging, but that was it. I was in the brainiac group. I couldn’t compete with my feet, but I could gain with my brain.

I think it was Eleanor Parker who said, “Live as long as you like, the first twenty years are the longest half of your life.” I find that to be so true. The most painful things ever said to us are said by other students in high school. Being branded a freak, or some other moniker that served to separate and alienate you from your peers is a painful memory your entire life. Time gives it perspective, but it only takes a moment of thought to remember the pain. I recall teachers always reminding us, as I’m sure they do today, that we shouldn’t give too much import to other people’s opinions, it’s our own opinions that count. But speaking as an ugly duckling, emotional bullying is a tough experience to survive with dignity and I doubt it has changed.

What we can’t know in high school is that, it really does all come to a sudden and abrupt end at graduation. As soon as we’re out of school, we could care less what some former popular girl said about us.

My sweetest high school revenge was about a year after graduation, I ran into her, “the most cool girl”, in the class. She was a terrible emotional bully and had done a real job on my selt esteem. I was home on leave from the Army. I had a job I loved. I was stationed in Denver and having the time of my life. She was working in a coffee shop and I was her customer. She was pregnant, not married- which was a big deal at the time - and looked exhausted. We recognized each other and even though I had sworn I’d beat her to a pulp if I ever saw her again, my anger turned to pity in flash. A look passed between us and I could tell she felt embarassed to be serving me when she knew what a monster she had been. My future was as bright as her future was dull and we both knew it. There was no shortage of boyfriends in the Army, even for an ugly duckling, I had money now, I was having fun and looking forward to the future.

My tab was about $3.57 for a coffee and bagel, I left her a five dollar tip, just to rub it in. I knew it would humiliate her to feel grateful for a generous tip from me. Now, as a mature adult, I realize how unkind that was. If I could go back in time today, I’d like to think that I would have said something nice to her and left an appropriate tip. Yes, I’d like to think that. But I know damn good and well that if I could do it all over, I’d have left that slut a ten dollar tip.

Nature or Nurture?

The debate has gone on for years and still continues. Are we more shaped by our DNA or our environment? I always believed it was most likely a 50-50 combination of both. But after yesterday, I’m not so sure. Yesterday, my daughter, Chenoa (Iroquois for White Dove), took her daughter, Audriana (Olde English synonym for Kali the Destroyer) to Wal-Mart. Among the purchases, Chenoa got Audriana a new backpack.

I affectionately call Audriana, the Thief of Bagdad, because she’s always grabbing something and running away with it like it’s a bag of money. If you’re in the bathroom, she runs off with the toilet paper. If you’re dressing, she grabs a shoe and bolts to the other end of the house. She’s been doing this snatch and grab thing since she discovered her hands at the ends of her arms. As an infant, you couldn’t wear any jewelry near her because she could yank off a necklace or rip out earrings faster than you could imagine.

It made me wonder; there’s developmental markers that science uses to measure whether or not a child is developing normally; first words by age 12 months, first steps by 14 months, et. al.. So, do you think there’s developmental markers for future lawbreakers? First snatch and grab; 6 months. First grab and crawl; 9 months. First break in to Grandmother’s jewelry box; 12 months. First undetected snatch and grab; 14 months.

Audri’s become particularly adept at the undetected snatch and grab. At first it bothered me a lot. But now I know, if something’s missing from a drawer, or a handbag, or locked safe, there’s a good chance I didn’t misplace it and lose it due to memory loss from advancing age. It’s just as likely that Light Fingered Louie got to it and I will eventually find it in her stash places behind the couch or under the TV, behind the VCR.

So, as I mentioned earlier, my daughter bought Audri a new backpack. Audri chose it herself by yanking it off the shelf and shrieking when her mother tried to take it from her. That’s how Audri makes a lot of her purchase selections. It’s a little primitive right now, but I anticipate that when she’s older, she’ll use the same technique with her boyfriends but the shrieking will be replaced with smoldering looks that promise and never deliver.

As I was admiring the new backpack, I unzipped it. There was a knit headband inside with the price tag still on it. I looked at my daughter and she said, “Oh my God, I didn’t buy that! She must have grabbed it and put it in there!”

Yes, she did. She did it five times. Five new, tags on, very nice knit headbands, all neatly secured in her new backpack. My daughter was horrified. “No sense in trying to return them,” I said, “who’s going to believe the old, my kid put it in her backpack unbeknown to me story?”

I say, let’s look at the bright side, in the predicted post apocolyptic world, she will be the girl to know...

Super Bowl - Clean out his crap....

Here it comes, the one weekend I looked forward to every year I was married. Stupor Bowl weekend, especially Stupor Bowl Sunday. Here is it, the one chance a woman truly has to eliminate undesirables in her environment. While your man is totally engrossed in a mindless ballgame featuring millionaires in spandex, here’s what you can accomplish...

First, make sure you pre-shop ahead of Super Bowl Sunday so you can quickly replace whatever you subtract. He won’t notice anything that is missing from the closet, but he will notice empty spaces where his ratty stuff used to be, so fill those holes as you go.

Dig out every ragged “but I still like it” shirt and jeans, bag ‘em, drag ‘em to the burn barrel or get them tucked in a yellow town bag. Rout out the sneakers, whose only remaining resemblance to sneakers is knotted laces and slim pieces of fabric that connect all the holes. Keep the beer flowing and while he’s yelling in the living room, get rid of everything he thinks he can still wear from high school.

Underwear. Why do men think that underwear can be worn from date of purchase till the wearer’s natural death? Men have underwear that is ten years old and more. Waistband’s all stretched out, tiny tips of elastic gasping for air popping out all over. No fruit left in the loom at all except for the nuts that occasionally visit. It doesn’t matter how big a man gets, if he can still squeeze into one of the old size 34 briefs he wore during his wrestling years in high school, that is his size forever. If he buys new underwear, it will be size 34, and you will see him use WD-40 on his rump and a shoehorn for the rest, to prove to you that his size 42 self can still fit in a 34. He will stretch and wring out the fruit of the loom so completely, he will smell like Sangria. It’s up to the gals, or guys, in his life, to sneak new underwear into his life. Sometimes you just have to save people from themselves.

Papers. Find all the paper; bank statements from before 2000, credit card offers from previous years that he insists on keeping, “Don’t throw anything out until I have time to look at it.” The Super Bowl is your only chance for his distraction level to be high enough to get all this useless paper out of the house. Never mind recycling it - he might spot it on his next trip - bag it and drag it with all the wet garbage. I know it’s against the rules, but live on the edge once in a while.

Just like the leg lamp in A Christmas Story, this is your opportunity to break any ugly cup of lamp that needs to leave. I was once able to dispose of a set of four cups with deer heads on them during the Super Bowl. I put new hefty mugs in their place, and he never noticed the switch.

They say honesty is important in a relationship. Don’t you believe it. Stealth and a poker face will do more for your relationship than you know. I learned that from my husband who could tell me he attended a fly fishing show and only spent $75 on new equipment with a straight face and direct eye contact so perfect, he could have won an Oscar. I learned I could pursue the much over rated truth, or simply estimate what he really spent and give myself permission to spend the same on my next shopping day, plus interest for him lying to me in the first place. It must have worked, because we never argued about money, or watching the Super Bowl.

We're in Hot Water Now!

Skool Boiler....Big News!

Recently there was some really big news on Shelter Island. An event of immense proportion with a potentially explosive outcome...the school boiler was on the fritz and the whole school had to be evacuated.

Imagine the shock and horror to students who were about to take a test. Or those just waiting to turn in their homework in the next class. I think of all those poor, innocent, impressionable young souls, just longing to spend hours and hours in class, looking pensively out of huge windows into the bleak January cold. Imagine the panic and sorrow they experienced when they heard the announcement that the school would be evacuated.

Many students were heard to shout , “Thank God!” “Hallelujah!” “Free at Last!”. I figure that those were the more sensitive and devout students. They probably formed prayer groups on the lawn of the school and prayed for the old boiler. They prayed a cure would be found soon so they could return to their classes.

Some, okay, many, other students were heard to whisper profanities - yes, right here on Shelter Island, there are young people who know profanities. I believe it most likely the shook of being torn from their concentrations that caused so many to curse. They were probably contemplating topics for their future doctoral thesis when the boiler event happened.

I think of all of them standing in the cold, wondering, will school be closed early? Will they be sent home? The thought of early release, being forced to raid their refrigerators at home ahead of schedule and play extra hours of video games....those poor darlings.

Years from now, they will all recall the event at high school reunions, and remember what they were doing the day the boiler broke. The big event my generation had was the middle aged teacher who married the eighteen year old student right after graduation. That was a huge scandal then. Of course, today, when students and teachers have affairs all the time, our scandal wouldn’t have even hit the radar. But it was a great scandal then, real Peyton Place stuff. Love conquered all, including age, common wisdom, and public opinion. It taught me to always remember; “Love is blind, but the neighbors ain’t.”

It all proves what I’ve always said, Shelter Island is an exciting place to live. It moves and changes with glacier speed through time. The unique Island, where generations of third cousins marry and as a result, all the men are handsome, all the women smart, and all the children are gifted.