Where’s My Purple Sweater?

Like many people my age, I’ve started to half joke, half worry, about getting Alzheimer’s Disease. Like the other day, I was looking for my purple sweater, just to kinda have it handy for chilly mornings. I never found it, but I ended up in totally different location before I realized I hadn’t found it. So, I’m reviewing my process to see where I went off the rails. Where’s my purple sweater? Let’s see, it was a Christmas gift. I was going to wear it around Easter, but I couldn’t find it at Easter. I must have packed it with the unwanted gifts I got last year that I plan to regift this year. So that means it’s in the back of the guest bedroom closet. I’m in the guest bedroom, wow, I haven’t seen this room in the morning light in awhile. The paint has really faded and I haven’t changed a thing in here in years. I saw something in the last Town & Country magazine that might work here. Where’s that magazine? In the basket next to my chair. I went to the chair in the living room and saw ants crawling all over my coffee cup. I thought I walked that to the kitchen last night, but obviously not, so I did that right away. Alright, now I’m in the kitchen and I might as well do the dishes and think about what’s for dinner. Okay, I’ve got a frozen chicken breast, I took that out and put it on the counter. I’ve got potatoes, I just need some veggies. I can zip to IGA this afternoon. I need toilet paper too, and something else, what was it.... I really need it. Well, it will come to me. I better start a little list. I need paper and pen. I can use the back of this LIPA envelop on the counter. Better open it first and take a peek - AAAGGHHHH! What!?! This can’t be right. I called LIPA right away and randomly pushed buttons and shouted, “I want to speak to a human!” into the phone and finally, a person came on. My last payment didn’t make it to this statement and something was averaged in to account for a recent sun flare, and the new carpeting in the downtown office, offset by the spikes in usage caused by people watching Dancing with the Stars and a surtax for living on Shelter Island. Why is there a surtax for living on the Island? Because the cables have to run underwater to get the electric here and the repairmen have to take a ferry every time they come here and why should other people on Long Island pay for ferry fees? And by the way, if I say, “f------g LIPA” one more time, there will be a “f---------g penalty for insubordination fee.” Now I need some coffee to calm down from that fiasco. Coffee filters! That’s the other thing I need. I can’t make coffee now...damn. I better go shopping this morning. Coffee filters, toilet paper, oh no... what was the first thing I needed? It will come to me. And Lysol spray. I noticed my phone is looking a little smudgy, so Lysol, TP, filters, and the other thing. I better get dressed. Where’s my good bra? The dryer - dryer sheets, I need dryer sheets! Okay, got the bra, clothes on, birks on. I’ll stop at Ace and get some paint samples for the guest bedroom. Why was I in the guest bedroom? Oh yea, I was going to redecorate it. Something I saw in Home & Garden. Where’s that magazine? In the car, I was reading it in the ferry line. Okay, now, I’m parked at that IGA. Where’s my list? Did I make a list? Well, I’ll have to go on memory. What do I need? Milk, eggs, bread, I always need that. What else? It’ll come to me when I see it in the store. And yarn. I have to stop and get yarn so I can knit a simple sweater for fall. I think she has purple yarn at the video store, I love purple. I’m so glad I was blessed with a mind for organization and details. Everybody else my age is losing theirs....

Back to Skool

I remember when I was still in Junior High and High school, the anticipation I always felt just before the first day of school. As a girl it was absolutely critical you had a new outfit. Even if the look you were going for was the “I am too cool to care how I look” look , you had to get it just right especially for the first day back to school. That first day back set the tone for your year. First, since you only hung with a few select friends through the summer, you didn’t see most of your classmates until school started, and boy, what a difference the summer vacation could make. Girls came back with boobs, boys came back with fuzzy upper lips and height! I was always one of the tallest kids in the class until Sophomore year when the boys finally got taller. I remember feeling so relieved about that. From age 13 on, I was 5’10” in bare feet, 5’12” in heels. No, I was never 6 feet tall, that’s way too tall for a girl, I refused to be taller than 5’12”. Boys began talking to us without feeling the need to shove us or knock books out of our hands. And some of them began to understand the concept of personal hygiene and were even experimenting with deodorant and toothpaste. It was an amazing transformation. But even so, they were careful to look like they didn’t care how they looked. Between the sprouting facial hair and acne, the boys looked like the early stages of plague victims. For girls, none of us could ever imagine that we were remotely attractive. We were all always dieting and fretting over our complexions and mentally magnifying the most minute flaw, convinced that it was the first thing everyone saw when they looked at us. But there’s not a women alive today who wouldn’t give anything to look as horribly fat and ugly as she thought she looked in high school. Early attempts at courtship were so awkward. All the girls tried writing meaningful poetry to read to the boys so they’d know we thought they were special. We spent hours analyzing everything they said to us and everything they did for it’s true meaning. I laugh now when I think of how many meanings we could extrapolate out of a simple “Good Morning”, or even cooler, if they looked at you and just said, “Hey,”. “Hey” could mean “I’m checking you out and might even ask you out later.” “Hey” could mean “I think you’re cool, I’m going to sit next to you at lunch in front of the whole school.” If a boy made a point of sitting next to you at lunch, that was commitment. If he bought your lunch, you’d sit in class later practicing writing your new last name. If he walked you home and carried your books, you could start picking out curtains. Guys will never know how much mileage a woman can get out of a simple, “Hey”. And as teen girls, we were always thinking that they were thinking and analyzing whatever we said as much as we dissected whatever they said. It isn’t till way, way, later that we finally accept that when a man says he isn’t thinking anything, what he really means is, “I’m not thinking anything.” I believe I was well into my forties when I realized they had been telling the truth for years.

Please God, let school open.....

Dear Diary, There were so many things I had planned for us to do as a family this summer and we didn’t do any of them. The kids are 9, 11 and 13, and finally old enough that we don’t have to pack juice boxes and diapers to go anywhere. But, it seemed like we had the money but not the time, or the time but not the money. George and I wanted to take the kids to Disney World, but we didn’t have enough money, so we ended up going to Tanger Mall and Dairy Queen. The kids got to buy video, clothes, and hideous posters for their rooms. I think we spent almost as much money, but saved on gas to Florida. We loaded them up on high fructose junk foods and ice cream for the ride home to put them in a sugar coma so at least we’d have peace on the ride home. We hoped to enjoy several boat outings with Uncle Mike this summer, but Mike’s engine never got repaired. So, we busted our shocks driving them out to Shell Beach. We tried to get them to try to cross the channel on their air mattresses, we figured the current would take them toward Riverhead till they hit land and that would give me uninterrupted time to clean and purge their rooms. But they were wise to us and wouldn’t take the bait. They made some threats about calling CPS and requesting that they be put in a foster home instead of living with us. George and I got all excited about them leaving, but then those rotten kids reneged and they’re still here. We thought we might take them for an educational trip, to see West Point, or something like that. We ended up taking them to Mashomack Preserve for one of their tours. George and I managed to lose them in the woods and slip away for a box lunch from the IGA. But then we got a call from the Preserve, some rule about you have to leave with as many kids as you brought, so we picked them up. They were full of ticks, so we made them sleep on the porch until they were sure they got all the ticks off. Then George put lysol in his garden sprayer and hosed them down. Then we thought, let’s try to eat healthier and make a veggie garden. They were trying to text their friends while planting seedlings. This only would have taken half a day, you’d think they could put down the phones for four hours - oh - God forbid! They might miss something! They never got serious and ended up throwing dirt at each other and then I got a big clump in the face and if George hadn’t been there to get the ax from me, I don’t know what would have happened. He thought I was going to attack the kids with the ax. But I was going to use the ax to destroy their phones, I was going to use the hammer to hit them. George thought, if they’re like this when they’re eighteen, we could invent our own Witness Protection program. We could change our names and sneak away in the night. And in two or three weeks when they notice no laundry is done and there’s no food in the house, they’ll realize we’re gone, but by then, it will be too late. I love my Georgie, I can always count on him to see the silver lining.....

School Opens Sep 5th...thank you God

Dear Diary, School opens in less than a month. I hope my Xanex can hold out. I’ve been to confession three times in two weeks to have a nice man behind a screen remind me that my children are a blessing from God, no returns, no refunds. I used to resent the fact that a man with no children was telling me that these spawn of Satan were actually a blessing. But now I’m glad he doesn’t have any children because I need someone to lie to me with a straight face. I can confess my homicidal fantasies and be assured that all my sacrifices can be offered up to reduce my time in limbo. Then he tells me I’m actually quite normal and gives me a shield of absolution and back into the fray I go. The dog days of August are here and I have one, very thin, very raw, nerve left. I’ve decided to post my list of what needs to change on my front door so the monsters will see it. I will sit in my chair facing the door with my BB gun across my lap, and if any of them come through the door making demands, I can’t miss. Dear Precious Children, these are the rules for August. Please comply and all will be well. 1] I can’t afford to take you to the water park again this summer. Don’t ask, don’t beg, don’t cry. 2] Do not jump off the roof into piles of improvised cushioning. If you do these stupid things and injure your foot, I will find something to break the other foot to serve as a deterrent from any further incursions into StupidLand. 3] I don’t care what it is, or how safely you think you can do it, do not set anything afire. 4] Do not hide in the dark by the door and jump out with bloody vampire fangs when Grandma comes over. She nearly beat Georgie to death with her cane when he did that the last time. Old people have been around long enough that they don’t scare as easily as you think. If they have a cane or walker, consider them armed and dangerous. 5] Tying younger siblings to trees does not count as babysitting. 6] I’m still waiting to hear what happened to the 13 pound ham that was in my refrigerator two days ago. 7] Daddy is still fuming over the two missing six packs that disappeared with the ham. 8] Will the son who souped up Daddy’s ride-on mower without telling him please come forward. He torn across the lawn and through my roses. He was only able to stop the mower with the assistance of the maple tree next door. This event, plus putting a stronger spring in Daddy’s Lazy Boy recliner so that when he sat up the chair shot him across the room, have led us to offer a new solution to your propensity for testing the performance limits of all things mechanical. We realize you must need better parents than us. We have burned your birth certificate and any official records of your existence. We are prepared to drop you off at the Social Services office so you can claim to be a homeless youth in need of a foster home. We wish your new parents all the best and we would love to hear from you in ten years or so. Other than these rules, we hope you children enjoy that remainder of your summer vacation. If you need us, we’ll be at The Dory with all the other parents.

The Old Bamboo

Last week’s Shelter Island Reporter did an article on the invasive nature of bamboo and how we can control it’s spread since there is a considerable amount of it here on the Island. I never thought of it as a problem, I think it’s rather pretty, but I certainly wouldn’t want it to choke out native flora. Apparently to stop it’s spread you have to push a thick metal plate at least three feet deep to stop it’s roots from spreading. It’s either that or a back hoe.... yikes! Thomas Edison said a problem is just an opportunity in work clothes. Maybe there’s a business here for the Island. Bamboo fishing rods - one nice, long fishing rod instead of one that has two or three sections. You never have to worry about losing any pieces of your rod and your kids can’t play swords with it. Spare the rod, spoil the child. That adage can still be applied if the rod is used right by parents. Use a bamboo rod to help get the kids up for school. You can poke them with the rod while they’re in bed until they wake up. You can tickle their faces. As a last resort, you can whip the quilt wherever there’s movement. It won’t hurt them, and will provide you with stress relief. Or you can stand at the bottom of the stairs and whip the bamboo through the air so they hear the whipping sound while you threaten them with beatings. A bamboo rod in the car with kids would be really helpful. You can reach any seat with any kid and hit them in the legs while you scream, “That’s it! Nobody touch anybody!” A short bamboo rod with a wad of tape, sticky side out, will retrieve old french fries and other dreck from under car seats. You could find that earring you lost... you never know. Short bamboo rods could be given to people waiting on the ferry. Nerves are frayed, the wait is hot, tempers flare, just give those drivers a weapon and viola! A new reality series, “Escape From Bamboo Island” is born! Winners get to get on the ferry first. Short bamboo rods could be issued to wait staff on the Island who put up with some horrible behaviors from tourists. This way, if they don’t behave, the waiter could give the patron a quick flick on the back of the neck as he or she went by and blame it on the aggressive African mosquitoes that got loose here. It might not change the customer’s behavior, but it should will be satisfying for the staff. A bamboo rod would be a fantastic mother’s helper when Mom is exhausted. You can sit in your chair and pick and flick. Pick up socks on the rug, flick them towards the hallway where they can be later kicked to the washer. You can pick up garbage and flick it towards the kitchen. If your spouse is napping on the couch and children are jumping off furniture all around him and you want him to take them somewhere - anywhere - you can flick his head ever so gently until he wakes up and asks you what’s going on. And if one of your kids rats you out to Dad, you can whip their rump as they flee. Yup, bamboo can be a friend.

Shelter Island Olympics, a.k.a., The Shelympics

We’re all looking forward to the Summer Olympics here since we have our very own Olympian, sailor Amanda Clark. Take that Southampton... Of course, we could actually have our own little Olympics here. We could call it the Shelympics. The Shelympics would showcase local events. The No Spillage Race: When the bar at the Chequit closes at 2AM, everyone has adjourns down the hill to The Dory which is open till 4AM, still carrying their drinks. This could easily be converted into a timed event where drink spillage disqualifies the racer. There are many Islanders who have already trained for this for years. Barbershop Quartet Races: It’s a given if you are here in the summer that the North Ferry lines to get on or off the Island are epic in physical length and time duration. There is easily enough time for drivers to get out and organize themselves into quartets. They can practice right there on line, and provide entertainment for everyone. At the end of the season, we can have a competition, the winning quartet to receive free ferry tickets for next summer. Power Mower Racing Teams: Nearly every man on this Island owns a ride on power mower. We have a long straight stretch of road from the IGA to the school, perfect for racing! Plus, at the half way mark - the Post Office - each team could have their pit crew ready to check the machine while the driver runs in to get his mail, I mean, why waste a trip? The MD to Pharmacy race. We all see who else is sick when we go to the doctor here. From the MD office, we all see each other again in the Pharmacy, and often a third time in the Post Office, because we all seem to fall in sync with each other here. With a small adjustment, that is all the patients leave the MD office at the same time, we could create a three event race of MD’s to Pharm. to Post Office, first one to pick up their mail wins! The police have recently had to cite some people for “intoxicated boating”. But I think this has potential. First we set out buoys with small bottles of whisky at , say, seven points around a portion of the Island. Next, we put the participants in row boats, not motor boats. They row to the first buoy, drink one of the little bottles and row to the next buoy. I’m figuring that after the fourth buoy, it won’t be a question of who wins, but who finishes at all.... Child Drop Off. For years, Shelter Island mothers have perfected the art of dropping off kids at school by getting in the right line to swing over and barely skim the curb, while simultaneously ordering the child to open the door and get ready to jump on command. They child jumps out and a second later their packback lands on them and the car is gone..... This is a perfect Shelympic event; it combines skill, timing, and teamwork. The faster a child learns how to fling his body from a moving vehicle, the quicker and tougher his body will be for sports.

Beating the Heat

It’s funny how we change our attitudes towards summer heat throughout our lives. I remember as kids summer heat never bothered us at all. Even as teenagers, the girls would lie in the sun on the beach all day, our bodies slathered with baby oil - this was before sun damage existed - and still be full of energy to go out that night. In our twenties, beach parties were still a blast. And the worst day boating beat the best day working. There is no feeling like cutting through the waves with the spray in your face on a beautiful day. Experimenting with what fish will accept as bait was always fun. I remember catching blowfish with minimarshmellows. Rotten raw chicken was the best crab bait. I always thought that was odd because under what circumstances does a crab meet and eat a chicken to knows it tastes good? And the best feeling was after you showered at home and put on your clothes and they felt so incredibly soft and cozy on slightly burned skin. I don’t know whether it was the event of entering my thirties or the additiion of children that began to sour my love of summer. I started out with great plans of all the water parks we could take the kids to, and all the idealic family fun we’d have, just like in the commercials. Maybe it was waiting in long lines that I began to really feel the heat. Maybe it was chasing cranky and unruly kids who didn’t act at all like the happy children in the commercials that did it to me. But somewhere in that decade, the heat became my nemesis. My concept of a water park became letting the kids jump off of lawn chairs into a kiddie pool in the backyard. I just kept the ice pops and Kool Aid flowing until it was dark and I had to let them in. Quantum physics postulates that there are more than the four dimensions we know. I propose that the fifth dimension is humidity. Humidity slows down time and uses more energy. For example, taking groceries out of the car. On a cool, dry day, the task is fast and easy. On a hot, humid day, it takes longer to unload the groceries because you have to stop and stand near an air conditioning vent for five minutes between each trip to the car, and when you’re through, you only have enough energy left to grab a cold soda, make it to your chair, and yell at the kids to come put these groceries away. On a cool, dry day, most women are agreeable to sex. But on a hot, humid day, she will look at you with laser beams in her eyes that sear the message, “If you touch me, I will kill you,” into your frontal lobe. In our forties and beyond, anything that requires going out in the heat has to be accomplished by 11AM. After that, we go into our air conditioned homes and bolt the door. We know that humidity sucks the life out of us, our only hope is air conditioning. People wonder, how did we cope before air conditioners? I say, look at the homicide rates before and after the invention of air conditioning. In Greek mythology, Prometheus took pity on man and gave him fire, for which we have been ever grateful. I think we should give equal statue and thanks to Carrier (Willliam Carrier) the one who gave us air conditioning.....

Bless All Creatures, Great and Small

Last Saturday morning on July 7th, Our Lady of the Isle held it’s annual Blessing of the Pets event. There was a very healthy turnout, all pets were welcome from all walks of faith, being a Catholic pet was not a prerequisite. There was even a Sugar Dog, a new kind of service dog for diabetics. Pets have the same status as people on Shelter Island. There’s no such thing as a stray dog here, because they can’t cross over on the ferries alone, so every dog belongs to somebody. My mother had to put down her 19 year old tuxedo cat a few days ago. I am convinced that one of the reasons for her longevity was years of eating fresh fish scraps, creamy clam chowder, sardines on cheese crackers, and other tasty bits from kitchen. It good to be a cat on Shelter Island. But I have to say, I think it’s even better to be a dog. Dogs have car privileges. Just take a tour through the IGA parking lot any morning and there’s dogs in cars all over. Over the years I have learned a lot about dog personalities just from their car behavior. Terriers are the best a guarding the car. They have an early warning system in the car. First they run to the window to watch you. If they decide you’re getting too close to the car, they make a low growl, and if you get any closer, they go berserk and bark at you, running the whole length of the car if they can. The fancy breeds, like maltese and shihtzu, yip and yelp as you go by the car. But they’re not guarding the car, they’re just irritated that you had the nerve to walk past THEIR car. I saw a beautiful pair of Corgies in a car once at the IGA. One barked a warning at me, and the other was guarding the other side of the car. I thought that was really smart, they had divided up their car guarding duties. Labradors are commonly found in the drivers seat, trying to work out a way to start the car. They never bark as you go by. They just look up at you with a look that says, “Yo, how you doin’ today?” They never bark. They are just too cool to get their tail in a knot over anything. Huskies and Samoyeds are the worst at guarding your car. They love everybody and anyone can walk by the car or talk to them. They are just lovers, not a mean bone in them. Saint Bernard's and Newfoundland dogs make terrific guards without trying. They take up the whole back seat and if you are stupid enough to try to steal the car they are in, they’ll just raise their big head and look at you as if if to say, “Don’t even THINK about it because if I have to get up off this comfortable seat, I’m eating you.” The dogs who I feel for most in the cars are the tiny ones, the Chihuahua’s, they just shake and try to hide under a sweater or tote bag. I feel guilty for upsetting them. To the tourists who visit in summer, I’d ask all of you to remember that, like I said, there are no stray dogs on the Island because every dog belongs to somebody. If you want to know who owns a particular dog, ask the kids in the area. Kids always know who owns which cats and dogs.

Wine and Clam Delivery Service

Okay, now I’m really getting worried. First, we’ve got a cricket tournament on August 18th (sicricket.com), then a petanquing tournament on July 11th (reservations@maisonblanchehotel) and now this, the Island’s first wine tasting room. According to the Shelter Island Reporter, Keith Bavaro, co-owner of a new restaurant named Salt and and Jamesport Vineyards have opened The Tasting Room, a wine tasting room directly accessible by boat. Oh yeah, it’s gonna be a great summer... “I think this is the best idea you ever had, George. We’ll pull the whaler right up, get the wine and go sell it to the anchor-outs on the bay. The Shelter Island Wine and Clam Delivery Service. Hey, you got a clean tee shirt I can borrow, George?” “Here Ronny. We want to look serious when we taste this wine. I got a black marker here somewhere. I can draw you a tie. Now, remember, you just swish it around in your mouth, make a face like you’re thinking about how it tastes, then you’re supposed to spit it out in some kind of spittoon they provide.” “What’s the purpose of spitting out perfectly good wine, George? That doesn’t make any sense. We’re sampling it for our customers.” “I don’t know why Ronny, just swish and spit. Just do it. It’s the way it’s done. I guess that’s why it’s called wine tasting and not wine drinking. They don’t want people boating in, getting wasted, then boating out.” “Right, that never happens on the Island.....” “Okay, Ronny, let me do the talking to the owner and make the deal. How many clams we got?” “About two and a half bushels. Let’s save one bushel for the anchor-outs and trade the rest, George.” “Okay, so we’re trading six pecks. I’m thinking we should get at least twelve bottles of something.” one hour later... “Fifteen bottles, that’s good, Georgie, me boy-o. The owner’s a nice guy too. “Yea, he was happy to get fresh clams for his restaurant. It was a good trade.” “George, you remember how to pronounce any of the names of these wines?” “Not really, but probably neither can the people we’re selling it too. Let’s open the most unpronounceable one and have it for breakfast.” “It’s only 10 A.M., George, you really think we should have wine now?” “Yea, you’re right, too early for wine. Pass me a beer. Lets go over to that nice boat over there, looks like she sleeps six. I see people moving around.” twenty minutes later... “Okay sir, that’s one fourth bushel of clams and two Pinot’s and a Merlot. Eighty ought to cover it. I’m throwing you the rope to the bucket. There’s a wallet in the bottom for the money. .... yea, sure, we can come by tomorrow. No, don’t give us your cell phone number, we don’t carry phones in the boat, they don’t like salt air and we always seem to lose them overboard or hit them with bait or something. We’ll just pull up sometime between ten and noon. If you don’t want us to come, hang a bra over the side, that works good as a Do Not Disturb sign.” Yup, it’s looking to be a great summer for the whole Island. Now, could somebody PLEASE open a theater here?

A Game By Any Other Name... Petanque

On July 11th La Maison Blanche (The White House), will host their second annual Petanque Tournament. All proceeds will be donated to the Lions Club which benefits everybody. Call 749-1633 or email reservations@maisonblanchehotel for more information. I had to look up Petanque since I have never heard of it. It seems to be akin to the popular Italian game bocce ball, but with a French accent. First we have the British people here hosting a cricket match on August 18th ( see sicricket.com) and now this foreign import, Petanque. What is going on here? And if we have these two foreign games, since we have plenty of Italian Americans here - why don’t we have bocce ball? We have a lot of Irish Americans too, but it’s no longer politically correct to view drinking and story telling as legitimate sports. One nice thing about Petanque is that, like bocce ball, it seems to require more skill than strength, so women can easily participate also. But there is a very big hidden danger to this game. La Maison Blanche (which was voted Best East End Hotel and Best French Cuisine in Dan’s Papers), is serving a variety of french delicacies, like charcuterie and cheese plates, croque monsieur sandwiches and moules marinieres. I don’t know what any of those things are, but I gained five pounds just trying to spell them. La Maison is calling it their Bastille Day menu. Bastille Day is the French independence day on July 15th. I think they are calling it that as a reminder to the participants to not go anywhere near a scale for three days after the feast or you’ll want to chop off your own head! Of course, you could argue the opposite, that playing petanque allows you to burn off the calories, but whose going to exercise after eating all those delicious things? I don’t know what kind of equipment is needed to play petanque since you’re just tossing hollow metal balls, what danger could there be in that? I don’t think a helmet or shin guards would be needed, but is it a french game....I suggest a beret, a mustache and a cigarette. If you can cop an attitude, that would be helpful too. Since this is a french game, no doubt it has bonus points for looking cool while you’re petanqing. I have to say that I’m glad this game isn’t known to the Irish. You can’t trust us with anything we can throw. If we had access to metal balls, a head injury would be a right of passage. There is a game in Ireland called Gaelic Football, it’s a unique Irish version of soccer. I don’t know what makes it unique, probably no penalty for fighting. One suggestion I would make to La Maison is to award a trophy. Maybe a gold painted petanque ball with a croissant sitting on top. Who wouldn’t want to put that on their mantle? And they could “islandize” it further by having a crab holding the petanque ball. Or maybe a little Statue of Liberty with her arm around the Eiffel Tower, and a holding a petanque ball in her other hand. Oh, the possibilities are endless....

TAXI!

Taxi ! The Peconic Bay Water Jitney starts service on June 30th for a 100 day trial. It will carry 53 passengers (no cars) to and from Greenport and Sag Harbor. It will be very interesting to see how this works into East End life. On the good side, it will be incredibly convenient for a lot of people, not just shoppers, but residents too. It will be a blessing to many Islanders who have relatives - and I speak here from years of personal experience - on both forks who call you for a ride across the Island from one ferry to the other. It will be a nice 40 minute ride, and a peaceful one for those who can turn off their cell phones and iPads. Actually, I’d recommend that because salt spray can do terrible damage to electronics. It will be great for people who are really late with an assignment. You can say you left your iPad on the ferry, or dropped it in the water when somebody shoved you. It sure beats the heck out of “the dog ate my homework”, it’s a excellent low tech excuse for a high tech problem. The water taxi will also reduce schleppage. Schleppage is the amount of bags and bundles you have to schlep with you when going from one fork to another. With the water taxi, you schlep everything once when you get on the boat and once more when you get off the boat. No more dragging stuff on and off one ferry, finding a cross Island ride, and then schlepping everything on and off another ferry. One nice thing about it being an all passenger ferry is that if something happens to the motor, they can put 26 people on each side of the ferry with long oars to row her the rest of the way. And what about the extra person you ask? That’s the one who beats a barrel with his hands to pace the rowers, just like in Ben-Hur. I’m not sure about the name, Peconic Bay Water Jitney, it’s too long. It could be called the Sag Port Jitney. How about the East Ender Tender? Personally, I like the Saggy Green Express. On the bad side of this new taxi, it will cut into the ferries revenues and I hate for that to happen. But there might be a silver lining there for the crews. They work so hard in the hot summer sun and constantly have to remind tourists who stand in front of the big red lines near the gates that read “DO NOT STAND IN FRONT OF THIS LINE”, to not stand in front of that line. It’s also not okay to let the the kids stand by the gates so they can see the churning water. We lose five or six tourists kids a year that way and it’s such a nuisance when they go overboard. The ferry has to turn around and get them and that makes everybody else on the ferry late. I also feel bad for the shop owners who will lose some of that cross Island business. On the other hand, if the Saggy Green Express is a hit, maybe we could work a deal where they make one port of call somewhere on the Island so people could get off and shop or have lunch. After which, they might get back on the water taxi, or take one of the Island ferries. Our ferries could offer incentives, like letting people ride in tubes off the back of the boat - I always thought that would be fun.

Why did the turtle cross the road?

There was a nice letter in last week’s Shelter Island Reporter, reminding people to be on the lookout for turtles crossing the roads. I know to some people that seems like a silly thing to remind people of, but I love turtles and I too, want people to watch out for them. Spring is the time of year when animals get together and make more animals. If you pause to think about it, this must be much harder for turtles than other animals. First of all, they have to find another turtle. They don’t live in herds like deer, so I have no idea how they find each other. Do they cross the roads because they’re looking for love in all the wrong places? Why is it that turtles even bother to cross the roads? The grass isn’t greener on the other side, so why take the risk? I have a theory that since it’s usually the male of the species that try to attract the female, that it’s only male turtles that try to cross the roads. I think it’s their way of being macho and showing off their ability to cause gigantic metal machines to screech to a halt and cause giants to get out of the machines and carry them to the other side of the road. They probably carve a notch in their shell for each giant machine they stop. And if they get hit by one of the big machines, and have the luck not to die, they usually have a nice big scrape on them to show off to the females, a war wound they can get “street cred” for. When my son, Jacob, was younger, he would scan the road for turtles as I drove. If he spotted one, we would pull over and get the turtle. I carried red nail enamel in my van and Jacob would give the turtle a name and I’d paint it on his shell. This way, we were able to track turtle movements all over the Island and uncover who was crossing the road too much. His policy was, if we caught the same turtle crossing a road three times, he was eligible for Jacob’s relocation program to Mashomack Preserve. We actually caught two turtles twice who were crossing the road, but on the second offense, Jacob would relocate them further into the woods from the side of the road and let them off with a warning. That seemed to work since we never had to take anyone to the Preserve. Of course the most annoying thing is when you stop to help a turtle across the road, and as soon as you put them down, they head back into the road in the direction they just came from. Why do they do that? Is it that these are the criminal turtles who have been sentenced to cross a road, allowing the gods of Chevy and Ford to decide their fate? Are these the daredevil turtles who are addicted to the adrenaline rush of hearing tires roar past them? Have they had enough of turtle life and they’re just trying to end it all? Are they trying to run a turtle 20 foot across the road race to benefit a turtle charity? And because of the intrinsic danger, they only have one racer at a time? The turtle - a conundrum in a hard shell, but still an Island pal.

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.

My Redneck Hampton Vacation

I know it’s traditional at this time to write about all the New Year’s resolutions I won’t be keeping, but something else has come up that is really more important.

The CMT channel has a new “get rich hick” show that begins with a batch of very newly rich (the ink isn’t even dry on the money) hicks coming to, or rather invading, the Hamptons. The previews look like a bunch of unruly three year old's running NASA for a week. Their behavior is so crass, it makes me looks like a Duchess. I don’t know how they got passes to come the East End, but this has to be the one and only trip for the single toothed, two digit I.Q.ed people who still think flaming flatulence is funny.

I’m not, and never will be rich. I’m just a regular gal. Most people who are rich, got there via inheritance or their own hard work. And with a few exceptions, they appreciate their good fortune and are extremely nice and well mannered people. We have plenty of rich people on the Island and we sort of corral them into homes on Shelter Island Heights and on Ram Island. This is for their own protection. If something too shocking happens, we can block access to these areas easily. We need them for employment and their very generous support of the Island causes. Sometimes I get envious of how easy their lives look, but then I remember that money only creates options, not happiness. Rich people get lonely, depressed, and just as scared as the rest of us.

The thought of the Island being over run by rednecks from beyond the sticks is horrifying. We’d have to secure all the rich so they didn’t have seizures, while the rest of us held them off.

The regular guys on this Island could go toe to toe with anything that could be dredged up from any bayou. They wrestle alligators. Big deal, we catch Great Whites off of Montauk that eat alligators for chicken fingers. They like to show off their big biceps in ragged sleeveless shirts. We got guys who work jerk rakes all day in the bay, they crack walnuts in the crook of their elbows. The hicks love their banged up trucks. We live in salt air, our trucks aren’t just banged up, what ever rusts and falls off is replaced with plywood - which does not rust - and as long as it drives, it lives. The hicks think it’s a big deal to dip tobacco. They thrill to grossing people out when they spit the chew. Most of the people on this Island can eat clams and oysters on the half shell, so don't tell me who can put worse things in their mouths.

I feel bad for the nice Hamptonites who will be made to look like snobby fools on this upcoming show. I just want to tell all of them, it’s not you. You were probably doing your job and you couldn’t possibly be prepared for the invasion of the Cro-Magnon people. It’s all right. We all love you anyway. However, just to be safe, you might want to keep a crowbar handy in your desk from now on. This way, if they come again, you can hit them and drive them off, or hit yourself in the head so you can understand them.