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.”