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?

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.

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.

Merry Christmas to All!

I’m a real night owl, I hate to get up in the morning. But at the same time, I love the very early morning. Once I get out of bed and get started, I love the quiet and serenity of it. Being the first one up, or living alone, either way every morning has a balance of mystery (What will happen TODAY?) and anxiety (What will HAPPEN today?) in it.

I loved my childhood mornings in summer, on the days when we were going out on my grandfather’s clamboat. Our big Buick would park by the mooring and so many people, babies, fishing gear, picnic baskets and towels would tumble out of the car that if we had been in an accident, the cops would be looking for the other car.

I’d lay my towel on the square bow of the boat and lay down as the boat slowly chugged out. My mother would put a towel over my legs and give me a warm, buttered Kaiser roll, fresh from Fritzi’s Bakery. A simple roll, the hot sun on my back, the smell and feel of cool salt spray on my face, the sound of the engine and water slapping the bow. I had not a care in the world beyond hoping I’d get one of the blow up rafts when we got to the big shallow spot. The problem with happiness is that you don’t know it when you’re in it, it’s something you remember.

I remember the hundreds of morning when my kids were small. I got up at six a.m. to insure I had some alone time to dress, make-up, and have coffee. I’d stand outside for a minute to check the weather. It was that wonderful hour when the birds were starting up, you could smell the last of the night air wafting up from the ground. After I ditched the kids at school, I’d grab a coffee from Pat & Steve’s and go down to Wades Beach. I’d just open my windows and let the ocean breeze blow through the car and my brain and cool off my coffee. I was always a tiny bit sad when it was time to leave and start the day.

Then there’s Christmas morning. We never get to put up all the decorations we wanted. We didn’t get all the gifts for everyone that we would have liked to get. We never seem to be ready for Christmas, but when it comes, the morning is always special. If other people are in the house, I get up early so I can have alone time while the Nutcracker Suite plays softly in the background as I sit by the tree. I feel happy just looking into the pretty lights.

I think the magic of Christmas is right there, in those quietest moments, hiding in the spaces between the lights and in the beats between the tip toes of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

Three Legged Squirrels

My mother is obsessing that Christmas has come too soon and there’s not enough money to get all the gifts and decorations she wants for the holiday. I’m trying to remind her, we never remember the gifts, we only remember the company; drinking eggnog, listening to the Bing Crosby records, and admiring our tree. We’re all flush or broke at Christmas time. We all want the Christmas’s we remember as children. It was all magical then. It’s the encroachment of age that steals it from us. But then we find the magic again through the children. You’re always as happy as you decide to be.

I had a really great Christmas several years ago. I was renting a house on Worthy Way that winter. It had a sliding glass door and the woods began just a few feet from the deck. I love birds and I always threw out generous handfuls of seed on the deck. I must have hit upon a Cardinal haven, because I never saw so many Cardinals. I counted thirteen pairs and four single males. I spent so much time watching them, I got so I could distinguish several individuals. They were surprisingly aggressive and if I didn’t have that seed out by 7:30AM, they started pecking at the glass door. I put out suet balls and lots of treats and they’d hang around on the railings of the deck talking to each other. They were so beautiful hopping around an occasional carpet of fresh snow. It made my Christmas and all it cost me was birdseed.

My most favorite Christmas was when I was six. We were living with my grandparents in Sayville at the time. I was the only grandchild, except for my little three year old brother, followed rapidly by three more brothers and twelve first cousins. But I was there first, green eyed, reddish haired and insufferably cute.

My grandfather was a carpenter in the winter and clammer in the summer. He had a true love of animals. He found an injured three legged squirrel and nursed him back to health in his cellar. He named him Petey and built him a sort of squirrel condo in the huge maple tree in the backyard. My grandfather built a bench all around the tree. He built Petey a tiny ladder. He made wooden toys for us, so he really knew how to build ladders for disabled squirrels. The rungs were tiny dowels perfectly fitted into slats and all varnished. It went from the bench to the first giant limb, about five feet up. I wasn’t allowed to touch the ladder or try to pet Petey. My grandfather painted red lines on either side of the ladder that I was to stay behind. However, I was allowed to put saltines with peanut butter in the forbidden zones and watch Petey climb down and eat. He was missing a back leg, so he sat funny. I thought he was just wonderful.

I didn’t see Petey in the winter, because cold makes him sleepy, however, my grandfather assured me he wouldn’t miss Christmas. Taking him to Mass with us in my grandmother’s purse on Christmas seemed to be out of the question, but I could make him a little tree and leave him some treats. I make a very extravagant noodle tree, painted gold and full of red glitter. It was a true work of art. My grandfather tacked it up high on the limb so Petey could see it from his nest. I left him a little plate of peanut butter cookies and some stuffed dates.

My grandparents assured me that, thanks to me, Petey was going to have a wonderful Christmas. It’s not like every squirrel on Long Island could see a genuine golden noodle tree from his nest. And so few squirrels got cookies and stuffed dates delivered to the door at that time. It’s not like today when they could just order from the internet.

That Christmas I got a card from Petey. It came in the mail, so it was official. He thanked me for the tree and all the treats. Furthermore, he planned to come out on St. Patrick’s Day, if there wasn’t any snow. I looked at that card for a long time. Finally, I asked my grandfather how Petey could have written that card. Nobody was going to fool me, I was sure Petey didn’t know any letters. My grandfather explained that Petey knew all his letters, he just had to ask my grandfather to make him a very small pencil...

Thanks for Grandchildren

Dear God,

As the holidays are upon us, I realize I have much to thank you for. Grandchildren are supposed to be a blessing and although they throw your “cool” factor right out the window, they teach us many things. I refer specifically to the grandchild you sent me three years ago. A lovely little girl, who is obviously influenced by one or more demons.

Thank you for her strawberry curls, cornflower blue eyes, and cherubic face, it has reminded me just how deceiving looks can be. Please do not make me do time in purgatory for when she drew all over the aforementioned cherubic face with permanent blue marker. I was on the phone at the time and didn’t know she had figured out the drawer locks - I can’t figure out the drawer locks.

Thank you for using her to teach how kind men can truly be. In particular the ferry man who looked into my car window, saw a child with a half blue face, probably assumed she was an extra for Braveheart Two, and accepted the ferry ticket with flowers drawn on it and waited until he was three cars back to start laughing at me.

Thank you for granting her the gift of artistry that runs in our family. Like my mother, my Uncle Bill, my brother, and my daughter, she lives to express herself with color. I now understand how the petroglyphs in France came to be. As I regard my crayola covered walls, I imagine that in pre-historic France some grandmother watched a grandchild destroying her freshly carved cave walls with ocher drawings, shrugged her shoulders and said, “If he starts painting in the dining hall, we’re eating him.”

Thank you for using her to reach me the how fleeting the joy of the holidays can me as she removes in seconds, decorations that took hours to put up.

Thank for using her to remind me to remove the locks from the inside of the bathroom doors. And how to stave off panic when I hear the toilet being flushed over and over on the other side of the locked door, followed by the music of her hysterical laughter.

Thank you for the little fenced playground by the school where she can run out her endless energy without running into the road and scaring people. Thank you for the company of the other grandmothers who sit on the bench and together we smile at the children as we curse under our breath. Thank you especially for the grandmother I met who was watching three of her seven grandchildren that day and shared her strawberry daiquiri mix with me and the other grandmother there. We took a slug from the Cinderella thermos and passed it down. It seemed a bit early in the day, but as she pointed out, it’s 10 A.M. somewhere.

I admit that before she was born, I was really having trouble with empty nest syndrome. Thank you for teaching me that the cure is often worse than the disease. And I know that it is said that God doesn’t send us more than we can handle, but I’d like to remind you that there are exceptions to every rule. And I’d also like help finding the rest of my great-grandmother's pearls so I can reassemble my only real pearl necklace, broken by either a small curly haired liar or the invisible man.

To close on a positive note, I do love her, which further confirms that love makes us mentally ill.

Frankly, Scallop, I Don’t Give A Clam

The Shelter Island Reporter recently described a disappointing scallop harvest this year, as opposed to a huge harvest last year, the biggest since the brown tide hit the East End in the mid eighties. The truth is, it would have been another banner year I suppose, if I had known the Island was going to keep such close track of these things.

“Step out of the car, please, Ms. Flynn.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything.”
“Breath into this breathalyzer, please.”
“What? It’s 4 P.M. and I don’t drink anyway. What are you testing me for?”
“You blew a .24 for salt water Ms. Flynn. How many scallops have you eaten today?”
“What? I don’t know, breakfast, lunch, why are you asking?”
“We’re going to conduct a road side test for bi-valve consumption. Walk this line with your eyes closed while balancing this test scallop on your head.”
“This is stupid. Since when did scallop consumption become a problem?”
“Since you and a handful of other people decided that since we had such a good year last year, it was open season for scallops. It’s bad enough the way you single handedly decimate the clambeds here, Ms. Flynn, you don’t need to consume every available scallop we have. And that’s the third time you’ve dropped the scallop off your head. You’re listing to one side, your pitch and yar is clearly impaired. You’re being cited for being Shellfish Selfish. Please open your car.”
“Shellfish Selfish? That covers half the people on the Island!”
“Can you explain this? There’s a buschel of clams and a half buschel of scallops in your trunk, four packs of Nathan’s hotdogs, soft drinks and six bags of chips? What do you call this, Ms. Flynn?”
“I’m calling it a good time. I’m going to a barbecue at the McGayhey’s.”
“They eat a lost of shellfish, do they? The McGayhey’s? Are they bringing clams and scallops too?”
“Oh, ah.....no, they never touch the stuff. This is just my supply. I’ll be the only scallop trollop there.”
“This bumper sticker, “Will Trade Sex for Lobster”, doesn’t help you, Ms. Flynn, please have that removed before any other women get any ideas.”
“Hell, I know women that will trade sex for mussels.”
“Well, so do we and we know where that leads. Mussels are a gateway shellfish. A little butter, a little garlic and soon they’re craving clams, then scallops, and look where that has gotten you.”
“Please sign here, it is not an admission of guilt, just an admission that you were caught dead to rights and you are aware that we will be raking your over the clambeds of justice very soon.”

The Age of Never

The Aztec’s called it, “the age of never”. Reaching a time in life when everything seems to take more effort. That hill was never so high, the walk to town was never so long, the days were never so long, the years were never so short.

I figure for most of us, the age of never hits around 45. I recall in my early twenties when I stayed out till 4a.m., came home, napped, showered and was at the hospital by 7a.m. shift. I couldn’t do that today whether you offered me a million dollars or held a gun to my head. I have reached the age of never. Moreover I have reached an age the Aztecs never even thought of, I call it, the age of “are you outta your mind?”

You’re still in the age of never if you can be out till ten at night, get to bed by midnight, and still get up at six. You have crossed over into the age of Are you outta your mind? if you have to take a nap to be out till ten p.m., get in bed by midnight, but can’t get to sleep until three a.m. because you made the mistake of thinking about money when you went to bed.

Once you’ve reached the age of Are you outta your mind? you want to be home and in your jammies by six p.m., no matter what is offered. You’ve been to enough fun or boring parties in your life, you’ve had enough hangovers, you’ve awakened with enough strange people to know you’ve experinced all that the night life has to offer and you can now revisit memories and get the same emotional highs without the risk of spending the rent money, getting lost on the way home, or worrying about STD’s.

The biggest marker to tell you when you’ve reached the age of Are you outta your mind? is the realizing the danger of sitting down at the wrong time.

If you are planning to go out to an event one evening and you and your hubby nap in the afternoon to store up energy for the evening, you have the best chance of making it out the door if you remember the cardinal rule - once the ‘getting ready’ process has begun, do not sit down FOR ANY REASON!

If one of you is ready ahead of time, usually the man, remind him to stand by the door and nag you to hurry up, or get in the car and honk the horn, anything but sit down.

However, if you are one of those women who can easily commit to the event when first asked, but lose your momentum, and then you’d rather just send a check for the cause, or wait for the movie on dvd, then setting your husband up to sit down to wait for you is a perfect out. As soon as you hear him call out, “I’m just gonna check the scores,” and you hear SportsCenter come on, you are home free.

Walk into the living room in the middle of SportsCenter reviewing highlights of something. Sit down quietly next to him so that he knows that you are ready, but you will wait until he sees the highlights, and then, ever so slowly, tilt your head back, slowly close your eyes. He’ll glance over and think he can watch a little more sports while you rest your eyes. Now let your body relax and don’t notice he has put the couch throw over your legs and is trying to sneak a pillow behind your head. He never wanted to go anywhere in the first place. But you insisted, and you couldn’t change your mind after he gassed up and cleaned out the car. So all you had to do to get out of what would have been an exhausting night, is to have one of you sit down. Before you know it, you’re the best dressed couple on Shelter Island sleeping through CSI: Miami.

Flipping the Bird

I was cleaning my kitchen one morning and since it was nice out and probably one of the few warm mornings we have left this year, I opened the window for the fresh air. It was very quite outside, I didn’t hear any birds singing. I think most of them have already packed and started south for the winter. I sat down with a cup of coffee and popped in one of my favorite quiet time CDs called Birdworks. It’s a CD of bird calls recorded on Shelter Island by a local naturalist named Tom Damiani. It plays and then identifies bird calls. But the real treasure for me is that the first twenty minutes is just a recording of local bird and forest sounds. It’s very peaceful and serene, like an auditory Valium.

Suddenly a wren appeared on my windowsill. I’m assuming it was a wren because it looked like a small robin, but it was too big to be a finch. So, it was either a wren or a runt robin. It flew in the kitchen and called out. I realized it was responding to the bird calls on the CD.

Now I was in a real dilemma. I wanted the bird to fly out, but I didn’t want to scare it. So, I remained still as I thought out my options. I could move my hand and click off the CD player, but the loud click would surely scare the bird and although he might fly out the window, he might fly deeper into the house. If that happened, I’d have to scare him half to death trying to flush him out the window by flapping a pillow case. While I was debating to move or not to move, he flew over my head and into the laundry room. He was now perched on a box of Tide and I was between him and the window.

I decided he probably couldn’t see my hand from his perch and so I moved my hand slowly and at least managed to slowly turn down the CD volume. I had a good theory; if he no longer heard bird calls in the house, he would conclude that he was alone and fly out the window to join his friends. It was a good plan.

It was a good plan until I nearly had the volume all the way down and he began chirping. Sounded like normal bird chirping to me. Didn’t sound like he was calling anyone to inform them that he’d found a really warm place to stay for the winter, until another wren came through the window and landed on the sink faucet. At this point I froze in place trying to get my left brain and right brain to rub together inside my skull until there was a spark to get my neurons firing and a brilliant solution would present itself. It really would have helped if Bird One had not flown into my air space until I had finished my first cup of coffee.

Bird One on the Tide box and Bird Two on the faucet by the open window, began a conversation. My bird speak is rusty, but Bird Two was doing fairly well, he convinced Bird One to fly onto the top of the curtain next to the table where I sat and in direct line with the open window. But then Bird One then flew back to the laundry room and Bird Two followed to see what was the big deal about folded and unfolded towels. At that moment I got the mental image of bird droppings on my towels and decided, the heck with this, I’m gonna grab a broom and shush them out even if it means they have little bird heart attacks.

But just at that moment Bird Two flew back to the faucet and Bird One followed a few seconds later. The final debate ensued on my faucet and Bird Two pecked Bird One, making it very clear who wore the flight feathers in that family and they hopped to the windowsill. There was a bit more conversation, it sounded like an argument over directions, something that we can all recognize regardless of species, and off they went. I closed the window and taped a warning over my Birdworks CD, “Do Not Play Near Open Windows”, because one never know who’s going to land on one’s faucet, do one?

Raccoons in the Moonlight

Fall is here and soon the food in the woods will get scarce, the animals will start getting creative in their foraging techniques. Raccoons in particular, those cutsie, little critters. We start off loving them. They’re so cute with their little masked faces and their little articulate hands. But then, slowly, they reveal their vile nature...

The first year you live here, matter of fact, the first week (actually the first day now that I recall it) you learn to put the lid on tight on your garbage cans because the raccoons here can pop a garbage can lid like the flic of a bic. The second week you’re here, you are putting bungee cords over the lids, getting your hands caught under these cords and grinding your knuckles against the lid to free your now crippled little hands. The raccoons are slightly less cute now.

By the end of the first month, you are using bungee cords and cinder blocks on top of the lids. You’re getting a complete bicep workout wrangling these cinder blocks. After you add cinder blocks, you feel comfortable that the problem is solved - how can they lift a cinder block? That confidence lasts till morning when you find the garbage can on its side, cracked cinder block next to it, with the lid - still with the bungee cord - pushed onto the side of the can and the contents all over the yard. And though you don’t verbalize it, because you are an animal lover, you think quietly to yourself, “I’m gonna kill these little bastards.”

At this juncture, you consult with someone who has lived on the Island longer than you, and they tell you to build a little shed for your garbage cans and so you do. At the three month mark, your garbage cans have their own little house, there’s a wooden latch, surely your garbage is safe now. But noooo. Why? Because you underestimated the fine dexterity of those cute little hands. They can and have worked out how to open a flip latch or slide latch, and they pass the information onto their young to insure food supplies for the future. You become convinced that raccoons are the spawn of Satan. An infestation of raccoons must be a sign of the Apocolypse. One of the four horseman is probably riding a big raccoon.

By the sixth month you’re here, you are determined to win this battle. You buy big cat poop from the pet store. Zoos sell lion and tiger poop to pet stores and it is alleged to be very effective at driving off animals like deer and raccoons. One whiff of predator poop and poof! They’re gone. Now you padlock the latch. Surely they can’t open a combination lock or pick a key lock. You surround the shed with predator poop and your neighbors complain about some awful smell coming from your property...

Now you learn that raccoons are very strong and can tear corners off of plywood and wiggle into your shed. By month eight you’re sitting on the porch guarding your garbage with a BB gun.

Ultimately, we accept defeat and put our garbage in big town bags and keep it in the trunks of our cars. On Star is developing a special scanner just for Shelter Island that alerts the car owner of trunk invasion and turns on an electric grid to fry the intruder. Cook ‘em, Dano.

Ferries on Strike!

And so concludes another tourist season on Shelter Island. Things are slowing down and getting back to normal. The ferry lines have shrunk, the ferry crews are more relaxed and have time to talk to the passengers for a minute. When I see the aggravation they endure through the summer, it amazes me that no homicides occur. I’ve seen off islanders cut to the front of the lines on both the North and South Ferries, coming and going. I’ve seen drivers get out of their cars and argue with the staff. I’ve heard people cursing at them. I’ve seen angry drivers deliberately drive too close to the staff to scare them as they exit the ferry. Overall, people are nice, generally cooperative and patient on the ferry. But there’s always that percentage of impatient, entitled people, who fail to realize the power of the ferry crews. I mean, what if they got sick of it all?

“Bob, did you hear? I was just at Fedi’s. The ferry crews have taken the boats hostage. They nailed a list of demands on the Town Hall door.”
“Holy moley, Joe! What do they want?”
“They want a pay raise, plus combat pay during tourist season.”
“Everybody wants a pay raise...that’s not so extreme.”
“They want toilets on the boats.”
“They don’t have toilets on the boats?”
“Not all of them. Only the newer ones. You never noticed how the staff sometimes run to the offices?”
“I just never knew, Joe. I think that’s a reasonable demand though.”
“They want staff booths that are heated in the winter and air conditioned in the summer.”
”Again, what’s wrong with that?”
“I know, not too bad so far, but then they start walking the edge. The North Ferry wants a jacuzi and the South Ferry wants a wet bar.”
“Why a jacuzi?”
“It takes longer to cross on the North Ferry than the South, so they figure at least one crew member could take a break to relax in the jacuzi on the crossing.”
“Why do the South Ferry guys want a wet bar?”
“Cause they don’t have time to get relaxed in a jacuzi, they have to relax faster, and liquer is quicker. And maybe they’d sell the passenger in the car a beer.”
“Well, that’s a stretch. I don’t know if they’ll get that stuff through.”
“Both crews want microwave ovens on the boats.”
“What? They can’t have a nuker?”
“No, Bob, it interferes with the navigation system.”
“What’s to navigate? You can see the Sag Harbor and Greenport docks from Shelter Island.”
“Hey, don’t hit the messenger. But there’s one demand I do like. They want to have a mini casino in the walk-on passenger areas. Wouldn’t that be great? Play a few hands of poker on the way home. Your wife would never know.”
“Well, all in all, these demands aren’t completely unreasonable, Joe.....”
“Sound better everytime I hear them...”

Tie a Pink Ribbon around this...

My friend Alice and I, both in our fifties, went to the Breast Cancer Support event at Crescent Beach last week. Overall it was an excellent event and kudos to the planners. It’s easy to overlook the time and logistical planning required to pull off a successful event.

However, there were a few booths run by some local men that I think were a little suspect...

“Alice, what’s that tent over there? It says Free Shiatsu Breast Exams.”
“Never heard of it, must be a new kind of exam. What’s shiatsu?”
“I thought it was a massage technique, but maybe there’s a component that applies to breast health. A lot of women are getting in line for it.”
“I’ll go check it out, Sally.”
“Okay, I’ll get us some food and meet you back here.”

“Gee, Alice, you look so happy. How can you be happy after a breast exam? They always hurt me.”
“ I know, me too.”
“ They always flatten your breast until your nipple is about to pop off, and then the tech says, “Hold still,” while she steps behind the machine to hit the x-ray button. Where the hell does she think I’m going to go with my tit in a vice?”
“They don’t use vices with this new method. There’s two little areas separated by curtains. They have scented candles going. Both of the examiners are nice men. They never mentioned football or fishing. Had cleans hands and nails and smelled of Old Spice.”
“You said they’re local?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them around in winter. Nice looking, our age too.”
“I think I’ll give this Shiatsu Boob Exam a try.”

“How was your exam, Sally?”
“Amazing! I took off my top. The guy didn’t flinch or gag. He searched every inch of my boobs for anything suspicious and I’m good to go.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to be really sure. Maybe we should go again.”
”I was thinking the same thing, Alice. Can’t be too sure.”
“The line keeps getting longer. And all the women seem to be our age.”
“Who says older people are closed off to new ideas?”
“Yeah, and after we get another breast exam, we can go to the other new booth.”
“What other new booth?”
“The Nine Point Inspection booth.”
“Dare I ask what they inspect?”
“I don’t know, Sal, but they have a longer line than the Shiatsu booth. And after the inspection, all the women sit in lounge chairs behind the booth with a drink and a cigarette.”
“Well, I’ve never smoked or drank in my life, Alice, but I heard it’s never too late to start, and after this, lets go get pink ribbon tatoos.....”
“You always live on the edge, don’t you, Sally?”
“Tell me about it. I still put real butter on my toast......”

Where Is Your Mother?

overheard in the Police Station on Shelter Island....

“How many does that make now, Greg?”
“Thirty Seven. Thirty seven Island mothers in hiding till school opens. Their kids are all running wild all over the place. The Dads are semi-comatose walking around their houses babbling, “Where is your mother?” all day. It’s a mess.”
“Any chance they got off Island, Bob?”
“None. We’ve had guys at the ferries checking all the off bound cars for the past two weeks. All the private boats are accounted for and we’ve published a warning that any Islander caught aiding and abetting an Island mother to escape will have to take care of her children till school opens.”
“Kinda stiff punishment ain’t it?”
“Yeah, but we gotta take a tough stand. This is getting worse every year. Island kids don’t have a big fancy Youth Center, no movies, no book & cafe stores, they have absolutely nothing to do and if they get off Island to have any fun, they have to make the last ferry at 2AM or they sleep in the parking lots till 6AM. It’s tough being a teen on Shelter Island. They only fun they have is torturing their bratty younger siblings and their parents. Parents do the best they can. Some turn to alcohol and drugs, some hide in the woods till Labor Day.”
“Hey, Bob - did anyone think of checking the deer blinds?”
“Yeah. We think lots of them are there, but we can’t seem to catch them. We used hundreds of melted down Hersey’s bars to make chocolate licks to draw them out, but they just disappeared. We chained a couple of young handsome tourists to some trees with alarm bells on them, but in the morning, all that was left of them was their shoelaces and a lovely thank you note. We think we may have thought up one idea that might work, but it’s very expensive.”
“What ever it is, we should do it. I’m tired of corralling these kids all the time.”
“All the Island husbands had a meeting to discuss what women like more than chocolate and sex. Suddenly, like the gleam of the sun off of a fishing line that just went tight, it dawned on everybody. Shopping. Labor Days Sales.....shopping. It’s our only hope. The Town Board is debating approving a $500 Tanger Mall debit card, plus bus transportation, plus package carrying, and purse holding assistance, for every mother who turns herself in. We’re ready to shower the Island with fliers. The biggest surprise - even the kids are willing to pitch in. They’re all so sick of foraging for food in empty cupboards, they’re offering to clean the houses if the mothers come back. How’s that for a kicker?”
“Holy moly! I never thought I’d hear that. We’re not going to punish the moms at all - you know, for abandoning their posts?”
“Not necessary, returning home to take care of their bratty, unappreciative, smart ass kids is punishment enough for anyone.”

Greenport Gertie, World Famous Mermaid...

"Long Island Press; By Timothy Bolger on August 22nd, 2011
A 23-year-old man was arrested for drunken boating after he crashed his vessel into a jetty in Greenport Harbor over the weekend, Southold Town Police said.
Herbert Israel was navigating his boat eastbound when the crash occurred with three passengers aboard at 2:41 a.m. Saturday, police said."

Greenport Gertie Strikes Again!
It’s all in the story.....

“Now, Joe, we just gotta get our story right and really sell it to the authorities when they get here.”
“I dunno, Pete. Maybe we should just confess and say we’re tanked.”
“What ? And deny the cops the pleasure of hearing creative excuses and the challenge of punching holes in our story? They live for those challenges. And we’re taxpayers, we gotta make them work for their money.”
“Well, hell, Captain Morgan and I agree. You logic is unpacable, I mean deflatable, ineffible, well, we’ll just say it’s clear.”
“We need a big story, Joe. Man, we are way up on this friggin’ jetty. How about we were swerving to avoid the ferry?”
“Nope, Captain Morgan sez the ferry moves too slow, besides, they don’t run after 1:30 a.m.”
“What about the Greenport mermaid, Joe? They got a little mermaid tied to the dock at the Greenport ferry, maybe we could say that we saw her glow and come to life and flop off the dock....you know....X-Files stuff. And we were trying to catch her so that....so that...”
“So that she’d grant us three wishes. You get wishes with a mermaid right?”
“No, Joe, I think you get wishes with a genie. But hey, it’s our mermaid.....she could be Greenport Gertie, the Wishing Mermaid of ancient fishing lore...get it, fishing lore, fishing lure...it’s one of them double nintndo’s.”
“Captain Morgan says, Yes! He loves him a mermaid. Greenport Gertie it is. But what does she do?”
“She’s a siren. From the story of Ulysseus, or Ossissfuss, you know, that Greek story, the Illiyak and the Odessaurus....you know....and the sirens are beautiful women who scream at sailors so loud they can’t stand it and crash their boats on the reef jus to get away from them screaming banshees.”
“Banshees is Irish, Pete. But the Captain says, she can be a screaming Irish mermaid. You know how all mermaids wear shell for a bra? Gertie has big shamrocks, giant shamrocks.”
”Holy Moly - the police boat is here. Remember, Joe, it was Greenport Gertie.”

“....... and that’s the whole story, Occifer. We’ll swear to it on your mother’s grave.”

“Damn, handcuffs are tight, eh, Joe?”
“We almost had it, Pete. They were buying the story until you blew it.”
“What? What did I say?”
“Everybody knows giant shamrocks don’t grow underwater, Pete. You should’ve stuck with regular shamrocks.”

And you think your day was bad......

“Reuters Fri, Aug 19, 2011, Jussi Rosendahl Reporter
Ferry Runs Aground After Captain Stuck in Toilet
HELSINKI - A Finnish ferry has run aground while its captain was stuck in the bathroom. One member of staff managed to slow the island-hopping tourist ferry down, but the vessel, carrying 54 passengers, slammed onto a rock near the shore of Helsinki, the Finnish coastguard said Friday. ... The captain got stuck in the bathroom because of a jammed lock and yelled for help......The coastguard is investigating whether the captain’s action amounted to criminal endangerment....”

“Hello, Sea Queen Wheelhouse, dis is Olaf speaking.”
“Olaf, dis is yew captain, I’m stuck in the bathroom. I can’t get out. Send somebody come and get me.”
“Is dis a yoke? Who is dis really? I gonna get the captain.”
“No, I’m not yoking, Olaf! Dis is yew captain. Yew don’t recognize my voice?”
“Vell, yew never call me from the bathroom. Always yew call me on de deck, and yew don’t never call me Olaf, always you call me Godammit.”
“Godammit, Olaf, dis is the captain. Send Sven to the bathroom to get me out!!!”
“Oh yah, now yew sound like de captain. Listen, I bring dis phone to Sven. Hold on a minute, I tink he’s taking a ticket.”

“Hello, dis is Sven, how may I help yew?”
“Sven, it’s de captain. I’m stuck in the bathroom, I can’t get out. Get the fire axe, come quick!”
“Ya, Captain, I’m glad yew called. Ve vas vorried, because, yew know the boat is heading for the yetty. Yew should turn the boat now.”
“I vill turn the boat as soon as yew get me out!”
“Okay, Olaf and me is coming now. Yew just stay dere.”

“Inga? It’s Jan. I’m stuck in the bathroom, ya, on the boat. Sven and Olaf is coming now to get me, but I’m vorried. Look in yew computer, find the phone for dat little ferry - runs in New York to the little island. Call them, ask them vat they do in a case like dis, and call me back. Ya, I love yew too.”

“Hello, Inga? Did you reach the little ferry? Da Shelter ferry, ya, dats the one. Speak louder, Sven is chopping my door now. Vat did day say? Vat? Why didn’t I yust pee off the back of the boat? Ya, sure, easy fer them to say. Call them back, ask if dey know how cold is Finland? If a man pee off the boat here, his little friend freeze and break off - dats why!”

later that day

“But why am I charged with endangering the passengers? Ya, vell, Sven vas running with an axe through the boat - but he vas saving me! I don’t know he vas vearing his Viking Helmet and yelling! Ya, vell, he gets a little excited. Yew don’t get to be a super hero on a ferry everyday!

Six Flags Sucks!

Six Flags Fleeces - Save Your Money and go somewhere else - anywhere else - to have a good time.

Recently, while we were in Maryland, my daughter, Chenoa, and her friends went to Six Flags, while I stayed home and watched my toddler granddaughter. I watched her from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., that’s thirteen fun filled hours of watching her favorite movies, “Tangled” and “Elmo in Grouchland”, over and over and over. It was a personal challenge for me. A stress test to see how much I could handle before turning to drugs or alcohol. I made it through the day, although I don’t remember much after the first ten hours. My daughter said I was conscious, but not responsive, when she got home. Apparently I smelled of Desitin and had Gerbers Meat Sticks on my breath when she rescued, I mean, when she found me. The baby was fine, having pulled all the cushions off the couch, spread out all the DVD’s, had jello on the TV remote and we’re still looking for the phone.

For all this I was given as payment one seven dollar Wonder Woman key chain. That my daughter managed to afford such an extravagance after a full day of monopolized merchandising is a miracle. My tale of woe is nothing compared to what my daughter endured at Six Flags. She has never been so thoroughly fleeced in her life. Six Flags has turned into an egregiously avaricious enterprise that has created the most odious and nefarious ways of choking every cent out of the victim, aka, visitor.

Naturally, there is a high entrance fee and parking fee, everyone can live with that. It’s the things they do to insure you are FORCED to spend much more money there that are outrageous.
* They now search your handbag. That would stop me right there. You can xray my handbag, but where do they get off searching a woman’t purse? You may not bring any food or drink of any kind in the park. If you do bring it a can of Coke you have the choice of letting them throw your hard earned money into the trash for you, or hearkening back to your college days and chugging it like a frat-boy. The drinks inside are $4 and are 75% ice. My daughter had to instruct the servers not to put more than one scoop of ice in her drink. A single slice of cheese pizza is $7 - one slice, no toppings! Naturally, since you can’t bring in food or drink, you have to support their blatant extortion.
* You may NOT bring your handbag - or any bag or anything other than one of their drink cups - on a ride with you anymore. You can’t set it by the exit to pick up as you leave. Each ride has a set of lockers nearby. You pay $1 to rent the locker for 2 hours -BUT - you may only open the locker ONE time! Should you accidentally forget something you must then play the memory game, remember the 5 digit number on your locker, then pay another dollar to have the attendant open it again. You must rent a locker at each ride, or you don’t ride. It can add up fast. Chenoa gave me other examples of Six Fleeces extortion, but I think they missed a few ideas.

Additional Fleecing Ideas for Six Flags

1] Weigh each victim as they come in and figure out how much strain they put on the rides and walkways, then calculate the amount of electricity it takes for an electric roller coaster to pull a 150 lb. person and then charge them per kilowatt.
2] Make cigarettes and chapstick, sunblock and Advil contraband as well. You’d collect enough first born children on those sales that you won’t need all those minimum wages teenage employees anymore.
3] Stop giving people a cup full of ice with a little bit of soda, this is an old trick, let’s try a new one. The heat index the day Chenoa went was 115, start charging for the ice! People will drink their watered down soda because it’s cold, but a warm cup of soda on a hot day goes flat and is about as refreshing as hot beer. Ten cents a cube! That’s how you squeeze blood from a stone.

Chenoa learned a valuable lesson. Spending too much money trying to have a good time can defeat the purpose. The Shelter Island formula for happiness is still the best;
Steamed clams, beer, sunset at Wades beach; cost $20
Value; Priceless

To Bee or Not To Bee

There’s a wonderful article in the Shelter Island Reporter this week, written by Carrie Ann Salvi, about the BeeKeeper, Alfred Brigham. He’s keeping alive the tradition started by his grandfather, Alfred Kilb, of keeping the Island in honey products. I have very fond memories of Mr. Kilb. He was always interesting to talk to and knew all the Island history worth knowing.

When I first moved back to the Island in September of 1997, I was already dreading the next summer because I suffered from allergic conjunctivitis and when the goldenrod pollens blossomed in early August, my eyes would seal shut and have stabbing pains for the next four weeks. However, by good fortune, I met Chrystyna Kestler at that time and she shared a secret that changed my life, and I now pass it to all the allergy sufferers.

If you suffer from allergies, take two teaspoons of local honey (processed as close to your home as you can get) a day. You are eating small amounts of processed pollen in the form of honey. Your body acclimates to the pollens after about five weeks and when you next encounter the pollens, your body doesn’t fight them off causing you all manner of misery. I was skeptical, but I tried it and it worked. I no longer suffer from hay fever due to exposure to any local pollens. I’ve shared this with many people and everyone reports the same positive results. I buy Brigham’s honey all the time.

Just one warning - if you put a jar in your handbag, try to remember that it’s there before you drop your handbag on the floor and unknowingly crack the jar. Because latter that day, when you’re on the ferry and you reach in to grab your wallet to pay your ticket, you could encounter a big surprise. Honey, particularly a whole spilled jar, seeps into every corner of your purse and covers everything. I’ll never forget the feeling of reaching my hand into a pocket of sticky goo to get my wallet out.

“Ms Flynn, I can’t take this twenty, it’s dripping with honey.”
“Think of it as a bonus - you can dip it in your coffee.”
“No, Ms Flynn, I can’t. Give me something I can hold until you come back later with dry money.”
“Okay, here’s my debit card, wait, it’s stuck to my hair brush.”
“Oh gross....what the hell?”
“I spilled a jar of honey in my handbag.”
“How do you get in these predicaments? You’re a danger to yourself and others. Somebody should be assigned to watch you.”
“Look, you can take my whole handbag, I’ll just take my license and my debit card and find a place to wash them and bring you back the ferry fare.”
“No way - honey is dripping from the bottom.”
“Oh no! All over my pants. I gotta take these off.”
“NO! No here! Leave your pants on in the car. Look, I know where you live, just bring me the fare later.”
“Ahhhh, that’s so sweet of you....”
“Make sure it’s clean and dry.”

Getting in the swim of things..

I believe in learning new things all the time and I do believe you can teach an old dog new tricks. I’ve never learned to swim properly, but I thought it might be a handy skill to have in case I ever get invited to a party on a docked yacht, fall overboard, and have to swim a few yards through jellyfish infested waters - it could happen, you never know...

“Hello kids! I’m your swim instructor Bill, and I understand we have a grown up with us here today. Everybody say hello to Ms. Flynn.
Alright now, the first lesson in swimming is to learn to float. In this case, leave your arm floaties on the edge of the pool, and Ms. Flynn, you’ll want to take off those water wings....you can’t? Oh, they’re attached, well, ah...excuse me.
Okay, everybody ready to get in the pool? What Pete? Sure, you can all cannonball in, but one at a time. Get in line. That’s good.
Ms. Flynn, you don’t really want to cannonball in, do you? Not to be offensive, but you are rather zaftig...the water displacement....we need to have at least three feet of water in the pool for the lesson.
Ms Flynn, please get off the ground. It’s very undignified for you to kick and scream like that just because I said you can’t cannonball. You’re not setting a very good example for the children.
Here, I’ll let you blow the whistle to signal each child when it’s their turn to go. No, no, no...stop trying to blow a tune on the whistle. Yes, I recognized it right away as Stairway to Heaven. Very well done. Now, please watch for my signal and then you blow the whistle.
Alright, that went pretty well. If you’ll please let me have the whistle back, Ms. Flynn....no, I’m the instructor, I get the whistle, I just lent it to you for that one activity. Please don’t whimper. It’s just a whistle. Look, if you do well today, I’ll buy you a whistle from Bliss’, yes, I’ll get a red one if they have it.
So, we’ll all in the pool now, lets practice floating. Yes, Ms. Flynn, I’m sure you can float the longest. Wait a minute, you can’t do that, that’s cheating.....I saw you Ms Flynn....you cannot push the children under the water like that.
Alright, lets all practice our kicking skills. Everybody hold onto the edge of the pool and show me your kicks!
What Pete? No, she’s not really kicking all the water out of the pool, it just seems like that. Please, Ms Flynn, I can handle this, it’s not nice for you to accuse Pete of being a drunk, he’s only nine.
Now Pete, that’s not nice either. You shouldn’t call anyone a Walrus butt.
Ms Flynn, what are you doing with the pool noodle? You can’t whip Pete with a pool noodle! I don’t care if he started it! Please, you’re old enough to be my mother! Hey! Don’t hit me with the noodle! It’s true, you are old enough to be my.....don’t throw that lawn chair!
Okay, that’s it! If you can’t behave, you can’t stay! No! You don’t get the whistle! Now leave!”

On the other hand, I’ve always loved just floating in an inner tube.