IslandRoar

Spin Cycle: Valentine's Day

2010-02-08T07:00:00-05:00

Senior year of high school my BFF and I planned a romantic Valentine's dinner for our boyfriends.

We held the event at BFF's house because her mother would be out with her own boyfriend. And frankly, my parents were hovering pains-in-the-neck who hated when I used the kitchen, and would rather die than do anything that might encourage my (in their opinion) out-of-control relationship with my boyfriend.

BFF and I didn't want to waste lots of time cooking, if you know what I mean. No, seriously, we were coming straight from play rehearsal and elected to use any spare moments in preparing ourselves rather than the food. We were, after all, 17.

The main course was pizza. We cut the dough in the shape of a huge heart. Adorable, I know. Homemade apple pie for dessert. A lot harder to make that crust heart-shaped, but we tried.

When the pie was ready we displayed it on a heart-shaped platter with a very carefully chosen assortment of candy hearts arranged around it, their tiny, endearing words intended as one long, suggestive love note. Which of course we read out loud to them in tandem when the time came to serve dessert.

We were nothing if not age-appropriately sentimental.

The lights were low, candles lit, and a fire in the fireplace. There was no alcohol, since we had no idea when BFF's mother was due home.

I know my boyfriend and I exchanged gifts, and I'd love to say I remember what they were, but I don't. What I do remember is the knot in my stomach when he asked why wasn't I wearing his class ring, a ring I'd had in my possession for a year and half, and one that, only days before, I'd discovered I'd misplaced.

I managed to bluff my way out that night, and avoid confessing that I had no idea where the damned ring was.

I believe I may have been saved by BFF's mom returning home and commencing immediately to blow out candles and turn on lights, glaring at the four of us like we were frolicking naked in a hot tub rather than reading sappy love notes written with candy hearts.

The odd addendum to all this is that BFF had no memory of this night whatsoever when I tried to remind her of it recently. How Twilight Zone is that?

Now she's got to come up with some equally spectacular thing we once did that I have no memory of.

Hear that, BFF? The clock is ticking...

For more Valentine's Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. And give her my love.

We Rock

2010-02-05T07:00:00-05:00

I slept on curlers the other night, for the first time in a long time. The soft, foamy kind. Electric rollers don't work so well on my hair. It's kind of thick and stubborn. Like me.

I like my hair a lot. I've said this before. I consider myself a pretty humble person, but, for the record, I realize I've made a point of stating here that I like my hair and I think I smell nice.

Oh, and my feet. I think I have pretty feet.

I try to take photos of them in a variety of exotic warm weather locations. It's a love found late in life.

Believe it or not, I didn't start polishing my toenails until I was over 40. It seems the older I get, the more of a girly-girl I become. But a tough girly-girl. I am, after all, from New Jersey.

I'm a little worried that by admitting this stuff, you might think I have an inflated ego. Because of my feelings for my hair and my feet and how good I smell.

Why is it that we as women are so often hesitant to admit the many good things about ourselves, to praise ourselves? Are we worried other women will label us conceited bitches?

I've noticed most of us are pretty quick to point out our faults. I'm trying to stop doing this. I could name five negative things about myself right now in the blink of an eye.

But I won't. Instead, I'm going to tell you three good things about myself. Things I like.

And I'm going to have the nerve to ask you to do the same.

Here are mine: (in addition to those I've already mentioned) I think I'm a generous and fun person; I like to think I have a really good sense of style; I like my fair, freckled, Irish coloring.

Okay, your turn. Come on, three things you like about yourself. Really, I want to know.

We all do.

Spin Cycle: Pet Peeves

2010-02-03T07:00:00-05:00

Whenever I read about Martha's Vineyard (aka, my home) in the paper or see it featured on TV, one of the first things inevitably mentioned is how it's a playground for the rich and famous.

And I suppose, in the summer, maybe it is. But while there are nice enough shops and some wonderful restaurants, it just doesn't compare to my idea of a real playground for the rich and famous, say, Beverly Hills or Manhattan. There are no chic clubs here, no "right side"of the tracks. And of course, no paparazzi or screaming fans.

Just miles and miles of dirt roads and beautiful beaches that are, for the most part, not crowded with houses. Not a boardwalk in sight. The rich and famous come here to escape all the other stuff. The noise, the crowds, the designer bullshit. The allure of the Vineyard seems to be a whole lot of nothing.

Those of us who actually live here know this. But we get a little sick and tired of the world thinking we live in a resort community. The words conjure up visions of gated neighborhoods and beautiful people, clad in tennis-whites, riding around in golf carts.

Nothing could be further from the truth. For the roughly 14,000 people who live on Martha's Vineyard year-round it's merely our home. Our beautiful, bustling-in-the-summer, gray-in-the-winter, out-of-the-way home.

We work hard to be here because we like living where there are no shopping malls or highways. The Vineyard is an accepting environment, one where artists and ideas flourish, and it's an amazingly kid-friendly community.

But because it's an island, and everything has to be hauled across the water to get here, the cost of living is higher. Sixty percent more than to live in mainland Massachusetts. So obviously that must mean we're all rich, right?

Actually, the average islander earns 30 percent less than mainland Massachusetts residents. Fewer people, fewer choices, fewer jobs.

The Vineyard is an open, supportive community, one that sure as hell isn't gated. There's an eclectic mix of people, many working multiple jobs to make ends meet. Others rent out their houses each summer to pay the mortgage for the year, or work their butts off non-stop during the tourist season so that they might scrape by the rest of the year.

We talk a lot here about "affordable housing," but what that really means is just housing that's realistic for the average islander: the schoolteachers, police officers, business owners, nurses.

Could we all live somewhere else, somewhere cheaper? Sure. But we choose to live here. Where we can see the waves every day and where we know our neighbors. Where there's not a lot of cursing-out the other drivers on the road, because those same people will no doubt be in front of you in line at the grocery store the next day.

And where, come July and August, it's a veritable playground if you're rich and famous. Or so they say...

But actually, it's not too shabby for the rest of us either. The average and mundane, or even, the poor and infamous.

Let's face it, we all have ideas in our minds about lots of places that in reality couldn't be farther from the truth. Places like Southern California, Florida, Brooklyn, or Maine. Or how about the Jersey Shore?

What's the one thing people think about the place where you live that drives you crazy? That's just completely misunderstood?

To read more about other bloggers' pet peeves, be sure to visit Sprite's Keeper.

Martha's Vineyard: The Boat

2010-02-01T09:47:58-05:00

Everyone knows this place where I live, Martha's Vineyard, is an island. Surrounded by the sea on all sides, the only way on or off is by boat or plane.

Most of us rely on the boat, or ferry. Planes are quicker but they're less reliable and more easily grounded by weather. They go to places like Boston, Hyannis, New Bedford, and Nantucket, with a few other stops like Providence, New York or New Jersey, and DC thrown in during the summer.

They're expensive. And, of course, they're tiny. Some hold as many as 20 passengers, but most carry around 10. I've actually enjoyed the times I've flown on and off-island, but for convenience, you really can't beat the boat.

There are generally two big ferries making the trip to the Vineyard carrying cars and people. In addition there are a couple of freight boats (those that take trucks) that'll squeeze on a few passenger-cars or walk-ons.

Fast-ferries run to the Vineyard from New Bedford and Hyannis, but not all year, and some people don't like them because it's easier to get seasick. I've never been seasick but, as any experienced sailor will tell you, there's always a first time.

The actual boat ride lasts about 40 minutes, but we measure the distance of any and all trips by how long it takes to get to or from the boat. Logan airport? Just under two hours from the boat. Manhattan? Four-and-a-half hours. Hyannis? Forty-five minutes (from the boat).

It's as though the 40 minutes on the ferry to and from Woods Hole doesn't count. In fact, over time, I think most islanders see the ride as a bonus.

During the summer the boat is loaded with tourists, all revved up for some island magic. But most of the year it's a meeting spot for islanders to reconnect and catch up on each other's lives.

Some of us nap in our cars. Others curl up with a book or watch the waves. Island kids may start out running around, looking to see who else is on board, but most quickly fall into a semi-hypnotic state of tranquility.

"Where are you headed?" we ask. Shopping? Doctor's appointment? Vacation?

We stop and chat in the snack bar, pause by each other's seats as we head back to our vehicles, or gather in the parking lot while we wait to board.

Although year-rounders do get a discount, it's not cheap to take your car to the other side, or America, as some call it. There are islanders that pay monthly to park a car in the Falmouth lot to avoid the possibility of not getting passage on a fully booked boat.

Naturally this is very appealing in the summer, when spontaneous trips off-island are pretty much a pipe dream. Then again, who in their right mind wants to leave Martha's Vineyard in the summer if they don't have to?

If someone's sick or there's an emergency, the Steamship Authority is pretty helpful. If you really need to get on or off this island, there's always a way.

Unless of course, the winds kick into overdrive and the sea goes wild. Then it doesn't matter whether you're on-island or off; you're stuck.

My first eight years living here I was never caught on the other side. Then, over nine months, it happened three times. Experienced vineyarders make a speedy run for the local hotels that offer a discount to marooned islanders in need of a room for the night.

Phone calls are made to the neighbors to please feed the pets, and to employers who, along with our island teachers and families, have no choice but to go with the flow.

Broadly speaking, folks who live on an island seem to, by necessity, possess an extraordinary amount of flexibility.

After all, the next time the boat stops running and someone's stuck, it just might be them.

Thanks to everyone for your healing words and wishes as I recuperate from this sinus surgery. I'm still a bit "under the weather," but hope to be back on my usual bloggy rounds before long!

Patients I Can't Forget: Teddy

2010-01-29T07:00:00-05:00

My first night on pediatrics, a 19 year-old boy coded and died. Unexpectedly and out of the blue.

I'd been a med/surg RN for a year, and because of this experience, I was transferred to Nights on peds after only a week of Day orientation.

One of my patients was a six week-old baby, in to rule-out meningitis. She was fine, to be discharged in the morning. There were no parents staying the night with her, unusual, but not unheard of. No meds, no IV's. Just feed her and change her.

Yet I was freaking out inside. "How often do I feed her?" I asked the other nurses. I mean, what did I know about a newborn? I was 22.

"Do I wake her up or let her sleep? How do I know when she's eaten enough?"

They smiled reassuringly. "She'll let you know. You'll be fine."

The baby slept on and I tended to my other patients. The night was quiet.

Then Teddy coded.

He'd woken up to pee. But instead, his mother reported, he opened his mouth and out came the blood. For some reason she attempted to catch it in cups. She thought we might want to test it later, see where it was from.

Teddy was not my patient, but I knew him from my week on day-shift, a fun, sarcastic, 19 year-old kid. He'd been diagnosed with leukemia at age 11, gone into remission, and been fine.

Then, the year before, he'd relapsed. And, although the chemo was helping, it had left him susceptible to a terrible fungal infection in his lungs.

Later, we would find out that the infection had eaten away at his pulmonary artery. Which picked that moment that he'd gotten up to pee to burst.

Because we didn't know this at the time, and didn't realize nothing we did was going to help, we worked on him for almost two hours. Pushing drugs, CPR, hanging blood.

His mother lost it when the nursing supervisor tried to pour the cups of blood down the sink. In her bathrobe, she got on the elevator and disappeared. The nursing supervisor went after her.

I ran to the blood bank, two, three times. Then hovered in the doorway, mostly watching the five, ten, it seemed like a hundred, people working on him.

Until, from somewhere down the long corridor, I heard my six week-old cry. I went to her and, without thinking, changed her diaper, popped open a bottle, and sat down in that dimly-lit room to feed her.

While I was rocking her back to sleep, her father appeared in the doorway. He looked exhausted. "I couldn't get back to sleep," he confessed. "I figured I might as well be here."

I handed her off and went back down the hall. The code was over, time-of-death recorded on the chart. Teddy's mother had reappeared with his father and sister, and they were saying goodbye.

The day nurses slowly drifted in. When my new head-nurse arrived, she put her hand on my shoulder and leaned down close to my ear.

"Welcome to peds," she said.

Working with sick children was like that. Most of them, like that baby, got better and went home. I see their smiling faces, their happy families, as one big blur.

Other kids, fewer, got sicker or died. And even these many years later, I remember every one.

Introducing...My New Neighbor

2010-01-27T07:00:00-05:00

While I recover from my surgery, I am delighted to host Kristen from Motherese today as my very first guest-poster ever, and part of the Won't You Be My Neighbor series at The Never-True Tales.

Kristen's blog was a rather recent find for me, but she very quickly became one of my favorites. A former teacher and the mother of two young sons, her writing is witty, intelligent, and straight from the heart. If you don't already know her, you should. Enjoy!

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When was the last time you received a letter in the mail? A good, old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness, hand-written letter? Not just a birthday card, with a short personal message scribbled on it. Or a "We need to catch up soon!" jotted at the bottom of a canned Christmas letter. A letter - on gossamer onion-skin stationery or heavy card-stock?

When was the last time you wrote one?

I just finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, a lovely novel written almost entirely in letters. In the book, a young London author begins a correspondence with the eclectic and endearing members of a wartime book club on Guernsey, one of the islands in the English Channel. Over the course of writing to these men and women, Juliet comes to see these people she's never met as true friends - so much so that she turns inward to a degree, living through her wordy relationships rather than those with the people surrounding her.

And if you read their letters to her - and hers to them - you begin to understand why. Full of humor, insight, and compassion, the letters create a picture of life on Guernsey during the Second World War, a time during which books and conversation were the only creature comforts available to the occupied islanders.

In a letter to her editor when she finally makes her way to visit her friends on Guernsey, Juliet writes:

As the mail boat lurched into the harbor, I saw St. Peter Port rising up from the sea on terraces, with a church on the top like a cake decoration, and I realized that my heart was galloping. As much as I tried to persuade myself it was the thrill of the scenery, I knew better. All those people I've come to know and even love a little, waiting to see - me. And I, without any paper hide behind.

Reading these beautiful letters made me lament that we seem to have moved away from letter writing as a culture. We e-mail, we text, we tweet. We focus on efficiency rather than profundity. And how much less personal does a message seem when you can't feel the indentations in the paper from the pressure of the pen, can't see the smudges of the ink? Or when the author abbreviates her words? Are our words really worth so little that we can't take the time to spell them out? JMHO

But then, just as nostalgia for the days of pen and paper threatened to convert me to a complete Luddite, it occurred to me: I write letters everyday. I write about my feelings. I write about the people and events that matter to me. I think about the words I choose. I share pieces of myself.

I blog.

In a letter to Juliet, the Guernsey literary society's matriarch writes, "Excuse my unburdening myself. My worries travel about my head on their well-worn path, and it is a relief to put them on paper." This internalization of worry is a sensation that is familiar to me - as is the sweet satisfaction that comes from putting my thoughts down on screen.

Moreover, the community that I have found here in the blogosphere rivals the camaraderie of Juliet and her correspondents. About them and her experience in writing to them, Juliet notes:

The truth is, I am living more in Guernsey than I am in London at the moment - I pretend work with one ear cocked for the sound of the post dropping in the box, and when I hear it, I scramble down the stairs, breathless for the next piece of the story. This must be how people felt when they gathered around the publisher's door to seize the latest installment of David Copperfield as it came off the printing press.

Like Juliet and her letters, I look forward to the posts and comments of the men and women I have found online. I check my e-mail eager to read a comment from one of them. I open my Google Reader ready to devour one of their posts - one of their letters to me. My mind percolates with ideas for new posts of my own - my letters to them. Although I have only been blogging for a few months, I think of them as friends. They know me. I know them.

In the end, though, I am left wondering: if we spend too much time living in these virtureal communities (thanks to Aidan at Ivy League Insecurities for that great term) - in the words we exchange with these friends on paper or on-screen - are we missing out on the life happening around us?

Juliet wonders too:

[I]n these past two or three years, I have become better at writing than living...On the page, I'm perfectly charming, but that's just a trick I learned. It has nothing to do with me. At least, that's what I was thinking as the mail boat came toward the pier.

Writing letters - or blog posts - may be a salve for the growing trend toward impersonality in our communication, but can writing ever replace the intimacy and immediacy of an in-person encounter? By elevating blogging in this way, am I just trying to justify my focus on a screen rather than on the people and events around me?
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Thank you, Maureen, for the opportunity to post here today. I am grateful for the chance to expand my community of pen pals. I hope your readers will consider reading some more of my letters at Motherese and sending me some of their own.

IslandRoar community, what do you think? Are blogs the letters of the 21st century? Does our dedication to our online community threaten our relationships with our real-time one?

One Day at a Time...

2010-01-25T07:00:00-05:00

The Today Show was on as I was getting ready for work a couple of weeks ago, and Valerie Bertinelli was appearing in the next segment, which they were plugging by announcing, "Valerie Bertinelli turns 50!"

When she came on, however, it turned out that she wouldn't be 50 until April. I felt her indignation deeply.

February, March, April. Three months.

Here they were celebrating her half-century mark when she still had a whole quarter of a year left to be 49. How dare they.

Sure, back in the day I was quick to speed up the clock for myself. Weren't we all?

No sooner had I turned 13, than I looked forward to the half-year mark when I could legitimately start claiming I was almost 14.

I believe this habit came to an abrupt end at age 21.

These days, I take every single day the year has to offer before going on to the next one. Hours even.

I was born on the afternoon of August 20th. So don't go wishing me a Happy Birthday this year in the morning, or I'll be likely to tell you that I'm still 48 for a little while longer.

Daughter #2's birthday isn't until May, but already she says things like, "Of course I can stay out late...drive the car...make my own rules. I'm going to be 16."

"Not for a long time," I tell her. "You're 15."

"Close enough," she mumbles.

Oh, honey, I want to say, hold onto every second of 15 for as long as you can.

But I keep my mouth shut.

She'll find out soon enough.

*I'm having surgery on my sinuses tomorrow. And, while I've got some posts scheduled to run this week and next, I'm not sure if I'll be around to everyone's blogs, or commenting, with my usual frequency. I hope to be up to speed as soon as possible.

Some Enchanted Evening

2010-01-22T07:00:00-05:00

Daughter #1 is hooked on Broadway.

An expensive habit to feed. Musicals mostly. She buys tickets at student discounts, waits for the lotteries held before shows. But still...

One of the shows she wants to see now is South Pacific.

This is my father's favorite musical. He saw Mary Martin in the original Broadway cast. We had the record album when I was a kid, and it was played often enough for me to know all the words by heart.

The score contains so many Broadway classics: You've Got To Be Carefully Taught; I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair; There Is Nothin' Like A Dame.

My parents met at a dance in Manhattan. Winter, 1954. They were each there with friends. The band started to play Some Enchanted Evening.

In case you don't know the words:
Some enchanted evening
You may see a stranger.
You may see a stranger
Across a crowded room.

My father spotted my mother from across the dance hall. It was probably her hair he noticed first. He had a thing for redheads. He made his way over and asked her to dance.

And somehow you know.
You know even then.

They danced that dance. And the next. My father leaned down close and hummed in her ear, trying valiantly to be romantic.

He says he knew.

My mother claims she went home and told her mother she had met a boy. And that he was tall, dark, and handsome.

"But I think there's something wrong with him," she reportedly told my grandmother. "He made this really weird buzzing noise in my ear."

My father is tone-deaf. He cannot sing a note.

It almost lost him the girl of his dreams.

Fortunately, for me and Daughter #1, she gave him another chance.

I told Daughter #1, if she goes to see South Pacific, to remember this story when she hears the song.

Her own family history in the making.

Blog Roll Please...

2010-01-21T07:00:00-05:00

One of my very fine bloggy buds recently pointed out to me that her blog was not listed in my blog roll.

She wasn't complaining, mind you. But she wanted me to get on it. Right away.

Which brought to my attention that I had not updated my blog roll in a mighty long time. I read a lot more great blogs these days, and have developed some wonderful relationships.

So last weekend I tried to go through my reader and bring some order to my blog roll. There is no doubt in my mind that I will have screwed up and omitted someone , so if you don't see your blog there, and you think it should be, please let me know.

I'm aware a whole bunch of you couldn't care less, but lots of you do, and with good reason. One of the best ways I've found to discover new blogs has been through your recommendations and your blog rolls.

And I know that the first time I saw my blog listed in someone's blog roll, I definitely felt a little thrill. Yes, I'm that simple.

So I thank that blogging friend for the kick in the butt. Now if only she could help me get the rest of my life in order so easily...

Spin Cycle: Opinions

2010-01-19T07:00:00-05:00

My mother used to comment about some people, "She/He has an opinion on everything."

As though that was a bad thing. This, from a woman who is rather opinionated herself.

To be fair, I'm sure she meant those bombastic folks who attempt to overpower you with their opinions, while appearing seemingly deaf to anything you might have to say on the subject.

I like people with opinions. I admire those who have the courage to stand up for, and live by, their convictions. Even when they're way different than my own.

To paraphrase Martin Luther King, if I may: You have to stand for something, or you're going to fall for anything.

This is one thing I've tried to instill in my three kids. Agree with someone or disagree. But don't be wishy-washy. Don't worry that others might dismiss you because you speak your mind.

Not everything is worth an argument. In fact, the older I get, the more I seem to mellow on so many things I once considered hugely important. Age does that, I think.

Then again, some things are worth going out on a limb for. It's easy not to have an opinion. It's a really safe place to hide.

But life shouldn't be about hiding. And in the end I think it's true; you do have to stand for something or you'll fall for just about anything.

It's true for countries, marriages, families, friends, for pretty much everything worthwhile.

What do you think?

For more opinionated Spins visit Sprite's Keeper. I definitely think you should. But that's just my opinion.

Head of the Class

2010-01-18T07:00:00-05:00

"You know, I'm starting to see how each teacher has so much to do with how the kids in the class treat each other," Daughter #2 remarked to me just the other day. "It really affects the whole atmosphere of the class."

I think she hit the nail on the head.

When First-Born Son was in kindergarten I recall talking about teachers with another mom who commented, "How much effect can one teacher really have on a kid? It's only nine short months out of their whole lives."

I tentatively agreed. I'm not an educator but something about what she said didn't sit right with me. It's only nine months, sure, but nine months can be a pretty big hunk out of a kid's life when they're only ten or six or how about three years old.

The impact a teacher can have came even more into focus as my kids progressed in school. First-Born Son's grade was huge and classes often had 25 kids in them. In second grade there seemed to be a lot of arguing and verbal harassing.

F-B Son, whose impulse control was still developing, was sent to the principal several times for jumping on kids who had attacked him with words. Another little boy, whose mom confided in me, spent a miserable year being the class scapegoat.

When I tried to subtly approach the issue with his teacher at a conference, she agreed there was a problem, but shook her head. "I can't watch every kid every second. I have no control over what they say to each other unless I see it become physical."

A year later, many of these same kids were thrust together in third grade. But it couldn't have been any more different. However she managed it, the teacher did not tolerate cruelty in any form. Suddenly these children were cooperating, even defending one another.

The little boy who'd suffered so terribly the year before was referred to by his classmates with affectionate eye rolling. You know Joey. He can be so crazy. But he's the best in our class at math.

"How do you do it?" I asked the teacher. She didn't yell. She clapped her hands when things started to get out of control and, unbelievably, the kids stopped what they were doing and clapped back.

F-B Son wasn't sent to the principal once. He felt cherished and special, as did every kid in that room. Surely this dramatic change was due to more than the fact that they were all a year older?

This phenomena repeated itself over the years with all three of my kids. Daughter #2 had a small but particularly challenging group of boys in her grade. Certain kids were picked on mercilessly and many parents complained to the point that they considered pulling their children from the school.

But all that changed in fifth grade. There were two veteran teachers and for once I didn't care which one my child got. Once more I watched in amazement as the kids turned into a supportive cohesive group, their kind and encouraging teachers intolerant and, more importantly, somehow aware of any potential situations where bullying might rear its ugly head.

What do you think?

Whether you have big kids or little kids or none at all, we've all had teachers. And when I stop to think about the ones that really stand out for me, they were definitely the very same years I felt safe and empowered by not only the teacher but the whole class. How about you?

I know several of you are teachers. Do you consciously try to foster an environment of cooperation and support?

And do you think it's possible to make a life-long impact in "nine short months?"

Martha Norton

2010-01-15T07:00:00-05:00

Brothers and sisters torture one another. This is a fact of life. It's that whole love/hate thing. Maybe it's practice for the real world. Toughens us up so we can take whatever life might throw at us.

I used to tell my sister really outrageous lies. That we were moving, or that we were getting a dog. Things I knew she would start out not believing. But that was the fun part. I would then spend the next half hour convincing her they were really true.

I would be solemn, straight-faced, and back myself up with fabulous false logic. Finally she would believe me. At which point I would pounce. "Gotcha! I can't believe you thought that was true."

Mind games. The worst type of torture. My two older children, First-Born Son and Daughter #1, have a habit of banding together against my youngest, Daughter #2. Before she understood much Spanish, they had her convinced, at age seven, that her name translated into Spanish as La Idiota.

Until the night she proudly announced it at the dinner table. "Well my name in Spanish is La Idiota." I couldn't help it. I laughed. Then so did she. The two older kids were visibly relieved. They were safe. This time.

For the last nine years since we moved to the Vineyard, they've been telling Daughter #2 she's adopted. A common enough sibling torture treatment, I realize. But they've added their own special twist.

They tell her she was adopted from Russia. Her real parents had 11 other children. But because she was hearing impaired (an injury apparently sustained when she was accidentally shot with a potato gun), her parents gave her up for adoption. Cruel, I know.

Her real name, they inform her, is Martha Norton. Now, Norton is an old Martha's Vineyard name, not exactly Russian. But Daughter #1 swiped it from a gravestone, and Daughter #2 never questioned its ethnic origins, so Martha Norton it remains.

This convoluted tale brings laughter or tears, depending on the day. Or hour. D #2 might scream, "I hate you," at her siblings, and run from the room sobbing as they high-five one another.

Or she may actually go along with the story. As she does when her sister's friends remark on how different the two of them are. "But that's probably because you're adopted," they'll say, completely in on the ruse. "Yeah," she'll nod. "I'm really Russian."

I try and stay out of it. No matter which side I come down on, I can only make things worse. And, as D #2 likes to tell me, no doubt only her real family, the one from Russia, would truly understand.

Got any good sibling horror stories, either your own or those of your children? Or are my kids perhaps more evil than even I could have imagined?

Native Islanders

2010-01-14T07:00:00-05:00

The Wampanoag are the Native American people that first settled Martha's Vineyard thousands of years ago.

Tribal legend has it that the Wampanoag giant, Moshup, dragged his toe in the ocean and formed the islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard.

The scientific explanation is that the islands were once part of the mainland, and that, as the sea rose after the last Ice Age, the people who were to become the island Wampanoag merely decided to stay.

The Tribe was federally acknowledged in 1987. Today, the up-island town of Aquinnah is home to the Wampanoag. Here are most of the Tribal-owned lands, Tribal housing, and the Tribe's museum and cultural center.

The Wampanoag influence is an integral part of present day Martha's Vineyard culture.

Recently I was thinking about what it must have been like, to be part of the Tribe back in the day, before the white settlers. When nobody had ever heard of Martha's Vineyard, but instead, called this place Noepe, the Wampanoag word for land amid the streams.

There were several different villages scattered throughout the island, but even so, there must have been reasons to push the birch-bark canoes into the sea and venture off-island, seven miles across the sound to the mainland.

Tribal councils with the mainland Wampanoag? Hunting trips pursuing animals that didn't live here, such as bears or wolves? Marriages arranged to bring new blood on-island and off?

Then I thought, were these early islanders the same type of curiosity that modern-day vineyarders appear to be to many folks? Did the mainland Indians come up to them at, say, a wedding feast, and ask, "So, what's it like to live on an island?" Or, "What do you all do out there all winter?"

Because, though day-to-day Wampanoag living was probably much the same on or off-island, just as it is today for vineyarders and mainlanders, like today, there must've been some obvious differences.

Wampanoag from Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket were whalers extraordinaire. They are said to have taught the early white settlers this trade, thus kick-starting the whole whaling industry.

No such whaling on the mainland. But more human interaction maybe? Better game? Easier trading? Certainly, like today, more choices. And without having to paddle your canoe for hours across the sea, fighting the wind and waves.

It takes a certain type of person to live on an island. Let's face it; it takes a certain type of person to live just about anywhere you can think of.

And maybe it's just wistful thinking or plain craziness, but it dawned on me that I might have a lot more in common with these early Native islanders than I ever could have imagined.

Female Troubles

2010-01-12T07:00:00-05:00

I was thinking today about how far we've come in terms of being open about women's health issues. Society, I mean.

When my ex mother-in-law was only a young mother in her 20's, she lost her own mother to cancer. To this day she has no idea what kind of cancer it was.

"Oh," she'll say dismissively, "nobody talked about such things."

Many health topics pertaining to women just weren't spoken of. My father took this to extremes. I remember him once mentioning a female business colleague at the dinner table, and how she was doing poorly.

Ever curious, I piped up, "What's the matter with her?"

As children were generally supposed to be "seen and not heard," he glowered at me before lowering his voice significantly to say, "I'm not sure...Female Troubles."

I had no idea what the hell those were.. But it sounded deep and dark, and clearly I understood I should inquire no further.

As I got older however, I enjoyed making waves.

When I came home during college I would challenge him. "Women's troubles, dad? What does that mean? Is it (and here I would whisper) down there?"

He would look to my mother for help, but, to her credit, she would be laughing too.

When I finally told First-Born Son he was to be a big brother, I made sure to explain that the baby was growing in my uterus, not my stomach. I was following parenting advice I'd read which warned that if I didn't make this clear, he might surmise I'd eaten the baby or some ridiculous crap like that.

The very next day after I'd told him the good news, my parents came over. First-Born Son, only three at the time, ran to greet them at the door.

"Poppy," he shrieked. "Mommy has a baby growing. In her uterus!"

I thought my father would pass out. I'm betting he could've gone his whole life without acknowledging that either of his daughters even had a uterus.

First-Born Son today is, of course, more modern and open about these things than my dad. But in our house with all its estrogen, the girls and I have been known to bring up certain subjects just to give him a hard time. Tough boy that he is, he rarely cringes. But that doesn't mean we won't stop trying.

As I head toward The Big Change, I can't help but try and think of yet another way to yank both his and my father's chains. I'm not yet peri-menopausal, but at 48, I anticipate the big arrival any second now.

I envision myself calling my parents and getting my poor father on the phone.

"Guess what, Dad? I just had my first hot flash!"

How do you think that would go over?

Or maybe, better yet, I could get First-Born Son to make the call and tell him for me.

Spin Cycle: Fear?

2010-01-11T07:00:00-05:00

I am not a fearful person.

Sure, there are things I don't like, such as heights, slasher movies, and stories about real life serial killers. But fear? Not so much.

When I was a young nurse working on pediatrics, one of my colleagues commented that she was afraid of dying.

I'd thought about this one a lot. "I don't really fear dying," I said, with the naive self assuredness that one can only possess in his or her 20's. "I mean, I don't want to die. But I''m not afraid of it."

To her credit, she did not slap me. "That's because you don't have kids," she said kindly. "Being a mother changes that."

"Maybe." I shrugged.

Maybe?

My son was probably only hours old when my fear of dying set in. If I died, who would raise him in the manner that I so carefully envisioned?

I felt a little better when I gave him a sibling, but I now had two souls whose very existence hinged on me being alive and well. And then, soon enough, three.

It's not as though it's some neurotic phobia. Rarely, if ever, does it creep into the forefront of my mind.

Yet somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, it's always there: I must stay alive at least long enough to see these three people into the realm of independent adulthood. Anything less would leave them vulnerable, exposed to emotional and psychological scars that might never heal.

Am I blowing this out of proportion to increase my own sense of importance? Possibly.

But it has always seemed to me that the loss of one's mother, before a certain age, is one that few recover from completely.

When Princess Diana died, I felt this pain for her as well as her sons. I was reassured that they were old enough to have lifelong memories of her, but felt she would've been devastated not to be there for the joys and pain of their teen years, and to cushion the angst of their early adulthood.

I'm sure I was internalizing big time.

So what is the magic age, the one my children need to reach before I'll feel comfortable giving up this fear? Well, at 22, I feel First-Born Son may be close. But Daughter #2 is only 15.

Believe me, I'm not about to stand up, arms wide open, beckoning the Grim Reaper, the day she turns 25. I fully intend to live to a good and annoyingly ripe old age.

And yes, I'm aware my grown children will never stop needing me in one way or another. But the major leg work, so to speak, will be complete. And, I think, I'll finally be able to let go of my fear.

To see what other bloggers fear-or not-go take a peek at Sprite's Keeper.

Mush!

2010-01-08T07:00:00-05:00

I've already shared with you the joy of my winter wonderland getaway. But if you'll indulge me for one more post, it seemed to me that our night time dog-sledding adventure deserved something more.

Have you seen Balto, the animated film depicting the real life sled dog that delivered anti-diphtheria serum over the frozen tundra in hurricane winds at temps of fifty below,helping save the lives of children in Nome, Alaska in 1925? There's even a statue of him in Central Park.

Maybe it was Balto I had in mind when I made our dog-sledding reservations. Starlight, adventure, and speed, followed by a crescendo of inspirational music and a poignant, happy ending.

Alas, I had not factored in the wind-chill factor or the frostbite warning. Not to mention the odor of dog poop.

Did you know that when you are lying in a dog sled at ground level your nose is just about even with the butts of the eight adorable husky dogs on your sled team. Dogs who apparently wait until the sleds are in motion to relieve themselves.

Daughter #1 and I shared a sled, her lying in front. The parts of me she covered would be my last remaining body parts with any sensation.

"Umm-bye!" our musher called. The dogs made a half hearted attempt at moving our sled. Then stopped. "Go dogs, go," she yelled, as they stalled several times on the trail like a car out of gas.

She sounded like an inexperienced parent entreating their toddler to stop dawdling. Say it like you mean it, I silently begged.

The sled carrying First-Born Son and Daughter #2 raced by us. "Umm-bye!" their musher called out in an authoritative voice. Now that's what I'm talking about!

We rounded a curve in the trail and the sled stuck in the snow, dangling precariously at an odd angle. "Do you need us to get out?" we asked, clutching the sides.

"Oh, no." The musher ran forward to move the dogs and pry us loose.

Not a foot above our faces, pine branches laden heavily with snow swayed in the wind. I pulled my hood further down over my head and held my arm over Daughter #1's face, much like I had many times over the years when she was in the front seat of the car with me and I'd stepped on the brake.

But, no matter. The sled loosening jostled the tree and a miniature avalanche landed on us both.

"I'm so cold and tired," Daughter #1 whispered. "I just want to shut my eyes."

"Me too," I replied, "but don't fall asleep."

I didn't have to add, Because we might never wake up; the words hung in the air along with our frozen breath.

We laughed about it later. The inexperienced musher. Our frost-bitten digits. Our big, arctic adventure.

I'm glad we did it. The woods are beautiful at that time of night. Completely still and white. Huge evergreens shimmering with snow, lighting up the trail. Glorious.

No doubt infinitely more so than in the lush green of summer or the fiery blaze of autumn, the only two ways, incidentally, I plan on viewing them in the future for any extended period of time outdoors.

And if there are any dogs around, you can bet I'll make damned sure I'm several feet above the level of their butts.

Spin Cycle: Spring Cleaning

2010-01-07T07:00:00-05:00

Even the thought of Spring Cleaning leaves me a little nauseous.

Especially as I look out my windows and see ice and snow. Right now spring seems a cruel joke, tantalizing, dangling far off in the distance, never to arrive.

To understand my memories of Spring Cleaning, you must know that my mother is a neat-freak. I don't mean that in any derogatory way; it's simply a fact.

When I was growing up, the kitchen floor was scrubbed at least once a week. She dusted and vacuumed daily, and sheets were changed on a weekly basis. You don't want to know how frequently the sheets in my house are changed.

Spring Cleaning for my mother seemed to be a religious experience. Storm doors and windows were stored away and every window pane scrubbed inside and out.

There was the official changing of the fall/winter curtains, draperies, and all bedspreads to the spring/summer variety.

Winter woolens were packed away in the attic in moth balls and exchanged for fair-weather cottons. Drawers and closets were purged and re-organized in the process, and my sister and I endured the torturous process of trying on Every Article Of Clothing to be sure it fit.

My father took time off work each year to polish the furniture. And I mean polish the furniture. We would come home from school to the overpowering chemical aroma of polish, and there he would be, sleeves rolled up, kneeling by the credenza or dining room table, chairs on their sides as he manhandled their surfaces to the kind of lustrous shine my own neglected furniture has no idea even exists.

I'm sure the house sparkled from top to bottom when she was through. But I'm also sure that satisfaction was short lived. The dust will gather, the windows will streak. Hands and feet never fail to leave their mark.

I have done little to carry on my mother's tradition of Spring Cleaning. I do have seasonal bedding, and of course I store sweaters, pull out summer clothes.

But my real Spring Cleaning takes place outside. Clearing the gardens, cutting back the lavender and roses, breaking out the dahlia tubers. The deck will need re-finishing before we can drag out the wicker deck furniture, and the pool fence repaired from the ravages of winter.

My house is rarely messy, but my standards are nowhere near my mother's. Maybe it's a different generation but mostly, for me, it's a matter of choice.

If the very notion of Spring Cleaning leaves me nauseous and tense, it's better left behind with the old-time furniture polish, lost somewhere in my very distant past.

For some other takes on Spring Cleaning, go visit the always sparkling Sprite's Keeper.

Winter Wonderland?

2010-01-05T07:00:00-05:00

I have determined that I'm not a cold weather vacation sort of gal.

It's something I've always suspected but I can now say, unequivocally, that it's a fact.

Last week we ventured into the mountainous New Hampshire wilderness for a family vacation. The fact that my kids now have three different winter breaks propelled me into scheduling a mini-vacation at a time convenient for all.

Reckless fool that I am, it didn't seem worth it booking a flight to some place warm for a mere four days. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Instead, I chose an historic resort in New Hampshire. The place was beautiful. The skiing was right down the road, in addition to tubing, zip-lining, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and dog-sledding (yes, dog-sledding!).

These all seemed like fun-filled and perfectly reasonable activities at the time. And they were, they really were.

Except.

The east coast had that post-Christmas cold snap. Temps shot down to single digits, negative five with the wind chill during the day. It never stopped snowing, heavy at times, but, up until the morning of our departure, there was an endless cascade of flakes. Beautiful to look at. At least for the first day. Or two.

Remember when your kids were little and you spent all that time bundling them up to play in the snow? Extra socks and mittens. Hats and snow pants. Boots and scarves. And then of course, they'd have to pee, a truly monumental endeavor at that point.

Well, that's how I felt the whole time I was there. Bundle up to brave the great outdoors, peel off the layers once back inside. Bundle up. Peel off. A never-ending array of damp clothing and snow streaked floors.

Static electricity on the clothes, in the hair. Dry skin. Hat head. Numb faces and runny, red noses.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun. Tubing was fun. And zip-lining over a ski slope. I've always enjoyed speed.

And there was laughter, at times hysterical. Especially on our horse-drawn sleigh ride in blizzard-like conditions, an experience none of us will soon forget, including Dave, our driver, or Glenn, his trusty draft horse.

"I'm cold, Mommy. I'm cold." This, from my 22 year-old son, curled in the fetal position on his bed after skiing.

Shut up and grow a pair, I wanted to snap at him. Except that I was too busy counting my own frozen digits.

Okay, we admit it. We're wimps.

We tried our best. We persevered. We can check one off the bucket-list.

"The next time we take a sleigh ride, it won't be in a blizzard," First-Born Son informed me.

"What next time?" I stared at him. "I don't know about you, but I'm good. For life."

And while nothing beats sipping a hot-toddy by the warmth of a roaring fire as the winds howl at the windows, I think I prefer a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella in it, while lounging poolside or on some warm, white sand.

Promise me you'll remind me of this next winter, okay?

New Year's Eve

2010-01-04T07:05:00-05:00

New Year's Eve celebrations were tailor made for night owls like me. And some of mine have been rather memorable.

But this year I spent it completely alone. It was kind of weird.

It's not that there's always been a party. But if I was stuck without plans, at least one or two of my three kids were sure to be home, celebrating with or without their friends, running in at midnight to embrace and steal a sip of my champagne.

Not this year. First-Born Son and Daughter #1 were gone for the night with friends, Daughter #2 off at a New Year's sleepover.

And me? Well, no champagne this year. Instead I had a hot date with Netflix and a chocolate mousse brownie. Then I lay in bed and watched the ball drop in Times Square.

I wondered, did my parents feel this way when, one year, my New Year's Eve plans exceeded their own? Perhaps.

Yet it's different when there's two of you. You laugh at or with one another, and settle in for another boring night at home. Together.

It's not that I don't have friends. But they were off-island or with family. Or spending that boring night at home with their spouses.

I hesitate to even write all this down. I don't want anybody feeling sorry for me. Even though I might possibly feel just a wee bit sorry for myself.

Maybe not sorry, actually. Maybe just disappointed. I expect more. I want more. Dick Clark himself would be hard-pressed to call this New year's Eve "Rockin'."

I'm not really worried about this becoming a habit, however. I like my late nights and social gathrings too much to settle for that.

And seriously, a New Year's Eve like this one is pretty much guaranteed to come along only once in a blue moon, right?

Transitioning...

2009-12-30T07:00:00-05:00

I kept the key to my old NJ house on my key chain for eight years after I moved to Martha's Vineyard.

I've said it before: I'm not good with transitions.

Oh, I'm a big girl now. I manage. I just need a little time for internal processing.

There is artwork on various walls in my house that my kids made in school years ago. I like knowing it's there.

Since last June I've kept a decoration from Daughter #1's high school graduation party on the mantel. After she left for college I enjoyed looking at it even more. It reminded me of a safer past, when she was still living at home, secure under my watchful eye.

I finally banished it before she arrived for Thanksgiving. But only because I knew she would mock me.

2010 is upon us and every TV channel seems to be hosting a retrospective, looking back on this, the first decade of a still sparkling new millennium.

Is it really ten years since we partied "like it's 1999?" I still possess my very tacky and beloved 2000 glasses from that celebration. Can it already be time to ring in a new decade?

When your kids have one-and-a-half feet out the door and you're at this midpoint in life, some days every breath you take seems to be a transition of some sort. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

I'm trying to give myself a break. Requiring a few extra moments to ruminate before moving on isn't always a bad thing.

On the window sill above my kitchen sink is a small heart-shaped vase. In it are the very dried remains of the last few asters I snipped from my garden in October before the frost.

Their presence is a gesture, a tangible reminder of what, after a long gray winter, will inevitably return.

I may just keep them there until I cut my first bunch of daffodils. Or perhaps I'll toss them tomorrow.

But today, I like knowing they're there.

Enjoy your New Year's celebrations everyone! See you here in 2010.