The Best Christmas Ever

                          sand, ice, surf                     dee ‘13

I heard someone describe a 1945 USO Christmas program on a carrier hundreds of miles off shore, two days before Pearl Harbor -- as the best Christmas ever.  That got me to thinking about which Christmas I would describe as my best ever Christmas.  I thought of one from childhood when my entire family had the flu. Somehow, we stumbled out of bed for gifts and eggnog, then it was back to bed for us.  We laugh about that miserable day with almost fond recollection.  I pictured the Christmas when my husband and I didn’t have the extra money to spend on a tree.  We were stunned to return from an outing to be greeted with a tree, all trimmed out. Our neighbors had snuck in and placed a balsam fir, lights, decorations and yes, tinsel, in our living room.  It was one of those rare moments that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. However, as I thumb through my memories, this Christmas stands out from all the others as the Best Christmas Ever. 

My family is gathered together; this alone is an occasion that I always celebrate. On whole, we’ve been bumped and bruised, untethered and even lost, this year.  Yet, we all managed to find our way back to one another for this day. Beyond the holy religious symbolism of the day, Christmas is a sacred day for me.... probably because the shortest day of the year has given way to longer days. The Winter Solstice guarantees growing light with each day that our planet moves toward the Spring Solstice. With that waxing light, comes hope. It has been proven an immutable truth in my book of Things that are True that light follows darkness.  Whatever the darkness, no matter how bleak the despair, Light cometh.  And as my family gathers together today, I am brimming with hope for a new year with new beginnings;  one in which we each find the light we need to illuminate our paths as we move confidently forward.   

Beauty

                                            BEAUTY                                           dee

           I have never thought of myself as beautiful.  My mother told me that I was, but honestly, isn’t that what mothers do? My grandmother, who was always known for stating her truths boldly and with little filtering, said, “Dawn, you are a handsome woman. I can’t say you are beautiful.” Saying that I was “handsome” is a solar system away from being beautiful. There was a sting in her observation. I felt my fate was cast; I was handsome. My short-lived dreams of resembling  Katherine Hepburn gave way to the knowledge that I was in a league with, say..... Bob Hope. There is a story that we assemble about ourselves as we grow up.  Mine was that I was attractive, sort of. 

When I asked a cosmetic surgeon (who was removing a suspicious mole from my face)

what he might do if I wanted say... a refresher, he said, “Take you glasses off.  Okay, turn left. Now, right.”  He paused for about fifteen seconds until he uttered his prognosis, “Here’s what to do.  Put your glasses on.”  The point I am trying to make is that I have never seen myself as beautiful. I have had moments, brief, passing glimpses, when a camera has caught me and I can see something the that doesn’t exist in the version I carry of myself. My version of me is best compared to an old wallet snapshot that has faded to yellow, been sat upon and is both wrinkled and distressed. 

       For reasons that I can not guess, I have had the most unusual thing happen recently. Numerous, unrelated, people have been telling me that I am a beautiful woman. I am not wholly sure what that means. I think they are entirely sincere, however. I suspect that they mean both my visage and my  spirit.  This single thought, “I might be beautiful!” is liberating, surprising, uplifting and, if I’m honest, ridiculous!  If I am so bold as to change up the statement to “I AM BEAUTIFUL,” an entirely new universe opens to me.  I feel like I am carrying the best secret in the whole world. One I never knew existed.  l found myself looking into the mirror this morning with more curiosity than I have shown since I was sixteen. What do people see exactly?

     I know my smile is in good shape. My lips are my mother’s: the top one is thin, the lower is slightly more full.  My teeth are straight after the kind intervention of my friend, Bruce. His orthodontic skills, braces and time, left my teeth aligned and even. Gone is the one eye tooth that, at one time, overlapped on its neighbor just ever so slightly.  I am true to my retainers and my smile stays fixed and wide.  

     My nose was a source of some concern for my son when he was younger. He asked me if, when he grew up, would his nose be as big as mine? I allayed his fears while secretly wondering if I might, indeed, end up looking like I might be related to Jimmy Durante. It a a long, straight proboscis, with flared oval nostrils. I imagine it as the Rockies that divides the left side of my face from the right.  Resting on either side of my nose, that Great Divide, are two, high cheekbones. I have had people guess my nationality based on those cheekbones.  I think they are a bit obvious because I am a thin woman, and there is not a lot of padding there.  

     I worked at a cosmetic chain called Merle Norman back in the eighties, The skill I brought to that job was that I could actually imagine the women, many who had never worn makeup, in Before and After shots.  In a matter of weeks, I discovered that the feature that most dramatically changed a woman’s appearance were her eyes. I had a sketch pad that was printed with the outline of a face on every page. I would use the eyeliners and eye shadow to sketch out my ideas for each woman.  Eight out of ten times, the women would give me the green light. I would pull out all the magic pens, paints, powders, salves and lotions.  My very own eyes are directly from my father’s family.  The shape and rich brown color are uniquely Evans. Nothing to say about that except genetics. Deep set, slightly too close - creating a very narrow bridge upon which to set those glasses the cosmetic surgeon recommended.  I watched as my mother aged, the slight folds of skin above her eyes began to droop. I wanted to show her how to use eye shadow to counter that effect.  She did not want to hear a word about makeup, so I kept my counsel to myself.  Now I can benefit from it as I see the same effect of gravity at work upon my brown eyes. I remember my grandmother painting on her eyebrows. She made me promise to, “Make sure my eyebrows are on before they bury me.”  She was only half-joking.  I had no idea that the scarcity of eyebrow hairs was a side-effect of menopause.  My own brows are thinner than they once were. I avoid tweezing and plucking with a deliberate appreciation for preservation of my brows.  My eyelashes are not the sweeping, long variety. However, they serve their purpose and I am grateful they are plentiful enough that, when the spirit moves me, I may apply black-brown mascara.

     These features are set in an rather long, oval face. My skin shows the effects of sun, the day-to-day grind of living and lots and lots of laughter.  It retains elasticity that is unusual at my age. One of the positive claims that I can make as a result of a flaw in my collagen production is that my skin, purportedly, is more youthful than average for someone my age.  Whether that is part of the mystery of my recent “Beautiful” accolades, I cannot surmise. I have tried looking in the mirror to find the answer. I stood and look for a long time. I haven’t looked in the mirror like this since I was sixteen, wondering what my boyfriend saw.

My supposition is that beauty truly resides within us. My growing belief is that whatever it is that people have been seeing in me lately is a reflection of the beauty I find around me. Perhaps I do nothing more than reflect the infinite beauty that surrounds me. It is possible to find beauty in most anything. And if I can’t? I try again.  That kind of astonishing beauty?  That kind? I look for it as I try to find my footing on a new path.  I bring with me memories, sorrow, pain and a sense of a bigger picture.  I am rediscovering the power of friendship and of family. That kind of beauty has taken hold of me and won’t let go. Perhaps, maybe, I am nothing more than a mirror of the beauty that I see and experience all around me.  That thought gives me pause to consider....

“Mirror, mirror on the Wall, am I really fair, at all?”

With surprise and reluctant acceptance, the answer I hear is that I am, well....I am - beautiful.  

Dawn with glasses.

  

     

Ghosts Dance

 

Vineyard Sunrise  photo dee

Vineyard Sunset by dee

Hope wears many disguises.  photo dee

   

     I am privy to a secret; I think sometimes that, if the word were to get out, this Island would be flooded with visitors twelve months of the year, rather than just the three for which it is most famous. Martha’s Vineyard boasts a rich and wonderful panoply of both heart-wrenching and heart-lifting moments. I have fallen in love again.  The Island, with its ever-changing shores, has claimed me. This place is best described by its skies of scattered light, its plains of wind-blown, grass-flattened expanses and waters whipped to fury one day, becalmed the next. 

Last weekend, my husband’s family gathered from far and near to lay to rest one of their beloved fathers. John’s death was timely, but it was not made easier by that knowledge.   John and and his wife were constants in my life as I grew from a young woman to a wife and mother. They taught by example; John had an unerring moral compass that deeply affected how I viewed parenthood. Equally, he was a generous and kind man who loved to entertain. He taught me there is never enough red wine at a party.  He and his wife, Joyce, were godparents to my daughter.  It was hard to rally for another good bye at the moment. The funeral was rescued by the eulogy his daughter wrote. She captured his essence with humor and love. John’s young grand-daughters contributed their heartfelt reminiscences, then the congregation trundled off to the graveyard.  The same graveyard where so many of my loved ones now rest.  John and Joyce’s headstone rests across the aisle from my mother’s, and two rows away from from my godparents.  I saw the soil, sandy and light, piled high around the hole over which John’s casket sat while a priest read the last words of the service...Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.... Except all I could think was, “No. Ashes to ashes, dust to sand.” I was one of the first to turn away from the gathering to go wait in the car. If ghosts walk, they walked that day at the cemetery. I felt the presence of my past all crowded in one place.

This Island is like that. The past and the present are finely woven. The vertical threads, or the warp, is a compilation of places like Menemsha and Aquinnah and Lambert’s Cove and Goode Ave. and Peaked Hill and Edgartown and Ocean Park and the Campgrounds and West Tisbury and Chilmark and Vineyard Haven. The horizontal threads, or weft, are people whom I have loved like Elsie and Sally and Dale and John and Ken and Joyce and Debi and Richie and Susie and Mimi and Chicki and Roger and Mary and Elizabeth. I am the shuttle that joins the two threads. The resultant fabric is colorful and enduring and not a little bit wondrous.

The particular magic of this place is that even the dead dance here.  Live is as eternal as the waves, the sun, the wind, the rain, the snow and the soil. For me, the Island fabric holds both good and bad memories in tact while I can do nothing but go on continuing to weave new ones. Nothing life delivers is ever wasted, nor is anything ever lost. I hold fast to the beauty all around me. I especially like to watch the sunrise and the sunset because of something rare that happens with the light.  In that exact moment of beginning and ending, I am always reminded that all of eternity is contained within each breath we take. 

Dreamification

Easter Grey Squirrel from www.wikipedia.com

     Every once in a while, I coin a word that seems worthy of inclusion by the Oxford-English Dictionary.  The most recent is dreamification. 
Dreamification (n) -  the act of seamlessly converting sounds and events of daily living into dreams for the express purpose of preserving sleep.

     I was dreaming that first one squirrel, then two, then an entire dray of squirrels had assembled to make a meal of me. I was paralyzed with fear as these small rodents with treacherously sharp teeth gnawed at my bones.  They went for my joints, pausing to stand on their back paws to chew the meat they had torn from my knees, my hips, my elbows. As much as I tried, my screams died in my throat. With superhuman will, I broke through the paralysis and sat up. The squirrels, thoroughly gorged on my flesh, ran away.
     I opened my eyes. My heart was pounding, I was drenched with perspiration and found myself in my own bed.  It wasn’t until I turned on a light to reassure myself that there were not any teeth marks, broken skin or blood that I was convinced that my dream was not real.  
     It was hard to go back to sleep after that. I started considering other dreams I have had that successfully incorporated an outside event into the landscape of my dream. For instance, my alarm may be ringing, but in my dream, it is the bell between high school   My phone might ding to indicate a text, but I rework it into a ship’s bell.  The lawn mower becomes an ultralight that I am flying to an unrevealed destination.  This particular ability to convert everyday noises into part of a dream so that I do not have to wake up is not unique to me.  Friends and family members all report their own experience of, well, let’s turn it into a noun.......dreamification. The verb?  Dreamify.
In my case, I was dreamifying the pain in my joints by ascribing it to a gathering of hungry squirrels.  Initially, it was better than waking up. However, as it turned out, I dreamified too vividly and it caused me to wake up.

     The downside of being able to dreamify is that it leaves traces of dreams that impinge upon the dreamer upon waking. There is an inexplicable carry over of dream into day. In effect, the line between sleep and waking has been blurred, leaving the dreamer with part of his or her consciousness back in dreamland even after getting up for the day. The other issue that gets little recognition is that whatever was threatening to cause sleep disruption may still persist upon waking.  For instance, my “squirrels” were my brain’s attempt to make sense of the terrible, incessant pain in my joints. Once I woke up, the squirrels were gone, and I was left with just the pain. I did the only reasonable thing I could do under the circumstances; I gave up on sleep. Instead, I ran a hot bath laced with Epsom Salts and took three Ibuprofen.

The Paper Bathing Suit Caper

     

I am carving out a life with the same dedication that Degas exhibited when he molded his statue of Dancer Aged 14.  When Degas died in 1917, there were 150 wax or clay sculptures of her found in his studio. They were all various representations of his vision of his famous fourteen-year old dancer.  My point being, through a series of approximations, we move toward our chef d’oeuvre, whatever that might be. I have a sense I might be doing so currently. I believe I am doing so with humor as one of my most important tools. 

I am a walking comedy routine so far as I can tell. I actually laugh out loud when I do something silly.  How about the time I accidentally made a peanut butter and ketsup sandwich?  The new squeeze bottle of jelly was easily confused with familiar squeeze bottle of ketsup.  What about the Thanksgiving I went to Richardson’s Candy Kitchen in Deerfield, MA? I bought twelve small chocolate turkeys to set at each of the twelve diners’ places on Turkey Day later that week.  I carefully tucked them away so the children wouldn’t find them.  I never did find them!  These little gems of misadventure make me laugh. What can I say? 

This week, I added one to the list.  I have been flirting with the idea of joining the pool in Vineyard Haven.  They have a introductory special at this time of year. I packed up and headed over after completing my volunteer duties at the community greenhouse. I was ready to bag the whole effort, but something whispered in my head,” Forward, move forward.”  After all, how many renditions did Degas make of his dancer? That takes commitment, intention. I WILL go exercise in the pool.  After all, going to the pool is a little like going to church -- you begrudge the effort it takes to get there, but you feel so damn good afterwards! I signed in, descended to the locker room and exchanged pleasantries with a health club member before I realized my bathing suit was not in my bag with my towel. I knew for a fact that I did NOT have the stamina to drive home, retrieve my suit and return for an exercise session. What to do, what to do?  I went back upstairs to the front desk and explained my conundrum.

At which point, I was introduced to a pseudo-oxy-moron, a paper bathing suit.  For the pleasure of stripping down and donning a one-piece suit made out of a Tyvek-like matierial, I plunked down $16.  The girl at the front desk offered her pitch and ended with, “You’ll be our first customer, be sure to let us know what you think!”

When I tugged it on, the only give in the suit came from the elastic around the legs and the arm holes. There was barely enough extra fabric to allow movement. My subtle curvature was a bonus. Because the suit billowed with air around the abdomen and rear, I rustled as I walked. I pulled open the door that led out to the pool. To my relief, I had the impression that I was the only person in the pool area. I deposited my belongings on a chair, and took stock.

I was relieved to find I was apparently the only person at the pool. I entered the pool slowly. The water was cold, much colder than it was the last time I was there -- about eight years ago.Bit by bit, I acclimated to the water; in the same way, it came to my attention that there was actually a young man sitting at the corner of the pool near the Jacuzzi and steam room. I pointedly disregarded him as I went through a series of pool exercises that I used to do three times per week. If I became self-conscious, I would never get through the routine that a physical therapist orchestrated for me. After all, did Degas brook interruptions as he worked? Twenty-five minutes later, I was cold. So cold.  

I stood up to get out of the water and discovered that my paper bathing suit clung to me like wet paper towel.  Ever feature of my body was covered, but somehow accentuated by the Tyvek. What was worse? Upon getting out, water formed a pillow around my middle. It appeared as if I were wearing a wet diaper, a very heavy, wet diaper.  The elastic around the legs of the suit was so tight that the water stayed put, not draining until I slipped a finger under each side of the suit and let it whoosh, gushing to the floor. The sensation was reminescent
of the first moments of going into labor.  

When I glanced down at myself, I laughed aloud. I looked absolutely and utterly ridiculous in my high fashion paper bathing suit plastered to my skin. I would have covered up with my towel, but it was my only towel and I wanted to reserve it for when I got out of the Jacuzzi. I was intent upon warming up.  I trundled over to the Jacuzzi where the same young man still sat perfectly still, with no distractions such as a phone, a book or an iPod. How many young men today sit in one place for half an hour? Just sit? It seemed odd and slightly off to me.  

I kept my backside out of view as I lowered into the 103 degree water. I submerged myself in the rolling cauldron of hot water quite blissfully. I must have dozed off. I woke when the Jacuzzi stopped.  The young man offered to turn it back on so I wouldn't have to get up to do so.  I declined at first, then thought better of my decision.  “Yes, please.” 

I was actually hoping that he might l e a v e in the next twelve minute cycle so I could make my very exposed exit just a little more privately.  Never mind the video cameras I noticed that were sending a live feed to the front desk of the gym (which is shared by a hotel.) Sigh.

As I contemplated how I ever got myself in this predicament, the young man said his most polite goodbyes.  It was at that moment that I focused on the electronic box strapped securely to his left ankle. That could not bode well. So, was I alone in a pool area wearing a wet napkin of a bathing suit with a seemingly polite young man or a hardened criminal under house arrest? Were there cameras still watching us?

After he took his leave, I skittled backward (bottom away from video camera) with my towel wrapped around me until I reached the door to the Women’s Locker Room. I pushed my way into the off-camera privacy. Just as I was peeling off my bathing suit, I caught a glimpse of a long-legged thin woman whom I did not recognize. Then it came to me -- it was my own reflection in the mirror! 

I LAUGHED OUT LOUD, the sound of my laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. I dressed quickly, still chuckling. As I pulled open the locker room door to head back up to the front desk and street level, I pondered what other humorous gaffes were in store for me. I turned to glance one last time at the screen behind the lobby desk that showed nine views of the pool area. The pool was glass smooth.

Heading to my car, my own laughter trailed behind me like a shadow.

The Sights of Sound

Low tide at Inkwell Beach, Oak Bluffs, MA

          Three sounds have served as regular companions in the ten days since I moved into a new condo. There is the persistent, but invasive, metronome of a battery-operated clock.  There are the footfalls of a young child with busy, sneaker-clad feet, and there is the crash and eddy of the waves as they strike the shore right outside my window. Each sound is associated with a clear visual image, sight is amplified by sound.

          I am a prisoner of the ticking clock.  It has the quality of Poe’s tell-tale heart kind of clock. When I become aware of it, it grows louder. No matter how far I go into the hinder  lands of my condo, the sound of the clock ticking follows me.  I had to move it out of the room adjoining my bedroom because it kept me awake. I put it in a corner on the other side of the great room.  Still, it persisted in its aggressive ticking. The only solution was to wrap it in bubble-wrap, cradle it in a blanket, and then bury it under pillows.  With this jury-rigged arrangement, the muted sound of the ticking clock barely reached me.  At long last, sleep crept toward me as the long arms of light started to stretch across the morning horizon.  Until the clock’s battery stops, or I cry “uncle,” and pull it out, the clock will continue its march toward the future, never tarrying in the present tense for more than a second.  In an odd way, it is a comforting reminder to me that I must make each moment count. Time waits for no man.  I may want to rail that I have less control over my world than I thought, but it will do me absolutely no good. Time keeps on its steady march.

       Another sound that often punctuates my day, particularly around 6:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., is the patter of loud, little feet. At times, they seem to be directly outside my front door. On other occasions, I hear them directly below me. I have finally identified them as belonging to a three-year old boy who is engaged is running rapidly from room to room in an apparent frenzy in his family’s condo below mine.  I have met the little boy who is catapulting himself busily from one thing to the next. For such a small child, he can be particularly loud during brief, intense bursts of activity.  Accompanying the feet, I sometimes hear him crying or laughing. I hear the reasonable tone of his parents (I have heard it rumored that they might both be attorneys), trying to discuss what other behaviors might be appropriate at any given moment. He is having none of it. I have grown to feel a certain affection toward the boy.  After all, my son would have been precisely the same had he been housed in a condominium complex rather than on a 12- acre spread in the country. Some children are naturally inquisitive, genetically-programmed with curiosity.  One thing leads to another and their feet serve to propel them on their inquiries.  It was a mere sixteen years ago that my son’s preschool director suggested he spend only half days in preschool.  The reason?  After lunch, the school schedule demanded nap-time.  My son rebelled.  His form of rebellion was to try to walk home.  It took one-on-one staff to child management to ensure he did not fly the coup.  He succeeded in escaping more than once, which made the administrators of the day care center reluctant to have his busy little feet under their supervision for more than five mornings per week.  I heard the faint tick of the clock then, It is even louder now.  The second hand sweeps  forward, forward, forward.

          The last intrusive sound where I am living is the vast and audial ocean.  The endless chorus is lulling. It is the background to everything I do. In a way, I feel carried by the ocean’s rhythm. It seems to echo my very heartbeat.  Living beside the ocean has made me realize that the sound of the ocean, whether gentle and calm or stormy and ferocious, is the translation of activity that takes place on distant and far away shores. The sound is my companion during the day and my source of solace at night. Its steady, rhythm seduces me. When I focus on the sound of the sea as it strikes the shore, all other thoughts recede from my awareness.  Even the ticking of the clock measuring the passage of time -- bows to the waves.   The child’s rambunctious and enthusiastic embrace of life recedes from awareness. 

         It is not necessary to measure; the ocean, with its own character and its own story, dominates my auditory system. Once upon a time, I fell sleep with the background sawing of my husband’s snoring and my dog’s slow, deep breathing.  These days, I fall asleep with the shush of the waves roiling, tumbling, and then....wait for it... wait...

the waves retreat. In the lassitude that comes just before sleep, the sound of breathing and the sound of the sea are as one.

          Like a familiar hymn, the ocean plays a song that I know by heart.  I am blessed by the soporific lullaby of the sea.  Just as I am about to fall asleep, it occurs that the clock, the child’s running sneakers and the vast and mighty sea are playing a song just for me.  Perhaps, if I listen just a little bit more closely, I will understand exactly what they mean to say.   

East Chop Estate Sale

   

view from East Chop

www.campmv.com

The northern tip of Martha’s Vineyard Island is defined by two peninsulas of land that protrude into the Vineyard Sound.   To the west is Vineyard Haven, to the East is Oak Bluffs. A further definition of these two protrusions is their distinction as “Chops” --

West Chop, in Vineyard Haven, and East Chop, in Oak Bluffs.  They both claim sentinel roles as watch-guards due to their lighthouses that sit on the furthermost tips of the land.

East Chop Lighthouse erected 1878. Coordinates: 41 28 13 N   70 34 03 W

www.newenglandlighthouses.net

West Chop first erected 1817. Coordinates: 41 28 51 N   70 35 59 W www.newenglandlighthouses.net

Saturday morning, I made date to visit a tag sale being held by a local establishment called Rainy Day. The owner alerted me that she was cleaning out her inventory and warehouse with her annual Fall Tag Sale. She knew that I am building a home on the Island, and she suggested she might have some things I could use.  “Show up at 9:30am,” she said, “The sale starts at 10!!”  When I set out, I was a few minutes early, so I decided to take a more circuitous route from Oak Bluffs to Vineyard Haven.  This involved touring the “Chop.”

An East Chop home

East Chop is a small, exclusive area of the Island.  It rests on the bluffs that overlook the Vineyard Sound. The road that hugs the curve of the land is the main thoroughfare.  However, traffic has been rerouted recently due to erosion of the cliffs.  I decided to turn into the fleshy part of the Chop on Saturday morning.  Even after fifty years, I find myself turned around and disoriented by the dead end dirt roads and the NO TRESPASSING signs that are nailed to posts and nearby trees.  For a land mass with little, if any, fencing, privacy is highly regarded and even more highly respected.  The houses on East Chop are not all of the variety of sixteen bedroom summer homes, but many are.  The taxes on these properties are astronomical.  Interwoven among the Q.E. II’s of shingle style architecture are a few On Time Ferries (the small two car ferry that runs between Edgartown and Chappaquidick) of American ranch design.  The entire twenty-five acre area is thick with scrub oaks that have been gnarled and twisted by the constant wind blowing down from the North.  Interspersed throughout the highland are small “parks.” These are small, open plots of land that are owned by the East Chop Association. They have been preserved in perpetuity. Also, East Chop has a Tennis Club (private, members only),  a Beach Club (private, members only) and a Yacht Club (private, members only).  These guarded Clubs contribute to the feeling of breathing rarified air on East Chop. 

As I toured the Chop on Saturday morning, my heart fluttered a little when I saw a sign reading, “Estate Sale.”  Those words speak of all kinds of promise that are not present when I see a hand-lettered sign for a “Tag Sale,” a “Garage Sale,” a “Yard Sale” and a “Moving Sale.”  The word ESTATE conjures up silver and paintings, fine linens and antiques.  I joined a queue of cars parked alongside a long driveway that passed over a small bridge.  Walking in, two buildings came into view.  One appeared to be a house, the other a barn of some sort.  There were an assortment of wooden chairs, oars and crates displayed outside.  Inside, about ten or twelve people were gathered in the kitchen and dining room -- picking over the detritus of an empty home.  One of most thoroughly bundled women (no heat on a cool, fall morning was explanation enough for me) encouraged us to look upstairs and in the bedrooms. There was an adjoining apartment as well as a workshop to look through she said.  There were partial sets of plastic plates, and well-use pots and pans. I saw pseudo-ceramic lamps -- I wasn’t quite sure what they were made of, but the color was scratching off to reveal something white and lumpy beneath.  There were a couple of beds and some tired bureaus. A fluffy down comforter that had been well-loved. The adjoining apartment was almost entirely tools.  I asked a price on the fireplace tool set.  When the owner named his price as $50, I knew we would be too far apart to make a deal.  I checked out a couple of oars that I could see using for decorative purposes, but they were out of my price range, and came in pairs only.  The barn was neat and the best organized area of the “Estate.”  If I had been a machinist, I would have cleaned up. I almost made an offer on a metal box filled with wrenches. Then my head cleared and I asked myself vital question, “What would you do with this?”  That question is the biggest and best technique I have to curb spending.  If I can not answer precisely the use and functionality of an item, I rarely consider buying it. 

When I picked over the Rainy Day Tag Sale, I found a table cloth and six napkins, a small bench, a candelabra, a decorative bamboo ladder and a small 20” Christmas tree.  I could see exactly how I would use each item in the present and the future. As it turned out, I didn’t have to go to an East Chop Estate Sale to come home feeling like I had made out like a millionaire.

Into town from East Chop -- just as beautiful!

A Columbus Day Lesson In Betrayal

Author in senior year of high school.

On the Friday of Columbus Day Weekend of my senior year in high school, I bought a bus ticket from Providence, Rhode Island to Saratoga Springs, Vermont.  It was my first trip to visit my boyfriend since he left for college.  We met three years earlier during the summer before I started tenth, and he started eleventh grade.  We both attended prep schools; mine was in Providence, his was in Saxtons River, Vermont.  Much of our romance was an epistolary affair. This was an age before cell phones.  There was a phone he shared with all the other boarders on his floor. His use was timed and very public. At my end, my family required that I reimburse my mother for all long distance calls.  Even with my part-time job and allowance, I had little money for phone charges between Rhode Island and Vermont; I had to pay for gas if I wanted to use my mother’s car.  Letters were cheap. They brought with them the excitement of delayed gratification and suspense.  We were both writers. It was our mileu.  To this day. the complete compendium of his letters to me still sit in a shoe box, tied with ribbon, in my basement. To give it a label? Steve was my first love. I was fifteen, he was sixteen. Our love was real, it was immediate and we sure we were the first to have discovered its power. We believed that Shakespeare almost had it right.

Our letters served to sustain us until we saw each other on holidays and over the summers. When we could, we played tennis, went biking, listened to music, watched movies and basked in having time to be together. For that reason, the fact that he was going to Skidmore 

and that I was still in high school did little to alter my understanding of our relationship. The summer before he went off to college, we talked about the “what ifs?” He suggested that he might want to start seeing other people. It seemed implausible since I was confident of his love and fidelity toward me.  I asked him to just tell me.

In retrospect, there were cues, of course. I was too understanding, trusting, accepting to believe that the small cracks I was seeing over the summer before he left were anything. Least of all, did I believe that they were indicative of his changing state of mind toward me. 

Steve met me at the Saratoga bus station in a little VW bug he said he borrowed from someone. I arrived in Saratoga on that Friday evening around ten pm. My parents were at our home on Martha’s Vineyard. They had grown accustomed to my close relationship with Steve and thought little of me spending a weekend with him. It was my first time on the Skidmore campus. While I knew it had recently gone co-ed, somehow, I didn’t expect to see the masses of women, everywhere, women. I think the enrollment consisted of only twenty  percent male students that year. Steve was in a co-ed dorm. As I recall, his room was part of a quad; four rooms shared a small common living area and two bathrooms.  He wanted to know if I wanted to go out and party. I can remember being put off by that. After a four hour bus ride, I wasn’t keen on going off to some crowded beer bash when I hadn’t seen him for six weeks. I told him so in a less direct way.  We ended up lying in each other’s arms and talking about all the things that had been happening in our lives.  I recall getting up at one point to take a shower. The shower head was very low and hit me in the chest.  I wondered what about a taller person, where did it hit Steve?  It was hard to get the shampoo out of my hair. I came back to lie beside him in his extra long twin bed. He told me how good I smelled. How good I felt. Like a cat, I remember arching under the pleasure of his words and touch. Then, he casually said in passing, there is someone I think you would like to meet. She’s a sophomore dance major and I have been getting to know her.  Maybe we can spend part of the day with her tomorrow.  A frisson of suspicion too strong to stifle ripped through me. “And who is this person?” I asked.

I think what stays with me most these forty years later is that he honestly did not seem to think it would matter to me. Later, I reflected on a conversation we had the previous Christmas when we were talking about morality and incest. He told me he was not sure that morality was anything more than an arbitrarily imposed mandate.  For example, if he said he had kissed his cousin who was visiting from England. Was that wrong? Did that make him a bad person? I thought he was positing an unlikely example. Later, I would wonder if he was telling me he had kissed his British cousin while we were still in a monogamous relationship. It felt like he wanted to push and explore the boundaries of what was the accepted societal norm.

All of this raced through my head while I was lying next to him, suddenly growing painfully aware of my near nudity. Suddenly wondering who was this person beside me.

Steve answered my question, “I’ve been seeing her. But I know you will like her and we can all hang out in the morning. When you get to know her, you will like her, too.” What, he was proposing I be the add-on? I believe he expected me to warm to the idea of being a close-knit threesome. I told him that I needed to go home.  Immediately.

He accused me of being immature, of being stuck in old-fashioned scruples that didn't apply to him.

As I got dressed, wearing many more layers than the room temperature dictated, I asked him to take me to the first bus out of there in the morning. Yet, he held me while I cried and ranted at his betrayal and his unkindness.  He said simply, “I didn’t want to hurt you, I thought we could all be friends.” 

Six hours later, I rode back to the Saratoga station in the dancer’s VW beetle.  My face was red and blotchy from crying.  

He kissed me. Later, I would label it “Our Last Kiss.” Sitting on the hard bus seat, I angled my head to look out of the tinted bus window, I could see the young man I had loved so much. He had both of his hands jammed in his jean pockets and a flannel shirt thrown over an old dingy tee that said Vermont Academy. I watched him until the bus was just about out of view of the Beetle. In a action that bespoke of dismissal, I saw him toss the keys, then catch them with the alternate hand.  He turned to head toward the car and go back to his dancer.

I cried and slept on the ride back to Providence. My shortage of Kleenex mandated that I sleep more than I cried. When I arrived at the Providence Bus Station with twenty dollars and my backpack  I had no way to get home. Almost everyone I knew was away for the weekend and I couldn’t afford a cab.  I used up all my dimes phoning people. Finally, I tracked down my best-friend who arrived in less than fifteen minutes. What kind of small, sweet irony that she, too, had a Beetle.  As she left me off in front of my empty house, she asked,
You sure you don’t want me to stay? I can change my plans... Really?” 

“Not at all, I’ll be fine.”

I hugged her.

In the silence of the empty house, I wailed. I lamented the end that I should have seen coming.  Instead, I had walked head on into betrayal for the first time. Steve seemed to want to couch it in terms of his avant-garde moral code. "No," I told myself, "this was not alright, no matter how he tried to spin it. He chose his dancer over me. "

This was not my first brush with betrayal, but, at the time, it felt like the biggest one. I can still remember observing that there was this small, still part of me that remained detached and apart from the part that was grieving. I promised myself that I would write about this someday. I was embarrassed to have been so naive and trusting.  Still, I reminded myself to pay attention to the details, because it would be those details that would bring my story to life.

And there it is, a gem of a truth, the heart of a writer can bear no waste.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

There is Only Now - an essay

One almost talks to the future. Like there is a conversation to be had about days and nights and bills and calendars yet to come.  But the conversation is put aside because today, the waves are choppy, swept into a froth by a Northeast gale. No room for quiet contemplation as shutters rattle and asphalt tiles fly off the roof like whirly-gigs riding the wind.  

The conversation about tomorrow is put aside today because the day is humid, hot and strips a soul of forward-moving energy. Focus is channeled toward cutting through the lazy, de-energizing  heat. The rising thermometer demands nothing more than things as they are; the What Is of now. The waves rolling to shore, redundant, constant, serve as a perfect reminder of what is, now. What is, a conversation stopper as much as any.  We ruminate on what was, we dwell on what will be, but with the heavy-limbed movement of a pregnant woman on a hot summer’s day, we dance awkwardly with what is. Regardless of what we do or what we think about it, the waves still roll to shore; an enduring object lesson for those who care to listen.

The conversation of what happens next is redirected. There is ice forming on the harbor. Small peaks of Ice on salt water, thick enough to cross with little running steps in winter boots that have steel-tipped toes.  Night out on the frozen harbor is an adrenaline rush. The moaning and cracking of the ice as it shifts keeps all senses alert for clear and present danger. The past and the future are as invisible as the crystalline cold, winter air. All focus is attuned to the lubdub, lubdub of a beating heart and the heavy breathing behind a scarf-wrapped face. Keep feet steady, keep safe out on the unforgiving and unpredictable ice.

The conversation about the future has no place on this rainy day. The skies are grey and wrung with water. The Sound is a trampoline for raindrops; they bounce off the taut water surface of the ocean rising, then falling. The waves, kicked up by the wind, crash louder than usual, drowning thoughts of yesterdays and laters, leaving only a drive to stay dry, stay warm, nestle into warm bed covers with a book, electricity to read said book, and a cup of tea.  Nothing else is matters.

The conversation about tomorrow should be the road less taken. Instead, we feel compelled to try to catch a glimpse of the road ahead.  The gypsy’s promise to read the tarot cards, reveal what is around the corner, is infinitely more seductive than staying firmly planted in now.
Now is where the Black Dog sails alongside the Alabama against a Vineyard sky so blue that a heart might be forever seared by its perfection. Now is where we can go to minimize all suffering and ameliorate all sorrow. Take the day, parse its into seconds,therein is only now.
there......there......there......there -
It’s when we insist on stringing them together in a continuum of past-present-future that 
we are apt to visit sorrow and loss.  In the stand-alone seconds, there (a red-winged blackbird takes flight across the autumn grass).....there (the chimes ring out a 100-year old hymn from the Methodist Campgrounds bell-tower).....there (the fragrant lavender blossoms leave their fragrant calling card wafting through the air an Indian summer day).....there ( the perfect orb of red sun breaks through the night bringing with it a new dawn.  

....there....
is only now. 

One almost talks to the future. Like there is a conversation to be had about days and nights and bills and calendars yet to come.  But the conversation is put aside because today, the waves are choppy, swept into a froth by a Northeast gale. No room for quiet contemplation as shutters rattle and asphalt tiles fly off the roof like whirly-gigs riding the wind.  

The conversation about tomorrow is put aside today because the day is humid, hot and strips a soul of forward-moving energy. Focus is channeled toward cutting through the lazy, de-energizing  heat. The rising thermometer demands nothing more than things as they are; the What Is of now. The waves rolling to shore, redundant, constant, serve as a perfect reminder of what is, now. What is, a conversation stopper as much as any.  We ruminate on what was, we dwell on what will be, but with the heavy-limbed movement of a pregnant woman on a hot summer’s day, we dance awkwardly with what is. Regardless of what we do or what we think about it, the waves still roll to shore; an enduring object lesson for those who care to listen.

The conversation of what happens next is redirected. There is ice forming on the harbor. Small peaks of Ice on salt water, thick enough to cross with little running steps in winter boots that have steel-tipped toes.  Night out on the frozen harbor is an adrenaline rush. The moaning and cracking of the ice as it shifts keeps all senses alert for clear and present danger. The past and the future are as invisible as the crystalline cold, winter air. All focus is attuned to the lubdub, lubdub of a beating heart and the heavy breathing behind a scarf-wrapped face. Keep feet steady, keep safe out on the unforgiving and unpredictable ice.

The conversation about the future has no place on this rainy day. The skies are grey and wrung with water. The Sound is a trampoline for raindrops; they bounce off the taut water surface of the ocean rising, then falling. The waves, kicked up by the wind, crash louder than usual, drowning thoughts of yesterdays and laters, leaving only a drive to stay dry, stay warm, nestle into warm bed covers with a book, electricity to read said book, and a cup of tea.  Nothing else is matters.

The conversation about tomorrow should be the road less taken. Instead, we feel compelled to try to catch a glimpse of the road ahead.  The gypsy’s promise to read the tarot cards, reveal what is around the corner, is infinitely more seductive than staying firmly planted in now.

Now is where the Black Dog sails alongside the Alabama against a Vineyard sky so blue that a heart might be forever seared by its perfection. Now is where we can go to minimize all suffering and ameliorate all sorrow. Take the day, parse its into seconds,therein is only now.

there......there......there......there -

It’s when we insist on stringing them together in a continuum of past-present-future that 

we are apt to visit sorrow and loss.  In the stand-alone seconds, there (a red-winged blackbird takes flight across the autumn grass).....there (the chimes ring out a 100-year old hymn from the Methodist Campgrounds bell-tower).....there (the fragrant lavender blossoms leave their fragrant calling card wafting through the air an Indian summer day).....there ( the perfect orb of red sun breaks through the night bringing with it a new dawn.  

....there....

is only now. 


If you are fearful, you’re living in the future, if you are depressed, you’re living in the past. Byron Katie

How a World Renowned Concert Pianist Played Piano for Me

Refica Elibay, concert pianist

 Last Saturday night, I had the most improbable experience.  I was sitting on my friend’s porch enjoying the view of the ocean, a glass of wine and the pleasure of visiting with some Mainland sojourners.  This month, I am fortunate enough to be the guest at a former bed and breakfast on Martha’s Vineyard.  It is twelve-bedroom affair with balconies and jaw-dropping views of the Vineyard Sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman walking while talking on her cell phone. She seemed to put on her brakes as she drew closer.  Finally, she stopped altogether.  As she crossed the street, I rose to greet her. Over the past four years since the B & B reverted back to private ownership, there have been frequent inquiries from former lodgers hoping to secure a room.  After a standard exchange of greetings, the woman asked if I was the owner. I explained I was a guest of the owner’s, but offered to be of help if I could. She introduced herself, her name rolling off her tongue too fast for me to retrieve it. She went on with her tale. She was a concert pianist who had stayed at this B & B for one week, six summers running when she was performing at the Katherine Cornell Theatre.  The Katherine Cornell Theatre offered her legitimacy, gravitas.  I was cordial and invited her in to see the place.  

She expressed joy to find that there had been few changes to the place that meant so much to her.  And the piano!  A Charles Norris of Boston (circa 1920) baby grand, the piano upon which she had so often practiced, was still in situ.  “Would you like to play?” Her face beamed with joy. Her answer was to simply sit down and, well -- play. She spied my music for Pachelbel’s Canon arrayed on the piano.  “You, you stand here,” she pointed to a spot slightly beside her to her left. “”Better for you to see my hands,” she said. With no more than the initial glance at the music, she launched into her own variation of the Canon. The woman brought a magnificent talent to that one hundred year old keyboard. Something inside of me let go. Tears rolled down my cheeks. 

Her method of instruction, which at first, seemed one of madness, was to play a piece then drill us on what it was, who was the composer?  And who was Lizst’s sister?  Then she would demonstrate an element of technique that would enhance anyone’s playing of the piece. Her didactic approach was engaging and somewhat daunting at times. Who did write Bolero.? And O Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring? From memory, she spilled music.  Her instruction included a thorough explanation of the importance of yin and yang in musical expression. Her one most important lesson was that, “ See, watch. Do you see how I don’t play the music? The music plays me.”

We brought her a glass of wine, and though she preferred red, she agreed to accept the chardonnay.  

Somewhat zany, but completely brilliant, this woman intrigued us. My friends had to take their leave, but not before we all exchanged names and contact information. No emails, she doesn’t do computers.  Finally, I saw her name Refica Elibay.  She played a bit more and then just the two of us settled on the sofa with cheese, crackers and crudites.  Refica regaled me with stories of her life. Born in Turkey, she has studied music since she was seven.  Her mother, a Russian ballerina, and her father, a Turk who specialized in animal husbandry, had three children. They sacrificed mightily in order that Refica and her sister could have the training they needed. Today, both sisters are concert pianists.  Refica lives in New York City, teaches and performs as engagements come up. Her sister is associated with a Berlin orchestra in Germany.  Though they see each other just once a year, there is a bond that exists between them that was forged by history and their love for music.  

Refica was a sensational conversationalist.  The clock seemed to fly from 7:45pm to 10:45pm in a matter of minutes. My yawns could no longer be suppressed. It was past my bedtime. I packed Refica a bag of food to take back to her room in a near-by B & B. Our discussion had run right through the dinner hour without our having noticed the exception.  Restaurants stop serving at ten. Refica was particularly grateful for the brownies that I made that afternoon.

I insisted on taking a few photos of her, and I have a short clip of her playing a song made famous by Judy Garland.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPEpJxo27yc&feature=em-upload_owner#action=share            Refica playing a song popularized by Judy Garland.

Can you name it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taVYJgrr3JI          Judy Garland singing the song.

Cheers from Refica
The song? I'm Always Chasing Rainbows.