The Storm has A Name Day 22 Y2

The wind kicks up.

In the house where I am staying, there is a framed poster of Martha’s Vineyard.  Completed in 1984 by Dana Gaines, it is a favorite of mine.  So much so in fact, that when my husband and I wanted to give our daughter a house-warming gift for her first solo apartment, it was what we chose.  The local storeowner seemed a bit sad when she wrapped the framed print for me.  She said it was her last one and she didn’t believe she would be able to replace it. Around the map of the Island, written in precise architectural lettering are brief descriptive passages about some of the most famous, endearing, common and unique places on the Island.  In addition, the artist's rendition of the map includes many of the definitions of the Native American words that we use so frequently here that we have lost track of their origin.  

For example:

Pocha - where there is a breaking in

Katama - crab-fishing ground

Chappaquiddick - the separated island

Wequobsque - at the ending rock

Squibnocket - place where the red ground nut grows

Menemsha - the observation tree

Tashmoo - at the great spring

Sengekontacket - at the bursting forth of the tidal stream

CaPoag - A refuge or haven

What I have come to see is that anything worth observing seemed worthy of naming in the ancient traditions of Native Americans.  

As I sit, hunkered down in this snug little cottage with a view on a windswept world, I see the outside edge of a  large weather system advancing on the Island.  Earlier in the day, I took a ride to check out the surf and the beaches.  I had the good fortune to watch a competition of kite-boarders perform speed and aerial events.  My camera could take only so much of the rain and the sea spray.  The rest had to be recorded in my memories.  As I drove home, I slowed down to watch the force of great waves breaking over the sea wall along the Vineyard Sound. An SUV had parked directly under the wall, and, as in a car-wash, it was being subjected to a battery of water and salt with each grand eruption of a wave. Each wave carried with it heavy loads of sand, in effect, depositing it on the road.  A couple more days of accumulation could block traffic completely.  I have seen that happen on numerous occasions.  The road department brings a small backhoe to undue nature’s handiwork.  It was in that moment of quiet reflection that I caught myself in a vocal guffaw.  

There’s a reason this storm is called Hurricane Sandy.  

  

Parlez-vous Francais?

At one time in my life, I was close to fluent in French. I was able to read anything put before me. I could understand 90% of what was said to me. I could respond coherently 75% of the time. This is not braggadocio; it is fact. Today, I realize those skills, honed over twelve years of study through elementary school, high school and college, have sadly atrophied. I am disappointed that I let those abilities lapse. The thought of retooling them is intimidating. However, I am up for a challenge.
I was last in France five years ago. My verbal skills embarrassed me quite frankly. Inexplicably, I could still understand most of what was said to me, however, my responses were, at times, comical to even me. For example, a translation of some well-intended statement might be,
“Will we be attending yesterday’s party if it rains tomorrow?” Oh, if only the earth could swallow me. Trust a Frenchmen to feel the correct prononciation was more important than even content. I was openly tutored in dialogue by children, redressed by verb choice by strangers, and prodded by my French friends to express my thoughts fully – even it meant they had to prompt vocabulary that was locked somewhere in the deepest vault of my mind. Just as in school, my saving grace was my literary ease. I could read newspapers, menus and signage. I just went shocky when I had to call for a cab on my own. Oy! The telephone. If making myself understood in person presented obstacles, the phone was the Great Wall of China in communications.
Part of my overall self-improvement campaign this year involves addressing this weakness. I have a three-pronged solution. First, I have written a friend in France to ask her to send me the title of a popular book that she thinks I might enjoy reading. I will slowly, with dictionary in hand (I actually still use my Larousse French-French Dictionary, maybe it’s time to think of using the online version?.....) begin the laborious task of reigniting the dormant language part of my brain. I will order the title and work my way through.
Second, I perused various French language programs to purchase. I went with the Pinsleur Approach. Intuitively, the way it is taught seems well-adapted to the way I learn. Finally, I am watching ticket prices for France. I would like to go next June. I have an invitation to spend some time outside of Paris as well as at a friend’s summer home several hours south of Paris. That’s the Big Ticket incentive to improve my French. If that fails, there is always Montreal.


If you want to learn, too: http://www.pimsleurapproach.com/