Last blog from Paradise

The last thing I should be doing is writing, but shoulds should be eliminated.(Yes, I meant it to read that way)

Packing day, beautiful, sunny in the 80's, much like NY City.

Skip enjoyed his Jet Blue plane trips and time with his kids in MA. He is off at the Waffle House with Kay and Neil for breakfast. I just successfully balanced my checking account. I'm about to clean out the refrigerator, except for dinner stuff, throw or pack clothes, books, papers and collectibles into bags. If the Buick is overwhelmed there is always UPS, a route many people take.

If there were only more time...... I'd photograph some wonderful, (recent purchases are always wonderful, aren't they?,) in-expensive, but can't-live-without purchases. The fake snowy owl, looking like a stuffed owl, probably made out of pigeon feathers, with bright yellow eyes, perched on a fake log. ($15.00) It replaces or stands in for the painting that hung in the kitchen at 11 Spruce, the Beardsell of the Snowy Owl, primitive style, not exactly folk art. I think Virginia Beardsell was a trained artist. I hoped the family would leave a couple of her paintings, but I understand why they didn't. A WELCOME ABOARD life preserver, priceless, but actually ten or fifteen bucks. Other five to fifteen dollar items. The Weiner-mobile plastic bank was a great find. Years ago, in the 70's when I was collecting stuff, good stuff, postcards, photo cards, photographs, books, etc. a friend and I opined about the fact that someday people would be collecting plastic.

Back in the 70's postcards could be bought for $0.10, that's right ten cents. Now any slightly interesting card I've seen lately is a few dollars. Never thought I'd be the person talking about the good old days or as it's said now, "In the day." They weren't necessarily good old days. They were simply different days. As in, it is different now than it was then.

Cutting this short. Terrific day alone yesterday birding the North end of Fort DeSoto with many male, hooded (look it up in a bird book to get a visual, Olive back,Bright yellow underneath with a (duh) black hood, yellow cheek patch, much brighter in real life than in books, the contrast between the yellow and black is striking)warblers hopping around on the ground, in the trees at eye level or below. Beautiful views of Prarie warblers, bright yellow black stripes on their sides. White-eyed vireos, male and female. Bald Eagle, yellow crowned Night Heron, Reddish Egret doing its feeding dance, White ibis, wood storks, King birds, a Brown-crested flycatcher, a life bird for me and the best sighting of the day, nearly - a yellow rat snake.

It crawled out from behind a small palm tree, stretched itself across the dirt path many beachgoers were taking to the beach. I took some photos I'd like to send to you, if I only could get this blog/photo thing to work. I guarded the snake, knowing some, (I'll try to be nice) "kindly" old guy would come over and try to beat it to death with a stick.

The not-so-kindly grey-haired elderly "gentleman" came over as predicted, picked up a stick and began to poke at the snake. I spoke up, "You wouldn't like someone poking you with a stick, would you?" (I could have chosen my words better, but I was speaking first, thinking later) He looked at me, not too kindly.

He thought it might be poisonous. He was going to save others from getting hurt. I told the man, "This snake has as much right to live as we do. They are beneficial creatures. I don't think it is poisonous. I think we should leave it alone."

He, at his wife's urging went off looking disappointed, his opportunity to help others, poke a snake and who knows what defeated. As he left he said over his shoulder to me, "If someone steps on that snake, gets bitten and dies, it will be your fault."

I said, "That doesn't make a lot of sense."

At that point a nice family arrived, father, mother, a couple of kids. I suggested they walk around the snake. The woman said, "I hate snakes!" Not helpful. Everyone walked around.

As I stood there wondering what I was going to do a man came rushing up in a white shirt all excited. He had seen the snake from a distance. The snake was about three feet long, yellow and brown stripes totally spread across the path, maybe a couple of inches around, sort of. Other people went around, this guy started talking. He used to catch snakes as a kid, brought one in the house which crawled into his mother's bed. he was grounded for two weeks, etc.

Turns out his name is Mark. He's 54. I don't know why he told me that, except he mentioned that in relation to the fact he was out trying to get in shape, doing his "thousand steps" when he was accosted by three black men. "I try not to stereotype ( I think he said), but when that happens......" Luckily, he switched his thoughts back to the snake.

"I can pick it up and get it out of the way, where it won't get hurt," he said. "Hooray," I thought. I like snakes, but I have little expertise picking them up.

He picked up a stick, but he gently persuaded it to move out of the path. I had nudged it's nail to get it to move a little earlier, but it seemed quite content on the white, sand path. The snake coiled up, raised it's head and looked a little threatening. About then a huge truck pulled up with a park worker in it. Mark, optimistic Mark, thought the park guy would come over and help the snake. The park guy didn't like snakes. He was there to cut up some tree that had fallen somewhere nearby.

The snake, which I surmised might be a rat snake, too big for a garter snake, had come out in the sun and it almost looked like it had a diamond pattern inside the brown stripes on its side. "That could by a pygmy rattlesnake," the park worker informed us. "Did you see the signs about rattlesnakes over in the trees?"

I had spent the last two hours walking around in sandals under the trees, looking up at birds, occasionally down to avoid the fire ant mounds. I had seen no snakes and no signs about rattlesnakes. Facing off against a pygmy rattlesnake sounded like a bad idea to me, but Mark was undeterred. "Stay where you are," he shouted, I've got something in the trunk." He ran off. I stood by the snake, out of striking distance, I hoped.

He returned with some snorkel equipment, a white plastic bag and his cell phone. "Would you take a picture of me and the snake?" he asked. "I want to show this to my wife." "Of course, " I replied.

Mark, whose name I did not know yet, positioned himself near, but not too near to the snake. In the view finder of his cell phone I could not see the snake. I told him that. He seemed very dejected. "I'll take some photos with my camera and send them to you," I told him. "Would you?" "Great."

Hoping this was not a pygmy rattlesnake or if it was I was hoping this guy, Mark, was not going to be bitten by it, I positioned myself, as best I could to get the two of them in the photo. I took one, Mark didn't have his glasses, couldn't see in my viewfinder. I took another.

Just after the photo session, a woman approached me, seeing the binos around my neck, my long pants, long-sleeved shirt, etc. "Where were you seeing the long-billed curlew today?" she asked. I told her I remember where it was seen a couple of years ago. She smiled. "There are so many people on the beach I doubt it is in this vicinity," I suggested. She agreed and went off in another direction. She told me it had been sighted two days ago. As she left she said, "Nice yellow rat snake." "Yes!" I thought. None of us will be taken to the ER, at least not from this snake.

About then the snake, without the benefit of Mark's attention, uncoiled and started to slither. I guessed it was a climber. "You're right, You're right!" Mark, who talks as if he's in the middle of an emergency situation at all times and not handling it too well, calm as he was with the snake, sort of. The snake climbed the small palm and started up the oak tree. "Take a picture." Mark nearly shouted at me. Dutifully, I took a photo and a few more for good measure.

Mark gave me his e-mail address when I pulled out pen, paper. "Just like my wife." he said. "She carries everything with her." Turns out he lives in Newburyport, MA. He was married in Hellcamp Swamp on Plum Island where I've done a lot of birding over the years. He's a landscaper with 3/4 of an acre and a small white house he bought a year or two ago. "I waited until I knew I could afford it." He's built a huge butterfly garden everyone is amazed at, besides planting a list of plants he rattled off that didn't even sound vaguely familiar. "I love nature" Mark, picked up his snorkle stuff, his white plastic bag that was going to hold the snake while he transported it over to a more snake-friendly environment and headed for the beach where his wife was probably beginning to wonder what had happened to him. "You made my day," he shouted over his shoulder. I smiled and took one last photo of the snake sprawled across the branches of an overhanging tree, out of sight of beach goers.

Gotta go. Gotta pack. FAN

Truce

After some reflection, not a lot, no input from others, I've decided to establish a Moratorium on negative thoughts about Republicans, members of my family or other families, friends, strangers, etc. This isn't going to be easy. I'm not even sure it is possible to accomplish, but I know it is worth trying.

Negative thoughts, expressions, actions, don't help me on my journey. It is easy to be negative. It is easy to find fault with others or oneself. Complaining doesn't go very far toward solving problems. Thinking of solutions, taking positive steps to solve problems makes more sense to me. Stop bitching and do something!

After making this decision earlier today or yesterday or whenever it was, I was walking through the parking lot at Crescent Beach, Siesta Key, this evening. The beach nominated or designated as the Most Beautiful in the contiguous 48 states recently. It's O.K., but I like Katama or any beach on the South shore of the Vineyard as much or more than Crescent Beach. Crescent Beach is certainly wider. The sand is very fine, like powder almost. I like the sand I grew up with on the North Bluff or South Beach or The Bend before it was replenished.

But I digress. Walking through the parking lot with Kay, soon to be 85, Bradford, I spied a bumper sticker that said, "Think of something to do, Do it and Don't Bitch about it." Right On!

Why do I mention Kay's age? Because at almost 85 she is younger than a lot of people I know who are in their 50's or 60's. I wanted to go the the Sunday drumming event, which I've missed each Sunday. About 2 hours before sunset people arrive at the beach, some with drums, some without. Tonight there must have been a couple of hundred people. More dancing than drumming, but you get the picture. Guys in dreadlocks, women in tie-dye. Men with grey hair, women with jangley stuff around their hips doing a little hip-shaking. Young, teens, twenties, men, women, little kids dancing to the beat of all the drums and percussion instruments. Kay and I stood behind a line of drummers who had their back to us facing the dancers.

A policeman brought a beautiful child about 6 with jet black hair in curls though the crowd carrying her on his shoulder. The drums stopped. She was lost. A call went out, "Is anyone missing this child?" No response. The young girl looked over the heads of the dancers, drummers and bystanders. She was not smiling, but she did not look scared or teary. She looked around, no one came forward. Another call, "Is anyone missing a child?" Finally from the direction of the water past the edge of the on-lookers someone emerged and a cheer went up as the young child was reunited with someone. The drumming began again.

Kay and I bounced gingerly up and down to the music. Too many people around us to really dance. The drumming was pretty monotonous, but very tribal too. As the sun began to set for real we walked away from the crowd to see the large red ball sink into the distant ocean. A few people nearby applauded. The drumming continued. Kay and I both wished we had drums. I began thinking about the kids in NY City who beat on plastic pails with anything they can find. That's what I would like to do. Find a good sized empty plaster pail and hit it with a stick. Maybe I'll try that when I get back to NJ or the Vineyard. Why not? The last thing I need is more stuff. A drum? Buy a drum? I don't think so.

Back to being nice, talking nice, writing nice. Being critical or judgmental? Leave that to the professional critics. Constructive criticism can be helpful, but tearing things or people down might feel like fun, but think again. What does it accomplish? Often tearing others apart serves some people's need to make themselves feel better, but is it constructive or destructive? To others? To oneself?

Good Karma. Don't we all want to have Good Karma, not Bad Karma? The old expression, "What goes around comes around." Be good. Do Good.

Be mean. Say bad things. Think negative thoughts. Take negative actions. It all comes back to bite you, as in Bad karma.

So today Kay went to Sunrise Services out in front of the condos by the large swimming pool. I was invited by a couple of people, but I told them not to count on me. I missed the sunrise by a few minutes. I heard the sun rose out of the fog, looking like it was rising out of the water. Too bad I missed that, but missing the services was a positive for me.

Kay had nothing to do today. Everyone, or nearly everyone here has family visiting so they are occupied. I had planned to go to St. Petersburg today on the last day of the Fernando Botero show. When I found out they had a brunch I asked Kay if she would like to go and she was delighted. I'm not one for going to brunches, but the Museum of Fine Arts in St. Petersburg had their brunch in a lovely setting in the foyer. Napkins the color of Easter Eggs. Lots of food choices. It was leisurely and fun.

After brunch, 11:30 to 1:30, very leisurely, we toured the Botero exhibit. I was totally unfamiliar with his "Baroque World." Born in 1932 in Columbia Botero lives in Paris, New York, etc. etc. Plump, stubby figures are peculiar to his style of painting. Easy to see his influences, spelled out for us by the wall signs. Sculptures in bronze, marble kinda smallish, but large paintings. I love his bold colors, but I'd like to read more about him and his art. I'm not an instant fan, even though I admire many of the artists he admires.

After a tour though the permanent collections we took a drive around the marinas, past the SPYC. Lots of large sailboats docked, not moving on a lovely, warm afternoon. As I walked into one gallery in the permanent collection wing, I found myself facing a painting of a woman standing in front of the Harbor View Hotel in Edgartown. That was a nice surprise! The artist, Joseph Konopka. The women, perhaps his wife, painted in 1969. The painting titled, Harbor View. It consists of a large face-on or front view of the Harbor View from the path to the lighthouse. The Hotel almost overpowers the woman in the foreground, at least for me, whose interest was in the Hotel, not the woman. 1969, the year Kennedy went off the Dike Bridge. Who is Konopka? What was he doing there then? Where is he now?

Gotta go. Always too much to do. I haven't cracked the Times. I'd like to get a look at the 6'8" woman basketball player for Baylor. I need to get up early to get to Fort DeSoto in order to catch warbler migration coming in from the Gulf before the beach goers hit the beach, etc. etc. To say nothing about the amount of packing I need to do. Ouch!

But, I've got to say as easy as it was to get into St. Petersburg, it was not easy getting out of St. Petersburg. Kay and I could not find 275 South. We asked fellows wearing t-shirts lettered, Puerto Rico, who consulted with other Spanish-speakers before directing us around corners, down side-streets, a fellow selling papers on the corner who directed us toward the Tropicana Dome or whateverit is, two cops who looked like they were in the middle of a drug bust- two cruisers, two unmarked cop cars outside a house with red flashing lights on the roofs of the unmarked cars, when I shouted, "We're lost. How do we get to 275 South?" The cop's reply, "We're a little busy here." Then he pointed back toward the way we had come, across Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., a fellow, who needed to zip up his fly, directed us down an alley, past the piles of clothes on the sidewalk outside a shelter and St. Vincent de Paul donation center, past a very pregnant woman, men sitting in the shade, until finally we found a sign we eventually led us to 275 South.

After a quick swim in the pool, shower, the drumming, sunset and some expresso chip ice cream for dinner, a load of darks in the washer, now the drier it's been a busy day. I'd like to make these posts shorter and more readable, but I don't have the time. FAN

Loneliness

Forget about Hunter and his leather pants, for the moment. Forget about the cocktail party I had on Sunday night for 15 renters and owners here at Sun Rise Cove. I'll get back to those thoughts another day.

Let me tell you what happened to me recently. With any luck I can do this in five minutes. I want to get out to sit and read by the pool while the sun is shining, even though the NW wind is still blowing. Time by the sun is about 3:00 p.m. We leave this Paradise or Hell or Earth-it depends on my thoughts at any particular moment, a week from today.

Really it was a feeling, not a thought, that came over me. Loneliness. Out of the Blue. I haven't felt lonely in a long, long time. I'm not sure what prompted it. It has disappeared, but when it did appear it was, as my father might have said, "A son of a gun."

The last pages of Cheerful Money involve a son/father talk. Tad with his father, Dorie, or Day, as he called him. It was about his father's inability to communicate or his lack of communicating his feelings to his son, an old WASP trait, remoteness. I won't spoil the ending.

After reading the last few pages of the book I thought back on the remoteness of my family, the lack of outward affection, growing up feeling unloved, unwanted. I thought about those things a lot in my twenties. I thought I'd never surmount the loss of my father when I was 10, the only person I was pretty sure loved me. But, all that has been behind me for years. I rarely think about it or when I do I don't get sad. It was simply the way it was. Times change. Parents die. Life goes on.

My friends became my family. "You can choose your friends. You can't choose your family." I found that saying comforting. Often my friends chose me. That isn't always the best way to go about the friend thing.

Skip leaves tomorrow to spend Easter with his family, in this case his daughter, son-in-law, two grandchildren and perhaps his son and his wife and three kids. I'm happy to see him go off and spend some time with them. I am very happy to have some time alone. I grew up alone. I learned to enjoy my own company around my late twenties. My early twenties were not so happy.

Suddenly I realized how all alone I am. My parents are dead. My brother and his wife are dead, this last year. My sister should be dead, (Just kidding) My sister is far away, physically and emotionally. I have no children, luckily. I find my marriage to be more of a caretaking job or maid's job than anything else. Exactly what I always thought about marriage-a bad deal for a woman, at least a traditional marriage.

My husband-of-the- moment's kids, I'm told, I've offended. They are concerned about their father, but, I'm told they think I'm "deranged." I'm not counting on them for any solace. In fact I feel a little like it is Me against Them. Them being my husband and his children.

My friends are far away and have lives of their own. Today none of this sounds bad, but a couple of days ago I was hit with a strong wave of loneliness. After being surrounded by Republicans for two months It is a wonder I'm not certifiable.

Smiling, making conversation with very nice people, people who play tennis, as I do, sit by the pool, as I do, who read the papers or, at least, listen to the news, as I do, isn't so bad. Until those same "nice" people try to convince me there is no such thing as climate change or the health care "bill" is a "disaster." These people are worried about their premiums going up. They are worried they might have to pay more taxes.

What I would like to say to them is one of those pleasing to say things like. "Hello" There are people dying and going bankrupt because they lack health insurance while you sit near the pool complaining about your premiums going up.

Actually, the pleasing thing to say, for me, when confronted with a "I've got mine, How are you doing" kind of Republican who claims to be a Christian, but hopes not to see or hear about the poor, is "Drop Dead." I find that expression hits home with the elderly. They are so close to dropping dead and maybe hyperaware of their mortality or not. Somehow "Drop Dead" might feel as good as a forehand passing shot, but I wouldn't engage in that kind of talk.

A friend, who shall remain nameless, might simply tell the Republican, we won't cooperate, crowd to "Go Fuck Yourself." But I wouldn't say anything like that. I'd be accused of being crude. How crude is it to deny healthcare to 31 million Americans? Or pull up the gangplank after you are safely on the ship. The hand of compassion extended to the poor does not come from any of the Republicans I've met.

And I was doing so well about the divide between Republicans and Democrats. I had decided to call myself Independent so I could vote either way depending on the candidate and what the issues are, but let's face it. Can anyone who is a thinking, feeling human being vote Republican? I know I have lots of friends who do vote Republican. I try to look for the good in them and ignore the Republican in them.

Is there a Republican out there who cares about the poor, the Immigrants, Freedom of Choice, The Bill of Rights, The Constitution? Is there a Republican out there who doesn't live in a gated community? Do any of these Republicans know anyone who is poor or was poor? Perhaps they were once poor themselves. Have they forgotten what that is like? Have they ever lived in an inner city? How would they survive without amenities and The Wall Street Journal?

After this blog I may be feeling a little lonely, as all my Republican friends disown me, but after being among Republicans, mostly, for two months, I'm, quite frankly, sick of being around them. Sick of being nice to people who, I think, aren't very nice to whole sections of the population.

I'll carry on about loneliness later. I'm going for a swim. I'm reading Proust, Swann's Way and The New York Times, that Liberal Rag, taking a break from the Republicans.

FAN

Puttin' On The Blog 3/29

Courier type font today. Because I had to spend the best part of an hour downloading photos from my camera and I only had an hour to spend with the computer, I'll have to make this short, if I only could.

My latest idea for the leather pants? I'll wear them to Allen Whiting's open house, around the first Sunday of July or last Sunday of June or whenever it usually is. Everyone stands, mills around outdoors. Weather could be perfect for leather pants, cool to cold. From my observations over the years women in leather pants do not sit down nor do they want to. Stretch is the problem. Those men and women who wear leather pants and I'm not talking about riding leathers, as in motorcycles, who do sit down - stretched out leather in the rear area. Not good.

These pants are not, Thank God, skin tight. I had a friend, a fellow skier the year I ski-bummed in Vermont, Hunter Eng. Haven't spoken with him in so many years, have no idea what happened to him after he married a woman out on the West Coast. I was invited to the wedding, but couldn't make it. I remember doing an odd thing. I didn't R.S.V.P. in a timely manner, so I thought it logical to call. On his and her wedding day I called whatever number was on the invitation (invitations don't usuallly have phone numbers on them, do they?) and spoke with someone I'd never met or heard of. I wished them well. Funny, I remember where I was standing in the kitchen at 10 Kinnaird ST, Cambridge, but I don't remember much else.

Until I got married I had a real aversion to weddings. (No time to talk about Hunter Eng and his leather pants or how I feel about weddings these days. Later.) I had a real aversion to funerals also. I had to attend my step-father's funeral in 1977, which made it slightly easier to attend my mother's funeral in 1979. I've attended many, many funerals since of people I know/knew and never knew. Being married to a lawyer or attorney, if you prefer, who works with trusts, estates, which encompasses wills makes for attendance at a lot of funerals. At least it did over the last 12 years. Funerals have become much easier to take. Weddings I can usually take them or leave them.

Until my own wedding I didn't understand 1. How much they cost. (ours was remarkably inexpensive. $2,500 tops, I think) compared to people who spend $25,000. What a waste of money, I think, but to each his own. If it takes $25,000 to put on the type of celebration you want and you have the dough - Go for it. I think the money could be better spent on other things, but even people who work in the wedding industry have to make a living, I suppose.

The trouble with weddings or the thing that bothered me about them from the time I had to R.S.V.P. myself was this. You had to get "dressed up". I never liked getting dressed up. I never had anything to wear. I never wanted to spend my money on clothes suitable for a wedding.

Often I suspected the marriage was not going to last. Often they didn't. I didn't see weddings as happy events. I saw them as an end to each person's independence. Why would anyone want to get married? To legitimize the children? IS that necessary? Can anyone really predict and promise they will spend the rest of their lives with one person? At what emotional cost? What about death? Something omnipresent in my life. What about divorce? 50% divorce rate in the US was the statistic I read many years ago.

One of my father's favorite songs played by him on our family piano was, "Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Ole Gang Of Mine." I felt the pain in that music when I listened to him play the tune. I was under the age of nine.

Because I wanted to please my friends, they invited me I had to assume they wanted me there, I often would R.S.V.P in the affirmative, but on the day of the wedding I would look in my closet in a panic to find something to put on and find NOTHING TO WEAR. I would stay home rather than embarrass myself, my mother and my friends, by turning up in jeans or a denim skirt, my usual dress. This was my pattern back in the 60's, 70's.

For my family I did show up after the first wedding occurred and I displeased numbers of family. I missed my niece's first wedding because my mother, knowingly or not told me the wrong date. I didn't get an invitation of my own so I had to rely on her to tell me when it was. She told me it was on a Sunday on the Vineyard with the reception at the Harbor View in Edgartown. I thought Sunday was odd, but because I had a job which required me to work every other weekend and couldn't take a day off, easily, I replied to my mother telling her I can't make it.

Imagine my surprise when I was on the Vineyard the next weekend to find out the wedding had been on a Saturday. Duh! I was the only member of the family not there. My grandmother, in her 80's was even there, a big event at the time, and every one else, but me. Running into my brother at the Portuguese Feast was not pleasant. He didn't smile, didn't seem very happy to se me. I never explained to him what happened until the day after my mother died many, many years later. My brother and I were driving up to the funeral home to pick out her casket. For some reason I choose that moment to tell him what happened. I never did explain it to his daughter, my niece. My mother's dead, so is my brother. Too bad not to discuss it while we were all alive. I felt at the time my mother didn't want me to be there. I didn't get an invitation because, I assumed Deborah was saving on invitations, it is assumed in my family, or was, that of course the invitation is extended to my mother and silently to me. I never felt part of any family so I was not sure anyone wanted me there. I did find out by not going I offended numbers of people, I guess. It is hard to know what to do or it was difficult to know what to do. My choice was loyalty to work. I needed a job to support myself. I had no idea whether my family cared about me or not. I certainly found out from the cold shoulder I got from my brother that whether they wanted me there or not I was expected to be there, whether I got an invitation or not.

Funny thing was I met the guy Deborah was marrying sometime before the wedding. I was horrified, perhaps that's too strong. I was disappointed when I met him. I didn't take a liking to him. That's better. A Dentist to be. A friend of mine told a joke to him. It was not a very PC joke, but it was a funny joke as some non PC jokes were in the early 70's. This guy could not have been less amused. Something about him put me off, but I never mentioned it to anyone in the family. They got married without me and divorced without me. I did feel a little better about not attending when I heard the news. However, I felt terrible for my niece because she took the marriage vow thing so seriously. It was difficult for her, brought up Catholic with all the guilt that entails, to fail.

Gotta go. North West wind blowing, again. Better temps predicted for later in the week.

FAN

About the leather pants.

How I came to buying leather pants is, I hope, a short story. I've got a book to finish and I would like to get a good night's sleep.

Barbara and I were in Encore, the consignment shop on Main Street in downtown Sarasota. This shop helps to support the Women's Resource Center, which helps women retrain themselves and obtain employment. I'm pretty sure there is counseling for women, maybe a safe house, somewhere, for battered women, although there is probably a more PC name now, other than Battered women.

We had stopped in the Episcopal Thrift shop earlier and I found a couple of tennis tops for $2.00 each. Can't beat the price for a Bolle product. You can imagine our shock when we first went in to Encore, checked out a blouse and found out it was priced at $52.00!

I tried on a Cinderella type gown with a wonderful lime green organza full shirt and black velvet top. I was very happy it did not fit perfectly. It cost #155.00 and I don't really have any place to wear a Cinderella gown, at the moment. Another bright orange gown was also, not flattering and a novelty, at best. Barbara found a sale rack down in the back and handed in to the dressing room I occupied a black Eileen Fisher skirt, which fit perfectly. Cost $10.00. She also handed in the size 4 black or brownish leather pants. Cost. $14.00 I put them on and went out into the store. Barbara and all the ladies present decreed they fit perfectly. I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure, but it was obvious they had been there for a long time, being marked down over and over again until someone came in who could fit into them. I am that person.

What do I do with leather pants? For $14.00 I can wear them anywhere I please. I don't have to worry much about them. I do have to apologize for them, probably, because that's the way I am. I don't want anyone to think I went out to buy them specifically, nor do I want anyone to think I had them made, nor do I want anyone to think I think it is O.K. to wear leather pants.

What am I doing with these pants? They fit me, I'm told. That much I know or at least I'm told they fit me. One of the women shopping said they had been waiting for the right person to come along and the right person was/is you/me. I'm wondering where exactly I'll venture out in these pants. Time will tell, but when I do I'd appreciate an honest opinion. Do they fit me, really?

If they don't I can gladly donate them to someplace. If they do and I trust Barbara (I don't know all the ladies who were in the store)I'll have to adjust my attitude or maybe I'll wear them to someplace, sometime a couple of times and pass them on to? Maybe I'll enjoy wearing them. Who knows?

When I woke up this morning I had a number of topics in my head which I yearned to put on paper, which translates to putting on the blog. I like the idea of Puttin' on The Blog, as in Puttin' on the Ritz. I'm forgotten them now. Hooray! I can go back to my book. If I were to start opining about the reaction to the passage of the Health Care bill into law I might be here awhile. Aloha, FAN

Halleluejah! (SP) A swim in the pool

Finally, after spending an hour, not on the court, but at the court this a.m. I did play a few times in the overcast. The fog lowered until I could see it sweeping across the court, nearly hitting the deck.

Returning to the condo after 11 a.m. I began attacking the laundry. That done, I jumped into my faithful blue suit, took the book about Waspdowm I'm still reading, I headed to the pool about 3:15 p.m. The tennis crowd had taken over the good corner shielded from the wind, facing the sun. I said, "Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, etc. and seeing not an empty seat among the people I knew I found a chaise lounger in the sun, shielded from the wind, among strangers covered it with my two towels. It was warm enough today to take off my terry cloth robe and sit in paradise with a book for almost 2 hours. Two hours out of how many days, weeks, months? A great two hours.

During those 2 hours I put down the book and plopped into the 87 degree pool, alone, except for one woman doing very slow laps or some sort. I breast-stroked one way, scissor-kicked on my back another way. Got my hair good and wet, unlike all the women who bounce around in pool on a noodle up to their necks in the water wearing sun glasses and a visor, never wetting their perms or wave or whatever it is they are trying and succeeding in perserving.

Not for me, bobbing about with a noodle. I like to get wet For God's Sake. If I'm going for a swim, I'm going for a swim, not a Bob. I don't feel compelled to swim laps. I like to swim a little, float a little, look at the sky, the clouds, enjoy the temperature, color and warm of the water.

When I get out I don't want to rush into a towel. I like to drip dry. I walked over to my lounger, plopped down, closed my eyes and drank in the feeling of having taken a swim, the cool of water on my skin, the sun drying the water. Nothing I had to-do for the moment. No worries. Simple pleasures. At last!

The book is going well. I spent a couple of hours reading passages to Skip the other night. He told me he thought Tad Friend, the author, is a great writer. I think so too. Writing for the New Yorker takes a certain level of competence, if nothing else. Skip doesn't believe some of the stories in the book are true. Why he thinks they aren't true is not clear to me. And, frankly, who cares? They are great stories. Besides, why lie? Some of the stuff would be hard to make up. It is a memoir of Tad's life growing up in a WASP family. It is hilarious in places and oh so tragic. Like so many families. His description of WASP traits and events in his family I can relate to in my family, Skip's family and other families I've encountered over the years.

Yesterday I spent with my friend Barbara. It was a day we have once a year. We meet. We go to thrift shops, consignment shops. We have lunch. We look at stuff more than we buy. We enjoy ourselves. I came home with a couple of real bargains. I also came home with a sense of renewal. I'd had a day to be myself with a friend. Nothing beats that. Well, something might, but at this stage of my life, Nothing beats that.

Prepare yourselves. I bought something I rail against- a pair of leather pants. I could not live with my conscience if I ordered a pair of leather pants made to fit me. I would never pay to have leather pants made. I think of leather almost the way I think of fur-exploitive. I don't care to wear clothing that caused animals to be slaughtered for my benefit.

I do not eat veal. I try my best not to eat lambs. I don't want to eat pigs- they are reportedly smarter than dogs. How can I eat something that knows what a pig knows? People have taught pigs to type. I don't always hold out. I sometimes order a BLT. I might have two scrambled eggs and bacon. I have a great recipe for Hoppin' John that brings you Good Luck all year long for New Year's day. It contains chopped ham. So I'm no saint.

I do eat beef, if I eat any animal. At least only one animal is killed and lots of it's parts are eaten and used. Unlike eating scallops, where many, many living beings are killed so one human can eat one meal. Not good if you are against killing living beings. Each and every living thing has aright to keep on living as we have a right to keep on living until the body fails.

Who gave us, as humans, the right to kill things? Don't go to the Bible and start quoting scripture. It means nothing to me. It was written, most of it by men. You'll have to come up with a better reason than that.

I eat chicken and I'm not happy doing that. Chicken is probably less healthy than most things. Think of all that Salmonella running around on it and the eggs. I eat Salmon, wild caught if I can afford it. I can afford it because I don't buy veal, lamb etc. Of course I do buy lamb, ham etc to feed Skip, but I don't buy it for myself.

If I could walk the walk as well as talk the talk I would be a Vegan. I could have a clear conscience. But, I grew up eating meat. I'm served meat when I visit people's homes. I choose to eat meat myself sometimes when I go out to eat. I don't beat myself up about it. I enjoy it when it is served to me, but do I feel good about eating an animal with a face, big eyes, a heart, a brain, nerve endings and who knows what else? NO, of course not.

Could I kill an animal if I were hungry. I'm sure I could, but I would not choose to do that. I would and do avoid killing things. I'd rather eat rice, vegetables, fruit, cheese. I like nothing better than a good salad. Of course if I were a Vegan I'd have to give up Coffee ice cream. That would be painful. And I'd have to give up all dairy products. Not likely that I'm going to do that any time soon. Maybe a trip to India, immerse myself in another culture with other vegetarians and all those wonderful spices. If someone would show me how to cook like that. If I'd grown up eating Indian food, then I'd have a head start on the vegetarian thing. As it is now, it's very difficult to cook food I don't understand and sometimes don't even know what to call it. Better to buy Indian stuff from Whole foods in pre-mixed packages for around $3.00 Cook rice, heat the mixture. Voila Instant Vegetarian meal. No worries.

Back to the day with Barbara, but Wait. I'm suppose to be over at Kay's saying hello to some friends of hers. I'd better go. Later. FAN

W.W. Elvis

Webdings ThiT

The above type font was not feasible, nor all the other languages available. Why doesn't this blog have more choices for type font? I want to know.

Let me set the record straight about "Elvis" whose real name is Paul D. He lives up on the 4th floor and drives the Bright Red Corvette with the license plate W.W. Elvis. Asked by a friend to find out his story and curious myself, I happened to be opening the trunk to the car as Paul, lets call him Elvis though, patted the white Cadillac parked to the left of our car, two cars to the left of his. He explained to me why he had to pat the car and look up at someone in the doorway up on the 4th floor, but I really didn't understand exactly what he was saying.

Somehow I mentioned the Elvis plate and told me I was curious about it. He explained: It stands for World Wide Elvis, his business. He started collecting Elvis Pressley record jacket fronts years ago. Then he moved on to the backs, then to records issued in Japan, South Africa, etc. Pretty soon he had lots of Elvis records(not sure about memorabilia too). It began to get expensive, the collecting. He began to sell duplicates and found he could make money doing it. Years he spent doing the flea market circuit.

When I mentioned visiting Graceland with a group of Yale Alumni, he told me he had never made it to the house. He went to Memphis to a show, I guess. By this time he had 5 employees. Everyone became ill. He had to work the show alone. He figured out his expenses, travel, housing and figured he could have made more money staying at home.

Finally he has been liberated, in a sense, by the Internet. He has an office in Gulf Gate and a warehouse somewhere. He does all his business at his WW Elvis. com website, mails stuff off, collects money. I told him I had a friend who sells Civil War daguerreotypes, collectibles who held out keeping his shop for the contact with his customers, for one thing. Elvis told me he found people were more apt to spend thousands of dollars on Elvis CD's etc. over the Internet rather than person to person.

All the time I talked with Elvis I had a difficult time looking at him. It seems to me, but what do I know, Elvis has had a great deal of facial cosmetic surgery. I had a hard time looking at his face without feeling I was staring at his face. I'm not sure what he was attempting or the doctors were attempting, but something is a little amiss. I could not bring myself to ask him about that. I doubt I can ask him if he'd mind me taking a photo, but maybe that situation will change.

He wasn't reluctant to answer my questions. He seemed to enjoy talking about how he came to have the business he has. We talked a little about collecting. I told him I had gone from collecting post cards to collecting refrigerator doors and then cold-turkeyed on the collecting. He told me the oddest thing he had ever encountered people collecting was barbed wire.

There is a fellow I know who belongs to the Montclair Bird Club who has a small collection of barbed wire in his very, neat cellar along with lots of farm implements. I admired the different types of barbed wire he has, surprised to see the different twists and turns involved. Elvis understood about collecting, of course. Almost everything is collectible now, to someone. What he found amazing was an entire stadium full of people whose only collectible was barbed wire. I had to admit that was a powerful image.

So now we all know something more about Elvis/Paul, but I'm not sure I want to personally find out any more. I would like to take a photo of him sitting in his car, but it isn't likely I'll have the opportunity. We'll see.

About the Migration. Visited Pinecraft Park today and found four members of Sarasota Audubon looking around for the Swainson's Warbler spotted yesterday by another SA member. I'd read about it on the e-mail hot line and wandered over with Skip. I've never seen a Swainson's Warbler and I still haven't seen one.

However, I did spot an ovenbird, a Louisiana Waterthrush, a few vireos, red-eyed, blue-headed, white-eyed calling and yellow-throated. Two wonderful Barred Owls calling to each other. They have a couple of owlets in the park someplace. Not seen today. An alligator on the bank of the little stream, a couple of other migrants. The e-mail suggested Migration has begun. From what I saw I'd agree. That's encouraging.

Gotta Go. Got to get back to the great book I'm reading, tennis in the a.m. and lunch with Simone and her husband who are driving up from Naples. Plus I've still got a few things on the to-do list.

The only way to have a real vacation is to pack a book, binos, camera or not, a bathing suit, shorts and a couple of other items of clothing and fly to the Carribean, I think. Leave the to-do list, the phone, the computer, etc. behind. Or go North/West to ski country with a limited wardrobe and kindle. Another possibility. Maybe next year. Or India with or without a cushion. That might be best. FAN

Migration Begins!

Verdana today.

Yes, Tom there are lots of African Americans on East Chop or in the Highlands and they have been there for many years. Dorothy West being one of the most famous and Adam Clayton Powell. Is the last name correct? There is a plaque on the corner of the street leading to Dorothy West's house as part of the African American MV Trail with a man's name on it. I know it isn't former Senator Brooke. But, I may be mistaken about Powell.

The Choppers I know and the area on the Chop where the Choppers live are/is very lilly white. Well, not completely. Dr. Bob B's son married an African American woman.

In recent years one or two African American couples have joined the East Chop Tennis Club, but I have not seen them on the courts or at social events very often, at social events ever. I wish we could simply drop the African American title or Black (Is Black bad to say now? Is it non-PC?) I am well aware that "colored folks" as my mother described people is not on these days.

If people born in America who have ancestors born in Africa are called African Americans. Why aren't people born in America who have ancestors born in England called English Americans or French Americans or German Americans or Irish Americans, etc. Why are we still hung up about the color of someone's skin? So much so we have to designate a Politically Correct title for them. African American. Did people, we as a nation call African Americans, ask for this designation? I've forgotten. I thought for a while Black was O.K. As in Black is Beautiful. and The Black Panthers.

Anyhow, I'll relate a short story that happened to me and a couple of African Americans.

One evening around 5:00p.m. as a small group congregated on the porch of the ECTC at "the draw", the sign up time for courts for the next day is managed by drawing numbers, choosing a court and signing up on the chalk board for play for the next day, I noticed two African American women milling about on the porch. No one was talking with them. I assumed they must be new members or guests of members. It never occurred to me to ask, "Are you a member?" I wouldn't ask someone with "white" skin, a Caucasian, who I didn't know or hadn't seen before if they were a member. Why would I ask someone whose skin was dark? I also kinda thought if these two women were on the porch looking around they more than likely belonged there.

I said hello. One of the women was looking at the sign up sheet for Tuesday's, the next day's, Ladies Round Robin. Being helpful, I told them how it worked. Sign your name, arrive at 8:00 a.m., play 20 minutes, best of 5 games, move onto another court or stay if you win, etc. until 9:30 a.m. They thanked me, signed up and life went on.

The next morning the two women showed up, drew their card, went out on the court. I had drawn a different court. It is done by drawing cards from a pack and matching suites. Anyhow, the two women in their tennis clothes played around. I think they made it through the hour and a half before someone found out they did not belong to the club nor did they know anyone who did. They were renting someplace fairly near, but not too near, and I guess they didn't understand it was a Private Club for members and guests only!

No one said much about it. I'm sure I told a couple of people I knew that I had helped them to sign up without asking their status. It is up to the staff, I believe, to challenge interlopers and collect guest fees from members for their guests. No harm was done, I hope. I never did see them again. I was sorry I wasn't on the court with them and I don't know who "discovered" the "problem." There was a bit of a fuss, I think, because a member or two who hadn't bothered to sign up had arrived to play and found the list full. That was a little problem, but it never happened again that I heard about.

Most African Americans, I've heard, enjoy playing tennis at the tennis club owned by an African American on New York Avenue. However, there is no generality to be made. At Farm Neck I've seen all kinds of people playing tennis and golf. It shouldn't matter what the color of your skin is, only, I guess whether you've paid your dues. (No pun intended)

Gotta Go. I need to put on my Terry Cloth Robe, pack my warm, thick towels and go down to huddle by the pool while the sun is out. I've skipped the Watercolor Class Today. I don't want to paint things to look like things. I want to play with the paints. I don't think going to water color class is about that, but maybe I'll see if they'll tolerate me again next week. I'll sit over in the corner and try to get the blue to be as blue as it can be or the red or the yellow. My problem is figuring out where to put it on the page so that it is pleasing. Balance and all that. I just like to dabble with the paints, make wave shapes or watch the paint dry and see what color it becomes. Unfortunately after playing around, what is on the page isn't that pleasing to look at. I can recognize something that "speaks to me" when I see it, but I'm not sure I can create something I like to look at. Maybe being a critic would have been a better bet for me. But I haven't tried painting with watercolors enough yet to say,"I'm giving up watercolors."

Before I go let me pull the What'sitcalled? Ah, yes, The Curtain of Mercy over our three day trip. Maybe I can get to that another time. In the meantime I found a sunny spot, in the lee the other day, pulled up a beach chair and painted my toes a color called, "The Right Thing." I had two other choices I'll leave for another time. It was the first time I had painted my toes since I was, probably, a teenager. And after painting my toes, maybe once or twice, as a teenager I never did it again until now. I've never had a Pedicure. Something about all that spending money on one's self that rubs me the wrong way. That and the cancer-causing chemicals in the stuff to paint one's toes. The reason for doing it outside was to minimize breathing in the fumes of the awful stuff. The color, on the other hand, is great fun. Looking at my toes in my sandals does give me a chuckle. Maybe I'll try another photo of my toes down by the pool to e-mail to those craving to see my toes, in color.

Another event that needs chronicalling for those of you who entertain. Last night Skip invited our next door neighbors over for a drink. We had talked about getting together for a drink before they leave tomorrow. Skip's college friend, Amherst '51, Gilde and his wife Betty arrived in town and got in touch with Skip yesterday too. So Skip invited them over with the idea some of us would go out for a very cheap meal at Sweet Tomatoes.

Skip had decided against going to Myaka State park with Barbara and me. He opted for the Waffle House with Kay and Jack, but Jack had to back out due to his back injury and need for physical theraphy. As Barbara and I watched Crested Caracaras, Skip called me with the news of the plans he had made. It worked out fine. Barbara and I watched a little longer, saw a couple of Swallow-tailed Kites, saw and heard a Meadowlark and various other birds outside the Park. The Park itself did not have many birds due to the height of the water.

Anyhow, I stopped and picked up some cheese and crackers, a wonderful Feta cheese, cream cheese, spinach, etc. dip I can only find here and made it back to the condo with an hour to spare. When I arrived Skip was trying to figure out how to turn on the carpet sweeper or whatever it is the owner left for us. I got it going, quickly cleaned the two glass tables which need cleaning every time a person touches them, set out the stuff, jumped in the shower and into my duds as Sylvia and Leon, our next door neighbors arrived with gifts. Sylvia gave us some wine and cheese and crackers she had opened which she can't take back with her on the car/train. Betsy and Gilde arrived shortly thereafter.

Everything was going fine. Lots of conversation all around. I'd forgotten to buy myself any sparkling water to drink, so I was making do with a little tonic water with lime when I looked over at Sylvia. She was regaling us with the time she and Leon were invited to the Rockefeller's estate up the Hudson for lunch, everyone was rapt. In Sylvia's right hand was a glass of white wine. I hoped only I could see how dirty the glass was she was drinking out of. I almost gasped when I saw the greasy fingerprints, the marks around the rim. I watched as she sipped her wine. I did not jump up and grab her glass, Jerry Seinfeld style. You'll remember his aversion to dirt and bacteria of any kind.

I simply sat, smiled, and made conversation knowing I was the only person in the room who remembered the day I walked into the kitchen with the expectation of putting soap in the dishwasher before starting it. opened the door and found an empty dishwasher. Skip had come into the kitchen, thought the dishwasher contained clean dishes and had, uncharacteristically, taken it upon himself to empty the dishwasher. He had put a full load of dirty dishes away! I had tried to reconstruct what was in the dishwasher, but I had, obviously, failed. One wine glass had evaded my search and it was sitting in the hand of the former Chairwoman of the Planning Commission for the City of New York who had dined with the Rockefellers. I'll bet they did not give her a glass anywhere near as greasy as the one she now held.

How we found out about Sylvia's former job is another long story. What I admire most about Sylvia is the fact: She does not Cook! The first day I met her three years ago almost the first thing she asked me was, "Do you Cook?" "Yes," I replied, "but not all that well", or something like that. "I don't," she announced. You had to love her, immediately. The other thing I admire about Sylvia is her "forthrightness." She might be called "Outspoken."

When Gilde, otherwise known as Ralph and Betsy arrived they inquired of Sylvia something about her stay. "It has been an unmitigated disaster." was Sylvia's reply. "Not the people," she was quick to say, "but the weather." Tell it like it is Sylvia. She's a lot of fun.

Gotta go. FAN More about migration and, oh yeah, Elvis, another day.

Comments, i get comments......

Trebuchet, the computer tells me is this font. Is it?

Comments, I get comments and the /////// gets better by the week, and we something to find the happiness we seek. When we are typing together, cheek to cheek. That would be the paraphrased version of Dancing Cheek to Cheek that Sid Siegel, the local songwriter, lyricist, might not pen.

Anyhow, Thanks Tom for your comment and your previous comment. It is always good to know that someone, someone is out there in cyber-land reading, digesting, reflecting, even commenting. To others who have tried to comment and can't. Keep trying.

Yes, I do remember a certain woman who lived in East Chop. She wrote the East Chop column for The Gazette. I knew her when she was in her 80's before Alzheimer's took her away. She Summered on the Chop, probably all of her life. She knew everyone, of course, and reported on the social events, i.e., who was visiting, where they came from, where they had recently traveled to, the names of their children, the colleges they were attending, the honors they had received, the names of the family dog. She would often start the column with a sentence about the flora on the Chop. The beach plums were ripe. Sometimes something about the birdlife. Helen Meleney figured prominently in the bird lore.

i was lucky or unlucky enough to be sitting on the porch, after playing an 8:00 a.m. game or participating in the Tuesday Round Robin, with, most likely, a cup of decaf coffee colored by the articficial cream available, no sugar please, near Nancy and her husband Page, when she asked me about a bird calling from the top of a tree. Great-crested flycatcher, I told her. I made her column. It must have been a slow week for social news. It's can be fun, I think, to see your name in print, in a good way.

As Nancy aged, and she aged well, I did notice her memory begin to fail. As I sat on the porch next to her or a few seats down, she might turn to me and ask,"Who is that out on the court?" Me, a spouse of a member who became a member by accident of marriage in 1998. If I knew I told her, of course, knowing she was getting ready to write her column. Toward the end of her summers on the Vineyard she asked me more and more often about people, their spouses' names, their dog's names, that sort of thing. I was not a subject for the East Chop column. Skip and I did not live on the Chop. I slipped into the column by belonging to the ECTC and being on the porch after tennis. Our, Skip's and my, comings and goings belonged in the Edgartown column if they belonged anywhere. We did not have, nor did I care to have, our comings and goings reported on in the paper.

Nancy had beautiful blond hair - "Out of a bottle" as my step-father might have said. She had a wonderful face with some lines. How can you get to be in your eighties without some lines? Cosmetic surgery, perhaps. Her red lipstick was always freshly applied. Her blue eyes piercing. She was very sure she knew was was correct and what wasn't on and off the tennis court. She could be formidable, but I always remember her as being nice to me after I had been a member's spouse for a few years. When she made stinging comments about something, I often remained silent. No need to offend her.

She was fun on the tennis court. In her 80's she wasn't as nimble on her feet as she probably was in her youth.In a way she was more fun to play against than with. She tended to order her partners around, if I remember correctly. She knew what she wanted to have happen out there. She wanted to win. So when we did play together and we won our games she was delighted, not so much if we lost. She didn't have a regular game anymore, but she turned up for Round Robin in her whites.

She had developed, over the years, a horrific slice drop shot. I never knew when exactly it was coming, but I always knew, at some point, it was coming. The trick was to try to read her, so I could run flat out, or lunge toward the ball as it hit the ground near the net, me being in the backcourt, spun and fell off to where you weren't with your racquet. Nancy got such delight from winning a point that way, I almost enjoyed loosing the point, unless, I was able to anticipate her slice drop shot and make it to the ball and miraculously return it. She might have a joking, possibly biting, comment if that occurred. She didn't like to be defeated.

She couldn't run. Let's face it. The legs give out at some point or don't work that well. I made it a point not to try to drop shot her. I have never learned the technique, actually. I tried my best to play "fair". Some players, for some reason, think a drop shot isn't fair play. It's fair, just humiliating if you don't return it properly or worse, don't make it to the ball.

It may have been after the Memorial Service for Page, that I was in her home. There I saw pictures of her in her youth. She was a knockout blonde. Very beautiful. She had Southern airs. They lived someplace in the Carolinas in the Winter. I'm not sure what Page did for a living. He was in Navy? Was he a fighter pilot? He still wore a basecall cap with some military insignia on it that I do not recall. Someone with many years on the Chop could answer that question for me. After Page and Nancy stopped bicycling to the club for tennis I would see the approach of his yellow VW beetle pulling into the parking lot and know from a distance who to expect.

There were times as I rounded The bend heading for the ECTC around 7:45 in the morning I would see, coming toward me, the yellow VW beetle, Page at the wheel. I suspected, and Page confirmed for me, he was headed for the Edgartown Golf Club. Yup, they had a great life together until the last few years of dementia took over their faculities.

I was on the porch many years ago now when Page showed up to play tennis dressed in his whites, but looking a little closer I noticed those were his boxer shorts on over his whites. No one got the hook or pulled him off the court, but I didn't see him out on the court much after that. He left for the Winter and I'm not sure he ever returned. His Memorial Service was held in Union Chapel with the reception back at the house. Or was it the small Episcopal church by the Civil War Statue? Too many memorial services. They begin to run together.

After Page died, Nancy stayed in the Carolinas in the Summer. We heard she was living in an assisted living facility. The Alzheimer's that crippled Page eventually crippled her. I'm not sure the cause of death for either of them. Some Choppers would know.

There was a pretty long hiatus for the East Chop column at the Gazette. Nancy had stopped writing it a couple of years before she died and couldn't write it from the Carolinas. There was no East Chop column. One day, as I was walking off the porch I was approached by someone, I can't remember who, asking me who I thought ought to take over the column. I thought about it for a moment, suggested a name of a woman I thought made it her business to know other people's business and got in my car. She didn't make the cut.

Finally not that long ago, Rick Herrick began writing the East Chop column. I was surprised to see his name, expecting a woman - sexist that I must be. John Alley has written the West Tisbury column for years, but I didn't know Rick that well, didn't realize he was around all summer now. Not too long ago he wrote a book about the deadly effects of The Religious Right, The Evangelicals, I do believe. Right on!

So East Chop is being chronicled again. With Skip's purchase of The Haven of Bliss, it occurs to me right this minute, we, or at least Skip, may become subject matter. My house, slightly off the Chop in The Highlands is close enough to incur inquiry. If, after the party last evening, we are, or Skip is still on the waiting list for membership in the ECBC and makes the cut, we may be letting ourselves or at least, himself, in for noteriety. God Help US! Maybe Rick will be kind. He seems nice enough.

The Cold Front is approaching Big Time. The light rain predicted to beging around three this afternoon began as a deluge about five after nine this morning. I didn't even bother to get dressed to play tennis today. The grey clouds, the 20 knot wind, gusting to ? out of the South West has made the temperature tolerable, around 68, but as I write this, sitting at the desk in the "Billiard Room" using wifi, it is blowing, pouring. Wow! Sounds great.

I'm over my impatience with the weather. I was tolerating the cool temperatures and the cool NW wind just fine as everyone complained daily, until day before yesterday. That was the day I recognized my Good Karma may have dissipated. Friday I went down and sat by the pool, huddled in a terry cloth robe, sitting on a couple of think towels with no desire to actually go in the pool. No way. I had finally had it with the weather, with being in Florida. I was longing to be back on the Vineyard where Spring is approaching.

Last night's party cured whatever it was that had befallen me. It was fun to talk with Joci and Boyd, Carolyn, Patsy and Stuart ( is it Stuart? former CEO of Stanley Tools, I'm told) Jean and (Wally) Beth, our hostess, Ute, Jack, Austie and his "companion" whose name escapes me, but I'm sure she couldn't remember mine either, Sam and Joy( someone cluded me in to their names, I haven't seen them in a few years),etc. So odd to see everyone wearing their East Chop clothes in Florida. So odd to bring our booze and an hors d'orderves that I almost forgot to make my roast beef, horseradish, cream cheese, dark rye concoction, but I understood completely and congratulated Beth for making the effort of putting a party together.

They rent for 6 weeks in Nokomis and tried to locate East Choppers in this neck of the woods, successfully. No one could stock that much booze for a party and provide munchies while on vacation without a staff or caterers or more ambition than I have for that sort of thing. She had a brother, brother-in-law and their spouses there, a daughter somewhere there? There were others who I never did speak with. Can't talk with everyone, can I?

Our recent real estate purchases were the subject of a lot of conversation. The news was out, of course, before we got there. Not sure how, but I didn't expect to be bombarded with as much attention about it. I began to wonder if we what we had done was unusual?

Boyd was reassuring. He is still buying and selling real estate. He has four houses at the moment, I think. He has to be in his mid-eighties and is still buying property. He is buying in Florida, of all places, too. Why not? It is cheap. Wonder what will happen to the Florida stuff. Boyd offered me a rental for The Haven of Bliss for a week in August, if we want to rent weekly. I should probably follow up on that before too long. I haven't heard much on the rental front from our broker.

Another fellow, Sam, whose house I looked at after deciding to buy Beardsell and steering Skip to THe Haven of Bliss, at Jack's suggestion, told me that his experience told him it was impossible to get a decent rental for a property after November, suggesting, I guess, that we would fail miserably renting The Haven of Bliss. I spoke to him before Boyd told me he had friends of his daughter who would rent it for a week in August, so who knows? It is an adventure.

Everyone, to my superficial analysis, seemed delighted to have us "on the Chop" Everyone, but Austie, who Skip tells me is a kidder. I hope so. He approached me as if he had never seen me before, siddled up to me and from his superior height said, "There is a nasty rumoor going around. A nasty rumor that involves real estate." I assured him that I might be aware of that rumor. I mentioned he might not have heard about the name change of the house though. "The Haven of Bliss." "Oh, that's awful," he said. "I don't like that at all. I thought you might be bringing some respectability to Prospect Park." I assured him that we would not be bringing respectability to Prospect Park, far from it. Respectability was not something we aspired toward.

He looked down at me from a height, sizing me up it seemed, shook his head and wandered away to talk with Skip, I guess. Later on I was taking with someone who was asking me about our house in Edgartown. Austie's "companion" was at my right elbow, but had her back to me. I explained I had been dying to get out of Edgartown since I moved there in 1954. "Why would you want to do that?" Austie's companion whirled and asked me. "Most of my friends live in Edgartown," she announced proudly. Her too bright red lip[stick clashed a little with her too blond hair. I saw hints of gold jewelry and perhaps a designer scarf about her neck, the rest of her attire a blur what with her face so close to mine. "Edgartown is very pretty," I said and let it go at that.

We extricated ourselves at a reasonable hour, a little after 8:00 p.m. Not before Sam, the retired orthopedist from North Western ( I should have shown him my trigger finger on my Right hand that's still giving me fits. Not something I would actually do, but I am wondering what to do about the finger. This affliction is bound to interfere with my piano playing ability, the little that I have) whose house I toured after touring Beardsell and The Haven of Bliss, jumped up when a Tres leche cake, which I believe he brought to the party, was put on the table. "Come over here," he said to me.

He picked up a knife, he may have been an orthopedic surgeon, and began carving huge pieces of cake while telling me the delights of this cake. "Three Sugars?" I blurted out. My college Spanish had left me completely. "Three milk," he corrected. Something about pouring hot milk on something as something happens,?? I noticed what looked like mounds of whipped cream atop yellow cake and some chocolate drizzled over parts of the rectangular dessert. With approximately 30 to 40 people there he was making about 18 pieces out of a cake that could have served 30 to 40. He very adeptly put a rather large corner piece on a plate and handed it to me. I could see there was a lot more cream than there was cake.

Up until that moment I had consumed two celery sticks and sipped the rather terrible tasting "Light" voldka and tonic that a person who shall remain nameless had handed me at the start of the party. The vodka did not melt away into the tonic. In fact all I could taste was, I could be wrong, cheap vodka, not smooth, rather awful tasting. I'm not sure I was drinking tonic either. Luckily it was a very small clear plastic cup with a piece of lime in the bottom. I didn't finish the drink or have another. I was beginning to get hungry, so I accepted the Tres Leche cake. It was delicious. Tasted like real whipped cream. Yellow cake, moist, small amount of chocolate. Great stuff!

The first person I saw when we entered the party, after Bill and Beth, the host and hostess was Sam's wife, Joy. I had no idea who she was. She did not look vaguely familar. She approched me wearing the lime green I adore in a sweater set like top. "Why didn't you buy our house?" was the first thing out of her mouth. Her house? Who is this woman, I though?

Then I realized what her last name must be, but not her first name. I explained the fact we had bought two houses or pretty much agreed to the final purchses before we looked at hers, nice as it is. I found out later someone is, possibly, about to buy their house. They did not reduce the price of their house. They are asking above assessed value. it is a very neat, not clutter, house. Three campground houses put together after being moved to the

Chop. They have a view of the harbor from their side porch. She has lovely plantings around the house and plenty of parking. A plus is they live next door to Kim and Perry, friends at East Chop who live in Glen Ridge. Kim and I get our hair cut by the same guy, Alphonse, a couple of doors down the street from our apartment in the CBD, central business district. And Joy and Sam, Joci told me their names, live around the corner from Ute and Jack, class of 54 Amherst, Skip's brother Bob's class, the people I've known longest on the Chop.

However, the rooms are very small, it is vinyl sided, not obvious, but obvious to me. A good job of vinyl siding, if there is such a thing. It lacks the clutter of Haven of Bliss. It is not the Grande Dame of a house The Haven of Bliss is or could be.

Joci told me I had a lot of work to do at The Haven of Bliss. "Oh?"

"All the vines going through the walls," she said. I never saw those I thought to myself. She mentioned one of the sons had been up to do some work. I told her a landscaper had severly trimmed back a lot of the overgrowth, new roofs had been put on various places, other in adequacies brought up to snuff. He seemed relieved.

Many people asked what we are going to do about the parking problem. No access for a car on Prospect Park. "Walk in the path." I replied. "Park on Brewster. Use a cart to roll the groceries or whatever into the house." Could it be father than a city block? I don't think so. And on it went. Finally a number of men, Skip included, sat down in front of the large plasma TV to watch the basketball. It was definately time to leave. At least 10 men were lost to any possible conversation other than shouts and grunts.

As I left a woman who looked vaguely familiar, stopped me, introduced herself as a member of the board at the ECBC, told me she knew of our application and thought we would have no problem. We needed to wait as our names worked their way through the system. She lived in Colorado and I recognized her name, but I'm not sure when or if I've met her before. Perhaps I will again.

Indulging this guilty pleasure, writing on endlessly has to be better than sitting on the couch, filling my face full of things to munch on while watching college kids play basketball. This seems to be the preoccupation around the condo complex. I understand Kay's addiction to Ohio State, but what exactly is everyone else doing? Skip is back in the condo, alone, watching basketball. I don't mind watching a final game or even a couple of games, but sitting on the couch or lying on the couch reading is more my thing.

I've started this great, I started to say fabulous, book, Cheerful Money, by Tad Friend, Judy Hesser's son-in-law who writes for the New Yorker. Subtitle, Me, My Family and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor. It is so funny. Skip was amazed when I told him Tad spotted the year the WASP decline began, 1965. Skip, of course, hasn't noticed any decline particularly. He is, again, blissfully unaware of the greater society, at large. He lives happily in the 50's unless I alert him to certain advancements made in society since then. I'm not sure he would call them advancements. Women's rights being one. But he isn't here to defend himself and the private clubs he belongs to, as do I as a spouse or spouse of a member, so I'll have to wait until he is willing and able to have his say on the blog or I, in a fit of pique, or amusement, forget my resolve and do, as Tad has done, tell all.

From time to time i hear a chorus, or is it the solitary voice of my mother from my youth, saying, "Who cares?" as I write. She wouldn't have said ,"Who Cares?" She would have said much what Skip says, "Why do you have to spend so much time with that computer? Why don't you do something productive?" Then she might have given me a few examples of things I could do instead. Things I had no interest in pursuing. I've learned to put that long ago voice to rest and carry on. If I had listened to my mother I would never have gone to college, never studied Art, never enjoyed life very much. i would have worked unhappily at a profession I didn't enjoy. I never liked being a nurse. I always told people, "I worked as a nurse." It provided me with a living, but I was aware of the comments about nurses in those days. I thought of myself as (someone has come into the room I'm writing in, turned on the light and is talking to the person with him. It is distracting) a glorified stewardess without the glamour until I found some respect and flexablity being a Director of Nurses, such as it was. At least I got to make my own hours and I enjoyed being a part of cutting-edge research.

When I first graduated from nursing school I was too frightened to enjoy what I did. I did sense my usefullness when I worked in the medical/surgical intensive care unit. It was so easy to have someone croak, I had to be on my toes at all times, and I never did contribute, to my knowledge, to anyone's demise. I may have saved a couple of lives or made a few people's hospital stay less awful. The Emergency Room at Boston City Hospital wasn't all that I expected. I did see some amazing things. A couple with Leprosy. A multi-car crash on the Expressway. Gunshot and stab wounds on a Saturday night. Near chaos brought to orderliness on the night the whole East Coast blacked out in 1965. That is a long story, that night.

Most of the trauma cases arrived at the ER via ambulance. The EMTs had splinted the fractures, given first aid. Occassionally, someone would come in by themselves for assistance, but I do not recall ever putting on a splint. Bandages, yes. Morphine to men having heart attacks. And, the worse, mouth to mouth and CPR to an infant carried in by a fireman who almost threw the infant into my arms. The baby's limp body was too far gone to save.

Those jobs, intense, requiring full attention, good reactions, sensible, controlled responses in retrospectdid require some skill and were therefor somewhat rewarding. Rewarding to know I hadnt killed anyone. I didn't make any medication errors. I got the oxygen, the suction the whatever it was and knew how to apply it. But those jobs, especially the ER caused burn out. After a year I had had enough. By that time I was reacting to the emergency condition not to the person. I didn't have time to fetch a face cloth to wash someone's face or a moment to say much more than the reassurance, "It's going to be O.K. You're going to fine." You're in the Emergency Room. The doctor is on the way. We're sending you up to surgery or to maternity" or wherever we were sending them for continued care.I was tired of the "regulars" "drunks" some people called them who ended up at the ER to have a warm room and a jitney to lie on. Who sang me songs when I went in to check on them. Or the others who used the place as a doctor's office and got upset when they weren't treated immediately for a sore throat or some other minor complaint. People who didn't want to be referred to a clinic appointment and routinely abused me verbally when I tried to explain to them, "There are people here who need Emergency care, we can not look at your bunion right no." Those were the days when patients were not allowed to have a friend or relative with them in the exam rooms. Those people were left to the waiting room.

I was the nurse in charge of the Emergency Room one evening- Women's side to the Right- Men and Children to the Left- when a fellow who could not wait another moment to see his friend who was undergoing minor surgery in one of the rooms, came around into the space I occupied both hands outstretched for my throat when I tried to explain his friend would be a little longer with the doctors. The policeman on duty on the ER happened to be in the room with me. A little guy, I thought I was about to be in big trouble. This little guy jumped up from his seat and appeared much larger than I had remembered him as he rushed to save me from the strangler. The visitor backed off and went back to the waiting room. He later came back to the window and apologized for his outburst. I accepted his apology and told him I understood his frustration. His friend survived and went up to some ward, the two of them never to be seen again by me. Have I written this on the blog previously?

This could be the all time longest blog written by me. Enough. Gotta go. FAN