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