The Vineyard We Knew

That's author Kevin Parham at bottom right of the photo, with his cousins Charlene and Vincent Guess.

That’s author Kevin Parham at bottom right in the photo, with his cousins Charlene and Vincent Guess.

Everybody elsewhere knows all about Martha’s Vineyard. They’ve read about it on the newspapers. They’ve seen it on TV. The president vacations there, right?

Plenty of books mention the Vineyard, or use it as a backdrop. Few are those that see Martha’s Vineyard from the inside.

These books are precious. Such a one is Kevin Parham’s The Vineyard We Knew: A Recollection of Summers on Martha’s Vineyard (Plymouth, MA: Pria Publishing, 2014). Shelve it next to Through a Ruby Window, storyteller Susan Klein’s tales of growing up on Martha’s Vineyard in the 1950s and ’60s. On the other side put Jill Nelson’s Finding Martha’s Vineyard: African Americans at Home on an Island. 

Halfway through the book the chapter “Turbulent Times” reminds us what was going on in the wider world, but the heart of The Vineyard We Knew is a kid’s-eye view of the island in the late 1950s and especially the ’60s. Every summer Kevin, his older siblings Joanne and Chuck and younger sister Dierdre, and their cousins Charlene, Vince, and Carmella, come from the Boston area to stay with their grandmother, Caroline “Carrie” White. The first chapter, “Beginnings,” recounts the journey they made every year, from Boston to Woods Hole, across Vineyard Sound on the ferry, and finally to Carrie’s little house on Pacific Avenue in Oak Bluffs.

As vividly evoked in the book, both the house and Nana, as Carrie was known to her grandkids, are more than a little scary. The house is forever leaking, sagging, or threatening to collapse. Nana is a strict disciplinarian with a leather strap hanging ready on the wall for anyone who challenges her authority, especially at the supper table. One evening Nana comes home from having a few cocktails with a neighbor. She’s “beyond the point of being tipsy — she was stone drunk,” Kevin remembers. She’s too inebriated to notice that a dirty rag has made its way into the chicken she has prepared for supper, and too stubborn to see it when Charlene points it out. Charlene’s ingenuity saves them all from “rag-encrusted chicken.”

Nevertheless, the adult reader can’t help marveling that every summer, for the whole summer, Nana takes as many as seven grandchildren into her tiny home  so that the kids will be supervised while their parents work. And while Nana herself works, as cook to a wealthy white family on East Chop.

Not closely supervised, mind you. During these decades, summer vacation was a long stretch of days for kids to explore and  have adventures — not only on Martha’s Vineyard but where I grew up west of Boston. Kevin Parham’s memoir includes a couple of incidents that could have had dire results. Cousin Carmella, clearly a rebel, sneaks a boyfriend into the house. Six kids go bike riding on pitch-dark East Chop and almost get hit by a car.

In general, though, the worst threat is that of Nana’s leather strap. At first, Kevin — the next-to-youngest of this band of cousins — tags along behind the older kids. They go swimming and clamming; they spook each other in nearby Oak Grove Cemetery. Then he’s biking around the island on his trusty three-speed, alone or with his siblings and cousins. On an expedition with cousin Vince to watch the ferry come into Vineyard Haven, Kevin hits the front brakes too hard and flies over the handlebars. Bruised and scraped and berating himself for his foolishness, he bikes home with Vince. Nana swabs his wounds with hydrogen peroxide. The next morning he’s out biking again.

The Vineyard We Knew winds down as Kevin reaches adolescence: first car, first romance . . . One January in the early 1970s, Kevin, now a budding teenage musician, returns with his R&B band to play a dance at the island’s youth center, on State Road at the head of Main, where Edu Comp is now. Despite a blown fuse that temporarily silences the electric instruments, the gig is a success. Significantly, it’s a visit to off-season Martha’s Vineyard that makes Kevin think that “there might be something to this music thing.”

He went on to become a professional musician as well as an executive and, now, an author. And his relationship with Martha’s Vineyard has continued to this day.

Because of the memoir’s tight focus on the child’s Vineyard summers, we don’t learn much about Beatrice, Kevin’s remarkable mother, until the very end of the book. In October 2008, the cousins, other family members, and friends gather for Bea’s memorial service, in an Oak Bluffs Victorian with a view of the ocean. Part of Kevin’s eulogy for her is reprinted here. It makes clear that though we didn’t see much of Bea in the book’s earlier chapters, she was never far away.

The Vineyard We Knew can be ordered through Pria Publishing, its publisher.

Kevin Parham will speak about his book on July 24, 6:30 p.m., at the Oak Bluffs library. The setting couldn’t be more appropriate: the library was built on the site of Nana’s house, which was destroyed by arson in 1994. On the library grounds, there’s now a bench dedicated to the memory of Carrie White and her daughter Bea.

 

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Best 4th of July Ever

Hurricane Arthur, first of the season, dealt us a glancing blow on Friday. In anticipation, most July 4th activities, including the big parade in Edgartown, were postponed till Saturday. So my 4th of July actually took place on the 3rd, 5th, and 6th, but that made for a pretty clunky headine: “Best 3rd, 5th, and 6th of July Ever”? I don’t think so.

The 4th of July has never been my holiday. Chalk it up to coming of age during the Vietnam War, and being born six years after World War II ended. My father served in World War II. He rarely talked about it. He didn’t use his military service as a club to hit others over the head with. After I read Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 for the first time, probably when I was still in high school or not long after, my father said that of all the WWII books he’d read, Catch-22 best described his wartime experience.

I’ve got great respect for the “founding fathers.” Flawed they were, but they were visionaries, and they were out there, thinking, taking risks, leading. I suspect many of them would be bemused or worse by the religion that “patriotism” has become. Or perhaps not.

So this year, after decades of not flying, saluting, or pledging allegiance to the flag; of sticking flag stamps on my envelopes upside down; of trying to live with, understand, and shape my undeniable Americanness, I finally got seduced into celebrating the 4th of July.

Frederick Douglass

Frederick Douglass

Through the usual combination of coincidences and connections, I was asked to participate in a reading of Frederick Douglass’s 4th of July speech from 1852, “What to the Slave Is the 4th of July?”

I found it online and read it all the way through. I don’t think I’d ever done that before. Then I read it out loud all the way through.

Wow wow wow.

This is one amazing speech. Talk about “speaking truth to power.” Douglass was invited to speak by white people, he was speaking to mostly white people, and he pulled no punches about slavery, the excuses made for slavery, and the undeniable hypocrisy of slavery for anyone who professed to believe in the Declaration of Independence or Christian teachings.

From the platform at Corinthian Hall, Rochester, New York, he refused his listeners the complacency and comfort and self-congratulation that they were probably seeking. Of July 4, 1776, he said:

To say now that America was right, and England wrong, is exceedingly easy. Everybody can say it; the dastard, not less than the noble brave, can flippantly discant on the tyranny of England towards the American Colonies. It is fashionable to do so; but there was a time when, to pronounce against England, and in favor of the cause of the colonies, tried men’s souls. They who did so were accounted in their day plotters of mischief, agitators and rebels, dangerous men. To side with the right against the wrong, with the weak against the strong, and with the oppressed against the oppressor! here lies the merit, and the one which, of all others, seems unfashionable in our day. The cause of liberty may be stabbed by the men who glory in the deeds of your fathers.

We read it twice, first in the studios of MVTV, the local public-access station, on July 3rd. I’d never read off a teleprompter before, but I managed.

My part came in the middle, where Douglass challenged those among his listeners who thought the abolitionists were hurting their own cause by “denouncing” and “rebuking” too much, instead of trying to persuade the unpersuaded. (Sound familiar?) To them, he said: “But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued.” Slaveholders and their supporters already know that the slaves are human beings.

The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that Southern statute books are covered with enactments forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the slave to read or to write. When you can point to any such laws in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the manhood of the slave.

The second reading was at the Inkwell beach in Oak Bluffs. Scheduled for July 4th, it was postponed to the 5th by Arthur. The 5th could not have been a more perfect day. We 20 or so readers, black and white, male and female, stood on the sand against a backdrop of blue sea and blue sky. Abigail McGrath of Renaissance House, a retreat for writers and artists in Oak Bluffs and sponsor of the Douglass reading, introduced the speech. (I’m just to the right of the microphone, script in hand.)

20140705 abby & readers

Each of us had entered the TV studio alone, and addressed only the teleprompter. Now we could see the audience, and each other.

20140705 audience 2

That’s MVTV cameraman Jan Karna behind the camera at right. Behind him in the yellow shirt is Makani Themba, the organized and unflappable stage manager of the event, and behind her are the tables around which we all gathered for a potluck afterward.

20140705 audience 3

On Sunday, the U.S. Slave Song Project‘s Spirituals Choir, in which I sing, performed for at Lola’s, a restaurant that specializes in southern seafood, live music, and Sunday brunch — which we got to enjoy when we were done. To sing the slave songs with Frederick Douglass’s Fourth of July speech so fresh in my mind — this capped my best Fourth of July weekend ever. This Fourth wasn’t about complacency and self-congratulation. It was about memory and challenge, and about sharing the day(s) with others.

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Moped Accident

Day before yesterday a moped crashed into a pickup on a stretch of road I know well: the stretch where it’s South Road, Chilmark, on one side and State Road, West Tisbury, on the other. This is where Rainbow Farm used to be, where the Grey Barn and Farm is now, and where President Obama and his family have stayed on their recent visits.

Moped accidents aren’t uncommon in the summer months. This one was unusual in two respects. The moped driver, Alex Garcia, was killed. He wasn’t inexperienced, either: he worked for Sun & Fun, a moped rental business in Oak Bluffs, and was the brother-in-law of Don Gregory Jr., Sun & Fun’s owner.

After a serious moped accident, the cry always goes up: “Ban mopeds! Ban moped rentals!” This time the demand seems muted, at least in the comments made on the websites of the Vineyard Gazette and the Martha’s Vineyard Times. Both drivers had Vineyard connections. Alex Garcia wasn’t the stereotypical moped rider whom so many of us love to ridicule. It’s harder to take potshots at people when, even if you don’t know them personally, you probably have friends who are friends of theirs.

moped stickerMost everyone on Martha’s Vineyard has an opinion about mopeds, however, and most of those opinions are negative. MOPEDS ARE DANGEROUS bumper stickers are a common sight on Vineyard roads. They feature the international “no” symbol superimposed on a panicked rider flying off a moped.

Rearrangements of the above sticker are also common. Here's one of my favorites.

Rearrangements of the above sticker are also common. Here’s one of my favorites.

The stickers surfaced during a grassroots anti-moped campaign in the late 1980s. I was a barely fledged year-rounder at the time and at first I didn’t get it: Why were people so fired up about mopeds when other problems were more pressing? I, along with an estimated 20 percent of the island’s year-round population, was moving twice a year because I couldn’t find an affordable year-round rental, but it seemed as though the only ones who took this problem seriously were those whose lives were dislocated by it. Now “the housing crisis” is on everyone’s lips. Back then? Not so much.

Then it dawned on me that banning mopeds was a perfect political issue. Consider:

  • Moped riders are day-trippers. We don’t know any of them personally. They don’t vote or pay taxes here. They don’t even spend much money here: mopeds are cheap transportation, and moped riders are cheap.
  • The owners of moped rental agencies do vote and pay taxes here, but they are few and (in the late ’80s, when the first big anti-moped campaign arose) not very well liked.
  • Banning mopeds was for the moped riders’ own good. Statistics about moped accidents were printed in the papers, along with accounts of the more serious accidents. Both the reporting and public opinion had a couple of notable subtexts. One was “if the hospital’s emergency room is so busy with moped casualties, who will take care of your grandpa when he has a heart attack?” The other was “moped riders are too stupid to take care of themselves.” And wouldn’t moped riders be better off if they rented bicycles? Most of them are so out of shape.
  • Mopeds are a nuisance. They annoy almost everybody.

I learned a lot about island politics from observing the anti-moped movement, and about politics in the wider world as well. On Martha’s Vineyard, mopeds are a largely symbolic issue. Like symbolic issues elsewhere, this one makes lots of people feel good and involved and united, but it also functions like whitewash, distracting the eye from structural problems that are harder to address, never mind fix.

This particular accident didn’t involve any of the usual scapegoats: bad weather, excessive speed, alcohol, texting, operator inexperience . . . When someone dies in an accident, it’s hard to accept that nothing could have prevented it and nothing can be done to keep something similar from happening again. Even my pet solution — to require that moped operators hold a motorcycle permit — wouldn’t have helped: Alex Garcia almost certainly would have had one had they been required.

Widen the roads, say some. Many Vineyard roads are notoriously narrow and twisty. They have a hard time accommodating the summer’s car, truck, bicycle, motorcycle, and moped traffic. But widening roads almost inevitably leads to high speeds and that we do not need.

I think of the several times I’ve come within a hair’s breadth of a serious accident. So far I’ve always been lucky. Sometimes luck runs out. Sometimes there’s nothing that could have been done to prevent it. Sitting still with that knowledge is hard.

 

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June License Plate Report

2014 june license map

An excellent haul for June: Delaware, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Hawaii (!!), Nevada, and Utah, bringing the YTD total to 42. Nine to go — I include D.C., last colony and my onetime home, so the goal is 51.

Arkansas was at the West Tisbury post office. The top of the plate was obscured by the plate holder so I had to get really close to make sure it wasn’t Alabama. Speaking of Alabama, I’ve spotted it several times this year, on at least three different vehicles. What’s up with that?

Driving home from Oak Bluffs late one afternoon, I found myself heading toward Vineyard Haven instead of down Barnes Road. Once I realized what I was doing, I kicked myself. The Barnes Road route is a little longer in distance but usually shorter in time, especially in summer, especially during rush hour, which this was: about 4:45 p.m. Nothing to do but stop-and-start my way down the Beach Road and enjoy the view: Vineyard Haven harbor on the right, Lagoon Pond on the left, sailboats and other watercraft here, there, and everywhere.

Rolling toward Five Corners I was going slow enough to spot Oklahoma in a small parking lot. Who-whee! So that was why Malvina Forester took the Vineyard Haven route! (My car has a mind of her own.)

As it turned out, that was only part of the reason. Having made it through Five Corners, Malvina and I proceeded up State Road. The traffic coming into town was heavy, cars were backed up on the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven Road, and no one was going faster than about 15 mph. What should I see coming toward me but the distinctive rainbow plate of — Hawaii!!

More than once I’ve seen Hawaii on the front end of a vehicle but Massachusetts on the back. It’s the back end that counts, so I watched my side-view mirror as the car rolled past me. Hawaii on the back too!

That was more than enough excitement for the month, but Nevada and Utah both showed up in the last week. June was a very good month.

Of the AWOL states, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Wyoming aren’t uncommon, and most of the rest are possible. North Dakota, on the other hand . . .

Funny thing about North Dakota: Two guests joined the Sunday night writers’ group a couple of weeks ago. He’s doing research at WHOI (pronounced “who-ie”; the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, which is — you guessed it — across the water in Woods Hole). She’s working on a mystery set in and around Woods Hole. When they’re not in Woods Hole, they live in — wait for it — Fargo, North Dakota.

Proof

This is the last North Dakota plate I spotted. As you can see from the 1997 expiration date, it’s been awhile.

Be still, my beating heart. Had they brought their car over? No, their car was in North Dakota. Of course I had to explain the license plate game, and why North Dakota looms so large in it. It seems some friends of theirs from Fargo who also have a WHOI connection occasionally drive to Woods Hole. “Let me know if they ever decide to bring their car to the Vineyard,” I said.

Could the sighting of bona fide residents of North Dakota be a harbinger of things to come? Here’s hoping . . .

 

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The Morgan Comes to Call

The Charles W. Morgan sailed into Vineyard Haven harbor on Wednesday, June 18, escorted by a local flotilla and her companion ship, the Roann. Built in 1841, the bark Morgan is the last of the U.S. whaling fleet, which once numbered more than 2,700. After several decades wharf-bound at Mystic Seaport, she’s been beautifully restored with painstaking attention to detail. She’s currently on her 38th voyage. The 37th ended in 1921.

Aside: The Mystic Seaport website offers loads of information about the Charles W. Morgan, its history, its restoration, and its 38th voyage. Be warned, though: Every time I visit, I forget what I came for and spend an hour wandering around gawking.

The Vineyard Gazette covered the visit in spades. Time spent on their website will be well rewarded. I particularly recommend this story about Matthew Stackpole, a West Tisbury resident who grew up at Mystic Seaport, has known the Morgan all his life, and is now the ship’s historian.

The Roann (left) and the Charles W. Morgan in Vineyard Haven harbor

The Roann (left) and the Charles W. Morgan in Vineyard Haven harbor

The Morgan has many, many Vineyard connections. Several of her captains were Vineyard men, starting with the first, Thomas Norton. Many of her crew members over the years had Vineyard hometowns. During her recent sea trials and on her current voyage, she’s accompanied by the eastern-rig dragger Roann, which was built in 1947 for a Vineyard Haven captain, Roy Campbell. Like the Morgan, the Roann is now a permanent exhibit at Mystic Seaport.

I paid my first visit to the Morgan on Saturday afternoon the 21st. The U.S. Slave Song Project Spirituals Choir, in which I sing and sometimes drum, had just sung at a Juneteenth celebration at First Baptist Church in Vineyard Haven. Juneteenth marks the end of slavery in the United States, and both the Slave Song Project and the Spirituals Choir exist to keep the stories and songs of the enslaved Africans alive. So you know history was much on my mind as I walked up the Charles W. Morgan’s gangplank.

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The ferry Island Home seen through the Morgan's rigging

The ferry Island Home seen through the Morgan’s rigging

The three-masted Morgan is a bark, meaning that the fore and main masts are square-rigged and the mizzen mast is rigged fore-and-aft.

The three-masted Morgan is a bark, meaning that the fore and main masts are square-rigged and the mizzen mast is rigged fore-and-aft.

Bowsprit

Bowsprit

The fo'c's'le (forecastle), where the crew slept. The Morgan is "beamy," relatively wide, which means there was room for each crew member to have his own bunk. The bunks were relatively long -- up to six feet -- but the headroom wasn't much.

The fo’c’s’le (forecastle), where the crew slept. The Morgan is “beamy,” relatively wide, which means there was room for each crew member to have his own bunk. The bunks were relatively long — up to six feet — but the headroom wasn’t much.

My most lasting impressions of whaling probably derive from reading Melville’s Moby-Dick many, many years ago. I knew that whaling voyages could last three to five years, that whaling was a dirty and dangerous business. Ocean travel in the Age of Sail was dangerous whether whaling was involved or not. Thomas Mayhew Jr., son of the man who established the first European settlement on Martha’s Vineyard, was lost at sea on a voyage to England in 1657.

The stairs between decks are steep and narrow.

The stairs between decks are steep and narrow.

You don’t have to look far today to see evidence of the Vineyard’s whaling heritage. Among the properties owned and managed by the Martha’s Vineyard  Preservation Trust are the Old Whaling Church and the house built in 1840 for Dr. Daniel Fisher, a whaleship owner. Two of the four giant murals painted by the late Stan Murphy in Katharine Cornell Theatre (where the Spirituals Choir sang Saturday night) feature whales. In one, whalers pursue a whale on rough seas; the tiny whaleboat is dwarfed by the sky, the ocean, and the whale. In the other, Moshup, the giant of Wampanoag legend, holds a whale aloft by the tail while standing in the waters off the Gay Head cliffs.

But walking around the ship that once carried 35 men around the world in pursuit of whales, knowing that some of those men were the ancestors of your friends and neighbors — this makes it real in a new way. Imagine living and working at such close quarters with men who spoke different languages and often could barely communicate with each other. Imagine receiving a letter from a kinsman at sea and knowing that it was already at least three months out of date. You didn’t know for sure if your kinsman was alive or dead until his ship came within hailing distance of home. No wonder so many old songs tell of sailors returning after long absence to find everything changed. In “Bay of Biscay” the sailor returns as a ghost.

The cooper (barrel maker), smith, and carpenter were indispensable members of a ship's crew.

The cooper, smith, and carpenter were indispensable members of a ship’s crew.

On my second visit, I went aboard again, but this time I spent more time browsing the exhibits. Under one tent, sea shanties were being sung and first-person accounts of whaling voyages being read. In another, a six-minute video played continuously, giving a concise demonstration of what was involved in whaling. The Stellwagen Bank National Marine Sanctuary had its own exhibit, offering not just information but kid-friendly activities. Under yet another tent, the trades essential to a ship’s functioning were displayed and demonstrated. Flipping through a notebook that listed the officers and crews of all 38 of the Charles W. Morgan’s voyages, along with their place of residence, age, and height, I noted that the crew members with Vineyard hometowns decreased over time while those from Cape Verde and other places increased. A quote from Herman Melville noted that very few whaleship crew members were U.S.-born, though many of the officers and mates were.

The night before the Morgan's scheduled departure, I paid another visit to the dock.

The night before the Morgan’s scheduled departure, I paid another visit to the dock.

A map showed the Morgan‘s many ports of call. In the South Atlantic, the African coastal port was so close to one in Brazil, destination of so many Africans captured and sold as slaves. Had the Charles W. Morgan ever carried slaves below deck? If the area wasn’t crammed with barrels of whale oil, there might have been room. Slave trading was illegal by the time the Morgan was built, but it was also profitable.

Poking around online, I learned that some whaleships did participate in the slave trade, but that they were often scuttled after the voyage — to conceal the stench of human trafficking? The Morgan’s very survival may testify to her innocence in this regard.

Wednesday morning, the 25th, I went down to the harbor to see her off. Plenty of others had the same idea.

The Roann headed out while her big sister was still at her berth.

The Roann headed out while her big sister was still at her berth.

Small boats gathered to watch the Charles W. Morgan prepare to depart. 20140625 dogs on boat20140625 small boats

 

 

 

 

Fore and main topsails ready to be unfurled

Fore and main topsails ready to be unfurled

 

Here’s a short video of the Morgan being pushed away from the dock and getting under way:

Off she goes, well escorted.

Off she goes, well escorted.

Unwilling to lose sight of her, dozens of us followed the road out to West Chop, abandoned our vehicles by the side of the road, and got as close to Vineyard Sound as we could.  The wind direction in Vineyard Sound was all wrong, so she was under tow (she doesn’t have an engine) till she passed through Quick’s Hole and started her run up Buzzards Bay to New Bedford, her old home port. So we didn’t get to see her under anything close to full sail. It was a thrill nonetheless.

Farewell, Charles W. Morgan. Farewell.

20140625 off west chop

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Creative Economy?

In the last two weeks, I’ve been attempting to blog about two related events. One was my discovery that preview tickets for mainstage shows at the extensively renovated Vineyard Playhouse now cost $50. The other was the proclamation of the Vineyard Haven Harbor Cultural District in — you guessed it — downtown Vineyard Haven. Bile and snark do not a good blog post make so I’ve been floundering.

Both events are symptoms of “the creative economy,” with which some policy wonks have been much enamored in recent years, not only on Martha’s Vineyard but across the commonwealth. The underlying idea is that the arts are good for business. On the Vineyard, this means that they attract tourist and summer visitors and thus bolster the seasonal economy.

What this does is turn “the arts” — performing arts, visual arts, all kinds of art — into a commodity, something that can be bought and sold and measured on balance sheets, that is valued because of its ability to do this. What does this do to the arts, to our notions of what art is? Hardly anyone is talking publicly about that, at least not on Martha’s Vineyard. Martha’s Vineyard is a theme park: whatever draws paying customers is good, right?

But at the same time — “If not me, who?” It’s another form of the seasonal occupation. Not for nothing is this blog called From the Seasonally Occupied Territories. After working out the snark and bile during many walks in the woods, I got down to the first-personal aspect of it all. Here goes.

Then . . .

I got roped into island theater not long after I arrived as an apprentice year-rounder in the mid-1980s. The late Mary Payne, founder and artistic director of Island Theatre Workshop (ITW), believed every sentient being should be involved in theater. (This included several dogs as well as most humans.) She wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I can’t” was out of the question.

Rehearsing "Paper Whites" for the Vineyard Playhouse's Spring Short-Play Festival, ca. 1993

Rehearsing “Paper Whites” for the Vineyard Playhouse’s Spring Short-Play Festival, ca. 1993

I did PR. I sat in on rehearsals and ran errands. I stage-managed a couple of productions and learned how a show was built, from auditions through rehearsals to opening night. A year or two later, I was a part-time proofreader at the Martha’s Vineyard Times when the features editor said she needed a reviewer for an Apprentice Players — ITW’s youth program — production of As You Like It  I’d never reviewed theater, but I knew the play, and I’d reviewed plenty of books and a few concerts over the years. I volunteered — and went on to become the Times‘s main theater reviewer for five years or so.

Waiting to go on as Mrs. Winthrop in the 1999 ITW production of "The Secret Garden"

Waiting to go on as Mrs. Winthrop in the 1999 ITW production of “The Secret Garden”

By the mid-1990s, I was variously involved at the Vineyard Playhouse, stage-managing, acting, serving as a  juror for the New England new play competition started by playhouse director Eileen Wilson.

This immersion in theater greatly affected my writing. I wrote three one-acts, all of which have been successfully staged. To this day, in writing fiction I’m often the stage manager, watching the actors onstage and recording their actions in my prompt script. Other times I’m the director, actively blocking the scene till something clicks and the actors take over.

The late ’80s and most of the 1990s were a golden age for Vineyard theater, and for grassroots arts in general, especially the performing arts. This was also the heyday of Wintertide Coffeehouse, in which I was heavily involved from 1986 to 1994.

The Vineyard music scene is still thriving, but grassroots theater is a shadow of its old self. Mary Payne died in 1996; she was only 64. The Vineyard Playhouse struck off in a professional direction. Two creative dynamos left the island — first Yann Montelle and then Bob Dutton. (Yann, last I heard, was working in New Zealand. Bob, after almost two decades working, teaching, and raising a family in Florida, has returned to the Vineyard.) Economic changes have had a big impact: the cost of housing has gone up and up and up, and when you’re working double-time to pay the rent or mortgage, you don’t have much time to volunteer. Theater will eat up all the time and energy you’ve got.

. . . Now

Earlier this month I went to the summer opening at the Martha’s Vineyard Museum. When I arrived, a skit was in progress under the big white tent in the courtyard: an excerpt from The Whaleship Essex, which was about to open at the Vineyard Playhouse. I missed the beginning but was very impressed by the actors. I wanted to see the play. The playhouse recently reopened after a two-year, multimillion-dollar renovation. Having acted, staged-managed, and watched dozens of shows in the old space, I was curious about that too.

Tickets to summer mainstage shows at the Vineyard Playhouse are too much for my scrawny budget, but preview nights — in effect, full dress rehearsals that are open to the public before opening night — are traditionally cheaper.

At home later, I went to the Vineyard Playhouse website, chose a seat, filled in all the required blanks, and eventually arrived at the checkout page. There it turned out that preview tickets cost the same as regular tickets: $50. Not possible. I backed out, cancelled my seat reservation, and logged off.

In April I went to see a semi-staged reading of Cymbeline, the latest offering of Shakespeare for the Masses. I’ve become a huge fan of this series, the brainchild of Nicole Galland and Chelsea McCarthy. Shakespeare’s plays are abridged and read by island actors, nontraditionally cast, with additional narration and the occasional footnote provided by Nicki. Admission is free; donations are welcome. I’d happily pony up $5 or $10 to see it.

Shakespeare for the Masses is a throwback to the heyday of Vineyard theater. Officially it’s sponsored by the Vineyard Playhouse, but during the playhouse’s reconstruction, it’s played in various locations, most recently Katharine Cornell Theatre. Before Cymbeline a Vineyard Playhouse board member gave a pep talk about the extensive, almost-complete renovation of the playhouse. Seat and stairs were still available for endowing, he said.

For how much? asked someone in the audience.

$10,000 for a stair and $3,500 for a chair, he said –or maybe it was the other way around. You could feel the interest dissipating. Shakespeare for the Masses does not draw an endowing, which is to say a well-endowed, crowd.

Says the Vineyard Playhouse website: “We believe that theater has the power to transform lives.”

I know from experience that this is true. I also know that my transformation couldn’t have taken place in a world of $50 tickets and a mostly professional theater, or without the dynamic and often visionary leadership that was around in the early 1990s. Says a League of Women Voters motto, “Democracy is not a spectator sport.” Neither are the arts. Once upon a time, “the arts” were part of many Vineyarders’ lives. They still are, though you have to look and listen harder to find them.

“All the world’s a stage,” wrote the Bard. True enough. But by insisting that the arts can and should be a paying proposition, the “creative economy” controls access to that stage and slowly but surely transforms how we think of creativity and the arts. It really does deserve more discussion than it’s been getting.

Coda

When this blog was new, almost three years ago, I raised some of these questions in “Whose Arts & Ideas?” They’re still worth addressing. And I still think the graphic is a hoot.

arts & ideas experiment 3a

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Resilience

In early May — on the afternoon of Sunday, May 4, to be precise — a brushfire scorched some woods that Travvy and I often walk by. Firefighters from several towns put the fire out PDQ, before it could spread to the residence, the nursery school, or the school buses nearby.

But the visual transformation was dramatic. So was the acrid smell in the air. Ordinarily this area is thick with scrub oak, ferns, brambles, huckleberry bushes, and other undergrowth. The fire wiped the forest floor clean.

The firefighters held the line. At the far left through the trees is the nursery school. The house to the right belongs to the housing authority.

The firefighters held the line. At the far left through the trees is the nursery school. The house to the right belongs to the housing authority.

Travvy on the unscorched path

Travvy on the unscorched path

Travvy and I walk past this spot almost every day, and often more than once. We’ve been monitoring the changes. As May progressed, the oaks leafed out, as they were doing everywhere else in the neighborhood. At ground level, the place was still charred. The smoke smell diminished except when it rained. We didn’t have much rain in May.

Then as May turned into June, green started reappearing on the ground.

June 6, 2014

June 6, 2014

Ten days later, the ground was even greener. New growth is slowly covering the charred fallen branches. The scorch marks seem to be fading on the trunks of the trees.

June 16, 2014

June 16, 2014

What a difference a scant six weeks can make.

 

 

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How to Be a Good Tourist

In early April a story appeared in Business Insider: “How NOT to Behave in 12 Countries Around the World”. Water was still freezing in Travvy’s outside water dish, but the spring spruce-up was already under way at down-island shops and restaurants. What a brilliant idea, thought I, and immediately started soliciting suggestions from fellow year-round Vineyarders on how not to behave on Martha’s Vineyard. Here’s a sample.

Many, many responses had to do with motor vehicles.

  • “If you drive a Hummer (or similar), you will bring out the worst in us. We think you look ridiculous and no, we are not impressed.”
The Bad Parking Paparazzi are everywhere. If you are an able-bodied person, don't think of parking in a handicapped-only space.

The Bad Parking Paparazzi are everywhere. If you are an able-bodied person, don’t think of parking in a handicapped-only space.

  • “We profile cars with NY, NJ, and CT license plates, so be on your best behavior. Park sensibly and don’t run down anybody in a crosswalk.” Cautionary note: Bad Parking on MV is a very popular Facebook group. It currently has 855 members. The idea is to take photos of inappropriately parked vehicles and post them on Facebook. The Bad Parking Paparazzi are everywhere.
  •  “Never toot your horn! There’s is no reason to toot your horn on Martha’s Vineyard.”
  • “Please learn how to disable the car alarm on your rental before it goes off and you’re fumbling and blustered, or miles away from the car. Better yet — who is going to steal it? Don’t even set it.”
  • “Don’t set the alarm when your vehicle is on the ferry’s freight deck. They’re always having to page people whose alarms are going off. Seriously, who’s going to steal your car off the boat?”
  • “This is not Disneyland. We drive on these roads!”

Courteous pedestrian behavior is also appreciated:

  • It's usually only this bad at the Tisbury Street Fair.

    It’s usually only this bad at the Tisbury Street Fair.

    “Sidewalks are not mosh pits. When walking two, three, or four abreast on a sidewalk, please notice the person walking singly, head-on, trying to pass, and step aside for them. Please don’t walk into them.”

. . . As is courtesy to the environment:

  • “Even if it’s customary to discard rubbish on the beach and in the street in your country, it’s reviled here. Don’t do it, ever.”
  • “RECYCLING IS A WAY OF LIFE HERE.”

. . . And consideration for the people who wait on you in shops and restaurants, and for all the Vineyarders trying to go about their lives:

  • “Tipping in restaurants is mandatory.”
  • “Martha’s Vineyard is not a theme park. Treat us like humans, dammit. In stores, look us in the eye and say ‘thank you.’ Take the change from our hand to your hand, don’t expect us to put it on the counter so you don’t have to touch us. When on the roads, look at your speedometer and then drive half that fast. DON’T BE IN A HURRY! You are, ostensibly, on vacation.”
  • “READ the sign. Don’t just ‘look’ at it; read it. All of it. Questions? Read it again.”
  • “Respect that you have the finances and time to come to the island and enjoy it. Think about the islanders that work 24/7 to make this beautiful home a place for you to vacation. Be blessed to have an islander help you, but again respect the fact that because you are here does not make you deserve to be treated any different. Respect is earned as well as given. Be blessed.”
  • “Don’t name drop, either your name or somebody else’s. Your good behavior is far more important to us than ‘who’ you are or who you know. Be who you are and let us accept you for just that. Don’t cut in line. Don’t compare us to where you’ve been or where you come from.”
  • “We don’t care HOW you do it in New York.”
  • “Be courteous, polite, thoughtful, aware that you are visiting someone’s home. Be joyful, and have fun.”
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Summer’s Here!

No, the solstice is still a couple of weeks off, but summer is here. It just arrived, and I have proof. Lots of proof.

Like this morning I took my first outdoor shower. It’s been ready and waiting for a while now. The water was on; there was soap in the soap dish and a towel hanging from the hook under the stairs. But the chill in the early morning air was saying “Not quite yet” — until this morning.

I did the Great Seasonal Clothing Switch before Memorial Day — Memorial Day was late this year — but I didn’t pull the flannel sheets from my bed till Friday. On the other hand, I may run out of clean socks before I run out of clean undies and this is for sure a warm-weather phenomenon. In cool or cold weather, the same pair of socks can be worn for several consecutive days. In warm weather — yecchh.

Screen in, door still open

Screen in, door still open

Screen insert, ready for the swap

Screen insert, ready for the swap

Not till this morning did I know it was time to swap the cold-weather insert for the screen in my storm door.

After Trav and I got back from our walk, I did it.

This involved several trips up and down stairs, wrestling the screen out from storage behind the big hutch in my neighbor’s studio, then wrestling the heavier, less flexible cold-weather insert into its place. I was wearing cutoffs and a WisCon 22 T-shirt. When I got done I was, well, warm.

I was also on a roll. Late yesterday afternoon I decided against turning the ceiling fan on. It was warm in the apartment, the air wasn’t moving — but the fan hadn’t been on since last October. From below, the blades looked awfully fuzzy. Visualizing the blades spinning dust bunnies and cobwebs all over my apartment, I decided to let it go till tomorrow.

20140608 ladder & fanTomorrow had arrived. I brought the old step ladder in from the deck. The closer I got to the fan, the gladder I was that I hadn’t turned it on last night.

Note spray bottle of dusting mixture (1/4 cup vinegar per quart of water) and dust rag on the shelf. Would they be equal to the job?

Briefly I considered hauling out my trusty vacuum cleaner. But the vac is bulky and the ladder rickety, so self-preservation won out over efficiency. I would dust the grunge onto the floor and then vacuum the carpet. (The malamute in residence hasn’t quite finished blowing his winter coat, so the carpet can always use vacuuming, even if I’ve vacuumed the day before — which I hadn’t.)

This I did. As I moved the blades counterclockwise, I couldn’t help noticing that each one in turn was perfectly aimed at my throat. Marie Antoinette on a step ladder? No, thanks.

After vacuuming the floor, I turned the fan on.

20140608 fan

At this moment I knew that summer had finally arrived. At 11 a.m., having completed two less-than-strenuous household tasks, I was ready for another shower.

Instead, I changed my damp WisCon 22 T-shirt for a dry, super-lightweight tank top. Tank top and cutoffs? It’s summer for sure.

20140608 selfie 1

20140608 selfie 3

20140608 selfie 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only one sign of summer was missing: Travvy was stretched out on his mat next to my feet, while I kept half an eye out for ticks hiding out in his fur. My second-floor studio apartment is pretty comfortable through the summer, but hot air rises and someone can’t take his coat all the way off. Trav’s favorite summer hangout is at the foot of the stairs.

But no, wait! He’s getting up! He’s heading for the stairs . . .

20140608 foot of stairs

It’s official: summer’s here. Travvy says so.

 

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Return of Hoo Rah

I almost ran off the road laughing when I first saw it: HOO RAH FOR BILL is back!

hoo rah signNot the paint-on-plywood original, of course. That was removed and destroyed on orders of the Tisbury building and zoning inspector in April 2011. He was responding, he claimed, to complaints received in the previous 12 to 14 months.

The sign went up in the summer of 1998, around the time President Bill Clinton arrived on the Vineyard for another presidential vacation. Washington and most of the rest of the country was in a tizzy over the Monica Lewinsky scandal. It was the brainchild of Craig Kingsbury, farmer and indisputable island character, who signed it with his first name.

Some people loved it. Others loathed it. Others felt queasy about it. As time passed, the loathing and the queasiness diminished. Subsequent doings in Washington and elsewhere put Bill Clinton’s peccadilloes in perspective. Craig died in 2002. HOO RAH FOR BILL reminded us of Craig — and of a time when characters thrived and signs didn’t have to be vetted by conservation commissions, historic district commissions, and small-minded building and zoning inspectors.

Then it disappeared. No one in the Kingsbury family was notified. By the time Craig’s daughter Kristen tracked it down, it had been destroyed.

It had taken almost a dozen years for complaints to reach the building and zoning inspector’s ears, and for him to realize that the sign “provided no useful information, is considered a blight on the landscape . . . is in violation of local and state law and should be immediately removed.”

hoo rah mailboxWhereupon he of course had to act immediately. Without letting Craig’s family know what he was doing. Of course.

Not long afterward, a small reminder appeared on the mailbox under which the sign had hung.

And now HOO RAH FOR BILL is back in large letters.

I never took a photo of the original sign. I thought it would be there forever. I’m wiser now.

For a brief history of the sign, see the Vineyard Gazette story “Alas, Hoo Rah” (posted June 27, 2011). Read the comments too.

hoo rah sign & box

 

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