Girl’s Night Out

In the heyday of Wintertide Coffeehouse, roughly the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s, Martha’s Vineyard was a stop on the singer-songwriter circuit. I got to hear some wonderful folk and blues performers without leaving home, and I got to hear them free because I was a diehard Wintertide volunteer. Boy, was I spoiled.

Martha’s Vineyard has a vital home-grown music scene, so it’s not as if I never get to hear live music. Some of our home-growns are so good, like Willy Mason and Nina Violet, that we’ve sent them off into the wider world. But musicians from the wider world seldom pass this way, and when they do it’s usually in the summer.

In the wider world, people can drive an hour or two or three to hear a favorite performer. We Vineyarders can drive an hour or two or three as well, but only if we shell out $61 (off-season) or $90 (summer) for a round-trip car reservation. Add in the price of a ticket and probably an overnight stay and cost becomes a big deterrent.

ticket stubsLuckily for us, the Woods Hole Folk Music Society runs an excellent concert series at the Woods Hole Community Hall, and the hall is just a few minutes’ walk from the ferry dock. Last night, I settled Travvy on the deck with two peanut butter bones and a Kong Wobbler loaded with treats, lied shamelessly that I’d be “back soon,” and set off for Vineyard Haven. There I parked Malvina by the Baptist church, strolled down to the dock, bought two one-way passenger ferry tickets ($8 each), and boarded the 5 o’clock boat.

SSA coffee has improved since I had this button made, but the beer is still a better deal.

SSA coffee has improved since I had this button made, but the beer is still a better deal.

James Keelaghan, one of my favorite singer-songwriters ever, was playing in Woods Hole. I’ve heard him several times live over the years, once in Woods Hole, and twice in Cambridge. He’s always worth seeing, and this time there was an added incentive: he’s touring with the great English singer-songwriter Jez Lowe, whose work I also love and whom I’d never heard live.

The 5 o’clock from Vineyard Haven docks at 5:45, and doors don’t open at the Community Hall till 7. So I splurged on supper at Pie in the Sky, a deli beloved of all Vineyarders who have to kill time waiting for the boat. It’s a toss-up which is more beloved, Pie in the Sky or the nearby bar, the Leeside. Depends on the time of day and the company you’re keeping.

Pie in the Sky has about 10 indoor seats. It was a bit chilly to sit outside, so a nice lady invited me to share her and her husband’s table. They were Diane and Webb and they’d driven down from Halifax (Mass.) for the concert. They’d heard Jez several times but didn’t know anything about Keelo so we swapped details and talked music.

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These days it’s hard to get a photo that isn’t obstructed by barriers.
Sunset: Keep Out.

They headed over to the Community Hall. I wandered down to the dock to catch the last of sunset from the other side of Vineyard Sound.

When I caught up with my new buddies, they were near the head of the line waiting to get in. Another fellow struck up a conversation. He does maintenance for a research ship currently docked in the harbor — Woods Hole is home to the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution (WHOI), where all sorts of interesting things take place. As he described it, the ship is like a floating laboratory. Scientists with grants in tow come aboard to conduct their marine-related research. This guy doesn’t sail with the ship; he’d just flown in from San Diego, where he’s based at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography — WHOI’s opposite number on the other coast.

After ensuring that the ship is seaworthy and can navigate, he said, his top priority is maintaining the coffee supply for the crew and the scientists. I’m not at all sure he was kidding. He didn’t know either performer but was looking for some good music. When I saw him at intermission, I asked how he was liking the show. He was loving it, he said, and from the spontaneous smile on his face I knew he meant it.

Jez Lowe (left) and James Keelaghan

Jez Lowe (left) and James Keelaghan

The Woods Hole Community Hall is quintessential folkie. The upstairs could double as the auditorium from a mid-twentieth-century elementary school, and the downstairs, where coffee, tea, and homemade cookies are available for a donation at intermission, is vintage church basement. I bought Keelaghan’s newest, an excellent retrospective called History: The First 25 Years. I had three Jez Lowe CDs picked out and ready to go before I realized that they weren’t set up for plastic.  “There’s an ATM around the corner,” the volunteer said helpfully. Uh-oh. If I paid cash for the CDs, my checking account would bottom out with my not-quite-overdue car payment. In the interest of fiscal responsibility, I put the CDs back in their respective piles.

The concert was wonderful. No, I’m not going to review it! Since the last boat of the evening departs Woods Hole at 9:45 and if you miss it, you’re spending the night on the wrong side of the Sound, I had to slip out a little early. Jez was singing a hysterical song about evangelical Christians pursuing Charlie Darwin in an attempt to make him recant evolution, and I really wanted to hear how it came out.

As it was, I was late enough that the passenger ramp was closed and I had to walk onto the freight deck.

When I got home just before 11 p.m., Travvy didn’t seem to mind that I’d been gone for seven hours. I was way too jazzed to sleep. I downloaded from CD Baby the three Jez Lowe albums I hadn’t had cash to pay for: Heads Up, The Parish Notices, and Northern Echoes. Love ya, plastic. Immediate gratification; deferred payment.

This morning I learned via Facebook that the woman sitting across the aisle from me, and directly behind my supper companions from Halifax, is a friend of a Vineyard friend. Turns out she’s from Halifax too, and she knows Webb and Diane.

You can cross Vineyard Sound but you’re not all that far from home.

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Loss

trav and red

I took this photo almost a year ago. The winged sumac was getting redder and bolder and I was looking forward to getting another shot.

Monday morning I met a young guy with a brush cutter at just this spot. He’d already cut a several-foot swath on both sides of the trail. He looked a little bewildered. I said hi to him, he mumbled hi to me. Travvy seemed to make him nervous so we kept walking.

By Tuesday morning he had finished the job.

scalped sumac

Such a small loss as losses go, but it choked me up. The brush cutter wasn’t to blame, of course. He was working for the Sheriff’s Meadow Foundation (SMF), which owns this little triangular parcel across from the West Tisbury School. SMF is already one of my least-favorite island organizations, not least for their successful legal campaign to deprive Ben Ramsey and Nisa Counter of their Chilmark land. This doesn’t make me like them any better.

scalped sumac 2The winged sumac will grow back, of course. Maybe next year the “conservationists” will hold their fire till the color passes.

Monday afternoon a young man from my town was killed up the road from me when his car crashed into a tree. I didn’t know him and don’t know his family, but two degrees of separation must be the max on Martha’s Vineyard and several of my friends did. He’s gone. No appeal. Not coming back. Those who live on will make do as best they can.

My heart is moved by all I cannot save:
so much has been destroyed

I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,

with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.

— Adrienne Rich, “Natural Resources”

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Early Fall Color

Fuzzy Butt and I head off down Pine Hill. "My name is not Fuzzy Butt!" he says.

Fuzzy Butt and I head off down Pine Hill. “My name is not Fuzzy Butt!” he says.

Inspired by Farmer Tom of Wishetwurra Farm (up the road from me apiece in West Tisbury), I’ve been packing my little point-and-shoot whenever Travvy and I go out.

Fall in New England raises expectations high. We’re famous for our fall foliage. New Hampshire, Vermont, and western Massachusetts are famous for roads congested with tourists come to gawk at the fall foliage.

Wasp nest (I think)

Wasp nest (I think)

Fall foliage on Martha’s Vineyard, however, often doesn’t live up to my expectations. Oaks are the most common deciduous trees here, and oaks aren’t the natural showoffs that, say, maples and birches are. (We do have maples and birches, but they’re vastly outnumbered by oaks.) Oak leaves seem to rush through the color stage, or bypass it altogether. One day they’re a worn-out green; the next day they’re brown and falling to the ground.

white 3As Farmer Tom’s photos reminded me, however, you’ll see more color if you look downward or from side to side instead of just upward.

Poison ivy makes even tree trunks colorful.

Poison ivy makes even tree trunks colorful.

Fall really is an extravagantly colorful season on Martha’s Vineyard. Morning and late afternoon light can transform a ho-hum dull yellow leaf into glowing gold. Nestled in green, clusters of flowers flash white or yellow or blue along the trail.

Winged sumac

Winged sumac

Last year I fell in love with winged sumac. This omnipresent shrub, with its deep reds and burgundies and every shade in between, lives up to my very highest expectations of fall. This year I’ve been watching it grow from unobtrusive to bushy and, now, from glossy green to radiant red.

It’s the textures of fall as well as the colors that make me wish I could paint, or weave, or knot rugs big enough to hang in a castle banquet hall. I can’t, so I thank fall for doing it for me.

tapestry 1

red & green

Old County Road in the background

Old County Road in the background

 

 

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September License Plate Report

No news is not exactly good news, but it’s all I’ve got. Nothing new for September. A few relatively rare plates staged repeat appearances, like Louisiana and Kentucky, and one morning in West Tisbury center I got all excited by a colorful plate I’d never seen before. I reversed direction once at town hall and again at Alley’s so I could take another look.

Delaware variation

Delaware variation

Delaware. On one hand this was disappointing, because Delaware was already colored in on my map, but on the other it was interesting because I’d never seen a Delaware variation before. Delaware’s standard plate is classic, stolid, distinctive — easy to recognize at a distance.

Delaware classic

Delaware classic

Turns out Delaware has other variations, but the one I saw was a fundraiser for agricultural farmland preservation. Given that this was Saturday morning, I bet the driver was at the farmers’ market.

At the end of September, the map looked just like it did at the end of August.

2013 aug license map

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Cider Sunday

Leominster, Massachusetts, proclaim the signs on the interstate, is PIONEER PLASTICS CITY and BIRTHPLACE OF JOHNNY APPLESEED. How could anyone not love that juxtaposition?

more apples

Rinsed apples, ready for chopping

Johnny Appleseed, né John Chapman, didn’t just plant seeds. He started apple-tree nurseries and supervised them as business concerns. In those frontier days, apples were valued less for pies and more for hard cider and applejack. Surely Johnny A. presided this afternoon as my neighbors invited all and sundry to an old-fashioned cider pressing. This is meant to be an annual event, but 2011 and 2012 were crappy apple years so it didn’t happen.

The press, freshly scrubbed

The press, freshly scrubbed

To everyone’s huge relief, 2013 has been apples, apples, everywhere. People brought apples, they brought kids and dogs, they brought food to share and jars to take the cider home in. They also brought their muscles. Neighbor David’s cider press is the old-fashioned kind. The mangler and the press depend on human power.

Human power we had a-plenty, to pick through and chop the apples, mangle them into juicy chunks, then press the chunks into that precious russet liquid.

Sorting and chopping apples, fun for all ages

Sorting and chopping apples, fun for all ages

When I was a little kid, a Scots fellow ran a farmstand about a half mile up the road. His name was Mr. Barton, and he sold cider in gallon glass jugs. There was a deposit on the jug, and I recall pulling several empties behind me in my little red wagon, all the way to Mr. Barton’s. I got to keep the money — what was it, a nickel or a dime? Can’t remember. Mr. Barton said I was so thrifty I’d surely still have that money when I was 50.

Travvy watches from the deck

Travvy watches from the deck

I couldn’t imagine 50. I think Mr. Barton was older than my parents. Maybe he was 50.

The cider got fizzy and hard if it hung around long enough, but I don’t think I ever got tipsy on it. Pasteurized cider that doesn’t get hard has been a disappointment ever since.

Pressing

Pressing

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Books Afoot

So last May, totally out of the blue, I get an email.

I’m writing to ask if you might be interested and able to meet with a group of readers who will have read your novel, The Mud of the Place, and will be visiting Martha’s Vineyard this fall.

I’m hallucinating this, I thought. I used to fantasize all the time about meeting with a group of readers who wanted to talk about my novel. It never happened. I must be dreaming.

I read on:

The visit is what we call a Books Afoot trip, and we’ve been planning and offering these books-on-the-road experiences (one or two a year) for the past 17 years. . . . The basic idea is that reading and travel make a rewarding combination. We pick a destination, learn about women writers from that place (which always involves exciting discoveries), select books to read beforehand, then travel there with interested reader-travelers for exploration and book discussion. Participants come from all over the country.

Living in a tourist trap can make a girl just a bit jaded on the subject of tourism. Is it possible for a person to pass through a place and come away with any inkling of what that place is about? Do tourists care what the place is about, or do they just see what they want and expect to see?

Jaded to the core, still I loved what Books Afoot was about. Was I interested in participating? You’re goddamn right I was interested. They’d had so much interest in Martha’s Vineyard that they’d scheduled three trips, three consecutive weeks in early fall. Could I come speak with all three groups? I’ll be there, I emailed back. All three groups. I’m not going anywhere.bookwomen mag

I was so thrilled and flattered and vindicated and a dozen other things I wanted to blog it all over the universe.

I hardly told anybody.

Books Afoot is a program of Minnesota Women’s Press, which does other neat stuff. It publishes Minnesota Women’s Press, a monthly feminist news magazine; and BookWomen, a bimonthly “readers’ community for those who love women’s words.” Mollie, my contact, sent me copies of both. The April-May 2013 issue of BookWomen included an account of a recent Books Afoot trip to Mexico. I drooled.

So this morning I headed out to Edgartown to meet with the first Books Afoot group at Edgartown Books. We pushed together several tables in the bookstore’s outdoor café, next to a little burbling fountain. It was my first long-pants day of the season — maybe a little chilly to be sitting outside? Hell, no: most of these women were from Minnesota!

At the outdoor café, Edgartown Books

At the outdoor café, Edgartown Books

And you know what? It was every bit as wonderful as I hoped it would be. Maybe even more so. That’s what I was afraid of, that’s why I couldn’t tell anybody what was happening: I was afraid it wouldn’t live up to my own expectations, which were high high high high.

But it did.

Listening to 15 or 16 women who’ve read your book and connected with it and can tell you what moved them, what bothered them, what they wanted to tell their friends about? And they’re telling you all different things, from Jay’s fear of coming out to Shannon’s fear of opening the door to her studio to “you must have worked for a newspaper at some point, didn’t you?”

It does not get much better than this.

So I can’t wait till next week, meeting a new group of readers. And I’m thinking that with readers like these in the world, maybe there’s a point in writing?

Well, I don’t know. Maybe I’m going overboard.

The Books Afoot group had already been to the Martha’s Vineyard Museum when I met them this morning. Tomorrow they’re going to meet with June Manning in Aquinnah. When they leave the island on Friday, they’ll probably know as much about it as I do.

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Unstuck

Thursday I gave Malvina Forester a much-needed bath. Her color hides mud streaks and dirt well, but there are limits.

20130920 no sticker

So, do you notice anything different?

Here’s a hint:

bumper stickers 2 2012

Yeah, you got it: I took it off.

We put up a pretty good fight, but we didn’t stop the roundabout. So far traffic has been moving around the roundabout in fairly orderly fashion. Has this contributed to longer summer backups at the Triangle or the State-Edgartown Road intersection, or in downtown Vineyard Haven? That remains to be seen, but it probably won’t be studied too hard because the roundabout boosters don’t want to know. The Oak Bluffs selectmen don’t care, of course: those backups and jams are Vineyard Haven and Edgartown’s problem, not theirs.

As I blogged in “Roundabooboo” almost a month ago, the process leading up to the roundabout “was seriously flawed, and those flaws have not been addressed by much of anybody.” We’re sitting ducks for the next bright idea MassDOT or some other state or federal agency wants to foist off on us.

Any idea how I could fit all that on a bumper sticker that can be safely read from three car lengths back at 30 miles per hour?

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Dangerous

Everything I learn about how the wide world works gives me insight into how the little world I live in works, and everything I learn about my little world gives me insight into how the wide world works.

But I generally don’t blog about the wide world. It’s just too damn wide.

Yesterday, though, while writing about unlocked doors and keys in the ignition, I read a news report from Charlotte, North Carolina.

One Jonathan Ferrell, 24, had a car accident on “a rural stretch of road” around 2:30 yesterday morning. The car was banged up enough that he had to extricate himself through a rear window. He went to the nearest house and knocked on the door. The woman, one Sarah McCartney, opened the door, saw a young black man standing there, shut it, and called 911, apparently in a panic. “There’s a guy breaking into my front door, he’s trying to kick it down,” she told the 911 dispatcher.

Shortly thereafter three Charlotte police officers appeared. Ferrell ran toward them. One officer fired a taser at him. It had no effect. A second officer, Randall Kerrick, fired 12 shots, 10 of which hit Ferrell. Ferrell, who was unarmed, was killed.

The Ferrell family lawyer saw a 20-second video of the scene. He reports that after the failed taser attempt, Ferrell stretched out his arms to show he was unarmed. Then Kerrick started shooting: Four shots. Pause. Six shots. Pause. Two more shots. Then an officer yelled “Get down.”

I’m not going to say the R-word, though you know goddamn well I’m thinking it. I’m thinking that if I, a 62-year-old white woman, had knocked on Ms. McCartney’s door at 2:30 in the morning, she would have asked what I wanted. She might even have let me in. I’m thinking that if I had run toward the police officers, none of them would have raised a taser, never mind a gun, to stop me.

I’m thinking that Officer Kerrick’s response was better suited to a rampaging wild animal than to an unarmed human being. (One report says Kerrick was a rookie cop and a former animal control officer.)

I’m thinking that law enforcement officers, especially those carrying lethal weapons, should be able to assess situations, even chaotic, high-stress situations, on the fly and make their decisions accordingly. As reported, this situation doesn’t sound chaotic at all, and while some stress was involved — we’re talking three officers versus one (unarmed) man.

I’m thinking that if Ms. McCartney hadn’t been so panicked by the sight of a young black man on her doorstep, she might have closed her door and asked what the young man wanted.

I’m thinking that for decades studies have been suggesting that people who watch a lot of violence on TV tend to believe the world is more dangerous than it is. (See the Wikipedia article on “cultivation theory” for an interesting introduction to this idea.)

And finally I’m wondering if Martha’s Vineyard is all that more dangerous than it was 10 or 20 or 40 years ago, and if the widespread assumption that it is more dangerous might be making it, well, more dangerous.

20110626 tennis locksSM

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Vineyard Exceptional

In 1985, when I moved to Martha’s Vineyard from the women’s community of Washington, D.C., I was expecting differences. Differences I found, you bet, but also surprising similarities. People in both places, for instance, were convinced they were special by virtue of where they lived. On the Vineyard, this “where” was a physical place. The women’s community was dispersed across the D.C. area, but we were linked by the places that made us visible to each other, like Lammas, the feminist bookstore; the Other Side, a lesbian bar; and All Souls Unitarian Church on 16th Street, NW, where I went to more dances, concerts, speeches, and meetings than I can count.

There’s nothing wrong with thinking you’re special, of course — aren’t we all? — and banding together is necessary for individual survival and well-being. But this notion of specialness tends to balloon out of control, into nationalism, xenophobia, and exceptionalism, among other things.

American exceptionalism has been in the news lately, most recently because President Obama used the word in the last paragraph of his speech on Syria and because Vladimir Putin took exception to it in a New York Times op-ed. “America is not the world’s policeman,” said President Obama, but America should act in Syria because we’re exceptional. He pretty much finessed the logical gaps in his argument by invoking exceptionalism.

What is American exceptionalism, exactly? Here’s a good discussion by Philippe Coste, staff New York correspondent for L’Express. More or less, it’s the idea that U.S. institutions evolved out of unique circumstances, are uniquely wonderful, and impose on the U.S. a unique role to play in the world. With all due respect to U.S. institutions (and much respect is due to them), they also evolved out of slavery, genocide, and a fairly brutal industrialization.

And if the proof of the pudding is in the eating, it’s hard to ignore that the U.S. lags behind other developed countries on the issues that matter most, like education, health care, income inequality, and economic growth.

The trouble with exceptionalism is that it usually veers into “don’t mess me up with facts” territory. We’re exceptional because we believe it and that settles it.

Which brings us to Martha’s Vineyard. You cannot hang out on Martha’s Vineyard for very long without hearing people rhapsodize about how special it is. Special is all well and good, but what makes it special? More to the point, are those qualities innate and eternal, or are they susceptible to change?

By way of explanation, a small example. The single most startling thing about Martha’s Vineyard when I landed here was that no one locked anything. This was so amazing I wrote “The Key Sestina” about it. Before I left D.C., I had 10 keys on my key chain, and I didn’t even own a car. It was so heavy it wore holes in my jeans pocket.

That, thought I and many people who’d been here longer, was part of what made the Vineyard the Vineyard: on the Vineyard it was safe to leave your doors open. But this has changed over the last three decades. I still don’t lock my front door and my car keys are almost always in the ignition, but some people think I’m crazy and older-timers often admit unhappily that they lock more than they used to.

Martha’s Vineyard is still Martha’s Vineyard, but part of what made it special is disappearing. The mutual trust that let us leave our doors unlocked and our car keys in the ignition has dwindled. What changed? A few random thoughts:

Sign of the times

Sign of the times

  • About 20 years ago (that’s a wild guess — I think I was working at the paper at the time) a locksmith trying to drum up business ran a series of ads in the newspaper featuring Vineyard crime statistics. The statistics were pretty pathetic, but they were framed to make them as alarming as possible, e.g., “50% increase in break-ins!” might mean that the number of break-ins had increased from 2 to 3.
  • The rapid increase in the year-round population over the last several decades has made it harder to assimilate newcomers into older ways of doing things. Many newcomers arrive with their own fears and assumptions about “human nature.” We see more and more unfamiliar faces, especially in the off-season, and wonder how far we can trust these people about whom we know nothing.
  • With every passing year, we see less and less of each other. VCRs, then DVD players, and finally full-blown “home entertainment centers” replaced regular moviegoing. These days you can carry on an active social life without leaving home — and I have to admit that a fair amount of my online social life is carried on with Vineyard people a few of whom I’ve never met in person.
  • Vineyarders watch the same TV shows and movies that everybody else does. Drugs! Crime! Sexual predators! When someone gets busted here, the incident gets plugged into the big amorphous fear whipped up by all those violent images. Danger, danger, danger!
  • More people have lots of really valuable stuff. Of course they lock their doors. But locked doors are not enough. Electronic security systems have proliferated over the last couple of decades, and not just in predominantly summer neighborhoods.

The trust that enables people to leave their doors unlocked is very much related to community, and sure enough, we talk about community incessantly. It’s a big part of what makes Martha’s Vineyard exceptional. Yes, but what is it exactly?

Once again I’ve bitten off more than I can chew in a thousand words or less, and you know “community” is one of those subjects I can’t shut up about. So — to be continued. Soon.

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Rockin’ Jerusalem

I’ve blogged about Jim Thomas’s Spirituals Choir, in which I sing, a couple of times. See especially “Singing for Our Lives,” from July 2012, and “Sing All the Way,” from July of this year. This past weekend we sang at a celebration of the life and times of our late colleague Bob Lee, who died suddenly last month.

On impulse, and with some trepidation, I recorded our performance with my little Flip camcorder. Why the trepidation? I use the Flip almost entirely to record Travvy’s and my practice sessions and Cyber Rally-O entries, so I’ve paid zero attention to sound quality. I was going to record the choir in the acoustically somewhat challenging Ag Hall (it’s big!) with this gadget that fits in the palm of my hand?

I’m pleased to report that it turned out pretty well. Not pro or semi-pro or even high-end amateur, but it’ll give you a feel for what Jim does, and what the choir does, and how much we miss Bob. “Rockin’ Jerusalem,” led by powerhouse soprano Christina Montoya, nearly brought the house down.

P.S. I admin a little blog for the U.S. Slave Song Project, of which Jim Thomas’s Spirituals Choir is a part. So far it’s been mostly about the choir, but we’re hoping to include more about the project, the songs, and related subjects in the future. Check it out and sign up if you feel like it.

Aside: Recording the performance was easy compared to getting it up on YouTube. The usual limit for a YouTube upload is 15 minutes. My video was 16 1/2. For the life of me I couldn’t see anything to cut, certainly not a minute and a half’s worth. Well, there is a way to extend your upload limit if your account is in good standing — as mine is — but you have to “verify” your account. This, YouTube assured me, is easy. All you have to do is give YouTube your cell phone number, an automated caller will almost immediately call that number to give you a six-digit number, whereupon you type that number into your computer and voilà, your account is verified.

Easy peasy — if you have a cell phone. I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t want a cell phone. I read earlier today that 91 percent of the U.S. population has a cell phone and 56 percent has a smart phone. Well, yesterday afternoon a kind friend helped me out. The verification took about two seconds. The upload took more than an hour and a half, which is about what I expected given its length.

But now I’ve got this sinking feeling that sooner rather than later I’m going to have to get a cell phone. Cell phones, I suspect, are going to become indispensable for more and more things that have nothing to do with talking or texting. Arrgghh.

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