washashore wednesday

Eventually, we are hoping to introduce a new feature in which we profile one of the many washashores, who, like us, now call this strange and wonderful place home.

But before we kick off, I thought I'd take a minute to start to define this friendly term, since it's lingered so comfortably over there in the introduction corner for so long.

Wash-a-shores, as you might imagine, are people who have somehow ended up here on this island, despite having suffered the miserable and highly unforgivable misfortune of being born and raised somewhere else.

As you also might imagine, being a wash-a-shore is more often an accusation than something to identify with proudly. In fact, the only occasions on which I even consider the fact that I am, indeed, a wash-a-shore, are the ones when I am reminded that just about everyone around me is emphatically not.

"Islanders" like to remind you of their native status in many subtle and not-so-subtle ways, often involving semi-confrontational exchanges with wash-a-shores.

Like this one:

Washashore: Hi, I'm Alex.

Islander: Hi Alex. I don't think we're related. Where are you from?

Washashore: Boston, originally, but I grew up coming here in the --

Islander: I'm 12th generation.

Washashore: Excuse me?

Islander: 12th generation Islander. My ancestors landed here on a boat and set up schools and churches and basically invented fishing. And everything else.

Washashore: Wow. That's amazing.

Islander: 12th generation.

Washashore: Gotcha.

Okay. Now let's say you somehow manage to penetrate the circle. You have islander friends. They stop asserting their lineage on a daily basis, and usually you all coexist just fine. Until you ask for directions, in which case you will be confronted with something like the following:

Islander: Meet me at Taylor's house.

Washashore: Okay. Where's that again?

Islander: It's on that street on the left before Will's house.

Washashore: Which Will?

Islander: Willy. You know, Willy, with the hair?

Washashore: Right. So it's the first street on the left before his house?

Islander: I don't know, it's near there.

Washashore: What's the street called?

Islander: We call it Sawyer's because in high school there was this kid Sawyer who used to always throw parties there, but he didn't live there, he lived up-island somewhere with his grandma on her farm.

Washashore: Okay. But the street's not called Sawyer's?

Islander: I doubt it.

Washashore: What does it say on the sign?

Islander: What sign?

Washashore: The street sign.

Islander: Street sign? Islanders don't use street signs. We use navigational tools and our inner compass! We invented street signs!

Washashore: That doesn't make any sense.

Islander: I'll just pick you up.

Hello?

Anybody out there?

We are back from the second part of our three-part yoga training, which I guess would make us each two-thirds of a teacher. Which I guess would also make the two of us together one-and-one-third yoga teachers. Which is a start.

I, for one, am glad that I still have a third to go, if this weekend's "practical" was any indication of my own teaching abilities. Turns out, it's much easier to take a yoga class than to teach one, even if it might look like the student is the one with his foot behind his head while the teacher does a lot of pacing and reminding people to breathe.

This weekend, I learned that I have a few funny little new-teacher habits. The first is a tendency to march the length of the room with my arms crossed, like some sort of yogic drill sargeant. The second is frequent use of "kindergarten-speak," which results in first-person-plural commands like: "We're going to bend into our right knees," or "Let's look over our left shoulders towards the window, which we're starting to wish we could jump out of. Together. As one."

Friends who craft.

Amongst other things, the Vineyard breeds creativity. Something in the air makes you want to create..to be a creator. After living here for a little while you might find yourself wanting to sew your own clothes and grow your own food because yes, people actually do that here.

But if you aren't careful you might find yourself donning draw-string hemp pants and Jesus sandals for a night on the town. It could happen.

As you may recall, last week I was singing praises for Celynne and may have even called her the "craftiest girl I know". And I stand by that claim although it looks like she may have to share her crown.

Alex is quite the crafter in her own right, and she is not one to be outdone. I recently received a couple of my very own Alex creations, in the form of homemade peanut butter brownies, and a journal that she made, with a recipe card for the brownies in the back! Along with Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Cookbook (woohoo!!).

I don't have a picture of the brownies because I ate them. All of them. In 2 days.

Tough Guy.

boneyard

So. The other day, I saw Venga playing outside, intently burying her face in some foreign object that I couldn't really see from my post at the window, but was pretty sure would choke or otherwise maim her in some way.

I went to out to investigate and found this:



Then, I went to investigate from a different angle, and found this:




Looks a lot like a skull of some kind, doesn't it? And it would appear that I've become the sort of person who allows her dog to gnaw on skeletons of small creatures, wouldn't it?




Don't be ridiculous. Obviously, I picked up the goat skull (which is what the Boy insists it is, the skull of a goat or possibly a lamb or other small-ish farm animal long expired,) piercing a long stick through one of its sockets so as to avoid contracting any kind of bone-residing disease, and flung it immediately deep into the woods.


Well, almost immediately.

air

eat it, write it a letter, take it for a walk.

On our way back from New Hampshire this weekend, the Boy and I stopped at a Super WalMart in Plymouth. What makes an average WalMart Super, you ask? Why, Subway and an Auto Body Shop, which perfectly suited our needs yesterday as we were:

A. Driving a car with a dead battery, requiring it to be jumped at every stop, and
B. Starving.

What Super WalMart sadly lacks is a waiting area for those traveling with pets. So, in order to kill the forty-five minutes it took to replace the battery, we took turns doing loops around the parking lot with the dogs and going inside to look at all the stuff.

Every time I venture off of this island and end up wandering the aisles of one of these massive, florescent megastores, I am immediately rendered useless. Much like a child lost in the woods, if the woods played contemporary soft-rock and were always on sale.

I roam aimlessly from one department to the other, never quite sure what I need. Because, with so much stuff everywhere, surely I must need something.

Turns out, what I needed yesterday were three avocados and a magazine, while the Boy needed a pair of work boots, some tools and a putting practice kit. (Boy wins again.)

After my second time returning to the parking lot empty-handed, I was promptly sent back inside to pick out a new dog collar. I scanned the various signs and smiley-faces and quickly found a fish-tank. Thinking I was on the right track I headed over, only to learn that fish are "Small Pets" and, as such, are found in the "Small Pet" department, along with the fifty-pound sacks of bird seed and turtle mazes. (Yes, turtle mazes. Please keep up.)

I rounded a corner and found a friendly greeter who informed me that dogs are Large Pets, and that I would find the Large Pet Department "clear across the store."

He made a motion with his hands, like he was about to pass a football and telling me to go long, really long. Then, for clarity's sake (I must have looked like someone in desperate need of clarity at this point,) he added:

"You can't miss it. It goes Candy, Stationery, Large Pets."

But isn't that always how it goes?

Chappy Birthday.

I rang in my 26th year in a very Vineyard way today. I read, wrote, did yoga and had breakfast with Brother Daniel. All while pretending that my sinuses were not about to burst out of my face. Brother Daniel didn't have much luck with the denial approach because what he is suffering from is actually a man cold.

I spent the afternoon on Chappy with my friend Celynne. Chappy is an island off an island and to get there you take a 38 second barge ride that costs $3. It's pretty exciting.

Celynne is the most crafty girl I know. She made me a bouquet of daffodils and my favorite forsythias. She also made me a wallet and a beautiful birthday card.

Then after we walked on the beach with our pack of dogs (a dalmation, 2 Jack Russels and Dud the Stud) she whipped up a lemon chicken dinner with asparagus and artichokes. This girl is amazing. What a good way to kick off my "upper" twenties.

elsewhere

My first interview is up over at Identity Theory!

A.K.A.

A Whiskey By Any Other Name*:



"The Whisk"

"Skers"

"Skerburger"

"Skinners"

"Skid Vicious"

"Skin Gigolo"

"Skin Jankulitis" (rare dermatological condition)

"Skin Rocket" (don't ask)

"Sir Skins-A-Lot"

"Sir Scum-Bag" (in trouble)

"Scum-Bag Bastard" (in BIG trouble)

Pinky and/or The Brain



*Number of nicknames for which I can take credit: 0

lunch lady land

Perhaps you were curious about that random lunch-lady mention. (Perhaps not, but it would make a better segue if you were. Let's pretend.)

A little while after I moved here, I got to thinking about how nice it would be to volunteer with a local organization, by way of "meeting people," "being pro-active," and/or "contributing to society," all of which I've heard are important endeavors worth exploring.

First let me emphasize the fact that, much to the disappointment of my parents, I am not a joiner. Never have been. You know that space on college applications, the empty box where you're supposed to list all of your extra-curricular activities, clubs, organizations and volunteer work? The space often followed by the suggestion, "Attach additional page if necessary"?

Let's just say that there was never any need for additional pages. Let's also say that, on occasion, I may have been required to do a little truth-stretching in order to fill up those provided few lines in the first place. (Does memorizing the opening sequence from The Real World count as an activity? What about Fifth Grade Student Council? Bus Patrol?)

So, after moving out of New York City, where "getting involved" is pretty much forced upon you every time you step out your front door -- (Interested in removing the crackhead from your steps at two o'clock in the morning? Get involved!) -- and on to an island where everyone is either related to each other or about to be, it became clear that in order to survive here I would have to step out of the old comfort zone and get to joinin'.

I heard about an organization that does great work supporting local farms and farmers. I started helping out at events and maintaining their website. When they got involved in a Farm-To-School campaign to bring more local ingredients into school cafeterias, I wrote up a press release or two. And when they asked if I would be willing to go into the schools and talk to the lunch ladies about how the program has been working so far, I said "Sure thing! Whatever you need! I'm here to help!"

That's the thing about being a joiner, I guess. You say "sure thing" and there are a lot of exclamation points involved.

Anyway, so I agreed talk to the lunch ladies. EVEN THOUGH I was right there at the community meeting where they stomped through the door EN MASSE, less than thrilled that a bunch of neo-hippies in clogs and corduroys were questioning the way they'd been preparing their government-issued mystery meat for years.

Was I scared?

Absolutely not! I sat right down at my computer, ran off a list of fifteen questions, got the names of parent volunteers from each of the island schools, and promptly emailed them their very own "Interview Guide" so that they could conduct the interviews by themselves! Look at me, volunteering without even leaving the house.

I did realize it would look a little suspicious if I didn't take on one of the lunch ladies myself, especially considering that the Charter School is practically in my backyard. Also, it might be of particular interest to note that the Charter School, as an independently run entity, has been using local ingredients in their kitchen for years, and that their lunch lady, a proud clog-wearer herself, was basically at the forefront of the campaign to begin with.

All this to say, the prospect of sitting down with this woman should have been totally and completely non-threatening.

Why, then, has it been weeks since I took this assignment and still I have yet to get my interview done?

Could it be because the only free time lunch ladies have is between 8 and 9 in the morning, which happens to coincide with my very important daily granola-eating/dog-walking routine? Or perhaps it's because I have some deep-seated psychological block for lunch ladies as a group, stemming from some long-forgotten incident involving an accidentally-stolen order of Cajun Fries?

Regardless, let it be known that I DID wake up this morning with every intention of leaving the house in time to drive a quarter mile down the road. I DID copy down the questions and ready my digital tape-recording device. I DID get into my car. And it DID NOT start.

Which leads me to believe that all of this hemming and hawing must go much deeper than schedules and cafeteria food. Maybe, just maybe, I'm not cut out for joining.

Not that a joiner would have necessarily remembered to turn her headlights off, thereby removing the dead car battery from the equation.

But I'm fairly certain a joiner would have walked.