Patience paid off

In a few hours, I am leaving for Toronto. I'll be back in the Vineyard in a week and a half, but only briefly. I'll gather up my stuff, pack the Prius one more time and head onto the ferry to start back to Michigan. My time here is winding down. I am one of many people departing the island at the end of the season: "Help Wanted" signs, which were almost impossible to find two months ago, are now popping up in store windows.

I've been asked, "Was it everything you thought it would be?" It's difficult to answer. In some ways, yes, it was. I thought it would be a beautiful place, and it certainly is. I thought I would meet fascinating people, and I did. And yet it was also not at all what I was expecting. I came out here to do a job that turned out to be considerably less interesting than it sounded. My initial disappointment colored my perception of the island for the first month or so, and I had serious doubts about my decision. I was certain I'd find a great part-time job immediately; that was sheer fantasy. The recession has taken a toll on the Vineyard, too. Almost half of the summer had gone by before I landed the Playhouse job, and by that time I was having some bitter thoughts about staying here until September. There were times when I contemplated turning around and going home early, simply because things were not working out the way I wanted them to.

How foolish that would have been. I would have missed out on so many of the events and people that showed me what this island is really all about. I was already in the right place; I only had to wait for the right time to roll around and when it did, everything fell into place.

I spent the last weekend revisiting South Beach -- where the water is still remarkably warm -- and seeing more of Chappaquiddick. This morning, I had a magnificent hour-long massage that left me completely at peace. This evening, I finally fulfilled a little fantasy by visiting Le Grenier, the renowned French restaurant in Vineyard Haven. Kate, my stage manager at the Playhouse, had heard me daydreaming aloud about going there and gave me a gift certificate as an opening-night gift. (I could never have afforded it otherwise!) The food was incredible: clams casino, dripping with garlic butter and topped with tiny curls of crispy bacon; a robust onion soup coated with melted cheese; tender veal scallopini in a velvety cream sauce; fluffy whipped carrots that tasted almost like a dessert; a frozen key lime souffle, surrounded by a shallow pool of raspberry and pineapple sauces. It was a dream of a meal.

Then I came back to the house to pack up most of my stuff. I have to laugh at how much clothing I brought along (much of which was never worn), but at the same time I admit back in May, when I was deciding what to pack, I had no idea what I would be wearing here. I didn't know I wouldn't be wearing all those dress shirts or white pants or gaudy Hawaiian shirts (most of which never left the dresser drawer). And yet, although I ridiculed myself for cramming so many bathing suits into my luggage, I did in fact wear every one of them multiple times during my many trips to the Mansion House pool -- so I was right about something!

The last of the lobster rolls

On Friday, I stood in line for lobster rolls at Grace Church for what will probably be the last time. It's been something of a weekly tradition. And not just for me: The church sells anywhere between 1000 and 1500 rolls every Friday evening.

The secret of their success is simple: They have great food at bargain prices, which is not all that common on the island. A single roll costs $13, which sounds extravagant until you see how much lobster the cooks pack into a humble hot dog bun. A drink (lemonade, iced tea or an Arnold Palmer combination of the two) is included, as well as a bag of potato chips. If you want a generous slice of pie to go with that, it's an extra $3 -- and it's worth it. The meal is definitely filling, and I have learned to eat very lightly on Fridays to save room for the Grace Church goodies.

I overheard one of the workers say Grace Church receives its shipment of frozen lobster on Wednesday. The seafood thaws out overnight and on Thursday, the cooks run the lobster through a stainless-steel press to squeeze out as much of the remaining water as possible. After the lobster dries off, it's ready to be combined with the mayonnaise and turned into the luscious lobster rolls.

In addition, Grace Church is dedicated to recycling. The cups they use are made not of plastic, but of a material derived from corn that's biodegradable; the same is true of the bags they use to package large orders. The to-go containers are lightweight cardboard, which could easily be recycled. The church (which is Episcopalian) uses the money raised from lobster roll sales to fund its many programs and charities. The sales are only held for a few months each year, so they will conclude at the end of September.

I have taken many friends to Lobster Roll Friday and no one has been disappointed yet. But I suspect I will be disappointed many Fridays in the future when I am far away, reminiscing about the wonderful dinners I have had there. Of course, I could make lobster rolls at home, but of course it wouldn't be quite the same.

Happy September

"Has anyone wished you 'Happy September' yet?" my friend Milo asked the other day. It sounds cheerful and innocuous enough, but the greeting is actually two-pronged.

On one hand, it's an expression of relief that the tourists are finally leaving the island. Tourists -- or "washed-ashores," as the locals call them -- are both a blessing and a burden. Yes, they oftentimes do show up with bulging wallets and a desire to splurge on food, clothing, luxury rentals, etc., which is great news for the merchants. The glitch is so many of them arrive in July and August that the island's narrow roads are quickly overwhelmed, parking spaces become an endangered species and the towns and beaches are overrun by outsiders (not all of whom are particularly well-mannered or respectful). The year-round population of the Vineyard is estimated at around 15,000; in the summer that number swells to 100,000-plus, so you can imagine the strain and get an idea of how happy residents are when the "washed-ashores" finally board the ferries and planes for home.

But "Happy September" is also a bit of gallows humor, too. When the tourists take off, of course, so does the money. I have heard estimates as much as 75 percent of the revenue brought in by local merchants is made in June, July and August. Sure, the locals eat at restaurants and do some shopping, but they don't do it often enough to make up for those missing money-bearers. September spells the end of the island's annual financial windfall.

You can already see the changes in the streets. There are noticeably fewer cars on the roads and in the parking lots. While the sidewalks are still busy, they are not congested in the same way they were a few weeks ago. And then there's the most telling sign of all: Store after store hosting a "50-75% off sale" or advertising "summer clearance" prices.

So, if you're hoping to find bargains on the Vineyard, this is a perfect time to drop in. But don't wait too long -- after the "everything must go" sales, many of these businesses will in fact be shutting down for the rest of the year (or, in some cases, permanently), as the island prepares for its semi-hibernation.

Birds of a feather

I have written before about the surplus of skunks around the Vineyard. There are also many flocks of wild turkeys on the island. They pop up in unexpected places and generally behave as if they own the place. Just before I snapped this picture, this particular group nonchalantly strutted across a busy Vineyard Haven street -- and traffic came to a complete halt as they crossed. They are certainly not pretty birds by any stretch of the imagination. But they walk as proudly as supermodels on a Paris runway.

So many goodbyes

The last few days have been decidedly bittersweet. On the positive side, Hurricane Danny turned out to be a spectacular non-event: It rained much of the day Saturday, but the fierce winds never materialized and, aside from a little extra oomph in the waves, you would never have known a tropical storm was passing through. "Memory House" continues to play to very appreciative audiences, and Kathy and Natalia continue to give vivid, compelling performances. Although it can be difficult to keep a show fresh when you're performing it five or six times a week, they have managed to do exactly that.
On the other hand, summer is quickly drawing to a close. This Week has closed up shop and everyone is heading off in their own directions. My co-workers Scott, Anna and Danielle are already gone and Zach will be leaving tomorrow. Jessica, who was the first This Weeker I met, takes off for home Wednesday and will be returning to the island, but by the time she gets back I will be gone. I'm excited to see them moving on to new opportunities, but of course I can't help but feel a bit sad, too.
I also learned yesterday that my friend and former co-worker Thea Lapham had lost her third battle with cancer. The news was not entirely unexpected, yet that didn't make it any less hard to take. I wrote about Thea in this July entry. Uterine cancer is notoriously merciless, and apparently her body simply couldn't take one more battle.
Not that Thea was ever the type to shy away from anything. Vivacious and strong of spirit, she was one of those people who saw every challenge as an opportunity and always made sure she finished the job. When I was training to be a DJ back in college, I was told to try to speak with "a smile in your voice." At first, I didn't know what that meant; eventually, I figured out to do it without sounding phony or overly sweet. I was reminded of that advice every time I talked to Thea on the phone, as I often did when I was at the Gazette. She constantly had that smile in her voice, even when she was struggling with health problems or having trouble getting the information she needed for her story. Nothing got her down. As sorry as I am to lose her, I can take comfort in the inspiration she provided to everyone around her, both as a gifted writer and as a caring, compassionate person who routinely seized the opportunity to brighten up the world a little bit. Certainly she deserved a much longer life, but the happiness and kindness she shared with all of us will be remembered for a long, long time to come.

Aquinnah up close and personal

I will write more about Aquinnah in the next few days (probably when I'm being pounded by Hurricane Danny, which is reportedly on its way), but I wanted to share a photo I took when I was there Wednesday. I had mistakenly believed you could only see the clay cliffs from a distance, that the beach itself was private. A kind police officer told me the real story: If you are willing to pay a rather steep parking fee ($15 for the day -- ouch) and take a fairly lengthy walk, you can leave your car and stroll down to the coast. If you keep walking down the beach, you will be directly in front of the cliffs, which, in my opinion, are the prettiest sight the island has to offer. They absolutely mesmerize me.
I had photographed them from afar and I was thrilled to have the chance to actually stand beside them; I was reminded of the Painted Desert. Although they look quite solid, they are definitely a combination of colorful clay and rock; you can break pieces off and mash them up in your hand. It is not a good idea to do this too flagrantly, however, since the cliffs are the property of the Wampanoag tribe and they are protected under law.
While speaking to a long-time Aquinnah resident, I learned the cliffs -- impressive as they are -- are but a shadow of what they once were. Erosion, the tides and tourists have taken their toll. As far as I'm concerned, however, they are still pretty spectacular. More pictures will follow to show what I mean.
Back in the 1960s and early 1970s, I am told, the cliffs were a prime hangout for hippies and the "living off the land" types, who would rub the clay all over their bodies and then bathe in the unruly surf. Rubbing the clay on your skin makes you look like something out of "Quest for Fire" since it dries fairly quickly and leaves you brilliantly colored. Please do not ask how I came upon this information. I do not want to tangle with tribal authorities.

To market, to market...

Fine, fine, but are those free-range Baptists we're talking about? Because the others have way too many growth hormones injected into them. I mean, did you read "Omnivore's Dilemma"? Not on my table!

In case you think everyone is Obama-crazy

Cindy Sheehan was scheduled to make a speech on the Vineyard Wednesday about Obama failing to end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Her street team plastered Chilmark with stark fliers that state her points rather bluntly.

Here's an overview from the Boston Herald: Sheehan, who has never been to the Vineyard before, said she is interrupting her own vacation for the trip, which will include press conferences, peace vigils and sailing excursions on what she’s dubbed, “SS Camp Casey.” Sheehan just came off a four-month, 36-city book tour for her 100-page “Myth America” and had intended to take all of August off. “But I decided that this would be a very good way to cut my vacation short,” she said. “To demonstrate to the world that there are still people in America who care about peace.”

Sheehan said she hopes her stay on the Vineyard will put the issue back in the spotlight. “No matter who’s president, we still have to keep our end of our democracy going,” she said. “Even though Bush is no longer in office, these policies are still continuing. In many areas, they’re escalating - the occupations in Iraq, Afghanistan and now the horrible fightings in tribal regions. The killing of innocent people in the name of corporate welfare, or whatever this war is for, is certainly not about freedom or democracy or keeping us safe here at home.”

As for the Obamas, they enjoyed dinner at Sweet Life Cafe in Oak Bluffs, the very same restaurant I visited after the Illumination Night festivities. I can only hope they followed my lead and ordered one of the cafe's tea-infused specialty martinis. I cannot afford the main menu at Sweet Life, sadly, but I can certainly recommend their outstanding desserts and refreshing bar concoctions.

If you have to ask, you can't afford Edgartown

In case you worry that I have not been getting enough lobster lately, let me set your troubled mind at ease. On Monday night I stopped by David Ryan's in Edgartown to sample the acclaimed Seafood Macaroni and Cheese, which includes lobster, scallops, shrimp and a medley of white cheeses. Predictably, it was delicious. It was also indicative of what you don't get for your money when you choose to dine in Edgartown. There were no side dishes, no salad, no extra anything. And it was (gulp) $24, which turned into $25.50 with the bevy of Massachusetts taxes that are now being levied on everything. As you can see from the picture, the portion was not exactly enough to choke a horse.

It's a reminder of why Edgartown is my least favorite of the three major towns on the island. Yes, it's classy and "sophisticated." It's also rife with what the advertising world calls "snob appeal," that attitude of "if you have to ask, you can't afford it." If Vineyard Haven is the unpretentious New England town and Oak Bluffs is the place to party, Edgartown is the place for designer labels, trendy fashions and overpriced entrees. It's the place where trophy wives shop for their clothes and their husbands pay $14 for a middling martini.

It's also a nightmare to get in and out of. To reach Edgartown, you must typically pass through what locals ominously call "The Triangle," in which two narrow roads -- Edgartown/Vineyard Haven Road, coming from Oak Bluffs and Vineyard Haven, and Beach Road, coming from (surprise) the beach -- meet in what is almost always a congested intersection to form Upper Main Street. There is a stop sign at the end of Edgartown/Vineyard Haven, which gives the Beach Road traffic the right of way and puts drivers from Oak Bluffs at the mercy of the back-from-the-beach crowd. Traffic gets so unwieldy that some drivers simply give up, park their cars in the Park and Ride lot behind Edgartown Pizza and take a free shuttle into Edgartown (that's often been my strategy as well). If you do make it into Edgartown, chances are you'll have a lengthy search for a decent parking space.

Unfortunately for someone like me who would happily avoid Edgartown altogether, the community does have the best movie theater on the island (faint praise indeed). While the Edgartown 2 is nobody's idea of a superb cinema, it does have noticeably better sound and less projection problems than the other theaters. I have sometimes put off seeing a film until it was scheduled to play the Edgartown (on Monday, I saw "Inglourious Basterds" there).

Another Edgartown attraction I have to admit I really enjoy is the Among the Flowers Cafe, which has wonderful (and reasonably priced) food, extremely friendly service and an espresso shake that is beyond belief. It's also a fun place to look at: Its ceiling is so low, you feel like Alice in Wonderland after she ate the mushroom. Among the Flowers is celebrating its 30th anniversary this year, and I would not be at all surprised if it's still around 30 years from now. If you spend $25.50 there, you will at least get a substantial meal; that's certainly not true of every place in Edgartown.

My favorite welcoming sign

There are dozens of signs around the island to welcome the Obamas. But I have decided this one is definitely my favorite. I hope the First Family takes the school up on its generous offer, don't you? The Rose Garden could probably use it!

Rolling out the red (white and blue) carpet

Hurricane Bill never really showed up, despite the threats and despite the fact that many area grocery stores were overrun Saturday afternoon and evening by anxious folks determined to stock up on crackers and bottles of water, just in case Bill turned out to be Son of Katrina. Saturday night brought nothing more than a few unspectacular showers, a steady breeze and some rougher than usual waves, which stuck around much of Sunday as well.

But Sunday brought a different kind of storm: the long-awaited (in some circles, long-dreaded) arrival of the First Family. Their touchdown on the island was delayed slightly by worries about Bill, but by late Sunday afternoon the word was out -- they're here! Of course, there have already been plenty of reported sightings of Michelle dining and shopping in Oak Bluffs over the past two weeks, hardly a surprise since there seem to be scores of well-heeled young women taking fashion cues from the First Lady. I admit even I had to look twice when I went to dinner at The Newes in Edgartown last week and caught a glimpse of a stunningly lovely lady who had done a sensational job of cultivating a Michelle Look. I wasn't the only one fooled: The waitress kept scrutinizing her carefully and seemed to make extra trips to the woman's table to refill the water glass.

If President Obama is looking for a friendly place to escape the tensions of the health care debate, he's made a perfect choice. The Vineyard has rolled out the red carpet and the Obamas seem to be exceedingly popular with the residents. Of course, this might be because the local merchants -- who weathered a disastrous June, thanks to a month-long series of rainy days and tepid temperatures -- have been betting the President's vacation will bring in a few thousand more tourists that are eager to spend big money in the hopes of seeing the First Family. Obama-themed merchandise is literally available on every corner, whether your tastes run to T-shirts, oil paintings or handbags with the word "HOPE" stitched on the side.

If you get hungry, there's Baracky Road Fudge or Barack-O Tacos. You can wash them down with a mug of Ale to the Chief or an icy Obamarita. There are even dog treats inspired by First Dog Bo. If there's a way to capitalize on the Commander-in-Chief, the Vineyard vendors have probably found it.

But the island is also dotted with welcoming signs put together by residents, including hand-painted signs from kids and far more elaborate displays by grown-ups. My personal favorite is the yard display down the street from my house: The family cleverly (and probably painstakingly) stacked red, white and blue balloons to form a six-foot-high OBAMA billboard.

Of course, the media is everywhere, filming Sunday morning shoppers in Vineyard Haven and Sunday afternoon shoppers in Oak Bluffs. The arrival of the Obamas was closed to the press, but the island is basically open-city and you can bet the Chamber of Commerce is thrilled to get what will amount to thousands upon thousands of dollars of free publicity, courtesy of CNN, MSNBC and all the dozens of smaller networks and stations that have sent reporters and photographers to document the visit.

There's something else on the island, too: roaring black helicopters in the skies. They've been flying around for much of the past week, surveying the landscape. They aren't limited to Chilmark, where the Obamas are actually staying; they are everywhere. A huge black van with a sky-high transmission tower on the roof was parked alongside State Beach last week. Since the license plate bore the "U.S. GOVERNMENT" insignia, it was fairly easy to guess who was inside.

But -- at least for the time being -- the horrendous traffic tie-ups and clogged streets that some feared would come with the Obamas have yet to materialize. I went to Vineyard Haven Sunday morning to swim at Mansion House and had no trouble at all finding a parking space. Late Sunday afternoon, I went to Oak Bluffs to eat dinner at Thai Cuisine and not only was parking a snap, it turned out I was literally the only customer in the restaurant (it's usually bustling). Sunday night I returned to Vineyard Haven to see a friend's band perform at Chez Lounge and catch a showing of "In the Loop"; again, no parking hassles and no mob scenes.

Maybe people were still hiding from Hurricane Bill, but since the weather Sunday was generally gorgeous that's a bit hard to imagine. After all, who wants to eat boring old crackers and cheese when you can run down to Sharky's for a Barack-O Taco instead?

Words to live by

Who says there's no culture in "agriculture"?

With the Grand Illumination last Wednesday and now the arrival of the Martha's Vineyard Agricultural Society Fair -- known locally as the Ag Fair -- we are moving into what the Vineyard Gazette so poetically calls "the heart of a Vineyard summer." It's apparently a very steamy heart, if the humidity in the air is any indication.

At least there were a few bold breezes blowing through the Ag Fair yesterday, which were both a pleasure and a nuisance. Pleasurable because they kept the air circulating; annoying because they kept knocking over and rearranging the hand-out materials on the Vineyard Playhouse that I had carefully set up on our table in the so-called Community Tent. There I was, wedged in between a quilt raffle and a display of melted hair curlers, scorched extension cords and burned-up shoes that was meant to call attention to fire hazards in the home.

Cautionary tales are clearly a major part of the fair. Walking in, I was almost immediately confronted by a giant inflatable rat (who was waving a small American flag, for some reason) that was supposed to remind me to have my property checked for vermin. The rat-extermination table was located directly beside an exhibit that's supposed to encourage parents to talk to their teens before those party-hearty kids get out of control. Pest-control, alcohol-control -- it's all the same at the Ag Fair. After all, it's just a matter of time before those crazy teens start ratting their hair and listening to the seductive sounds of Ratt, right?

Getting to the fair was a challenge in itself. There's supposed to be a bus that runs from downtown Vineyard Haven out to the fairgrounds, which are nestled in the wilds of Tisbury. My plan was to park my car at the Park and Ride lot -- thus avoiding both the traffic and the $5 parking fee -- and jump on the bus. But although I had no trouble finding a space at the lot (which is something of a minor miracle in and of itself), I had more difficulty tracking down the shuttle. In fact, it never showed up.

So I started walking down State Road in the direction of the fairgrounds, certain that any minute that tardy bus would be rolling into view. No such luck: I finally decided to call a cab so that I could get to the fair by 10 a.m., which was the time I was supposed to open the Playhouse's table. The cab showed up almost immediately and the driver couldn't have been chattier or more pleasant. The cost of the trip: $20, plus tip. But I sure did save that $5 parking fee...

The Ag Fair seems like a good old-fashioned good time, but it's actually serious business. The Agricultural Society lets no one in for free, even if you're coming in to staff a table in the Community Tent. Adult admission is $8, which gets you nothing more than the honor of having your hand stamped by a cheery child. You want to go on the ferris wheel? It costs extra. You need a corn dog? Cough up another $4.

And if you run low on cash, you can always turn to the ATM machine for a quick fix -- if you are willing to pay the $3.50 service charge per transaction that apparently goes to the Agricultural Society. Like so many things on the Vineyard, the Ag Fair is chock-full of hidden costs.

That is, it is also a reasonably fun fair, with a broad variety of food booths (including Touchdown Tempura, a Japanese-themed concession stand run by Vineyard Football), the standard celebrations of prize-winning fruits and vegetables, a talent show (which, at the time I dropped by, featured breakdancers doing The Robot to songs from Michael Jackson's "Thriller," so we are clearly not dealing with cutting-edge entertainment), racing pigs (disappointingly, they were on their break when I dropped by) and livestock exhibitions. One of the DJs on WMVY had promised this year's fair featured "pigs the size of pianos!" and I was eager to see if they lived up to the hype. Yes, they were the size of pianos... toy pianos. I left the barn feeling absolutely swine-dled.

More intriguing were the vegetable sculptures, created by local artists who see untapped potential in cucumbers, tomatoes, squash and such. Really, how can you not be charmed by a figure with an eggplant body, gourd eyes and a red pepper nose reclining in a miniature hammock? There was also a fiber tent, in which weavers demonstrated their craft. Some of them were using alpaca wool from Island Alpaca, which is located just around the corner from me. The creations were beautiful and, although it was in the high 80s inside the tent, several of the sweaters and shawls looked as if they could easily ward off the chills that autumn and winter will someday bring.

In mid-afternoon, three youngsters from the Playhouse's Summer Stars youth theater program arrived to take over the table for me. "We'll bring in a younger crowd!" they promised. Their secret weapon: iTunes. One of them had brought along a laptop and a special musical playlist was quickly compiled in the hopes of attracting curious customers. First, they tried out John Mayer's "Your Body is a Wonderland" (which they sang along to). Then they moved on to selections from "Wicked" ("That's real theatrical music!" one told me), but before too long Beyonce had nudged Elphaba and Glinda out of the way.

In between trying to find the perfect songs ("Do you have 'Lucky' by Britney Spears?" one Star asked another. "Yeah, I had that CD -- when I was, like, 5!" he answered.), the Stars provided their own reports on fair activity. After an ill-fated run for chicken fingers, two of the Stars returned with a towering basket of fries instead. "This was the small!" they assured me. "You should have seen the large: I swear, it was like a basin!"

While the Ag Fair pigs may not really be the size of pianos, some things at the Fair are definitely not for the meek of heart.

Oak Bluffs illuminated

The gingerbread cottages of Oak Bluffs were dark last night, despite the scores of paper lanterns hanging from awnings and around the porches. There would be no lights until right around 9 p.m., when a single lantern was lit and carried through the main aisle of the Tabernacle to signal the start of The Grand Illumination, an annual celebration dating back to 1869. Hanging that first lantern started a domino effect around the Martha's Vineyard Camp Ground and, within seconds, hundreds of Chinese and Japanese paper lanterns began to glow all around the neighborhood.

When it began 140 years ago, Illumination Night was allegedly little more than a publicity stunt to attract potential buyers to the cozy community; now, it's a full-fledged festival, with neighbors cheerfully competing against each other to cook up the most eye-catching presentation. Some display lanterns with a long history, decorations that have seen many an Illumination Night. Others use bright new lights. Some mix it up, combining the vintage and the modern.

The heavy emphasis on Asian art is a reflection of the time in which the Illumination originated. In the 1880s, the West was just beginning to embrace all things Oriental, and Erastus Carpenter, the builder who helped establish Oak Bluffs, considered Japanese and Chinese lanterns to be the essence of chic. Looking at the delicately painted paper globes featuring geishas, charging horses, spectacular dragons and smiling suns, you can see some things never go out of style.

The crowds flocking to Illumination Night begin their evening at the Tabernacle, where a band plays a mix of familiar tunes (ranging from "Stars and Stripes Forever" to a "Wizard of Oz" medley and the theme from "The Phantom of the Opera"). A Community Sing is held. And then one Camp Ground resident -- it's supposed to be a big surprise, but one of my friends said the identity of the honoree always leaks out before the ceremony "because we have nothing better to do than gossip about things like that," she explained -- is picked to light the first lantern, which will signal to everyone else in the neighborhood that it's time to brighten up the night.

The decorating is done hours before the event begins, since many of the lanterns are antiques that can't stand much exposure to heat or wind. In earlier times, the lanterns included candles; most of them are now equipped with electric bulbs, although there are still a few hold-outs.

Strolling around the Camp Ground is like Halloween in reverse. It's the homeowners who are likely to be in costume, as some choose to dress in the fashions of the 19th century, or deck themselves out in their best summer attire. Some serve punch, cake or ice cream to visitors, but many simply lounge on their porches, greeting passersby and basking in the glow of a magnificent tradition.

Night of the Living Bass Heads

"If you see anything big in the water, let us know," said a solemn-faced young girl who was standing near me in the waters of State Beach. Her brother was close at hand, scrutinizing the water. Let me remind you that Martha's Vineyard is the location where "Jaws" was filmed, so the idea of "anything big in the water" is a bit troubling to me.
Thankfully, the kids were not hunting a Great White Shark; they were pursuing an impressive bass that must have easily weighed 15 pounds. Unfortunately, they were hunting him with almost comically small plastic nets that would have been more appropriate for hunting butterflies. "The Deadliest Catch," it was not.
I spotted the bass almost immediately and alerted the siblings, who scampered through the shallow water to track it down. The bass, of course, easily eluded them. It even seemed to be teasing them, swimming within a foot of their nets and then making an abrupt turn to take them off in another direction. I did not stick around for the finale of this particular fishing expedition, but I seriously doubt the kids dined on bass last night.
State Beach, located on the coast of Oak Bluffs, is a fascinating place to spend a warm afternoon. The water is so heavy with salt that you can practically float on the surface simply by laying down on the water. The waves are mild, unlike the roaring surf of South Beach. And State Beach is also the site of The Inkwell, the area of beach once populated almost exclusively by African-American vacationers. Although the term may sound vaguely derogatory, it's still widely used by people of all races in Oak Bluffs. "We're not actually in The Inkwell, we're just outside it," a black woman told a friend on the phone who was trying to locate her.
At least on this particular afternoon, The Inkwell looked much more like The Melting Pot, as sunbathers of all colors and nationalities gathered to enjoy a perfect day of brilliant sunshine and reasonably warm waters. And that elusive bass, of course.

Chappaquiddick: No jokes, please

There was something stalking me in the bushes. All I had wanted was a leisurely walk down the winding roads of Chappaquiddick, and now something was following me. With every step I took, I heard a slight crunching in the shrubbery nearby. I looked over to see if I could identify what kind of creature was hiding in the leaves, but I could see nothing. I decided maybe this would be an excellent time to cross over to the other side of the street -- and maybe start jogging.

After all, Chappaquiddick is definitely a rural area and you never know what might be watching you. A thin strip of land separated from Edgartown by water, Chappaquiddick is so peaceful and rustic it makes Edgartown look like a Mardi Gras by comparison. In contrast to the chi-chi boutiques of Edgartown, there is only one business on Chappaquiddick (reportedly some sort of convenience store and car-repair garage) and I did not see it. Most of the rest of the Chappaquiddick is ruggedly pretty countryside: tall grasses, wildflowers, robust trees, etc. You can find seashells in the grass. You can also discover more goldenrod and Queen Anne's Lace than you ever thought could exist in one place, making this a dicey destination for anyone with either allergies or a paralyzing fear of chiggers.

At one time, Chappaquiddick was apparently connected to Edgartown by a narrow strip of beach that was washed away in a tumultuous storm a few years ago. Now, getting to Chappaquiddick requires taking a ferry, although it would not be mistaken for the jumbo-sized ferries that carry us back and forth to Woods Hole. This ferry is barely larger than a pontoon and can only accommodate three vehicles at a time; passengers on foot or bicycle are squeezed into the space on the side of the boat. The entire journey takes about 45 seconds, and you could probably swim there if you were willing to brave the current and the busy boat traffic.

I had been planning a visit to Chappaquiddick since mid-June, but every time I had started out for the ferry, a storm rolled in. When I awakened yesterday to glorious sunshine and warm but not blazingly hot temperatures, I finally decided to try again.

Strolling through Chappaquiddick definitely feels like taking a walk in the countryside. All along the road, you find gorgeous flowers and plump, possibly poisonous berries dangling from their vines. Towering trees provide ample shade. Looking out over the terrain, you see the sleek sailboats and ivory-white yachts you would expect to find in the surrounding waters.

Chappaquiddick is best-known, of course, for being the place where Ted Kennedy drove off his car off the Dike Bridge in 1969, resulting in the death of passenger Mary Jo Kopechne. This incident has not been forgotten in the Vineyard: In fact, there were fliers posted in Edgartown for a "40th anniversary tour" of the accident site. Thanks, I think I'll pass.

You might expect a place with such a strong Kennedy association to be luxurious and classy. But I had to chuckle when I saw the Chappaquiddick Beach Club, which sounds impressively upscale but actually looks like one of those old British holiday camps, with tacky, flimsy-looking dressing rooms and little more than a well-worn white picket fence to keep undesirables out.

Many of the houses are positioned far back from the road, most of them located behind walls of trees or at the end of long driveways so that you can't exactly see what they're like or who might be living there. Chappaquiddick is obviously a place for those who like seclusion: The scenery is dotted with signs reading "private drive," "private property," "no trespassing," etc.

I never did find out exactly what was lurking in the brush, watching my every move. Perhaps it wasn't an animal at all, but a Chappaquiddick resident, worried that I might dare to actually set foot on his private property or private drive. Thankfully, I resisted the urge to trespass and made it back to Edgartown in one piece.

It's Opening Night

Three very successful preview performances behind us, and now we're ready to open "Memory House" at the Playhouse. Tonight's performance is already sold-out and rumor has it Judy Blume is going to be in the audience; she'll already be in Vineyard Haven, since she's doing a book-signing at the Bunch of Grapes bookstore down the street from us.

The show is playing remarkably well. The audiences have responded to both the humor and the tension between Maggie and Katia, and Kathy and Natalia's performances seem to get a little richer and fuller with each run-through. They got a standing ovation last night, which must have given them an extra jolt of confidence (or perhaps an extra butterfly or two) going into tonight's opening. As an opening-night present, I bought each of them miniature bottles of blueberry vodka, which they will hopefully save until after the final curtain.

Our set continues to get fleshed-out with more and more decoration and color. Since we are opening on what would have been the great chef/TV personality Julia Child's 97th birthday, I made sure to include two of Julia's books on the shelves for good luck; after all, this play does include actual baking, and we'd like to have Julia on our side. I also dropped in Wade Rouse's "At Least in the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream," a very funny and often tender memoir about his attempt to live out Thoreau's "Walden" in modern-day Saugatuck with his partner, Gary. Wade's cosmopolitan tastes and attitudes did not always fit comfortably alongside ice fishermen and church-social types, but the book is not a "look how stupid these country bumpkins are" jab. It's about how he re-examined his own outlook on life and tried to come to terms with his childhood in the Ozarks, which he had spent much of his adult life burying and running away from. Wade contacted me through Facebook several months ago and had very kind things to say about my writing, so of course I immediately added him as a Friend. Yes, all it takes is a few compliments and -- ding! -- you're my new Facebook Friend. Anyhow, he is collecting pictures of his book being read or displayed in unusual places and I thought, what better location than on a Vineyard Playhouse set? Hey, even if Julia doesn't smile on us, perhaps Wade will -- although I have no idea how his baking skills would measure up to Julia's.

What rocks the Capawock

On Tuesday night, I walked into downtown Vineyard Haven on my dinner break and saw a line of people stretching down an entire block. What could attract this many customers to the Capawock Theater on a pleasant Tuesday evening? They were there to see "Julie & Julia," with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams; unsurprisingly, the showing was sold out. It was the first time since the opening week of "The Hangover" that I've seen such a crowd at the Capawock. By the way, I went there Sunday to see "(500) Days of Summer," and the film was terrific. I have somehow avoided buying tickets for some of the theater's other attractions this week, such as "Aliens in the Attic" and "G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra." My loss, I am sure!

A nervous night

The rehearsal period for a play is sort of like going to school: You ask a lot of questions, try to remember important information and spend time getting to know the other people around you. The "tech" period and preview nights, however, are like finals week. Everyone is a little more nervous, things you were certain you knew vanish from your memory at inopportune times, problems pop up regularly, and preparation takes much longer than you anticipated.
At the same time, I have always felt relieved if my tech period is full of trouble; if you have a smooth, trouble-free tech period, believe me, the gremlins will show up in full force once you have an audience in the house.
Wednesday night marked the first public preview of "Memory House," and it was like many first previews, with missed lines, last-minute emergencies and technical tricks that didn't go quite as perfectly as we hoped. There were tears backstage and tensions in the air. And yet, the audience completely embraced the show. They didn't know or recognize what might have been missed or what might have gone wrong: They became utterly absorbed in the relationship between Kathy and Natalia, and they didn't focus on a set that still needs tweaking, or the fact that Natalia's costume was delivered literally seconds before she had to be onstage. All they cared about was the performance itself, and Kathy and Natalia completely captivated them. The applause went on for so long that I had to send them back out for an encore, which completely surprised both of them.
The show is in good shape, and I have no doubt tonight's audience will see something even better. Previews are like first drafts, a chance to see a work-in-progress, and last night's crowd obviously enjoyed what it saw.
As for me, I spent the entire 75 minutes backstage, listening to the play and silently praying that all the necessary props were in place and ready to go. Since the play is one long scene, there's no chance to run out and make changes during a blackout: Once you're running, you're running and you can only hope the pie pan is where it belongs and the lemon made it into the shopping bag and everything somehow comes together.
Coming off the stage last night, Kathy expressed concerns that a crucial prop had been left out along the way. "We're missing the bourbon that's supposed to be backstage after we get finished!" she joked.

So many blueberries, so little time

"Memory House," which I have been working on at the Vineyard Playhouse, starts its public previews tomorrow night. Written by Kathleen Tolan, it's a drama set on New Year's Eve in the New York apartment of office worker Maggie (Kathy Baker) and her adopted teenage daughter, Katia (Natalia Payne). More than a decade ago, Maggie and her then-husband went to Russia to pluck 6-year-old Katia out of a dismal orphanage. But no good deed goes unpunished, as Maggie learns when Katia, faced with the prospect of writing a college application essay about her past, finally begins to express the anger about her confused past that's been building up over the years.

While Katia stews, Maggie bakes, whipping up a blueberry pie as a kind of domestic defense mechanism in the hopes of distracting her daughter and calming her down. The play begins with Maggie bringing in the groceries needed to make the pie and ends with the pie coming out of the oven, (hopefully) in all its splendor. If Maggie doesn't follow the necessary steps at the proper times, not only does she fall out of sync with the script, she also risks ruining the dessert.

So, for the past week and a half, the "Memory House" team has been trying to coordinate great acting with a sort of Blueberry Bake-Off. We are fortunate to have Kathy Baker as our champion. Kathy is a world-class performer -- while she is perhaps best-known as the villainous trampy housewife in "Edward Scissorhands," she's also given marvelous performances in such films as "Street Smart," "Cold Mountain," "Permanent Record" and, my personal favorite, "Clean and Sober" and she starred in the original production of Sam Shepard's "Fool for Love" -- and a delightful woman. But I'll reveal her secret: She also lives up to her name.

Although she is playing a woman who barely knows her way around a kitchen, in real life Kathy studied at the Cordon Bleu in Paris and had a career as a pastry chef. She created wedding cakes and cream puffs to pay for her theater classes, and she told me the challenge of "Memory House" has been trying to keep her natural flair for cooking from coming through in the performance. "It's as if I'm a ballerina who has to pretend I can't dance," she said.

In early rehearsals, she merely mimed the kitchen work, pantomiming rolling out the dough and mashing together the butter and Crisco for the crust. But for the past week, she has actually been baking a pie a day, which means I have consumed more blueberry pie in the past few days than I have ever eaten in my entire life up to this point. Kathy plays around with the recipe, sometimes adding a little extra sugar, sometimes putting in more lemon, sometimes letting the berries and cornstarch thicken a few more minutes; I must add every one of her variations has been delicious. I don't know what will happen to her pies when we get a paying audience in the house, but for now, director Claudia Weill, stage manager Kate Hancock, Natalia and I are greatly enjoying the fruits of her labors.

I'm the assistant stage manager on the show, which means I am something of a troubleshooter. If Kathy or Natalia need prompting with a line, I'm there following along in the script to give them the right words. I make the emergency lemon runs to Tony's Market or Stop and Shop. And Kate and I get to set up (and clean up) Maggie and Katia's apartment every night, which is almost as challenging as making a perfect pie. While "Memory House" is only one scene -- the two characters never leave the stage and don't change their costumes -- it involves dozens of props, ranging from teddy bears to broken video cassettes to rolling pins, butter cutters, computer printers and more. Things are messy as the play begins and a bit messier when it ends, 70 minutes later.

In addition to having a new appreciation for blueberry pie, I have a new appreciation for the magic of the dishwasher, since the Playhouse does not have one and I must do all the dishes by hand in the sink. Do you know exactly how many bowls, pans and utensils are required to make a pie? So many that I have established a close and intimate relationship with the cucumber/aloe lotion we keep on the set. Blueberry pie may tickle the tummy, but cucumber and aloe soothe the skin, which is just as important.

Be careful what you wish

Throughout the month of June, I had a wide-open schedule with very little to do. Every day began with the question, "What do I feel like doing today?" And for a while, that was great. But then I started to realize you can only go sight-seeing so many times or visit so many beaches before you start looking for something a little more, well, profitable, to be honest.
I was not making much money and I had lots of spare time, so I started looking for a part-time job. And nobody -- absolutely nobody -- was hiring. I scoured the ads, walked up and down the streets of Oak Bluffs and Vineyard Haven, kept an eye on employment websites and still came up completely empty-handed.
This is no longer my problem.
I am now in rehearsals for one show during the day and helping out on another show every night. Every morning and afternoon, I serve as assistant stage manager for the next Vineyard Playhouse production "Memory House" and then I hurry over to do behind-the-scenes work on "Walking the Volcano," which is now in its final week. I get breaks for meals, but that's about it. So please forgive me if I do not post as often as usual between now and next Wednesday. It is not because I am lazy, I assure you! I will, however, try to update as often as possible -- hopefully, while still getting at least a few hours of sleep.

Possible Dreams become profitable realities

"I like those five figures!" Possible Dreams co-auctioneer Rick Lee growled as the bidding on a day of painting with Allen Whiting topped $10,000 at the annual event. That particular Dream wound up going for $11,000, making it one of the top events at Monday night's auction.
The 31st annual Possible Dreams Auction drew hundreds of attendees, some of whom were active bidders and many of whom paid their $25 admission fee just to watch the action and look for celebrities beneath the spacious white tents set up in Oak Bluffs' Ocean Park.
While lawyer Alan Dershowitz and director Harold Ramis took turns at the podium to help pitch some of the Dreams, the crowd seemed most intrigued by a star who wasn't there: Carly Simon literally phoned in her appearance. The singer-writer called auctioneer Susan Klein to apologize for not being there in person -- she blamed too much wine and chocolate on Sunday evening -- and to sing a few bars of her Vineyard-inspired ballad "Never Been Gone" via speakerphone. A musical sailing trip with Simon, Singer-songwriter Benjamin Taylor and boat designer Nat Benjamin brought in $10,000.
Here's a sampling of the final prices on some of the other Dreams: a visit to the set of "Monk," including lunch with star Tony Shalhoub -- $4000; a job as an extra in director Peter Farrelly's soon-to-be-shot new comedy with Hugh Jackman and Kate Winslet -- $10,500; a Provencal Culinary Adventure with Espresso Love chef Carol McManus -- $16,000; a visit to the school or library of your choice by "Arthur" creator Marc Brown -- $10,000; a private screening of director Doug Liman's "Fair Game," starring Sean Penn and Naomi Watts -- $5000; a consultation with designer Kenneth Cole -- $3500; dinner and cocktails for 30 people aboard Nancy and Chuck Parrish's yacht Freedom -- $13,000.
Proceeds from the event, which was dedicated to the late newsman and Vineyard resident Walter Cronkite, brought in approximately $260,000 for Martha's Vineyard Community Services.
The nearly three-hour-long auction featured guest appearances by Clifford the Big Red Dog (a picnic with Clifford and creator Norman Bridwell sold for $6000) and Pulitzer Prize-winning authors Tony Horwitz and Geraldine Brooks (dinner with the couple at Sweet Life Cafe went for $7000). The tone was generally lighthearted, with some good-natured warnings being issued to audience members. "If you're not waving to somebody, ma'am, you're in trouble," Klein told one woman in the midst of a sale.
Pushing a Dream that involved dinner with author Robin Cook and an autographed first-edition of his soon-to-be-released thriller "Intervention," Ramis poked fun at Cook's fondness for one-word titles by referring to the novel on separate occasions as "Migraine" and "Hernia." (It took $3500 to buy Cook's book, by the way.)
Even so, there was a brief moment of tension when Lee sold a kite surfing lesson with Black Dog CEO Rob Douglas for $1000, even though a patron had signalled his willingness to pay $1500 for the Dream; Lee hadn't seen the man's hand go up and closed the auction, prompting a few unhappy murmurs from the crowd. "Forgive me," Lee said. "It gets crazy up here."
That wasn't a joke. A few Dreams provoked miniature bidding wars, particularly the last Dream on the block: an oil painting created by Meg Mercier as the auction was unfolding. A flurry of early bidding gave way to an intense contest between two very competitive parties. In the end, Mercier's artwork brought in $4200, a tidy sum for a few hours' work.

Back to the beach

A piece of good advice: Anytime you are on Martha's Vineyard, have a bathing suit and a towel close at hand because you never know when you will be headed to a beach. The island has many of them, of course, and there's no telling when you may be called to visit one. For example, you could head off to work a matinee show on a brilliant Saturday afternoon, only to find the matinee has been canceled and you now have a few hours unexpectedly free -- with an invitation to go to the beach.
That was my situation Saturday. I had spent the morning doing the usual handouts of This Week to ferry passengers in Oak Bluffs, a duty I often complain about but one which sometimes offers some amusement. On this particular morning, I was wondering if Martha's Vineyard is some sort of Elephants' Graveyard for troubled marriages since I kept bumping into couples that were clearly headed for the rocks. There was the prickly pair who were obviously looking for an excuse to argue as they walked along Circuit Avenue.
She: What are you looking at?
He: Don't you want lunch?
She: Why are you stopping?
He: I was looking at the menu.
She: At what?
He (pointing to a menu displayed in a restaurant window): The menu. They've got a menu! I was trying to read it. God -- anything?!
She: What's that supposed to mean?!
It was like "Revolutionary Road" with sunblock.
Then there was the French family getting ready to board the ferry. They had a deluxe bike towing one of those little tents-on-wheels for their toddler. But Daddy had the bright idea of loading a couple of heavy backpacks on top of the little tent, which caused it to topple over on its side, prompting a tantrum from Maman (thankfully, the baby was not in the tent at the time). To make matters worse, the accident happened in plain view of at least a dozen other would-be passengers and Maman was so busy scolding Dad that she stepped away from her son, who, perhaps to distance himself from the shouting, started to walk into the crosswalk.
"Regarde le bebe!" Daddy shouted in alarm, as a pedestrian reached down to stop the baby from fleeing the scene. Maman, who had been busy screaming choice insults such as "cochon!" (pig!) at Daddy, whipped around and grabbed the kid. Then it was Daddy's turn to do the name-calling. I would be happy to translate the rest of the confrontation, but unfortunately they started bickering so quickly I couldn't keep up; suffice to say, the ferry trip was not going to be smooth sailing.
Anyhow, a few hours later I was back at Oak Bluffs for a few pleasant hours on the sand and in the water, which is now warm enough for comfortable swimming. Heather, one of the four "Volcano" stars, wanted to get some sun before the evening performance and we had a very pleasant break on the beach.
Well, mostly pleasant. Every so often, we noticed this awful smell on the breeze, sort of like rotting garbage. It didn't seem to linger for long, so we didn't pay too much attention to it, but it popped up often enough to make us wonder what it was. Unfortunately, we found out. As we were gathering up our towels and beach bags to head back to the theater, we realized we had stationed ourselves within a few feet of a seagull that had apparently perished on the sand and was slowly decomposing atop a pile of sea rocks; the bird's dried-out corpse blended in so perfectly with the stones we hadn't noticed it at all.
Another piece of good advice: If you make a spur-of-the-moment trip to the beach, look twice before you set down your towel.

Crabs on the rampage

Christian and Heather, two of the "Volcano" stars, had friends visiting from New York City, so they decided to go to State Beach in Oak Bluffs and kindly invited me along as well. So far this summer I had only been swimming in the pool at Mansion House because the few times I'd cautiously dipped my toes into the water at Katama or Lobsterville, I had to restrain my teeth from chattering. The afternoon was decidedly overcast -- the sun made momentary appearances but apparently had other places to be -- but there was no rain, so we stuck around the beach for a few hours, enjoying the waves and marveling at the variety of colors and textures of the rocks and pebbles that dotted the sand.

Although the water was hardly what you'd call warm, we all ventured out and floated around (Heather and her friend and I swam out to the buoy and back, noticing the water gets markedly saltier the further out you go). The afternoon was going beautifully -- until...

A vaguely reddish shape moved beneath the slightly cloudy water. At first, it looked like a roaming piece of seaweed. But then it started scurrying over the sand much too quickly to be mistaken for a bit of vegetation caught in the current. It was a very angry crab, probably perturbed we had invaded his space.

Everyone cleared out to give Mr. Crab some room. For some reason, however, he insisted upon following me: No matter where I tried to swim, he simply scuttled right behind me, pincers waving wildly. I kept trying to remember the last time I actually ate any crab. Was it at Mediterranean, almost a month ago? There was a succulent crab sauce on the sole special, if I remember correctly. Did I still have the odor of crab consumption on me? I once knew someone who had worked in a restaurant for a long time and could tell if you had consumed garlic even days after you'd eaten it, even after you'd showered and sprayed yourself with a fragrance of choice. Perhaps this crab had a similar sixth sense for seafood.

Anyhow, he was most persistent. When he wasn't following me directly, he would sort of dance circles around me, as if he was moving in for the kill. I kept hoping he'd find another distraction; unfortunately, he was a Crab On A Mission, or something. Eventually, I summoned up my energy and swam away as quickly as I could toward the beach, leaving Crabby in a cloud of stirred-up sand.

OK, it wasn't exactly a brush with death, but it was still a close encounter with a very aggressive crustacean. It was also the first time since I've been here that I have run into an actual crab that wasn't being served up on a plate. To be honest, if I had had a bucket with me, I think I could have easily trapped that troublemaker and brought this tense tale to a delicious finale.

Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!

Martha’s Vineyard is supposed to be a place of peace, a little oasis of calm where you can rest and relax and get away from it all. You will go to sleep at night enveloped in the comforting silence of the island forests and wake in the morning to the sound of gleeful songbirds. Unless you are awakened shortly after sunrise by this:
“Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Repeated ad nauseum for the better part of an hour.
Outside my window yesterday morning a band of crows had congregated to do whatever it is that crows do at 6 a.m. Apparently, they like to gather atop phone lines and exchange gossip or engage in a political debate or some other activity that involves non-stop, back-and-forth “Caw”-ing.
These were not ordinary crows, either. They were the largest, fattest crows you have ever seen in your life, the kind that probably run in packs and beat up scarecrows for cheap thrills. When they startled me from my slumber, I wished I had a BB gun; when I got a closer look at them, I realized these crows may very well eat buckshot the way we snack on M&Ms backstage at the Playhouse.
I looked out at one that had thoughtfully perched himself directly in front of my bedroom window, so that I wouldn’t miss a single word of his side of the conversation. He looked directly at me and didn’t move a muscle. Since I didn’t want to wake up the rest of the house by screaming at him, I merely scowled and waved my arms in a gesture that was meant to be menacing. He sat perfectly still. Then he deposited a glob of gooey crow poop on the front lawn.
So began a strange day.
After spending the morning helping out at WMVY, which is always a pleasure, I decided to go swimming at Mansion House. Unfortunately, I arrived to find the pool swarming with screechy little kids and their even screechier mothers. After about five minutes of fruitlessly trying to stake out a place for myself in the pool -- it never ceases to amaze me how many of the adult “guardians” don’t even watch the children as they venture out into the deep end, smack each other with kickboards and run around the slippery tile on the edge of the pool; is “Eat, Pray, Love” really so absorbing? -- I retreated to the locker room.
Just as I had slipped out of my bathing suit, I heard the poolside door open and the sound of footsteps. Seconds later, there was one of the mothers, looking around curiously. I reached for a towel, but she was already staring at me. “Ooops!” she said, although she didn’t sound particularly surprised. “I must have gone through the wrong door!” She turned and started to walk away, but before she opened the door she called back, “It’s OK. I didn’t have my glasses on!”
Well, that doesn’t make you any less of a Peeping Thomasina, sweetie. Wasn’t the, uh, aroma of the locker room enough to tell you it might have been a masculine domain?
Clothed and disgruntled, I headed out to Che’s Lounge, the absolute best coffee place on Martha’s Vineyard, which is conveniently located on my way to the Playhouse. I ordered a black coffee to go and asked for a sprinkling of the cocoa/chili powder mix they use to spice up their drinks. The woman behind the counter grabbed the cocoa/chili container, opened it and proceeded to dump about half the bottle into my drink. A mound of cocoa/chili powder began to quickly sink into the dark depths of the coffee, like Atlantis disappearing beneath into the ocean.
“Oh my God!” the barista screamed. “I am so sorry! This thing must be broken!”
In this sort of situation, what traditionally happens next? Would you think a new black coffee would be quickly poured and served as a substitute? Yes -- and maybe those crows would have started singing the best of Gilbert and Sullivan if they’d stuck around long enough.
Instead, the barista grabbed an extra cup and began frantically trying to scoop the now-sludgy powder out of my drink, while apologizing at a rapid-fire pace. I have to say she did the best job she could have, given the circumstances.
“Taste it,” she ordered and I took a sip. It tasted like coffee with a hint of cocoa and chili powder, but it was hard to tell how strong the “hint” was since the coffee was still steaming. Since I was in a bit of a rush to get to work, I didn’t demand a new brew. And she certainly didn’t volunteer a refund.
Tasting it again a few minutes later, I realized even though the coffee itself had cooled, that chili powder was definitely lingering around. It felt as if a small heat lamp had been turned on inside my tongue. Thankfully, I was able to tone it down a bit with some of the coffee we serve to Playhouse patrons, although the concoction still cleared out my sinuses quite effectively; it was like a Mexican meal in a cardboard cup. Coffee verde.

After the show, Christian and I took a couple of his visiting friends to Offshore Ale in Oak Bluffs, where we enjoyed a pretty amazing cheeseburger pizza (mozzarella base, topped with ground beef and a coat of aged cheddar) and several of the micro-brewery's specialties. Afterward, we found ourselves almost magnetically drawn to Back Door Donuts, which is kind of the center of the Oak Bluffs whirlpool. There's no point trying to resist: Sooner or later, you will be standing at the screen door, ordering an apple fritter the size of a placemat as a pre-bedtime snack. I'm reasonably sure it's an unwritten law.

What's black and white and an unwelcome sight?

I'm sure the Visitors' Bureau isn't promoting this in their materials, but Martha's Vineyard has skunks galore. Everywhere. If you are anywhere near the woods, you are probably nearly a skunk or three. They're inescapable.

As I was getting out of my car a few nights ago, I heard a suspicious rustling in the leaves on the other side of the street. Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! I turned around just in time to see an adventurous baby skunk pop out of the forest and start to scamper into the street. Then he saw me and froze, even though I was a good 20-feet away. In a panic, he scurried back into the brush and I heaved a sigh of relief and hurried into the house.

It could have been worse, I suppose, if it had been a shark. Yes, there are sharks around the Vineyard, too, which is why the Monster Shark Tournament was held again in Oak Bluffs this weekend. It's an annual shark hunt that apparently delights many spectators and disgusts the Humane Society and distresses the Humane Society, the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Fishpond USA, which joined forces to protest it. A sizable ad appeared in the Vineyard Gazette last week urging a boycott.

But, if the Gazette's Friday editorial is any indication, the tournament may not be around much longer anyhow. "Participation... is well down this year, partly due no doubt to the state of the economy," read the editorial. "But it also feels as though the shark tournament's place in the world of game fishing, where conservation and catch-and-release are the prevailing mores these days, may be slipping. ... Reports are circulating that the tournament may move to some other location next year. If that happens, the town of Oak Bluffs -- and the Vineyard -- will be no worse off for it."

The Cape Cod Times reported "(t)he winning fish, it turned out, was a 361-pound porbeagle shark hauled in on the Marshfield-based fishing boat Karen Jean II. The shark measured more than 7 feet long."

Of course, Martha's Vineyard will be forever associated with shark hunting, thanks to Steven Spielberg's 1975 blockbuster "Jaws," which was filmed here. (Yes, there's a festival to celebrate that as well.) Many of the sights from the movie, such as the rustic homes and fishing boats of Menemsha, are still around 35 years after the filming ended; thankfully, the hideous leisure suits and polyester ensembles worn by many of the townspeople -- arguably the scariest element of the film for those who dread mid-'70s fashions -- are nowhere to be seen.

Speaking of the 1970s, that was the decade in which Carly Simon became a household name via hits like "That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be," "Anticipation" and "You're So Vain." By that time, she was already a familiar face on Martha's Vineyard and nowadays she's a year-round resident. She still records, but she also has a successful store in Vineyard Haven called Midnight Farm, which sells upscale antique furniture, elegantly funky clothes and decorations (such as $200 mirrored pillows for the couch) and a prime selection of coffeetable picture books (including a hefty volume of black-and-white photographs by Jessica Lange).

It's the kind of store that people like you and I drift through while daydreaming of being rich enough to actually buy the items we're "ooohing" and "aaahing" over. I can't even afford the $84 Velvetmen shirts I've been trying not to drool over for the past six weeks, so Midnight Farm is a great place to go whenever I need a little ego deflatment. It's also a gorgeous store, though, and I know it would be a terrific place to pick out an offbeat wedding gift or a Mothers' Day present that would be sure to get Mom's attention. Like much of Carly's music, it's mellow but stylish, with a strong undercurrent of humor and nostalgia: Many of the eye-popping shirts and dresses look as if they arrived via teleporter from Haight-Ashbury, circa the "Psych-Out" era. I have yet to see Carly in the aisles, although I keep dropping in, just out of curiosity. And, I admit it, I keep looking those Velvetmen shirts, too. They would be worth every penny of their price, I know.