Vineyard ties
By Betsy Banks Epstein
My father claims that he’s much better at being a grandfather than he was at being a dad. As a grandfather, he’s scarcely missed a performance or a soccer tournament. Now that some of his grandchildren are growing older, he visits them at college and is even planning trips to see those who have already graduated.
When I was small, I rarely saw my dad. Sundays were reserved for special time with him that included walks to admire the lilacs in Boston’s Arnold Arboretum, ice cream stops at Brigham’s or journeys along the Freedom Trail. For my sister, my brother and me, the notion of making any sort of an independent plan was heresy. My dad was busy building what was to become an illustrious career at a renowned hospital; other people swallowed up his hours. During the week, he came home long after I was in bed. My mother usually ate her dinner without us so she could wait to eat with him. Each evening she chatted on the phone with her friends, read books voraciously, wrote letters in her perfect cursive script, or sat by her bedroom window needlepointing pillow covers. She was a solitary figure, earnest about the job of running her household and raising her three children.
In the midst of these years of the absentee dad, there were three and a half weeks every June that were sacred for my family. My father set aside these days as his vacation and chose to spend them in a spot, Martha’s Vineyard Island, where he had honeymooned with my mother. Each May we packed trunks of sunsuits, shorts, sweatshirts, and beach blankets. We watched at our front window as the men driving the truck with “Andrews and Pierce” emblazoned along the side loaded our bikes, sand toys, and suitcases bearing our beloved "Ginny" dolls to be shipped to Katama Shores Inn. The sport utility vehicle had yet to be invented; our VW bug could barely fit the five of us. Including our myriad of stuff in our car was not a possibility.
Armed with her degree as an early childhood educator, my mother met with our teachers before we left town. She made lists of the assignments we would miss so she could drill us on our multiplication tables and question us about the Nile River while we wriggled our toes in the sand. She realized the value of home schooling even before we read about it years later in magazines. I’m fascinated by my dad’s concern about his past parenting skills because by setting aside each June and by even endorsing the skipping of school, he communicated loud and clear that the five of us were an important entity. Although I may not remember many raucous moments in our Brookline home, our languid afternoons spent collecting smoothed green glass together or trying to walk to the end of the horizon on South Beach, shaped my concept of family.
My dad often said that he relaxed as soon as the ferryboat pulled away from the dock at Woods Hole. Then he would hold my little brother aloft for a closer look at the seagulls. My mother seldom seemed to mind the wind blowing through her usually carefully coifed hair. My sister and I could never wait to get to Katama. A Canadian family with girls our own ages returned each year. If Mrs. Atwood who owned the inn had extra time, she helped the four of us as well as any other young and available guests to put on plays. One summer I was Rumpelstiltskin, somersaulting through the long beach grass with my floating cotton beard sailing behind me.
Our parents became fast friends with these girls’ parents who loved to pile all of us into their rented jeep for sunset drives and barbecues near the surf. I had hardly ever heard my mother laugh so heartily or seen my father so silly with glee as his fishing hook yielded nothing but ugly sea robins. I grew to rely on the scent of marshmallows toasting on the end of a stick as a significant beacon of summer.
Although we went in June because that was when my father could take time off, the weather was not always at its best. Those cool, gusty winds forced us to fashion a shelter of bamboo sticks covered by a canvas tarpaulin so we could have a little protection at the beach. “Put on your red jobs!” My dad would command and my sister, my brother and I would pull on our matching hooded crimson sweatshirts. I would always tie the strings in a tight bow at my neck to keep that whooshing sea air out of my ears.
During our very first summer there, my mother discovered a storybook about a little child who spent each summer on an island. At the end of every August, she tossed two pennies overboard as the ferryboat pulled out of the harbor at the start of her homeward journey. Those two tossed pennies guaranteed her return again the following July. Almost immediately this custom took hold in my own family's lore. Once we started throwing our pennies overboard, we figured it would be risky to discontinue this annual practice.
That juncture each June has become so embedded in my soul that even before my husband and I had children, we brought our bikes for day trips on the Vineyard or reserved weekends near Edgartown. When our daughter was in diapers, we rented our first cottage with friends for a week. I must confess that these friends, unseasoned Vineyarders, were less than certain about the mildewed kitchen and the towels hung out to dry which only became wetter with
each new morning dew. But they were brave enough to soldier on through a few more summers with us.
When our family expanded to number five plus a babysitter, we sometimes secured a home for two weeks. The energy spent dragging carriages, booster seats, wading pools, and favorite foods hardly seemed worththe effort for just seven days. Together we have built our own memories while flying brightly colored kites, boiling sweet corn fresh from the farm in pots filled with ocean water, and riding the Ferris wheel at the Tisbury fair.
Now that almost all of our children are grown and have their own busy schedules, Vineyard time has become four days grabbed here or two days savored there. Yet we have never sailed out of Vineyard Haven harbor without each tossing at least one penny overboard. With the passage of time, we have begun to feel guilty about all those pennies at the bottom of the Atlantic. But who among us wants to chance halting this ingrained custom?
Living in faraway Wyoming, our daughter for the first time could not join us for our Vineyard holiday this year. Her several phone calls let us know how much she missed our traditional vacation. We sent her a box of famous Murdick’s fudge purchased within sight of the “Flying Horses” carousel at Oak Bluffs where she had spun around and around trying to grasp that brass ring.
Recently we enjoyed a beach weekend with our sons. “It’s time to invest in this place…” insisted my husband “…if we have land, eventually we’ll build.” I blinked back my tears because as he well knows, this is something I have always wanted.
We were lucky to find property bordered by an old fieldstone wall with blueberry and blackberry bushes scattered every once in awhile. The ocean is only about a ten-minute walk down a nearby path. While waiting for the cantankerous seller to accept our offer, we noticed our boys perusing photos of their toddler selves searching for clam shells or looking at videos of themselves and their sister struggling to windsurf on Katama Bay.
For my part, it’s hard to erase the image from my mind of an older me picking blueberries with a grandchild or driving to a story hour at the library in the center of town. I picture a house designed with two wings: one cozy section for my husband and myself with our bedroom, a livingroom we would actually live in, a kitchen with a large wooden table for eating meals, and perhaps a screened porch for buggy nights. The other section would include bedrooms for our children, a bunkroom for expansion, an outdoor shower to limit the incoming grit and a clothesline because hope springs eternal for a dry spell. I have observed the occasional trophy oceanfront home: fully air-conditioned, temperature-controlled for fine wines, and wired for sound. But for me, some simple quality would be lost without ceiling fans to move the sultry humidity and our out-dated turntable to play our vintage jazz records.
What’s especially nice is that my extended family shares my excitement for this new project. Perhaps our shared Vineyard time is as memorable for them. My mother says she knows this is a dream come true for me; my sister anticipates seeing our land. Soon we’ll bundle up in fleece jackets, lace our boots, and walk the property.
I’m hoping that my parents get to enjoy their grandchildren and great grandchildren in our new home, to buy cherry pies at Humphrey’s, and collect pieces of driftwood at the beach. Our architect talks of fashioning a cart for carrying chairs, towels, umbrellas, snacks, sunscreen, and books in order to simplify beach excursions. Maybe a golf cart for ferrying elderly people would also make sense!
Part of envisioning a new dwelling is letting one’s imagination run free. Maybe because I associate the Vineyard with quality time between the generations, I always picture multi-layered gatherings there. At the end of a day spent baking muffins with our blueberries or choosing new books from the library, it’s hard to imagine an experience more satisfying for me than meandering toward the water and settling myself on a straw mat. I cannot wait to lean back and shield the sun from my eyes so I can watch another little girl somersault nimbly over the sand.
Betsy Banks Epstein writes social commentary and travel. Her work has appeared in the Boston Globe, the Burlington Free Press, Booming magazine, Pandemonium, an anthology of parenting humor, the Walker Within, a collection of inspirational stories, and Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Sisters. A resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts, she was a Cambridge Chronicle columnist for many years.
|
