People Who Need People

There's an oft touched upon theme throughout my ramblings. The notion of one's "people". If you've ever read The Shipping News (or seen it as well) it's a very salt of the earth kinda thing - usually relating to small towns - almost always New England, the Deep South or barren parts of Canada. The Aunt (please don't ask me to remember names other than the fact that she was played by Judi Dench - a Shakespearean goddess!) talks about how (insert name played by Kevin Spacey here) will be fine because he's a Coyle/Quoyle/who the hell knows what the darn name is and this is where his people are from. The only thing I remember is when she says, matter of factly, "You have to be with your people."

The other day on the boat, I was teasing someone from Newport about her accent. She laughed and said "But you're the one with the accent." How many times I've discussed that very thing throughout my acting and dialectitian career. It's always the other guy who has the accent. And she was right. I'm the stranger, the foreigner. No matter how long I may be here, no matter how much I may care, I will always "have the accent". Maybe I'll start saying "cah" instead of "car" or "draw" instead of "drawer". Who knows, I might even end up sounding like the Pepperidge Farm guy who did the commercials when I was a kid - and we all know how fake his accent was. But no matter how New England-ized I become, and I'm not all that certain I want to be (no insult intended) I will eventually say something mid-western and give myself away. Whether it's "coke" for all sodas, or "sghetti red" instead of "spaghetti" (which is a really old mid-westernism that most mid-westerners don't even use anymore) or "sack" instead of "bag". Little things will give me away and invariably someone will say "You're not from these parts (pahts), are you?" in a kindly, well-intentioned way...not unlike the way I say it to others. And I'll make some friendly chatter about where I'm from and how I ended up so far from home and then I'll go home and I'll sit at the computer for hours looking up web sites of home because I no longer have any pictures or mementos to remind me of my life, my home and my people. (But that's another story altogether)

It's nights like these, the ones I really go mad for, the ones that bring out my true inner self...misty, foggy, not too cold and not too warm, silent and alone (I do so miss my alone time) that makes me homesick. And it's not like I'm from Ireland or anything. Although I am part Irish, but that's a ways back and those aren't really my people. It's because I once had a beautiful best friend in high school (who later betrayed me cruelly and crushingly - but that's another story) who used to drive me everywhere and teach me about the day to day things that my parents never bothered to. And on nights like these, we would drive down Blue River Road (which, a month or two later would be filled with the flickerings of fireflies and it was like driving through an enchanted glade) and watch for large patches of fog at the soccer fields right next to the water. I have always been drawn to the fog. She knew that. Our Fantastic Seven knew that. [Fantastic Seven: Everybody had one in whatever numerical combination it might be. That group in high school that were tighter than your own family. Wherever you were, they were close behind.] It was nights like these that Renee, Kathy and I dressed up like...dragon ladies, I think it was and "kidnapped" Erik for his birthday. It was a night like this that Patrick and I waltzed in the Taco Bell parking lot under the parking light. It was a night almost like this that Jeff and I broke up and, interestingly enough, it was a night almost exactly like this that I first kissed the great love of my life in my dad's F-150 - the second one that replaced the one that got hit by a train with him in it.

On nights like this, I want so badly to put on Hall and Oates (thankfully I don't own any) because they were the big thing at the time, dim the lights, light the candles and stroll down memory lane. These memories give me such happiness...and some chagrin. But then it hits me. I'm separated from my people. And I wonder any more if there's anyone on this earth, or at least in this country, who understands what that means. To be culled from the herd, separated from the pack, dead to your past. To feel your heart called again and again and to not be able to answer.

I long to hear a true Missouri twang. I want to drive everywhere I used to go and drink it all in: Arrowhead Stadium, Independence Mall, Quality Hill Playhouse, the Unicorn Theatre, Park College...oh, the drive along the Missouri River in the fall was always breathtaking. No New England foliage, but still beautiful. I want to eat at Gates & Sons and have people yell at me "Hi, may I hep you?" as only a native city dweller can. I want to visit the children's books at the downtown public library and I want to talk to people who don't ask for an explanation when I say that they'll never do anything with The Quay. In fact, I'd love to talk to someone who knows how to properly pronounce The Quay. I want to gaze at The Scout statue overlooking the city and live in Blue Springs. I want to stay in a cabin at The Ozarks every fall because the most incredible morning of my life happened there. Only one person in this world knows what made that morning so incredible. It was the most deep and perfect night's sleep of my life. The kind that books and movies talk about where you wake up naturally and completely refreshed. We were in sweats and buried beneath mounds of quilts and our noses were cold where they just barely peeked out from under the covers. The cabin smelled just a little of the previous evening's fire and when I stretched, every bone in my back aligned itself perfectly and without fuss. I woke up in amber light, staring at the face of pure, unadulterated love. That's the true definition of romance right there, folks: sweats, quilts, and old stale smoke.

This isn't what I sat down to write about. For the life of me, I can't recall what it is I did sit down to write about. I love this craggy, grouchy, imperfect island. But a very intangible, incredibly important part of me is missing. And that's the part that being with "your people" is all about. I embrace the challenge that moving to a state like Maine offers, and I hope that we are successful as a family there. But I know in my heart, that I will never be truly, honestly content until I'm standing in a dark, misty, cool night in the Missouri springtime.

So say we all...

Missive From the Edge

I'm so exhausted I'm not even sure I can put a coherent sentence together. I lack a great deal of quality sleep. I've always been a quantity kind of gal - nine hours is the perfect amount for me; not too little, not too much. But, like most mothers, I've learned to function quite well on much less. The thing is, like most mothers, I need a large portion of whatever amount I sleep to be deep and uninterrupted.

Several years ago, I and a relative started a campaign against late night noise in our area. I egotistically like to think we started the whole snowball, but it's been bitched about by others and better. Anyway, we started with letters to the Town Council and the paper. Went to meetings, listened to hems and haws, etc. And now the Town seems to really want to do something about all the late night, excessive noise and all and I appreciate the effort, but none of what they're proposing (and this is a sweeping generalization because I'm just too darn tired so please forgive my pollyannaishness) is going to do me a bit of good. I'll tell you why, shall I?

I could care less if a wedding plays their music until 10 o'clock...as long as it's good music. If folks are gonna dance the night away to Big Band, Golden Oldies, Funk, R&B, Disco, Doo Wop - more power to ya. But if you're gonna play remixes with bass so loud my windows rattle...yeah, as a musician with a certain amount of cred and taste, I'm gonna have a problem with it keeping up my baby. I live so close to Kittens and Nicks that I can spit on the building on a really windy day...reallllllly windy. Before all this started I barely ever heard their music. I actually hear more from Ballard's outdoor entertainment during the day...and the Springhouse afternoon concerts than I've ever heard from Disco or Reggae nights.

But this isn't getting me where I'm going. My noise issues aren't those issues. My noise issues can't be regulated or protected by law or ordinance or hear-o-meter or anything else. My noise issues rely on common courtesy (a theme, it seems) and the fall of the Roman Empire. No matter what you do, no matter what law you pass or permit you require, you cannot, I repeat, cannot, regulate common sense and common courtesy. All the ordinances in the world isn't going to stop a group of drunken college students from "woo-hooing" at the top of their lungs as they walk past my bedroom window at 1:30 in the morning. In the "old days" (three years ago), the police department told me to call in on all of these "offenses" so they could keep an accurate count of how many noise complaints there really are and present them to the council at a later date. Huh? I'm woken up by passing noise marauders and you want me to get out of bed, call you to issue a complaint that cannot and will not be acted upon because by the time somebody would arrive, the marauders will more than likely have moved on or dispersed? Sorry, cap, ain't happenin'. Nope, there's no permit that's going to protect my baby's three naptimes during the day when the windows are wide open and the breeze is from the north/south/east/west. There's no ordinance that's going to provide for the tourist at the Island Manor who insists on setting the car alarm that goes off at 3 in the morning (or whoever it is that keeps setting off the damn fire alarm over there late at night and everybody has to wait for Peter Blane to wake up, get dressed and come down and turn the damn thing off!) or the party-ers that walk down the streets at 2 a.m. shouting at the top of their lungs, or the guy who's peeing in the bushes behind my house, or the groups of five or six folks who come up into the yard to have conversation at midnight, etc.

Now, as to the fall of the Roman Empire. One of the biggest indicators that the Empire was out of control and beginning to crumble was the insistence (sp?) of passing unenforceable laws.

Like I said...I'm tired. I think maybe I should be taking a nap instead of writing this. That said, I think I'm gonna go catch me some zzzzs.

Wag The Dog

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to walk the trails with a six month old? A twenty pound six month old??!!More than my Helga the Mud-Wrestler arms can handle, I can tell you that. I have considered those back pack thingies. Goodness knows the baby would love it. He always wants to be up on Daddy's shoulders raining down on the peons his benevolent dictatorship (and drool). I don't know if I can handle the whole backpack thing. I'm willing to try. I ought to soon, though, seeing as how they aren't supposed to go in them after a certain point. Who knows, I might've passed it already. It's not uncommon for me to be a day short and a dollar late. Or...wait...never mind. That probably does sum it up best.

One of the great things about living on Block Island is walking the beach. Certain strollers work best on the beach. I'm getting one of those. They last a lot longer than a baby backpack. But I'm already digressing and I haven't even started pontificating yet (thought I'd throw that in that word in honor of the new Pope - old Ratzinger, new...what's his name? Benedict the Sixteenth or something?). Four years ago I started walking the beaches early in the morning (hey! Seven IS early for me, all right?) and/or later in the afternoon ( 5 or 6 ish). I met some really nice people - especially in the morning. Dog people. Oh ho, so THAT's what this is really about. Dog people - true dog lovers - get up at 7 in the morning whether they want to or not. They take their large, water lovin' retrievers down to the beach (which is conveniently located less than 5 minutes away from my front door) and let them run, chase tennis balls and frolic in the autumn mist...I mean, waves. At 7 a.m., none of the dog walkers have brushed their teeth, or even remembered to put on deodorant. Heck, we don't even have names at the beach. We're "the Newfie's Mom" and "The five Corgies' Dad" and silly stuff like that. Some of us are out all the time, some only for the duration of a vacation. Almost all of us are incredibly responsible dog owners - why else would we be out running on the beach with tennis balls at seven on a perfectly good Saturday morning?

My dog is so gorgeous he should be on a dog food commercial. I kid you not. This dog rocks! He is gorgeous and friendly and athletic and - when at the beach - well mannered. He does run up to passers by and greet them by panting loudly and wagging his tail. Sometimes, when he was a puppy, he'd get too close and once he shook on somebody. But they were dog people, too, and laughed about it. He loves the other dogs but is easily intimidated and would much rather just walk with me and chase his beloved ball. I work hard at teaching him the proper place to relieve himself and sometimes I carry along a garden trowel, when I actually remember, for the times when he doesn't get close enough to the dunes. I also teach him to stay out of the dunes and...oh yeah, come when called. I don't take him to the beach during peak hours and when I do take him to the beach with the family, it's to someplace like Andy's Way, where we all can frolic in the autumn mist...waves...Damn song cues get me every time...where other dog lovers and their families are usually frolicking as well.

There's no dog run here on the island. There's lots of large, water lovin' retrievers of different ilk. Many people who live here get these particular breeds of dog not just because all the other guys at work have one, but because this is/was a great place to raise a dog.

Now, I'm not saying that people should be subjected to dog owners who don't follow the rules or teach their dogs manners, or bring them to inappropriate places or at inappropriate times. But I don't think those who DON'T own dogs have any more or less rights than those who do. And while there are always exceptions to rules, and there are always those irresponsible dog owners who give the rest of us a bad name, why shouldn't I be allowed to enjoy the beach with my dog early in the morning?

In case you don't know...the signs are now posted at all the beach entrances that all dogs must be leashed. Which...okay, whatever. Yeah, they're not telling me my dog can't be on the beach with me. They're just telling me that my dog can't run, can't chase his tennis ball, can't frolic in the autumn mist and can't enjoy my company as we have these last four years.

Geez, who's gonna tell my dog?