Author Archives: jeanstonemv

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About jeanstonemv

Author. Writer. Adventurer. (LOL)

Stop and Smell the Sea Air.

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Stop and Smell the SeaSometimes I forget where I am. I get so busy, have so much fun, work so hard, go to so many movies and lectures and book groups and you-name-it, that I forget to remember what brought me here in the first place.

The sea, of course. The vast, empty beaches in winter, where you can walk for what seems like forever, with only the roar of the waves (they really do roar in winter) for your companion, and the only thoughts in your head the ones your imagination can dream up.

I learned that two decades ago when I came here to write my first Vineyard novel. Back then, a solitary walk on the beach helped de-stress my mind, helped set my imagination free. I “met” new friends like Jill, Rita, and Ben—I imagined their lives lived on an island, removed from the world and yet not. Over time, I met dozens of new friends while I strolled on the sand: Liz, Will, and BeBe; Jess, Richard, and Ginny; Mary Beth, Nikki, and Gabrielle. Some politicians, some trust fund babies, some just plain people, like me.

Yesterday, it was almost 50 degrees here. (Nice change from last weekend’s blizzard that limited visibility to your hand in front of your face.) I knew it would be a fine day for beach walking.

I went to South Beach, climbed over a sand dune (it used to be easier to do that), and there it was: the forever-stretch of barren beach, the gray, roaring waves, the tide either coming or going—I’ve never been sure how to tell which way was which. Sort of like life, I guess.

A long time ago, the great Olympic gymnast and wonderful friend, Tim Daggett, said, “If someone tells you they don’t have a dream, you’d better check their pulse.” I moved closer to the water and checked mine. Surprisingly, it was still going strong.

I breathed. I smelled the sea air. And I let myself feel open, once again, to all possibilities, to anything I could imagine. I looked far to my left, far to my right. I saw no one, but I started to walk. As you can see by the photo, I wasn’t the only one who’d been there. Apparently lots of people—perhaps some real, perhaps some imagined—had thought it was a good day for dreaming, too.

Advice of the day: Find your own kind of beach. Then watch the magic happen.

Pepe was Here.

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hh_sba_skunkIt’s been a quiet evening. I’ve been sitting in the living room, drinking tea, watching a movie, playing Words with Friends. And now, it has happened without fanfare or warning: the unmistakable, slow-rising, scent of . . . skunk.

I have learned that skunks are indigenous to the Vineyard. Like a lot of people, they seem to like it here. There once was a campaign to name the species the island’s official bird. Don’t know how that worked out.

They’re bigger than most birds. Up to 18 pounds. My research says they’re born blind, and that they wind up with lousy eyesight but terrific hearing. So, if they can’t see the cars coming on Edgartown–Vineyard Haven Road—especially around dawn or dusk—you’d think they at least could hear them soon enough to get the heck out of the way. It would help avoid snarky answers to the riddle: “What’s black and white and red all over?”

As someone who spent years in western Massachusetts, not far from active farms, I am no stranger to nature’s scents. (Think dairy cows.) Sometimes your eyes sting so badly it’s easy to forget that it’s organic, so it must be good for us.

I’m not sure how much good the skunks are, though, especially since they are primary predators of the honeybee. If we had fewer skunks on the Vineyard, perhaps we’d solve the problem of global bee extinction.

The whole time I’ve been writing this, the aroma has grown stronger. I’m not sure where the culprit is: my backyard, across the street, maybe in the village. Like the sounds of the waves, the scent can carry.

I’ve actually only seen a few live ones. Once while I was on a restaurant patio a big one casually waddled past as if he were one of the waitstaff. Another time I was walking to my car and, apparently, so was Pepe.

I hold no grudge against the skunks, and feel a little sad to learn that their lifespan is a mere two to three years. Which is probably a sign that I’ve adapted to my environment, and that, like them, I like it here.

I think I’ll make more tea now; maybe play another game. And I really should close the window. Maybe that will help.

Rainy Days

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FireplaceSometimes it rains here. Torrentially. Sometimes the wind blows. Hard. The surf kicks up, the boats shut down, the temperature drops, and most folks scurry to their homes and crank up the flames in their propane fireplace.
That was me, yesterday.
It was a great day to write, to read, to watch a movie. I did none of those things: I put on my fleece jammies and took a nap instead. Because sometimes, even on Martha’s Vineyard, it’s the best thing to do. No guilt. No second thoughts.
Today the sun is out, the sky is blue, and I really must get to work.
Darn.

1,000 Clams

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1,000 clamsI blame too many years in advertising for the fact I am a cynic. But as a diehard copywriter, I admit there’s one thing I still admire: great ad copy.

“Why didn’t I write that?” I’ve moaned more than once when I’ve seen or heard or read a fabulous, on-target headline attached to a great concept: Just do it. Maybe she’s born with it. Guess what day it is? You know the ones: They call up an instant image, evoke an instant feeling, spark an instant interest in the product.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a great one. Until the other day.

Subscribe to the VINEYARD GAZETTE and we’ll give 1,000 CLAMS . . .

It turns out that for each new subscription or renewal, the Gazette will donate 1,000 clams to help preserve the island’s coastal ponds. Fabulous, indeed.

Oh, sure, some folks might be disappointed not to get a mug or another tote bag. (My favorite has always been the free calendar with a one-year renewal.) But I think idea of the clams is brilliant, not only as a marketing hook, but also for its environmental effort.

The ad piqued my interest. I researched old Gazette articles and learned that quahogs (pronounced co-hogs, for those not in the know) are now thought to be the “longest-lived animals on the planet” since, a few years back, one was found off the coast of Iceland and determined to be 405 years old. Hmm. Not sure I’d want to pop that one into the chowder.

I can’t find any reference as to how “clams” began to connote “money,” but I suspect it’s connected to “wampum,” the supposed form of currency in 17th century America that was crafted from the purple and white shards of clamshell remnants scattered across the island beaches after seagulls have jack-hammered them for lunch. (Yes, I’ve mentioned that before.)

But I digress.

I don’t know the name of the copywriter who came up with the ad or which actually came first: the idea to donate clams or the clever headline as a marketing tool. But I’d like to send a big Hooray! for a job well done.

I also renewed my subscription for another year. (Good marketing, like good writing, deserves positive results.) When I finished, I clicked “Submit.” Then I shut down my computer, drove to the bookstore, and bought my own calendar.

On the way home, I stopped at the seafood market.

I know what I’m having for Dinner.

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IMG_3826I was driving to the post office this morning to collect a bagful of catalogs that surely had amassed while I was off-island for the holiday. That’s when the phone rang in my purse.

Bluetooth notwithstanding, I decided to find a place to park and settle in for a chat. I chose the harbor because sitting by the water is a perfect start to any day.

There wasn’t much to see on this Monday after Christmas: a few pickup trucks in the parking lot; four of five empty boats tied to the pier, barely bobbing on the calm sea; the hazy sun trying to peek through clouds that threatened to turn gray. Weather predictions were for a bit of sleet and freezing rain, the first of the season so no one could complain.

After a few minutes, a small white boat appeared; a young man in full yellow slicker regalia (pants and jacket) steered it to the dock. Two other young men also in full regalia (though they’d selected orange) leapt from the boat and tied it up. Then their work began.

In perfect harmony (They’ve done this before, I thought. Like every day in season), they hoisted one large plastic tub after another from the boat and carried them to two waiting pickup trucks: a silver one, a black one. That’s when I saw the contents: scallops.

Yum.

I finished my call and drove off on my post office mission, very much aware of the decreased number of vehicles on the road (I saw three in a mile-and-a-half), and of the increased number shops that now had CLOSED signs in their windows. I made it to my destination (love all the cards, folks, thanks!), then headed down Upper Main Street back toward home . . . until I reached the fork in the road at the Edgartown Seafood store.

And there it was: a silver pickup that I’d swear was one of those that had been at the dock. Imagine that. And I’d swear there was at least one less bucket of scallops in the pickup bed.

I smiled, pulled over, and snapped this pic (sorry for the gray sky) to serve as a reminder that I should go back around 3:00pm and pick up dinner. I think those beauties should be shucked by then.

The Cards are in the Mail

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IMG_3819I have been terrible at sending Holiday Cards over the past few years. Well, okay, maybe over the past few decades. This year, I sent five. Oh, wait, I think it was six.

Sound familiar? I gave it my best shot, then I ran out of time. As I’ve said before, there’s too much to do, too many awesome distractions here on the Vineyard!

They were pretty cards. (I hope I don’t get sued for showing a photo of one here.) I used a red, fine-tip Sharpie and penned a brief, but hopefully meaningful message on each. With one eye on the clock so the cards would make the Postal Boat today (if there is one), I slipped them into envelopes and quickly added the addresses of the “lucky six.” I included my return address because I haven’t been here long enough for those nice people from I-have-no-idea-where to send me cute, imprinted labels.

Heading toward the post office, I drove along the beach road and waved “Hello!” to not one, but two, police officers who sat in their cruisers, about 100 yards apart, hugging the dunes in wait. They didn’t get me this time; I was in the happy spirit of the holidays, engaged in Christmas Present, pleased-as-punch to be on my way to send half-a-dozen good wishes for the first time in too many years. It was a small act, but I was proud.

After I passed Bend-in-the-Road Beach (I love that name), my gaze dropped to the cards that were neatly stacked(?) on the passenger seat beside me. That’s when I realized I had stamped the envelopes not with decked-out Charlie Brown and Snoopy, not with a lovely Nativity Scene, not with festive Christmas ornaments, but with . . . Elvis.

Okay, so maybe a black and white photo of the King of Rock ‘n Roll is not exactly appropriate. If only it had a slight blue cast it might have been acceptable. (Remember that mournful song?) But there I was, my stack of look-at-me-I-actually-sent-out-Christmas-cards-this-year peering up at me not with the reverence of the season but with smoky eyes and a curled lip. Hmm.

I decided to get over myself. I made it to the post office, dropped the loot into the slot, wished a few folks Merry Christmas, and headed home.

To any of my friends or family who did not receive a card, please know you are absolutely in queue for next year’s mailing. Until then, I am sorry, but Elvis has left the island.

I Wore a Santa Hat!

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FullSizeRenderI first stepped inside the Edgartown Library the day after Thanksgiving 1995. Wow! Twenty years ago! I was there to do research for my 4th novel, PLACES BY THE SEA, which later turned into one of my 6 (almost 7!) books that take place on this magical island.

Back then, I knew no one here. I stayed in an Inn across from the library on North Water Street. Each day, I spent hours in the library’s tiny research room, making notes at the round oak table under the big Boston fern. I did not have a laptop (not sure if they existed yet), but I had lots of pens and a few notebooks. After the third day, the librarians called me by name.

By late afternoon, I walked a block down the street to The Newes, the congenial pub at the Kelley House. I ate lunch by the fireplace, scribbling notes of characters, plots, and the charm of the Vineyard.

Over the years, I came and went from the library (and The Newes!) many times. When I spent the winter of 2010-11 here, I sat nearly every day at that round oak table. By then I wasn’t sure I could write a “Vineyard book” unless I was parked in my favorite spot.

Soon the big, new, beautiful library will open, and it will be magnificent, though a bit bittersweet. But in the meantime, there was the “Christmas in Edgartown” parade to tend to.

When Lisa Sherman, the Library Director, asked if I wanted to walk with them down Main Street alongside their “float” (actually, a decorated dump truck), handing out cards for “Fine-Free” days and tossing candy into the crowd, I jumped at the chance. After all, I owe them. I happily donned the Santa hat and, with every step on the parade route, I was reminded that without the library, I might not have had such a long and wonderful writing career.

I only hope that when they move to the new building, someone remembers to bring the big Boston fern.

Happy Holidays to all!

Reason #14,327

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churchOkay, so here’s Reason #14,327 why I moved to the Vineyard: simplicity.

As most of us know, it’s the holiday season. And though we don’t have a Mall or a Target of even holiday versions of McDonalds’ milkshakes (if they have them, and my old marketing sense tells me they must!), we definitely have the spirit.

Everywhere you go on the island, you are aware of the scent of freshly cut evergreens. Everywhere you go you see sprigs of holly and little trees made of boxwood. You see signs for church fairs and crafts fairs and plates full of homemade cookies in the libraries and shops. You see festive lights along town streets and signs for the Red Stocking Fund that helps provide gifts for island kids.

This is a photo of a church in West Tisbury…note the green wreaths with red bows…see what I mean about the simplicity? A few bells, but no whistles. Holiday spirit without the glitz. It’s infectious, it really is.

Of course, this coming weekend will be “Christmas in Edgartown,” complete with the lighting of the lighthouse, special shopping, carolers, and, yes, more cookies (and hot chocolate). And, don’t forget the parade! I’m hoping that again this year Santa will arrive in a Coast Guard Life Boat on wheels. Hope to see you all there!

A Boatload of Words

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Sometimes you get to leave the island for an adventure, like to the Cape for a dentist appointment. Of course, you can make it more fun by adding stops at the Cape Cod Mall, the Christmas Tree Shop, Marshalls, or any number of chain stores and/or restaurants that aren’t on the Vineyard. Yay!

None of which can be accomplished without the help of the ferry and its tireless workers.

I stayed on the freight deck the other day, exhausted from my trip abroad. Parked in the back, the last car on the boat, I’d watched the workers in action. They have a system, or so ‘d like to believe, of knowing which vehicle to direct into which lane. (The big boat holds 60 cars, 76 with the hydraulic lift deck.) Trucks tend to go in the middle; SUVs front, rear, and center; VWs and Coopers in the narrow lanes on the sides where it’s tough to open the doors without banging them against the concrete walls. Loading the boat is a ballet of sorts, with each vehicle having its place, creating the right balance for a smooth voyage.

As I watched that day, the process reminded me of writing a novel. There are a whole lot of words of different sizes and colors, different horsepowers (or is it horses power?), different things the author wants to convey. The fact that I drive a VW might mean I prefer short, simple words (I do). Perhaps the BMW driver in the next lane uses more impressive words like prepandial or ubiety. (I have no idea what they mean.)

IMG_3783When all the vehicles were in their proper places, we were underway. I sat in my car, pondering the similarities between novelists and ferry workers, when I glanced to my left and saw this: One of the workers parked himself by the window, picked up a magazine, and took a well-deserved break. The sun was shining, the surf was gentle, and he, indeed, had the best seat in the house.

I knew the feeling. It’s how a novelist feels when he or she finishes another scene or a chapter, having choreographed a (hopefully) perfect dance of words.