Rochester, NY
4:07 PM
I’m back to normalcy. Or I’m back to as close to normalcy as I’m going to get while on this trip. I’m back in Rochester and type from the kitchen table of my parents which for ease of typing I am going to call home. This is as close to home as I have right now. James Taylor plays on the CD player. The sliding doors to the deck are open and a slight breeze enters from Lake Ontario. The beach shines form the sun. My aunt and a friend are sitting in the sun, to my left. A lawn mower shouts out from somewhere. I just came in from planting a few things for my mom.
I needed a day to clear my head after my weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. Fatigue from the weekend and then the addition of an 8 hour drive demotivated me last night. A fat mom’s spaghetti meal and the Cowboys being on TV ended any thought of typing.
I arrived on a beautiful Friday afternoon. I barreled down 495 to smaller roads, down to Woods Hole. I whirred by a sign for ferry parking. It said the Woods Hole lot was closed. You can’t drive to Martha’s Vineyard. It’s an island and a ferry is the only way. If you are a high roller (as many are there) you can put your car on the ferry. I am not a high roller, so I parked in what they called the Sun lot, lugged out my bags, locked the car in hopes that my computer, video camera, and basically the rest of my worldly goods would be there when I returned, and headed to the bus. I dragged my fully packed bag and backpack in and plopped them down next to me. The bus was filled with chatter and happy faces as we all got ready for a vacation. People are always more friendly when the trip is about to begin. We talked the usual talk about the weather and how many times on the island and all of that. A lady in a hat sat down next to me. We smiled and nodded. After a few minutes we began to converse.
The usual conversation began, but we stayed the course and delved deeper. She owned her own business in Providence and was here to see a friend who she hadn’t seen in years. I told her about me and that I was there to stay with someone who I had met only a few times in my adult life. She explained she also was a type of motivational speaker, but on a one on one basis, for business owners. She quizzed me about my trip, book, and experiences. She was interested and interesting. We carried on, bought our ferry tickets, watched each other’s bags while the other went to the bathroom, and then boarded the ferry together. We sat next to each other. She showed me some books and asked about my writing style. I said I didn’t really know, but people seem to like it. It was a great conversation that lasted about an hour. A connection made right off the bat. What a way to start the trip.
The ferry arrived and we parted ways after exchanging cards. I just went upstairs to find it so I can email her, but it must be in my car. I arrived at the Oak Bluffs stop and Pete was there to pick me up. He is a friend of a childhood friend of mine, Josh. Josh was the mediator and got the OK for me to come and stay. Pete was amazingly flexible as I changed my dates a few times because of weather and scheduling. Regardless, I was there.
We shook hands, he grabbed my bookbag, and walked down to the car. He was comfortable in his walk and his demeanor. He’s a laid back dude. He had sandals, shorts, a brown what looked like an old bowling shirt, and a pair of shades. “How about a beer?” he asked. I agreed and we walked through town to a place on the pier. He had a Red Stripe and I had a Sam Adam’s. “$9,” the bartender said. “Welcome to Martha’s Vineyard,” Pete explained as he paid for it. He told me all about the island and the different places and people. Billy Joel, the Kennedy’s, James Taylor, and more have property out there.
We had a beer and headed back to his place, which he called The Shack, so I could drop off my bags. He asked what I wanted to do when I was there. I said whatever he normally does. We went to the Shack to drop off bags and get ready to go play Friday volleyball. We arrived at the Shack and I did not see a shack. I saw beautiful house tucked in woods with a dirt driveway. I saw a lot of woods everywhere we went. He explained that the Vineyard is really beaches surrounding acres and acres of woods. Not at all what I thought. He showed me the house and introduced me to the owner who was a really friendly lady from New Orleans. We exchanged pleasantries and he must have told her what I was doing because she said to be nice to the house when I write. I told her only if they are nice to me and she laughed. Pete showed me around. The place was sweet. Two huge decks, numerous rooms, a fat grill and kitchen and a few showers.
Even better was the fact that when we had our beer Pete explained that there was a dance troupe from NYC staying at the house. I did a double take. A dance troupe? Staying where we were? Dancers? Sweet. They were not around. They had a show to get ready for that night. He and I were going the next day.
We left the house and headed to the Shack. I had just been at Walden and seen his shack. Pete’s was very similar. We walked down a trail, took a right past the tree that got in the way, and veered left to Pete’s place. It was maybe 15 feet wide and 25 feet long. There was NO running water. There WAS electricity and a fan that was always running. Stella, his parakeet, roamed freely from cage to cage and all over. She landed on Pete’s head as we arrived. He had a loft area where he slept. He threw down a futon mattress, sleeping bag, sheet, and pillow for me. We were set. I told him I wanted to do what he did. That big house was up there with a dance troupe, but I was in the Shack and excited about it.
We headed to volleyball. It sounded like he was good. They played twice a week. I am a competitive, sometimes too much so, person and did not want to embarrass myself. There was big guy from Bulgaria and another guy not as big from Connecticut. They all lived on the island. I was not doing the tourist stuff that most do when they come to Martha’s Vineyard. I was living as a local for a few days. We played 2’s and Pete and I got smoked. I was a liability to him. I improved as we went on and more people showed up. I either got better or got on the right team as we won in 3’s and 4’s. I at least showed some coordination. My jumping ability did not improve in the sand. I am a true white boy and we cannot jump. We polished off a beer and said our goodbyes.
I was worn out and wasn’t up for anything to major. We decided to head to the store and get some stuff to grill back at the house. Pete lives in the Shack, but has free reign of the house. That means bathroom, kitchen, shower, washer, dryer, etc… We got some porkchops, asparagus, salad, onion, and mushrooms. We made it back and he was surprised to find no one at the house. It was 7 ish and everyone was at the dance show. “This is rare,” he said to me. The guy who rents a room in the house, agreed, “This never happens.” It sounded like the house was always filled with guests and visitors. The owner loved to entertain and I guess she did it a lot.
All 3 of us grilled. It was a beautiful night as we ate on the back deck. We sat high above a grove of trees. The wind blew over them and made great music. We drank and ate and laughed. Pete and I were geared up for the troupe to make it back from the show.
They made it back along with a few others. We all talked in different places on different decks. There were some beautiful girls with toned bodies and some guys who looked off the pages of a magazine. Some of the guys were flirting with each other (Pete and I did not partake in that) and we tried to flirt with the girls. The scene was raging. The plan was to take it easy. But as I learned is customary at the house, there is nothing mellow about it. 3:30 came, Pete and I looked at each other, it was time. We said our goodnights and headed down to the shack.
The sky had grown low with fog. You could not see the moon. It made for a dark night which was good for sleeping, but when you are sleeping with all of the windows open in a sleeping bag, it made for a humid rest. I was hot and muggy, but I was also buzzed, so I didn’t seem to mind an ant walking by on the mattress or a spider or two that I brushed off. I crashed as if nothing was there.
I laughed at where I was. “Here I am in this shack.” Million dollar homes are within a stones throw. Tourists paying a few hundred dollars a night. The house still raging. I was glad to be where I was, living it up, but in a totally different way than most will ever see at the Vineyard.