Category Archives: Community

In Pescadero: Harley Farms Goat Dairy

My final California posts have been much delayed.  That most tiresome and expected of reasons has kept me away from the blog for almost two weeks:  our old PC moved on to its greater reward.  It had been ailing for a while, and its misery was contagious.  Closing or opening a document had become a lengthy, frustrating process.  Our home office often resounded with groans, moans and furious mutterings as one of us sat staring beseechingly at an endlessly spinning “loading” symbol.  (Loading, loading, always loading, never loading.)  Once the PC had given up the ghost, of course, there followed the dreaded prospect of replacing it.  Fortunately, that falls under my husband’s purview, and he’s still dealing with the complex transition from old to new.  What would I do if I were single?

Now, a second-to-last look at our time in northern California.

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Because we toured the coast with local friends, we had the chance to visit some unique places we wouldn’t have discovered on our own.  One such spot, a favorite of our friends, is Harley Farms, a farm-to-table goat dairy in the rural seaside community of Pescadero.  This goat farm has a funky, unpretentious elegance and a chic sense of style.   It’s a friendly, family-run operation in an inviting setting of thoughtfully restored old farm buildings.  Two hundred furry, feisty Alpine goats munch and lounge happily in grassy pastures bordered by gardens and sheltered by rolling hills.  Llamas stand guard, exercising particular vigilance over the kids.  (Is anything cuter than a baby goat?  Maybe only a Shiba Inu puppy.)  The goats’ milk is processed on site into an array of award-winning cheeses.  These include crumbly feta, creamy chevre topped beautifully with edible flowers, as well as the softer consistency fromage blanc and ricotta cheeses.

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In the cozy restored barn that houses the shop, cheeses may be sampled and purchased.  Prior to our visit, while I had no objection to goat cheese, I wasn’t an outspoken fan. Harley Farms changed that.  After nibbling on a wide range of samples, we left with three tasty varieties.  My favorite may be the Monet chevre, seasoned with herbes de Provence.  The lavender and honey chevre runs a close second.  Also available in the shop are soaps, lotions and other bath and body products, all made with the milk of Harley goats.  Additionally, the farm produces nine lovely colors of durable, environmentally friendly FarmPaint. The barn’s hayloft, with its unique fir table that seats twenty-two, serves as a truly atmospheric event space.  Looking for a wedding venue like no other?  Harley Farms will handle all the details.

A goat farm had not been on our list of northern California must-sees.  But thanks to our friends, it is now.

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Some of the Harley nanny goats.  One appears to be kneeling in prayer.

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A guard llama eyes us warily.

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An immense eucalyptus tree shades the milk processors.

An Afternoon in Half-Moon Bay

To continue our tour of the northern California coast, we met up with good friends who had settled in Palo Alto to raise their family.  Although we’d kept in touch through Christmas cards, it had been perhaps seventeen years since I’d seen my former housemate Laura, and probably twenty since I’d seen her husband.  Laura and I became fast friends when we lived on the same small gray corridor of the New Graduate College in Princeton.  Together with our buddy and hallmate Ben, we could face anything the weird world of ivy-league graduate study could throw at us.  We considered ourselves a formidable trio.  And, when we weren’t working hard, we sure had fun.

When Laura completed her master’s degree and landed a job at Bell Labs, she stayed in Princeton and we rented a funny little blue house on Humbert Street near the cemetary.  More accurately, Laura rented it, and I provided her with pocket change.  I was still a poor student, and she graciously let me share the house, accepting as payment no more than the fractional amount my stipend would allow.  When our landlord sold that house, we moved across the borough to the lower level of a really lovely Victorian home on Murray Place.  I was with Laura at a Grad School cookout when we met two new engineering students, one of whom would later become my husband.  Our Murray Place house was conveniently near the E-Quad, where H spent his days in the lab.  He often parked on our street, which made it easy for me to plan to run into him by accident.  Laura was from New Jersey, with lots of family nearby.  On many Thanksgivings, Super Bowl Sundays and various holidays when I couldn’t get back to Atlanta, they welcomed me as one of their own.

With such a foundation of shared history, a couple of decades is nothing.  We picked up easily, and the years fell away.  We met the children we had watched grow up in photographs.  Laura’s son is sixteen, her daughter fourteen, with D right in the middle at fifteen.  The kids had little trouble breaking the ice; it was almost as if they were old friends, as well.  The same was true when D had the chance, several years ago, to meet Ben’s kids.

One of our coastal convoy’s first stops was Half Moon Bay, about thirty minutes south of San Francisco.  This quaint town has gained worldwide renown for its proximity to the phenomenal surfing spot known as Mavericks.  Until the 1990s, the enormous waves that develop under certain weather conditions were a closely kept local secret.  Since then, though, the word has been out, and elite surfers cross the globe to catch the waves, prove themselves (and risk their lives) at Half Moon Bay.

Today, as I write, the conditions for those near-legendary waves are ideal.  Twenty-four of the world’s top surfers, from as far away as Australia, South Africa and Brazil, are gathered at Half Moon Bay for the Mavericks Invitational surfing competition.   Waves as high as forty-five feet are forecasted.  Crowds have flocked to witness the action at waterfront hotels and restaurants.  No one is allowed to observe from the beach, however, due to the unpredictable nature of the waves.  Several years ago, a dozen spectators at Mavericks were injured by a rogue wave, an ever-present danger along this section of the coast.

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In this Dec. 30 view of Half Moon Bay, looking toward the harbor,
the waters are deceptively calm.


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The coast is rocky,


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and the bluffs are steep.  Sudden strong waves reared up periodically, seemingly out of nowhere, even on the day of our visit, when no surfers were out.


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A view along Main Street.


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The town’s historic Methodist Episcopal Church.


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Another Main Street view.  Flanked by mountains and the sea, lush with picturesque foliage, Half Moon Bay is one of those charming California towns that I had suspected existed only on movie lots.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside!

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The current extreme cold isn’t news to anyone in more than half of the country.  Still, it is remarkable.  The need to talk about the weather seems to be an almost inescapable element of our humanity.  It’s in our nature, and it’s hard to avoid.  As we’ve been told, we can blame the deep freeze on the polar vortex, which has gone kinky.  Oh dear!

Here in Northern Virginia, for the first time I can remember, school was canceled due to the cold, much to our daughter’s great joy.  Our porch thermometer read -1 at 7 AM.  D, who enjoys the sleep of the dead on school mornings, was inspired to get up and go out, briefly, just to experience the temperature.

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The morning view from our upstairs rooms was almost completely obscured by frost, thanks to our leaky storm windows.  If we ever get new windows, we won’t know, immediately upon waking, how to dress for the day.  Justification, perhaps, for keeping the old windows.

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Kiko and I walked, as usual, around 8 AM.  I bundled up sensibly, in layers, as any regular dog walker does.  I overdid the bundling, in fact, so I got a little warm.  The ice crystals that collected in my scarf were the only indication that this cold was more serious than usual.  Kiko kept up a brisk pace, thankfully.  He seemed to enjoy the frosty air but had the sense not to linger over the day’s smorgasbord of smells.

When we returned about 45 minutes later, Kiko rushed onto the porch, forgoing his usual attempt to ambush squirrels at the back yard bird feeder. Once inside, he didn’t pause to check his food bowl, but hurried to a sizable patch of sun in the playroom.  For several hours, he followed the sun to spots it rarely takes him. He kept himself tightly curled, like a little fox.  My furry friend had evidently felt the chill.

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Finally, warm enough to unwind.

A day off school often seems like a break from ordinary time, so I decided to do something different and make French onion soup for lunch.  Standing by the stove, caramelizing onions, working the New York Times crossword while listening to John Prine and Robert Earl Keen turned out to be an ideal way to keep warm in our drafty house. Maybe this afternoon, I can convince D to watch the last half of Downton Abbey with me.

To all of you sharing this icy spell, I wish you safety, warmth, comfort, and a welcome break from the usual!

Goodbye to the King: Elvis the Cat, 1995 – 2013

Elvis the Cat was my friend Doug’s beloved companion.  Doug passed away almost two years ago, after a long, hard-fought battle with the rare disease syringomyelia.  (See Remembering Doug, February 2012.) During Doug’s last years, when his illness had deprived him of nearly all mobility, Elvis must have been an especially great comfort.  After Doug died, Elvis was there to offer love and support for Doug’s wife.  Now Elvis has gone on to his eternal reward.  He was eighteen years old.  Like Doug, he was a unique character.  Like Doug, he will be greatly missed.

 

During visits to my parents in Atlanta, my daughter and I enjoyed dropping in to talk with Doug, who never failed to entertain; his love of life remained robust no matter his level of discomfort.  If we lingered a while, we would usually be graced by Elvis’s regal presence.  He was reserved around all but immediate family, not one to dole out affection indiscriminately.  Elvis was especially wary of children.  As Doug advised D when she was a preschooler, Elvis didn’t appreciate loud voices and sudden movements.  She took this advice to heart, and it often paid off.  Elvis would first peer in from the hall, sizing us up with his cool yellow cat eyes.  Sometimes he decided we weren’t worth his time.  With a flip of his tail, he’d disappear.  Other times he gave us the OK and  approached tentatively, gracefully, on tip-toe.  D was delighted when he decided to settle in beside her, allowing her to stroke his abundantly fluffy black fur and hear his deep, growly purr.

Doug’s wife told my mother that although the house feels oddly empty, now that Elvis is no longer there, she has much to be thankful for.  She is grateful that Elvis was with Doug until the end, and that he stayed a while afterwards to offer solace as she began the process of adjusting to life without her husband.  Anyone lucky enough to be helped through a difficult time by the precious comfort of a pet must know the feeling.

Rest in peace, dear Elvis.  It was our good fortune to know you.

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Elvis, ignoring a cat toy, 2013.

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And beautifying the Christmas tree, 2012.

Welcome Home, Daughter!

My daughter is back. Once again,  I see her during daylight hours.  Briefly, of course.  She’s a teenager; just because she’s home doesn’t mean she’s going to be spending time with me.She hasn’t been far away.  She’s simply been at school.  In September, she auditioned for her first high school play, Romeo and Juliet.  She made it into the ensemble.  There were many, many rehearsals, which began immediately after school and lasted longer and longer, as opening night neared. We’ve been attending plays and musicals at the high school for years. Every production has been remarkable, and this was no different. I never fail to be amazed at the courage, talent and razor-sharp memories of these young actors.  It was a thrill to see our own daughter among the citizens of Verona who mingled in the square, gasped at the swordfights, danced at the Capulet ball, mourned the deaths of Mercutio, Tybalt, Romeo, and finally, sweet Juliet.  Perhaps, in years to come, as D pays her dues and builds up experience, she’ll earn an actual, named role.

 

The last weeks of the play and its preparation gave me a taste of what I may expect when D goes away to college.   It sounds callous and un-motherly, but I hadn’t really expected to miss my daughter.  After all, things have changed since she was in elementary school, when I’d meet her at the bus stop and she’d be truly happy, even excited, to see me.  In the afternoons, we’d work on some craft project, or take a bike ride, or play monkey-in-the-middle with Kiko and a tennis ball.  She’d talk freely about her day.  She’d do her homework at the kitchen table while I prepared dinner and was on hand to help if she ran into difficulties.  Back then, I usually knew the answers.  These days, I’ve learned to give her space and time to decompress.  I try not to come on too strong with expectant inquiries.  Don’t hover, I remind myself.  Don’t be too needy.  Remember that my attempts at humor are not appreciated as they once were.   Avert my eyes as her phone lights up every few seconds with an incoming text.  Refrain from commenting on the identity of the texter, should I happen to see.

With D gone for such long stretches, there would be less time for negotiating this tricky obstacle course, of showing adequate, but not excessive concern.  Less time to demonstrate that I’m neither prying nor inattentive.  Certainly, I thought, I’d be more efficient.  I would do more writing.  Maybe I’d finish the paintings of tree trunks and tangled vines that I began in the summer.  I’d be more thorough at cleaning the house.  Maybe even arrange to have lunch with a friend or two.

But I wasn’t particularly productive or focused.  I found my daughter’s absence more unsettling than I had anticipated.  Especially in the late, dark afternoons, it was odd to realize that she wasn’t hiding out in another room, watching How I Met Your Mother on her phone instead of buckling down to her homework.  I was uninspired.  No in-depth blog topic beckoned me.  I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for painting.  I did catch up on laundry, but that’s about all.

Kiko was restless.  He quite obviously missed his sister.  Nearly every time I began to concentrate at my desk, I’d feel him pawing impatiently at my leg, nipping at my knee, or hear him preparing to chew on a stack of papers.  He’d bring in a rawhide and drop it at my feet.  When I’d toss it, he’d look at me questioningly.  Is this all there is?  Is it just you and me now, and this singularly unsatisfying rawhide? I’d search out his much-loved Foxy, squeak it, throw it, shake it.  Surely Foxy would bring him out of his doldrums.  Typically, though, it did not.  He’d stand there, unbudging, staring at me.

So we’d go somewhere.  We’d walk, or I’d think up an errand, one on which Kiko could accompany me.  From there, we’d walk in a less familiar area, one that would hold his attention fully with its many compelling smells.  It seemed that the colder, windier and generally more miserable the day, the more time we’d spend wandering.  But when we returned, Kiko could settle down for a while.  I’d find myself less at loose ends.  There was no doubt about it.  We both missed our girl.

Now we’re adjusting to home life together again.  Kiko was instantly reacclimated.  Now that he knows he can expect D home in the afternoons, he’s content to spend his days sleeping on the playroom sofa.  It’s been less of a snap for me.  I’d gotten out of practice, had forgotten some of the finer points of my balancing act as the mother of a teenager.  But I’m getting back into the swing.  Most of the time, and always when it’s cold and dark, I’m glad that my daughter is back under our roof.  I’m trying not to get too accustomed to her being here, because before long, another activity is bound to take her away again.  Maybe next time I’ll be better prepared for her absence.  But I doubt it.

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After a performance of Romeo & Juliet, D got a warm hug from a friend.  Often, when I glance at this dear little girl, with her pale blonde hair and bangs, I think, for an instant, that I’m seeing my own daughter, a child again.

A Veterans’ Day Prayer

May this Veterans’ Day be a reminder to thank, honor and remember the heroes who fought for our country, for our freedom, and for our strength.  Help us to  be grateful, every day, for all that they have done, for all that they have given.  May we find meaningful ways to show our appreciation.  Help us to treat our returning veterans with the respect, care and generosity they deserve, so that their wounds might heal.  May God bless these brave men and women and their families.  May God bless the U.S.A.

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Summer’s Parting Shot, and a Friendship for the Ages

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Until the beginning of this week, the weather has been so warm here that I was getting lulled into thinking it was still summer. While I’d prefer that it not be 85 degrees in October, the ongoing heat suggested that time was standing still.  Had we finally found that “Hold” button I’m always wishing for?  It almost seemed so.

But the world must be spinning, and moving in its orbit.  Monday’s rain ushered in more seasonable temperatures.  It triggered the pine straw showers that turn our driveway and the hill beside it golden-red every October.  We had one beautiful, crisp fall day.  Yesterday brought cold, insistent rain, and it continues today.  It’s time to search out my gloves and the rest of my warmer dog-walking gear.  But I need one last look at summer.

A bit of summer’s essence is preserved in the photo above.  It shows our daughter and two friends on stand up paddle boards this August.  It was just before sunset, the air was unusually balmy, and Cape Cod Bay was calm and smooth.  It was toward the end of a very special day, when we had a visit with friends from home.  This was an unusual event.  We don’t typically see Virginia friends in Massachusetts.  Our Cape friends and our home friends have, until now, remained completely separate; they inhabit two very different worlds.

But this year, our neighbors decided to vacation in Plymouth.  This is the family with whom we often spend Thanksgiving.  We met them when D and their younger daughter began Kindergarten together.  The girls have been close ever since.  Their friendship is not of the on-again, off-again type.  It’s not stained by gossip, catty commentary, competition or envy.  They never discussed being “best friends.”  It’s a friendship that doesn’t require numerical ranking or constant rebooting.  The two girls are not and needn’t be exactly alike.  But they seem to have a genuine regard and respect for one another, and a true appreciation for their differences.  They have a rare thing going. This kind of comfortable companionship doesn’t happen often.  If we’re lucky enough to find it, we need to hold onto it.

All during elementary school, the girls had a standing Tuesday playdate.  It’s been a pleasure to watch them together through the years.  I would peek in as they made up games in the playroom, watch from the window as they dashed around the yard in the sprinkler or performed acrobatics on our rope swing.  They were nearly always laughing, and their friendship struck me as familiar.  I could see me with my childhood friend Katie, with whom the most mundane activity could be fun.  She and I shared a similar bond, and it’s one that has endured.  I expect that, in years to come, D and her friend will eagerly catch up with one another during winter breaks from college.  I’d be very surprised if, thirty years from now, they’re not exchanging Christmas cards (or whatever kind of virtual correspondence has taken their place by then).

The older daughter is now a high school senior.  Her interest in several New England colleges prompted the family vacation in Plymouth.  The ideal elder sister, she is patient, encouraging, grounded and wise.  She has never been above socializing with her sister’s younger circle.  My daughter considers her a good friend and trusted advisor. I find it reassuring to know that the three girls are all, for this one year, in high school together.

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The two photos above show the friends at our local Memorial Day carnival in 2008. When our girls were in elementary school, this event was an annual tradition, not to be missed.

These kind and thoughtful sisters, as would be expected, embody the same values as their  mother and father.  Once you’re a parent, your child largely determines your friends.  The parents of your child’s friends become the people with whom you spend time, like it or not.  Our daughter chose well for us;  we are very fortunate.  H and I enjoy a real sense of camaraderie with the mother and father and with their two girls.  It was a welcome turn of events when it happened that our families would be in the same area at the same time for our summer vacations.

The day that our friends were arriving in Truro, we were filled with anticipation.  Text updates told us they were getting closer.  When they pulled into the shell-paved parking lot, we were crossing the green to meet them.  D was excited to show her friends her favorite summer place.  We knew the whole family would appreciate the bay and its charms.  They wouldn’t be put off by the seaweed.  They’d find the odd marine life amusing.  They wouldn’t wonder why we didn’t opt for more luxurious housing.  They would enjoy Provincetown’s beauty as well as its eccentricities and humor.  The day would be relaxing, easy and fun.

And it was.  It was a lovely day.  There was time to sit back in beach chairs on the flats during an impressively low tide.  Time for the girls to create a big moated sand castle.  Time to watch the water reclaim it and most of the beach.  After an early dinner at the Lobster Pot, with no crowd and no wait, we wandered among Ptown’s unique sights.  We returned as sunset approached so D and her friends could try out the SUP boards.  The water was gloriously tranquil.  The typical chill of the evening never descended.  We talked, laughed and watched our girls floating happily on the smooth, glassy bay.

The photo of my daughter and her friends on the water is my parting  summer shot.  It captures the luxurious ease and the rhythm of summer.  And it speaks of the promise of friendship to transcend the seasons and the years.

Provincetown’s Music Man, Bobby Wetherbee

As I’ve mentioned, just a mile down the road from our quiet cottage on the beach in Truro is bustling, partying Provincetown, incredibly rich in its offerings of theatrical and musical entertainment.  This small seaside town has been a mecca for the visual and performing arts since the turn of the twentieth century. We try to sample something new every year.  But no matter what else we do, we always devote at least one late night to the music of Bobby Wetherbee.  

The ageless Bobby Wetherbee has been entertaining audiences in Ptown for fifty years.  From June to October, Thursdays through Sundays, he’s at his piano in the lounge of the Central House at the Crown & Anchor.  He’s a beloved icon, and our family understands why. 

Bobby’s musical gifts were evident early.  He recounts how, at age three, he sat down at the piano and simply began playing fluently.  Shepherded by his mother, who gave up her own acting career to be his manager, he was performing by age six.  He trained in voice, piano and acting, first in summer stock and private lessons, and  later at the New England Conservatory.  He’s had long-running gigs in New York, at the St. Regis (in the famous King Cole Bar) and at the Carlyle, and in Boston at the Copley Plaza.  Bobby makes his home in Boston and spends winters in Palm Beach.  But summer finds him in Provincetown, and Provincetown sure is lucky. 

We discovered Bobby twelve years ago as we were walking with my husband’s parents down Commercial Street after dinner.  We were drawn to  lively, infectious music spilling out from the Landmark Restaurant, where he was playing at the time.  A vivacious, strikingly tan man was holding forth at a piano positioned immediately by the open window.  A tightly packed crowd surrounded him, singing along enthusiastically.  The song was a family-friendly standard, perhaps Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah or Do-Re-Mi.  Our preschool-age daughter knew it as well as we did, and we all joined in.  My husband took her in his arms so  she could get a better view.  When Bobby noticed our group, he sang the rest of the song directly to our little daughter.   We added our appreciative applause to that of the patrons inside, and Bobby blew D a kiss.  She was delighted.  We all were. 

After another year of enjoying a too-short taste of Bobby’s music from the street outside, we all agreed:  we wanted more.  Since then, we always catch Bobby’s show.  Sometimes H and I go with his sister and her husband.  Sometimes H’s parents join us.  Sometimes we all go.  We’ve brought our daughter along many times. 

Bobby’s performance is compelling in its vitality. His repertoire is wide-ranging, but he favors classics and show tunes from the 1940s on. He doesn’t pause between numbers; he doesn’t take breaks.  In fact he never seems to tire.  One song segues smoothly into the next.   He may hold a final note for an improbably long interval, never losing volume or breath, before launching, with gusto, into the next song.  He pauses only to take the occasional exuberant swig from his ever-present water bottle.  One medley transitions into another, and the momentum builds: Dorothy Fields, Cole Porter, George M. Cohan, Irving Berlin, The Sound of Music, and on to Chicago. He may include a couple of his own songs, perhaps the spirited break-up song History, or the poignant That’s a Lie (which he wrote at age twelve).  You get the sense that Bobby knows what it means to win and lose at love, and to celebrate life, with humor and compassion, through the good and the bad. 

The unique appeal of Bobby’s show is hard to explain.   Certainly he has heaps of talent, but it entails far more than talent.  I’ve been to piano bars, to British pubs, where the crowd sings along happily, and it’s fun.  But Bobby makes the experience truly special.  His presence is effervescent, warm and outsized, and he is extraordinarily generous.  Nearly every night, he welcomes a professional or amateur to step up to the piano for a solo.  Sometimes it’s a fellow musician visiting from out of town, or a young performer fresh from a local revue.  Often it’s Tony, Provincetown’s ebullient Director of Tourism.  Bobby’s encouragement and his nuanced piano playing bring out the best in a singer.

Or would-be singers.  Bobby’s generosity extends to his entire audience. Not only does he invite the participation of everyone in the room; he somehow convinces each one of us that we’re really good. He brings us in almost conspiratorially, makes us a crucial part of the show. Toward the end of All that Jazz, he slows down the tempo and proclaims, “OK kids, this is the time when we sell it!”  You find yourself thinking:  he needs us; he can’t do it alone!  And then the entire room resounds joyously with “You’re gonna see your Sheba shimmy shake, and all that jazz!  She’s gonna shimmy till her garters break!  And ALL THAT JAZZ!!  We’re all in show biz, and gosh, we’re terrific!  Bobby makes you believe it, and you love him for it. 

An evening with Bobby Wetherbee attests to the unifying, civilizing power of music.  The audience at the Crown & Anchor spans generations and is diverse with a capital D.  But with song after song, false boundaries and perceived differences–all the stumbling blocks we set up to keep us apart–they melt away.  By the time the standing-room only crowd combines voices to join our gracious, considerate host in God Bless America, or another patriotic favorite, the dream of peace on earth seems not only possible, but likely. 

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This photo, taken in August after a show, captures Bobby’s generosity, kindness and warmth:  he hugs me as though I’m the star.  He makes me think, while I’m with him, that I could be.  That’s why he’s the real star. 

Thank you dear Bobby, for the music.   We’ll see you next summer. 

WTV Turns Two

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Wild Trumpet Vine is two years old today.  A big thank-you to all my readers, whose numbers are growing steadily. I’m especially grateful to those of you who let me know, in some way or another, when a post strikes home.  And as always, I’m interested in hearing divergent points of view.  May we continue creeping along together, through the good times and bad, as the years go by.

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Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro

When we turn off Route 6 onto Route 6A, Shore Road in Truro, we’re five hundred miles and twelve hours’ driving time from our house in Virginia. But we feel like we’re coming home. And we are, in a way. We’re here every year. We like to think that we’re more than tourists, who are just passing through, perhaps never to return. We will be back; we’re a sure thing. We’ve been coming here so long that we can’t imagine not going back.

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Each summer’s inaugural drive down Shore Road finds the three of us exultant.  Our time at the Cape is something we agree on completely; we all hold it equally dear, for our own reasons.  The trials and traffic of the long trip are behind us.  We eagerly scan the familiar land- and seascape along the mile and a half that leads to our little cottage complex.  It’s rare that we are greeted by any major changes, and for this we are grateful.

The water, the sand, and the light are in constant daily flux, yet from year to year, this sliver of the Outer Cape appears virtually the same.  The manmade trappings along Shore Road are modest; they make no effort to compete with nature’s spectacular beauty.  There are bungalows, saltboxes, and of course, Cape Cods, but no high rises, no glitz.  There are groupings of rental cottages.  Most are small; some are unbelievably tiny.  All are picturesque.

Those lucky enough to get a toe-hold along this enchanted strip of land don’t easily let it go.  Homes are passed from one generation to the next.  The same weathered, typically hand-painted signs in front yards have greeted us for decades: Beach Rose, The Little Skipper, The Sea Gull, Pilgrim Colony.   Occasionally a cottage is resided, reshingled or otherwise refurbished.  Some grow more charmingly dilapated every year.  Once in a very long while a new building appears.  Mostly, though, all remains reassuringly the same, and seems to promise always to be so.

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Lush, vibrantly colored flowers adorn the minuscule front yards of many Shore Road cottages.

                              

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A rusty owl keeps wide-eyed watch in front of one home.

                                          

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This weathered, shingled cottage, with its Pineys sign, has been here as long as I can remember.

                                           

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Hydrangeas, in great profusion, flourish along the fencerows.

                                   

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The vacant motel, languishing in a perpetual sense of comfortable decay.

                                                 

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A vigilant seagull caretaker. After seeing The Birds this summer, I will keep my distance.

                                                                    

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Simple bayside cottages, brilliant blue sky, luxuriant green grass.
This is our Cape Cod.