A Proper Vineyard Goodbye

It was March, my seventeenth birthday, and we were reaching the end of a long weekend of college visits and family bonding.  We'd investigated Amherst College, Boston University, Hampshire, stopped off at Harvard for good measure- but while the upcoming college portion of my life was just visible over the horizon, another part was setting in the distance. There was one final pit stop on our  mini "vacation", and it wasn't of the higher education variety.  

My aunt had sold "The Vineyard House", our family vacation destination of choice over the first sixteen years of my life, to move into a nursing home, and my family was descending on Edgartown for one last group hug before heading back to reality and the rest of my junior year.  

Through the streets of Falmouth, the trees bare and asphalt wound their way to the edge of the sea, while Dad cruised along to "Freebird" en route to the ferry.  With my mother in the passenger seat, and my sister next to me, we reminisced about trips to Menemsha at sunet, climbing the fire tower off Indian Hill Road, seeking out John Belushi's grave in Chillmark, and clamming in Katama Bay.

"Remember when you buried the lucky penny at Belushi's grave?" I asked my sister as we pulled onto the ferry ramp.

 "It wasn't really his grave, Kris," my dad interjected, running a hand through his fading red hair.

 "Yea.  You wouldn't go into the cemetery so I had to bury it by the plaque in the front," Nicole chastised.

"I don't like graveyards," I shrugged.  "And besides, it's huge.  You would have wasted all afternoon there."

 "And you wanted to see the lighthouse in Gay Head and find that gas pump on North Road," mom said, smiling in the rearview mirror as Dad guided the car onto The Island Queen.

We gently pulled ahead into our spot, and as soon as the engine ceased, we unbuckled our belts and leapt out of the car, the giant boat vibrating beneath our feet.  We ran over to the heavy iron door, calling back "We'll be on the main deck!" before racing up the metal stairs, clanging our feet and enjoying the echo through the stairwell.

Nicole and I ran to the railing, a solid wall of white with a porthole window about a foot off the floor, just big enough for a shoe to fit in to lift my little sister up over the railing.  She leaned over as far as she dared, while I stood about a foot back, close enough to see the frothing waves, but far enough that I was sure I wouldn't fall in if the massive ship jutted forward. The captain honked the air horn, startling both of us, and we giggled, knowing the ride was about to begin.

It was always windy on the Vineyard, and the ferry ride in June, July, or even August, required a sweatshirt to keep out the chill.  Here at the end of March, I pulled my coat tighter around me and stuck my face in the path of the gusts as the ship began her course towards the island.   

The wind alleviated my motion sickness, helping me to breathe through the waves and the rolling horizon.  I focused on the seagulls hanging in the air, occasionally dipping down to catch a piece of bagel thrown by a passenger over the railing.  Traversing this little piece of the Atlantic takes a little more than half an hour, and normally, the Island Queen is overrun with children sprinting, parents trying to shush them, and the occasional dog whining because it wants to chase the kids, or seagulls, or both.  In the middle of the off-season, though, the main deck is eerily deserted, with only my family sitting around the orange plastic tables inside, and an old man perched on the edge of the bench on the other side of the outdoor area, fiercely determined to read his book.  

With my hair whipping  around my face and chapping my lips, I remembered the ferry rides of my childhood. Most drives to Falmouth began in the middle of the night- 2 AM wake up calls from my parents, who would shuttle us into the car with pillows and blankets.  We would protest softly, sleep still cradling us in its grasp, and curl up under our seatbelts, to be awakened by the sound of the foghorn, and the car pulling to a stop.  We were always just in time for the first ferry of the day at 6:45 AM, and a bagel with cream cheese from the truck next to the boat.   We'd race around the giant vessel, which I thought was as grand as the Titanic, and fight to be furthest in front, so that we were first to see the island come into view through the inevitable fog.  When the car drove off the boat onto land, we did the same thing, reaching forward to try to be the first one whose fingertips were over the imaginary "Vineyard" line, so that we could claim to be on the island the longest.

This ride, we hung back, not wanting to reach the island, knowing that once we stepped foot onto solid ground, we were that much closer to never having a home there to come back to.  This time, when the captain made his announcement, "All passengers, please return to your vehicles," Nicole and I hesitated, and cautiously padded back down the stairs to our van.

We exited the ferry straight into Oak Bluffs, the heart of the Vineyard, and immediately set to delaying the trip to the house.

"Please can we stop at the Flying Horses?" my sister begged as we approached the old red building, shaped like a wooden circus tent.  

I could hear the familiar notes, melodic and catchy, emanating through the open windows, and could just make out the hand carved ponies, affixed to the whirling base with long poles, from under the black awning designed to keep out rain and sun.

"Yea dad, please?  We'll only be a minute.  It's my birthday.  I've never gotten the gold ring on my birthday!" I pleaded, suddenly sounding so much younger than the mature student who had been sitting at colleges the day before, eloquently answering questions and nodding appropriately.  

Now my head bopped up and down, in time with the carnival music wafting through the windows, and my mind fixated on the brass ring game that went along with a merry go round ride.  Each time the carousel went around, the people on the horses could reach out and grab a silver ring from a wooden "arm".  The last ring dropped in for each ride was brass, and whoever grabbed it got an extra ride.  It was a joy to revel in being the only one allowed to take an extra turn, while the rest of the boys and girls exited past the wooden gate, jealously glancing at you while making their way back onto the snaking line.  

"We'll head back later, I promise," dad compromised.  "I'm not sure when the boys are getting in, and I want to get to the house."

Nicole and I looked at each other, and smiled.  Seeing our cousins Nate and Luke, and their dad Bill (my dad’s best friend and first cousin) was worth delaying a ride on the horses.  

We continued to follow our annual route to the house- a quick stop at the Martha's Vineyard Gourmet Bakery for muffins and assorted breakfast sweets, then down past the Tabernacle, a right at the ocean, then straight past the A&P until we reached the fork at Katama Bay Road.   

The ride to the house felt shorter than usual.  There were few cars on the roads, the locals scarce during the winter, since as the years had passed, more and more of them had been unable to afford the ever increasing taxes and prices, and had moved to the mainland.  The car curved with the road (which was dirt when I was little, and had converted to asphalt a few years ago as the houses got bigger and the cars more expensive).  We pulled into the (still dirt) driveway, and there it was, waiting for us.

The grey clapboard house was one story, its corners extending towards us in the form of the garage and the mother-in-law quarters my aunt had put in during her mother's twilight years.  The three black wooden whales hung next to the door, a tribute to the early Vineyard whaling years.  The deck was tired and splintering, the result of the punishing winds and rain that afflicted the waterfront property.  

We jumped out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, and stormed towards the door.  The white tin frame clanged behind us as we ran in, and stopped short on the imitation slate floor, assaulted by the emptiness of the house.

The usually comfortable living room had been emptied of the overstuffed white leather couches.  The whale above the fireplace was gone too, as were the spices that normally lined the top of the stove, and the metal fish shaped cake pan that hung over the refrigerator.  The bookshelves were empty, and there were spots of brighter colored paint where the family pictures used to hang.  

"Is everything gone?" I whispered, not sure what to do.

"Looks like it," Nicole answered, her voice shaking a little with the weight of the situation.

"Wow.  Just… wow."  I walked into what was once the living room, and stareed out at the bay.  It was a perfectly calm day, with a blue sky a few shades lighter than the water, and clouds of the wispy variety, the fickle kind that disappear in an instant if you don’t pay enough attention to them. The sun was almost white, and spots appeared in my line of sight when I looked away, lingering as the onslaught of quiet took over my brain.  

Bill and Nate and Luke arrived, and through the usual hugs and "hey there" exclamations, there was more sadness in our reunion than I'd ever thought possible.

My parents entered behind us, and dad put a hand on my shoulder.  "Take a good look around girls.  And take your time."

We toured the rooms, a troupe of melancholy misfits, overwhelmed by memories and laughter that still echoed.  Walking down the hall first- past my aunt and uncle's room, past the entrance to the mother-in-law suite and the room we shared when there were too many kids and not enough beds in our room above the garage, the silence was deafening. I looked at Nicole as we meandered through the bathroom towards the outdoor shower.

"Be careful you don't lock the doors," I reminded her.  "I don't think we have time for Dad and Bill to remove them today."

 "That was one time.  And you're SOOO funny," she teased, and stuck her tongue out.  

"Good times," Bill smiled, laughing at the memory of the two of them, with a hammer and some rusted out tools, taking the door off its hinges after Nicole accidentally locked the bathroom from both sides.  I turned back towards the house, and spent much of the next few hours wandering room to room, making mental notes of the indentations from the grand piano's legs in the family room, and the smell of the garage (musty with a hint of fish).  

"Do you remember when you and Michael put on the super heroes play?" Nicole asked while we stood in front of the fireplace, its raised stoop our childhood stage.

"Yea- I made that awful paper mask of Wonderwoman's face, and a chest protector and bracelets and everything."  I wrinkled my nose at my subpar childhood costume design skills.   

"And then Nicole and Andy decided to upstage you by doing the Mexican Butt Dance," my mom interjected, laughing at the memory.  

 "I remember that!"  I said, the image of my sister and Andrew at age 4, pulling down their pants and mooning our relatives still fresh as though it was from the day before.  "Show off," I smirked, and Nicole grinned.

We climbed the stairs to Uncle William's office, the one separated from "our" bedroom  by a semi-wall covered in wood paneling.  It was eerily empty, with no trace of the notes, clippings, and Walter Cronkite's phone number that were usually taped to it, even well after my uncle had passed away (Cronkite's number was something we often joked about dialing, but never quite had the nerve to go through with- how do you prank call an icon?). 

Beyond the desk, four beds rested in each of the four corners. In their hayday, they belonged to Luke, Nate, Mike, and Andy.  It was their grandparent's house, and Nicole and I were voluntarily relegated to sleeping bags on the floor, which we thought made it a little like camping.

This was our refuge, the floor a dark, gold shag carpeting, matted down from years of tiny feet dancing over it.  The ceiling sloped down on either side, creating a cave-like feel that we loved.  There was a window over Uncle William's desk, which had a view of the bay, but in our section, the only light came from a single skylight over the area between where the furthest two beds had sat- where my sleeping bag was usually situated.  

The beds were gone.  The one closest to the stairs, on the right as you ducked your way into the room, was where Luke introduced me to Tom Petty, strumming "Freefallin'" on his guitar while we all sang the chorus.   I walked forward, glancing at the built-in shelf, which had housed the boys' "pee bottles", something only prepubescent boys too lazy to walk down half a flight of stairs to get to the bathroom would come up with.  Looking up at the skylight, I thought back to the night, when I was thirteen, that we watched "A Clockwork Orange" and "The Shining" in one evening, and how I was up well past three am, staring through the glass at the stars, too wound up and scared to actually get any sleep.

I found myself thinking about something I'd always wanted to do, but hadn't been brave enough to try.  I wanted to climb onto the roof over the garage. So as the sun set, while my family finished one last walk down to the dock, I ventured around the side of the house.  Pushing the plastic garbage can with my knee, I reached up to the edge of the roof, placed my palms down to check for friction, and, satisfied, hoisted myself up with a groan.  Small pieces of the roof sprinkled over the edge in cascades of black and white as I pressed my knees into the crumbling shingles, and scrambled safely away from the edge.  I caught my breath and turned around, wondering if climbing around on top of the house was the best idea.  

Readjusting to a sitting position, I leaned back in my green jacket, the fake-down stuffing cushioned my back, and prevented my elbows from chaffing. I tapped my heels as I settled down, looking out at the rooftops of the other houses on the street, and marveling at the two story structures that had replaced the simple one and two bedroom ranches of a few years before.  The thorny rose bushes, with their slightly tangy smell, dark magenta flowers, and deep green leaves, wrestled with each other in the wind.  Beyond them, seaweed tangles, which we had used as wigs in our childhood, lay limp in the sand by the bay.  This was my island home, summer personified for the first seventeen years of my existence.  This was family vacations and family lore, legendary stories about Grandma Caldwell, the one who could catch flies with her bare hands, and Uncle William- Bill- who once boarded up the whole house to prepare for a hurricane- and hammered in the last nail as the announcement came over the radio that the storm had shifted course and was moving south.

"Kris?  Kris are you out here?  We have to get going," my mom's voice cut through the wind and my thoughts.  

"I'll be right there," I called down, looking out one last time at the reflection of the sun on the water, before shimmying down to the edge of the roof and dropping my legs over the edge.  I looked down, realized it was only about a four foot drop, and let go, jumping past the empty garbage can, and turning towards the dirt driveway.  

I rejoined the family as dad and Bill ceremoniously removed the black wooden whales from the outside wall before we loaded ourselves back into the van.  When we drove out of the driveway, I forced myself to face forward, but I leaned my chair back a little bit, just enough so that I was the last family member to technically leave the property.  With the window down, I let my hair wave goodbye.