BEACH BUGGY STORY, by Orb Weaver

 

 

 

I live at the beach.  Well, not precisely, but within a 15 minute drive to salt water, either bay or ocean.  The Delaware coast has a lot going for it, not the least of which is no sales tax, and a definite proclivity to catering to the many needs of all us geezers who have descended into Lower Delaware in lieu of Florida.  As the old Romans would say, ceteris paribus, it’s a good place to live and/or die.  Where else do you get to witness the annual mating season of thousands of horseshoe crabs, marine arthropods, whose physical characteristics and behavior have not changed for 250 million years?  It’s a big deal.  There are festivals celebrating it.  They are probably my all-time favorite ocean creature (other than sharks, of course, and the jellyfish that light up).  I have a couple of dried ones in my collection of beach stuff ... my dad always loved them, too ... he brought a huge one back from the beach (found dead at high tide line) and hung it up in a tree in the woods near their farmhouse.  He thought that over the fall and winter the ants and other offal eaters would have their way with it, and then he could varnish it and mount it on a piece of walnut.  But when he went to check on it, it was gone.  All of it.  Not even a claw left.  Some deer hunter probably came upon it, and knew no one would believe him if he simply told the story, so ... it’s sitting in someone’s basement bar, collecting dust.

 

But I digress.  One thing that becomes evident when you live at the beach is that you see family more than when you didn’t live at the beach, at least in spring and summer.  It begins with Memorial Day, and continues through Labor Day.  You learn all the back roads to everywhere, and you stay off Route 1.  In order to take better advantage of the lesser populated beaches, I bought myself an old Jeep, vintage 1994, with many, many miles on her, and purchased a Delaware Beach Plate so that I can drive onto the beach, bypassing all those frazzled folks toting coolers and chairs, kids and boogie boards, umbrellas and duffel bags full of all the stuff you have to take to the beach (and rarely use).  So this past Memorial Day, when my husband’s oldest daughter (the good one) and her husband came to visit, we decided to load up the Jeep and trek to the place I go that never has more than a dozen vehicles along its entire strip.  Usually there is a good space between vehicles, and folks set up canopies and grills.  Every 4-wheeler has a flag or three flying from 12 foot poles stuck in rod holders, heralding one or another sport, and the occasional Jolly Roger.  Flags seem to be de riguer, but I haven’t got one.  Yet.   

 

We arrived, however, way too late ... it was (in the vernacular) asshole to elbow the whole length of the beach, one Jeep on top of another, and the sand was really deep and chewed up ... I told my Mr. Wonderful that we had to let some air out of the tires, but no ... what do I know, after all, and so ... we got stuck.  And in the process of getting unstuck, I overheated the clutch to the point that it was smoking.  And a couple of rednecks who noticed my anti-tea party bumper stickers (mainly the one that says, “I think ... therefore I do NOT belong to the Tea Party) hooted and hollered that Tea Party members would be smart enough to let the air out of their tires, to which my husband’s daughter screamed in reply, “F**k YOU, you morons!”  And then two gay guys pushed us out.  I retreated off the beach and we went home.  Lesson learned:  do NOT go to the drive-on beach on any holiday when the sun is shining.  And ALWAYS reduce the tire pressure, no matter what your spouse says. 

 

On Monday we went to the beach at Delaware State Park (near Dewey Beach) and spent the whole day in the sun.  It was wonderful, and a good time was had by all.  On Thursday I took the Jeep over to my pal where I bought it, and he checked out the clutch and tranny and proclaimed her fit for duty.  Whew. I was so relieved, because I was going to fix her.  No matter WHAT.  Even if it meant going on a ramen noodle diet to pay the bill. 

 

And oh, yes.  I’ve ordered my flags.  A large gay pride rainbow flag, and a 12-foot Tibetan prayer flag.  Maybe I’ll add a Jolly Roger, too.  That should do it. 

 

 

 ~~ Orb Weaver, First Cousin to Right-on Maud

To Grandmother's House We Go

 “Over the river and through the woods to Grandfather’s house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow.”

When was the last time I sang that song? I can’t remember. I had to Google the rest of the words. The song ends with “Hurrah for the pumpkin pie,” in case you forgot as well.

Thanksgiving used to be so special. It was second only to Christmas on my list of favorite days of the year. The four of us would pile into our white station wagon and ride through the fields to my Grandparents’ house. With aunts, uncles and cousins there were never less than 12 people at the two large tables pushed together in the dining room of the 19^th century house where my father was born. The home-cooked meal was delicious, and after dinner the men snored to the sound of a football game while the women cleaned up and we kids played games on the living room floor. Dessert was always pumpkin or minced meat pie. It was another world.

Thanksgiving was the teaser for Christmas, but there were no decorations out, no Christmas ads, no Black Friday appellations. There was Buck Monday. The hunting season would open, and the men would depart for the woods. At some point that became a shopping tradition for women on the day after Thanksgiving. The men were leaving so women were released from the obligations of taking care of their husbands and they could go shopping instead! Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Well, it did in 1965. For many years the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend was a day off as well. Most of the boys would be hunting with their dads.

A bit more emphasis was placed on the original Thanksgiving as well. Or perhaps that is just my grade school memory. There were Indians and Pilgrims and that sense of Blessed Destiny. Today there is a slightly better sense of equality between the two cultures, but we are far from getting the story straight. And I don’t mean small pox and broken treaties. Research is still necessary for some of the facts.

When the first settlers stepped off the Mayflower and into their New World, they encountered a larger cultural difference than they realized in the native Wampanoag people – or the People of the Dawn. The women who might have served the pilgrims the “three sisters” – corn, squash and beans – were landholders. They were the heads of their families. They gave shelter to the men who married their daughters. And they were able to become sachems – the political leaders of their communities.

What might have happened if  Eleanor Billington, Elizabeth Hopkins, Mary Brewster, and Susanna Winslow had been permitted to sit down and eat with the Wampanoag women who might have decided to attend the Harvest Feast of 1621? If Weetamoo, Awashonks, Wunnatuckquannumou, and Askamaboo had regaled the four white women with their history and customs, how might our history have changed? Suppose Mary had told Weetamoo she should be helping to serve, and Weetamoo had said, “I’m the big Kahuna and you shouldn’t be waiting on those men.” And what if, upon hearing this, Elizabeth had proposed a toast: “Thanks be to God, we have arrived in a truly New World. Stephen, bring me a turkey leg.”

In 1965, my last name might have been my Grandmother’s maiden name. Dad might have taken me hunting that year, and my uncle might have joined my aunt to wash the dishes after our turkey dinner. Half the signers of the Declaration of Independence might have been women, so when I was learning about the Indians in 3^rd grade, I might have also learned about our Foremothers. I might be a nuclear physicist instead of an English teacher!

On an educational website I found this interesting tidbit.

What were men and women's roles in the Wampanoag tribe?
Wampanoag men were hunters and sometimes went to war to protect their families. Wampanoag women were farmers and also did most of the child care and cooking. Both genders took part in storytelling, artwork and music, and traditional medicine. In the past, Wampanoag chiefs were always men, but today a Wampanoag woman can participate in government too.

Revisionist history is alive and well. Evidently 3^rd grade children are still learning that Indian women were drudges, just like the Pilgrim women.

We have come a long way in 50 years. Many women work outside the home. A very few even make lots of money. Men are becoming nurses, and women can be Nurse Practitioners. Women are serving in the military, and my husband does the dishes. We just have to resist the temptation to be satisfied with where we are. The Daughters of the Dawn remind us that we have a long, long way to go – to Grandma’s house.

"Indians of Southern New England and Long Island, early period" Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 15. Ed.Bruce G. Trigger. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1978. 171f. Wikipedia. 27 November 2013.

“Wampanoag Indian Fact Sheet.” Native Languages of the Americas. 1998-2013. Web. 27 November 2013.