A New Recipe, As Promised

            My brother Rob and I both love to cook and we’ve engaged in a life-long, unspoken competition to see who can come up with the best new dish. We had many discussions about pork tenderloin. He distained the boneless variety as being too easily dried out when roasted. I, on the other hand, keep one or two in the freezer for an easy dinner, maintaining that “they don’t dry out if you cook them right.” (I really am a snotty little sister, aren’t I?) I spent a good deal of time coming up with recipes to prove my point, and tonight, two years after his death, I’m still doing it. Here’s one way to cook boneless pork tenderloin so it won’t dry out:

            There are only two of us, so I usually cut the tenderloin in half before I freeze it. The result is a nice little roast that we can enjoy for dinner and then if there’s any left, I can do sandwiches or Chinese soup.* Boneless pork tenderloins usually come split down the middle, so you wind up with two pieces. For this recipe, I cut a ½ deep groove down the center of each piece, lengthwise. I salted the pieces with a citrus/sea salt blend** and gave them a few grindings of pepper. Using a peeled bosc pear, which I had cored and cut lengthwise into 8 pieces, I filled the grooves with lengths of pear and laid a branch of rosemary on each one. Then I put them together and tied them. I seasoned the outside of the roast, drizzled olive oil over it and put it in a pan with the rest of the pear. You can use as much or as little pear as you like. I just think the pear/rosemary combo is great. Roast the meat at 350 degrees until the internal temp is 130, then take it out and tent it with foil. Let it rest for at least 10 min. Serve in 1” slices, with the additional pears from the roasting pan and some nice, grainy mustard. Let me know what you think.

*Otherwise known as Oodles of Noodles. This wonderful foodstuff was a staple of my diet when I was in college, and turned out to be an effective hangover cure in later years. I still keep a supply though hangovers are part of the past. It’s great for transforming left over anything.

**I got it at the craft fair at Town Hall at Thanksgiving. The women who make chocolate in Truro sell it. Yummy!

A Whole Year!

   Well, I just realized something: I’ve been writing this blog for a whole year now! Wow. I’ve actually written 33 posts over the last year. A perfect score would have been 52, one for each week, but 33 isn’t too bad for the first year.

   Most importantly, I want to thank my loyal followers. Writing a blog is interesting, because most of the time I don’t know if anyone is actually reading what I’ve written. It’s like tossing a cookie off a mountain, hoping someone below will catch it and enjoy it. I really appreciate the feedback. Comments are most welcome. I know I promised at the beginning that I would write stories of Provincetown, and I will, but as some of you must have noticed, I’m not above commenting on current affairs. Actually “commenting” may be too mild a term. “Ranting,” “bitching” and “running off at the mouth”, might better describe some of my recent tirades. If this bothers you, my apologies. I seem to have found my politics in the autumn of my life, and occasionally I must vent. This blog provides a great place to do that, however, I have not forgotten my original promise, and I will keep it. You can expect more amusing (sic) anecdotes about my early days here in town, and more recipes as well. Just know, all of you, that I’m very grateful for your readership and feedback, and I’ll keep throwing cookies off the mountain.  

Christmas Story

Okay, here’s my Christmas story:

   Every year we have the unofficial Christmas decorating race on our street. Whoever puts up lights first starts it off, and it goes on until every house is resplendent.  My efforts usually involve a decorated, lighted wreath and strings of lights around the door, all of it pretty simple, but enough to be included in the neighborhood holiday spirit. Most of our neighbors are Catholics, and St. Peter’s is right down the street, so it gets VERY Christmassy around here.

   Except that I’m Wiccan, so one year, not too long ago, I decided I needed a symbol of my own to display. In Wicca, we have a pentacle, which is essentially a five-pointed star inside a circle. The points of the star represent Earth, Air, Fire, Water and Spirit. I made a pentacle out of lights and hung it in the window of our house. The lady from across the street, who was a pillar of the church, came by to admire our decorations.

   “Oh,” she said. “Something new! What a lovely Star of Bethlehem! Where did you get it?”

   “Why, thank you,” I responded. “I made it myself. Would you like me to make one for you?”

   Her eyes lit up.

   “Oh, would you?”

   Of course I would and I did, and she hung it in her front window every year at Christmas.  To her, it was a Star of Bethlehem. To me, it’s a symbol of my Pagan faith.

Something for everybody. I like that.

Happy Holidays.

THE DONALD

The thing that bothers me, keeps me awake these nights, is that it seems that no matter what idiotic, inflammatory statements Donald Trump makes, he remains at the top of the Republican list of choices for the nomination for President of the United States. Now, I know it’s almost a year until the election, but really, people, isn’t anyone else getting nervous? What if he is the Republican candidate? Oh, no, you all say, he’ll never make it that far. Really? I wonder. Remember Sarah Palin? What if he does get nominated, or worse, elected? With each passing day his chances for success improve.

    Of course we live in a free society, and he can say whatever he wants to say. Because he is so wealthy, he can air his views from a very wide platform, and that is his right as an American. However, his recent remarks indicate he’s perfectly fine with ignoring some of the most basic principles upon which this country is based. These are principles I am very fond of, and hearing him talking about keeping an entire religious group out of the U.S. and perhaps incarcerating those of that group who are already here makes me very uneasy. Don’t get me wrong. I’m very glad Trump has made his views clear. I am glad to know where he stands. I’m not glad that so many people appear to agree with him. It makes me wonder where I’m living. I thought we had evolved beyond thinking like the Donald’s. Do most of the Republicans in this country really buy what he’s selling? How long are we going to listen to his raving? When will he disappear so we can get down to the serious business of choosing our next leader?  The only way to silence him is to withdraw support for his campaign. I know it’s entertainment that rivals the most extreme “reality” TV, but the clock is ticking on this. Let’s not sacrifice our national integrity for the sake of entertainment. I long for the day we say,

            “Donald Trump, you’re FIRED!”

Food Trucks!

     So what’s the big deal about allowing food trucks? I think it’s a great idea. I think it would elevate the food production industry in our fair town. From what I see on the Food Network, today’s food trucks are not the bean wagons they once were. No, these rolling kitchens are dispensing pretty sophisticated cuisine and in my humble opinion would give our existing restaurants a run for their money. Of course, I don’t own a restaurant, so I see this as a good thing, a view not shared by some of those who do. But isn’t this America, home of the competitive? Isn’t good, honest competition one of the mainstays of our capitalist system? I’ve asked several people, (none of them restaurant owners), for their thoughts on this, and without exception they have said “Bring on the food trucks!” It seems there is a certain school of thought that embraces the idea that our restaurants need a good ‘kick in the pants’ to relieve a complacency believed to exist in the local food industry. Personally, I think it’s a good way to get people to come here. Why couldn’t this be a foodie destination? Of course the trucks would have to be regulated, and subject to the same health laws and licensing as any food distributor here in town, and we would need to designate areas where they could operate with appropriate fees for the spaces they occupy, but that’s all just an extension of the regs already in place.  

     Or, if that’s not acceptable, how about allowing them in a designated area only on certain days of the week, the way we do the Farmer’s Market? That might work. In fact, what’s the big difference between the two? I see them as more similar than different.

     I’m sure there are other ways to do this that I haven’t thought of. Why not consider it? Food trucks might be a great addition to our town, and I don’t think we should reject the idea out of hand, just because it’s a change. It could be a good change.

I'm Back!!!

November 18, 2015

            I know, I know. If I’m going to have a blog, I have to keep it up. My apologies. I hope I haven’t lost the few readers I had. All kinds of things got in the way, none of them a valid excuse. I can only say I will try never to do that again.            

            A lot has happened since I last wrote, but to me the most dismaying were the attacks on Paris. I know I’m not alone in feeling the same way I felt after 9/11, but also there’s a touch of the way I felt living in New York during Son of Sam. It’s a little scary to go outside.

            We all know there is evil in the world, and to our credit, we seem to pull together when it manifests itself. The around-the-world response to Friday night in Paris was quick and touching. Our finest hour. It wasn’t until Saturday that I heard someone use the attacks as a political instrument, and of course it was, who else? Donald Trump. (I guess he doesn’t like being referred to as “The Donald” anymore. I haven’t heard that in months.) He thinks we should ban all refugees from Syria. Period. Jeb Bush evidently wants to allow Christians only to come in. My question is: What happened to “Give me your tired, your poor…” What about the “wretched refuse yearning to be free…” ? Do we just trash all those values and standards? If so, what’s left? This is supposed to be a free society we have here. To me, that means we let everybody in. Terrorists? We’ve been told for years they are already among us. What’s changed? The attacks in Paris were hideous, but they didn’t suddenly signal every terrorist in Europe and the Middle East to join the flood of refugees. Obviously that’s what Isis wants us to think, but it seems ridiculous to me.

            Well, this turned into quite a rant. Let me know what you think. It’s good to be back. 

LASAGNA

I decided to make some lasagna yesterday. I don’t often make it because there are only two of us eating and it’s impossible to make a ‘mini-lasagna’. It simply isn’t worth the time. Besides, I had bunch of late-season eggplants and tomatoes that needed to be used up and lasagna seemed a good way to incorporate all those things. Of course, I still had to go to the supermarket to get fresh ricotta and sweet sausage, and a box, (yes, I said box) of tomatoes. Not to sound too much like a commercial, I LOVE Pomi tomatoes in the box. Anyway, back to the lasagna. After slicing, breading and baking the eggplant, and cooking each component separately, sausage, onions, mushrooms, and tomato sauce, I began to “build” my lasagna, as they say on the Food Network. Layers of mozzarella and ricotta separated layers of sausage, onions, mushrooms, and pasta, all surrounded by the tomato sauce and baked for one hour. Out of the oven came this gorgeous, lightly browned, fragrant, huge pan of lasagna. Betty and I each enjoyed a square with a nice burgundy, but now what? Our two helpings were a meager subtraction. There was still one heck of a lot of lasagna to dispose of. Well, okay,  I’ll freeze some, I thought gamely.  I cut four more helpings and put them in two freezer bags. Great. Now I only had enough to feed a small bar full of drunks at last call, arguably the hungriest group of people in the world. If I froze all that was left, I’d have an entire freezer full of lasagna. It was good, but really, how much could we eat? While it’s true we were both once hungry drunks at last call, neither of us can eat the way we used to. I left a couple of helpings in the refrigerator, so we could have it one more time this week. That still left a goodly chunk, which Betty suggested we give to our neighbor, who gave us butterfish in return. I’m going to cook the fish tonight, and our neighbor has already eaten and applauded the lasagna. I love this town. 

Looking Back

   My recent retirement from the last of my activities on stage has caused me to look back over a lifetime of performing. It’s certainly been, in the words of the late Mr. Garcia, a long, strange trip. It’s one I always knew would end, and I’m actually surprised to see it lasted as long as it did. I mean, like so many of my generation, I never believed I’d live past thirty, and doing shows at age 68 was ‘way beyond my reckoning, for sure.

   There have been many great times, and many not so great ones, too, like any profession. I never got very famous. I used to wish for that but now I’m glad it didn’t happen. I managed to make a fair living, without the huge sacrifices that come with fame. I had a lot of fun, and got to travel all over the country, which was nice. Remember when it used to be fun to fly? I met some famous people, some nice, some not. The nicest famous person I ever met was Liberace. I won’t name the worst. I got to work with some really fine musicians, some of whom live right here in Provincetown. You know who you are, and you have my everlasting respect and gratitude.

   The whole week before my last show, I wondered what it would be like. Would I cry? Would I laugh? Would my voice be in shape? Would I remember the song lyrics? Would it be too hot? Would it be too cold? Would anybody come to the concert? And on and on. At last, the moment arrived, and I found myself calm, and why not? My musician friends surrounded me, people I have sung with for the last 17 summers, and there were many familiar faces in the audience, as well. It was, quite simply, everything I could have asked for. The song, which I had been working on for a year, flew out of my mouth as though I’d been performing it forever. (I’d never sung it before in public). All of my worries disappeared, and it became one of those moments I cherish on stage, when it’s all just right. Perfect.

   So, this is a thank you note to all of you who helped make Sunday, Sept 13, 2015 a very special day for me. I’m glad you liked my song, that day and all the days you’ve sat and listened. Without you there would be no song, just some screeching in the shower. Of all the places I have performed, Provincetown is my favorite, and I’m glad if I made some of you happy with my music and antics on the stage. It’s been fun for me, too. Thanks.  

PS: Stay tuned for the next act! 

WHO SPITS?

facebook.com/phoebe.otis.1

    So, I’ve been watching a lot of baseball this summer, and I just want to know one thing:

   WHAT’S WITH ALL THE SPITTING???

   I don’t get it. It’s everywhere, in the dugout, in the outfield, behind home plate! They’re all spewing chocolate streams of juice, (I know it’s not really chocolate.) decorating the floor and walls of the dugout or killing off patches of grass in right field. The other night I found myself wishing Fenway Park would bring back spittoons. The health nuts on the team have taken the American Cancer Society’s advice and substituted sunflower seeds. While this is certainly better for their health, it’s no less disgusting to watch, particularly since the seed-eaters don’t actually spit. Instead, they push the seed hulls out of their mouths and let them dribble down the fronts of their uniforms. Pretty. Very pretty. Perhaps if one eats enough sunflower seeds, one reverts back to high-chair manners.

    This odd behavior doesn’t seem to extend to other sports. Tennis players don’t spit. They do occasionally vomit, (Sorry, Pete Sampras), but no spitting that I’ve ever seen. Basketball, soccer and hockey are so fast spitting might go unnoticed, so who knows? Imagine if figure skaters spat. Not only would it make a mess, it might even melt the ice. Equestrians don’t spit, though their horses not only spit, but often drool when the race is over, but that’s the only time I’ve seen it, outside of baseball. I suppose the odd football player spits now and then, but with all that equipment on their heads, well, how….? Ewww!

   Spitting was considered proper male behavior back in the days of spittoons, although I don’t believe they did it in front of “the ladies”, as opposed to today, when they do it on national television. Hurray for progress. Speaking of “the ladies”,  here’s my final observation on this damp subject: I’ve NEVER seen a woman athlete spit, in any sport. Just saying. 

Gayness???

   Someone asked me if I was offended by the article in last week’s Provincetown Banner that asked the question “Is Provincetown Losing It’s Gayness?”  At that point, I hadn’t yet seen said article, and it just seemed silly to me, so I laughed. Later, I wondered what it meant. Losing our gayness? What is gayness? Is it even a word? The article, which I finally read, was worried we are losing the magic that attracts so many tourists every summer, especially to Carnival. How times have changed! I remember BC (Before Carnival), when “gayness” was, shall I say, not celebrated quite the way it is today. Being gay myself, I enjoy the freedom of the day as much as anyone, but somewhere inside a tiny voice is saying, “Be careful! Remember when you could get arrested for walking down Commercial St holding your lover’s hand.” Lovers. That’s what we used to call our mates. There were no “husbands” or “wives”, except in the most sarcastic terms, because we never imagined we’d be able to get legally married. But, I can change with the times. It’s great to be able to refer to Betty as my wife, and really mean it. I love watching the reactions, too. Lots of people take it in stride, but some really don’t know how to deal with two elderly lesbians who refer to each other as “wife.” Forgive me, but I revel in their obvious discomfort. Anyway, back to the point. Are we losing our “gayness”? Maybe. Provincetown is not the gay destination it was because the world is becoming more accepting of gay culture, so many more destinations have made themselves attractive to gay people. Personally, I didn’t notice a decrease in the number of people in town this year, though I admit I have no idea how many were gay. No one really does. We had a good summer. There were a lot of people here, and we managed to keep them entertained, fed and housed without too much drama. Did they come here looking for “gayness”? Who knows, and what difference does it  make? If we can remain an attractive, fun, interesting destination, maybe we don’t need to worry about “gayness.”

What's the PLOT???

Okay, here’s the challenge:

Devise a plot that explains why someone would violate a primary directive of the public office they hold, when they are contemplating a run for the White House within the next eight years.

   Sound familiar? I’ve been mulling it over all day, ever since I watched the Sunday morning talking heads discussing the state of affairs in our nation’s capitol. I think I have finally been convinced that Hillary Clinton is lying about the email. This hurts. I was a huge Hilary Clinton fan and a huge supporter of Bill Clinton. It didn’t particularly bother me if Bill was having a dalliance with an intern. What business was it of mine? He’s not my husband. We all know he’s not the first President to play around. So what? What got me was he lied about it. That changed him in my eyes. It made him seem weak and a bit silly. However, it still doesn’t change the fact that I think he will be remembered as one of the great Presidents.

   But back to my challenge, which begs the question: Why? Why, Mrs. Clinton, would you chose to break one of the basic rules of your public office, and then decide to run for President? You are a Washington veteran. You must have known this would come out. You and your husband have been working on this White House thing since Yale. I want to know why it happened. If there’s a good explanation, let’s hear it.

   I’m angry at Hillary. I think she had a good chance of being elected and I thought she would make a good President, but she has disillusioned me by not being forthcoming, and she has given her opponents the ammunition they need to sink her campaign. I’m disappointed. I really wanted her to run. Part of me is certain that women should be running things in this country, and I was hoping we were about to get a good one to do it, but I’ll be amazed if she even gets the nomination, let alone gets elected.

    I’m pretty sure that if Joe Biden decides to run, I’ll be voting for him. 

AFTER THE PARADE-CARNIVAL 2015

   I don’t know about you, but I was a bit disappointed with the Carnival parade this year. It’s my favorite annual event, or it used to be. We’ve had some really great parades over the years. One year, we had an elephant! Her name was Ruthie, and she lived in Harwich. I think Ron Robin hired her for the parade, and it was a well-kept secret in a town not known for secrets well-kept or otherwise. We may think we have secrets, but really, everybody knows just about everything about everybody else here, don’t they? And an elephant is a big secret to keep well! But she came rumbling through town, amazing all, patiently plodding along Commercial Street in the Carnival Parade.

   Another year there were no motorized floats. Everybody was either on foot, skateboard, or bicycle, and it really brought out some fabulously creative parade-ers.

   I used to be in the parade. I did it for three or four years, when I worked at The Crown & Anchor. The year we did “PIRATES OF PENZANCE” in the Back Room, the whole cast was in the parade, riding on a flatbed truck with all the drag queens. The following year, they rented a vintage car for me and Michael Greer, who dressed as Max Headroom. It was lots of fun, but the only problem with being in the parade is you don’t get to see the parade. Also, it’s very long, as anyone who has waited west of Johnson Street can tell you. There were several years when B. and I used to go to Ray Peloquin’s party, ‘way down by the Coast Guard station. He’d lay down an oriental, position couches and cocktail tables all around, set up a grill and a bar, and we’d relax in comfort watching the shreds of the parade limp past. Maybe not the best way to do it, but certainly a fresh perspective. You notice things, like after a long, hot ride in the sun, makeup and wigs are the first to go. Then heels.

   Having managed an apartment building on the parade route, I am not a fan of the tradition of throwing candy, but I realize I’m in the minority on this. It’s not just the Carnival parade. All the parades do it, and it’s very hard to clean up. Given the theme of this year’s event, I can’t help imagining Commercial Street as something akin to flypaper right around now.

   Even if the floats were a bit ho-hum this year, it’s still a great feeling to see so many gay people in one place having such a good time. Every year I get all teary and proud as I watch the celebration, and so if one year isn’t quite as good as others have been, it’s still the same pride and joy and it’s so good to see and feel it.

Augustitus

  

    No, it’s not the name of some hero of Greek mythology you’ve forgotten you ever heard of. It’s the annual affliction many of us suffer from and it isn’t pretty. It’s that time of year, when Memorial Day is a memory and Labor Day seems years ahead. Tempers are short, temperatures are high, leisure time is non-existent and 18 hour days are getting very old. Remember the anticipation, the hope of April and May? The snow was gone, (almost), and we had nothing to look forward to but sunny days and good pay. We basked in golden thoughts of paying all the bills that had piled up over the long, work-less winter. We relished the thought of cook-outs, dove into dreams of sitting poolside, even burned for the days we could spend lying in the sun. Well, those days have arrived and the only ones I see lying in the sun are leaving by ten on Saturday morning. If we are lucky enough to have a day off, we spend it not by the pool, but usually by a washing machine somewhere, doing a week’s worth of dirty laundry. As for cook-outs, we barely have time to wolf down a sandwich in the 15 minutes between jobs. So, if we’re a little grouchy, well, look at the calendar!

   Augustitus is a lot like the hiccups in that everybody has a cure. Some say take a walk in the dunes at dawn. The town is certainly a different place at 6am. Even downtown is quiet and sedate, if you can ignore the occasional tattered butterfly doing the walk of shame. Many people tell me they conquered the affliction by insisting on a full day off, but that’s chancy. Over the summer people leave employment, and you could be stuck doing doubles in mid-August, never a good thing. Getting enough sleep is crucial to fighting this condition. Even if you don’t have time for anything else, GET SOME SLEEP!  For many years I tried to cure it with drink, but that never worked and doing a shift behind the bar with a hangover is hell.

   So, what to do? Tough it out, Baby, tough it out. You’re not alone. We’re all in the same boat, and while it might feel like it’s sinking into the litter of Carnival right now, Labor Day is coming. This is the last big push. It’s all good from here. Just get through the next week. Pep talk over.

   Another stop on the Great Bars I’ve Known tour would have to be The Pilgrim Club. It was across the street from Wuthering Heights, out on Shankpainter Road. These days it’s a private residence, but back then it was my second home for a whole winter, from opening at noon to closing at 1am. That winter I was, like so many of my friends, collecting unemployment, so I had a lot of free time. We all did that in those days. It was an integral part of Provincetown economy. You worked, usually at two jobs, seven days a week all summer, (“We only have 100 days!” I remember being told.), and then in the fall we’d all sign up for unemployment until we went back to work in the spring. Of course, it was a lot cheaper to live here in the seventies, and we all took care of each other, something which, thankfully, hasn’t changed.

   The Pilgrim Club was owned by Reggie Cabral, who also owned the A-house on Masonic Place, downtown. I don’t think he was the original owner, but he owned it while I was a patron. Reggie’s wife, Myra, didn’t like me, so he used to push me out the back door whenever she arrived. However,  I spent every second I could there for one reason and one reason only: pool. You know that song from MUSIC MAN, “Trouble, Right Here In River City”? That was me. I was totally seduced by the game. My instructors were George McGraw, Digger O’Dell and Bobby Cardinal, and they taught me well. And I practiced. And practiced. And practiced some more. Sometimes, if the smelts were running, someone would come in with a big batch and fry them up in the kitchen. Deep-fried smelts with Tabasco sauce and lemon are fantastic, if you ever have the chance. I can’t remember now what I was drinking, but it must have been beer, which was fifty cents a schooner. I’m sure I couldn’t afford anything else.

   We were all different people then, and Provincetown was a very different place. Back then I didn’t even know Bobby Cardinal was an artist, and I’m pretty sure nobody knew I was a singer. I have no idea what happened to Digger or George, but whenever I shoot a game of eight ball, they are right there with me. I can’t eat fried foods anymore, so smelts are out, and beer is also off the menu, and I don’t shoot nearly as much pool as I used to, but then nothing is forever, is it? We all thought the Pilgrim Club would last forever, and the Fo’castle, too, but then we thought we’d be young forever, too. Oh, well

The Fo'castle

I’m not much for looking back. I have very few keepsakes, and most of the photo albums are filled with pictures of dogs and cats. In spite of the fact that I was in show business for many years, I don’t have a single scrapbook. I don’t know why this is so, but it is. That’s why I am so surprised to be captivated by a Facebook page celebrating people who were here in the seventies. The page is Provincetown In The Seventies, and it’s really worth the trip if you’re at all curious about what it was like here during those years.

   I was here then. I arrived in 1968, and after surviving that first summer, I moved to Boston for a few months, only to return here on New Year’s Day, 1969. I spent the next four winters here before moving to Chicago. Those four winters contain some of my fondest memories. I waitressed at The Fo’castle Bar, which is now The Squealing Pig, and which, at that time was one of the only places open all winter. On the weekends, if the fishing had been good, the place rocked and I made enough money in two nights to last me all week and still make my rent. Joe Perry, the owner, was an easy guy to work for, and I was very happy there. The Fo’castle was an old bar, decorated with whatever people had left there over the years. I remember a wall of curling business cards, and a lifesaving ring from the Andrea Adoria. There were some old posters from past shows, and for some reason, straight-backed chairs, hung close to the ceiling. There was a bowling machine and a juke box, both of which got a lot of action. Every time I hear “Hey, Jude”, it takes me right back to The Fo’castle.

   The window seats were the most popular, and tended to be occupied by the regulars. The tables were pieces of thick wooden beams, heavily urethaned to a dull gleam. The windows were bay windows, and there were benches within the bays. I’m trying to remember what kind of chairs there were, but that fact eludes me. I do remember that in those days smoking was allowed in bars and most people did. Big, flat clam shells were used as ashtrays, and the air was full of the smell, but we didn’t notice. The first time I ever heard someone complain about second-hand smoke I thought, “How prissy!” To quote an old cigarette commercial: “We’ve come a long way, Baby!” I’m not sure if the walls were ever white or if they were originally painted that sienna brown color. (If you’re going to look back, don’t forget the atmosphere!)

   The Fo’castle could be a sort of family bar, if it was someone’s anniversary, birthday, wedding, funeral or some other occasion. Whole families would arrive, covered dishes in hand, and by the time it was over, whoever was the object of the gathering had received his or her due respect. Usually, though, the list of regulars remained pretty static, at least while I was there. They all took me under their wings, particularly that first winter. It was pretty snowy that year, but The Fo’castle was always a warm place where you could get a drink and meet some friends. The people I met and worked with there helped me decide that this was where I belonged. No matter where else I have gone, Provincetown is my home, and the memories of those early days are precious. 

IN THE GARDEN

   What a summer! My tomatoes are out of control! They seemed to grow overnight this year. Like many others, my garden was under two or three feet of snow from February to April, and I guess we can thank last winter for something, after all. All the flowers seem more profuse and brighter this year, and the flowering trees this spring were spectacular. How much of this is sheer joy at seeing anything except snow and how much is real doesn’t matter. I’m loving it, whatever the reason. The vegetable garden is the best it’s ever been. I’ve already harvested peas and beets and we’ve eaten them all. I learned how to cook beet greens, just in oil, a bit of garlic and salt and pepper, until they wilt, and boy! Are they good! I also made a lovely roasted beet, feta cheese and orange salad that went over well. I just combined the ingredients and made a dressing of orange juice, honey and a dash of sesame oil. PLEASE! If you try this, go easy on the sesame oil. I really mean a dash, less than a ¼ teaspoon. It’s just to add an earthy note. Toss this all together and serve cold. You need to overlook the pink feta. Beets do that to everything. The next time I make it, I’m going to try chopping a bit of mint into it. That might be good. We also had our first corn last night. I grew shoe peg this year, a small kernel, white variety. Last year I made the gigantic mistake of trying to grow two different kinds of corn in a very small space, resulting in something that resembled the feed corn I used to see in the mid-west. Not good to eat. This year it’s lovely and sweet and gone too soon. There are more blossoms on the cucumbers and egg plants than I have ever seen before, so I look forward to a good crop from them, too. And did I mention the tomatoes? I grew all heirlooms this year, ordered online, and raised in the house until I was sure they’d stand the weather. I actually carried them in and out for about two weeks, and it paid off in huge plants with lots of flowers and now lots of green tomatoes. I thought I’d planted them far enough away from each other, but they’ve gotten so big that I’ve had to do some creative staking so they can all get sun. When I was doing that I discovered a pepper plant I thought I’d lost to the advancing tomatoes. It had pushed up through the tomato leaf canopy and was reaching for the sun, with many flowers on its branches. I carefully staked the giants away so that brave pepper plant could grow. Anyway, it’s a fabulous garden year for sure, and I thank the gods of winter for the snow, the goddess of summer for the beautiful, even weather, and my friend Angie from Truro for the truck load of horse manure last fall, which certainly had a lot to do with all these wonderful veggies!  I’m out in the garden tomorrow again, trimming and weeding and staking. If I know you, you will probably get some tomatoes. And if I think of any more recipes, I’ll put them in the next blog. Happy Summer, everybody!

IT'S A BIRD, IT'S A PLANE, IT'S A DRONE!

 Well, I’ve seen my first drone. On July fourth, there was a drone hovering over Spiritus Pizza. I heard it before I saw it. The sound is quite annoying, enough to make me wish this new craze doesn’t catch on, but somehow I think that horse has left the stable. I don’t know what made me look up, but I did and there it was, little red lights blinking madly, suspended in the sky by its tiny propellers. For one insane moment I imagined Spiritus was delivering their pizzas by drone. Nah.

   More interesting were the reactions of others on the street. It was very crowded, and I witnessed delight on quite a few faces, and rage on many others. One guy was standing in the middle of the street, shaking his fist skyward and yelling, but I’ve seen him before. He does that all the time. Some people actually ducked, though there was no danger of being hit. Maybe they thought the drone would fire something at them. Some folks looked sad, I suppose because these little flying machines carry with them the promise of invasion of personal space and privacy, big time. We’ve all heard the stories of celebrities being photographed by camera-equipped drones. Amazon proposes using drones for their deliveries in the near future, but with the amount of business they do, drone-jams are a real possibility. I mean, think of the number of boxes with that smile one sees on porches, in mailboxes and doorsteps and of course, at the post office. It would take a rather large flock of drones to deliver all that. And when would they deliver? Not at night, I hope. Talk about noise pollution! What if something had to be signed for? And that all important question, should I tip the drone and if so, how much? Sigh. I hope it’s in the far future. I’d rather my skies were full of birds, singing sweetly, not drones, buzzing loudly. 

Wonderful Car

  

   There are so many stories from the past! One of the earliest I can recall happened during the first winter I spent here. There was a nor’easter blowing that day in January, and when I climbed into my 1952 Plymouth Plaza to go do some errands, I soon realized I was one of a very few cars on the road. Granted, in those days at that time of year, there weren’t many people on the roads when the weather was perfect, but that day the storm kept most people inside. The Plazamobile was a tank, though, and plowed through the weather like a hot knife through butter.

   A moment, dear reader to pay homage to one of the best autos I have ever owned. The year was 1968, so she was already 16 years old when I got her, but they built pretty good cars in the early 50s, and except for the rust, which was epidemic here because of the salt, the Plymouth Plaza was my friend, my trusty steed and occasionally, when I’d gotten just too drunk to drive, my bed. As for the rust, my friends and I spent one inebriated afternoon applying duct tape to the rust holes and spray painting the fenders blue. Unfortunately we didn’t have enough paint to do the whole car, so somebody had the bright idea to paint waves along the sides so she looked like she was floating. We all thought it was great and we were certain the guy at the inspection station would agree and give me a sticker. He did. Her right headlight was imprinted upon the face of the Pilgrim Club due to some creative driving on my part, and somewhere under many subsequent layers of paint, that imprint lives on. I like knowing it’s there.

   To my neighbor’s endless chagrin, the Plaza started up obligingly in any weather, rain, snow, whatever, so I could get out and about when no one else could. Wonderful car! However, even cars have life spans, and she was no different. She finally gave up, so a group of friends helped me push her to the dump. These days we call it “The Transfer Station”, and it’s a very different place, but in 1969, it was a deep pit. We pushed the car over the edge of the pit, and she landed at the bottom on her roof. I wept at the sight of her four wheels in the air. I know, I know, it wasn’t environmentally friendly and I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing these days, even if I could, but back then lots of people took their old wrecks to the dump and pushed them over the edge. I have no idea if she’s still down there. The pit is now a hill. Maybe someday an archeologist will excavate that hill and who knows what wonders will be found?  All I know when I bought the Plymouth Plaza it was the best $50 I ever spent.

   So, there I was on a snowy, blowy morning in January, 1968, making my way down Commercial Street. Just past the library, (the old one on Freeman Street) was Dr. Heibert’s office and as I passed I noticed a very pregnant young woman knocking on the office door. On I went, to the post office, the A&P and Conwell Lumber, all of which took about two hours, and caused me to pass Dr. Heibert’s office again as I went home. Remembering the woman, I glanced over at the door, and at that moment it opened and she came walking out, baby in her arms. Wow. I couldn’t believe it. But there they were, right before my eyes. All I could think of to do was slam on the brakes, open the door and say,

   “Can I give you a lift?”

   She climbed in and I drove her and her new son home in the Plazamobile. I’ll say it again. Wonderful car!

Hi, All! I read this to some people who said it sounded like "The Night Before Christmas" and I said, ''Well, the first day in the garden is a lot like the night before Christmas, in a way. Hope all your gardens are thriving! Phoebe

First Day In The Garden

Nothing to do,

   Such a beautiful day,

So out to the garden

   I went to play.

There with the flowers,

   Veggies and weeds,

When just weeks ago

   I had nothing but seeds.

Welcome, O Spring!

   Yay! It’s finally stopped snowing!

Get up and get out!

   It’s time to get going.

Pull out the shovel,

   The hoe and the rake,

And dream of tomatoes,

   Heirloom and beefsteak.

And of corn that will grow

   So green and so high,

I might need an elephant

   To measure it by.

Noble eggplant and pepper,

   Red radish or pea,

Tender shoots hold the promise

   Of dinners-to-be.

So I water and feed them,

   I nurture and weed them,

I mulch every bed,

   And clip all the dead heads,

I fend off the rabbits,

   the birds and the bugs,

And purchase a 6-pack

   To conquer the slugs.

But nothing’s forever

   And this will not last.

It will soon be September.

   Time passes so fast!

Leaves will be falling

   And nights will turn cold.

My birthday will come,

   To remind me I’m old.

DISCOVERING OLD AGE

   Bette Davis said “Old age is not for sissies.”

   Every day something else happens to let me know how true that is. We did our first summer concert on Sunday, (Sundays at 5, UU Meeting House) and I was faced with the prospect of putting on makeup. In my far away youth, I NEVER went ANYWHERE without full makeup, up to and including false eyelashes. I wore two, sometimes three pairs at once. Don’t forget, it was the late 60’s and Twiggy was the top model. If you don’t know who Twiggy is, look her up. She was really something and we all wanted to look like her. More than once I fell asleep with my lashes on and woke up with my eyes glued shut. Lovely. I don’t wear false lashes anymore, or even much makeup at all, but lately I’ve noticed that when I do, it’s much more difficult to apply. Why, you ask? Let’s start with foundation. First I’d like to say that if I see one more commercial for “age-defying” makeup where the woman demonstrating it is obviously in her mid-twenties, I think I’ll scream. What that says to me is, “Too bad you didn’t take care of your skin when you were my age. Maybe this stuff would do you some good.” Thanks. I really needed to feel better about myself.

   There’s a lot to choosing a foundation. What color is right, now that I have light gray hair? My old shade looks like mud on my face. Too light and I look like Joan Crawford in “Mommie Dearest”. And the stuff manages to find its way into EVERY wrinkle and line, outlining brilliantly what it’s supposed to cover up. ‘Age-defying’? More like “age-defining,” if you ask me. Fabulous. Years of smoking and sun abuse highlighted for all to see. And let’s talk about seeing. How in the heck do you apply eye makeup when you can’t see without your glasses??? “Get a magnifying mirror,” my buddy suggests, so I do, and now my already enlarged pores look like manholes in the New York streets. I can’t bear to look. I think I’ll just throw on a bit of lip gloss and call it a day. That’s what I call growing old gracefully.

Got House?

Hi, All, she wrote optimistically. I’m never sure if anyone reads this. Writing is so different from performing. When I sing for people, I may not be sure they like it, but I’m certain they hear it. If you are reading this, I hope you like it.

The big news this week in town is affordable housing, though it hasn’t been small news for many years now.  When I first came here, oh, so many long years ago, housing was pretty easy. At loose ends, I had driven up from Orleans where I’d been visiting friends after spending the winter at Mt. Snow in Vermont. Lots of people from Provincetown went to Mt. Snow in the winter to work back then, and I’d heard a lot about this place, but hadn’t been here since I was about eight, with my father. (Dad used to say to me and my brother, “Let’s go up to Provincetown and see all the weirdos .” Heh, heh. Little did he know he was, at those very moments, growing his own little “weirdos!” Rob and I laughed about that later.)  Anyway, the year was 1968, and it was April on Cape Cod, so I borrowed a car for a drive and wound up here. After prowling around town for a while, I stopped into The Town House, and next thing I knew, I had a job there. I found a great place to live, at the White Horse Inn, on Commercial Street in the east end. The whole apartment was furnished from the dump. Most people call it the “transfer station” now, but then it was “the dump”, and treasures could be found every day. Old stained glass windows and carved shelf brackets, banisters and newel posts, ice cream chairs, the list was endless. Please don’t picture the pristine setting we all enjoy now. There was no Swap Shop, and garbage was mixed with the good stuff, but the good stuff was there for the taking, and once you got it home and washed it off, there was no telling what you might have. Jackson Lambert, a wonderful artist who lived at the White Horse, was an expert dump-picker, and it was he who had decorated the unit I moved into when I first came to town. It must have been affordable, because I know I didn’t have much money and the paychecks from the Town House took a couple of weeks to kick in. To this day, it counts among my favorite places that I have lived in town.

So, I had a pretty soft landing here, back in 1968, but the workers coming here now are not so lucky. Every year I see them arrive with their luggage all taped up, (what’s that about anyway?), trudging from one real estate office to the next, looking for a place to live. Somehow, every year, they seem to get absorbed by the town, and you can find them working as waiters, or at the supermarket, or in retail on Commercial Street. That takes guts. Even at my most impulsive, I never flew halfway around the world with no place to stay. Yikes! Also, the housing crisis is causing an exodus of people who have lived and worked here for many years, or were part of families who have been here for generations. This is very sad. I miss them: Edel, who did beautiful stained glass, and Teddy, so spiritual, so much fun, and so many others who had to leave because they could no longer afford to stay. It makes me feel insecure at a time in my life when I really don’t want to feel insecure. I could be next. You could be next. One tiny change in one’s life can spell the end of living here. Hummm. This is getting depressing. Think I’ll go for a walk on the beach while I can. 

The Search for an Agent

The Search for An Agent

 I wrote a book. How long I’ve waited to be able to say that! It’s finally happened! So, what now? It turns out the fun has just begun. Now I need to find a way to get someone to read it. Self-publishing was the obvious choice until I discovered that there are over 1500 self-published books hitting the marketplace every day! Wow. That’s depressing. After much agonizing, I have decided to try the traditional route, which involves finding an agent. Okay. In my innocence, I turned to my old friend Google and typed in “Literary Agents”. Only three or four hundred results popped up so I gamely started down the list. Not surprisingly, my eyes began to glaze over by about the fifth result, so I quickly clicked on something, (anything!) and began to read. I learned that I might have more success with an agent who was just starting out, as I am. I also found a booklet that advises me on writing query letters that actually get read. A nice man from Green Ivy Publishing called me but I was out so he left a message. I called him back, but he was out so hopefully we’ll talk tomorrow. This could be good, or it could be someone trying to sell me something. We’ll see. The whole thing is pretty interesting. (Hopefully you think so, too. If not, you’re probably not even reading this.) I’m a real newbie to the book publishing world, even though I’ve written all my life and have even had some pieces published. I’m told it’s very hard to get noticed, but I’m used to that after of years of auditions, etc. (For those who don’t know, and lots of you don’t, I used to be in show biz). Anyway, I’m going to keep a record of this process. Who knows? There might be a “how-to” book in my future. I’ll keep you posted. (Heh, heh. “posted”. Get it?)

Wheels

Hello, again, my Friends,
Well, here we are, once again on the brink of High Season. I've gotten to enjoy summer here, just as I enjoy every season, (well, Winter was a bit marginal this year, I must admit), the ups, the downs, the spectacle and the beauty. After all, let's not forget where we live. I never imagined, when I was younger, that I would live somewhere where I'd feel compelled to thank The Goddess every day for the glorious place around me. Maybe that sounds a bit over the top, but on my honor, it's true. Every minute here should be cherished.

Still, we're not perfect, and who wants to be, really? Such a heavy responsibility! There must be some flaws, else how would we recognize the perfections? Some years ago I recognized a few of those flaws in an article I wrote for LIP Magazine. I reproduce it here, at the risk of sounding like a crabby old woman, (which I sometimes am), but also in the hope that somebody, somewhere will take it to heart and be more careful.

Wheels
By Phoebe Otis
The summer season is here. I know this because today I was nearly run down by a cyclist going the wrong way on Commercial Street.

Each year, it seems, it takes me one or two close calls before I remember to look both ways when venturing across the "boulevard of broken limbs", as I like to call it. Each year I get angry, wondering what kind of madman would challenge all odds by speeding headlong into a jam-packed crowd of pedestrians and moving vehicles.

I have studied the faces of these bike jockeys and I can find no common characteristic. They come in all shapes, sexes, sizes, ages, colors and sexual persuasions. They are year-rounders and they are visitors. They are as diverse as Provincetown herself, having in common only the suicidal urge to run the gamut of Commercial Street backwards at high speed.

Some employ noisemakers: horns, bells and whatever. Others simply yell: "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" Still others come deadly silent into our midst, relying upon us to somehow sense their approach and clear a path.
They zip through town like angry bees, scattering tourists right and left, terrorizing dogs and seniors. Mothers whisk strollers aside and hand-holding honeymooners break their clasps and run for cover. They often travel in pairs. Just when you think you've safely avoided disaster, you get sucker-punched from out of nowhere by a second biker.

And the bikes themselves? No slender 10-speeds here. The bikes today are more like the old two-wheelers of my childhood, but with today's technology. These are sturdy machines, made for hard use. I'm sure the tires don't really have teeth, but they would certainly leave an interesting pattern on anything they ran over. Like my foot.

Speaking of feet, roller skaters and skateboarders shoot through the crowds too, winding around cowering bunches of sightseers and playing chicken with the cars. Handicap ramps all over town have become launching pads for individuals with wheels attached to some part of their bodies. Some are even motorized, which brings up an interesting point: when does a person on wheels have to observe the traffic laws? Of course we all know no one here is going to ride a bike according to traffic laws. That would mean toiling up and down the hills of Bradford Street, instead of sailing blithely eastward on Commercial.

I don't like getting mad about this. I remind myself of my old lasa apso, who detested anyone on wheels of any kind and hurled herself, snarling at whomever dared roll by her. I have actually fantasized about a stout stick thrust into those Ben-Hur chariot-like whirling spokes, though I doubt I would do that. No, that's right. I wouldn't do that.

I guess I could get a bike and join the fun, but to be honest, I've never particularly enjoyed bike riding, a fact that no doubt obscures some of the charms of bucking the flow on Commercial. I know the vast majority of cyclists are careful, safe riders. Many people, bless them, walk their bikes in the downtown blocks. Probably the fellow dodging tourists on his Huffy is late for work, or only has 15 minutes to catch the bank, or is hurrying home to catch the birth of his first child. We all think we have good reasons, don't we?

Let's try to make it through the summer unscathed, shall we?

What a week! Saturday night I finished my book. It's at the proofreader's now, and I had my first meeting with the artist who is doing the cover today. It's hard to believe I finished it. Whatever happens now, that fact remains, and to me, it's a plus. Hopefully, you will all love it and buy many copies. I'll let you know when it comes out. Ha! That's good! First me, then my book.
I'm in a writing group with Hilde Oleson. We meet each Tuesday at the library to read our work, listen to others' work and talk about writing in general. Actually, this group has been a great help keeping me busy on the book. Anyway, each week Hilde gives us a prompt, which is something to write about for next week. Last week's prompt was "Childhood Lies." Here's what I wrote:

Childhood Lies

Do you mean

Lies I told as a child, or

Lies I was told, as a child.

Two very different things, I think.

Of course I told lies:

“It’s not my fault!” and

“Robbie did it!”

Among the most popular,

Though there were others.

I used to tell people

I was descended from gypsys.

I wonder now if anyone

Believed me.

But then, people lied to me:

 “Don’t worry, it will be alright.”

On the day my parents separated.

It wasn’t alright, not for a long time.

Or

“I’ll be back soon. You wait here.”

That one never fooled me,

After the first time.

So, do we lie because we are lied to?

We’re not born liars.

How does it start?

More’s the point,

Where will it end?

See you next week, all. Phoebe

Have you seen the hawks who circle the Stop & Shop parking lot? They're really wonderful. There seems to be a whole family of them and I find myself sitting in my car watching them while the ice cream I just bought turns to soup in the back seat. They are truly hypnotic...

If I could describe how you look, up there in the sky,
If I could draw a picture of you with words, tell the story of you,
Sailing on currents, your bodies motionless in the air,
Rising and falling like bits of charred paper on the wind,
If I could make clear the fun I know you're having,
The joy you're feeling, just being free,
Or the joy you give me, watching you,
If I could say these things and make another understand,
Then maybe I could call myself
A Poet.


Provincetown, May, 2015

The Worst Job I Ever Had

  What’s it like here in the winter? Well, for one thing, you have to be prepared to make a living in a variety of ways you may not have considered. One of my first jobs was at the Cold Storage on Commercial St. In spite of it’s name, it was not a place where ladies stored their furs, but instead a large building located where the Coast Guard Station is now, a building where frozen fish products were packed and shipped.

   “Dress warm,” the man who hired me warned.

   The temperature was the least of the unpleasant aspects of that job. From 8am to 5pm, we stood in a large, cold room before long wooden tables divided into sizing bins. A conveyer belt brought the fish, which we then consigned to its proper weight bin after (quickly) weighing each on a scale. A radio, tuned to a popular Boston station played the same “top twenty” songs all day for our entertainment pleasure, and we got a whole half an hour for lunch. We had to wear heavy-duty rubber gloves that turned our hands white and wrinkled and everywhere was the underlying smell of fish. The fish we were sorting during my time there was frozen rock lobster tails from South Africa, which I could never figure out since at the time selling just the tails of lobsters was illegal in this state, and anyway, why did we have to import frozen lobster tails from South Africa when we live here in lobster land? I never got a satisfactory answer to that one.

   The only good part of the job was the people I worked with. Having just arrived in town, I had very little experience with the Portuguese community, but that winter I met some of the greatest ladies I’ve ever known. There was Alameda, who had worked at the Cold Storage all her life, and never missed a day. Since I rarely completed a week at the place, I was very impressed. Helen had a similar story, except she’d gone away for ten years when she got married and moved to New Bedford. When she returned, widowed, she went right back to work at the Cold Storage. Nearly everyone there had started when they were still in school. They were a lively group, full of Provincetown stories, and able to find the rainbow in the darkest tale. Those ladies were what kept me working there as long as I did, and after I left we remained close friends.

   After I’d packed lobster tails for six weeks or so, Helen took me aside.

   “Look, darlin’,” she told me, “you don’t seem to be enjoying the work here. My niece has been working behind the counter at the Pharmacy, but she’s going off to collage. Why don’t you go see if you can get her job?”

   Thank you, Helen. Thank you. Some days I still say that.

   I watched from the street the day they closed up the Cold Storage. The electricity had been turned off, so there was no more refrigeration, and the place literally melted. It seemed the ice in the building was the only thing holding the structure up. A few days later the rubble had been cleared and what had once been a large part of the town’s history was gone. Sometimes I tell people that was the worst job I ever had, but when I remember the great stories and the laughter, I have to admit that’s far from the truth.

For all the years I was away from Provincetown, one vision came to me whenever I thought of the place. No doubt everyone leaves here with memories and impressions, each unique to that person. For me, it’s a windless, fog-bound night, and I am standing on Commercial St, in front of White Wind Guest House at the corner of Winthrop St. I have no idea why my vision is always in this location. Nothing in particular ever happened to me there, while plenty happened in many other places around town. Still, it’s always the same, and there is always the fog horn. The soft call floats over the harbor to me through the cottony air, and I can feel the healing peace of Provincetown, even when I’m far away.  I don’t leave here so much anymore, and many foggy nights have found me listening for that soothing voice as I stand cloaked in damp night air, looking up at the halo around a blurry moon. To be able to do this until the end of my life is one of my most worthy goals, I think

Keys.

My nemesis.

My cross to bear.

The bane of my existence.

This may seem excessive, unless you are my wife, Betty. If you were, you’d know all about my private war with the little metal slivers. Poor Betty has been witness to more than a few key-related tantrums. I appreciate her fortitude. I don’t know why I’m so key-challanged. Probably some hideous childhood experience I’ve completely blocked out. Maybe it’s some kind of subconscious rebellion against locks and all they represent: distrust, exclusion, the need to protect. In my perfect world there would be no locks. No need for them. If we had no locks, we’d need no keys, ergo, we’d have nothing to lose, nothing to inspire crazy, frantic searching. No handbag would require dumping upside down on a rainy doorstep, nothing for demon holes in pockets to gobble into linings.

But, NOT!. In fact, there are more locks now than ever, when you consider those hateful passwords. Let’s not even go there.

I’ve tried everything to solve this. I keep my keys in only one place, I think I’m very careful about this, but sometimes I’m not, and they wind up somewhere ridiculous. And I wasn’t kidding about the handbag. I can stand there and go carefully through every pocket in the thing, not finding the keys, and then suddenly there they are, in the first place I looked. Mocking me. G-r-r!

For a while I had a keyless car. What a luxury! As long as I had the fob in my bag, the car would start at the touch of a button. It also unlocked itself upon my approach. Genius! Why aren’t they all like that? I’m lucky to live in a town where locking one’s car is the exception to the rule. At the risk of sounding like the old fart I seem to have become, I remember when we never locked our doors here, never mind the car, unless we were going away, or “off-Cape”. Now I lock my door whenever I leave the house, carefully putting my house keys in their own special pocket in my bag, confident they won’t be there when I look for them upon my return. Right now, in fact, I’m preparing to go out to the supermarket. After I locate my keys, that is.

TAXES

On 15 April, every year,

Most among us wipe a tear

As into Federal coffers seep

The meager coin we hoped to keep.

One third of every working day,

Our efforts will support and pay

For programs, arms or just because

It’s Washington. That’s what one does!

   It’s hard to write about taxes when I sort of agree we have to pay them. I realize it’s a necessary evil, and a rather small pill to swallow in return for the privilege of living in the good old USA…a small, bitter pill, nonetheless. Most of my life I worked in service jobs, starting with waitress (we called them that in those days.) in a coffeehouse to bartender, a job that definitely looked more glamorous than it is. I never made much more than minimum wage, (not counting tips, which we didn’t, in those days.) I also worked in show business, and did okay there, and that’s where I first became acquainted with our tax process. In show biz, you’re pretty much working for yourself, so you have to see to it you’re paying your quarterly taxes. Please believe me. I learned this the hard way, so I know.

   “Pretend it’s not your money,” a helpful friend advised. “Take one-third of whatever you earn and put it in a savings account. Pay your taxes out of that. Anything left over, you get to keep.”

   Great advice. By the time I took it, I owed $1500 to the Feds, (a gigantic sum, in those days.) That’s when I discovered the best people to owe money to are the good old IRS.  You can make almost any deal with them and as long as you send the money each month, even if it’s only $5 or $10, they’ll leave you alone. Eventually, I got it paid, and I never did that again.

   Now I’m “retired”, whatever that means. For me it means no more real estate, and no more property management, a job I’m delighted to turn over to my son, Duff. I haven’t stopped working, tho’, and I still pay taxes. I just mailed the checks off yesterday. It’s a strange feeling. I feel bad having to pay them and good about doing it, all at the same time. At least I know I’ve done my part to keep the lights on in Washington.

Looking Back

  I knew, getting on the bus that morning in Provincetown, that it was the last time I would be making the trip to Philadelphia to visit my brother Rob. As I took my seat and watched the Cape Cod dawn along Route 6A, I searched for ways the trip was different this time, because for me, it was the most important of all the travels to see him. I expected to see things differently or feel the cold more or something, but my journey commenced in the same way it always did: waiting in the car in the dark before dawn, watching the bus driver drive up in his car and come over and unlock the bus, saying goodbye to Betty, boarding, paying my fare, taking a seat, etc. It was all as it had always been, for all the years I’d done it, except this time would be the last, because Rob was dying.

  I never know how to feel about death. I’m close to seventy years old, so death is no stranger to me, but each time someone I love dies, I never know how to act, or what’s expected of me. Now it was my brother, my only full-blooded sibling, the partner of my youth in the war against our parents. I had never lived without him. What to do? His was a death we both knew was coming, and we were not afraid to face it in our conversations after he was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. We talked about how he felt, and what he wanted done, both before and after, and prided ourselves on being adult, enlightened souls who were not afraid of what we both knew was coming. He even allowed as how he’d had a pretty great life, in spite of the “messy ending.” (His words.) We had it all figured out. Except that wasn’t the way it was, in the end. All the way down on the bus and train, I had worked to wrap my mind around the fact that I was going there to be with my brother while he died. I kept thinking “this time is different.” I got scared, because I didn’t know what to expect, but as things unfolded, there was nothing to be scared of. When I got to his apartment, he was nearly comatose, though he mumbled a small hello when I took his hand and told him I was there. He wanted to die at home, and so he would, but that wasn’t as simple as we thought. I asked for a hospital bed, and we got one and set it up in the dining room, after moving the furniture. Everyone helped, and there were four of us, so we got it done quickly, grateful for something to do, but then we had the problem of how to move him. Luckily, my cousin is engaged to a Philadelphia EMT supervisor, and he arrived and took over the logistics. Then we all sat down around the bed, me on one side, our friend Daniel at the head, John, Rob’s partner, held his other hand and John’s sister Wendy was at the foot of the bed. My cousin Meg sat next to me. We played some music Rob liked, and all of us kept talking to him. I remember for some reason I began to count his breaths, thinking if he got to 100, he might be okay for a while, but at 54 there was a long space without breath, and then only two more and he was still. We all just sat there in silence for about a minute, and then I remembered all the stories about people floating above the scene when they died, so I made us all look up and wave. Then I opened the window and he flew away.

The Other Side

Tuesday, 2/24

Greetings from the other side of disaster! That is, I hope it’s the other side. What if it’s only half way through and I’m stuck in the middle of it? No, that cannot be. I mean, yes, the pipes froze and then burst and yes, my workshop needs a new ceiling, and Betty’s bathroom is missing a wall, so that’s it, right? All over now. Has to be.

It wasn’t easy to go through, but misery does indeed love company. We weren’t the worst off in town by a long shot. Whole houses were frozen, guesthouses were damaged and restaurants affected. The plumbers who came to fix our problem told horror stories that widened my perspective and made me feel like we are all trapped in a Stephen King novel.

Wednesday, 2/25

The snow that fell last night would have been considered a good amount in the old world, the world BTB (Before The Blizzards). Instead, everyone was talking about how “light and fluffy” it is, nothing to worry about. Perspectives certainly change, don’t they? Still, the new snow does improve the scenery. The old stuff was getting pretty grungy.  Danielle Niles, on Channel 4, says we’ll get more tomorrow. I don’t usually watch her because she says “P-town”, but I’m so desperate for a good forecast I’ll watch anybody in my quest for a snowless future. Not only did she say the “P”word four times, she said we’re having more snow. At this rate we’ll be skiing on the dunes in our tankinis!

The good news is, Tuesday night was supposed to have been the lowest temperature since 1898 here in Provincetown, and we didn’t have frozen pipes! So, I guess we really are on the other side of disaster. Maybe. 

WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?

What an exciting day! I was making coffee this morning and out my kitchen window I saw the largest fox I have ever seen. He was in the driveway checking out the birdseed Betty puts out, but I guess he didn’t like it, because he trotted off to the next yard, where we got to watch for about 20 minutes while he dug a deep hole in the snow there.  He seemed to be playing. He’d dig for a little bit and then come out of the hole and jump straight up in the air a few times, and then go back into the hole and dig some more. My friend Tony says he was hunting mice under the snow.  What a treat to see him so relaxed. He had no idea he was being watched, and so acted very much at ease.  Finally, he just trotted off, maybe to try mouse hunting somewhere else. Thank the Goddess for our wildlife! I’m so blessed to live in a place where I can watch!

They had gorgeous asparagus at the Stop & Shop yesterday, so I got some and made the following pasta dish:

Makes enough for 2

10 spears of young asparagus  (Try to use pencil-thin spears)

12 raw shrimp, cleaned and de-veined *

The zest and juice of one lemon

4 TBLSP olive oil

2 TBLSP unsalted butter

3 med cloves of garlic, diced

Salt and fresh ground pepper

Hot pepper flakes (optional, but delicious-just don’t overdo it)

Whole wheat linguini

Freshly grated parmesan cheese**

In a medium skillet, heat 3 TBLSP olive oil. Add diced garlic and toast, stirring frequently, until golden. Remove from pan and drain on paper towels. Reserve.  Chop the asparagus into ½ inch pieces and sauté until al dente. Season it to taste. Meantime, cook pasta to taste in 2 quarts of boiling, salted water.  When the asparagus is nearly done, add the shrimp and lemon zest to the skillet and cook until the shrimp are pink and firm.  Add the butter, hot pepper flakes and lemon juice, and about ¼ cup of the pasta water. When the pasta is nearly cooked, transfer it to the skillet and toss well. Cook until the pasta is done to your taste. Finally, add the freshly grated cheese, toss and serve.

*My brother taught me to always have a bag of frozen, de-veined shrimp in the freezer. I get the 21/20 size, and when I need some I just shake some out of the bag into room-temperature water and let them de-frost.  If you really want to enhance the shrimp flavor, cook the shrimp in hot water until they are pink. Reserve the water. Shell the shrimp and put the shells back into the water and boil for about 3 or 4 minutes, then strain and discard the shells. Use the water in place of the pasta water mentioned above. If you do it this way, add the cooked shrimp to the skillet at the same time you add the linguini. Love those frozen shrimp.

**Feta cheese can be substituted if you prefer.

Remember to get some good books on your ereader and charge it up in case the power goes out in the coming storm….

Blessed be,

Phoebe

Well,  I guess the snow is getting to me.  I really wanted to be above it all, shouldering bravely through the blizzard, never given to remarks about the weather like everyone else I know, but Mother Nature finally won,  as she so often does. When the four walls began to close in on me this afternoon, I retreated to the one place where no blizzard, no hurricane, no heat wave or cold snap can touch me: my kitchen. It wasn’t the first time. Since the snow began I have produced a dazzling variety of dishes including beef stew, roast chicken and a snappy three-layer dip on Super Bowl Sunday. Today it was cookies. I was going to make a batch of tollhouse cookies, but I started playing around and came up with the following recipe. Give them a try. This recipe makes about 4 dozen, and they are, of course, best eaten the day they are made, though they will probably keep for about a week in a sealed plastic container.  I don’t have a name for them yet.

NAMELESS  CHOC. CHIP COOKIES

2 sticks unsalted butter

2 eggs

2 ¼ cup flour

¼ cup good cocoa powder (I like Droste)

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp baking powder

1 TBL spoon vanilla

½ tsp. espresso powder

½ tsp. ground cinnamon

½  cup granulated sugar

½ cup firmly packed dark brown sugar

White choc. Chips

Dark choc. Chips

Dried Cherries

Chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 350 and prepare a cookie sheet with cooking spray and parchment. Cream butter and sugars together until well mixed and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing until incorporated. Add vanilla.  In a separate bowl, mix flour, salt, baking powder, espresso powder and cinnamon together. Add to wet ingredients in three batches, mixing well after each addition. Add the last four ingredients, amounts to taste.  Drop by teaspoonfuls onto cookie sheet, leaving room for spreading between each cookie. Bake for 10 min, transfer to rack and cool.

I hope you like them. If you can think of a name for them, I’m open to suggestions.  I look forward to your comments. Now if I could just think of some way to cook SNOW!!!!! Meantime, here's a picture of the Nameless Cookies:

JANUARY BLIZZARD

I love the winter here. I even love the snow, though the older I get, the harder it is to get around in the snow. Still, I wake up most mornings and run to the window like a child, hoping to see that all-changing coating of white. I have enjoyed snow in the two margins of my life. During my adult working years I was required to shovel, put chains on the car, and grapple with layers of clothing and rebellious boots, but now, as when I was very young, someone else does the shoveling and grappling, and I can remain in my nightie and bathrobe all day if I want to, because I don’t have to go out in bad weather. Much better.

One winter, sometime in the late 80s or early 90s, we had the most snow I’ve ever seen here. I remember the weatherman on Channel 5 showing a graphic demonstrating the snow depth was more than Wilt Chamberlain’s height. For those of you who don’t remember Wilt, he played for the Celtics and was the tallest man I’ve ever seen. That winter our backyard filled up with snow to just below the level of the back porch, about 6 feet. Our Chihuahua, Robert, had never seen snow, and apparently thought the ground had mysteriously risen somehow because, with a little bark of joy, he leaped off the edge of the deck and disappeared from view, leaving only a dog-shaped hole in the drifts below. He somehow managed to burrow his way to the stairs and emerged on the deck, cold and embarrassed, a minute or so later. He never did that again. That year we had snow on the ground from November until the end of March. A real New England winter. Robert’s companion dog, Pearl, a large black Lab, could be seen leaping hugely over the mounds and pushing large hills of snow around with her nose. I can still see her rolling around making doggie snow angels.

When my then-partner, (now Wife) and I opened our real estate business in the Circular Cellar, we thought it was quite picturesque and unusual. After all, one of the largest circular cellars on Cape Cod is a conversation starter, for sure, but we failed to consider the ten steps down from the sidewalk, and what would happen when that stairwell filled up with snow. When it did, right up to the top, it took a whole day and several hearty and helpful souls to dig it out. That year we had five-foot high snow walls separating Commercial St from the sidewalks. Nobody said “Oh, we don’t get much snow out here…”, though I distinctly remember being told that when I first arrived in Provincetown.

This time, we’re supposed to get two feet of snow and 80 mile-an-hour winds. It’s already begun. There’s about an inch on the ground and no sign of it stopping. I’m all snug in my house with the fire going, and oil lamps at the ready should the electricity fail. We have plenty of food and the neighbor has graciously allowed us to hook up to her generator so we’ll have heat if we need it. Nothing else to do but hunker down and wait till it’s over. Stay safe

Welcome to my world.

Welcome, welcome, Dear Readers. Hope you like what you read here. These are stories based upon my many years as a resident of Provincetown, MA, at the tip of Cape Cod. If you’ve been here, you’ll recognize some of the places and maybe even some of the people. If you haven’t been here, why not? I wonder. At the very least the scenery is magnificent, and I can pretty much promise you you’ve never been anywhere quite like Provincetown. It’s worth the trip, out to the tip. (Okay, that’s it. No more rhyming. I swear.)

I have lived here on and off since 1968, when I arrived in the spring to visit an old friend and stayed to make it my home. I went away several times in the early years, but I always seemed to come back here, so I finally gave in and became a full-time resident in 1979. That probably sounds like a long time ago to you. It seems like yesterday to me. The town was different then, for  sure, but underneath all the recent glitz and glamour, she’s the same tatty old girl she was when I arrived. That’s why I love it here, I guess. The things that really matter don’t change. The beach is still the beach and the bay is still there, sunshine gleaming off the water on nice days, a treasure of diamonds for free. I hear a lot of complaining about the changes over the last 10 years or so, but I also haven’t forgotten that most of those changes are things we used to wish for. Hum-m-m. I can still see the old town, lurking beneath its new suit of clothes, so to speak. Everywhere I look I find renovated facades and sheet rock where once there was horsehair plaster, but I only have to look a little deeper. The schedule hasn’t changed, for example. It’s still crowded in the summer and quiet in the winter. I almost wrote “dead in the winter”, but that isn’t true. Provincetown is anything but dead in the winter. Oh, sure, places are closed and there aren’t any parades, but plenty is going on. All one has to do is look at the bulletin board at the Stop & Shop, where announcements of pot luck suppers, trivia competitions, ceramics classes, cooking exhibitions, theatrical auditions and a plethora of other activities invite participation. A person could go from dawn to dusk without a moment to spare here in Provincetown in the winter. That’s always been the case, in my experience, and I think it’s because Cape Codders as a group have never been ones to sit around wasting time.

Another thing that hasn’t changed, thankfully, is the sense of community here. When I left to roam the world it was the first thing I missed. We take care of each other without even thinking about it. That’s not true everywhere. I think it was why I was so lonely in New York, and Chicago. I am never lonely here.

Whenever I tell people where I live, the first question is “What ‘s it like in the winter?”

This blog will attempt to answer that with anecdotes from my past. Names and places may be changed or left out in the interest of discretion. I promise to tell you when I’m doing that. If you think someone in a story is you, don’t ask. I won’t tell. And let’s not forget the stories are filtered through years of –well, years, so if time has distorted the memories, forgive me. I’m doing my best. Again, I hope you like it.