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.