Open Season

Memorial Day weekend means different things to different people. In Duck, it means the visitors will arrive in force, and be here at least through labor day. Local's cars are plastered with bumper stickers that chronicle a myriad of opinions on the subject. They range from sincere, "sign of welcome.." sorts to disparagements of regional driving ability (driving style if you consulted the disparaged party). Some go as far as likening tourist season to hunting season. Suffice it to say, though opinions vary our economy is dependent upon our visitors, absentee owners and tourists alike. For that reason they are welcome. I must make an attempt to understand their presence though, and what it means to me and my community. In short, they are an inconvenience that enriches our community, in the best case. In the worst case we are the exploited party in what can only be characterized as a prostitution of--or perhaps more accurately--the rape of our community. It all depends on the behavior of the guest. I'll go dark first in an effort to end on a high note. On their worst behavior, visitors arrive in a flashy vehicle of some sort. They shout from the cockpit of their usually topless, jackass mobile at cyclists sharing the road and whistle inappropriately at under age passerby modeling swimwear their mothers thought was a bad call--they are now certain of this hunch. They go on to toss empty beer bottles from their machismo floats, on their way to restaurants, where they complain that their meal was not as familiar as their neighborhood Applebee's. They get drunk, and tip poorly. They attempt to drive two blocks home, maim or kill an innocent passerby. All parties at the scene deny that they were the driver. And they return perennially. Hence the snarky bumper stickers. Fortunately they are the minority. The majority strike a much more familiar chord. The holiday family get together. I encourage a listen to Robert Earl Keen's "Merry Christmas From the Family." Elements of it are inappropriate and embarrassing, but so is family. Tourist season is metaphorically like hosting some ridiculous family reunion. You are anticipating your extended family's arrival, we'll say for the Fourth of July week (can you feel the heat and humidity). You've casually prepared for weeks. You've finally organized your garage, the foul weather, back-up gathering location. You didn't want to clean it up and turn it into party headquarters. You know it will set you back weeks on your high performance riding lawn mower customization, but you make the sacrifice. They are family. They are entitled to your hospitality. You've cut the grass and mulched the flower beds. You don't want to seem like some sort of hack, your "spouse" has encouraged you to put your best foot forward. As you anticipate your extended family's arrival your mind is consumed with two thoughts. One: you are much more put together than you feel like you will be able to communicate--or, more accurately--you can't help it that the damn package store was out of the good margarita mix, why does you sister in law insist on drinking top shelf tequila if she's just going to wreck it with mixers anyway? Two: You know the second cousins said they were more than happy to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the den, but you also know that if they aren't uncomfortable there, they will definitely make you uncomfortable being there. Faced with this, you know from experience that the following will happen: At least one party will arrive inexplicably early. At least one party will stay inexplicably late. You will wash an unbelievable amount of dishes, even though you remember providing compostable paper plates and silverware at every meal (five a day!). No one will notice or comment on amenities that you improved upon or expanded from last year. No one will thank you for hosting--yet again. Someone will break something. It will cost you a lot. Though these people are extended "family," the whole experience will stress your immediate family. You will have an inexplicable surplus of food. You will have an inexplicable deficit of beer. We've all been there, or will be. Now imagine either being assaulted by thugs or visited by family for a period of three months. . . . Open Season.

Sambuca The Cat

Most of the time my thoughts lead me to compare life in Duck to life elsewhere. Sometimes life elsewhere comes to Duck. We've adopted Sambuca the cat. Back story as I understand it: Service member in Alaska has dog, cat and significant other. Family of four moves to Nags Head or surrounding area. Service member's deployment is eminent, relationship with significant other falls apart, dog and cat find themselves in Dare County animal shelter. Pet Smart in Nags Head has feline/shelter gallery at check-out. Murray Family is at Pet Smart to purchase clipper blade for shaggy dog. Murray family deliberates: diet Pepsi or fluffy white giant cat. Cat requires application...anyone can buy a Pepsi...Murray family opts for cat, delays Osteoporosis. That was Sunday. Today is Thursday, Sambuca came home. Fluffy white cat, new fluffy white cat bed, food dish, etc in downstairs bathroom. Cat loves to be brushed. Resident cats accept, grudgingly, presence of new cat. Dog sees opportunity in additional food bowl. I often struggle when confronted with service members. I feel compelled to say thank you. I may not agree with the mission, but I am indebted to those who volunteer to serve and do our nation's dirty work. What's more, I think I have some understanding of what it means to serve in service to your comrades rather than any "cause." I've heard interviews with soldiers though that lament the awkwardness of the obligatory, "thank you for your service," no matter how sincere. If this man cared for his cat, like I care for mine, or my dog, I feel totally comfortable saying instead, I'll take care of your cat. Love can be a fickle beast-complicated by the participants. Pets though, when approached meaningfully and responsibly can transcend love. Pets are a testament to partnership. I will do x consistently in exchange for you doing y consistently. It's not the exchange that is sacred, it is the consistency. I will feed you and keep you safe, I appreciate your affection and availability in return. The relationship is elegant in its simplicity. Hopefully the thank you is elegant in it's simplicity. I appreciate your service, but I don't need to say that. What I will say instead is: I will care for your cat, as you did. He will be a member of our family. I will keep him safe.

Pick Your Poison

I listened to an official from the Oklahoma State Police break down into tears describing the aftermath of the tornadoes there. I had seen some photos, and listened to a lot of radio, but this woman's perspective really got me. She's a professional, not melodramatic at all, and by virtue of her chosen vocation, not unfamiliar with atrocity. It is the loss of children that gives us the most pause, and the grieving of their parents. To be a parent is to fail, daily. However, the joy of parenting is the constant renewal of opportunity--the resilience of your child. They have a faith in us, in spite of our shortcomings. They have faith that we are good, capable and can protect them. But we cannot. And in failing to protect them once, all of our other failures are magnified. Failures of patience, failures of sensitivity, all pale in comparison, and are also magnified by any failure to protect. Why would anyone live there? I hear people ask, Tornado Alley! Really!? It's all a question of degree. I puzzle at my neighbors on Hatteras Island, a Hurricane Hole, as we call it. But we get hit, again and again. If a tornado is a knock out punch in a street brawl, a hurricane is the crush of an enraged mob in a soccer stadium, or a street riot. In many ways though they are similar. The tornado's odds are slim--wrong place at the wrong time etc. But as the hurricane's footprint is large, its catastrophic damage is random. So much depends on terrain, exposure, construction technique, the age of the structure. Why would anyone live here? Why does anyone live anywhere? Born here. Beautiful. Peaceful. Found work. Can't find work. Just kind of ended up here. Wherever you've ended up, you can't protect your children, you can't protect yourself, you can't dot all of the i's and cross all of the t's. You can only make a life. And a life is worth making, anyplace. I wonder if the real danger isn't found in the real reward? The finer a life you make--the less you fail your kids, your spouse, your boss, your friends--the more you have to lose. I listened to another engaging story this morning about cicadas. They will emerge this year, after seventeen years underground. They will burst from their exoskeletons, sing songs, mate, and die. Their offspring will burrow into the ground, and repeat the process in seventeen years. The biologist interviewed explained that the cicada's life cycle has evolved as a way to overwhelm predators, and ensure the propagation of the species. Forced to pay attention to the harshness of our environment through natural disasters, our disregard for our humanity in Asian sweatshops, and the evil among us in the form of teenage terrorists, I will take the cicada's path. I'll emerge, make some noise, make a family, do what I can to protect it, and go in peace, hopefully.

Santa Clause and The Easter Bunny Live Here

No shit.. . .. They really do. In a week that headlines for the real world read: Islamist militant/freedom fighter/ Syrian rebel desecrates enemy corpse... U.S. fashion companies promise $.50 per t-shirt to secure the future of workers in Bangladesh. I just want to offer the following... I'm sure there is a nationwide, or even worldwide Easter Bunny. However there is a tiny older woman in our community who holds an Easter egg hunt the Saturday before Easter for local children, all ten of them. She dresses as a bunny, hides eggs and does not speak...at all. The rest of the year, she walks her Newfoundland on a circuit of town, daily. This alone would not be particularly amazing. However, in addition Santa Clause lives here. He works at our local hardware store. His name is Al. He is the most authentic Santa ever. He stopped by our house last Christmas Eve, and I am sure we have a life long believer. If Santa is an idea Al is the embodiment of it. Sure he is payed for his efforts, and his absolutely perfect look. But Damn. Al has a real beard, and a dapper ermine trimmed suit. He is not portly, nor svelte. He is one jolly dude. And he will sell you plumbing supplies, with a knowing wink. I'm not nuts, I know these people are not the real Ester bunny or Santa. But if there were a real Easter Bunny, or Santa, I can say unequivocally, they would live in Duck. It just makes too much sense. Photo Evidence: