To protect the anonymity of my patient but long-suffering
traveling companions, I have assigned noms
de plum (a super-fancified version of “fake names”) to ensure that I can
say whatever I want about them without having to share the royalties from my
lucrative writing empire. My daughters
are currently in similar negotiations to shield their identities but, as of the
printing of this particular publication, legal proceedings have stalled as we
debate what constitutes room and board, wage garnishment, and home confinement
parameters. Personally, I would consider a trip to Cape
Cod fair compensation for over-sensationalized, highly exaggerated
media coverage but it is just so difficult reasoning with teenagers these days.
More than
just a limerick, Nantucket was warm and
welcoming and wonderful. We stayed at a
lovely bed and breakfast Victorian inn with a deep front porch. We quickly became acquainted with our fellow
lodgers, bonding quickly with the lively and precocious young Michael and his
beaten-down older brother Josh.
Unknowingly, we became entangled in a crime scenario with a cast of
characters straight from the board game “Clue.”
The setting: the downstairs parlor set for a breakfast of
hardboiled eggs, thin-sliced watermelon, gourmet breads to be toasted, and
crocks filled with creamy butter and a selection of homemade preserves. As our party enjoyed our morning meal on the
porch, we heard a commotion as young Michael discovered that his bread had been
removed from the toaster. Young
Michael’s mother quickly intervened and offered him her bagel but the young man
would not be deterred from his quest for justice. Interviews were conducted, witnesses sought,
furniture overturned, and inevitably, poor Josh was brought up on charges to
placate Michael’s inability to cope with his loss of toast along with young
Michael’s mother’s inability to administer her own brand of sunny side up
justice. You guessed it, the thief sat
among us. Savannah nibbled young Michael’s abandoned toast,
savoring each bite as his indignant howls grew louder, confident that the
statue of limitations on bread would apply to her.
Naturally,
one must bike when one visits Nantucket . When faced with physical exertion, I will
employ any device necessary to thwart unnecessary activity. Even math.
It was a tough call. Pay one
dollar a person to ride the bus or twenty-five dollars a person to bicycle
fourteen miles to the farthest possible beach on the island? Uh-huh.
I did, on this particular journey, have an enlightening experience. Pedaling along, I noticed a moth fluttering
along beside me. I could distinguish its
every feature; see its wizened little face.
Enthralled, I marveled at how fast it flew as we traveled the path
harmoniously together. Until the light
bulb finally illuminated the reality of how ridiculously slow I go on a
bike. Amy Mosiman…so slow she can be
easily outdistanced by a moth.
I had to
realign my life philosophies quite a bit on this particular vacation. For instance, modesty was no longer a chief
priority as, while boogie-boarding in the churning Atlantic, I inadvertently
turned one of Nantucket ’s prime recreational
hotspots into a nude beach. To make
matters worse, my “friends” assured me that no one noticed. A great white shark sighting in the harbor
where we were in the middle of enjoying a seal cruise cost me my lifetime
memberships in humane animal rights organizations. Learning that the shark had taken two bites
out of a helpless seal, we were quickly reassured that the victim had been
rescued. Indignant, I demanded that the
shark be given satisfaction…what were they thinking, leaving a hungry man
(woman)-eater out there? Feed him the
seal for goodness sake!
Visiting Plimoth Plantation was an exercise in sensitivity training. Before entering the Wampanoag
village, one first encounters a large sign outlining suitable language to
employ to avoid offending the culture.
After reading it respectfully, Savannah
stepped forward to lead the way, offering us all a fabulous view of the back of
her “Letchworth Big Red” shirt. Well, at
that moment, we felt it was necessary to “hide that Indian pride.” Savannah ,
arguing that plenty of sports teams are still named after Native People in what
is meant to be a complimentary nature, was nevertheless wrestled back to the
van to exchange shirts. She still had
plenty of spirit left though, because when she returned, she was sporting a
blazing red Mason City , Iowa
I don’t
know why people cringe in horror to think that they might show up in one of my
harmless little stories. As you can see,
Jőaŋ and Ĝerį were portrayed in a most flattering light. This article answers that ages-old,
much-anticipated school essay question:
What did you do over summer vacation?
And in writing the essay, you tend to discover that it’s not what you
did but who you spent it with that really mattered. Sure, Maine
was beautiful but the best part was spending time with Jőaŋ, Ĝerį, and my
daughters. Hope you had a great summer
vacation too.
as published in Warsaw's Country Courier
