Page's Turn
What Lies Beneath
June 27, 2010
Looking into the river from the dock above, I see a stick poking up through the brackish water. Angus crouches into a pounce position, ready to fetch as soon as I release the taut leash. Alongside the dock, my fiance sits in the boat, waiting for us to board. Angus has never been on a boat, but he seems more interested in the stick than his maiden voyage.
That’s when I notice the stick has a face--and a slithery forked tongue. And it’s looking at us, standing up in the water--like a periscope-- turning its head from side to side.
Uh, David,” I say anxiously. “There’s a snake in the water--right in front of your boat.”
“Oh, yeah, you’ll see them near the shore like that. But don’t worry, they’re harmless.”
“Well, how do you know they’re harmless? I mean, that thing looks pretty big,” I say, keeping my eyes on what has now turned into a python.
On the other side of the dock, a tattooed and semi-toothless man hoists his catch of crabs from his camouflage-colored boat. His tanned stomach spills over the top of his jean shorts, cut off just above his leathery knee-caps.
I turn to the crabber. “Excuse me. Do you see that snake over there? There’s a snake. See it? Right there in front of the boat.”
I’m fully aware of the cliche I represent, the Georgetowner with the black Lab and Tory Burch tote in tow. And I’m really hoping he didn’t overhear my previous comment about not wanting to waterski because it would ruin my blow dry.
“Oh, man, I hate them things.”
Relieved that’s he’s on my team, I pepper him with questions, convinced this waterman will have more answers than my cute banker beau.
"What kind do you think it is? Do you think it’s poisonous? Could it be a water moccasin?”
“You know, you never know. But I’d stay away from it.”
“Did you hear that, David? Did you hear what he said?” Fear is drying out my throat. But my nagging voice, apparently, is shrill enough to force the serpent back under water. No doubt, David wants to join it.
“Okay, let’s go,” he says, grabbing hold of the rope to pull the boat closer to the dock so Angus and I can step aboard. “The water’s like glass. Perfect for skiing.”
We’re now zooming across the Wye River, the wind whipping across our faces. Angus is half-way in my lap, his nose pointed toward the clouds. I imagine this is even better than sticking his head out the car window. We’re all soaking in the sun, the wind, the sprays of water as we leave the snake sighting in our wake. My eyes focus on the glistening river around me and I finally relax.
When I see something jump. A fish. Okay, calm down, it’s just a fish. But then I see a fin. A brown fin. I remain calm--or try to, at least.
“David, I just saw a fin. Could there be sharks in here?”
Laughing, he tells me this is a fresh water river and it’s impossible for sharks to live here.
“Are you sure about that? I think I heard somewhere that it’s possible. You know how sharks can get lost and wander in from the ocean to the bay to the river.”
I wonder why fear is getting the best of me. Decades later, am I still traumatized from seeing Jaws? But this is a river, not the ocean. Obviously, I know it isn’t a shark, but still. Why would I want to get in the water near anything with a fin? First a snake, now a fin? Nothing to fear but fear itself. Nothing to fear...I want to ask FDR, what about snakes in the river? I don’t fear fear. I fear snakes--and sharks.
As we enter a cove, the boat stops and David cuts the engine, walking to the stern to grab a water ski and life vest.
“Do you want me to go first or do you want to go?” he asks.
I assess my options. Jump into snake-infested waters. Or drive a boat so he can ski. Both raise my pulse. But having been recently accused of not “getting out of my comfort zone,” I opt to ski. I really don’t want to go, but I know I need to. Obviously I don’t have to prove anything to him, but I need to prove it to myself. Face your fears head-on and all that.
I remember being an 8-year-old, afraid to jump off the high drive. Step by step, I climb the ladder, my fingers clutching the metal hand-railing as I ascend. Reaching the top, I walk--shuffle, actually--to the end of the diving board. Looking down at the clear, chlorinated pool, a tingling in my feet forces me to turn around. Other children await their turn below. They look up at me, “Page, just jump; it’s easy.” I pace the board several times, like Peter Pan walking the plank. Finally, I hold my breath and leap, hitting the water with a slap. Ouch. Next time I’ll point my toes.
More than 35 years later, I’m on the edge of the boat instead of the high dive. But the tingling feeling and shortness of breath remain the same. Just do it. I check the murky waters for, um, sticks before jumping in with my slalom ski. David throws me the nylon rope and slowly pulls away while I slip my left foot into the rubber hold, pulling it over my heel. I slide my right foot into the back rubber slot, and clasp my hands around the plastic handle.
“Hit it,” I yell. The last thing I want to do is linger is this water where I can’t see what lies beneath. The engine froths up the brown water and the boat lurches forward. I pop up, wobbling a bit.
Finally, I breathe again, relieved to be gliding across the river. I know my muscles will soon burn to the point where I’ll have to let go, once more facing my fear of snakes and sharks. But for now, I’m like my dog with his head to the wind. And it feels good.
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Rehoboth
June 1, 2010
Crossing over the Bay Bridge on the first official weekend of summer, I feel a sense of freedom and a slight fear of change. I open the windows to smell and feel the air, hot but full of movement.
“Look at the boats, girls,” I say to my daughters, Peyton and Katherine, sitting in the back seat. Angus rides shotgun with his head out the window, his gums and ears flapping in the wind.
We’re on our way to my parents’ house in
Rehoboth Beach, DE, a place I’ve been going my entire life. From our house in DC, I follow New York Avenue to Route 50 to Route 404 to Route 16 to Route 1. Coming into Rehoboth, Route 1 used to be a rural byway, flanked by farms and fields of corn. Now there’s as much weekday traffic on this road as there is on New York Avenue on a Friday afternoon. Outlets, Outback Steak, Applebee’s and countless cardboard-looking condos have sprouted up in place of crops. Sometimes I worry Sussex County literally will sink from all the over-development.
Still, there are glimpses of what was, is, and, hopefully, will always be. I find myself singing “the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye,” from "Oklahoma," as we pass fields on Route 16. “Can you believe it, girls,” I say. “The corn is only up to our knees right now. But by the end of summer…”
“We know, we know, Mommy. The corn will be as high as an elephant’s eye,” Peyton says. I glance in the rearview mirror and catch her rolling her eyes.
“Mommy, could you put on Hannah Montana?” Katherine asks.
How did this happen? How did we go from listening to Raffi and Barney to High School Musical, Hannah Montana, and 99.5 seemingly overnight? I sense the passing of time with each drive to the beach, measuring the height of corn stalks as we roll past or seeing how the Queen Anne’s lace or cosmos sway and droop over the road’s shoulder
“Uh, I think we left that CD at home,” I fib. “How about Best of Broadway?” I pop in the CD, pressing the button until it reaches track 12: “Day by Day” from "Godspell." The girls plead for “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” from "Annie" or “Ease on Down the Road” from "The Wiz." After “Day by Day,” I promise.
The house at the beach has undergone two additions since it was built in the 1920s. But the flavor remains the same: creaky wooden floorboards, crunching metal door knobs, a wrap-around porch with sagging wicker sofas and faded cushions. Mismatched china fills the glass cabinets in the kitchen, along with mismatched and bent utensils in the drawers. Nothing reminds me more of summer than hearing the clinking of silverware as it hits the glass table on the porch.
Only recently have I come to appreciate the crusty qualities of the beach house. I used to try to get my mother to glam it up a bit, encouraging her to replace some of the china or freshen up the living room with a new sea grass rug. Now I almost savor the lack of change, probably because I see so many old cottages being torn down to make room for Nantucket-style McMansions with snap-in mullions.
But it’s precisely this new development that makes the older, more threadbare places stand out. There are new bike rental shops touting shiny beach cruisers with fat tires. But I prefer “Bob’s Bikes” with its faded yellow and white striped awning and the two older gentlemen shuffling along in shorts and white socks who haven’t changed, but for slight slumps, since I was a child. Then there’s the brown shingled Lingo’s Market, with zinnias stuffed into sawed off milk cartons and blueberry pies in the window, just blocks away from a concrete convenience store.
Rehoboth has a mix--of architecture and people—that doesn’t exist in some of the swankier watering holes like the Hamptons, Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket. The crowds in Rehoboth are, ah-hem, slightly more bulging and tattooed. Sure, some look as if they’ve just stepped out of the pages of J. Crew. But others look like they just stepped out of Hooter’s or off their Harleys. An elderly couple in Bermuda shorts holds hands, shuffling along the boardwalk. Beside them stride two buff men in Spandex shorts, also holding hands.
Like the mismatched china in our cupboards, I’ve come to appreciate the mix of people and architecture.
That’s what makes a place real--as real as the slapping of screen doors, the traffic on Route 1, or the sound of waves pounding at night.
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Cross Dressing
May 19, 2010
Manolo-heeled women sip Sancerre at a home jewelry show while trying on necklaces—some three strands deep in pearls or colorful stones of citrine, amethyst and turquoise. Hanging from the end of many of the necklaces are bejeweled crosses. And, though they’re beautiful, I feel a little uncomfortable trying them on.
“Oh, Page, that looks great on you. You should get that one.”
“You think,” I say. “But, I’m not sure about wearing a cross this big. It just seems a little…”
“Oh, no. That’s the style these days. Crosses are so in,” a friend reminds me.
I don’t want to tell her, because she’s wearing one of the “in” necklaces, that I’ve always had a problem with overly large, ornate crosses. On a priest or the Pope, well, sure. But on me? Not so sure.
I guess some people can pull it off. Turns out I’m too conflicted to do so. For me, turning what is the ultimate symbol of sacrifice and redemption into a fashion statement seems disrespectful. That said, I realize those wearing cross necklaces for decorative rather than spiritual purposes aren’t looking at it that way. One friend, who calls herself “a practicing agnostic,” says she sees nothing wrong with wearing a cross. “The beauty of this country is that it’s based on freedom of speech. People can say or wear what they want.”
Another friend, who is Jewish, says she, too, might consider wearing one. “I think they’re really cool and beautiful.”
When I ask the jewelry designer why she uses crosses so much, she extols the virtues of their form and says they look good on everyone, “regardless of the shape of their face.” She adds that crosses “fall nicely” onto a woman’s neck or chest.
Hearing that, I immediately think of a woman I’d seen recently wearing an ample-sized diamond cross necklace that “fell nicely” on her ample-sized chest that—let’s just say—may or may not have been God-given.
So, like Odysseus being drawn to shore by the Sirens, I forge ahead and buy one--despite my reservations. They’re quite pretty after all, the colorful pearls anchored by a glistening chunky silver cross with blue stones. I also feel that self-inflicted pressure of having to buy something since my friend is hosting the show. The one I pick looks like something Georgia O’Keefe might have worn, not the Pope.
I write out a check, clasp on the necklace, and head to meet a friend at Morton’s in Georgetown for a steak and brimming glass of Cabernet. Definitely not sacrificial.
Walking into the restaurant, insecurity and doubt wash over me. Sure, I feel fashionable in my uniform of dark jeans, patent pumps, and a snug blue velvet blazer. I’m adorned with no other jewelry but the hip cross necklace. But I also feel guilty (and I’m a struggling Episcopalian, not a Catholic). The whole glitzing-up-the-cross factor gets to me. If I’m going to wear a cross, shouldn’t it be something smaller or more humble? I don’t know, maybe a simple wooden cross on a piece of brown leather. I had convinced myself that my O’Keefe cross was okay. But on me, it just doesn’t look or feel right. Something about wearing this Christian bling just feels too in-your-face, sort of a religious display of conspicuous consumption.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” I say, arriving at the corner booth to join my friend John. “I just went to this jewelry show. What do you think of the necklace?”
“Well, it certainly makes a statement,” John says, chuckling.
“Yeah, I know. That’s precisely my problem.” And with that, I slip my new purchase into my pocketbook and pick up the menu.
We chat about religion, relationships, and politics until our dinner arrives.
“Uh, Page, would you like to give the benediction?”
The next day, I sheepishly call the host of the jewelry show to see about exchanging my new purchase. She and the jewelry designer couldn’t be nicer when I explain cross dressing just isn’t for me.
When it comes to jewelry, I guess I’m a fan of separating church and state.
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