Blog and Tings

One of my favorite store names on the island – hell, one of my favorite store names anywhere – is actually the name for three very different stores.

There's Paint and Things. And then there's Plywood and Things. And Jeans and Tings. Tings is actually how it's pronounced here, but only the jeans purveyor spelled it that way on the sign.

It's so upfront. It says right there, “We sell paint (or plywood or jeans) but we reserve the right to sell any other thing if we can make a buck doing it.” The owners clearly don't want to be limited in their commercial endeavor.

I have been waiting patiently for someone to open a store just named “Things.” Or even better, “Tings.”

It's a little like the old five and dime stores, or the mom and pop corner stores, whose signs on the front door advertised that they sold groceries, cosmetics, pharmaceuticals and “sundries,” or sometimes notions.” How did they decide which to sell? I can see Mom and Pop arguing about it. “I think we should sell sundries. We could make a fortune on sundries!” “No Eb! What would the neighbors say? Notions have been good to us, let's leave it at that.”

And if they sold both? Would you want to be the employee responsible for deciding whether something was a sundry or a notion? They couldn't pay you enough for that kind of pressure. “Sundry or notion? Sundry or notion?” How could you ever decide?

I can almost see someone standing out front, stroking his chin and saying, “Hmmmm. I have a notion to buy some sundries.”

That's what I like about the Crucian way. Tings. (Or things.) Nice and vague. All encompassing. Those are three merchants who just won't get pinned down.

Other stores names of note: It's tough to beat this one Mr. Cheap Neighborhood. Just your basic neighborhood convenience store. Or Mr. Dollar, which non-intuitively, is not a dollar store. That would be Nigel's 1-2-3.

But you've gotta love the slogan for Mr. Dollar. "If we don't have it, you don't need it." That's pretty direct, pretty in your face. "Just be quiet and buy some tings."

Footprints

This is from Coconuts on the Beach, the westside restaurant and bar. The final resting place for many a flip that has flopped.

And this is actually only about a third of the wall. Most of the footwear is anonymous, just stuff that got left behind. A couple have notations about the storm during which they washed ashore. And one or two have been signed by the person who left them, which seems to be cheating to me. That would be for the wall of abandoned soles, I think.

Feeing Cranky

These aren't island things, they'e just things I've noticed or that bugged me.

• There's a TV commercial that makes me cringe every time I see it. It's this old coot talking about how he's used catheters for years – yeah, that'd make you cranky, but it's not the cringe inducing part. What makes me wince is when he says this company “handles everything for me.” I do not want that picture in my head, of some faceless company “handling” his catheterization!

I mean, really, doesn't anyone at the ad agency even read the copy before they shoot the commercials?

• Got an e-mail from someone I don't know inviting me to her garden party. I suppose that was nice, but all it did was piss me off. I have no idea who this person is. People send something like this to everyone on their list and pardon me but it's thoughtless. I end up on a lot of people's e-mail lists, people I've never met, but they need to remember that we're not really "friends" just because Facebook or whatever says we are. This e-mail was written in an “Ah, it will all be so grand and I'll share my wonderful garden with all my friends” style that I'd have found annoying if I actually knew the woman. And the invite included a photo of her (but  not the garden) and I'm quite sure I don't know her. She didn't even mention what state (let alone city) she lives in. It just felt awfully presumptuous, like I should be happy to be included in the list from somebody I've never heard of for an event I have no interest in and wouldn't attend unless kidnappers took my children and made that part of the ransom demand. And the whole thing taking more than a meg in my inbox.

Man, I'm feeling cranky.

• And then there's the ad for the “only slipper you'll ever need.” It was one of those late-night commercials. I was reading and wasn't paying close attention to the TV yammering away, although I heard the claim I'd never need another pair of slippers in my life. They were enthusiastic about it on the commercial. So enthusiastic that they doubled the offer! For the incredibly low price of whatever it was, they'd send you not one but TWO pairs!

And Tori turned to me and said, “If it's the only slipper I'll ever need, why would I want two pairs?”

An Honest Little Ballerina

Those who know me at all know that I am not a fan of the dance. “John?” they'll say, “He's not so much into the capering.”

But there I was Friday, at a dance recital, and enjoying it.

I was not there for the dancing. I was there for my son, Max. No, he wasn't dancing. He was there for a girl. She's a friend. But she's not a “girlfriend,” he'll say emphatically. 

He's 13.

Anyway, the young lady in question was in the Caribbean School of Dance recital being held that night at the high school, and I wasn't going to just dump him at the gate and leave, no matter how much he wanted me to. I brought a book and was prepared to while away the three hours lost in “Mutiny on the Bounty.”

But at the door we were told that wasn't an option. If I was going to come in past the gate, not even into the auditorium but just through the gate, it was going to cost us $15. Each.

Steaming, I thought to myself, “Well, if I've gotta pay thirty bucks, I'm going to by God enjoy this somehow!” So I settled back grimly to enjoy the dancing.

The first number didn't feel me with a lot of hope – it was older dancers, high school and 20s, I'd guess, and they were very serious about the art form. But there was part they did in slow motion for some reason. They were telling some kind of story but damn me if I could figure out what it was.)

But the next number was fantastic! Kindergartners who had been dancing for about 7 months, standing on stage beaming. They didn't really get what was going on, but they were on stage in the most beautiful dresses they had ever worn and you could tell how happy that made them.

The dancers shuffled one by one across the stage, hands held aloft in classic ballet pose (or signalling “touchdow”) and most of them sneaking a wave at the crowd. They were thrilled, except for one. The last kid in line was NOT a happy prancer. No. Hands at her side, head down, she stomped across the stage 'til she got halfway. At first I thought, “Oh, it's a little story about the sad one and the others all cheer her up.” No, there was no story and no make believe. She HATED it. Then she got halfway across the stage and noticed the audience. She lowered her head even further and covered her eyes, but went stoically on, keeping her place in line even though she was apparently crying most of the time. 

For me, that was worth the $15 right there. It was the most honesty I saw on stage all night, probably the most honesty I've seen on stage in years. And the audience loved it too. There wasn't a dry seat in the house.

There were more kindergartners, and first graders, and it worked its way up the age groups, the dancers becoming more serious and “artistic” and self-conscious as they got older, until they got back to the adults and my mind wandered. There literally were hundreds of dancers, and the thing lasted a long three hours.

Max's friend was very good. After the show he waited at the backstage entrance for ages to give her the stuffed monkey he'd brought as a gift. It was almost half an hour. When she finally came out he was able to talk to her for about 12 seconds before her parents whisked her away. He seemed satisfied with that.

But for me, nothing matched that moment when one little ballerina seemed to say, “You can make me do this, but you can't make me like it!”

The Exodus

All is not happy in paradise. Ever since the announcement of Hovensa's closing, the other shoe drops, and drops, and drops. It's like an octopus.

The refinery ceased operation in April and is completely shut down now. It's weird driving by at night and there's no lights on the buildings except for a few red aviation lights blinking on the top of the stacks.

The company housing is closing down, and now that the end of the school year is approaching the pace is accelerating. Every time I drive through there's a couple more houses shuttered, a couple more driveways empty, the gardens mowed down flat.

We have a lot of friends taking off. They're all going to places where there are oil jobs. One family we were just getting close to saw the writing on the wall and left for Panama before the news broke. Another is moving to Houston. They're great people and their son Ricardo is a hoot. He's in the fifth grade, but Millie keeps saying she's going to marry him when he's old enough. And we are totally responsible for making him a Dr. Who fan.

Then there's a young man who went to school with Millie who we have sort of half adopted, or he half adopted us, hard to say. Anyway, he goes to college in Canada, but his “home” will now be San Antonio. Other friends are off to Alberta, Canada. That's about as far as you can get from St. Croix, if not geographically (and it's far) certainly socially and climatically.

And the secondary exodus has also started. People who didn't work at the refinery but whose jobs relied on it. Not a lot of those yet, but they've started. We've heard of people heading to Georgia (Atlanta is very popular with Crucians for some reason) and Texas. Another family is returning to Wisconsin Wednesday, not happy to be leaving the island but glad they have someplace to go back to.

In the “Department of Looking Desperately for Silver Linings” I suppose this means they won't count against the jobless rate, which is expected to top 19 percent by the end of the summer. But that's a long way to go for any good news.

By the time the new school year comes around, this island is going to be a very different place.

Adventures in Paradise - Sea Plane

Saturday we had a Source staff meeting. We do that a couple or three times a year, at least partly I think because, as an online paper with a virtual office, it's good to remind ourselves that our co-workers are real people.

So I and my two fellow St. Croix staffers – Bill and Justin – were on the sea plane for St. Thomas. That's the best part of the meetings, practically the best part of island living. When I have to get to  St. Thomas I take the sea plane over. (Obviously when the meeting is on St. Croix we just drive.) Seaborne Airlines uses these little 15-seat float planes, small enough that when you check in they ask your weight so when they assign seating the weight is properly balanced. And you can't imagine lying, because an unbalanced plane is a high price for a little vanity.

You walk out onto the dock and climb in, crouching as you work your way forward to your seat. The co-pilot, who is sitting so close you wonder if he paid for his seat, turns around and gives you the safety drill, then they start the engines and you're off. 20 minutes to St. Thomas.

There's no door between the cockpit and the cabin, and you can watch them as they work, both of them pushing forward on the same throttle to hold it wide open as you suddenly pick up speed and dash across Christiansted Harbor. I've flown the sea planes back and forth from St. Thomas a dozen times or more and it never gets old. It's just so cool as the plane hurtles across the water. You watch the tip of the pontoon – when it suddenly stops throwing up a wake, you're airborne.

Normally you just sit and read, but on the flight over Saturday I kept a close watch on the cockpit. The pilot seemed fine, a middle-aged guy in a wrinkled uniform shirt, baggy shorts and sandals. The co-pilot, however, was worrisome. She didn't look old enough to drive, let alone fly. I'm sure she had all the proper training and the FAA knew about her, but I wanted to make sure she didn't suddenly decide to use the navigation system to update her Facebook page, or whatever the kids do these days.

In no time we were over Charlotte Amalie's harbor, coming down straight for the water. That's the view through the front window – blue water. Out the side window a palm-lined beach flashes past, then we were racing past the line of moored sailboats. It was the most tropical scene you could imagine, and I wondered – what did I do to deserve this? Talk about unmerited blessings from a particularly benevolent deity, I am living a pretty cool life.

The meeting was fine, this one was actually sort of productive. I worked for six years at the Corvallis newspaper. Maybe it's because it's a university town, but that was a meeting crazy culture. We were constantly in meetings, it's hard to imagine how we actually got the paper out. Our close personal friend, Pulitzer Prize winner Dave Barry, said meetings are what corporations do because they can't actually masturbate. (I'm pretty sure that was Dave. Sounds like him.)

Instead of having the meeting in some conference room with stale air and a table littered with staler bagels or cold pizza and Sticky Notes, our meeting was held at a waterfront restaurant, Hook, Line and Sinker. This is a picture of what we saw out the window.

Then it was back on the sea plane for the return flight. Both crew members were appropriately grizzled this time and I could relax.

At least until we got back. The landing at St. Croix is always a little unnerving. To hit the harbor at the right angle the plane has to come in over land, dropping lower and lower over the highway, the housing project, the WAPA generating plant. There's a power line you cross right near the end that I always feel I can reach out and touch. But then it's past, a strip of white sand flashes by and you're splashing down safe and sound in the harbor. Home!

Rough life, huh? How was your last business meeting?

Catching Up: Heroes, Food, Flame, Rum

It's been busy around here, but that's no excuse. Sorry. I'll try to catch up.

HEROES – This may be the coolest thing that's ever happened to me in 40 years as a reporter. I got to shake hands with three members of the Tuskegee Airmen, three genuine American heroes.

TASTE OF ST. CROIX – Covered this for the Source. Seems like every place on the map has a “taste of” or “Bite of” kind of event. But who knew Forbes had named Taste of St. Croix one of the top 10 food events in the world?

It was pretty great, even though I was working. I didn't get to eat much, but what I did … Wow. The very best thing I had was the slider from Fort Christian Brew Pub. It looked like a little burger. It was ground lamb that had been marinated in the pub's Jump Up Stout, which is the best beer available on the island, then garnished with a little Wasabi.

Here's the story I wrote. And a pic of the guy who invented the Bonfire Old Fashioned – rum, fruit joice, smoke, yes I said smoke – and served up catfish that did NOT taste like catfish! The restaurant is called , John Eddie's Lowlife Bar and Refuge, a new place on the Christianstead boardwalk.

Who has been hiding this from us? I have heard of carbonera before, but never had any clue what it was. Then about a month ago we were watching some celebrity of the day being interviewed and he happened to mention cooking spaghetti carbonera, it was his “go to” meal that everyone loves and it's really easy. Then we found out what it is – pasta with cheese, bacon and eggs. What's not to love about that?

We made it, and it was great! There were ni leftovers. And so easy. Made it again a couple of weeks ago. Almost as good! Here's a hint – don't skimp and buy cheap bacon. It really makes a difference. And the first time the bacon had been frozen, so it was really easy to dice before cooking.

Anywhere, here's the recipe I used. Ohmigod it's good! I can't believe I never had it before, or that no one ever told me about it. Bacon, eggs, cheese and pasta? Fantastic! 

Tori has been really busy with school. Besides teaching the fifth grade she coached the high school Moot Court team, which finished fourth in the territory. Pretty good considering the school had never taken part in Moot Court before.

She was also involved in Alan Alda's “Flame Challenge.” Her class was one of 10 from around the world chosen to take part in the live global web conference. It was a terrific experience for the kids, and Tori got a personal message from Alda, who she now refers to as “My close personal friend, multiple Emmy winner Alan Alda.”

The story about her class is here. 

You can see the webcast here at the Flame Challenge's site. Abd the link to the Flickr page, on the right? Those are Tori's kids.

Oh, one other thing. Diageo opened the new visitor center to their Captain Morgan's Rum distillery. It's 7,500 square feet of the history of rum, the Caribbean and Captain Morgan – with a gift shop and a bar. When the hold any kind of ev ent at the distillery, they always bring their Captain Morgan imitator, who looks nothing like Captain Morgan but a LOT like the picture of him on the bottle, painted by our friend Don Maitz. 

I took advantage of the opportunity, and here's a pic of the Captain and Ol' Chumbucket.

Tori had some more excitement last week, the annual four-day field trip to St. John, but I'll let her tell that story. I have to finish putting together the video she brought home of “Tori's Underwater Adventure!”

And, you know, life! Been writing. Been working. Been going to the beach (although definitely not enough.)

Life goes on – Oh baby, life goes on.