O U T   H E R E   I N   T H E   R E A L   W O R L D

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year…

by Eva Murray

We the winter denizens of this infamous little outcropping put forth a mighty effort not to let the rope slip on too many old-time traditions. We endeavor to do things, whenever possible, the way we did them last year. This in the name of Aunt Marion and all the other revered ancestral dowagers whose names still encumber our real estate. Some consternation ensues whenever an adjustment is made to any custom of long-standing. For example, when Sunbeam chaplain Douglas innocently proposed a new format for our summertime bingo game last year, you’d have thought he’s suggested we grow daisies out of our ears for the initial confusion. Never mind; we had a blast. Probably next year there will be some wise old native insisting “We’ve always done it that way.”

Adjustment may be slow but times do change, despite the sincere wishes of many a Facebook friend who lived here briefly back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and who makes clear his or her disapproval of any fiddling with their beloved island fantasy abstraction make-believe snow-globe memories, except for possibly the trash collection thing. Tradition must occasionally bend. This time of year as the few hardwood trees go bare, and the ferries return to running but once a month, and the 50-knot gales become just another ho-hum sort of weather report, the island starts to run low on people.

Some years, come December, we run complete out of children for a while.

The Maine Seacoast Mission sends me a form every autumn (because I am a hapless do-gooder and a known sap for stuff like this) asking for a list of all the children who live on the island, with their clothing sizes and a few other details, so that each will receive a suitable gift. Wrapped in butcher paper and tied with red string, the Mission’s customary Christmas presents have been coming to island kids for many generations, since back when that much-beloved social-service organization down east delivered schoolbooks to the lighthouse-keepers’ kids. Sunbeam presents typically include a hand-knit hat and mittens, a book and a toy, and maybe something useful like warm winter gear.

Filling out that island-child-inventory form has been difficult the last couple of years. We suffer a profound shortage of children lately. Kids who may be here happily pursuing their studies in our one-room school in October may or may not actually be spending their Christmas with us out to sea. Grandma may want them to show up on the mainland. Family employment circumstances may require they adopt part-timer status. Some little guys just happen to run with a mercurial tribe and move around on very short notice. There is no sense asking the school teacher; she likely doesn’t know, either.

So, the treasured history of Christmas Eve on Matinicus, with some adult dressing up in the musty old Santa suit and wading into a sea of small faces after the church supper, might be wanting an update. Maybe we need to institute some new old-time traditions. Possibilities might include:

• Secret Santa presents for all the adults. I don’t mean the usual coffee mugs and teabag assortments here, and not more flashlights however useful those always are, not calendars, not oven mitts. We’re talking toys. If there aren’t any children around, that’s no reason we shouldn’t have the fun of watching our community’s full-grown curmudgeons, busy professionals, and well-oiled bog wraiths delve into festively-wrapped playthings happily plucked from under the community tree. Maybe that big hulking toothless grouch with the ugly dog needs a Care Bear. Maybe you find out that reedy old Mrs. Grimsthorpe at the library has secretly always wanted a pink tutu. Comic books. Tonka trucks. That wooden bench thing where you pound on the pegs with a hammer, and then turn it over and start hammering again, for that constantly infuriated worker who struggles with a wonky computer. Think of the possibilities.

• A proper office holiday cocktail party. None of us work for “firms.” Any resident not actually self-employed is probably a sternman, or the postmaster (who works alone,) or the schoolteacher (who works alone,) or the phone man (who works alone…you get the idea). Thus, islanders never get to experience the classic American holiday customs we read about in the fluff magazines—you know, the dyspepsia, wardrobe expenses, and humiliation caused by office holiday parties. While the rest of the country worries about eating too much Cheese Ball in public, or engaging in sketchy adolescent behaviors such photocopying a bicycle messenger’s rear end and maybe faxing it somewhere, brought about by quantities of free alcohol, we offshore females have never even experienced the gut-wrenching embarrassment of having the mean girls from Marketing see us fall off our stilettos. We never get to watch Ed from the Mail Room trying to sail a toy boat across the punch bowl. More importantly, we don’t get to wear a little black dress to anything. You never see us teetering around in ridiculously high heels, slurping neon-colored vodka cocktails while eating things on sticks and trying not to forget our humble place in the Corporate Chain of Command, all to the tune of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Ye gods and little fishes, I am so thankful.

• Spontaneous, ad hoc, impromptu carols. Last year schoolteacher Bob stood up in the back of the church in front of Douglas from the Sunbeam and everybody and loudly, fearlessly, belted out a carol he didn’t know at all, just because--why not? That’s the spirit. He more or less just made it up as he went along. Now, that is a holiday tradition worth keeping going. Some pre-gaming may be required.

• Owling. You know—walking through woods and fields trying to get an owl to show itself, or at least make a noise. The gas man has already spotted a snowy owl this fall, although the bird hadn’t turned bright white yet. He was so excited about seeing the iconic owl he called up the postmaster and the town office and everybody. Now we’re all hoping to see it. It doesn’t take much to keep us entertained. On second thought, a bunch of damned fools bumbling around in the blow-downs hooting in the dark, after a large Christmas Eve dinner and possibly some restorative beverages…uh, yeah, no. Maybe we leave the owls alone.

• Chinese food. There is a custom in some places, including a few Jewish neighborhoods, where families who aren’t doing anything in particular on Christmas Day go out for Chinese. Some of us aren’t doing anything in particular on Christmas Day either, at least after the morning has run its course, and Chinese food holds a special place in our hearts since you can’t get it here. After weeks offshore, General Tso’s could be one of the things an isolated island hermit really yearns for. Order plenty and share with the air service pilot who most likely delivered it. Mazel tov.

• Going down to Laura’s Farm at midnight on Christmas Eve to see if the cows and stuff really can talk. Okay; release the Kraken.

Eva Murray is the Recycling and Solid Waste Coordinator for Matinicus Island. Eva’s last lobster license was dated 1990, the year her son was born, and cost $53.00, which at the time she thought was an awful lot of money.