#the people (me) yearn for the generic communal coffee pot

[fluentisonus]

tbh one really specific thing I miss abt the us is when you go out for breakfast or whatever you can just order 'coffee' and they'll come around with the general continuously replenished pot of coffee that everyone else is also drinking from & pour you a mug of it at the table. like sadly it just doesn't hit the same when you have to order and americano or whatever & have them make it individually for you behind the counter & then bring it out

[texanredrose]

Ten Years

Winter knelt in front of the grave stone, reaching out to reverently draw her fingers across the embossed words. Snow fell lightly all around her, blanketing the hill in a layer of white, disturbed only by her footprints leading up to one of a handful of markers. She'd never known one, had barely known the second, but the third and fourth? Them, she knew well. The third, she'd loved... more than anything.

"Yang," she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I'm sorry; I found another dead end. But I'll keep trying. I'll find who took you from me."

Ten years ago, she'd gotten the call. In the middle of a series of landmark meetings between business and community leaders from all over Remnant, a police officer informed her that Yang Xiao Long, her girlfriend of nearly three years, had died after losing control of her motorcycle on a winding path around her home island of Patch. Her sister, Ruby Rose, had also perished, following closely enough behind that she couldn't avoid the same fate, their bodies lost to the jagged cliff and rolling sea below.

But Winter knew better. Her girlfriend would never drive recklessly with her sister following behind, had spent too many years on that bike to make such a simple mistake as gunning around a curve on a steep cliff, and would much rather ride with her sister into town than follow each other down anyway. Their deaths were no accident; everything had been staged to appear that way, though.

"I know I haven't visited recently." Her gaze dropped, fighting not to cry as she continued. "I wanted to entirely dismantle the operation before I confronted the boss. I thought, maybe, it would be an intimidating enough display to warrant the answer I sought. But it was all for nothing."

Beneath her feet and six feet of soil sat an empty coffin, one she'd helped carry up to the hill where all Yang's family were laid to rest. She'd dug the grave herself, with a little help, and filled it in, too. Winter had even carved out her girlfriend's headstone and swore she'd find the people responsible. It had to be one of the groups working against Weiss and Blake, trying to derail their efforts to unify Remnant under a single, fair act that would ensure equality for Faunus the world over. A new legal precedent, something to force corporations to stop treating Blake's people as anything less than the humans they worked beside. A groundbreaking measure.

But ten years passed and she'd yet to make good on that promise.

“I missed the first snowfall.” She lifted her gaze to the heavy grey clouds overhead, sprinkling down snowflakes that gently kissed her cheeks and stirred her hair. Usually, she’d feel cold, being out for this long with only her jacket and Yang’s orange scarf to keep her warm. But she hadn’t felt warm since her girlfriend died. She hardly felt anything anymore. “I’ve only got a few more possible leads- one of the crime families from Mistral. Only two really would’ve opposed the change but they’re worth looking into; I’ve already embedded my agents in their lower ranks and contacted the police through a proxy. I… know you always worried about a scandal, what that would do to my reputation, so I’m being careful.”

Blake and Weiss had succeeded in their goals. Winning support through public opinion and using the considerable might of the SDC, they’d improved the lives of Faunus all over Remnant. They still had a ways to go, of course, but the next generation would be born into a world where corporations would be held accountable for failure to provide for their workers, and that meant something.

Winter had to cling to those victories until she could have her own.

“Weiss is expecting again,” she said, running her hand over the flaming heart etched into the stone. “She said it’s my turn to name one. I told her that I don’t think that’s how it works but she insisted. I think… perhaps she knows I’ll never have children of my own to name.”

“Why not? You’d make a good mother.”

Eyes widening, Winter whirled around, pulling the pistol from beneath her jacket and training it on the intruder immediately. “Who are you? How did you find me?” She narrowed her eyes as the man chuckled. A touch shorter than her, with a black wool cap over short white hair and a white beard from ear to ear, though he still had a bit of a youthful face. A line or two from worry, perhaps, but she doubted he was older than her. A blue coat in the traditional Vacuon design and heavy trousers with a crude Schnee emblem stitched over her left breast. “Wait, I’ve heard about you. Some drunken fool in south Vacuo, claiming to be a distant Schnee relative- you’ve been singlehandedly keeping some tabloids in print, I’ll have you know.”

“What can I say? In another life, I very well might’ve been a Schnee.” He shrugged. “And, well, you won’t believe the answer I have for that first question,” he said, a bit of amusement glinting in blue eyes. “And the second? I know my way around, Snowdrift.”

Fury coursed through her veins as she shot forward, closing the distance between them and slamming her left fist into his jaw before lashing out with her right, catching him across the top of his head with her gun as he tried ducking away.

“WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT?” He’d hardly hit the ground before she trained her weapon on him again, finger resting on the trigger and fully prepared to pull it. “WHERE?”

“Wow, you really learned to hit.” Staggered and dazed by her attacks, he shook his head and rubbed at the wounded areas. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You’re presuming you’ll live that long.”

He looked at her, a frown touching his lips as he sat up. “I really didn’t expect you to change this much. Guess the rumors are true.”

“Answer my question or I’ll put a bullet through your head.” She grit her teeth, hard enough it felt like they might shatter from the force. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re one of the ones I’ve been looking for.”

“You haven’t been looking for me.” He cleared his throat and continued in a voice that pitched much higher- familiar to her ears. “You’ve been looking to avenge me.”

Her grip faltered for a split second. “N-no, you’re- you’re trying to get me to let my guard down. It won’t work.” Then, anger returned in full force. “You’re trying to get into my head-”

“You didn’t like guns before; you thought they were barbaric, the ‘rudimentary result of those unskilled yet with desires of heroic grandeur’ were your exact words, I think.” He nodded towards the pistol in her hand. “You prefer swords and their competitions, any kind- fencing, kendo, silat, whichever. You said one time ‘a child can hold a gun but most adults can barely hold a knife’, right?”

“So, you’ve been surveilling me for quite a while. That proves nothing.”

“You usually use your right hand but you’re actually ambidextrous.” The man smirked. “And there’s only three things you use your left hand for: cutting steak, boxing, and masturbation, when you’re in the mood.”

“So you’re a murderer and a pervert.” Despite the strength of her voice, doubt had started to worm its way into her mind. The cadence of speech- time had dulled the memories but now they came rushing back, suddenly vivid.

“The first time we met, it was Christmas Eve and you’d forgotten to get Weiss a present,” he said, reaching up to start scratching at his beard. “You were both workaholics then, never rested for a moment, but you’d finally remembered once you left your office. I was there trying to pick up dog food, just in case we got snowed in, and you offered me fifty lien to help you pick out something she’d like.” Suddenly, she realized he wasn’t scratching at his beard, he was pulling it off, cringing as whatever glue had kept it in place clung to both skin and the fake hair, leaving a raw, angry red splotch across his chin. “I told you to keep the money but, if she liked it, you owed me a date.”

Her mind raced. It didn’t make sense for anyone to be following her back then, and certainly not close enough to pick up on the fifty lien detail. She hadn’t told anyone that story…

… but perhaps Yang had. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Right.” Pulling off well worn gloves, he reached up, pulling contacts out of his eyes. “I’m sure there’s nothing I could say that’ll make you believe me. Honestly, if the roles were reversed, I’d probably be just as skeptical. I really don’t blame you.”  Light blue gave way to lilac- a shade she’d yearned to see again. “I told ya you wouldn’t believe me if I just told you who I am, Snowdrift.”

The same inflection. The same voice. The same eyes watching at her with that look.

“It’s… not possible.” Winter felt her breathing become shaky, her anger ebbing as hope surged forth from wherever it had laid dormant the past decade. “What was the name of Yang’s bike?”

“Bumblebee.”

“What did she do first after waking up?”

“Kiss you or send you a text with a kissy face.”

“How do I like my coffee?”

“Black- you’ll drink it with French vanilla creamer every now and then to break up the monotony, but you’re just as likely to drink it straight from the pot.”

“How’d Yang like hers?”

“I don’t like coffee- never really did- but if I needed the encouragement after a long night, four hazelnut creamers and a dash of sugar.”

“Favorite type of nut?”

“Trick question.” Reaching up, the person grabbed the cap and pulled it away, a stubborn cowlick immediately popping up over the crown of their head. “After being with you, I said I stopped liking nuts at all.” A wink. “But, seriously, always liked almonds.”

She lowered her gun, struck a little dumb. Because anyone could guess that Yang liked almonds, that wouldn’t be hard, but word play while on the wrong end of a pistol? That took nerves, yet the woman now standing before her seemed entirely relaxed. If anything, a little hopeful and amused at her own joke, with a slight curl to her lips.

It… couldn’t be. “... Sundrop?”

“Yeah. It’s me.” Yang shrugged her shoulders, lips pulling into a small grin as she stood. “It’s good to see you again, Snowdrift.”

“‘It’s good to see you again’ that’s all you have to say for yourself?” Tears pricked at her eyes as her heart ached, feeling, for a moment, like it’d been torn from her chest all over again. “They told me you died in an accident! I went there myself, saw Bumblebee’s wreckage littering the waves, the skid marks- I mourned you, I buried you!” She gestured back at the grave markers. “I lost you and here you are, ten years later, ‘good to see you again’, Yang Xiao Long, I swear-”

“I had to, Winter, please,” she said, taking a step closer now that she didn’t have a gun pointed her way. “Believe me, it was the only way-”

“The only way to what? Break my heart?” Her arm jerked, almost bringing the weapon to bear again, but that came more from a conditioned response than her anger and hurt at such a deep running betrayal. She holstered it, not wanting there to be any doubt; she’d never harm her love, never, no matter how badly she’d been hurt by the same woman. “I loved you, Yang, and I lost you. So you could, what, run off to Vacuo? What have you been doing the past ten years while I’ve mourned you-”

“You mean while you sought revenge.” Her brows pinched together, the white color so strange to see. “You’ve spent the past decade destroying everyone who might’ve been responsible for my supposed death, haven’t you?”

“And made the world a better place for it,” she replied, pride bristling. “I sent a clear message: that no one could just claim a life without consequence.” But then, her lips pulled into a frown. “Though, I suppose, that wasn’t exactly true, now was it?” She turned away, unable to continue looking at the familiar face with that pure white hair cut so short, making the visage she’d spent the past ten years seeing only in pictures and her dreams altered just enough to make it unrecognizable. “Why did you do it, Yang? Why did you leave?”

“Because I was racing a clock.” Her voice had softened, holding no accusation in it at all. “A week before, I’d noticed some guys following me around. They obviously didn’t want to be seen but they also weren’t on your payroll. Ruby noticed that they followed her, too, but not as much. Then, I woke up one morning and found the brake lines on my bike cut.”

Blue eyes flicked back; she’d memorized the road leading out to the Xiao Long-Rose family home, every twist and turn, every slope. “You would’ve lost control before you ever made it to the ridge.”

“Exactly. They didn’t want me dead; they wanted me alive. And there was only one reason I could find for that.” The crunch of snow underfoot as Yang started walking around, giving her space while also trying to catch her eye. “So I patched the line and told Ruby to follow me a few minutes after I left. Poor bastards never knew what hit ‘em.”

Winter turned slightly, looking at the woman. “Who were they?”

“A couple of muscle men on the payroll of the first guy you took out; you’ve always had the best instincts when it comes down to it.” She shrugged. “We buried them in shallow graves just off the road, took their car and clothes, then rigged the accident. By the time police had shown up, we were on a boat heading for Vacuo with fake names and wearing mens’ clothes. No one thought twice about it.”

“Marcus Black, the master assassin operating out of Vale. I knew he was the one behind it.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I didn’t ‘take him out’.”

“No, you just got your hands on some incriminating evidence and combined it with faulty intel so the police showed up at his place guns blazing.” A tilt of her head and a chuckle. “I really didn’t know how you’d react to my death, Snowdrift, but becoming a black market information broker and systematically destroying the criminal underbelly of Remnant would’ve never crossed my mind.”

“Stop calling me that.” She bristled. “I’m not that person anymore and you’re ten years past having that right, anyway.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Another shrug. “Honestly, Winter, if I had another option, I would’ve taken it. Ruby and I were here, on an island, with at least two guys looking to abduct us to use as leverage. Against you, Weiss, Blake- no telling where it would’ve stopped. So, we had to disappear.” Then, she gestured to her hair. “But I thought… if you or Weiss ever came around, looking to settle that ‘distant Schnee relative’ rumor, I could explain myself. But neither of you ever did.”

Her eyes narrowed, a tendril of doubt worming into the back of her mind. “You-”

“Know damn well that you two would never personally confront a rumor like that? Yeah, I do.” A mirthless chuckle. “But hope’s a funny thing. It was the only message I could send, the only bit I could reach out, but it was a double-egded blade. We were safe because who would look into a tabloid rumor when you two didn’t even deem it worth your concern? At the same time… I wanted you to look into it, so I kept drawing attention to myself… but no one ever came.”

Winter swallowed past a lump in her throat. “And you would’ve been a Schnee in another life.”

“I’d like to think that-”

“No.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, yellow box with a custom image embroidered into the lid- the same one adorning the stone before her. “I’d had the ring for two months when I got called about the accident. I was just… waiting for the right time to ask… and then you were gone.”

Turning around, she looked at Yang then and saw sorrow mixed with hope and love in the softness of her expression, a sad smile on her lips. “I would’ve said yes. I’ve spent every day thinking about what I would say to you when I could… if I could.” She took a shaky breath. “And at the top of that list is- I love you, Winter. And I’m so sorry that this happened. I was only trying to protect you but I know this caused you so much pain. I’m sorry.”

“I wish you’d done it just about any other way.” Winter drew in a shuddering breath. “Give me one reason not to fill the coffin I buried, Yang. Give me one reason to let you walk away.”

Silence, broken only by the crunch of snow as the woman took slow and steady steps closer, fell between them, until Yang’s arms wrapped around her- and it felt like not a day had gone by since she’d last been in those strong arms, warmth at her back, a familiar face pressing against her shoulder.

“I don’t want to walk away again, Winter. I know I can’t make up for the past ten years but I- I won’t leave you again.” Her grip tightened slightly. “I’m asking for you to take me back. I know it’s harder than that, complicated- if you walk away, I understand. But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why now?” She didn’t melt into the embrace like she desperately wanted to do. “Why come back now?”

“To be sure it was safe. For you, Weiss, Blake- if all your enemies aren’t dead, they’re probably too scared to try now.” By small degrees, the embrace loosened. “I’ve.... been waiting for you to come around for months now. I figured… this was my best shot at getting you to hear me out.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, the whole experience becoming almost too much to bear after being tortured in thousands of nightmares over the years. She’d never dared to hope that she’d see her love again but her subconscious inflicted upon her countless agonies, conjuring so many ways when their paths might cross again- Yang, returned from the dead. “And what if I never want to see you again?”

“Then… I’ll disappear again… no tabloids, no messages. You’ll never have to worry about me again.”

“You’ve been gone longer than we were together.” Winter swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. “We’re not the people we used to be.”

“No, we’re not,” Yang said, allowing her arms to drop. “But you’re still my...” And she knew. The petname that went unspoken but she could still hear it, reverberating in her heart. “We aren’t who we used to be but I still see in you the woman I love. And I’m willing to win your heart all over again.”

Finally, the dam broke as she whirled around and wrapped her arms around the woman, burying her face in her neck. “Damn you, for all you’ve put me through, but I still love you. You’re still my Sundrop.”

With the snow falling down, those arms encircled her once more, and she could feel a warmth blooming in her chest once more. Then, Yang’s hand cupped her cheek, covered in tears, and directed her into a soft, sweet kiss.

“I’m sorry but I’ve been wanting to do that for ten years.” She smiled then, tears of her own beginning to track down her cheeks. “I promise, I’ll behave. We can start over from scratch- I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hold that against me.”

“Stop dying your hair and I’ll consider it,” she said, a moment before leaning back, too quick and too hard for Yang to keep them both standing, sending them tumbling into the snow.

Winter had no idea how she’d break the news to Weiss and Blake. She didn’t know how to deal with all the baggage the last ten years had put on them. She didn’t even know if she truly could forgive Yang for her actions.

But to have her there, in her arms again, laughing and crying and smiling in the fresh snow?

She was willing to find out.

[meredithhelenblack-blog]

An Island and the Way of the Watermen of the Chesapeake Bay

The Tangier Island fishermen are hauling up a pot of blue crabs onto their fiberglass deadrise boats, the blue green water of the Chesapeake Bay sparkling in the afternoon sun.

Aboard his blue workboat “The Old Bay,” 85-year-old Jack Pruitt adjusts his glasses as he bends down to examine the squirming, fresh crabs in the sorting bin. It’s just another day on the water.

He knows it’s a long day ahead following the flow of the crabs, but he still considers this job the best in the world. Most of his fellow “watermen”—what the fishermen around the Chesapeake Bay are called—feel the same.

Later that day on the nearby Tangier Island, another elderly islander, ninety-three-year-old Jane Crockett, stands on the small white island footbridge that connects two pieces of the shrinking island across soggy green marsh. One wrinkled  hand is on her cane, while the other rests on the railing of the bridge, where she has the best view on the island of the sun sinking in a spectacular array of orange and pink on the horizon. It’s her favorite part of the day and somehow this picturesque view never ceases to inspire her.

Beside her, planted in the green marshes, is a pale white cross.  Jane, like the rest of the islanders, is a Christian. And so she prays for the fate of Tangier Island, which has been sinking over time. She remembers when the island was much larger, but that was decades ago.

Jane searches the distance for the ferry bringing over the day’s last load of tourists. That day, she had chatted with a few of the tourists that had come in on an earlier ferry.

They like to hear about life on the island and Jane is happy to talk to them. She knows a lot of the history of the island, as she has lived here for over ninety years.

Her nephew Bill should also be on the ferry, bringing over her groceries from the mainland and a few new colorful perennials for her front porch. He will also bring more paint and canvases. Jane is a talented painter and her paintings of life on the island hang in galleries across the Eastern seaboard.

It’s one way that she tries to share her love of this place that has become her whole world. In ninety years, she has not left this tiny island even once—her world has consisted of about three miles of land. The last time Jane had set foot on the mainland was when she was a small child. She married at eighteen and she probably would have visited the Virginia mainland had her new husband not passed away there in a train accident soon after they were married. After the accident, she could not make herself leave the safety net of her island home.

Nevertheless, she considers herself to be quite happy on her island home. She has her daily routine and many friends who visit her. She is also active in the Tangier community. In addition, Jane is a knitter and she knits scarves for the homeless on the mainland.

But her home could soon be washed away due to climate change and erosion. Some scientists predict Tangier could be gone in just fifty years. Although she will not be around when the island sinks, she thinks it is a shame that the island’s history and culture will be gone forever.

She also worries about the islanders who have lived here for many years and how they will adjust to a new way of life over on the mainland.

And so Jane is determined to save the island before it’s too late.

                                                            ***

Tangier Island is located twelve miles from the Virginia mainland, in the center of the Chesapeake Bay. The island is known as the “soft crab capital of the nation.” Most of the men on Tangier Island work on the Chesapeake Bay water as watermen.

The way of the watermen stretches back generations in Tangier families and crabbing sets the rhythm for the island. The men wake up early—3 am—to begin their work on the water. A small number of Tangier boys join the military instead. Tangier Island has a very isolated and unique culture, as well as a rich history. Here, life moves at a much slower pace than the rest of the outside world and has little-changed in centuries. The island was settled by Cornish fishermen in the 17th century and almost everyone is descended from the original clans and has one of four last names. The people have their own English dialect that is often called Elizabethan English, although it is more likely Cornish roots. There is a rare inherited disease called “Tangier Disease,” that originated there and includes an increased risk of cardiovascular disease.

According to the plaque on the main street, the island was named in 1608 by Captain John Smith, who got the name from either Tangier, Morocco or Tangier pottery in northern Africa.  In 2009, the population was 528 residents. But one hundred years ago, there was well over 1,500 residents. Today, everyone uses golf carts to get around the island and there are few cars. The island is separated into ridges. There is Main Ridge, Canton, and West Ridge. The northern part of Main Ridge is called Meat Soup Court. That’s where Mrs. Jane Crockett lived. Some of the places on the island are Sheep’s Hill, Black Dye, and Hog Ridge. I grew up on Hog Ridge. The largest channel is Big Gut where the teenagers dropped their old soda cans, hence the name. Unlike Jane Crockett, I (Mary) left Tangier Island as soon as I graduated from the island high school. I was drawn to the big city of New York as I had aspirations to be a professional actress. Still, my happy memories of growing up on the island stayed with me long after I had left, and a part of me always yearned for my island home. I remember riding bikes around the island with my brothers and neighbors past dusk, our parents never having to worry about our safety because there is no crime on the island. On windy days, we’d search the small island beach where the blowing sand would reveal arrowheads left over from the Choctaw Indians who lived there centuries ago. Then we’d skip them on the water or, sometimes, we could sell them to the tourists for some change alongside our lemonade stand.

There were also the times we decided to make animal shapes out of balloons, something my dad taught us. We’d sell them to the islanders.

Above us, ospreys would fret against the backdrop of the clear blue sky. In the evenings, everyone gathered at Spankey’s, the local 1950’s-style ice cream parlor to hang out and gossip. In a small town, there aren’t any secrets. The upside is that it is very tight-knit and neighbors help each other out.

Jane Crockett was the grandmother I never had, as my own grandmother died before I was born. Jane was a striking woman and, even though she was in her nineties, the beauty she had once been still peaked through in her face. Her eyes were a deep blue—the same color as the Bay.

I often visited her and we’d sip tea on her front porch. Jane was a collector of antique tea sets. She always told me I could have them when I got older and had a home of my own.

She had twenty cats, which roamed all over the island. We named them the funniest names. Every morning, Jane had a cup of coffee on her front porch where she had a spectacular view of the water. Next, she would arrange her collection of glass angel ornaments in the window sill so that they reflected the light just in a certain way.

Jane was also a woman who had truly lived. There was a deep wisdom in her. People often went to her for solutions to their problems.  

The other interesting character on the island who was my friend was the librarian, Debbie Pruitt. Debbie wasn’t a Tangier native, which wasn’t the norm. Debbie married Samuel Pruitt, a Tangier native who had left the island to attend college on the mainland. That’s where he met Debbie. After they married, they moved back to the island. Debbie really had a tough time adjusting to life on the island. It really is a tough society to break into. In fact, when Debbie and Samuel first met, it was difficult for them to understand each other because of Samuel’s heavy dialect.

Debbie couldn’t get used to the lack of modern conveniences on the island until she became the librarian, which gave her something to do. It was the perfect job for her. She had real world experience having lived on the mainland for most of her life. And so she could recommend the best books to the islanders. She was the most well-read of all of us. Her husband, Samuel Crockett, was an island waterman. One summer, Debbie proposed a reading challenge. The challenge was to see which Tangier child could read the most number of books and write essays about them. I ended up winning the contest, which worried my mom a little bit. Of course she was proud of me, but she also felt a little sad that I was dreaming big about life on the mainland through all of the books I was reading and she knew she would greatly miss me if I left. After all, I held a special place in her heart as her youngest child. And so I felt a little torn about leaving, but at the same time, I knew I had to follow my dreams. Another central figure in my life was Dr. Coptor, the island doctor. He had a practice on the mainland, but every week he took his chopper out to the island to treat us. He did this for sixteen years without missing a week. On stormy days, he caught the mail boat over. The islanders named him Dr. Coptor but his real name was George Smith. I still remember the winter I had acute appendicitis. I was sixteen. Dr. Coptor flew me first class on his chopper to the mainland. Of course my family didn’t have health insurance- no one on Tangier did. And so I couldn’t believe it when I found out that the doctor had footed the bill for my surgery out of his own pocket. What a kind man. After that, Dr. Coptor would sometimes let me catch a ride to the mainland when I needed more inspiration for my screenplays. You see, sometimes I wanted to write my own plays.  Speaking of screenplays, let me take you back to the summer I graduated from the island high school. It was a good crab harvest that year and so everyone was in a good mood. Then one cool summer afternoon, we found out that Hollywood wanted to film a scene from the movie Message In A Bottle on the island beach, starring Kevin Cosner. Everyone was excited, especially since Hollywood had offered to pay $5,000 for the use of the island. I was perhaps more excited than the rest because, ever since I was young, I had had aspirations to be an actress. I put on plays for my family and friends and recruited my siblings and friends to act in them, but of course, I always had the leading role. I also used to study people and what made them tick. I had a gift for getting inside people’s heads and inhabiting their thoughts and emotions. Then my father, who was the town mayor, voted along with the town council to reject Hollywood’s proposal because the film had a beer in one scene and some profanity. Tangier is a dry island and the islanders are devout Christians. My father and the other council members were afraid the movie would be a bad influence on the children. Almost everyone else on the island disagreed. It was only one beer, and so we all signed a petition, but it was to no avail. I was greatly disappointed and was growing tired of the Tangier way of life. I thought it might have been my only opportunity to get close to a real movie with real actors.

That summer I also spent more time at the Tangier Bed and Breakfast, called the Bay View Inn. I often would go there to visit with the tourists and hear their tales of the mainland. It was almost like traveling to a foreign country. That was where I met Anne, a teacher from New York City, and her husband, John.  Anne and John had searched for a quiet, small place to spend part of the summer away from the bustle of the city and came across Tangier Island. They’d tell me stories about the big city and I felt closer to my dreams. When I told Anne and John about how the town council rejected the filming of Message In A Bottle on the island, they were sympathetic. The night before Anne and John were due to go back to New York, Anne had an idea. “Why don’t you go to New York?” she said. “You know there’s no better place to get an acting career off the ground than the Big Apple.” I smiled at the thought but shook my head. “I could never afford the rent.” “You could work,” Anne persisted. “A friend of mine is actually looking for a nanny.” If I hadn’t been feeling so disappointed by my father rejecting the Hollywood movie on the island, then I’m sure I would have said no. Usually I wasn’t impulsive. But I had just graduated school and I was feeling desperate for a change. Then I looked at the moon hanging low in the sky. Did I really want to leave all of this behind? Yet something suddenly rose in me that felt like resolve. I knew I might never get another opportunity like this. I slowly nodded. “I’ll come,” I said. The next day I broke the news to my parents. My father just stared at me and I could see he was disappointed. “What about Tom?” he said, referring to the boy next door, Tom Crockett. “We’d hoped you’d get married and then you could work in the island school like your sister.” “I want to be an actress,” I asserted. “Well,” my father said, “I don’t know what you’re chasing in New York, but your mother and I, all of us on the island, we’re proud of our heritage, we’re proud of the island. No one in this family has ever left here before. But if you want to leave all this behind…” he let the rest fade. Then his eyes flickered with sadness. “It’s you young people that are letting the island go away,” he said. “When I was young, we were all content to stay here.” He sunk down into his seat. “I love this place—but it’s going to take a miracle to save it.” I sighed. I hadn’t expected my parents to be thrilled about me moving to New York, but I’d hoped for their support. But my mind was already made up and so the next day Anne, John, and I were off. Sitting there on the ferry, I watched ripples of water moving away from the boat as it ploughed ahead, away from the island–and towards my new life. The ripples barely made a dent in the wide blue expanse and something about that made me feel nostalgic, although I had only just left my home. Tangier Island is like that–the passage of time slow and barely making an impression on the culture that has little-changed in hundreds of years. And I knew New York would be the opposite.   Then I looked up and there was a rainbow. Its colors were bold and clearly defined against the pale sky. I had always loved rainbows as a child, but now I was no longer a child—I was making my way into adulthood. I smiled. Maybe it’s a good omen, I thought.                                                           *** When we arrived in New York City, Anne and John showed me all around. It was nothing like Tangier, and I began to feel homesick. However, I wanted to prove to my family that I could make it on my own, so I put on a brave face. Like Anne promised, her friend gave me a job as a nanny. Now I just had to get into acting classes in the evenings and go to auditions on the weekends. It was a challenging schedule, but I had ambitions for once in my life. I was no longer living the life others wanted for me. But while I loved New York, I still missed my family and the island. Sometimes I would go down to the New York water just to remember how it used to feel to live on the water. If I closed my eyes I could remember being out on the crab skiff, shafts of the pink dawn rising in the east. I remembered how my father woke up earlier than any of the other watermen so that he could have his coffee early. In addition to being the mayor, he was also the principal in the island school. But he was a kind and gentle principal. All of the kids loved him. I felt a pang of nostalgia then at all I had left behind. And the nights on the island, how I missed them. New York was never silent. There is something liberating about the nights on Tangier. The air is heavy with the scent of the Bay and all is so very quiet. Strange, when I think about Tangier, what I remember most is the feel of the place, the fresh air, the birds, the sand, the pink dawn and the purple sunset. On the crab skiff in the silent hours of the morning, the steady hum of the engine and the morning call of the birds overhead. One day, I got something in the mail. It was a check from Debbie Pruitt. I felt warmed by her generosity, but I knew I couldn’t accept the money. Debbie was not well off herself. “Thank you Debbie,” I wrote back. “I hope you and the others are well. Keep me in your prayers.” Then I landed a small role in a play at a small dinner theater. Of course I didn’t expect my family to attend. They didn’t even know I had landed the role. In the play’s program, I had put in a little plug for my island in my bio. One day, I thought, I’ll be famous and my name will mean something. Maybe then I’ll be able to put Tangier on the map. So you can imagine my surprise when after the show, I saw Dr. Coptor walking towards me. He handed me his program. “Will you sign my program?” he asked. Again, I was touched by his kindness. Dr. Coptor said he had been in town attending a professional conference and had heard about my play.

”How’s mom, dad, Sarah (my sister) and the others?” I asked. “Just fine,” said Dr. Coptor. “It was also a good harvest this year and tourism has spiked. We think it’s because of the recent newspaper article on the Tangier Bed and Breakfast. Everyone wants to stay there now.” I remembered that, when she got back to New York, Anne had written a glowing freelance review of the B&B and submitted it to a local newspaper. “That’s good,” I said. “I bet that that makes dad happy seeing as he’s the mayor.” It felt good that my friend had played a small part in helping the island and my family by writing the article. Dr. Coptor wiped his brow then. “But Mary,” he said. “You should know that we are losing ground at an alarming rate. The island is. Just this year we lost fifteen feet of land.” I was hit by a pang. I had left my island home looking for adventure. But what if it disappeared? When I visited, would all of my childhood memories be gone? I felt a little guilty leaving my home then, and a little worried that I might forget where I came from. But I lived in New York now, so I just had to forget about what I had left behind, I thought. I wondered why Dr. Coptor had felt the need to bring this up now. Perhaps he felt I should know because my father was distressed about it. I didn’t know. *** And just like that, three years passed. Then one day, out of the blue, I got a letter from my sister. “Dad’s sick,” it said. “It’s cancer.” Sadly, I realized how much I’d been out of touch with my family. In that instant, I knew I had to go home. Sitting on the ferry on the way back to Tangier, I thought with regret of all I had missed on the island while I was away. I thought that, to me, my childhood memories are like a place lost in time. I changed after I left the island, I knew. My sister and mother were there to greet me on the dock. When we walked into the house, I saw my father lying there on the couch. He looked nothing like the father I knew, and guilt filled me as I realized I had left my family when they were in need. I talked to him a little and then that night, my mom told me about what my father had been doing before he got sick. “He was attending meetings on the mainland, trying to get the word out about Tangier’s plight and how the island is sinking. It’s going to take a lot of funding to save this place,” she said. “But now that he’s sick, he doesn’t have the strength to do any more.” *** Still feeling guilty about abandoning my family, I decided I had to help my father. He could no longer get the word out about Tangier’s plight—I had to continue the work he had started. Although I didn’t know what I could do. Immediately, I thought of Jane Crockett. She was my closest friend on the island and she must know something. After all, she had lived here for ninety-three years. When I knocked on her door, I mentally reviewed what I had to say. She opened the door and I noticed that her hands were shaking a little more as she stepped onto the porch with her cane, her white hair pulled back neatly. “Jane,” I said, and she immediately enveloped me in a hug. “Can we sit for a few minutes? I have something important to tell you and I may need your help,” I began. Jane must have seen the sad expression on my face. “What’s on your mind?” she asked.  “Please sit down.” “Well,” I said. “You know what is happening to Tangier, about the island sinking. Well you know that my father was trying to do something about it, but now he’s sick…” “Oh yes,” she said, her voice a little low. “I wish there was something I could do. This place is so special.” “So what do we do now?” I asked. “Well,” she said. “Did I ever tell you about my late husband?” I knew the story. Mrs. Jane Crockett’s husband fought in World War II and had earned a purple heart. He made it through the war, but a few months after he returned, he went back to the mainland and took the train to New York to attend the funeral of one of his fallen comrades. On the way, the train derailed and he was one of three people killed. “Well,” Jane Crockett continued. “If we’re going to do this, then we need to have the book.” “Book?” I said, not understanding. Mrs. Jane Crockett laid her hands in her lap and looked up at me. “When my husband died, he was working on a book on the history of the island. It included dozens of oral interviews he conducted with the old timers on Tangier and he meticulously researched the history of the island.” She let out a breath of frustration. “I tried to find it after he died…" “I know we can find it!” I said. “You’re right. If we had the book it would be so easy to convince the Virginia governor to give us the funding we need to save the island and build a seawall. They would see the history, they would see how special this place is,” I said. “But it’s impossible,” she said. “Maybe,” I answered, and the wheels were turning in my mind. “Or maybe we can recreate it,” I said, getting excited. “ We can make a movie about the island to send to the governor to get the funding for a seawall.” It wasn’t until later that night that I remembered Anne’s talent–she was a stellar photographer and videographer. If anyone could help us document the island in an artistically pleasing way, it would be her. That night I called her. “Anne,” I said, “Do you remember what I told you about Tangier Island?” “Yes,” she said. “Can you get some time off?” Then I told her the plan. She said she’d get here as soon as possible. *** And so we decided to make the film and call it “ Way of the Watermen of the Chesapeake Bay.” I was the director and Anne was the film maker. Of course the movie would mainly focus on an extensive interview with Jane Crockett but we also planned to interview many of the young people. In addition, we planned to take shots of many of the historical buildings around the island. Finally, we planned to interview some scientists on erosion and what it was doing to the island, as well as what it would take to save the island. Did Tangier just need a seawall or did it need even more? And so we started filming. First we interviewed Jane Crockett on film about her memories of the island. “What is your fondest memory of Tangier Island?” Anne asked on film. “It was the August Storm of 1933,” Jane began.  “Homes were flooded to the second story. We really pulled together as a people. All of the books on the island were ruined because we couldn’t transport them out of the library fast enough before the floods came. The children could climb in the tops of the trees because the trees up to their tops were underwater. We got some canoes and everyone on the island paddled around in canoes. The cats needed to be saved. Especially my cats. Back then I had twenty cats. I moved them to the top floor of my house, and they were still scared, but we managed to save them all.” Then Anne asked, “What about the largest channel on the island- Why is it called Big Gut? That’s a funny name.” Jane said, “Oh that was old Dave Crockett who came up with that name. You see for a while the teenagers were dropping their old soda cans in the channel. The town council starting making them clean it up and Dave said the channel had absorbed so much soda that it should be called Big Gut.” Anne asked Jane another question. “What’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened here?” Jane grew serious. “Well, I don’t know if you would call it interesting, but it definitely spooked us all. One day after a storm, the waters receded and there lay part of an ancient Native American vessel. We climbed aboard and found an old battle ax. The boys thought it was so awesome.  We were going to take it over to the mainland so they could put it in one of the national museums in Washington, D.C. But the night before it was to be transported, it mysteriously disappeared. People thought someone on Tangier had stolen it, but we never solved the mystery. Then the next week, the tide rose again and the native American vessel once more slipped beneath the waters before we had a chance to search it for more artifacts.”   Then we took shots of my mother working as a waitress in The Fisherman’s Corner restaurant where the wives of the watermen sold their husbands’ daily catch to the tourists direct and fresh from the Bay. We wanted to show how tourism supports the economy of Tangier. In addition, we filmed a day in the life of a waterman. One of the watermen we interviewed was Dan Crockett. Dan talked about fishing on the water. “My father was a watermen and he died on his crab skiff when he was 98. We do not earn money if we do not work. There is no retirement for us. But we do it because we love to be on the water…,” he said, adding, “I wouldn’t trade this for anything.” Then we decided to interview some young people. The young people mostly talked about the sense of community on Tangier. Everyone knows everyone and people will help you out at the drop of a hat.  They talked about how their fathers and grandfathers would let them go out on the boats in the early mornings sometimes and how much fun it was to catch crabs on the water. Some of them talked about how they were going to follow in their fathers’ and grandfathers’ footsteps and become watermen. We also interviewed my sister, Sara Pruitt. Sara had settled down on the island after graduating school and had married another islander who she grew up with, Samuel Parks. They now have five children. My sister talked about how she is continuing the Tangier legacy.   “So,” Anne said to Jane, “You know there is a history book of Tangier written by someone named Sugar Tom Crockett. I thought you said there was no history book of the island and that’s why your husband was writing one.” Jane Crockett shook her head. “You see that’s where the misunderstanding is. Sugar Tom was a fake. I mean, he was a real person, but he embellished his history of the island, to put it mildly. Most everything in it is exaggerated or false. That’s why you see my husband felt the need to write an accurate history of the island. If only we had his history book…” she sighed and shook her head. “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re like a living history of the past ninety years, plus we can glean a lot from old newspaper articles and put together a piecemeal history ourselves.” Towards the end of the film, we had onscreen interviews with local scientists and experts on the Chesapeake Bay and erosion. The film closed with a final monologue from one such expert:

"If the island sinks," he said, "Tangier natives will be the first climate change refugees in the United States. The plight of Tangier Island should create a sense of urgency," he went on, "because other coastal cities in the United States may suffer the same fate in the future."

And that was the end.   Then we decided to preview the film. We popped some popcorn and gathered around Jane Crockett’s T.V. in her family room. The opening credits rolled and then the movie opened to panoramic views of different parts of the island—there was the church, the health clinic, the harbor, the tombstones, and the school.   Soft music played in the background and then Anne’s voice could be heard on the film: “Tangier Island is a special place. We hope this film gives you a little flavor of this place we call home and why we could never imagine living anywhere else.” I thought the movie was very well done after the final credits rolled and we had finished previewing it. Now we just had to get it to the governor. I had the idea that I could ask Doctor Coptor if I could catch a ride over on his chopper. He agreed. Sitting in the chopper, I watched Tangier Island fade away below as we took flight. I clutched the DVD in both hands and my stomach was doing flip flops as I thought about what I was going to say to the Governor’s secretary again. I gave the film to the governor of Virginia and we crossed our fingers and waited. A month later, we got a response. It read: Dear Mayor of Tangier, “We have reviewed your film. We have indeed heard of Tangier Island and have read many of the recent newspaper articles about the island’s fate.   We have also heard that many of the young people are leaving the island to find opportunities elsewhere. We believe that the culture of Tangier will die out on its own anyway.   For these reasons, we don’t believe the funding for a seawall is warranted as the population on Tangier is declining and the state currently does not have money to spare.”   Sincerely, Virginia Governor   When I finished reading the letter, first shock and then overwhelming shame engulfed me. I was one of the very young people the governor was talking about. I had left the island looking for a better life. How could I argue now that Tangier should be saved? But even though I had left, Tangier would always be my home. No matter where you go in the world, nothing can replace your home. Of course Tangier was worth saving. Where else could you find this much history? It was time to come up with a new battle plan, I thought with resolve. The next week, I had a brilliant idea. We could take our plight to the United States Congress. There was only one person I could think of who would be good to testify for us: Jane Crockett. But getting her to agree to do it would be nearly impossible, I realized. After all, she had never been off the island and she would have to do it in order to talk to Congress. Jane would have to confront her biggest fear: addressing a crowd in a public place. The next week, I approached Jane. It took six months, but we were finally able to convince her. She was terrified to leave the island, but her desire to get the funding for the seawall was even greater than her fear. I had the idea that we could start a petition to get a hearing and get the mayors of the local towns to sign it so that we could get a hearing. Finally, we got one. When we had taken the ferry over to the mainland, Jane started to have separation anxiety. The sight of cars terrified her—as well as the street lights. We had to catch a taxi and when we were inside, the taxi zipped and zigzagged around the city. “Oh dear,” Jane Crockett exclaimed. The only time she had come close to such a thrill ride was when her golf cart, (which everyone uses to get around Tangier as there are no cars on the island), overturned and she flew into the soft bed of the marshes. And then, don’t get me started on when we saw the Anacostia River filled with oil and the trash lining the sidewalks of the street. Mrs. Jane Crockett bent down trying to pick up some of the trash and put it in the trash can. “Jane,” I said, gently putting my hand on her arm. “You can’t pick all of this up. Washington, D.C. is just a dirty city. It’s not like Tangier.” *** The day of the hearing, Jane walked onto the Senate floor. “Mr. Chairman, my name is Jane Crockett and I’m here to tell you why Tangier Island needs to have a seawall,” she began. “When I was two years old, my father took me on the crab skiff. He worked all day, dawn to dusk, until he was 95. My grandfather did the same and his father before him and his father before him. That’s five generations,” she said. “Now, all of my ancestors made their living on Tangier Island. It would be a shame for the way of the watermen to disappear.” “I myself had hoped that my final resting place would be there next to my husband on the beloved island where we both grew up,” she continued. “What will happen to us when the island goes under the water?” “We’re a simple people,” Jane Crockett went on to say. “We’ve never asked anything from the federal government until now. Okay, I know what you will say. A seawall costs a lot of money. It’s a multi-million dollar cost for taxpayers for such a little place with not many residents.” “Now I am going to tell you the story of my husband, Joseph Crockett, a very noble man and a United States veteran,” she continued. Jane began, “Like some Tangier boys, my husband decided to join the military when he graduated high school. He bravely served his country for four years. He was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. He was awarded a purple heart for his heroism. Fortunately he survived the war, but a few months after he returned, he was killed in a freak accident. My husband nearly gave his life for his country, but the federal government has forgotten him and other Tangier veterans. Don’t you think the United States government owes them something for their distinguished service? Soon he will be a hero without a homeland.” “After the accident that killed my husband,” she continued, “I made the decision to never leave the island. Tangier Island is my life,” she said, “It’s the only home I’ve ever known.” Jane left the podium then. The speech went very well, I thought. Now it was all in the hands of the legislature and we just had to wait. *** Over the next few weeks, The Washington Post was flooded with letters to the editor and sympathy for Jane Crockett. Someone started a petition and thousands signed it and sent it to Congress. Finally there was a decision. Tangier would get the funding it needed for a seawall as well as a plan to build breakwaters, pumped-in sand and new vegetation. It would be a 30 million dollar project funded by taxpayers. It was understood that the seawall would be dedicated to Jane Crockett’s late husband. A gold plaque on the wall read in distinguished script: “This seawall is in memory of Joseph Crockett. United States Veteran, Recipient of the Purple Heart Husband and friend His heart is forever here on his beloved island.” Looking at the plaque, Jane pictured her husband as she remembered him fifty years ago. And she smiled because she knew he would be proud that she saved the island. Her mind, at last, was at rest. *** Jane died that summer. We buried her next to her husband on the island. Jane and Joseph lie buried beneath the fiery red Autumn trees at the tip of the north side of the island. It was fitting, I thought, seeing as Jane was like a living soul and her spirit would always live on in this place. I knew she would always hold a special place in my heart. That Christmas, I landed my first major role in a Broadway play. As I took my place center stage, the lights dimmed, then flickered back on briefly. I blinked, certain I was seeing things. But, sure enough, there they all were—my entire family, including my father, whose cancer had been cured. Tears filled my eyes. It was the best Christmas gift anyone could ask for.