Forty

I remember when my mom turned 40.  When an islander reaches 40 s/he is rewarded with an obnoxious trophy most appropriate for bowling or cheese making tournaments.  The recipient’s name is etched on a brass plaque and attached to any available surface, joining the names of those pioneers who’ve gone before.  Mom was officially old in my 12 year old mind.  And like her contemporary Tina Turner she was rocking - albeit to a slower, more country-western beat.  She held onto the trophy until the next islander crashed into old age.  In this case it was my 7th grade science teacher. 


This is what I like about island life.  The small town flavor is compounded by isolation in the winter.  The population drops to 400 and everyone has at least three relationships with each other.  Your teacher will also be your neighbor and mother’s best friend.  Your cousin is your boss and volleyball team captain.  The church organist is also your aunt’s arch-nemesis and the favored toilet papering target of your older sister.  There’s no avoiding anyone.


Just before turning 40, when Mom was a newly minted divorcee, she and three other island women formed a club. Demographically they had a lot in common: in their 30s, raised on the islands, divorced, children at home.  Reliving their 20s, misspent on organizing PTA fundraisers, they became the Midnight Ladies.   They committed alcohol induced activities a son prefers not to theorize. 


One of their adventures I do recall vaguely.  Or rather, I have a memory of a mother nursing a hangover, saying to me “Don’t drink too much when you’re older.”  And then later that same day driving with her to the home of a neighbor around the corner.  I witnessed her apologize to him while he mourned the carcass of a 1929 Ford Model A Roadster. 


This neighbor was a good friend of my father.  My sisters and I regularly climbed the tree in his front yard.  One of my earliest memories is sitting on my father’s lap in his home and tasting the foam of a just opened can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.


But on this particular day I stood silently observing my contrite mother and him shaking his head sorrowfully.  When we left I asked her “What was that about?”  The night before, assisted by a fair dose of spirits, the Midnight Ladies “bought” the vintage car with an envelope of Monopoly money.  On their late night adventures with the car they managed to break an axel, rendering the car immobile.


Fast forward 20+ years, when my own sister is on the edge of 40, while visiting the island this summer I saw my dad’s latest project.  He and my cousin Michael are reconstructing a Model A.  They’re reconstructing the engine and frame but keeping the car’s rusted body.  It’ll have the appearance of a clunker but the Conshafter/Burgess talent beneath.  The first part to be replaced will be an axel, broken years ago, by a crew playing a midnight prank.