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Longevity

10/30/2014

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   "The island climate is hard on things," I tell people when trying to explain North Caicos. It's my go-to comment for justifying frequent trips with a suitcase full of household items: can openers, kitchen knives, batteries, ink cartridges and yet another IPod player. The folks in TC Customs just love me.

   And it's true that in the 13 years of Aloe House's existence, we've gone through two washing machines, two TVs, a couple of VCRs and several CD and DVD players. That's just the way it is here, and we're not even directly on the beach to get the brunt of salt air and blowing sand!

   But on the other hand, some things last. I've written before about Porter, our 2000 Nissan Frontier truck that is still chugging away as a rental vehicle for our friend Mark. And as I look around, I see other troupers among the stuff we originally shipped down. I'm going to list them, despite the superstition that this praise will kill them; if it does, there's no shame in it. Nothing lasts forever.

   Our Hamilton Beach coffee pot was bought second-hand from the Richmond Times-Dispatch in 2001. A couple of years ago, I bought another from friends who were leaving the island, because I was sure that one day mine would refuse to work and I wanted a backup. The "new" one is still in the storage area while old RTD keeps brewing.

   The Hotpoint refrigerator and GE stove we shipped that same year continue to do their jobs. I've sanded rust spots and applied appliance paint a few times, and Mr. Fridge growls a-plenty, but so far, so good (knock wood).

   The IKEA furniture we sent down in flats, then assembled, is mostly holding up. One stereo shelf that was saturated during Hurricanes Hanna and Ike is gone, and one trip-damaged Billy bookshelf went from living room to garage to dump, but otherwise the stuff is doing well. I still love the big wooden table that was an absolute bear to assemble, and I've sanded it and re-applied polyurethane a few times.

   We slip through sheets on this island like ... eww, that goose metaphor is icky. Sheets here are prone to blood stains from nighttime mosquito bites, fraying from windy-day line drying and shredding from any indoor-outdoor pets. I can't tell you how many sets of sheets I've brought down. Yet one set keeps going ... brown ones that Tom bought before we were even married, in 1982! I guess they made them better back then, and the color of dried blood just blends right in.

   I'm also impressed with the longevity of certain people here. Canadians and Americans often come and go, surviving a few seasons before packing it up for someplace a bit cheaper, friendlier to non-rich foreigners (yeah, TCI, it's true) and more inclined toward a Jimmy Buffett existence. Some stay/continue to come, sometimes despite spousal strife and bureaucratic BS, notably Bobby Ball, Ron and Janet Holmes, Naqqi Manco, Mark Herzog, "Scooter Bob" and Howard Gibbs. Maybe even Tom and Jody Rathgeb (with a couple of glitches along the way).

   It seems to me that the commonality among things that have lasted is simplicity. Fancy electronics and complicated designs have too many things to go wrong. The manual transmission truck with roll-up windows, the fridge with no ice-maker or water dispenser, and the plain wooden chair ... they're still here and functional.

   And with the people, the key is flexibility. If the store doesn't have tomato sauce, you figure out a way to use tomato paste. If you can't get eggs for breakfast, try the island meal of fish and grits. When your day doesn't go as planned, plan something else.

   In short, here's my equation for island life: Simplicity plus flexibility equals longevity.
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Fiction valediction

10/22/2014

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   Hmm. The problem is, writing fiction is not like journaling, which is primarily for oneself, or doing articles that inform the public. When I write a short story, I imagine a reader: someone interested in island life and curious, like me, about how a small piece of land surrounded by water affects its people and their relationships.

   That reader has been mostly elusive. Shaking people free of island stereotypes is a thankless task among those who want characters to talk like Jamaicans even though they're not, or who think American culture hasn't crept into island dreams and desires. Those readers want the differences to be less subtle, the beach to be raked. Fiction as vacation instead of reflection.

   No, I need the reader who wants a "real" island. And I can't just write the story for myself. When you tell a story, the assumption is that there's a listener. Much of the pleasure I have taken in writing stories has been the anticipation of having someone say, "Aha. Yes," acknowledging a truth in a fictive world. O reader, where art thou?

  At first, just imagining this reader was enough. He/she and I explored together and had fun looking for interesting shells, figuratively. But lately I've realized that I have no such companion in real life, and I've been stymied in finding Dear Reader.

   Perhaps I'm just stupid about marketing. Perhaps I'm too lazy to persist in finding places to publish, or too shy to blow my own horn to shuffle people toward the stories. Or perhaps there is no market. In any case, without a playmate I'm not having as much fun anymore.

   When I first started writing fiction, I went to a friend who had already published novels and asked if he thought I should continue. He liked what I wrote, but asked me two questions: Do I expect to make any money from this? (No.) Are you having fun? (Yes.) He encouraged me.

   Today, though, the answer to the second question is, Not so much. It's time to stop, at least for a while. I own a sweatshirt that defines writer's block as "When your imaginary friends won't talk to you." In this case, though, it's when my imaginary reader stops reading.

   Maybe it's temporary. Maybe I'll get to North Caicos next week and be so filled with new bits of island life to explore that I won't be able to keep my pen away from paper. We'll see. But otherwise, farewell my friend, fiction.

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A little bit of island

10/16/2014

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   As emergencies go, yesterday's at the Rathgeb household was minor, but it didn't feel that way while it was happening. The incoming water line for our building broke in the wee hours of the morning, in the little space next to our apartment designated the Sprinkler Room. This being an old building, the water quickly traveled into our place, flooding our entry, office and a portion of the bedroom. I discovered it at 3:18 a.m. when I stepped into an inch of water on my way to the bathroom.

   The fire department came, and they were able to get into the Sprinkler Room and shut off the water. Then they helped us by using their big squeegees to get rid of much of our flood. When they left, though, we still had lots of mopping up to do, plus a warning that the water already in the lines would soon run out.

   That when our island ways kicked in. Tom got out the towels for our cleanup. (I've written before about the usefulness of beach towels on North Caicos, noting mop-ups as one of their functions. We don't have as many towels here, but we used what we had.) I filled a big bucket with water, since we would soon have none. (Yes, I was taking it away from my neighbors; my justification was that they would need to cope only with a lack of water, while we had more problems.)

   It wasn't fun to have to move furniture, find places to dry things out and have a bunch of wet towels waiting to be laundered, but the rule of the island helped us to cope. That rule? Don't trust the infrastructure; improvise.

   When we first set up house on North Caicos, we left room for the possibility of things not working. Two water systems. A gas grill and camp stove in addition to an electric range. Hurricane lamps and candles. This just makes sense, because you never know.

   We now live much of the year in the U.S., where infrastructure is more reliable, and island systems have improved considerably over the years, but complacency is dangerous. Our minor emergency was a reminder to us to keep all the "what ifs" in mind.

   I'm no Luddite, but I try to remember the basics when I'm taking advantage of advanced technology. I keep an old-fashioned address book as well as a contacts list ... because what if the computer crashes or a smartphone battery dies just when you need it? And I shake my head when I see new buildings going up without windows that open. Do they really think the air conditioning system will always work? Better to behave as if the hurricane will come at any moment.

   My lesson from yesterday is to hold onto that little bit of island in myself.

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Customer service

10/9/2014

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   I seem to be spending a lot of time lately on the customer side of customer service, with experiences both good and frustrating. Some businesses have earned my loyalty and praise; others, not so much. Here are a few observations.

   Look at me. Everyone knows how important eye contact is in transactions, but I see it fading away. The computer screen just seems so much more fascinating than those of us waiting to get served. A cashier at CVS yesterday kept four of us on hold for 20 minutes while she worked out her problems with "the system," never even glancing at any of us.

   Respect our time. People hate dealing with the cable and dish companies primarily because they say they'll come to deal with the problem "tomorrow," effectively chaining us in one place for a full day. Appointments would be better ... and keeping them would be best. (Are you listening, doctors? We're told to show up 15 minutes in advance, but you don't show for 40 more.)

   Get the website working properly! I'm willing to try to resolve my problem online ... but a site that takes me in circles or is junked up with meaningless bells and whistles doesn't help.

   "Listen carefully, as our menu has changed." As if I believe that. OK, I'll play the phone menu game, as long as you give me a "none of the above" option ... you know, talking to a real person?

   Contact us. That's what it says on your website, and we do. But please, return those phone calls and emails. I've learned in the Turks and Caicos to never leave a message at any business because no one will call you, ever. (Yet I'm always seeing people on phones!) But I have also been surprised at exceptions. One time when I called Islandcom about a problem, the agent said she'd take my number and call me right back so that I wouldn't be paying for any wait during the call. And she did!

   Customers first. This week I had an excellent experience at Ferguson Xpress, a local shop for plumbing supplies, because the guy didn't want to sell me the part I needed for my faucet. He wasn't quite sure it was the right part, you see, and he knew I would be taking it to TCI. "I'd hate for you to get it all the way there and find out it's wrong," he said. Instead, he instructed me to contact the manufacturer and send in the photo I'd taken of the faucet. It turned out that it was the right part, but Moen is sending it to me for free, so he also saved me money. Good experiences all around, because someone realizes that goodwill is on an even par with profit.

   Be truly helpful. I guess that's what it all comes to. Customer service can be very simple, if we make sure that systems, rules and technology don't get in the way.

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October 02nd, 2014

10/2/2014

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Another halupki blog

10/2/2014

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Picture
   I don't think of myself as someone who reveres tradition. I am Ikea, not Ethan Allan. I enjoy coming up with a new and different entrée for Christmas dinner each year. I sometimes drink red wine with fish.

   Yet I continue to make halupki.

   Stuffed cabbage, as it is also known, is a traditional dish on my mother's side of the family. In a previous blog (May 26, 2011) I wrote about how it is one of the few connections I have to my ancestry. In contrast, my fiction writing is obsessed by the traditions of the Turks and Caicos Islands.

   That pretty much sums it up. So why write about halupki again? Well, I made some yesterday. It's a labor-intensive effort; after cooking rice, blanching the cabbage leaves and mixing the filling, there's all that rolling up of meat mixture and cabbage to do. The mind wanders.

   It touched down on the particulars of what I was doing. I noticed that before rolling I was using a paring knife to shave down the "spine" of each cabbage leaf, then tossing the shaved portion into the bottom of the roasting pot. This is not a necessary step. I do it only because my mother did it.

   I suppose she had two reasons for this action: making the cabbage roll neater and providing spaces on the bottom of the casserole to prevent sticking. The first reason has nothing to do with flavor, and the second isn't needed with today's nonstick cookware. Yet I do it every time.

   I am reminded of a story, the source of which I can't remember, of a woman who was preparing a roast. As she cut off the ends of the meat, her daughter asked her why she was doing that.

   Surprised, she answered, "Because my mother always did." She decided to find out why, but the mother's answer was, "Because my mother did."

   Fortunately the grandmother was still living, so they went to her. "Why did you always cut off the ends of the roast before putting it in the pan?" The answer: "My pan wasn't big enough."

   One woman's logic is another's tradition. How much of our lives operates this way? Shouldn't we question whether our traditions are meaningful or "just because"?

   Or wouldn't that be the traditional thing to do?


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    This blog by Jody Rathgeb has changed several times over the years and currently focuses on island living. It is also posted on Facebook as Beyond the Parrot Paradise.

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