Free Lifesaving Lessons by Linda Greenlaw Page A

beyond me. Mom is somewhat of a princess. I mean that in the nicest way. I have heard that women my age often come to a realization that they are becoming their mothers. I sure would like to become mine. But so far it’s not happening. I am a chronic workaholic, and a tomboy to boot. Mom is neither. While I am aware that life on an island is more difficult—everything is a chore—it is a stretch to say that Mom works. She does keep my father pretty busy, though. And at eighty-one, he would say that
his
vacation is over when he and Mom hit the shore.
    Dad’s honey-do list, which is a running mental tally of things Mom needs done, is like the bottomless mug of coffee served at a truck stop. Every time progress is made toward the bottom of the cup, someone fills it back up. Mom’s philosophy is that Dad will “get old” if she allows him to “sit around.” If that has any merit, I’d say that Dad has found the fountain of youth. My father spends an inordinate amount of time under the house and up in his workshop. At Mom’s insistence, and in spite of his white- collar career, my father has honed all of the trade skills to a level of competent proficiency. Dad has always been a meticulous project doer, to the point of driving insane some of us who are more of the shoddy, slam-banger type.
    If Mom’s vacation is over in June, she is in a very small minority. I live for June! Not only are my parents back, but so are many of my summer friends who are vacationing in the very traditional sense of the word. June is when I take the first of my buddies to arrive on island out to haul lobster traps with me and cook our catch over an open fire on the beach. And, since the Mother’s Day gift blunder, June is when I now dig my first “mess of clams,” or just the right amount to eat. The measure of “mess” varies wildly, depending on the strength of the back doing the digging, the number of mouths to feed, the mosquitoes, the weather, the tide, et cetera. June is often when I see the bulk of the year-round community that I may not have caught a glimpse of all winter, and teasingly accuse them of coming out of hibernation (although this particular June, the same could have been said of me). June is when the island can be held in a cool, foggy embrace that softens everything to a pale mist and muffles all but the screech of gulls working the first school of baitfish. June is when my nephews, Aubrey and Addison, proudly jig the season’s first mackerel and demand that I cook it even if it looks like it’s been on the dock for hours and then caught in the spokes of a bicycle on the trip from wharf to kitchen. June is when everyone waves when passing, and most stop to talk, making an otherwise ten-minute errand to the post office an odyssey. June is when the plastic, pink flamingos find Isle au Haut in their migration route and seem to be fickle about where they roost. June is when all I see of Ed White, our car mechanic, is the top of his head bobbing over the hood or his legs sticking out from under someone’s temperamental ride.
    The first Sunday in June is when the Island’s only church begins its summer service, and when the bell rings at 10:00 a.m., I can imagine the young boys in their blue blazers and girls in crisp, white dresses gleefully pulling on the rope. June marks the beginning of a full inventory at the Island Store. Peanut butter, baked beans, and elbow macaroni make way for duck confit, truffle oil, and anchovies. Iceberg lettuce bows to endive and organic greens. Budweiser steps aside for pinot noir. White sandwich bread cowers before multigrains and baguettes, and hot dogs are upstaged by selections boasting of boneless, skinless, and prime.
    This particular June hosted the grand opening of the much discussed and much anticipated Black Dinah Café. One of the most beautiful things about the café is its location. Kate and Steve’s home