Time & Tide (5 page)

How About Manners?

THE MARKETPLACE IS ALWAYS OF SPECIAL interest to anthropologists, archaeologists, historians, and the like. I suppose the idea is that what goes on in the markets reveals the society itself to some extent. That is certainly true for the “Gray Lady of the Sea.”

The Cumberland Farm store on the east side of town is a convenience store now—cigarettes, Twinkies, canned soup, Wonder bread, and so on—but it started out a long time ago as a sort of cooperative, organized by some local moms who were fed up with the high price of milk at the supermarket and decided to do something about it. It was true then, and it is true now, that almost everything is marked up in Nantucket. Gasoline, for instance, is quite a lot higher than on the Cape. There is more competition now— more markets (lots of boutique markets, specialty meat markets, a couple of farmer's markets, one of them huge), but prices are still high—no longer due to what you might call captive customers (not so long ago there was only that one place to get the Sunday
New York Times,
The Hub, smack in the middle of downtown at the corner of Main and Federal), but because of the generally “up” market of people who don't have to worry what a quart of milk might cost. Of course, it is a seasonal economy, and retailers have to survive in February as well as August.

The general priciness perhaps reaches its extremes at the 'Sconset Market, the only grocery store in the village at the eastern end of the island, where the prices of ordinary items like a bag of Oreos or a box of cereal are so astronomical it takes one's breath away. (They do bake some very fine baguettes, in their defense.) But no one does major shopping there. For that one goes to the supermarket—either the rather modestly sized Grand Union built as part of the downtown wharf development project, or most important the huge Stop and Shop at the edge of town. It was once a Finast, and before that something else, but it has always been the dominant market, and increasingly so as the island has grown to the point where there are more people living out of town (in season, at least) than in town. The Stop and Shop is it, and they must be commended for an honest effort to keep their prices reasonable, not too much more than in their stores on the mainland.

My ex-wife, who lives out west, was struck by the change in atmosphere at the market when she visited the island a couple of summers ago. She remembered a kind of community spirit—high school kids or working college kids at the checkouts, people chatting with friends in the aisles, a certain social cohesiveness—that wasn't there anymore. From the insanely crowded parking lot, with everyone honking horns, jostling for spaces, bumping bumpers, to the jam-packed aisles of people racing inside, eager to get back to the beach or the barbecue, it has a frantic, almost desperate feel in the high season. One rarely recognizes anyone now— to come upon a friend or acquaintance at the deli section is rare indeed, and invariably creates a certain nostalgia for the old days. The checkout staff, the baggers, and the like are mostly Jamaicans now, speaking a bewildering patois, unconnected, like migrant workers (which they are), from the culture around them. It is a pressured atmosphere, and not comfortable or enjoyable. It's a pain in the ass, in fact, for a lot of us.

Four or five years ago my wife was witness to a scene in the supermarket that may be emblematic of the transformation of Nantucket from a small town into something else altogether. A prominent family on the island whom I will call the Smiths—summer people for generations—were involved in various local businesses at a high level. Bob Smith is a big, handsome guy with a thousand-watt smile, a lot of charm, and a lot of smarts. His image on the island was carefully cultivated—an honest, thoughtful, family man with good values and a heightened sense of community. And all of this was, and no doubt still is, true. Which makes what my wife saw all the more astonishing.

The Stop and Shop, on a Friday afternoon, was jam-packed with shoppers stocking up for the weekend, anticipating guests, jostling up and down the aisles in a mild frenzy. My wife was waiting in line at one of the checkout lanes. She sees Bob moving forward with a cart filled to the brim, top to bottom, and inserting himself into the express lane. The girl at the cash register protests. “This is twelve items only,” she says. “This is the express lane.”

Smiling his warm, knock-'em-dead smile, Bob reaches up and slides the little placard which says “Express Lane” from its holder and puts it facedown next to the register. “Not anymore, it isn't,” he declares, and begins to unload his stuff. Flummoxed, the girl waits a moment, looks around, and then goes ahead and starts the long process of ringing things up. There is some grumbling from the line behind Bob, but no one has the nerve to protest. Bob no longer cares what people think. His assumption is that he'll never see any of the other shoppers again.

I am reminded of a scene in John Cheever's last book,
Oh What a Paradise It Seems.
(Cheever was a great fan of the island in its simpler days, but stopped coming when his favorite hotel—an old, rundown place with remarkable views—was demolished to be replaced by a stratospherically expensive luxury establishment.) Although the setting is not Nantucket, the scene is prophetic.

Maybelle was the name of the checkout clerk and she
wore a large pin that said so. “Maybelle,” said Betsy,
“would you kindly explain to this lady that this lane
is the express lane for shoppers with nine items only.”
“If she can't read I'm not going to teach her,” said
Maybelle. The twelve or so members in the line behind Betsy showed their approval. “It's about time
somebody said something” . . . “You tell 'em, lady,
you tell 'em,” said an old man with a frozen dinner.
“I just can't stand to see someone take advantage of
other people's kindness. It's like fascism. It isn't that
she's breaking the law. It's just that most of us are too
nice to do anything about it. Why do you suppose
they put up a sign that says nine items? It's to make
the store more efficient for everyone. You're just like a
shoplifter, only you're not stealing groceries, you're
stealing time, you're not stealing from the management, you're stealing from us.”

Cheever continues the story until civil behavior breaks down and a minor riot ensues. It's a comic scene with an edge, but an important moment in the text. (Neither my wife nor myself have ever felt quite the same toward old Bob, who has gone on to be a tremendous success in the world of finance.)

Let's See to the Land

THERE ARE TWO FARMS ON NANTUCKET. THE first, Moors End Farm, off Polpis Road, is a small family affair selling a few vegetables, lots of flowers and plants, and, in August, a large crop of the sweetest, whitest, most tender corn imaginable. No sprays or pesticides, and no opening the ears looking for worms. You buy a dozen or so ears and go your merry way. (It is exceedingly rare to find a less than perfect ear.) Although the farm does good business, and is in fact beloved by many islanders, it was almost lost due to economic pressures. The value of an acre of land—any acre—has gotten so high, and the taxes too, that farming is impractical, or would have been if the town, relevant organizations, and interested islanders hadn't managed to pass special legislation and make financial arrangements to ensure its survival.

The other farm—Bartlett's—also a family affair but much larger, a very big business indeed, growing many crops, selling sandwiches, gourmet salads, frozen foods, fancy breads, pastries, cheeses, fruit, and so on, was also saved by special arrangements, despite its fancy airs, greenhouses, and expensive equipment. There was a broad consensus on island that the farms, and their open spaces, must be preserved.

There have been quite a few people, for quite some time, highly concerned about development on Nantucket. Robert Mooney's book
Nantucket Only
Yesterday
teaches the history of the struggle between those attempting to control growth and those resisting any infringement of their freedom to do as they like with their land. (Many working and middle-class families on the island really have nothing else except their land—it is their equity.) The back-and-forth tug of war between different parties, organizations, and local government and interest groups, is a long-standing affair, going back many decades.

There is the Land Council, and I quote from their mission statement: “We negotiate with private owners to voluntarily restrict use of their land and preserve conservation values. These permanent easement agreements—conservation restrictions in Massachusetts—provide public benefits to the community and handsome tax advantages to landowners . . .” In other words, they have done the legal work so that anyone who wants to enter into such an arrangement can do so without hassle or out-of-pocket expenses. They also raise funds, clear title to hundreds of acres of vacant land, and work to protect water resources, among other things. (Nantucket has been designated a sole source aquifer by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.)

The Nantucket Land Bank is based on the proposition that it takes money to defend against money. In 1983 the Land Bank (Chapter 669) was created in law, “. . . a land conservation program created to acquire, hold, and manage important open space resources and endangered landscapes . . .” The money used to buy land on the open market is acquired by a 2 percent real estate transfer fee on almost every house or parcel of land that gets sold. A powerful idea indeed, put forward by the Nantucket Planning Commission, adopted by the voters of Nantucket and established by a special act of the state legislature. . . . Approximately 40 percent of Nantucket is protected by private conservation groups, the Town of Nantucket, and the Land Bank. Big money—almost a hundred million dollars—has worked to protect land. The Land Bank often operates in tandem with the Nantucket Conservation Foundation, and there is little doubt that they have saved entire parts of the island.

My house is just 1.3 miles from Altar Rock, the highest point on the island. For years my family has driven, jogged, or walked inland to visit the spot from which you can see hundreds and hundreds of acres of open moors, completely wild except for the ancient dirt tracks like the Barnard Valley Road, or old short cuts to the South Shore. It is a breathtaking panorama—one can see the harbor in the distance, Sankaty lighthouse, the low tree lines of distant hidden forests of scrub oak. Without protection, houses, developments, mini-villages, and the like would be scattered all the way across the interior. Action was taken in the nick of time. Public action, not dependent on philanthropy. This particular part of the island was saved—a part of the 40 percent. The conservation movement has grown stronger over time, although there is still much to be done.

Ironically, a proposal put forward by Senator Edward Kennedy in 1972—The Nantucket Sound and Islands Trust Bill—would have accomplished everything on the conservationists' agenda, and then some, making great tracts of land on both Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard “forever wild” as well as strictly controlling new construction. In hindsight such an action was clearly the way to go and would have benefited everyone—islanders and summer people alike. But the residents of Nantucket voted against the bill, presumably out of fear of Federalism, loss of control of their destiny and their equity, and other boogeymen. Perhaps the bill would have died at the federal level no matter what the local vote, but at a special town meeting in 1976, Nantucket “lost forever the possibility of preserving its shoreline for the public benefit . . .” as Mr. Mooney put it. (He also makes the point that there have been some pretty strange votes on the island over time, like the resounding yes vote for a downsizing of the state legislature, which resulted in the loss of the Nantucket seat. A self-imposed partial disenfranchment, in other words.)

The Kennedy bill would have effectively prevented the expensive, complicated, and sometimes controversial growth of local government caused by a patchwork of zoning, planning boards, appeals procedures, building regulations, etc., involving more committees, more civil servants, more legal fees, and more paper. The history of the Historic District Commission is an example of the inappropriateness (or so it seems to me) of the kind of reflexive expansion of activity that sometimes weakens a good idea.

The original concept was to protect that beautiful part of town behind the Pacific National Bank that I described earlier. So far, so good. The impact of a modern structure, or a bad remodeling, would have had a horrendous effect on the area, destroying its integrity. But when the “Historic District” was expanded to include the whole island, a lot of people were unhappy, even to the point of flaunting the regulations. Who says I have to use cedar shingles as siding? Who says, since my house is hidden from public view, I can't put in a bay window, or paint my fence green, or build an extension? Who says my projected dream house cannot exceed a certain height even if I build it in the middle of a fifty-acre lot?

The expansion has given rise to the worst possible outcome—some people obey the law, and some people get away with ignoring it, since, from a practical point of view, it can't be well enforced. It may even be unconstitutional. One wonders sometimes if the powers that be on Nantucket don't regard the Constitution as just another bit of Federalism, or the Supreme Court as nothing more than a bunch of off-islanders who can't be expected to understand.

A long time ago there was a bumper sticker which said, simply:

NANTUCKET

A young woman of my acquaintance,
who would occasionally appear in town in
a full chador just for the fun of it
 (she's a WASP), slapped on an addition every
time she found one:

ALAS NANTUCKET

The generally somber tone is not to be
taken too seriously. It is more nostalgia
than pessimism.