With the first of the daffodil shoots foolishly poking out from the until-now frozen earth, Sofie and I have returned to the back yard for our major activities.  Clearing the sleds from under the blue spruce.  Trimming back the weaker of the branches on the pear trees.  Making a final decision on the location of that next thornless blackberry bush.  Picking up remnants of dog toys, and rescuing those still intact from the inevitable mower blade.

It is a time for spring cleaning.  Having spent the fall and winter on a creative project, I am faced with the myriad tasks that must be done — best be done now, than to be discovered in the summer in a panic.  Where is the tent?  I thought we had charcoal in this closet… somewhere.  The bicycle pump, you say?  I know we have two of them.  Try under the Christmas lights.

Not to even get into boat-prep issues.  That’s a column unto itself.

As described a few months ago, when working alone outside, podcasts like American Public Media’s Marketplace keep me company.  It has really kept me on top of business and economic issues just as they are at the forefront of public consciousness.  So it is an astounding contrast, too, the degrees to which some public officials seem to be far, far behind the curve.

There appears to be a complete unwillingness to see the current economic conditions as anything more than a departure from the norm.  Something that will “gotten over” in the matter of a few months, rather than a major correction — by that term meaning we now quickly return to the way things should have been all along.

This is not a departure down; rather the recent prosperity was a departure up.  Consumers stopped saving anything in the past decade and borrowed too much.  Optimism to spend, as recently prescribed by a sadly-misguided County Commissioner Bill Doherty, is not going to pull us out of this situation.  Toxic assets will become safer when all borrowers actually pay their debts off — first.

The sad reality is that plenty of service-based businesses were founded here and nationwide, based upon increasing affluence.  We have come to realize that much of this affluence was an illusion.  For example, buyers were willing to pay $2 million for a second home on the Cape because a) the value of their 401k was expected to only increase, b) the Cape house could always be rented seasonally at a high rate, and c) the buyer’s primary residence would fetch a high price when sold for the inevitable retirement here.

Now two of those legs have been kicked out from that three-legged stool (and the third may be just as illusory).  Optimism had brought the home price to a level as unsustainable as the rest of the economy.  As reality sets in, the price has dropped to a truer value set by that smaller pool of buyers who still possess the resources to purchase.

Yet too many of leaders in government, to varying degrees insulated from the gyrations of the private economy by the inviolate perks of public benefits, still fail to grasp three basic truths:

First, their constituents now have less money.

Second, that any money their constituents struggle to earn in these tough times should be saved.

And third, this is how it is going to be for a couple years, at least. As Olivier Blanchard, the IMF’s new Director of Research, told The Economist just last week, “We are closer to the beginning than we are to the end.”

Once this sort of mental spring cleaning — looking at what is actually around us, what we have and what we don’t, what still works and what is irreparably broken — hopefully will lead to some serious planning for the knock-on effects of what is being called our “Deprecession.”

For example, history tells us that in tough times, more shellfish permits are issued.  Yet the price of shellfish has stayed stagnant or even gone down, partly due to a lack of economic planning for increased supply.

Or with decreased household income, expect that many more local high school graduates will attending Cape Cod Community College (regardless of whether they were accepted to four-year schools off-Cape).  That means more 18 to 22 year olds here through the winter.  They will be needing jobs that provide a regular income.  Regular, as in a regular wage with regular hours, not seasonally tip-based gigs.

(Note:  They will not be needing housing.  They’ll be saving money by staying at home.)

These are but two examples, and are not the usual bad economy-homeless shelter-food pantry concerns.  The needs of middle class people who live here – yes, residents – are calling out to be addressed by our towns.  Now.

Nostalgia for the goods times won’t cut it, nor will unfounded optimism.  Spring is the time to re-assess.  And we need to get to work.

Or, “For What?”

At half past five the other night

After long work hours and sleeping tight

A call awoke me from sound sleep

To tell me news of snow too deep.

Too deep for school, so we must not

endanger all our tiny tots.

The voice of Dr. Lanzo said,

Read from a text pre-recor-ded.

Delayed, her message, school will be

To ease our morning misery.

Yet after only five hours slumber

I saw a test — which was dumber:

To heed an off-Cape weatherman

And, like a gaped, unthinking fan

Take as gospel his frantic warning

Of drifts chest-high, come eight next morning,

Or, instead, remember here

In Chatham, with Gulf Stream so near

It is as sure to pull the mercury

above freezing, with no threat to me.

No threat to me, no threat to us,

No threat to children on a bus. 

So, now, awake, I lay in bed,

And watched a sky, without fear or dread.

Concern, instead I felt for thee,

Who art compensated hourly.

Those parents who, with grit and grime

Make privately money with their time.

So when it rained, instead, this day

The pointlessness of the delay

Hit home most painfully, you know 

By those who aren’t afraid of snow.

We are not scared, it does snow here.

This is New England, which is most clear.

We have the smarts, we have the tools,

To keep the roads up for our schools.

This timidity runs counter to

A tougher people here who grew

Up bearing skiffs into the sea

With every bit of dignity.

The safety argument does not fly 

We had snow here in days gone by

But then, no antilock brakes, no air bags

And still school commenced, without these lags.

Please, let us be a town that works

Instead of where suspicion lurks,

For in dire times you come to ask

Us to fund your educational tasks.

In budget times this spring you’ll say

You need still more cash to pay 

For programs and the salaries

Of you and your employees.

So here’s a fact of school delayed:

If we don’t work, we don’t get paid.

That you cancel school in this season, 

For mere threat of snow is beyond reason.

You waste our money, you waste our time

So we may not be able to spare a dime.

Every public servant should be awares

Of their constituency’s needs and cares.

But still, if you must heed the forecaster’s lies,

Set a good example and apologize.

Ginger likes her sweater.  I think. Now, I’ve never been one of those dog people who dressed up their dogs to look like little versions of themselves.  No leather jackets.  No sweatsuits emblazoned with a sports team logo. No doggy raincoats, with matching rain hat and rubber boots.  Come to think of it, since the buttons of the last one rusted off, I haven’t even owned a raincoat.  So that’s not exactly an accurate comparison.

But last Christmas, Sofie asked about a present for our two Cardigan Welsh Corgis, Ginger and Colby.  They are sister and brother, but from different litters, and have served not only as surrogate siblings to Sofie, but as comedy team, always ready for her amusement.  Used for herding cattle and ponies in Wales, the breed are working dogs that get a little antsy when they can’t keep an eye on us.  When Sofie was just learning to use a real bed, Ginger slept on the bed while Colby slept underneath.

So when Sofie expressed a desire – no, the expectation – that she should give them a gift for Christmas, it only seemed right. Standing there, in PetSmart in Hyannis, faced by all sorts of dress-up gear for the latest fashionable toy breed.

Oh, sure, they have short legs, but they are otherwise medium-sized dogs.  Colby’s head is almost as big as a German Shepherd and I’ve seen him turn things like femurs and brake handles into tiny bits in the blink of an eye.  So they clothing that caught Sofie’s eye were on the disappointingly small size.

The only thing we could be certain of was a pink and purple striped sweater.  Fully aware of Ginger’s gender, Sofie agreed this was just the thing. Colby could have an extra cow hoof in his stocking, to make up for it.  Nature provided him with a much heavier coat, anyway.

So on Christmas Day last year, I became A Guy Who Dresses Up His Dog.  It fit, which was a relief, I suppose — not like there was any other clothing we could exchange it for.  Ginger didn’t try to get out of it, she didn’t carry in mud and leaves from outside (any more than on her feet), and it didn’t shrink.  In fact, she seemed less agitated and more restful, which I chalk up to drowsiness – always a good thing in the other occupants of a writer’s home.

And then a couple weeks ago, we took a walk down to the Chatham Bakery, with Sofie handling Ginger’s leash like a pro. Because of the dog, we ate our Gingerbread cookies at the picnic table out front.  With all eyes at the booths inside the bakery looking out at us, it was clear I had become THE Guy Who Dresses Up His Dog.

Oh, the shame of it all.

It is just a long, slow descent into a world of rhinestone leash with matching collar and tiara, patent-leather Mary Janes, and fancifully-flowered sunhats.  I flash-forward to a day not too long from now, when I would be clipping Ginger’s claws and wonder if it would ruin her French manicure.

Really, this anxiety is all after-the-fact, of course.  As a father’s indulgence to his five year-old, the cost to my male pride was fairly insignificant.  You pretty much have to set aside all pretense when you have a child, more so with a daughter. Even more so as the single father of a little girl.  I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve left the house forgetting that just a little while earlier I’d had my hair done up.  Sofie’s insistence notwithstanding, pink barrettes apparently do NOT complement my eyes.

Still, I’m looking for Colby to redeem the male-ness around here.  Christmas may have come and gone, but the sales are just beginning.  Big black leather collar with plenty of spikes should do it — something coyote-busting.

Yet, it is not that easy, when considering Sofie.  Such an accessory would put an end to her near-hourly hugs that squeeze the pulse out of him. I’m more worried about the underside of her mattress getting torn up.  We might have to pull it back a little.  Aviator sunglasses?  Nah.  A shoulder holster?  Might work.  A black Led Zeppelin T-shirt?  Not bad.  But I draw the line at rhinestones.

Last spring while stuck in a slowdown on Route 28 in East Falmouth, I decided to stop idling the car and to pull into Mahoney’s to get a little greenery for our yard. Since our place was built, a sloping escarpment of bare clay has taunted me through the kitchen window. Vegetables didn’t quite work there. Sunflowers looked nice, and the passing birds loved them. But I grew up on Oyster Pond, surrounded by wild berries of all kinds, so it was not surprising I walked out with a small thornless blackberry bush.

Two weeks later, I swung into Crocker’s in Brewster and picked up a mate, just in case it needed a pollinator. Later in the season, we harvested a grand total of four blackberries. I hadn’t planned on any the first year, so this was a real treat.

All this summer, Sofie and I have watched our bounty grow. From the kitchen counter, while nursing bowls of cereal, we have seen these two sprouting hydras blossom and produce clusters of red berries. Waiting for them to ripen into sweet black fruit seems to have taken forever. But two weeks ago we were finally able to find a few that came off the stem with the slightest tug. Terrific taste — and no thorns — and perfectly formed fruit. We end up with a couple handfuls every other day.

I made a bet with Sofie that all our blackberries would be done by the time she started kindergarten. It is a good thing for me that we didn’t actually wager anything. They just continue to come, apparently feeding on nothing more than sunlight and dew. As the wild blackberries we find along our bike rides pass away, our own domesticated bushes continue to produce dessert after dessert. One can only imagine how profuse next summer and fall will be.

If only our local economy showed such adaptability. Throughout our history, inhabitants here learned to be flexible. The soil is relatively poor, the location is off the beaten path, and the harbors are shallow and bounded by sandbars. If it hadn’t been for the fish, nobody would have been here to greet the Pilgrims. And most of their descendants got out as soon as they could, too.

Farming didn’t last long. Salt works lasted until mines were found in Pennsylvania. Whaling worked until the oil came along (and whales didn’t anymore). We had a naval air base until peacetime precluded the need for it. The railroad brought tourists here until the automobile killed that. And now our tourist-based economy is in its throes.

Note that I do not say “death throes.” Just massive changes. These changes are completely beyond the control of the local or state tourism entities, and the forces that drive them are as sympathetic to the plights of an innkeeper or restaurateurs as a hurricane.

Gas costs at least twice as much as it did just a few years ago. People do not have disposable income, so they cut back on trips to the Cape, or on the extras once they get there, like eating out and shopping. On the other hand, Europeans have flooded in with a healthy euro-to-dollar exchange rate. Establishing a business model on a favorable international exchange rate is as wise as it would be to base it upon a finite supply of imported labor whose entry is controlled completely by a federal security bureaucracy. From a gardening perspective, that’s like replanting your entire yard with annuals every year — it is going to look like hell if your garden shop runs out of inventory.

Meanwhile, consider this investment. If Sofie goes to Chatham public schools until she graduates, that will be an investment of at least $100,000 of the taxpayer’s money. Driving over the Sagamore Bridge on Labor Day (a very light traffic count), I saw a few cars loaded with bags destined for one college or another.

The kids in those cars are almost certainly never going to return to live here permanently, and that is an entirely rational decision. Why go deep into debt for college just to come back to a place where breaking your back is required to just get by? We’re losing millions and millions of dollars of long-term capital investment every year. Meanwhile every year our wholesale dependence on a seasonal economy that can be disrupted by something as simple as a few rainy weeks grows more precarious.

Our supposed affluence, measured in what someone from California or Washington, D.C. is willing to spend to buy your modest ranch or Cape, has brought very little lasting benefit to our middle-class families.

We need to diversify our economy to recapture the investment we’ve made in human capital. We need to see that the way to empower people is not impose limits on their income so they can qualify for health insurance and housing. We need to find new avenues that allow people to remain in Chatham year-round, to make the same paycheck they do in January as they do in July, to afford a home without public subsidy, to go out to restaurants and otherwise spend their money here, at home.

Consider that just across the Canal, a huge film complex, Plymouth Rock Studios, is being built that will transform the economy of Southeastern New England. Now at current gas prices, that’s too much of a hike from Chatham. But what local venues will be used for movies and television shows filmed there? There’s a short list: Provincetown, Woods Hole, the National Seashore, Route 6A. Oh, and Chatham. Not for one film. Not for just one time in a few years. More than likely on a regular basis.

Moreover, this is an industry that spawns numerous cottage businesses through subcontracts. With the advance of film technology, there’s no reason why some of what is shot here couldn’t be further developed right here. A non-polluting, non-disruptive, well-paid knowledge and creative economy. Year-round.

That is not at odds with the tourism sector of our economy. It supports it. This is but one example.

Too often when discussing economic development, the public (and sadly, our leaders) thinks in terms of heavy industry. But that’s not where we are going, locally or nationally. Not everything works well forever. Not even blackberries.

This week’s featured op-ed at The Cape Cod Chronicle.

She can’t be put in a box.  She’s the black Rickie Lee Jones. Other times, maybe she’s the female Lenny Kravitz.  She’s an African American woman who rocks.  She’s a singer-songwriter who can plug a hole in a soulful folk tune with a bit of rap.  She’s a guitarist, which means in this day and age she stands out.  So, respect the lady, the artist — Shea Rose is a musician. “I’m a storyteller,” she says.  Like any good one, she’s on a journey.

Born in Boston, Shea’s grandfather played jazz organ at the famous Hi-Hat, the South End’s first jazz club.  With her loungy-retro sound of “Devilish” (which calls out for use in a soundtrack), we’re taken back to a time when Miles Davis or Sammy Davis, Jr. were setting the standard for cool in Boston and nationwide.

But at age twelve, Shea’s parents moved the family out to the burbs.  “Being the only black kids at Braintree High School was extremely awkward, but it influenced my music.  If I had stayed in Boston, I would have never been listening to Bon Jovi or Guns N’ Roses.”  That’s clear in the pounding intro to Shea’s “Free Love.”  The whole song is a refreshing synthesis of rock, funk and R&B, not unlike Nikka Costa.

She put her BA in English & Communications to work during an internship for MTV.  While in New York, she responded to an ad in the Village Voice and was offered lead singer for a girl group, Mercy.  Thankfully, she decided to instead return to Boston, and work on her musical chops.  First fronting for “a gang of old hippie white guys”, The Ripchordz, she later moved onto a two-year gig with Luv Jones.  “That’s when I learned how to capture an audience,” Shea says.

After two years, she lost the feeling to perform, and moved to Jamaica with her boyfriend from the band, Nathan Sabanayagam.  Her evolution continued with a heavy course in reggae in its homeland, and learning how to play guitar.  Shea the storyteller revealed herself in a more folk-acoustic fashion, such as “Light Fades” & “Lovin’ You.”

Returning again to Boston, she answered an ad on Craigslist, and was chosen as one of six writer-musicians to tour the country on a bus for MSN Music.  While using her skills as a reporter, she wrote online articles for bands and concerts.  Those close quarters with her busmates, representing different genres of American music, exposed to her even greater range of traditions — and how the music industry works. After three months, the tour was over and Shea realized how little experience she really had with music.

Getting serious, she took Berklee College of Music up on a $10,000 World Tour Scholarship they had offered three years before.  “I never realized how vast and theoretical music really is,” she says of her education. Plus, she took advantage of a grant to study for a semester at the Nakas Conservatory in Greece.  While there, she quickly got exposure as an R&B performer, and was performing in clubs in Athens.  “I came back from Europe with such a fire,” she says.

Now Shea’s in the studio, working on a new EP, “The Discovery of Honey”, and getting a band together.  Meanwhile, she’s still working on her guitar-playing.  And polishing her songwriting craft is also paying off — the refrain of her brooding “Liar’s Lament” has riffs echoing David Bowie’s “Space Oddity”, then pulls in some rap that forcefully expresses the anger of the woman scorned, with the same raw feeling of Kate Nash’s “Dickhead”.

All this time, she’s working hard at more and more shows.  Shea Rose is the go-to when a Boston area band’s lead singer calls in sick.  She has her own concert in Franklin Park at the end of August.  Then, through September 2008, Shea will be hosting Matt Murphy’s “Berklee Girls Rock”.

With a powerful voice and electric presence, Shea Rose could do just fine as a simple performer in contemporary American music.  But there’s a depth and breadth to this artist — ever-expanding — that takes any audience further.  The best musicians are on a journey, and every new listener is glad to join Shea Rose on hers.

Photos by G.F. Productions​

Upon upgrading to the latest version, Chandra was good enough to give me her old iPod last year. Since my job at the time involved mostly driving, I wasn’t able to use the headset (that being illegal while operating a motor vehicle in Mass.), as advanced as it was.

For the past few months, however, I’ve been outside a lot more and able to spare myself the incessant schilling of commercial radio as well as the thinly-veiled version on public radio. I took the time to hunt down a range of podcasts that update more or less periodically.

My father was interested in the thing I was wearing on my arm. Not a radio — a recorder, so I can pick the show I want to listen to, when I want to, and stop when I need to, and then pick up again. As the ability to control my listening had sunk in, I’ve gotten fairly particular on what I am willing to put in my brain.

First up, American Public Media’s Marketplace. On the local NPR station, they broadcast this excellent business show during Sofie’s bath time. So, instead I get to listen to it the next morning. And what’s better, they also have a shorter morning update version, so I can listen to them back-to-back and feel very smart about world economics and global finance by the time I sink my teeth into my peanut butter and jelly sandwich at lunch.

Once a week, I get to punctuate this with the News from Lake Wobegon. Not the entire Prairie Home Companion, just Garrison Keilor’s monologue on his fictional hometown. When I first found this show, it was spring and I listened to the latest show where he mentioned the last of the snow melting. But when I realized I could find past shows and listen to them as well, I loaded up, each day picking older and older shows.

Little by little, as the weather around me was improving and warming, Lake Wobegon was moving backward in time, until it hit subzero in Minnesota – strange thing to listen to while seeing daffodils and tulips bloom. Still, for a few days in May during a bone-chilling northeaster, my listening and the conditions around me in Chatham were about in sync.

Now, I have tried to listen to the Wall Street Journal This Morning online. But they seem to emulate a morning AM business news broadcast, with an almost-breathless delivery and an annoying recap of the top stories and time checks. Hint to WSJ online: a podcast can be played (and replayed) at any time, so I pretty much got that “top story” the first time. However, they also have a tech news briefing, which is blessedly shorter. The gist is that they take a few minutes to talk about the latest gadget and news about technology that most of the time I don’t understand or can’t afford, but it all sounds very smart.

Recalling my time in Germany, I also listen to Deutsche Welle’s Correspondents Report (in English). If I have but a few minutes, I can get any number of stories about news from a European perspective – and it is different. For those of you who listen to BBC news radio reports on NPR, Deutsche-Welle is even further removed from American culture. Of course, there is an emphasis on the role of Germany, like when they talk about NATO in Afghanistan, they typically interviewing the soldiers of the Bundeswehr. Every other broadcast from their worldwide correspondents somehow seems to do with global warming (no controversy; it has been accepted as fact for some time). Even if one does not agree with European issues, listening to their news gives me a much better understanding on why they think the way they do.

If I have time, I try to listen to This American Life. Recently I’ve begun wondering if some of their contributors are blurring the line between fact and fiction to enhance their stories. But when they partnered with Marketplace to produce a whole show on an analysis of the sub-prime mortgage meltdown, I remembered why I barely watch the TV news anymore. Every person who intends to vote this November, or invest, had better avail themselves of the show, “The Giant Pool of Money.”

Lastly, I been able to bear Slate Magazine’s Political Gabfest, if for no other reason than the personal interactions between the participants. Essentially, it is the editor of the online magazine, Slate, and two of his underlings’ takes on developments in the week in politics, and are as candid and informal as chatting in the lunch room. If anyone had any doubt as to the perspective of the newsroom of Slate, their is no pretense at disguising a very left-of-center point of view. My appreciation comes from the “Well, at least your being honest” school of thought.

But I listen because I often hear discussions touching upon such things as the tragedy of public life, meaning that politicians cannot let slip for one minute, cannot be themselves except within a small coterie of family and advisors. I find the level of pre- programmed outrage by opposing camps in the presidential race so tediously insincere and whorish that I am becoming unwilling to take either of them seriously.

However, the Slate’s Gabfest participants will, often in the same broadcast, defend their right (and even duty) to report on a politician’s possible indiscretions, feeling as if they are owed an explanation, but admitting no sense of inconsistency on their own part. No wonder good people shun public life. Frank Herbert wrote, “It is said that power corrupts, but actually it’s more true that power attracts the corruptible.” They also make better copy.

Then there are the 15 minute kids podcasts from BBC radio, which are a godsend on long car rides with Sofie. Very original and fun. I can keep switching them around, too, to keep from going insane rather than listening to the same thing for the 500th time.

As entertainment becomes far more personal, consumers grow more demanding. I can hear, for free, virtually any show in the world, produced by anyone at a very low cost, distributed via a free worldwide medium. For Cape Codders, whose radio stations have long been as poor as the market allowed, independence lies in a shoulder strap and headphones.

Last month economists were announcing that the magic number had finally been arrived at. Meaning, the price of gasoline had finally risen to a price that changed the behavior of Americans. That number was $3.50.

That price doesn’t look so bad right now. Over the Fourth of July weekend, it had gained another 65 cents — over 18 percent in a month. For a little while, it had looked as if consumers just were not going let it surpass $3.99. The purely psychological barrier of the number four at the beginning of any price was changing minds very effectively and immediately changing bank balances.

But the number of consumers worldwide grows every day, while the number of crises (real or imagined) that threaten the tight supply of oil seems endless. So the price of oil has not been stopped by the reluctant American driver alone. Few believe the price will drop anytime soon, and we now must face reality of life over four dollars a gallon.

Over four, middle class families that might normally drive long distances to a vacation spot aren’t. They’re not flying either, because of rising airline ticket prices (and ever-more creative fees) and cutbacks on the number of flights. So the demographic of tourists coming here shifts to those who would otherwise go to Europe except for a terrible exchange rate, and those from Europe who see everything as a bargain at 40 percent off (even gas). Or the phenomenon I witnessed just a couple weeks ago in Provincetown — plenty of rentals booked, but no one is going out.

Over four, those who shopped at BJ’s in Hyannis or Wal-Mart in Wareham check the price of the roundtrip first. Costing ten dollars before you even walk in the store, is such a trip worth it? How many mega-packs of toilet paper can a person buy, week after week? Better to go to Job Lot for some items, CVS for others, and Stop & Shop for the real groceries.

Over four, the farthest movie theater or restaurant is Dennis and Wellfleet. The Cape Cod Mall’s stadium seating comes at a premium, as does the gas of the mid-Cape. And it won’t be dinner and a movie, but rather dinner or a movie.

Over four, there are no more spur-of-the-moment trips up to Boston. In fact, what excursions up there are combined with about six other justifications, and ideally shared with another person. If they can’t be found, then the trip is postponed. Even if it is doctor’s visit.

Over four, the locations one would be willing to work shrinks dramatically. I once worked in North Falmouth, and the worst part was the long tedious drive — up to the mid-Cape highway, down to Route 28, over Route 151 and over. Now that commute would cost over $90 each week. That’s a substantial deduction made to a paycheck, especially in a area with 40% lower pay scale than Boston but a similar cost of living. Employment options narrow as the zone one can afford to work within shrinks. Unemployment grows, especially in outlying areas.

Over four, exurbia is dying. The outer suburbs of many cities are being hastened to the grave variable-rate mortgages and highly inefficient SUVs. Any place on public transportation is doing well, especially area within walking distance of city centers and/or on bike trails. That’s one treatment for obesity.

Over four, parents are telling teenager that (gasp) they will have to pay for their own gas, driving them to (double gasp) take jobs. Reputedly, these were the jobs they were unwilling to take before. Not exactly a revelation: people who need money will work for it, all other options failing. Except they’re now in competition with other jobseekers who cannot afford to drive further for work.

Over four means there is less, if anything, in savings to get many through another winter on the Cape. In a seasonal economy, one must make hay while the sun shines. The doubling of gas prices in the past few years, while wages have either stagnated or fallen in the mean time, is a recipe for disaster.

Over four, the arrival of the home heating oil truck will be greeted with the same dread as a root canal. No, worse. A root canal need only be done once. Heating one’s home is inevitable and successive. All other supplementary heating sources have risen, too — propane, wood and wood pellets. Unless you’re ready to install a solar hot water system or photovoltaic (electricity-generating) panels on your roof, or your neighbors or town are cool with your plans for a wind turbine, this winter will be extremely harsh on lower and middle class families in New England. Some will end up moving in together, at least for the winter. Others will see this as the last straw and move away. Some will turn down the thermostat, put on a sweater and hope the tank will last until the next paycheck comes in.

Over four offers a mixed bag: more togetherness, more exercise, more ingenuity on the one hand, while on the other, less opportunity, less business for local restaurants, less savings, more out-migration of working families and lower temperatures in senior’s homes.

Over four exposes our isolation and the vulnerability, in stark terms, of our local economy. We’ve never really had a solid foundation — more of a tent on the beach with the various poles leaning against each other (fishing, tourism, retirees). Long commutes for better paying jobs is no longer an option. Counting on seasonal visitors to have loads of disposable income left over after paying the cost of travel of housing is now a gamble. We must solve our own problems as we see them coming, rather than trying to hold up the tents poles during this hurricane.

At the Easter Egg hunt in Chase Park, I ran into Tim Wood and Rowan and asked if they’d seen Sofie. Having just turned five, she’s just a little younger than Rowan. So Tim’s alarm was understandable, figuring I had lost her somewhere in the crowd.

I allayed his concern, explaining, “No, I dropped off her and Chandra here and then parked around the corner.” Glancing about at the gathered masses of kids and parents, I added, “It shouldn’t be too hard to find Chandra in this crowd.” To which Tim had to agree.

And yet, I still had a problem finding the woman I’ve been seeing for three years now – a black woman – in a small park in Chatham. She has the ability to effortlessly dematerialize, which may come from her growing up in Dorchester. It was particularly uncanny in this day’s sea of otherwise pale faces.

So as the candidacy of Barack Obama has risen, and then taken on directly issues of race in America, it has come at a time of increasing seriousness in my relationship with a professional, masters-educated journalist and health care writer, who is also black. Both having a great interest in politics, but being of opposite parties, we’ve become each other’s sounding boards for discussions on television news, talk radio and blogs. Closer to home, however, race is an issue in talking about our future.

The theme common to both the presidential campaigns and any future Chandra and I may have is that race is an unresolved issue in America. Not just in East Crackerbarrell, Georgia, but here on Cape Cod. That makes people uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable. But in a small place, it is pretty clear when someone is being treated differently.

One early summer evening two years ago, while I was handing out balloons at a Cardinals game in Orleans, Chandra took Sofie to the playground at the opposite end of Eldredge Park. As expected the place was crawling with kids, parents and grandparents. Done with my campaigning, I came over to relieve Chandra from watching Sofie, who was playing with another little girl. I was dressed well, as was Chandra (as always). She went over to a large planter surrounding a tree nearby.

As she did so, the father of the girl Sofie was playing with looked up, looked over at Chandra, looked over at his wife and yelled to her to move their bag, which was eight feet away on the other side of the planter in plain site. This, after she had been there half an hour already with God knows how many other people around. Perhaps the guy realized that he had left his personal possessions exposed – but it took the presence of someone dark skinned nearby to them that flipped his mental switch.

I’d never seen this before. Not blatantly. Perhaps that’s the beauty of growing up in an almost 100 percent white town. You never get bald-faced bigotry demonstrated to you for the simple reason there are no potential victims.

But before the smug that-doesn’t-happen-here attitude kicks in, consider this: More than a few times, we’ve been out at the beach or playground with Sofie – my blond-haired, blue-eyed Alpine princess – and when it has been time to go, another parent will refer to Chandra as Sofie’s mommy. It is not the same parent every time. But every time it happens, the person is white, and is from a large metropolitan area much more diverse than here.

Contrast this with Chandra’s reception here by locals. She’s followed around stores by otherwise inattentive clerks. She’s asked what inn she works at. She’s solicited for cleaning Saturday changeovers. In the fall people ask her when she’s going back. Friends of mine who would come from Jamaica for summer work said this was regular rapport with white people here. So when Chandra is with Sofie, she’s often asked if she is the new au pair. Too often, her experience being black in Chatham has been to be seen first as a servant.

For a person who grew up in the poor all-white town of Chatham, I see that as quite a step. Backward. If that is uncomfortable to read, it is worse to live with. And like concrete, once set, a public perception is tough to change.

When she studied in London, Chandra saw a city where interracial couples were practically the rule. To a lesser extent, it is becoming more common in the U.S. So, as Barack Obama said, the situation is not static. Attitudes are changing, slowly, on both sides. It may take a whole generation of biracial children to break the silent stalemate between those who say “Let go of the past,” and those who answer, “But it just happened five minutes ago – again!”

I hope for that. At some point, being black in America will be no different than being Italian or Irish. Or, like Sofie, part Mexican, part Austrian, part old-line Yankee. Someday. It has taken longer, though, and that’s because they were the original easily-discernible underclass. The nation, as a whole, has had two chances to get it right – first with the Constitution, and second after the Civil War – but ditched it for political expediency.

To be fascinated by American history is to be fascinated with the issue of race. It is a stubborn thing, and an uncomfortable thing. Though I want it to be assigned to history – and history alone – as I go forward with Chandra, the question of race come down to this:

If Sofie were to have a brother or sister, would that son or daughter of mine, more likely to look like her mother or the junior Senator from Illinois, be treated the same by my country and my community?

I’d like to say yes. But the answer today, uncomfortably, is no.