From the Vineyard Gazette edition of Sept. 4, 1970 by Katharine Ivison:

Remember the first day back at school when the teacher used to tell us to write a composition on What I Did During My Vacation? I never could think of anything then, but now, 40 years later, I could write a book.

It all began a year ago when my husband and I took a walk up the road from our tiny, functional, uncomplicated, rented summer cottage. We saw, to his delight, a For Sale sign posted on an enormous summer home which he had admired since boyhood. True, it had a magnificent water view from its imposing location atop the bluffs overlooking Nantucket Sound. But my heart sank when I counted its rooms, 16 in all, and took a second look at its furnishings, early Good Will.

“We only have two kids,” I protested. “We don’t need all that room.”

“This is the last remaining water view on East Chop,” was his reply. “And besides, now we can enjoy summer guests without feeling cramped.”

With astonishing speed, papers were drawn up and signed and we became owners as the summer ended.

During the following winter and spring, whenever I drifted into depths of melancholia just thinking about cleaning 16 rooms, my husband would say with cheerful confidence, “Don’t worry, dear, we’ll all help.”

As any mother knows, Houdini couldn’t make himself escape faster than a teenager at the sight of a vacuum cleaner. And my husband, whose intentions are always the best, becomes totally involved with the community at the drop of a project.

Spring inevitably became summer, and we were suddenly occupying the subject of my winter nightmares. The summer community welcomed us with warmth and understanding, one by one coming to inspect our treasure, having seen its state of dilapidation the year before.

“Now let’s see what changes you’ve made. None yet? Well, never mind, you have to live in it for a while before making drastic decisions.”

How to pull it all together without additional shock to the depicted bank account was my challenge.

I had hardly counted the sheets before guests began arriving in frightening numbers. Unlike some women who are used to large families and many hungry mouths I am not geared to thinking “big” in the market or kitchen. I became a familiar sight to other shoppers as I pushed my cart through miles of aisles, lips moving in unintelligible gibberish.

Dinner preparation was always a challenge to my running form as I sprinted the distance half a city block from kitchen to living room for a brief word with my guests, a swallow of martini, and back to the kitchen in time to rescue the vegetable from burning. After several disasters, I learned how to time my return at the last hiss before the pan boiled dry.

Then there was the problem of the overlapping guest. “The Smiths are arriving on the 9:40 ferry,” I would say brightly, “but don’t you feel the least bit rushed about getting up in the morning!”

Remember the old vaudeville act where the performer could snatch a tablecloth off the table without disturbing a glass of water? I’m going to try it with bed sheets while the outgoing guest is still on them.

There were amusing moments too. One of our proudest claims about the house, as a sort of apology for its lack of decor, was that it is structurally sound! With all due respect to my husband’s judgment, it really is structurally sound except in one spot — the roof over his bed. One night when I was asleep, vaguely aware of distant thunder and torrential rain he suddenly leaped out of bed with the startling words “I’ve gotta leak!” His rush into the bathroom for towels left me hysterical when I finally awakened enough to see a stream of water from the ceiling landing dead center on his bed. I struggled out of mine and down to the kitchen for one of the many enamel basins (now I know why so many came with the house) to catch the flood.

Two more drips began as more water filled the attic, so that we had a catchy little tune going as they landed in what were now three basins. Ping, Pang, Pong! I was hoping they would all land simultaneously just once so that I might hear a chord, but they never did.

And so, teacher, I’m sure as I look back on my “vacation” during the coming fall and winter the fun will stand out more than the chaos. Also, this is only September and I’ve got nine months to rest up before it all begins again.

Now that a chill has come into the air, West Tisburyites are closing up cellar holes that are likely to look inviting to the wild and semiwild creatures that seem to be in abundance this year in that town. Mickey Kinsella of Music street is patching a hole leading under her house that she hospitably left open last winter for feral cats. Last spring she was awakened nightly by skunks wrangling odoriferously with raccoons under her bedroom. When she finally called police chief George Manter and he set a trap for the roomers, four cats, two raccoons and three skunks turned up.

Compiled by Hilary Wall
library@mvgazette.com