From the Sept. 10, 1954 edition of the Vineyard Gazette:

The weather is undoubtedly fall these days, by feel, by looks, by smell, even though autumn will not have official sanction for yet another eleven days, by which time, by feel and looks and smell, summer may be with us again. At this time of year the transition from one to another and back again is made smoothly, even imperceptibly almost, so that the observer, while conscious of a difference, mainly concerns himself with relishing the golden tang of both.

A very real joy of autumn will be missing on the Vineyard this year as a result of the hurricane. (As of this writing there is talk of another such brewing off the coast of Florida but let us hope that New England in 1954 can refer to “the” hurricane and not be forced to differentiate between damaged caused by hurricanes Carol, Dolly and on down the alphabet.)

The joy we mean is that of bright autumn foliage. Any fall landscape is unthinkable without it and yet without it the Island will be, to a great extent, this year. The salt, they tell us, whipped from the ocean by the force of the wind, is the agent that has caused the leaves on many trees and bushes all over the Island to turn a sear, ugly brown and fall prematurely to the ground. Flowers too, suffered from the salt wind, and many have met the same fate as the leaves.

After the fury of the wind abated somewhat during Hurricane Carol, but before the tide covering the low section of Vineyard Haven fell we joined a number of people at the nearest dry spot to the ferry wharf, that time covered with some three feet of water, and watched several boats in the harbor maneuver to keep from being blown ashore or afoul of the other craft. There were two or so power boats, which observers felt would be all right, and one black ketch about which there was some doubt.

At some point, we also looked up the street where the Crowell Coal Company and Tilton’s Lumber Yard, the S.B.S. grain store, the A&P, and Dukes County Garage sat in several feet of water and were startled to see float out of a Tilton Lumber Company shed one of the workmen standing atop a pile of lumber. It brought to mind pictures of lumberjacks riding their logs down swirling rivers to the mill, but fortunately this lumberman had no farther to guide his cargo than across the street and into dry ground on the rise of the Tisbury parking lot.

As far as physical appearance goes, the Quenames and Quansoo country has a distinctly different atmosphere, a peculiar feeling of expansion being predominant. This is probably due to the razing of all the eminences, and the subsequent loss of contrast. A remarkable thing about the beach is the opening into Black Point Pond. This was still running two feet deep and quite strong as late as Sunday, and the pond was a salt pond. People who know the area could not even remember when there was last an opening into Black Point.

The Quansoo creek bridge is, of course, gone, and helpful swimmers have put a bridge of rocks across the creek. This makes for idea crabbing, except that the crabs have been blown, frightened or washed to someplace else. They just aren’t there, and this is the height of the blue claw season.

With nothing to compare to, it was hard to realize how much sand had been displaced, until one happened to see the heads of what had been three-foot stems of beach grass peeping out of the sand.

There is a feeling of premature autumn brought on by the salt-killed leaves and grass, only the color is wrong. It’s all too drab. The one spot of brightness is the bayberry, which has managed a bright rust color to help things along.

This tale is from Lambert’s Cove, and illustrates nothing except possibly the perseverance of the picnicker.

A Summer resident went down to the north shore for a quick swim, and passed a man digging a huge hole, and propped up next to the hole were two halves of a ping pong table. This was too much for human curiosity to bear, especially since the operations were being carried on in a violent wind. “Are you digging for water, or did your wife lose a diamond ring down here?”

“Neither one,” said the digger. This is a picnic and I want a sheltered place for the fire.”

“Oh,” said the observer, who then walked on to the shore, felt the force and temperature of the wind and traded his swim for a little looking around. On his way back, the digger, he found, had dug some more, found some more boards, and a companion was even then approaching with another great load of lumber. This seemed quite elaborate, for a picnic, and the observer was moved to remark “Are you going to shingle that thing, or finish it in novelty siding?”

The picnicker was not only not taken aback, but answered in the spirit of the occasion, “I don’t know, but either way I figure I can get $600 a month for it next season!”

Compiled by Hilary Wall
library@mvgazette.com