My mother and brother just wrapped up their whirlwind world tour with a stay at the Big Camp. I’m not sure how it compared to their other stop on the tour — the Marlborough rest stop Dunkin Donuts.
The details of life tend to pile up in my mind like mail thrown on the coffee table. Not enough debris was dusted aside to uncover the delight of writing this column. I’m two hours past deadline. My company car is at risk.
Chappy is a part of Edgartown. In essence, we belong to Edgartown; we are one of her holdings. But days like this one, the rainy breezy late summer season ones, remind me how far apart we are from our parent company.
Growing old is a fantastic experience, full of the wonder of watching one’s skin turn from the supple surface of a Parisian handbag to the texture of burnt newspaper.
The switch has been flipped — spring is off, summer is on. Time to hide on Chappy. I’d like to talk about the weather now, as it’s a great space filler, and it appears that there’s a storm a-brewing.
Chappy is a small island with a relatively large personality. There doesn’t exist much ambivalence toward our (sometimes wayward) appendage: one either would “never live there” or would “love to find a small lot.”
Spring on Chappy means new beginnings — beach plums and shad bloom their weddingish flowers. Previously unseen and unheard creatures appear as if someone was having an art opening with free food.
By the time you read this (and by “you,” I mean the 12 people who read my column), you will have already given all your thanks, and will busy doing things that you may not be as thankful for anymore. But allow me to give my Chappy thanks anyway.
