On a recent Saturday, determined to break free of my down-Island bubble, I decided to make the trip to Menemsha in winter — in other words, the end of the world.
I stand on the outside ring of concrete at the Baltimore airport (Friendship for the very oldest of you reading this), waiting for my son Adin.
It was impossible to not be moved by what took place on the floor of the Boston Garden last week.


The old farmhouse has a new front door. Actually only the wood storm door is new — made by a friend who is a skilled finish carpenter.
Service and self sacrifice have been a hallmark of the Vineyard for centuries, across the spectrum of race, gender and income.
I liked turning 90 a year and a half ago. I was given a party overlooking Chilmark Pond by friend Mary Jane Pease.