A row of decorated wreaths rests along the front pew of the West Tisbury Congregational Church. There are wreaths with red bows and holly leaves, pine cones and delicate juniper berries. A few feature small, felt cardinals peeking out from amongst the greens. There is also a homemade boxwood wreath with no trappings other than nature’s varied shadings of light and dark green. It glistens next to a faded blue Pilgrim hymnal. And then there are three wreaths at the end of the pew adorned with orange slices.

In 1985 the rock journalist Stephen Davis wrote a book about Led Zeppelin called Hammer of the Gods. Mr. Davis traveled with the band during their 1975 Physical Graffiti tour and witnessed the band members up close at what many say was the height of their creative powers. The book became a New York Times bestseller. The band hated it.

It was a beautiful fall evening on the Island and I was taking an after-dinner stroll with my children. My six-year-old son, Hardy, crashed about in the woods. My daughter, Pickle, not her real name but definitely her given name, walked a few yards in front of me.

Pickle is two and a half and becoming now a small creature of the world rather than just something of my own. She walked in front of me, not even looking back to see if I were following. I felt a tug at my heart.

The Flatbread Pizza Company opened its doors on the Vineyard on July 3. That was just about four months ago. Somehow, in this short span of time, Flatbread has nestled into the community and grown deep roots. To use local terms, it doesn’t feel like a day-tripper, scattered and a bit crazed with the need to do everything for everyone in a matter of hours. Nor does it feel like a summer dink, yet another vacationer, a little more grounded perhaps but still captive to the roving eye. This is my vacation, by God, and I will have fun at all costs!

The Limpopo is a river in Botswana. It is also the name of a doughnut served at State Road Restaurant in West Tisbury. But this is not just any doughnut as anyone who as eaten one, or 30, say, in a week-long binge will attest. It is the perfect doughnut.

Brown and slightly crispy on the outside. A brioche dough interior that is neither too dry nor too moist. And a constellation of sugar crumbs coating the outside, sweet but not cloying. To call this a mere doughnut would be like calling your dog just an another animal. It would not be right.

The Douro River runs through the middle of Portugal. It cuts west to east from the Spanish border until it spills into the Atlantic Ocean. Steep rugged cliffs, rising up four to five hundred metres, flank the route of the river. The heat in summer on those cliffs climbs to 120 degrees or more. There is no shade. The soil is baked dry. To walk upon it is to sink into layers of dust. It is a land not fit for people or for many other living things. And yet within this inhospitable terrain, not navigable by car or tractor or any other motorized accessory, lies the heart of the port wine industry and a grape so hardy its roots can tunnel up to 30 metres deep into the rocky soil in search of water.

At the end of last Saturday’s afternoon performance at the Yard Mary Paula Hunter, the founder of the dance company Jump, took a bow with her dancers, all of them teenage girls. The girls wore what one might expect classically trained dancers to wear. Leotards, ballet shoes, a tutu or two here and there.

Ms. Hunter, on the other hand, wore the ragged remains of a wedding dress. She was also covered in food.

Have you ever thought about your thoughts? Not in the generic sense as in, wow I can't believe I had such a lustful thought, ugly thought, pathetically mundane or masterfully intelligent thought. That's kid stuff. A dime a dozen. How about going deeper into the thought machine itself and its continuous letting loose of one after another, after another new idea or impulse, ad nausea. It's a busy factory up there, the mind churning and burning with rapid-fire suggestions, reactions, negations and desires. So exhausting, but what can one do?

The other day I brought my son, Hardy, to his last soccer game of the spring season. Hardy is five and half now and the game of soccer still rather new to him. Dribbling the ball, passing and scoring are secondary considerations. Mostly, he likes seeing his friends.

The other day while mowing the lawn I stopped to wipe the sweat from my forehead and assess my progress. I am forever tinkering with my technique; an up and back pattern, a series of ever shrinking squares, or even, on a rare day, just going with the flow. Deep in thought I happened to notice, out of the corner of my eye, my five-year-old son, Hardy, dressed in a flowing green cape, pirate hat, and a pair of flippers. He was lurking near the shed and watching me. I pretended not to notice and restarted the mower.