The Says You! radio program pulls into the Old Whaling Church in Edgartown for a live taping on Thursday night. Panelists include Fletcher “Flash” Wiley, Tony Kahn, Francine Achbar, Carolyn Faye Fox, and the Vineyard's own Arnie Reisman and Paula Lyons.
In the classic stage version of Peter Pan, Sandy Duncan flew across the stage with apparent ease. But she was a whippet of a woman who could fly if a strong wind blew through the theatre.
On Friday evening at the Vineyard Playhouse, board member Arnie Reisman asked everyone to raise their glass of champagne. “We have reached a milestone,” he said. “We are going to dedicate this stage to Patricia Neal.”
Near the end of the school year my son had a field trip to the Boston Museum of Science. As I drove him to the ferry I put on some traveling music, Billy Bragg singing Woody Guthrie tunes.
Caring for someone with Alzheimer's disease is difficult for many reasons. On the Vineyard, memory loss groups are indeed as much about providing a place for people with Alzheimer’s to go and feel comfortable, as a way for caregivers to get a needed respite and learn critical information.
My daughter wants a pet for Christmas. Pickle (aka Eirene) is five years old and has high hopes. She talks of ponies and large dogs, malamutes, huskies, Great Danes.
It is approximately 471 strides, done at a leisurely saunter, from the steps of the Harbor View Hotel to the steps of the Edgartown Lighthouse. While this may seem like useless trivia, it is actually a Christmas in Edgartown public service announcement.
His customers visited as much for the eggs over easy as to watch Don Patrick perfect the art of poetry in motion, herding homefries, eggs, toast and bacon around the grill without ever appearing to break a sweat, even on a hot August weekend.
My Sharona had a Heart of Glass that shattered when she discovered she was Born to Run and no amount of Shadow Dancing down at the YMCA could change a thing.
It was turning toward deadline at the Gazette, the time of the week when the tap of computer keys becomes the only conversation, save a bit of singing from one corner, the slurp of coffee from several other corners and the noisy clamoring of the press man downstairs wondering where his pages are loitering.
A procrastinator spoke up, breaking the silence. “I wish I could have met Imhoff. When did he die, anyway?”
