I think I slept through Earl. Literally. Last thing I remember, Kim and I were helping Doris Ward move her wrought iron lawn furniture into her garage (furniture right on the cusp of being too heavy for a hurricane to lift — the worst type to move). Doris lives in the center of Edgartown. Glad to help. Really. Just really wanted a cup of coffee at the coffee shop. But glad to help.
Somebody had best do something about this heat soon before we all get cranky. Is it always hot here in the summer? On top of all of it, my mom just informed me that she’ll be coming down for three weeks in September. That’s a good thing, right? Boy, it sure is hot. And, like bad poetry, the humidity repeats it’s refrain with nary a nuance of change. Is it always humid here in the summer?
Kim and I have just returned from a quick trip to Logan (dropping nephews off, and spending an hour with our new friend Amy, Jet Blue check-in trainee), and a visit to Kim’s homeland, Lake Winnipesaukee. Had a lovely time. Truly beautiful part of the country. No moose sightings, but still fun. So, I may have missed a bit of Chappy “happy”-nings, but I just make most of this stuff up anyway. Welcome back us! Thank you!
It can be awfully hard to please Chappy folks sometimes. (What’s that saying? You can please some of the people sometime, but Chappy people none of the time. Something like that.) Despite the wonderful weather we’ve been graced with, some are bemoaning the fact that summer has been hastened by this boon. The blueberries are out, the climbing roses have bloomed, and the mosquitoes have blossomed. But will it all last until the important people arrive? Ah, there’s the rub.
First, a correction: Uncle Jimmer (Eric Hartell) wrote to inform me that the original Seager Chappy patriarch was named Sam, not David. I think Uncle Jimmer used to be an editor or something, so he’s a stickler for facts. And he’s the grandson of Sam. Or something like that. Probably wrong about that too.
This is my inaugural summer column as the Chappy correspondent. I follow a long line of accomplished ladies: Varian Cassat, Margaret Knight and Jo-Ann Tilghman, to name a few. Some pretty big shoes to fill, I might add. Not that any of those ladies had large feet. Not that there’s anything wrong with big feet. Or small feet.
I’m still here. Margaret is still away. Searching for the Lost City of Gold in the jungles of the Amazon, I believe she said. Or maybe she’s just driving an El Dorado. I rarely listen to what I’m being told unless I’m being complimented.
Like two steamships passing in the night, I returned to the Island as Margaret was leaving (fleeing?) So I will be the new resident at the columnist’s commune for the next two weeks. The food is fantastic!
Kim and I slipped in, under the cover of night, this past Tuesday. I do not wear travel well, and am vain enough that I prefer not to be spotted until I’ve slept away the road miles’ psychic and physical grime. Hence our hermitage till we reflower. Almost there.
Kim and I buried a beautiful bird on our beach this past Tuesday. No sign of trauma, he (or she) just seemed to have had enough of bird life. Not a seagull, but gull-like, with a downy belly and blue eyes. We buried bird high on the beach with a couple of local shells and some seaweed. Any life passed can be an odd reckoning for the living.
