Darkness has slipped its ever earlier arms around the little cottage on the Vineyard; the day broke, clear and beautiful after three days of a nor’easter, whipping the seas to a frenzy, ferries unable to cross in either direction.
A bride and groom did not make their own wedding, the family of someone evacuated for a medical emergency could not reach him. These things happen when you are on an island, not often thought of until they are realities. The gusts of wind ripped off the gate where “the path” from the cottage meets Katama Road. Power flickered now and again but didn’t go. It was short term; no food or fuel shortages. Next time, though, I will fill the tank when I hear a nor’easter is on its way.
Tonight, Baroque music plays; right for this evening. Returning home, I wanted something light, with a soupcon of melancholy, the way I felt.
After returning from the bookstore, I have a bit of time which is my “creative time,” when I write, edit, or think deeply about something.
The news of the world repels me, yet I am drawn to it, watching this ongoing train wreck, impossible to turn away from as it happens. We are drawn to the endless news cycle like moths to flame.
Impeachment, Kurds betrayed, a building collapsing, fires in California. Russians apparently bombing Syrian hospitals. Typhoon in Japan.
Baroque seemed right. We live in a Baroque time, filled with complex forms, bold ornamentation, like Versailles, with the complex politics of that court, expressive dissonance in everything around us.
Two nights ago, I used my creative time to write a note to a high school classmate, who I learned is fighting a serious disease, which, from what I could parse, is brain cancer. His family has invited friends to share memories and so I did. We carpooled mornings our senior year with four other classmates, mornings I remember vividly, in an older green car called by Steve, who owned it, “the Whorenut,”which, when he placed the name on the side of the car in a subdued decal, resulted in it being banned from the parking lot of our Catholic high school.
Mike was senior class president, popular, able to, in a single bound, leap over and through the complexities of our high school, which brought together Catholic boys from all over the Minneapolis area. He has a laugh that unites, not divides. He enjoys and does not mock.
In the note I wrote him last night, I told him: Also know, I am so very, very appreciative you were kind to me back then. It mattered.
And you see, that was long ago, and I banged my way through adolescence, not very well, but Michael was kind and that has reverberated across the decades.
Be kind, friends. It will reverberate across decades.
Letter from the Vineyard 
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