It’s a tad melancholy at the little cottage. Last night I had dinner with Andrea, who ran the restaurant behind the bookstore, aptly named “Behind the Bookstore,” through a successful season. Andrea had never run a restaurant before and she did it wonderfully; will never do it again. It was our farewell dinner, at Rockfish, on North Water Street, where we dined six months ago at the beginning of this adventure.
Thursday, a lady arrived in the store; for the first time in sixty years of coming to the island, she was having to deal with stand-by, a result of the storms which have battered us. She wanted just the right book for her stand-by experience. We spent some minutes on it and she bought “Dear Mrs. Bird,” a delightful small book about a young woman who stumbles into being the Ann Landers of wartime Britain. Joyce, who owns the store, recommended to me and I consumed it early in the summer on a quick business trip to D.C.
The week has included several good exchanges with the President of my high school senior class, Mike O’Rourke, who know identifies himself as TBHI, “the bald-headed Irishman.” He is bald though, in high school, had thick blonde hair I envied.
It has been a time of savoring such things as reconnecting with Mike O’Rourke, of sharing texts with my godson, Paul, who is one of the lights of my life. We’ve had a history, Paul and I. I lost him, found him, lost him. At eighteen, he claimed me, never leaving me and it is beyond beautiful to have him in my life. At eighteen, he was courageous, and demonstrates courage in so many ways today.
The world outside these personal things roars with confusion. The dialogue in Washington is hard to follow. Every hour brings some new crisis as we move into Nixonian times, me fears. Except, in Nixon’s time, we did not have the constant 24-hour, day in, day out, news cycle that confronts us now. We had moments of respite. There is none now.
Mulvaney dazzled. Whatever you think, whatever side of this divide you are on, it was a stunning performance, so, so ill-advised. And that seems the order of the day. We are watching a train wreck. One member of the administration said the “optics” of choosing the Trump Doral as the site of the next G7 conference might not be good. You think?
Our current politics have riven us as much as anything I have seen in my lifetime. One recent article suggested we take to the streets and march again; I marched for the first time against Viet Nam at 17. Could do it again.
In the meantime, I am on the Vineyard, doing things to calm myself. When I need to go to Vineyard Haven to pick up shirts from the one island laundry, I sometimes take the longer route, up through Oak Bluffs, past the Jaws bridge, past water and dunes, sometimes witnessing sunsets of staggering beauty; slipping through Vineyard Haven, up State Road.
Ironing shirts is not a strength. I am not, I confess, good at most domestic tasks. I have spent my life coddled by the people who’ve cleaned and fluffed for me. What, I wonder, does that say about me?
Probably nothing I want to hear about from any of you. Thank you for not commenting.
It is interesting; I am entering another new period of my life. Wowza, another one? I mean aren’t we supposed to be done by now? No, I guess not. I am on another new adventure and that seems to be what has kept me alive and moving through all these years.
Don’t let anyone tell you, you’re too old for new adventures, says someone who is older, on a new adventure, figuring out life as if young again.
Letter from the Vineyard 
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