Letter From the Vineyard 11.11.2019 Life lived with grace…

Butterfly

             Sundays have taken on a rhythm, waking around seven, brewing a cup of strong English Breakfast tea, reading a little of the NY Times, the Washington Post, a summation of news from the Wall Street Journal, a few emails and then off to St. Andrew’s, the petite church at the intersection of Winter and Summer Streets, an apt location, it occurs to me, for a church, at the intersection of seasons.

There were a few minutes at the Parish House for coffee and then I drove out to West Tisbury to pick up some books from Shirley Mayhew, who, having now met her, I realize is one of the island’s living treasures, a teacher to multi-generations of children on the island, grand mere to multiple generations, as interesting as anyone I have met along the ricocheting roads of my life, reminding me in many ways of my now long gone friend, Joseph J. O’Donohue IV, a bon vivant from the time he finished his German schooling in pre-Hitler Germany to his death, nearly twenty years ago.  Listening to the Joes and the Shirleys of the world is to have a glimpse into a world we will not ever know, ever understand, but can have, through their words, a glimpse of what has been and touch, through their memories, the worlds we will never know, a past now history to us but, for them, the foundation of their memories.

That’s why she writes, to share for other generations, what she’s seen, experienced, in several books, including the wonderfully titled, “Living Life with the Grace of a Butterfly.”

The woman I met today is living life with the grace of a butterfly, a thing not easily done, accomplished only when one is infused with generosity of spirit.  Joe had that quality, also, though I could never quite find the words to describe it before.

Leaving her to return to the shop, I dawdled, wandering back roads, taking a long path back to Edgartown so I could savor our introduction before surrendering myself to whatever bustle would fill the rest of the day.

It was busy-ish, a young gentleman came in toward the end of the day; we discussed Hemingway and Fitzgerald, both agreeing, of Hemingway’s oeuvre, we both loved “The Sun Also Rises” best.

Children scurried in an unusual number through the store today, two ladies scoured shelves for the next read for one’s book club.  I was reminded this week sees the first new edition in a long time of “The Joy of Cooking,” a bible for the culinary inclined, the one book I always returned to when something in the kitchen seemed unclear.

The weather reports are being watched closely; not wishing to be stranded on the island when my plane departs for Dublin out of Boston on Wednesday.  There, I’ll celebrate another birthday, another marking of the journey called life, moving closer and closer to Joe and Shirley, where my life’s memories are mostly history being taught to those infinitely younger.

It’s my hope, I will not be derided by some millennial, finding my actions ante-diluvian, accosted by the meme: “OK Boomer!”  The youth of the world are looking at us, of grandparental age, as generational failures, worthy of disrespect for our oh so many deficiencies, particularly in fighting climate change.  “OK Boomer,” was the riposte of a twenty-something New Zealander to a senior legislative colleague in Parliament as she was delivering a speech on climate change, with which he found umbrage.  “OK Boomer.”

Jazz plays, I write, savoring the joys of a simple though very rich day, probably not lived with the grace of a butterfly but enjoyed, nevertheless, playing now with words and looking forward to sifting through, “Living Life with the Grace of a Butterfly.”

 

It is now Monday, November 11th, Veteran’s Day.  A long, deep bow to all Veterans, a holiday started as Armistice Day, to mark the end of World War I, when, at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month, the guns of the war to end all wars, were to fall silent.  If only it had been the war to end all wars…

 

 

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