Saturday morning; most of the Island still sleeps. The rising sun breaks through the tree line on the eastern edge of a field that wears a heavy coat of dew. Today the bright August sun practically commands a beach day. In the vast farm field across the way the hay crop is finally in, good only for mulch this year after a summer that has been thick with rain. Tiny swallows swoop in and out of the freshly cut stubble, foraging for insects. A gossamer veil of mist floats above the ground like some elegant genie just released from her bottle. The new grass below holds promise for a nice second cut of hay in the fall.

Promise.

The late Della Hardman used the word in her weekly column in the Vineyard Gazette in the summer of 2004. She had had the occasion to meet a man campaigning to be junior senator from Illinois named Barack Obama who was visiting the Island, and she wrote about him. Said he had promise. Said she thought he was destined for great things.

Of course Della was a prophet in her own way and everybody knew it, although no one paid much attention at the time. And Della left us before we were ready. But what if Della were alive today? She no doubt would be going around town as usual, wearing her broad, shy, knowing smile, notebook in hand, cogently collecting anecdotes for her weekly column from people of all skin colors, and all walks of life.

And she would no doubt be writing about President Barack Obama coming to the Vineyard for his vacation.

And she might write something like this:

Dear Mr. President:

As you prepare to take the first vacation of your young presidency, there is promise all around. There is promise in the country as the first African American in history leads the American people as their forty-fourth president. There already is promise as the worst economic recession since the Great Depression begins to lose its vise grip on the nation. And here at home on the Island there is promise, as a summer of relentless rain and ocean riptides and our own share of economic uncertainty give way to a bit of welcome, warming sunshine.

And there is promise, Mr. President, that you may actually get a vacation, some downtime with your family, at Blue Heron Farm in Chilmark, a town that still counts its ballots in a wooden hand-cranked ballot box. A town that voted overwhelmingly for you last November.

Welcome back, Mr. President. You won’t forget Oak Bluffs, the town with a rich history as one of the oldest African American summer resorts in the nation. Of course you will come to visit that town, where you have so many friends. Maybe you will drop in on the Polar Bears, the swimming and breakfast gathering on Monday morning at Inkwell Beach with a history of inclusion that dates back for more than six decades. Over at the Niantic Park basketball courts the regulars are hoping you will stop by to shoot some hoops.

But it’s a good bet that you may also want to spend a lot of time at your rented farm in Chilmark overlooking the Tisbury Great Pond. It’s a peaceful spot, hushed and tucked away from the colorful noise and clatter of summer just down the road. The farm has something that has become rare today: simplicity. There’s a hammock strung between two old oaks that looks like a good spot to read a book, maybe take a nap (do Presidents nap?) There are kayaks that are fun to paddle around the pond. It’s just you and the swans and the young red-tailed hawks overhead with their thin, high cries. There’s a swing that begs for a romantic moment under an inky late August sky streaked with shooting stars. And there’s a big porch that runs all the way around the farmhouse; plenty of room for friends to come and visit, dance the night away.

Oh, and one more thing, Mr. President. It’s something Della Hardman always said. She said remember to savor the moment.

— Julia Wells

Editor