BRAD WOODGER

508-627-4216

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.

Though it was dark as we drove Chappaquiddick’s paved road Tuesday evening, I don’t think that I saw a bike path running parallel to our Volvo. Didn’t it get done? Is there an issue? Surely, if an issue existed, it would have been resolved by now. Ah, the politics of Chappy. I believe that I had a dream in which Chris Matthews was hosting Peter Wells and Roger Becker on Hardball. If I recall, it ended in a hug. Such is the nature of my dreams.

I do hope that soon we can come to some resolution on our bike path conundrum, as I believe the fog of breath from our collective sighs of frustration may ground more European flights. We’ll just blame it on Iceland again.

Of course, asking Chappy to come to a consensus on anything is like asking my 1977 ninth grade student council to determine the rules for our junior high prom. We have no infrastructure through which to assess the desires of our class, and no matter our decision, the powers-that-be will make the decision for us. Come to think of it, my ninth grade class has much in common with our Chappy community, minus the chic jeans and nylon Nikes. No wait, we have those too.

Anyway, it is good to be back. The Florida sun had nothing on the Chappy wind when it comes to curing the skin to a rough leathery consistency. Wednesday I spent mostly out of doors, mowing the greens that our friendly visiting geese (keeping with our organic maintenance plan) had nicely spot fertilized. The little gifts mowed off nicely, however, like unwanted mushrooms off a pesto pizza.

Oddly missing from our landscape were the crows. Oh, there were a few dozen here and there, but the throngs that would blacken the pitch pines appeared to have thinned. Maybe it was the wind? But I do seem to remember many a blow that did not discourage my little ebony friends from leaning into the wind, their dark cloaks of feather drawn up around their necks like Dracula on a chilly Transylvania morn.

Maybe somebody down the road had left a meatball sub on their truck seat below a rolled down window. The clarion call may have persuaded my friends to depart their usual digs. Sure they’ll be back soon. I miss you guys!

I notice that the sea’s been busy in our absence. Like a greedy child with a shared ice cream cone, it has taken an obscenely large bite out of our bluff. The sea she giveth, the sea she taketh away. Mostly taketh.

I suppose this is where I should report on what’s new and happening on the Island. Gratefully, however, no one tells me anything. I do know though that old Chappy kid Emily MacRae, the daughter of this paper’s esteemed editor Julia Wells, (and the just plain esteemed Peter MacRae) gave birth to a lovely baby boy — William Judson ... I’m sure he has a last name, but I’m a columnist, not a researcher.

Congratulations to Emily and her husband . . . . let’s call him Don, on their beautiful addition to their lives. I believe said child arrived early (much like my cousin Annie to each and every party), but William is doing just wonderfully, as is Emily. And as a side note, thanks Emily for not telling your dad when you discovered me asleep in the Crab Hole all those many mornings so many years ago.

Speaking of cousin Annie Heywood, we received our first welcome home message via her phone call. Apparently, Annie is off soon to Greece.

This may not qualify as news to Chappy folk though, as I suspect that anyone within earshot had already learned of her exciting travel plans. And cousin Maddie Lecoq (aka Mousey Thurston to us old timers) kindly sent us a 7:45 a.m. wake-up call Wednesday. She will be spending time on Chappy this summer at the old Thurston house. Welcome back neighbor!

Well enough about you, more about me. I’ve yet to walk down North Neck yet, but my guess is the shad is beginning to bloom and somewhere the forsythia is contemplating its arrival. Our daffodils are still hanging around, perhaps a little bitter that they never get the praise that the lilies and other flowers receive. No worries daffies, I think that you’re quite fine.

I applied an organic grub control to the areas surrounding our tees and greens. Just a heads up to the skunks and crows that they may want to refocus their sod removal energies to our fairways and roughs.

Haven’t heard from good friend Kevin Keady. Guess I could call him on the phone, but not sure I want to make him get up to answer it. He’s getting old.

Think that wraps it up for now. I’m sure someone somewhere on Chappy is changing sheets in their twin beds for Uncle Gary and his partner Phil, and someone else is hauling their empty Smirnoff bottles and nicely scrubbed clean Smart Balance plastic tubs to the recycling center, maybe stopping by Espresso Love on the way home for a reward coffee. And I’ll bet someone bought a Phillips head screwdriver from Edgartown Hardware. But really, can I honestly be expected to keep pace with Chappy’s ever-breaking news?

I’ll be writing next week’s column as well, so be sure to keep track of your news and announcements for Margaret’s eventual return. And keep your fingers crossed that this time her high-tech hot air balloon safely navigates the capricious winds over Africa.

Welcome back me! It’s good to be home.