From Gazette editions of July, 1935:

Not all the apprehension about summer weather is justified. Take fog, for instance. From the standpoint of the fisherman or mariner, fog is always undesirable; but from the standpoint of the summer vacationer a certain amount of it may be admitted. In fact, no vacation would be complete without a certain number of fogs, some of them of the famous pea soup variety such as we have already had in the past week or two.

Fog is impractical, but it is decorative, partly as a foil for the bright, sparkling sunshine to which it bequeaths an early morning lustre, and partly in its own right. There is nothing quite like the feeling of an evening when the fog drifts in over the beaches and steadily envelopes everything, or of a morning when the fog begins to melt and draw away, to the tune of hooting from light vessels and stations and the long drawn whistling of passing steamers. Anything which so adds to the range and quality of the human senses must have its place among the assets of country life.

Fog in its penetrating, indiscriminate aspects is varied by fog in its caprices, when it lies, long and white, in certain areas — perhaps over the great plain, or over the Sound. Then the observer stands in full sunlight and sees perhaps the smokestack of a tug moving above the bank in which the tug itself is completely hidden. At such times the fog bank is as clear-cut as a high cloud or a wad of cotton; it has no twilight zone.

The way familiar objects loom in fog is also a stimulating variant of the coastal scene. A venerable shack may take on immensity as it is discovered suddenly through the floating pall, not only immensity, but dignity. And the small zones of damp grass and shrubbery disclosed as one forges ahead through the fog are both familiar and strange in a new way, as fresh importance is given to small areas with the larger areas all concealed.

A familiar word has already entered into the conversation of the cities — humidity; indeed, it is not altogether unknown in the polite verbal exchanges of the Vineyard. Summer brings the moist sunny days, and the dripping overcast days. The way of the salt on the table does not run smoothly, unless the shaker has been left near an open window, in which case all may be liquid. The authority of the United States government is inadequate to prevent stamps from curling and becoming decommissioned in the pocketbook or table drawer. One looks for yesterday’s loaf of bread with apprehension, and is relieved if the green mold has appeared only around the edges.

The penetrating quality of atmospheric moisture near the sea is amazing. Even things which are not soluble in water seem to dissolve in the damp air of summer, such as the varnish on pieces of furniture. No room is so closely kept that the drawers of the bureau do not stick and complain, and the doors swell and the floorboards curl at the edges.

Yet the moist air has its good qualities, too, for it may be a sort of herbal infusion, a new kind of tea to be taken through the nostrils. Just what scent or flavor predominates depends on the immediate surroundings. Gardens, fields and woods make their contribution, and all sorts of fragrances become dissolved in the inescapable wetness of the enfolding air.

Summer rains remind the modern generation of the importance of attics. Rain is important to the farmer, but it falls short of doing its duty by the vacationer unless he has an attic to which he may retire to look through boxes of letters, or read old books. The rafters overhead, the cobwebs all about, and the dry, ancient smells, give point to a day indoors, and the man who has an attic with these things in it is seldom found pacing up and down a living room, waiting for the rain to stop.

Cellars are convenient, but they do not equal attics in summer or on rainy days. That is one of the priceless advantages of old houses — if they do not have full-sized attics, they have spaces under the eaves, and various places into which someone’s forefathers stored broken spinning wheels, piles of magazines, trunks studded with brass nails, pictures and picture frames, prizes brought home from alongshore, trophies which once had a day in the parlor, and all that sort of thing. The attic is of utmost importance on rainy vacation days.

Compiled by Cynthia Meisner

library@mvgazette.com