BRAD WOODGER

508-627-4216

(ibwsgolf@aol.com)

I’m back. I know — I said I was leaving, and even made a big deal about going. But the lure of the column game (and its big money) proved too great a draw.

So much has changed on Chappy since I left. I notice that the seagulls, feeling the return of winds of fortune beneath their wings, are now wearing top hats and sporting gold watch fobs — which is foolish because seagulls don’t have pockets.

A large oak limb has partly liberated itself from its trunk and now looms over North Neck road by the Filley’s — about chin high. The limb, and it’s fan of smaller branches and leaves, acts as a slightly scratchier version of an automatic car wash strand of sponges as it glides first over the hood of one’s truck, then the windshield and the roof. It is difficult to avoid, and as such should probably be cut down by someone. Maybe that someone should be me.

Something must be happening with traffic or parking or cable on Chappy, but being newly back in the saddle, no one has moseyed over to tell me anything. So let’s just assume everything is good and everyone is happy.

I bought a rain suit, which consisted of bibbed pants and hooded jacket at the Edgartown Hardware store. It was folded neatly in a plastic bag, so I didn’t want to disrupt its tidiness by trying it on. Thus I deferred to the cashiers’ knowledge on all things slicker-sizing, and asked if they thought a medium was large enough for my strikingly athletic 48-year-old body. They thought it would be, as a gentleman had recently tried one on. He was a bit larger than me, but found that the rain suit fit nicely once he took his shirt and pants off. I believe the cashiers must have seen the look on my face as I stared down at the package in my hands, so they quickly added “not that one”. We got a chuckle out of the vision of a man strutting through town, his slicker jacket open on a bare chest. I vowed to grace them someday with that very image. Last Tuesday, I made good on my word by modeling the newest fashion statement for them at store closing. There was laughter but also a consensus that I needed to cut down on the coffee.

A few weeks ago, the telephone next to Maddie Lecoq’s was set ablaze by some rather shoddy osprey nest construction. The fire department quickly controlled the fire, but when all was over, there was one homeless osprey family. So every day since, I’ve seen mom and dad painstakingly recollecting twigs to begin rebuilding. I’m thinking perhaps that all telephone poles in the future should be built to osprey code. No matter the expense.

Speaking of bird homes, the swallows have taken up residence beneath the big camp porch roof once again. They have yet to install a bathroom in their nests thus far, however, so the porch deck below suffices.

Last year, my brother took the extension ladder to nest’s top, and once assured no babies were in it, removed said nest. End of story? No. For the following two weeks we were hectored by a swallow couple whenever we sat on the porch. I don’t understand “bird,” let alone the swallow dialect, but I imagine their chirps were not entirely complimentary. So this year, the nest stays, as do the clean-up bucket and mop.

Big news: I will be sharing this summer’s column with the esteemed gentleman from Massachusetts — Mr. Peter Wells. Some of you may know Peter as owner/captain of the Chappy Ferry. I, however, associate Peter most closely with his affiliation with National Ferry Ramp Bike Jumping League. Both Peter and I have much to say — so you, the reader, will never be left without a plethora of wit and knowledge. You’re welcome.

Please address any news or announcements to my e-mail at column’s top. I will be the clearinghouse for information. Sorry.

In other news: There isn’t any. See, I’m already doing a bang-up job.

Until two weeks from now, I remain your humble town crier. Please make Peter feel welcome next week — he likes hugs.