I’m going on record (you may write this down) by proclaiming that this summer rivals any summer (in memory) for sheer pleasantness. It is decreed. If, however, you are a fungus, you may find the weather less delightful. Can’t please everybody.
Not a lot gets done on Chappy this time of year except lawns and laundry. This lack of accomplishment can be a good thing — most of us like a good dose of nothing; it’s what keeps Chappy life sweet and simple. But when something does need to get done, we find ourselves ill-prepared to mobilize toward a concerted and cooperative activity. We talk, we study, we write a few emails ... then we take Cape Air home, or go back to gathering seaweed for our garden mulch. We really don’t want to be bothered. We are like celebrities on holiday — we really don’t want any pestering reminders of our other lives. So, causes come. And causes go. They blow away like sand from the beach club’s concrete. And therein lies the riddle of the Chappy model.
Our winter population waits to be populated until we rally to effect change — the theory being that the voice of thousands is louder than that of 10. So Chappy waits. April. Waits some more. May. Just a little longer. June. Almost. July. Okay, let’s roll! But wait, do we really want to talk about this while the sun shines, the bait flourishes and the grandkids visit? And do we even like what they have to say? Why not wait just a little while more? We are a divided Congress, paralyzed happily by our indecision. And just fine by most. Chappy: the living fillabuster.
Ellen Sole had a hole-in-one on our 8th hole at the Royal Ancient. You may have missed the roar of the crowd, because the only witnesses were the lost wharf rat and the dragonflies (and they are famously reserved in their enthusiasm — true Yankees). I have no doubt of the veracity of her claim however, because unlike most of our golfing population, Ellen is honest to a fault. I’ve played with her. She has yet to fulfill the traditional duty of buying the house a drink. No worries, just put it on her tab the next time you run into her at Alchemy.
I’ve been remiss as of late in mentioning my favorite Chappalachian aunt/cousin/sister Annie Heywood. Truth is, she’s been oddly quiet. Too quiet. So, as a hedge against possible reaction to non-reaction, I offer the following Annie story from the past.
As was our habit when family was on Chappy, we would gather on the Big Camp porch for cocktails in the evening. This particular summer, my brother Kent had with him his 30-something friend, Bill. Bill had the misfortune of being maritally unattached and, on this night, was in close proximity to Annie. Discovering Bill’s status, Annie cozied up to him on the porch swing and announced that she “liked younger men...” but Bill quickly interrupted with his own announcement: “I’m 65.” Only pausing to refill her Frito with clam dip briefly, Annie continued, “but I LOVE men with experience.” God bless Annie.
In page six news: I had a refreshment with Nick Burgin at his and his wife Courtney’s house atop the North Neck bluff. Courtney spent her summers here in her family’s house (the Kinkead house next to the beach club), and then moved to higher ground after marrying Nick. The house truly is an architectural stunner (and the residents are pretty okay, too, particularly Marilyn Kinkead who chuckles at my column). Even more remarkable may be the one thing that is missing: Lady Gaga. Not even an egg pod or ham-festooned hat. No traces whatsoever of her purported presence. So I can now say unequivocally that she never had, nor never will have, any association with this gorgeous property. Not that there ever should have been any doubt. And as a person who respects my personal privacy as well as that of others, I’d like to add this: shame on those that had the ability, standing and knowledge to dispel the myth before, during and after its inception, but chose instead to perpetuate the silliness. I would have been far less gracious than the Burgins had this farce been placed in my lap. I have spoken.
Lastly, to the seagull that frequents the Big Camp chimney and sounds eerily like an old childhood bully: if you are indeed the reincarnation of Hobbit (I’m not sure if that was your legally given name), and you are by chance literate and a Gazette subscriber — I forgive you.
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