From the Vineyard Gazette edition of Jan. 7, 1972:

What of 1972, upon the track of which we have so freshly started?

First of all we may say, paraphrasing a famous passage from George Barrow, there are the sun, moon and stars, the warm wind from the southwest and the blustering gale from the northeast, the sweet rain of spring and the chilling snow of winter, the hills, plains and beaches, and the sea beating or rippling upon the shore — all good things. In them we have a solace and security proved through more than three centuries of the past.

Turning from heights and horizons to our own insular enterprises, the year starts with a good prospect for the new Martha’s Vineyard Hospital and its implicit promise of more doctors and improved medical service. There’s a good prospect for the Edgartown Public Library too, with the Vineyard Haven Public Library as an example of what may be brought about.

Facing up to new pressures forced upon us for the first time in Island history, we have new groundwork of zoning in Chilmark and West Tisbury, epochally important if for no other reason than because it recognizes the necessity of applying regulatory measures for the general good in respect to the use of natural resources and principles of ecology, economics and social vision. Be aware of what is happening in the world, the voice of 1972 says, and then by all means, in the words of Thomas Wolfe, look homeward.

There is reason to believe that 1972 also will be a year of youth, for new insights show youth interested not only in freedom but also in responsibility. Some of the liveliest curiosity as to the future concerns the initiatives of the young, and considering the state of the world, isn’t this as it should be?

So stretches before us the hidden track of 1972, mysterious but not without landmarks, and almost as full of zest as of questioning and the anxious hope for answers not too new and not too old.

The hills to the west of Lambert’s Cove seemed to be showing what the news media might refer to as a very low profile this week. Small wonder. The fire tower is missing its top section and cabin. There was assorted speculation that it had blown off in the high winds of last week, and even more troubling rumors of vandalism. The truth is that the cabin, now 21 years old and in need of too many repairs, is being torn down by Manuel Correllus, superintendent of the State Forest, and will be replaced in the next week or so by a new one of aluminum siding. And the hills will resume their usual profile.

Often on these winter mornings the wind comes gusting and roaring across the sky. Sometimes the windows rattle and the gale makes hard walking all day, and radio announcers talk of the wind-chill factor. Sometimes all night long the roaring and gusting continues while Islanders sleep snugly under their roofs.

A hurricane, it is said, represents more power than a medium grade atomic bomb or maybe even a high one. An ordinary gale or spell of wind also represents power, but the liking for windmills went out of fashion long ago. On the Vineyard the vanished era is remembered in such names as Mill Hill or Mill street, and in stereoscopic views of other old pictures showing the tall legs and slanted vanes of windmills in surprising places.

For power nowadays, though, fossil fuels — not nearly so ancient as the wind — are much preferred. An oil line, some say, must cross Alaska at all costs, and Georges Bank must be subjected to costly drilling. There’s no limit on the cost of oil — it’s more salable than wind.

Whoever thinks of using the power of wind nowadays is a dreamer. The applications were always small and, come to think of it, the old millers were likely to have a tendency to dream. They utilized the greatest power in small and unambitious ways.

One thinks of Daudet’s stories, Letters from My Mill, and their simple irony that lingers like the seasons, especially Master Cornille’s Secret. “For a long time no one in the village had carried him any grain, and yet the sails of his windmill were always in motion as before.”

It was plaster that he paraded on the roads at night on to save the honour of the mill . . . “Poor mill! Poor Cornille! Long ago the steam mills had robbed them of their last customer. The sails turned but the mill ground nothing.”

And the story ends; “What can you expect, Monsieur? Everything has an end in this world, and we must believe that the day of windmills has passed, like that of barges on the Rhone, parliaments, and jackets with big flowers.”

But the world revolves and things come round again. There in the sky, free and clean, the winds sweep untrammeled past, and considering the ingenuity of mankind and the resources of technology, one wonders — dreams, perhaps — that this vast power may be utilized again and in more ambitious ways.

Compiled by Hilary Wall
library@mvgazette.com