HOLLY NADLER

508-274-2329

(hollynadler@gmail.com)

Something happened to me and an Oak Bluffs man-about-town — of the drinking variety — some half-dozen Christmases ago that had a bit of the ol’ Angels We Have Heard on High quality to it.

Wesley was short, bald, pink of complexion, and he dressed in khaki pants and sweatshirts. Often he appeared happy with a smiley face in place. Other times he was down in the dumps and, when questioned, would answer that he was broke and a tad peckish from hunger. When he confided this, I would take him into my little bookstore — the first one I operated alongside the Black Dog General Store — and I would draw $20 from the till. I made Wesley swear that he would take the cash over to Reliable to buy edibles. I watched him shamble into the front door of the grocery store, knowing full well that there was nothing to stop him from shuffling directly to the back door and out again (bearing in mind that you can follow the sidewalk south on Kennebec, turn into the daRosa’s parking lot, follow the dirt path out to Circuit, hang a right and, a few establishments later, find yourself before the double front doors of the wine shop).

On one occasion I myself was downstairs in the wine shop picking up a Sprite and a package of nuts, and found myself behind Wesley in line. I should mention here that the way we knew each other was that I volunteer every Monday afternoon at the Island Food Pantry, and Wesley was one of our clients. In the wine shop, he failed to notice me behind him as he plunked a six-pack of beer on the counter and said in that sort of Lieutenant Columbo-ish after-thought, “Oh, and can you throws in a couple of whisky halfsies?” A halfsy, I figured, was something along the lines of half of a fifth of hard liquor. When he finished his transaction, he turned around, beheld me, Food Pantry Lady, and said with a giggle, “Oops!” Obviously we at the F.P. prefer not to think we distribute food so that alcoholics will have enough money left over to pay for their libation of choice. But still, Wesley and I burst out laughing.

Some time before Christmas, I found myself alone at the food pantry desk in the basement of the stone church in Vineyard Haven. A pale whitish light slanted in through the high windows: Snow was predicted for that afternoon, which may have proven a factor in nearly everyone but Wesley staying home. The air was strangely silent, as if stiff bands of gauze had wrapped themselves around the church. The room itself was grainy and gauzy and yet oddly white. As Wesley trekked across the immense room towards the desk, he seemed to be moving in slow motion. I heard a message in the form of that still small voice inside that said, “Let me take the wheel for a minute.”

As Wesley continued to move towards me — at this point he seemed to be very nearly floating — I found myself filled with a profound affection for him. This affection was allied with a sense of his utter adorableness, as if he were a toddler — my toddler — and at that moment I realized I loved him as much as I’d ever loved my imperishably lovable son.

We spoke words that would, under normal circumstances, seem absurdly commonplace (“What an odd day it is today.” “Yes, it truly is.” “Can you sign in?” “Of course.”) At the same time, the atmosphere appeared charged with an enchantment that was purely supernatural in the best sense of the word.

When Wesley moved off to collect his food bags, the spell was broken, although I was left with an impression that has never left me: For a scant few minutes I’d been given a glimpse of how God loves to bits every last one of us. There’s no niffing and noffing and taking points off for bad habits or ill-considered behavior. Not at all. He/She loves us every bit as much as He/She loves everyone else. We are all inconceivably winsome in the eyes of the Divine.

After that, when Wesley and I encountered each other on Circuit avenue or down by the harbor, or on the bus, a current of memory lit up both our faces. We never discussed that afternoon in the church basement, although now I wish we had: Wesley died a couple of years ago. No one has ever taken me on a more valuable journey of the Spirit.

Okay, getting down to brass tacks: The Oak Bluffs Public Library is offering an amnesty to late-book-holders with the proviso that you bring in something for the Food Pantry. This isn’t quite as exciting as the amnesty President Jimmy Carter offered to Americans who had run away to Canada during the Viet Nam War, but still . . .

Collections for the Red Stocking Fund are continuing this week at the Oak Bluffs School. You can write your check to the school and they’ll convert it into one big fat check to the Stocking folk.

I received this e-mail recently which I thought is very much worth passing on: A Vineyard family is moving overseas in a couple of weeks and needs to find a home for their pair of three year-old yellow labs. Their owner describes them as follows: “Cookie is my mellow yellow and just loves her tummy rubbed. Coco is adorably funny and lives for her ball. She also loves the water.” The owner reveals that the Lab Rescue League would probably find separate homes for the pooches. This is tragic as the two are practically joined at the hip. “Recently I tried to put Coco in the car alone and she TOTALLY refused to go without Cookie. She pulled back on her haunches until Cookie was at her side.” Anyone wishing to adopt these two delightful dogs should e-mail Katherine at kjmorris74@yahoo.com.