Chappaquiddick, the Hollywood version, has a scene of the Ted Kennedy character walking through downtown Edgartown, heading to the police department. The scene is clearly not shot in the real Edgartown, but what’s more disconcerting is this: hardly a human, besides Kennedy, is on the streets of this faux Edgartown. Hardly an auto is parked.

The scene takes place in July; it looks more like early May.

Well, the filmmakers got that part right. This was meant to be July in the Edgartown of 1969. A half century ago, there was no need to walk single-file to pass oncoming flows of fellow pedestrians. There were no sidewalk cafes nor café lattes. No tedious crawl of SUVs in search of parking. No transit buses, let alone tour buses. That would have been so Summer 2019.

Hello, Summer 2020. The Agricultural Fair is canceled. The Martha’s Vineyard Playhouse season is canceled. Beach Road Weekend is canceled. Many a wedding is canceled. Something else will no doubt be canceled before this commentary is in the can because any summer happening with myriad arms and legs just isn’t worth an organizer’s migraines over the what-ifs of global pandemic.

Which may turn Summer 2020 into the new Summer 1969. Back in the day, people didn’t vacation here for events. Some may have ensured their stays were timed to include Illumination Night or a must-do yacht race or the neighbor’s annual 5-to-7. That was about it. There were no film/book/food/music festivals. There were no tennis/farm/theatre camps to schedule for the kids. Vacation was an occasion for DIY. Planning and coordinating was the workaday tedium of life back home. Vacations turned on whatever whims arose with the sun of a morning.

Sunny out? Let’s head to the beach. Cloudy? Let’s bike or fish. Rainy? Let’s break out the well-worn Scrabble board or catch the matinee at the Island Theatre. Not even a tee time or a dinner reservation required much forethought or competitive angst.

Come this July, when pandemic and self-isolating are behind us (I’ve flung that vibe into the cosmos) some measure of summer visitors will venture back to the Vineyard. They will disembark ferries with the cautious optimism of munchkins emerging from their huts upon learning the witch is dead. In the whittling of their own numbers as well as the absence of events, they will discover DIY Vineyard ­— the deeper nourishment of the old-school vacation. Perhaps they will even discover the pleasure of a meander along a quiet downtown street.

This scenario sounds like a dream because it is that and nothing more. There is no nice way of going back to the way we were. Since the time of Chappy’s launch into infamy (and partly influenced by it) the summer population has steadily mushroomed. Likewise mushroomed are the residential subdivisions and the bevy of builders, landscapers, eateries, shops, plumbers, caterers, hair salons, fishing charters, ferry trips, housekeepers, seasonal workers from abroad and, yes, event promoters. And the Island economy has mushroomed, to the benefit of schools, the hospital and nonprofits serving us year-round.

Now we are too big to fail. Slash the summer experience to the simplicity of yore and the economy gets slashed along with it. The prospect of a really, really quiet downtown street is more dire than dreamy.

Our Island will get past this season of shock and awe with fortitude and neighborliness. However long it takes. It’s how we do things. But 1969 is one for the history books. Onward to the rebound from where we left off.

Shelley Christiansen is a freelance writer living in Oak Bluffs.