This column by Arthur Railton appeared in the Vineyard Gazette in June 1990:

All of a sudden, like the curtain going up at a Broadway musical, the beat has started. Longer lines at checkout counters, bumper-to-bumper along Main street, no place to park. More cars than pickup trucks. It’s that time again. For me, it’s not an easy time. My conscience gets in the way. It’s look-in-the-mirror time. Time to ask myself if I’m still the courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, etc., man that my Scoutmaster told me to be.

It’s so easy to be selfish at this time of year. Who are all these people who think they have a right to my turf? Why don’t they stay home in the summer, the way I do? I don’t take their parking spaces or fill their dumps. I don’t invade their territory, why should they invade mine?

Just when I’m getting ready to sink the ferry or start a rumor about Lyme disease, my conscience steps in. Who am I to complain when I am part of the problem? Didn’t I just invite some friends to come over for a week? Didn’t I urge them to bring their car so they’ll have their bicycles, their windsurfers and all that vacation stuff with them?

And what about my family? Don’t they think of this place as their summer vacation spot? Don’t we insist they come every year and stay as long as they can? And why not? That’s one reason we moved here. When you live in a summer resort, you’ll always see your family. Count on it. You’ll watch your grandchildren grow up. And it’s grand.

So it isn’t that I don’t want folks to come here, just so long as they’re my folks. Do my folks add to the crowds? Of course not, they’re my friends and my family. They’re never a problem. It’s your folks that make life miserable in summer. Well, maybe not your folks, but some other guy’s folks. Well, except for a few nice folks like my neighbors. Or those nice people who race on Menemsha Pond all summer. It’s okay for them to come. And to bring their boats and their gear and their friends. But keep out the others, the ones I don’t know.

That’s what I keep telling myself at this time of year. But it doesn’t work. My conscience comes up to bat and I get socked between the eyes. And I should. Why is it that my kids and my grandchildren don’t make the Island crowded, but theirs do? Why is that when I first came to the Island I didn’t spoil a thing, but they did? Who do they think they are anyway?

Everything was wonderful when I arrived. I didn’t spoil a thing. It was the next guy, and the next car, and the next bicycle, and the next beach umbrella. It’s comforting to be so self-satisfied. But then my conscience takes another swing. Those folks who pour onto this fragile isle every summer, just to spend a day and a few dimes, have as much right to be here as any of us. And we should be pleased they come. Not for the business they bring — none of that matters to me. But for the joy it brings them to come to a place like this and to see how things could be if everybody worked at protecting nature.

Oh, I know we’re not all working at it. And there are places here where it’s not all that beautiful, where things went wrong. But on the whole, this Island ain’t bad. It ranks up there with the best. And that’s why folks come. And that’s why we should be glad they do. For a few hours, a few days or even a few weeks, their spirits are lifted. Erased from their minds is the mess they left behind in the metropolis; the noises, the smells, the ugliness. Coming here brings the joy of beauty to their minds and a jolt to their hearts.

So let’s welcome them. All of them. Not just my kids and my friends. Not just yours. Let’s welcome them all. Not so they’ll buy a few T-shirts, or slurp up a few ice cream cones. And make a few guys richer. But so they’ll take home a vision of how beautiful nature is when it’s left alone - well, almost alone.

When you pick up a stranger and he tells you how lucky you are to live on such an Island, don’t think how much better it would be if he hadn’t come. When he remarks about its unspoiled beauty, don’t say, “You should have seen it years ago.”

When the crowds at the beach make you think of Coney Island or Revere, don’t remind everybody how much nicer it was when there was nobody here but your family and your friends. Just think of how lucky you are to be on this Island and enjoying the life so many others want to share.

And ask yourself: Would you want to live in a place that nobody wanted to visit?

Compiled by Alison L. Mead