Two years ago I wrote a Gazette column about the boxes in my basement — or to be more precise (and pathetic), the boxes in our basements.

Every year I say the same thing to my husband, “I’d love to take a vacation . . . on Martha’s Vineyard.”

I’ve got last day blues. They are as blue as the waves crashing on Squibnocket when I flash my beach pass for the last time.

I was dreaming away on our back deck in Menemsha when the first drops arched over the railing.

Walking into my first college class at the age of 38 I should have known my world was about to expand.

Indian summer weather greeted the opening of the 1952 seventh annual Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass Derby.

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Letters to the Editor

If you are thinking of having a knee, hip or shoulder replaced, look no further than our own Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.

I am writing regarding the artificial turf proposal by MV@Play. I am strongly against the proposal.

What started as a lovely family dinner turned into a dark scenario as our French bulldog named Willow deteriorated physically by the hour.

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