Commentary
U.S. Presidents. Martha’s Vineyard. There’s quite a story here.
In 1950, six million homes in America had television sets. That included our family, living in a smoky steel town on the Ohio River.
Here is what I have learned about grief after having to cope with it for 11 years.
No Fireworks, no Fair, no Illumination. No house too full with each generation.
As I work at home during the pandemic I’ve become attuned to the rhythm of the neighborhood.
Sand
Clean white sand
warm in summer
rolling wet
hot bodies
fresh from swimming
in the Sound
Frozen white
salted crunch
underfoot in winter...
Dennis daRosa, my longest-time friend in life, died last week.
Fifty years ago this summer I saw a musical milestone. No one knew this was a farewell concert.
Early Sunday morning, I like to walk Middle Road from West Tisbury.
I live on Martha’s Vineyard, 3,000 miles away from my homeland. Why?
Next Sunday at noon, the Martha’s Vineyard branch of the King Canute Society International will meet.
