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?
I live off a dirt road, rutted and pitted. Pebbles and dust spew from car tires.
“Is there anything you’re excited about today?” the little boy asked me, as we were drying ourselves off.
I haven’t played all that much golf in my lifetime, but most of it has been with my brother Kent.
Young people, even middle-aged people, don’t usually spend time thinking about growing old. I’m not sure why.
My passion for live theatre is now on hold. The Martha’s Vineyard Playhouse, where I serve as board chair, remains dark in these dark times.

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