Each warm morning I walk down the hill at Owen Park in Vineyard Haven, being tugged by Floyd, my yellow lab who seems hellbent to get into the sea before someone pulls the plug. The other day as we turned the Main street corner into the park, we saw the women of the exercise boot camp slowly and eerily trudging backwards down the hill. They looked like a scene from Night of the Living Dead in rewind. Floyd was momentarily spooked. He then made a beeline for the safety of the water.

Recently my wife and I drove to Edgartown to meet friends for an age-appropriate movie, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. It was the 4:15 p.m. screening, so considering the movie, which we liked and now refer to as Slumdog Pensioners, the theatre was packed. After the movie we had an early supper at an Edgartown restaurant and drove home.

As far as the rest of the world is concerned, I live in a town with two names. That is, the town has two names, not me. Don’t you think sometimes our language can be deceiving? I mean, if boned chicken is chicken without the bones, then why isn’t canned tuna, tuna without the can? But I digress.

There’s no food on the streets of Vineyard Haven. At least not for long. And that includes anything that might resemble food. For each morning on my walk, at the end of the leather leash in my hand is a golden street sweeper. His name is Floyd. For more than 10 years, just about his entire life, he has lived with my wife, Paula, and me.

From time to time, whenever inspiration aligns with respiration, I will be contributing a column to this paper. It will cover some aspect of moving to and living on this Island, trekking toward retirement while reducing stress and making mole hills out of former mountains. Welcome to the Washashore Chronicles.

You need a lot of money to sell a house. And you need a little more than that if you’re selling two. That’s because it’s a privilege to live in Massachusetts, and you have to pay for that privilege.

The next episode of that reality TV show known as The GOP Bumper-Car Presidential Campaign is this Saturday, Feb. 4 — the Nevada primary. So we have to ask: Is Nevada more like America?

They said Iowa was, but then it was too white. They said New Hampshire was, but then it was too Yankee. They said South Carolina was, but then it was too Southern. They said Florida was, but then it was too Hispanic — or too Jewish.

From time to time, whenever inspiration aligns with respiration, I will be contributing a column to this paper. It will cover some aspect of moving to and living on this Island, trekking toward retirement while reducing stress and making mole hills out of former mountains. Welcome to the Washashore Chronicles.

This haiku sort of sums up my seventh summer. It began with a tonsillectomy. In my ether-induced slumber I imagined death, a big-eyed, long-fanged grotesque who resembled the love child of Count Dracula and Betty Boop, entering the operating room. He stuck his long slimy arm down my throat, knocked out my two front teeth and yanked out my tonsils, my adenoids and my soul.