Kim and I have just returned from a quick trip to Logan (dropping nephews off, and spending an hour with our new friend Amy, Jet Blue check-in trainee), and a visit to Kim’s homeland, Lake Winnipesaukee. Had a lovely time. Truly beautiful part of the country. No moose sightings, but still fun. So, I may have missed a bit of Chappy “happy”-nings, but I just make most of this stuff up anyway. Welcome back us! Thank you!
It can be awfully hard to please Chappy folks sometimes. (What’s that saying? You can please some of the people sometime, but Chappy people none of the time. Something like that.) Despite the wonderful weather we’ve been graced with, some are bemoaning the fact that summer has been hastened by this boon. The blueberries are out, the climbing roses have bloomed, and the mosquitoes have blossomed. But will it all last until the important people arrive? Ah, there’s the rub.
First, a correction: Uncle Jimmer (Eric Hartell) wrote to inform me that the original Seager Chappy patriarch was named Sam, not David. I think Uncle Jimmer used to be an editor or something, so he’s a stickler for facts. And he’s the grandson of Sam. Or something like that. Probably wrong about that too.
I owe Peter Wells an apology. In last week’s column I reported that he allegedly misappropriated the use of a bicycle. Unfortunately, I may have left out the allegedly. My further error was not in thoroughly vetting the reliability of my source (who will remain unnamed. Let’s just call him Bob. Gilkes.) So I offer the following from Peter himself in the form of a retraction/correction:
Yesterday was one of those days that changed 17 times (I counted). Flannel shirt. T-shirt. No shirt (down Lady G.!). Flannel shirt again. And so on. Today however is uniformly fallish. Breezy, crackling, clear. Seaweed and oak mulch. A lovely day; made to order. Not that one can order or put order on the weather. The last remaining bastion of nature’s will.
We used to wait. There was a joy in slowing down. We’d come to Chappy, away from ringing of home phones to the four-digit dialing quiet Island phones. If the phone rang at Grammy’s, someone wanted a ride home or a drink on the porch. Now the ringing (in all its mutations) follows us here. Distance is no longer enough to discourage attachment. The sea does little to abate the connection to that which we leave behind (flee?)
Edgar is missing. Again. Four years have passed since his last sojourn into the wild, but my guess is he made a date with a feline those years ago, and being a cat of his word, he felt obligated to keep his promise. However, he is late in returning. So if you see a medium-haired, gray pussycat in the neighborhood of Wasque, please give Lisa Gruner a call.
