Kim and I buried a beautiful bird on our beach this past Tuesday. No sign of trauma, he (or she) just seemed to have had enough of bird life. Not a seagull, but gull-like, with a downy belly and blue eyes. We buried bird high on the beach with a couple of local shells and some seaweed. Any life passed can be an odd reckoning for the living.
I’ve never heard of holding August in July, but I’m sure someone had a good reason for doing it. I wonder if we’ll get July in August? Or another August. Or a Jaugust? Only thing that could have made this July a wee bit more August-y would have been a hint more arrogance.
Irene is due to arrive Sunday or Monday. Don’t think I’ll make the beds for her — hopefully she’ll just blow in and out.
Bob Enos, our trusty, trusted (not yet rusted) boat man is, I am certain, fielding plenty of calls. Historically, the number of boats pulled is inversely proportionate to the severity of a storm. So my apologies, Bob, but I hope that you’re busy.
“Summer People, Some are Not.” I think this may have been the title of a book, but I recall it from the enameled surface of the ashtray that sat atop Grammy’s bedside table. Grammy liked to smoke, and she liked her summer people. She was gracious to most everyone, but as her ashtray alluded, there were tipping points to the delicate balance of friendships. Maybe particularly the summer ones.
No doubt you’ve heard the news. This past Sunday, a multitude (more than three, less than a million) of Chappaquiddick residents gathered for a group photo at the Chappy Ferry. The crows, most assuredly, were confused. No booze or fireworks — what was the occasion? As if we Chappy people need a reason to meet in communal goodness. Actually, we do.
