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.
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.
My nephew Andy is visiting. Though it may be too late by the time this column hits the newsstands, I’d like to offer his companionship to any family with teenagers. He’s a delightful young man. But what teenager gets up at 6:30 a.m.? That’s Brad time. Quiet time. No talking. I believe my phone number and e-mail are listed above.
You can’t go home again, they say. And you can’t go to Wasque again. At least not the way you left it, or may remember it. The Wasque now is no longer the home we recall. This Wasque will be our children’s and grandchildren’s Wasque, but it no longer belongs to our memory. All the markers have been erased by time and tide. I suppose this is neither good nor bad, happy or sad. But simply what is.
