I hope that my boy-to-be has the good sense to have grabbed some good Woodger procrastination DNA, and puts off his debut until the weather turns a bit. I'm not sure which is the more daunting thought: dragging my pregnant wife on a sled to the Chappy ferry or delivering the little fella myself.
I like gray — a good gray flannel suit is always nice. A well-weathered gray cedar shingle evokes a pleasant feeling. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.
Warning: the following column is rife with half-truths, ridiculous exaggerations, and general flights of the author’s fancy (in other words, pretty much like all his columns).
We were all saddened to hear that a scion of Chappy, Dodi Silva, passed away recently. With each passing brick of Chappy’s foundation, we lose some of the integrity of our little island.
Some people say that they are allergic to the holidays. I believe that I truly am. Every year about this time, I come down with some sort of turkey fever.
With more than a hint of winter in the Chappy air, I am reminded of the yin and yang of this particular season. Gone are the afternoons swims, but also missing are the horseflies and mosquitoes, Chappy taketh and Chappy giveth away.
You know those days when it is just plain awful to travel the 20 yards from the awkward exit of the Stop & Shop to your car in the lot? The days when it is raining and blowing so hard that you feel a primordial fear for your safety?
Once again, the Chappy ferry has spawned a union of love. Becca and Jeff — captains both — were married last weekend. On the ferry. A beautiful sight, even to this grumpy old man.