Big week for this author and, by obvious extension, Chappy itself. Firstly, I turned 51 — a glorious affair replete with my usual vacant stares and wistful yearnings, but with room left over along the edges of my psyche for hopeful anticipation of life to come.
My mother and brother just wrapped up their whirlwind world tour with a stay at the Big Camp. I’m not sure how it compared to their other stop on the tour — the Marlborough rest stop Dunkin Donuts.
The details of life tend to pile up in my mind like mail thrown on the coffee table. Not enough debris was dusted aside to uncover the delight of writing this column. I’m two hours past deadline. My company car is at risk.
Chappy is a part of Edgartown. In essence, we belong to Edgartown; we are one of her holdings. But days like this one, the rainy breezy late summer season ones, remind me how far apart we are from our parent company.
Growing old is a fantastic experience, full of the wonder of watching one’s skin turn from the supple surface of a Parisian handbag to the texture of burnt newspaper.
The switch has been flipped — spring is off, summer is on. Time to hide on Chappy. I’d like to talk about the weather now, as it’s a great space filler, and it appears that there’s a storm a-brewing.
Chappy is a small island with a relatively large personality. There doesn’t exist much ambivalence toward our (sometimes wayward) appendage: one either would “never live there” or would “love to find a small lot.”
Spring on Chappy means new beginnings — beach plums and shad bloom their weddingish flowers. Previously unseen and unheard creatures appear as if someone was having an art opening with free food.
