I read somewhere (maybe In Style Magazine) that the meek shall inherit the earth. I don’t recall if this statement was intended as a proclamation or as a suggestion, but I do know that the meek may want to consider the tax implications of such an inheritance before they blindly accept this gift. At the very least, they’d need to sell off most of Europe and Asia to pay the federal government (I’m pretty sure the land bank would want a piece of the action, so maybe Canada should be liquidated too).
Night falls on Chappy. With it, falls rain. A mother and child run over the grate of the ferry landing, hopping puddles to the parking lot, where their car beeps a welcome unlocking. A captain waves goodbye and hopes for more CNN and less SUV. Mostly though, we are indoors now. We are stirring sauces. We are cleaning lint filters. We are watching the flames behind wood stove doors. We are working. We are playing. We are resting. We are, as we will be more and more, inside.
I’ve noticed the little black birds with the white bellies flying overhead (as opposed to underhand) in droves lately. Seems like they’re flying north, though. Turn around little buddies — it’s even colder up there! Or maybe you know something I don’t.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas here on Chappy. Not really, but I was afraid if I didn’t say it now I might not ever get the chance — very little snow in the forecast. And snow is the one addition to the landscape that adds a seasonal quality to our home. Otherwise, November, December, January, February, March and April look a lot like Christmas too.
I think I slept through Earl. Literally. Last thing I remember, Kim and I were helping Doris Ward move her wrought iron lawn furniture into her garage (furniture right on the cusp of being too heavy for a hurricane to lift — the worst type to move). Doris lives in the center of Edgartown. Glad to help. Really. Just really wanted a cup of coffee at the coffee shop. But glad to help.
No, I can’t. Which is okay. Chappy teaches limitations. There’s much emphasis on our potential these days, but sometimes it’s good to know where potential meets the horizon. And stops. Just stops.
I‘m easily confused. And I’m not meteorologically gifted. But I can’t believe that I am alone in being confounded by this summer’s weather. I find it disorienting to have a September or October northeaster in August. The markers are all off. The town should not be rife with people as boats are being torn loose from moorings. Presidents should not be vacationing here as an eastern wind unseats small children from their stations.
