In 1969 I moved to the Vineyard from California. In those days when I wanted to revisit my family out west I drove across country with my two dogs and constant companions, Shoes and Mantis.

I turned 70 on March 6. The event passed painlessly. We were staying in a desert-side house near Santa Fe, and good friends arrived for dinner to offer their congratulations and commiserations.

I ran the Chilmark Road Race again this year, and like every year, I made the same joke at the start: “I don’t care how I do, as long as I’m not carried from the finish line to the first aid tent.

Even though there is a substantial number of Chappaquiddick landowners paying taxes, the seasonal residents have had no voice in matters affecting them. The town treats Chappy as a colony of Edgartown.

I stand as the black water

Of each wave’s backwash

Hugs my hip boots

Making little stars of light

The fish-filled night.

Early on I was hoping for a strike

Of some huge striped bass to fight,

But now, to hell with fishing,

I would rather stand here casting.

I only know our routines. I presume most families on the Vineyard have their own. When guests or friends come to our house, our routines have a way of taking them by surprise.