Opinion
I was recently invited to give a lecture for the Piano Tuners Association of the UK at their centennial meeting to be held in Bournemouth, England. It turns out that Bournemouth is very close to the place were my ancient ancestor and direct descendant, Phillip Stanwood, is believed to have come from when he sailed to New England in the year 1652. I accepted the teaching invitation and knew that I would finally be able to visit and explore the place of my English roots. Would I find a feeling of resonance and connection?
There is a field across the way
Where dandelions bloom in May.
Like Flanders field, where hopes fly
And dreams too often come to die,
The flowers dot the field like fleets
The project to build an eleven-million-dollar new Edgartown Library at the site of the old elementary school is nearly ready to begin. After many years of false starts and struggles to find a clear direction and support from townspeople, the plan finally found solid footing last year with funding from a generous state grant, the firm backing of voters and a suitable location at the former Edgartown School. That a small town could find the collective will and funding for such a project in such an uncertain economy should be cause for pride and celebration.
Historians and careful readers of the Vineyard Gazette will recognize this headline for two reasons: it’s the title of a book by the esteemed former Gazette editor Henry Beetle Hough and it’s also the traditional end-of-summer signoff when this newspaper ceases its twice-weekly publishing schedule for another year.
Once upon a time on this Island that has managed to achieve peaceful coexistence without traffic lights, we had a little hoedown at the four-way stop on the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road. Cars would come down Barnes Road from the airport. Cars would come up Barnes Road from Featherstone. Cars would come from the high school. Cars would come from Cash & Carry. To cross the four-way intersection, it was a fairly basic doh-see-doh — first come, first served.
‘’Mom, can we….
way mih
Mom, this isn’t…
way mih
I don’t want ….
way mih
Wow, look at this….
waay miih
He won’t give me…
way mih…
way mih!’’
the way of
misgivings
the way of
minerva
the way of
minnie mouse
the way of the
minutiae of
tending to.
the mih
of the minutes has gone
the kids are no longer waiting
(there were, after all,
four of them).
time to fold my long,
trailing mantle
of harried motherhood,
plump it into a cushion