Opinion
From a May, 1954 Vineyard Gazette article by Charles Waldron Clowe: Memory takes me back to the glorious summer at the Vineyard. We had engaged a cottage at Menemsha for the season, and after some debate it was decided that Genevieve should go with us. Throughout her young life she had only known the city, and it seemed only fair that she should share with us the beauties of the Island of our dreams.
Martha’s Vineyard Savings Bank, with assets in excess of a half billion dollars, net earnings approaching four million dollars and a new, experienced community banker firmly at the helm seems to be on a solid course.
The bank clearly stumbled last year, but the extent, nature and impact of whatever improprieties occurred are still frustratingly unclear.
As we build And repair the harbor I see your hand It comes up Dripping From deep within The sandy bottom
As recent lengthy obituaries in national newspapers attest, Anthony Lewis was a remarkable journalist. What always struck me most about his writing was the clarity of his thinking, the forcefulness of his prose and the directness of his voice. A legal journalist and columnist for The New York Times, he made the complicated decisions of the United States Supreme Court understandable to lawyers and non-lawyers alike.
I’m a lifelong Chilmarker. Growing up, Nashaquitsa Pond and its surroundings were my world. I consider myself both fortunate and extremely blessed to have had the opportunity to play amongst those hills as a child. This is where I was raised. This is where my father grew up, where my grandfather and great grandfather grew up . . . all the way back to the home of the first Benjamin Mayhew, whose father, John, was Chilmark’s first English settler.
The valley of the Mill Brook is only as wide as the shadow of a cloud.
But many memories have settled here. From Waskosim’s Rock I see
the leaves along the frost bottom have changed. Reflecting in the string
of ponds along North Road, they blow through another sky, below
other clouds — leaves and the likeness of past leaves. One February,
I walked along the brook listening to it murmuring under the ice.
It is still snowing in my mind. That day that winter, the flakes falling