Twenty years ago I was sitting in the Weston (MA) kitchen of Richard Sher and we were talking about how radio was great before TV killed it.

“Snowfall will be above normal in most of the Northeast, although below normal in much of New England.” So said the Old Farmer’s Almanac for the start of 2015. It sounds like a cheap fortune cookie message. Also, it sounds quite off the mark.

If it were left up to me, I wouldn’t go away in winter. Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t travel anywhere at any time.

Norman Bridwell, who died last week at 86, was living proof that there really are no absolutes in life, and that especially includes rejection. The story has been told a hundred times.

At a recent event at the Katharine Cornell Theatre I was crowned Martha’s Vineyard poet laureate, succeeding Lee McCormack. I was given a two-year term, a plastic laurel wreath and a toga.

It was November 1974. Forty years ago. I was meeting an award-winning writer for lunch at the Black Dog Tavern. A great excuse to come to the Vineyard.