Arnie Reisman
I lied. How best to make a clean start for part three of my trilogy on the boxes in our basement? Honestly, I totally miscalculated the number. I thought we had two dozen, but neglected to open another door down there to reveal another roomful of boxes.
After I wrote about the nasty accumulation of boxes in my basement, several readers stopped me on the street, not to chastise me for having so many but to inquire why I had so few. “You only have two dozen boxes? Is your house big enough to absorb everything you moved there?” one said.
When you’re a kid, there are monsters under your bed. When you’re an adult, there are boxes in your basement. The spookiness never stops, does it? It happens every time we move. No matter if we are going to a larger space or a smaller space, nothing can stop the proliferation of unopened and unemptied boxes, most likely left to grow old in your basement — or even rot in storage in some other community.
Ever since we had to put down our beloved dog last February, I have lost the will to exercise. Floyd, our yellow lab, was my physical fitness program as well as my religion.
True story. It’s early on a Saturday
morning in late August on Main street in Vineyard Haven. The sun is shining down on at least a dozen adults and children taking coffee and munchies back to their boats. They are heading toward Owen Park. The first squawk sounds low and short. Then it starts up and raises its pitch. More like a keen than a commentary. Squawk. Squaaawk. Squaaawkkkk!
Where is it coming from? Up in the trees? On someone’s roof? Concern riffles through the group. An animal is in trouble! A turkey is stuck somewhere!
They say the Island is a breeding ground for ticks and some other creepy insects bearing bad news.