Arnie Reisman
More than a year ago when the Gazette asked me to write a column, I jumped at the opportunity. After all, this is a writer’s paper and I am what’s known as an ink-stained wretch. Back in the day, I worked for another paper that promoted and showcased good writing. It was the Boston Phoenix, which ceased publication on March 15 after 47 years of operation.
Somewhere in the first hour of every morning I burst into sobs. How long has it been now? A month? He was a presence. He was with us for 11 and a half years. Then he wasn’t. Our beloved yellow Lab has died. Our dear sweet Floyd is gone. Great pain took hold of him for at least 24 hours. Now it won’t let us go.
The other day I was watching the umpteenth news item about how the flu bug is everywhere. Midway through the story I think I may have missed a crucial piece of information because the dry cough I’ve so far endured for every single day of 2013 decided to go into its impersonation of a garbage disposal and drowned out my TV. I’m not sure what triggered the cough. Maybe it was brought on by multi-tasking. There I was watching the TV at low volume, half listening to Chopin on an iPod and admiring a print of a Modigliani painting on our office wall.
I really can’t stay. But baby, it’s cold outside! I’ve got to go 'way. But baby, it’s cold outside!
So goes Frank Loesser’s famous duet of fireplace seduction. But some New Englanders feel they really can’t stay and have to go ’way precisely because, baby, it’s cold outside.
A few weeks ago I was making coffee when I heard what sounded like a stunned owl hoo-ing for help. Sounded as if he might be trapped behind a storm door or in a room on the other side of the house. As I got closer to a closed door, I realized the sound was emanating from my soulful wife, sitting in her office, chanting along with some psalm playing on her laptop, ear buds blocking out the world. Paula was practicing for the Island Community Chorus — her first time as a participant. Soon our house became a repository of the stuff that haunts the poems of Poe and the books of Oliver Sacks.
They came from all over the mainland and descended on us. What made this a first was that the Island was the setting. Over 30 years of Thanksgivings, including 25 with a house we had in Menemsha, family members had never joined us to celebrate here. This time, 10 of them decided to come — because we now live here. It was a day of easy access — our Vineyard Haven home is walking distance from the ferry terminal.