Bill Eville
It is unknown what the winner of this year’s Chilmark Road Race — Hugh Parker of New York city with a time of 16:07:29 — did to prepare for the race. He ran fast and shirtless in the morning downpour, crossing the tape nearly 30 seconds ahead of his closest competitor, David Melly of Newton, and the women’s winner Nnenna Lynch, also of New York city, who finished with a time of 19:21.27. Perhaps Hugh woke early, stretched and ran eight or nine miles just to warm up. He looked that fit and that youthful on Saturday morning.
When my wife Cathlin and I were married the ceremony was part tradition and part theatre. The wedding was held at Judson Church in New York city. Cathlin wore a red dress for the occasion and we walked down the aisle together, entering the church already as a couple.
About halfway through the service, a very tall man stood up in the back row and began waving his arms and yelling, “Wait. Wait. What about the objections part? What about giving our reasons why this couple can’t get married?”
There is an inherent danger in reading the essays and books of Edward Hoagland. Suddenly, nothing else compares. Not just other books or other writers, but real life too. The phone rings unanswered, e-mails amass with no reply, and social engagements are shrugged off with little to no guilt. When under the spell of Mr. Hoag-land’s prose, the rest of us talkers or writers become toddlers, mere fumblers of language just embarking on our ABC’s.
The Vineyard in winter is a quiet corner of the world. Head up-Island to Aquinnah, say, and the outskirts of Lobsterville Beach. Most days all one encounters there are the wind, sand and stars. But surface appearances can be deceiving. Follow a certain dirt road, turn right at that old oak tree, left at the large bird’s nest, visible only in winter after the leaves have dropped, and one never knows who or what might be found tucked away in the woods.
As we drive off the ferry my wife, Cathlin Baker, turns to me and says, “Don’t mind me, I have an extreme sense of well-being.” She then proceeds to chatter and laugh, even waving occasionally to strangers in cars beside us as we wait in traffic on our way to Boston.
The Harbor View Hotel closes down during the last two weeks of the year. But notice the lights blazing in the penthouse apartment. This is the home of Bob Carroll and has been ever since he sold the hotel in 1986. It was part of the contract that Mr. Carroll could build this penthouse and live in it until he died. And for two weeks each winter, during the holidays, he is the only soul alive in the hotel.