Bill Eville
Carly Simon, especially for those who live on or visit Martha’s Vineyard, is a bold-faced name. In fact, she has been famous for so long it is as if she were born famous; biding her time in the womb, say, by humming the first bars of Anticipation. Such is the price of fame, this distorted view by those on the outside looking in. We see only the finished product, the glamorous stage presence, so natural, again as if she had rocked her own delivery room with a chorus of You’re So Vain. But this is a false picture, one that does not include the shy stutterer who achieved her success the old-fashioned way, with a lot of very hard work.
In the book Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong, college history professor James Loewen tackles the subject of why nearly all high school students find history boring. One of his main conclusions is that textbooks place characters from history into one of two categories: Hero or Villain. There are no gray shadings, no nuance as to how nearly everyone, in both character and action, can be both good and bad, misguided and prophetic.
During the first week of November one of Trip Barnes’s moving trucks pulled up to an empty store on Charles street in the Beacon Hill section of Boston. For years the space had been the home of a quaint children’s clothing store, but that had recently gone out of business. Now, from out of the truck came a flotsam of items, including numerous rusty bikes, old doors and assorted oars.
On Tuesday at a benefit night for Lila Fischer and Hannah Kahl’s coming trip to Africa to work for Earth Birth, Ms. Fischer held up a jar she planned to pass around throughout the evening for contributions. There would be a prize each hour, she said to the packed house at Flatbread/Nectar’s, for the largest contribution.
Nineteen years ago, Eleanor Hubbard adopted a calico cat from the Edgartown animal shelter. Tonight, in New York city, that cat is about to get her closeup.
The cat’s name is Ulla, a Norwegian name. Her actual pedigree is unclear, perhaps French, based on her inclination towards the arts and painting. Over the years Ulla has become Ms. Hubbard’s muse and model in the studio.
My daughter Pickle, age three and half, has been talking a lot about death lately. The other night at dinner she turned to her mother, Cathlin, and said, "Babu and Babshi died." She was referring to the nicknames of my wife's parents who both died before Pickle was born.
"Yes," Cathlin said. "They did."
"A lot of people die," Pickle said. She pursed her small lips and folded her hands one over the other. "Like eight people," she added.
