Peggy Sturdivant
I’m back in Seattle’s fall but still dreaming of summer boat crossings. Every dream involves the drama of whether or not I will be able “to make the boat.” In an ideal summer I would only make two crossings: one to arrive on the Vineyard, and one to leave. This wasn’t that summer.
My parents’ best friend, the artist William Blakesley, has a birthday tradition of hosting his friends for a restaurant dinner. This year he has been planning the seating for some months and asked my father six months beforehand to make the toast, although forbidding him from starting with the words, Dearly Beloved.
By PEGGY STURDIVANT
When we closed the Camp Ground cottage for the winter 40 years ago, it was serious business. The braided wool rugs were rolled, the refrigerator was cleaned and propped open, the water had been turned off and the pipes flushed, the delicate glass pane windows nailed shut. An official sign was affixed: No Trespassing. Oak Bluffs Police Take Notice.
I’ve spent at least a portion of the last 47 summers with my family in a gingerbread cottage in the Camp Ground in Oak Bluffs. The boulder at the rear entrance to the Tabernacle reads, “Surely God is in this place.” I cannot speak for God but it seems that my late grandfather’s spirit is still singing loud in the Sunday chorus and present at that most dreaded childhood event — the Camp Meeting Association potluck.