The summer before my husband, Steve, and I moved to the Vineyard, I asked a young shopkeeper what it was like to live here in the deep winter.

I come from a suburb out side of Washington DC where anonymity was my middle name.

I come from a long line of spring haters. My sister declares, “all that growth, rebirth, and renewal — I’m not into that. Give me fall. The death season.”

Everybody here has a gig, sometimes two or three. They are craftsman, artists, master chefs, farriers, healers or visionaries. But what was I?

I’m a driver but I like the idea of driving more than the act itself.

As a storyteller and a bit of a romantic, I’m interested in how and why people land on the Vineyard.