News and Events for Nantucket Island
by Robert P. Barsanti In 1978, I believed in my Red Sox. The summer had peaked, dived, and peaked again. The Red Sox lead the American League East by fourteen games, then trailed, then won eight in a row to tie the Yankees on the final day of the season. […]
• by Robert P. Barsanti • Several colleagues and I got together this week at the Brotherhood for a “Last Sipper.” We slipped inside in the early evening, before the summer sun was near the horizon and far before the lines had formed at the Juice Bar. A young Spanish […]
• by Robert P. Barsanti • Spring has arrived with a truck. It stopped by at noon, got its invoice signed, and then dumped everything it had in the yard. So the grass has become overgrown, the shrubs crawl up the house, and the mulch is eye high. The world […]
• by Robert P. Barsanti • When they finally flashed I175 on the screen at the Department of Motor Vehicles, I wandered up to a pleasant fleshy woman who wore glasses on a chain of plastic pearls, a green vest, and a big orange button with two children and the […]
• by Robert P. Barsanti • In April, we fled south in search of spring. Up here in God’s Country, Massachusetts, the leaves and flowers only come out when the promise of one more blizzard has passed away. Some years, on Nantucket, the flowers feel confident sometime in late February. […]
• by Robert P. Barsanti • We don’t accept the reality of spring too easily on this island. The calendar, the stars, and even the Red Sox suggest that winter has slipped away. However, the wind shifts to the east, the clouds wash back in, and February rolls over in […]
by Robert P. Barsanti This winter remains in the shadows and in the base of the bushes. It squats, cold and frozen, in the darkness, until the rain and the sun finally drive the dirty ice underground. The crocuses remain hidden under the frozen turf, as do the daffodils. Sometime […]
• by Robert Barsanti • On winter Sundays, I like to sit on a bench on Main Street. The weather rarely drives me inside or keeps my front door locked. The ocean has her gifts; one of her minor ones blows over the island and sends you to the sweaters […]
