News and Events for Nantucket Island
by Steve “Tuna” Tornovish It’s August 20, 2023, and the inaugural August Blues tournament is in high gear. I’m feeling pretty good as I have my morning coffee and check the leaderboard. There I am, sitting on top of the hill for the Gator Blue category (the longest bluefish), thanks […]
essay by Robert P. Barsanti So far, in the middle of July, my best beach day featured a hooded sweatshirt, a makeshift wind block, and more than one tumble in a storm-driven surf. Everyone locked into traffic on I-84 would happily trade places with me, but this is not the […]
My wife and I were married in Key West in 1997. This blissful occasion took place in a beautiful little garden at the Chelsea House, a really neat little B&B. The ceremony, such as it was, was performed by a guy who did weddings as a side gig from his main job as a hotel concierge. He buzzed up on his moped, and five minutes later the deal was done, witnessed by Beth’s sister and brother-in-law, Cathy and Tim Lepore. Ah, sweet memories.
I was holding up the line. And the beach wraps and the baseball hats were annoyed. I wasn’t quite worth the anger or the stare, but, I was slowing down the process that would bring them back to Chip, Becky, and the folks on Daddy’s deck.
Take a look at the young lady in blue pictured holding the striped bass. I saved this picture in my favorites album because I truly believe it’s the best photo I’ve ever taken. Everything about it is perfect: blue bucket hat, blue tie dyed shirt, blue sky in the background, and the windswept beach of Coatue arcing behind her. Her bemused expression—is she really happy that she caught this fish? Is she trying to find her place in this family or maybe even this world? There’s so much going on here! Even though I’m mad at myself still for not remembering this young lady’s name, I consider her picture to be on par with the Mona Lisa.
America can be hard to see.
Oh, we can see the flags. On the Fourth of July, we have the red, white, and blue on every bicycle, tricycle, and baby carriage. The bunting hangs off of buildings and wharves. We celebrate the country in a rollicking, rolling carnival of hot dogs, ice cream, and beer. Somebody will host a firecracker fun run, somebody else will win a pie-eating contest, and then, in the evening, fireworks will guide us through the night with the light from above.
I follow a boy to the beach. He pedals a brown 12-speed Univega with red panniers hanging off the rear rack, as if he were pedaling across the country and needed to bring everything he would ever need. The boy is bent over the racing handlebars, with his hands resting on the lower handles and his butt raised by a fraction of an inch off the seat. He wears a Campagnolo bicycling cap, although his bike has no rat traps for his feet nor is he wearing a helmet.
She had come down to open the house for the summer, again.
When the boys were younger, they had all come down over spring break to take the shrouds off of the chairs, stock the pantry, and restart the water and the electricity. Her husband, Benjamin, was a marvelous Professor of Economics and a force to be dealt with in the Faculty Senate, but he was not particularly handy. A degree in economics and a hand full of thumbs meant that he tried to turn the water on himself, broke something, and she always called a plumber to make sure it was done right.
