News and Events for Nantucket Island
We have had a wonderful July. On a day that a billionaire would have designed for his pleasure, I walked up Pleasant Street and headed to town. This summer, these hydrangea have bloomed, as have the hedges. Somebody loved them. Somebody pruned them by hand, fertilized the dirt with the right acidic mix to get bridal white blooms, and gave them lots of water.
I found myself, this spring, defending my summer reading list. Now, as an old white man, I am used to a certain sort of academic battle, and I have generally chosen the prudent retreat over the final climactic fight. The years of assigning Huckleberry Finn for summer reading, or John Steinbeck, or even Agatha Christie have gone with purple photocopies.
The Least Terns are hatching. Residents of the Endangered Species List, the Least Terns get special fencing, some observers, and the path to Great Point blocked. The birds are delicate and fragile things that swoop and dart in constellations over the water. It happens every year. Drivers in Ford 150s, in Expeditions, and in Discoveries find themselves flummoxed at the gatehouse in Wauwinet when someone does not know Who-I-Am. That happens every year, too.
A young man with a famous last name died recently on island. Sudden deaths have become unfortunate and common in the last few years, not just on Nantucket, but throughout the country. Every death is as unique as a fingerprint. The reasons are opaque: the results caustic. We hear of the death and we pause, then we ask ourselves why and what could we have done? Every answer we find is wrong.
There are certainly some interesting sights to be seen on Nantucket beaches these days. Now hold on just a minute…I’m not commenting on the new law that allows everyone to run around topless. It’s still a bit chilly for that anyway, don’t you think? No, the interesting sight that I saw is good, G-rated and beautiful (um, not that the other won’t be, perhaps). Just let me explain before I dig this hole any deeper.
Too many years ago, I saw the Beethoven frieze when it reappeared in Vienna. The painting is a remarkable work; Gustav Klimt depicted each of four movements of the Beethoven’s Ninth symphony along the top of four walls, climaxing with a chorus of angels singing the “Ode to Joy” atop the final wall. Young as I was, I understood that I was in front of something that I did not understand. The work ascends beyond beautiful to an awful sublime, especially if Beethoven’s work still shakes in your bones. We spent an hour there, and moved on.
The lilacs have bloomed. The purples colonies of flowers dip down into the sunlight, and suffer the ministrations of the bees. If the wind isn’t blowing from the east, the heavy drift of their scent washes through the windows and pools up in the air.
The neighbors have arrived.
They brought their dogs.
The Golden Retrievers came racing in from both sides, clashed in our yard, and then went dashing after each other in a joyful chase for suburban dominance. Their owners slid the sliding glass doors shut.
We all like dogs, and we know how they can behave. It doesn’t surprise me, or anyone in my house, that the dogs like to run around and have found lots of good things to smell and eat in our backyard. We have been dumping clam shells and rotted scallops behind the wall for months. If their dogs want them, they can have at them.
Many years ago, when the only cars my boys cared about were built out of Lego, we planted daffodil bulbs. The wind was blowing, the sky rushed overhead, and a shower hung out on the Sound, while Angel Rays shone over Cisco. We used a small trowel, knelt in the backyard, and planted the bulbs every couple feet along a stone wall. Afterwards, we had lemonade, chocolate chip cookies, and watched Monsters, Inc for the hundredth time.
Warren Sawyer Shipwreck on Nantucket
