by Robert P. Barsanti Even at 6 pm you can find sandals at the beach. They remain paired and herded at the base of a dune, or underneath the Rosa Rugosa, or at the foot of the stairs. All the brands are represented, from Nike to J.J. Newberry’s to L.L.Bean […]

by Robert P. Barsanti I have become blind to phones. I understand that we live in a time when people can enter their own digital bubble, mentally recline on the electric curve, and watch the fun swirls—I know the attraction of Words with Friends. But, on a Saturday afternoon in […]

by Robert P. Barsanti Not surprisingly, I was stuck in traffic on Quaker Road. A sprinkler had been left on out in Madaket, and I was making my way out there in the late evening. My boon companion and I had had a hot day, but we were without air-conditioning […]

by Robert P. Barsanti The grandson’s plane left at three. They had waited with the young man at the airport, whiling away a couple more hours as the airline people shrugged and smiled. The air conditioners were buzzing away, and neither of them had been inside the terminal in ten […]

by Robert P. Barsanti The carnival used to come here. Sometime in the middle of July, the rides would come over on the freight boat in the middle of the night, assemble at the Steamship Wharf, and then parade out to the field in Tom Nevers. It was not quite […]

by Robert P. Barsanti Two days ago, we cancelled a beach party. We had one of those days that only happens on Nantucket or in Maine. In the center of the island, or in town, or anywhere more than one hundred yards from the beach, the air hung and dripped. […]

by Robert P. Barsanti At four in the morning, a sliver of a moon rises out of the mists of the Atlantic. It hangs over Cliff Road, obscured by a bank of clouds, then illuminating the elms, oaks, and eaves. In the purple night, the road contains rabbits, deer, and […]

by Robert P. Barsanti Close friends of mine are lucky enough to live in one of the right addresses. As a result, nine months out of the year they have no neighbors within a well struck two iron. In the summer, the street is a hive of activity. They tell […]

by Robert P. Barsanti The Professors of the Peloton passed me at our new stop sign on Surfside Road and Bartlett. I eased to a stop, adjusted the radio, then looked up at sixteen middle-aged and older men swooping past me like starlings. They pulled out into the oncoming traffic, […]