Tuesday, May 31, 2011


There tends to be a long Vineyard-less stretch for our family between the late winter and summer seasons.  We have a hard time getting there in March and April, which makes the opening weekend that much sweeter.  The first ferry ride over holds an intoxicating promise - a whole summer, full and ripe, lies untouched before us.  We call it “work weekend”, but working on Chappy is like working in the middle of a hazy, sunlit, deserted forest.  The kids roam without boarders, hunting bugs, collecting Buttercups, wading in drifts of sand and tall grass, climbing trees.  The adults bare down in the quiet air, working through a string of projects - washing, sanding, repairing, weeding.  We reconnect with Scott’s parents for the first time since the winter months, and it is without a doubt, my favorite weekend of the summer season.

Chappaquiddick is the small island off of Edgartown.  If you haven’t been there, it is a lovely little spot to visit, anytime of year.  It does have paved roads, but mostly dirt.  There is one store, a community center, and one working farm.  There are stretches of beach where you can run for miles without seeing a soul.  The fragrant air crosses thorned roses with pine sap, and when there, the kids' feet are always dirty.  On Chappy, the world feels very far away, and I unravel.  Even on work weekend.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Wednesdays are for Henry

Wednesdays are for Henry.  We fly solo one day a week, with Jane in school all day.  Today we took the first trip of the season to Frerich’s, a bohemian, rambling kind of farm – with musky greenhouses, packed dirt floors, cement Buddha’s, dense seedling flats, roaming cats, and a bevy of rusting tractors.  Lots of good places to get dirty.  We dressed for rain, the sky goose gray, light - forgiving and calm.  I was so happy to have my boy tucked in tow, the prospect of filling the trunk with flowers, and to take photos.  We hop out of the car, little legs fly – I stoop to shoot.  Nothing.  I try again, twirling the aperture dial.  I have a vision of the memory card tucked neatly into the computer spitting out raw files.

Pile in car, crying Henry.  He wants the farm.  It’s alright, I say.  Off we go.  I find a cereal bar swimming at the bottom of my bag.  Drive home, silence.  Grab memory card.  Drive back.  Swing open the door.  I blink and he’s off, my name trailing in the air behind him.