A leisurely breakfast, reading the next chapter in a wonderful book, finishing an oil painting, learning how to do a linoleum cut block print. The joys of an Island winter are endless.

We all have a million regrets but there is that one we carry around like a sack of cement sitting squarely on the heart. The writer reflects.

Friendship! Mysterious Cement of the soul! Sweetener of life! And Solder of society! Robert Blair, 1699-1746

The woman in her late 50s or early 60s who excused herself and wore a colorful, handcrafted felt hat was speaking to a woman in her 80s who had a bubbliness of someone half her age, wore what I can only describe as a bonnet, looked familiar to me and spoke audibly and loud enough for me to hear that Yvette Eastman had died at the age of 101.

I have long been a devotee of The Moth Radio Hour that airs on WCAI (and is also produced there), where people tell true stories from their lives with no notes or props of any kind.

These are the moors that tumble from our hilltop to the little shell and stone washed beach. Our golden dog, weaving a ribbon of orange silk through the beach plum and huckleberry bushes, scares to flight a family of quails and a berry nibbling gull.