Commentary
Ricky Vanderhoop died last week. Ricky was an auto mechanic who restored my 1963 Falcon. He did a magnificent job, always taking great pride in his work. Over the years I’d bring the car in for this and that and gradually got to know him as he began to feel like an old friend.
Last year, I threw down your hat
with its scarlet B, red as an apple.
Trampled it with boots I wore
The scene is surreal. There’s the dark silhouette of the fish against the teal-colored glowing light of the water around the weigh station floating dock. The light doesn’t illuminate much of the water beyond the dock, which makes the glow seem like a protected space, safe from whatever the darker harbor waters hold.
Edgartown poet laureate Steve Ewing pays tribute to Rick Vanderhoop, who died Oct. 14 at his home in Aquinnah at the age of 60.
Recently my husband and I were guests at a small dinner party at a friend’s house. We were meeting the other six people for the first time. One of the women is a documentary filmmaker, one of the guys is a retired CEO of a major company.
When you’re a kid, there are monsters under your bed. When you’re an adult, there are boxes in your basement. The spookiness never stops, does it? It happens every time we move. No matter if we are going to a larger space or a smaller space, nothing can stop the proliferation of unopened and unemptied boxes, most likely left to grow old in your basement — or even rot in storage in some other community.