Commentary
Anyone who spends any time in, on or around our tidal ponds has witnessed the periodic algae infestations and the consequent foul odors, slimy beaches, floating gunk in murky waters and distressed ecosystems. The pollution of our ponds, even our ocean beaches, has become so bad that they have even periodically been closed for public health reasons. Nevertheless, many people of all ages get sick after swimming, with all kinds of serious symptoms.
All right, we have been officially initiated as full-fledged year-rounders in Vineyard Haven. We participated in Halloween. What a scene. What a kick!
We have been hearing about this holiday classic for years and missed it last year. It would have been our first Halloween in Vineyard Haven but we were called off-Island to a wedding. When we returned, all our neighborly friends informed us that we had missed an incredible tradition, a fantastic three-hour piece of Americana in which Norman Rockwell meets Grand Guignol.
Sad to say, I come from a long line of people who bump into doors, sweep punch bowls from tables, and drag dog doo into rooms, inadvertently stamping it into rugs and floorboards because the person with the soiled shoe can’t understand why everyone’s yelling at him. My dad was a one-man demolition derby. At six foot one and rangy, he was part Hulk, part Absent-Minded Professor, and he broke one out of every five chairs on which he plunked himself. The sight gag was perfect.
In following the news coverage of Hurricane Sandy, I was struck by a strange reversal in reporting from before and after the storm. In the days leading up to landfall, the effect of climate change on the likelihood, strength or impacts of the storm was largely ignored; in accounts of the damage post-Sandy, the subject of climate change has been routinely raised.
The H.M.S. Bounty which sank in the waters off Cape Hatteras during Hurricane Sandy on Monday, was an occasional visitor to the Vineyard. When she was home ported in Fall River in the 1990s, she made a number of 40-mile trips to Vineyard Haven, where she would spend the weekend tied up at the Tisbury Wharf, her gangway lowered to allow sailors of all ages aboard.
After dinner, I stepped outside onto the smallporch that leads off from my kitchen. I draped the black cover back onto the grill and stood for a moment by the railing. It was nighttime, but the haze of the overcast evening trapped a dim gray light over the house. The kitchen light behind me cast a shadow over the garage. Not until I moved my arm back and forth did I realize that the shadow was me, looking like a hulking giant. I began to play with my projection by lifting and lowering my arms, which looked