Commentary
Monday, June seventh marked 25 years since Henry Beetle Hough, the founder of Sheriff’s Meadow, and for 45 years the editor and publisher of this paper, died at his Edgartown home. From the window of his upstairs study, he had looked out for decades onto Sheriff’s Meadow Pond gleaming in the sun. And most days, until his final months, he and one of his collies would set off mornings through the pine and oak and cedar woods of Sheriff’s Meadow. They would cross the dam separating the pond from John Butler’s Mudhole.
It begins with a hiss, rises momentarily toward a cathedral organ blast, then fades to an echoing cry — ancient, urgent, soulful and powerful.
Before the end of the month, if all goes well, Vineyarders and visitors alike will hear this wail calling across Vineyard Haven harbor and, at other moments, along the Oak Bluffs shoreline for the first time since the late summer of 1973.
Sixteen days ago I was in Mr. Brissette’s room and had the pleasure of putting the final touches on my last drawing. Even though the lines turned out to be straight, I’m pretty sure I was shaking because I had been anticipating that moment for four years. I was more than excited. It was my last Friday ever, my last day of classes. I had finished every single assignment that needed to be done. High school was over for me, save the daunting task of writing this speech.
On behalf of all the graduates, I would like to start by thanking all the teachers, guidance counselors, administrators, secretaries, custodians and other faculty members who have made today possible. Your dedication and professionalism have had a positive impact on all our lives. I would also like to thank the families of the graduates, whose love and support is the driving force behind all our accomplishments.
Watching my three daughters Wendy, Jennifer and Ali, cook together in the barn-like kitchen behind my eldest daughter Wendy’s house has been one of the great joys of my life. Even before they thought seriously about writing a cookbook, they had their title: Three Sisters Cook And Their Mother Couldn’t Boil Water. Although the kitchen is silent now, food is what binds our family together.
Each September the yellow school buses roll, and well-scrubbed, optimistic young children climb on board, carrying them with them the ambitions, hopes and fears of their families. For 13 years this process continues, and then suddenly, almost unexpectedly, school days are over. There is a song that I have often sung in Ireland, and known in Scotland, Wales and the Appalachians: “School Days Over, come on then John, time you were putting my pit boots on, on with your coat and your moleskin trousers you start at the pit today.