Commentary
I grew up in a small town in New Jersey back when close community was the norm and when people became old, they were still very much a part of that community in their own ways. “Old Mr. Barton” was the kindly man with a cane. He’d walk to town slowly two or three times a week, occasionally patting us on the head in passing. “Old Mrs. Wheaton” was the woman down the block who yelled at us when we ran across her lawn, but still invited us in for hot chocolate when we came back from sledding. Both Mr. Barton and Mrs.
Many decades ago I brought home a yellow lab puppy and named him after a fishing port in Oban, Scotland. I had read an article about Oban in National Geographic and learned also that there is a scotch brewery by this name there. Being a lover of scotch, the choice of name was easy.
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Editors, Vineyard Gazette:
David Bramhall was my friend for a very long time. The first time I ever saw him was in Menemsha. He had a pack of Luckies rolled up in his T-shirt, was drop-dead gorgeous and had just come back from swordfishing with Danny Bryant. He always had this aura of mystery about him, being a shy, almost aloof person. That was in the late 1950s.
I found an old ferry schedule yesterday, in the drawer of a tall china cabinet in the living room where it had been for years. The faded coral-colored picture of the ferry and the darkened print of this little piece of paper came into focus. It had been living, half visible, under a lot of silver spoons, for the past three decades. The Islands, it said. Late Winter 1978. Inside it read Winter Schedule. Effective Jan. 13, 1978. Well, this was the winter of 2012, when after 33 years I decided to look at this small scrap.
The first time I marched in Washington, D.C., for women’s rights I was in a stroller being pushed down the National Mall. The next time I was 16 years old, in a wheelchair with a broken foot, but still determined to participate in the March for Women’s Lives, the same rally for reproductive rights I had been too young to walk in before.
My sign was made from a piece of discarded cardboard and a ballpoint pen. I carved my message deeply into the board, as if to leave a scar: What’s Next, the 19th Amendment?