Commentary
By BILL EDISON
I’m here to tell you softball fans that the beauti ful wooden engraved sign for Flanders Field designed by John Scott and his wife has survived the ravages of winter. This means that the softball season in Chilmark will start on Sunday, June 27. I hope the old-time ball players like Ziggy, Jim Wallen, Caleb and Dan Pinck have withstood the ravages of time as well. I understand that Dan has developed a submarine stinker to go with his wicked knuckleball pitch while playing in the Pelican League down in Florida.
Summer Begins
I am just back from Tunisia. Sadly, I have not been to a hammam — the Turkish steam bath for which Tunisia is famous. And I have not ridden a camel, which, of course, one should always do in a desert country. But I have seen camels aplenty and I have petted one (coarse, uninviting hair — not at all like the smooth texture of a camel’s hair coat). The camel, however, was friendly. His name was Ali Baba and he even let me scratch his ears. Admittedly, he was muzzled. That seems to be the trend among camel owners these days, probably because cross camels spit.
From Gazette editions of May, 1960:
There is a persistent legend, which, if it cannot be proven, certainly never has been disproven — this is the Hammett legend. The Island family of Hammett, well known on the Island from about 1700 to 1900, has produced master mariners, soldiers, adventurers and merchants of every variety. Island Hammetts served in the Revolutionary War, sailed in whaleships, prospected for gold in California, served in the Civil War, and were known in the profession of book-publishers, writers and politics.
The Quahaug Seeker By Adam Moore
Sengekontacket rippling gray
Waters had beckoned me to lay
My rusty basket rake upon
The sandy bottom of the pond.
I grasped, as did I deeper wade,
A rope with braided fibers frayed,
And with it tethered bushel wire,
Afloat in rubber tube from tire.
To quahaugs rake, to harvest reap,
I was reading The New York Times on the bus from the Palmer avenue lot to Woods Hole to take the ferry to the Vineyard when the woman sitting next to me profiled me and said something about my being a New Yorker. I responded to her smile, and said, “Yes, but I was a Brooklyn boy.” I then asked her how she knew I was from the Big Apple. She responded: “The way you fold your newspaper.” I guess she knew what she was talking about since she seemed to be in her 60s and was a real estate agent in New York city and the Vineyard.