Opinion
In 1978 all the fish I cared about died. They were the biggest largemouth bass I had ever seen, and they lived in a pond ten minutes’ walk from my house on a large estate in the backwoods of Greenwich, Connecticut, perhaps the most famously wealthy town in America. We did not own the house, the estate, the pond, or the largemouth bass, but I still thought of the fish as my fish. I had found them, and the pond was my rightful hunting ground.
Rather, it is in the shorter history of America,
not England, not Italy, that we find ourselves
in the perfect middle of a rainy, summer afternoon
inside a 1930s shingled boathouse long since
beached on a low hill out of water’s reach,
and plumbed and electrified for habitation.
No effort has been made to hide its origins.
Old masts and spars wait in the overhead rafters.
Blocks and tackle, coiled in figure eight knots,
Horses have been a passion of mine for almost as long as I can remember. These beautiful, majestic creatures are powerful and graceful at the same time. They have been used for thousands of years for farming, transportation, pleasure and companionship.
Menemsha Blues
As if the July twelfth fire in Menemsha wasn’t bad enough, now the town is beginning to confront the difficult task of rebuilding what was lost in the fire. Which is substantial.
Stacks of Freedom
The eighty-five per cent of West Tisbury residents who have a town library card know well that researchers can do some seriously satisfying Googling there. But they also know that some of the best finds come not from any search engine directing them — to the most popular or most likely, or the Wiki — but from tripping along and noticing a book they otherwise would not have sought. That surprise in the stacks.
In a Blink of the Eye
From Gazette editions of August, 1960: