Swim First, Unpack Later

For some reason, I always remember the last swim of the season. Whether it was on a late fall afternoon in elementary school or as early as an August morning when I would sneak in a quick swim before catching the ferry for the trip back to college, the memory of that last swim would stay with me well into the winter.

In that way the last swim of the season is different from the first. The first, I never seem to remember.

Small But Mighty

The piping plover is an amazing profile of endurance, hardiness, fidelity and overcoming long odds for survival. These tiny shorebirds mate for life and migrate north for thousands of miles every year to build their nests, which are literally scrapes in the sand.

They are especially attracted to wide-open barrier beaches that have been washed over by winter storms, and this year the Vineyard has many prime real estate offerings in that category, from Norton Point in the Katama section of Edgartown to Tashmoo in Vineyard Haven.

The Cost of Wind

At a time when sharply rising oil prices are rippling through the economy — pushing up the price of a multitude of commodities, from gasoline to meat to electricity — the idea of generating power right in the backyard through renewable sources such as the wind grows even more attractive for homeowners.

Wash Day Art

As the green movement has grown, hanging out clothes has become de rigueur. Solar dryers, some call them, but around here they are still known as clotheslines, and on the Island they never really went out of style, except possibly with the emerging trophy house crowd who live in climate-controlled homes where the windows are never thrown open to the fresh, unpolluted sea air.

STARTING SMALL

Editors, Vineyard Gazette:

When passing by the row of pitch pines along State Road at the Polly Hill Arboretum, I often notice their picturesque beauty that represents the Vineyard sense of place. I enjoy knowing these trees were planted as seedlings purchased in 1929 for 10 cents each. Though I don’t know the exact circumstance of their planting, I imagine Howard Butcher Jr., perhaps with the help of his daughter, the future Polly Hill, planting the little trees with an old shovel and a watering can.

I slept with my first beetle at age eight. Ours was a casual affair; two souls finding refuge on my grandmother’s pull-out sofa. But, as with many relationships, what began as a simple nocturnal arrangement between insect and boy soon became a complicated and crowded tempestuous two week ordeal.