The motorcade is a familiar sight by now, whizzing through the leafy canopy of North Road on its way down Island and back up again.

When I mentioned the term victory garden to folks while researching this story, they either drew a blank or thought I was talking about the PBS series.

This might be controversial. I’m going to talk about the behavior of couples on boats, and some readers may find my observations offensive.

My car, a weather-beaten 20-year-old sedan, began to die while I was on the way to picking up my wife, son and his girlfriend at the fast ferry.

Draft horses, their fine array glistening in the sun, lunged, and thousands of pounds of stone slid forward, sending a mist of dirt in the hot, heavy air.