A generation ago, Angela Lansbury spent 264 television episodes as Jessica Fletcher, an Agatha Christie-style detective who solved murders for the most part right in her own backyard, the sleepy rural town of Cabot Cove, Me. Two observations occurred to me: why would anyone hang out with Jessica once you realize that wherever she is someone gets murdered? And what’s the matter with Cabot Cove, a little fishing village that has a violent crime wave commensurate with Chicago?

"Nature abhors a vacuum." Aristotle said that or something like that in the original ancient Greek, observing that nature requires every space to be filled with something, even if that something is colorless, odorless air or house guests.

The flip side of this observation is that empty spaces are unnatural as they go against the laws of nature and physics. So kindly fill your chairs, sofas and beds with people whose company is compatible. You don’t want the science police knocking on your door and inquiring about unfilled spaces.

If you haven’t heard about the latest incendiary human who used an arsenal of firearms to blow away a dozen Colorado moviegoers as well as injure nearly five dozen more, then you must be living under a rock. And if that’s where you are, then if I were you, I’d stay there. That’s probably the last safe place in America.

Human nature cannot be studied in cities except at a disadvantage — a village is the place. There you can know your man inside and out — in a city you but know his crust; and his crust is usually a lie.” So wrote Mark Twain more than a century ago.

After living in the village of Vineyard Haven full-time for the past 15 months, I see signs of cracking in my crust. Whole pieces are falling off. Life is looser here. Truth pads around on little fur feet, lapping up the crust dust. And where Truth lurks, karma is just around the corner.

Each warm morning I walk down the hill at Owen Park in Vineyard Haven, being tugged by Floyd, my yellow lab who seems hellbent to get into the sea before someone pulls the plug. The other day as we turned the Main street corner into the park, we saw the women of the exercise boot camp slowly and eerily trudging backwards down the hill. They looked like a scene from Night of the Living Dead in rewind. Floyd was momentarily spooked. He then made a beeline for the safety of the water.

This haiku sort of sums up my seventh summer. It began with a tonsillectomy. In my ether-induced slumber I imagined death, a big-eyed, long-fanged grotesque who resembled the love child of Count Dracula and Betty Boop, entering the operating room. He stuck his long slimy arm down my throat, knocked out my two front teeth and yanked out my tonsils, my adenoids and my soul.