Mike Seccombe

 

 

 

Look at Britain around the turn of the 20th century, or Napoleonic France in the early 1800s, or Spain in the late 1500s. Or so many other great powers of their times, before they went into decline.

Now look at the United States of America, in the early part of the 21st century. When R. Nicholas Burns does, he sees a worrying pattern.

“They were brought down, most of them, by the fact that they couldn’t afford it any more,” the veteran diplomat told a capacity crowd at the Martha’s Vineyard Hebrew Center on Thursday.

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The Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah) has filed a lawsuit to try to block the development of the Cape Wind project on Horseshoe Shoal in Nantucket Sound.

In a statement issued Friday, the tribe announced the tribal government had authorized the long-threatened lawsuit against the Department of the Interior‘s Bureau of Ocean Energy Management, Regulation and Enforcement, which has approved the 130-turbine wind farm.

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There are very few musicians in David Crohan’s league. He says so himself.

But he says it modestly as if, after more than 60 years of playing, he is still surprised by the fact.

“I was given an extraordinary gift. I can hear a popular song, and I can learn it in five or six minutes, and immediately put together an arrangement of it,” said Mr. Crohan.

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A bill which has been quietly making its way through the state house could dramatically affect the future ownership of some of the Vineyard’s pristine barrier beaches, moving them from private hands to public.

The bill, which consists of just a single paragraph, relates to the barrier beaches that separate the Island’s Great Ponds from the ocean. Many of these beaches are privately owned and also are retreating into the ponds as they are eroded on their seaward side.

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About midday yesterday, the lady bather was treading her way carefully through the dunes, ducking as a small group of avian aggressors swooped around her, piping angrily. Only when she finally plunged into the sea did they break off the attack.

About 100 feet away, Caitlin Borck was encouraged.

It’s not that she enjoys seeing other people get swooped, or likes getting swooped herself — and occasionally, deliberately, unerringly excreted upon — by the little birds.

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This sunny Saturday in West Tisbury, Allen Whiting is out at his easel, working at his latest landscape and simultaneously working at his answers to questions about his art.

His approach to both tasks is similar: He goes at it enthusiastically for awhile, then pauses to reconsider things, then goes back and adds another layer.

Ask, for example, why an artist who seldom shows outside his own gallery has decided to put on a retrospective of his work at Featherstone Center for the Arts, and he gives a succession of answers.

First up, he is glib.

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