The recent news that the Nobel Prize-winning writer Mario Vargas Llosa had died immediately transported me back through space and time to Vineyard Haven.

When I still called the Island my home, I did a simple calculation to confirm my suspicions.

I stepped off the ferry in Vineyard Haven one fine morning in 1985 ready to embark on a new chapter that would eventually carry me along for more than three decades.

I have a special place in my heart for small world stories, especially the ones that include me.

I had long forgotten the tingling feeling of cool, wet grass between my toes in summer.

Don’t bother trying to recognize the man in the old photo standing proudly before the Capitol in Washington D.C. His name is Mike Michaelson and he was my uncle.