Shelley Christiansen
I received the omen in the Catskill Mountains. It was made manifest on a postcard that arrived at summer camp. A little plastic lobster was chained to the corner: Dear Shelley, We’re having a wonderful time in Martha’s Vineyard. You would love it here. Next summer, we’ll bring you. Words to that effect. Why were my parents in a vineyard? Who is Martha? Long after those questions were answered, I wondered how the lobster survived the postal system all the way to upstate New York.
My spirit was bent over double in the spring of 2004 when I walked into Edgartown Books on Main street, which last week announced it is closing. At the time I yearned for a nourishing distraction and some pocket change besides. I figured art gallery or bookstore. The people at Edgartown Books took me in and, with nary a reference check, gave this perfect stranger the key to the door and the code to the cash register. Wow. After forty-some years of seasonal visits, I thought I knew a place. I was wrong.
E lection Day 2008: Spring out of bed early and zap e-mails to Congressman Delahunt and Senator Kennedy, humbly requesting a ticket — maybe two? — to the inauguration of No. 44. Book affordable hotel room for the nights before and after. Hope that I won’t wind up with an invitation to a ceremony for Palin and McCain. 11pm: Oh, the audacity of hope!
11/11/08: Book flights there and back. Spring for the fully refundable airfare, in case of . . . whatever.