Timothy Stanley
After dinner, I stepped outside onto the smallporch that leads off from my kitchen. I draped the black cover back onto the grill and stood for a moment by the railing. It was nighttime, but the haze of the overcast evening trapped a dim gray light over the house. The kitchen light behind me cast a shadow over the garage. Not until I moved my arm back and forth did I realize that the shadow was me, looking like a hulking giant. I began to play with my projection by lifting and lowering my arms, which looked
I love The Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York city. Buses, more than planes or trains, make me feel as though I’m sneaking away, as though I’m escaping. With my big bag packed on this autumn day, few know that I’m leaving town for Martha’s Vineyard or when I’ll be back. This is how I like it. Nobody buys a round-trip bus ticket.
In my home, on a white shelf in the living room is a framed page of the Vineyard Gazette from 1989 announcing this old house’s 300th birthday. The notice describes the Island history of the building, pulled from scholars’ notes and public records, and has served as a source of pride and honor for my family for 23 years.
Recently, a friend of mine came to the Island to visit me.
“I love old houses like this,” he said, eyeing the exposed beams. “It feels like we’re in a whaler.”
In the still-dark mornings, at the Texaco gas station in Menemsha, local fishermen load up on lures and bait, cheap cups of coffee and the daily newspaper before setting out to sea. Behind the rustic station is a long wooden bench where the men gather.
“Early in the morning, it’s always the same crowd,” recalls Albert Fischer 3rd, an 11th-generation Islander. Mr. Fischer, a commercial fisherman in his younger years, can still rattle off names of the old guard.
When I arrived on the Vineyard in mid-March, I could still see my breath billowing out in front of me as I ran out along South Road and down Blue Barque Road in Chilmark. I wore a sweatshirt and a wool hat to guard against the cold. I’m not in great shape, so by the time I reached the end of the wooded, residential road, I was wheezing and my white breath poured out of me like smoke. I always collapsed at the same spot; the wooden-gate entrance to Hancock Beach.
My friend Chris tapped on the flimsy clear plastic that separated the checkout counter from the entryway of Shirley’s True Value Hardware in Vineyard Haven.
“Is this bulletproof glass?” he joked with the woman behind the counter.
“Well . . . why don’t you stay on that side, I’ll get a gun and shoot at you, and we’ll find out.”
With that, the woman walked out from behind the register. She had gray hair, and wore thick, round glasses.