“You should try yoga.” It was a suggestion I’d been hearing for years – everyone from my mother, to my doctor, to any number of bendy, mat-toting friends seemed to have an opinion – but it wasn’t until a well-meaning pharmacist delicately noted my frequent splurges on over-the-counter sleep aids that I finally sat up and took notice. “I hear it helps you sleep,” he said, eyeing my basket full of Benadryl and Tylenol PM.

By Alexandra Bullen Couts


When Antonio “Tony” Grillo was three years old, he and his mother, Kate, were at Farm Neck Golf Club in Oak Bluffs picking up his father, Joe. As it happened, President Clinton and his entourage were on hand. Seeing the adorable little shaver, who had white-blond hair and was missing a front tooth, a Secret Service agent envisioned a perfect photo op with the chief executive. “Do you know who that was?” someone asked Tony after he posed with Clinton.

By Jim Kaplan


It’s a lucky thing for Steve Ewing that he works on the water. If he toiled on the land, he’d never earn a dime, because he’s one of those Vineyard guys who can’t walk more than twenty-five yards down a village street without running into someone he knows.

By Tom Dunlop


Sporting buttery leather boots that seem a tad handsome for farm chores, Ed Child makes his way down the path from the backyard, through the grape arbors and to the sheep pen. Five merino sheep greet him with gentle baaaas. They hope they’re in for a mid-morning snack. They settle for pats on their heads. “The brown ewe is especially affectionate,” says Barbara Child. “Her nose feels like velvet.” Barbara is bent over double, deadheading in her perennial garden.

By Shelley Christiansen


On the Wednesday morning after Labor Day last year, I was in no hurry as I pedaled down Chappaquiddick’s main road toward the ferry. The piercing rays of the September sun dappled the pavement with patches of light and dark shadows that made it hard to see where I was going. The long stretches of shade were so dense that I felt I was disappearing when I rode into them. Up ahead in the sunlight, I saw a couple on bicycles coming my way. The woman called out to me: “Where does this road go?”

By Margaret Knight


August 23, 0800 hours Motored out to sailboat Morningstar in Tashmoo. Port-side amidships covered with cormorant crap. Spent fifteen minutes scrubbing deck and dodger. Never had trouble with cormorants here before. Hope this isn’t going to be a recurring problem. August 26, 1700 hours

By Geoff Currier


Many of us can remember a time when indulging in a truly memorable meal was much like finding a piece of blue sea glass – it could happen, but it was a noteworthy event. Now Martha’s Vineyard has some fine restaurants and first-rate chefs, however I would hardly call it a culinary destination. So it surprises me when I walk into a bookstore and see how many Martha’s Vineyard–related cookbooks line the shelves. One might get the impression that we have the kind of cuisine here that merits more than a dozen cookbooks.

By Kate Feiffer


The late summer sun beat down on us and we halted at the fork in the road. The prissy stroller that we were pushing our two-year-old daughter in was no match for the ragged terrain that lay ahead. We had not seen another human being since we left the ferry more than a mile back, and our water and snack supply was meager. The smell of failure hung in the air.

By Ellen Willson Hoover