Seventy years ago this August, V-J Day set up a string of events that led me to the Vineyard and altered my life forever. When victory was announced, my mother made plans to visit her parents, who were vacationing at the Harborside Inn in Edgartown, and we set out the next day, taking the Cape Codder train from Grand Central Station in New York to Woods Hole, where we would board the Vineyard ferry.

By Kib Bramhall


Meet the brains and brawn behind the new Rosewater Market in Edgartown.

By Erin Ryerson


Lickety-split renovations are a specialty of sorts for Mark Snider.

By Phyllis Meras


Sometimes the arc of the moral universe is long and slow, and sometimes it curves sharply, making up for wasted time. That was the case last month as scattered calls to remove the Confederate battle flag from the South Carolina capitol ignited a nationwide call to expel Confederate symbols from all parks and government buildings.

By Tom Dunlop


Forty years ago Jaws put the Vineyard (masquerading as an island called Amity) and white sharks on the same Hollywood map. The celluloid great white shark that terrorized beachgoers gave sharks a bad rap, and swimmers reason for pause, for years.

By Sara Brown


Excuses, excuses. That’s what I had when it came to pickles. Or I should say, that’s how I avoided making pickles. I’m a farmer! I’m busy at pickling time! Who has time for canning? No place to put those jars! The list went on and on. Good Lord, I even turned down an opportunity to write a preserving cookbook (and this was several years ago before the Return of the Age of Preserving – which of course never went away on the Vineyard), because, I told the editor, I am not a preserving expert.

By Susie Middleton


As the wooden fishing boat slows to a halt, twenty-three rods rest perpendicularly on the red metal railing waiting for the signal. When the motor cuts, the weighted and squid-baited lines drop immediately into the water, finding their way down about fifty feet to the bottom. Tap, tap, tap, the hits come nearly instantly. Within minutes, maybe even seconds, amid shouts and whoops, silver fish dangle from multiple lines.

By Catherine Walthers


I walked into the Portuguese-American Club in Oak Bluffs on a mild Monday evening with my mom in tow and was greeted by a blast of music and a mix of excited twenty-somethings. We were all there for one reason, and one reason only – to learn how to paint. Well, maybe two reasons: we could enjoy some refreshing alcoholic beverages as we channeled our hidden Caravaggio or, in mom’s case, awakened her previously undiscovered inner Dalí.

By Nicole Grace Mercier