Scully didn’t like to chase cars.

He preferred to get out front and lead them like a dog-track hare, ears pinned back, jowls flapping, legs pumping like pistons in an old flathead Ford.

He was a big dog but he could motor.

Geoff Currier


Mirror, mirror on the wall, who has the greenest lawn of them all?

The grass is greener in front of everyone else’s house. This isn’t some woe-is-me sentiment. It’s pretty much true. Our grass isn’t green. Well, it starts the season with a greenish hue, but the color generally bleeds out by mid-summer. The brittle, sun-stroked, dandelion-infused grass that poses as our front lawn might not look particularly green, but in fact, it’s actually the “greenest” of all. Or so I’ve convinced myself.

Kate Feiffer


I do not ask for much in life (and friends of mine say that sometimes it shows), but this springtime I do ask why the Vineyard staged Jaws Fest, the all-Island hullabaloo over the thirtieth anniversary of the release of Jaws three summers ago, but – at press time anyway – shows no sign whatsoever that it’s going to hold a Jaws 2 Fest to honor the 1978 release of the first of the three sequels to follow it.

Tom Dunlop


I’m not much of a gardener. Don’t know the practical difference between a shovel and a spade. Can’t figure out what to do with a hoe – seems like after I use one, my back aches, and while I use one, I look like I should be strapped into a straightjacket and sent to a loony bin. Maybe there’d be some nice gardens there.

HJ Bernstein


Okay, I admit it. I like stuff. I like having it. I like finding it. I’m the kind of person who follows the fliers all the way to a yard sale in Aquinnah and wants to buy the whole yard. Island yard sales are a tempting combination of musty old Vineyard stuff (“Hey, Mabel, why does this chair smell so weird?”) and a wide assortment of other objets that have seen two or three owners, the Bargain Box, a short stay at the Thrift Shop, and finally...“3 Family – Something 4 Everyone!”

Niki Patton


Last summer, a few friends received a phone call from an Island woman who had found a message in a bottle with their names on it. Years before, these friends had spent the summer working and playing on-Island. One particularly memorable evening, they buried a bottle in the sand, and quite positively forgot about it. They forgot about it, that is, until that phone call. And soon they were reunited with this piece of a summer past.

Meredith Downing


It’s been twenty years. I can talk about it now. In fact, I can even laugh. But trust me, when it happened I didn’t exactly see the humor.

In 1986 the two major events in Joyce’s and my lives converged: the building of our Vineyard house and our wedding.

By early spring, the house was framed and progressing nicely, so we asked our contractor if he thought it would be done in time for our wedding in October; we thought it would be great to have our reception there. He didn’t see any problem with the plan, so we forged ahead.

We were young and in love.

Geoff Currier


Dear Summer Person:


Fear not, this is not a good-riddance letter. I’ve lived on the Vineyard year-round for eight short years and still relish the Island summer and the people who come with it.

Kate Feiffer