ACK ’08
Over the years, I’ve invested a lot in the restorative powers of Nantucket.
For me, for better or worse, true or false, the island has provided significant counterpoint to this island.
Still, the place was something of an acquired taste.
I first visited Nantucket just a few months after moving to Manhattan. I was living with my brother, surviving on hot dogs and generic Tang paid for by the $5/hour I was earning keeping the Men’s Journal equipment closet.
My mother, perhaps sensing a post-collegiate slump, invited me to crash on the couch of the condo she’d rented downtown. When she spotted my tattered t-shirt and shabby sneakers, she whisked me to Main Street for a welcome Preppy Makeover.
It was quaint then: tree-lined, stop light-free, cobble-stone streets. But it had a stuffy air of New England exclusivity.
Even in my Topsiders and cable knit sweater, though, I felt like an imposter.
Years later, following a hiatus, the tenor of my mother’s descriptions changed. No longer ballyhooing cute shops, tony restaurants, or the crowded harbor, she began to talk about long, lazy afternoons, wind through dune grass, light on the bay, and shifting sands.
And then, one afternoon, she said, “You’ll never believe who I met today,” and Madaket became Mister Rogers and our neighborhood.
That was 2001.
I haven’t missed a summer since.
When I speak of Nantucket now, I speak of the wild, desolate, (comparatively) downtrodden West End.
Windows are streaked with sea salt. Sheets are damp with dew. And a fire is often called for at night, even in August.
There’s no corner store, or video store, or dress shop.
Three Jeeps at sunset constitutes a traffic jam. Thousands of clusters of stars constitutes a skyline. A few squawking seagulls constitutes a racket.
On the way out of the office tonight, a colleague inquired, “Will you be live blogging your vacation?”
Alas, no.
Tomorrow morning, when Abbi and I hop our one hour flight to Nantucket, my Blackberry and laptop will remain here in New York.
And when I return to work Tuesday morning, will the tranquility of the sky (uncrowded save for the stray passing commuter flight), the serenity of sea (dotted as it is with white sails), and the still of the sand (edging slowly towards Tuckernuck) keep me tranquil, serene, and still?
Probably not.
But it won’t be far.
Nantucket is always just around the corner, just around the bend, and slightly past the horizon.
Happy Birthday Edward!
My nephew, Edward Isaac, turned two on Thursday. We celebrated Sunday morning.
Two short weeks ago, Edward was wrestling with just a few new words: blue, mama, dadda.
Yesterday, though, he was forming complete sentences like, “I got it.”
It’s an amazing, exciting process to watch.
As is the dynamic between he and his older brother. Edward’s a happy kid: following Ethan, copying his every move, and grinning the whole time. Ethan adores and protects him, bristling when the limits of his authority are breached (like when his commandeering of Edward’s two-minute-old Tonka truck is rightfully vetoed by his father).
As I watched the boys frolick on the roof deck, wholly entertained by a bucket of water, I tried to remember when Christofer and I were five and two, respectfully. I couldn’t, though a similar dynamic existed between us, I’m sure, though it ebbs and flows and adapts to changing times and tides.
Both boys are about to embark on brand-new territory, as Ethan and Edward anticipate a younger sibling still. Will Ethan’s reign be bolstered at the oldest? How will Edward adjust in the middle? Stay tuned.
Saving Mister Rogers
I’m blessed and lucky for my brief but meaningful time with Mister Rogers, and the wheels those few moments set in motion.
When I need a dose of calm, or insight on managing my anger, sadness, or fear in the face of this crazy, crazy world, I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything. I just pause, and I hear him in my head.
What’s more, he’s rarely out of eyeshot. At my office, a photo of us in the living room of his Crooked House rests on a shelf above my desk, and a postcard reading, “I’m so glad we’re friends” is tacked to my bulletin board. At home, I’ve framed the very first photo he sent me, one that reads, “For my real ACK neighbor!” Another postcard (this one reading “You make each day a special day by just your being you!”) is on the refrigerator.
When the news broke a few weeks ago that PBS told member stations it would send them just one weekly episode of “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” instead of one daily, I’ll be honest: I was sad, but not terribly surprised.
Please visit “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’” for the rest of this blog post.
