Monday, June 25
I’m writing this as the setting sun is reflected on the light chop of the water, the two large, rear doors wide open admitting early evening into the house.
The temperature has been in the mid-70s. The top goes up on the car only overnight. I’ve finished “Conquering Gotham,” the story of the creation of Penn Station in New York and the complex sub-aqueous tunnels that brought the Pennsylvania Railroad into Manhattan. I’ve started “Einstein,” the current best-selling biography. (One of the funnier events in the genius’s early life was the professor who flunked him in physics!)
Last night we had dinner at the elegant 28 Atlantic Restaurant in the Wequassett Inn in Harwich. At one time, jackets and ties were required, and the “veterans” still sport them. The dining room has an exquisite view of the water dotted with islands, reminiscent of the Caribbean. The food was fabulous, very high end. We had the Etude Pinot Noir, adequate only, I won’t order it again.
Glancing down at the sand today I was mesmerized to find a miniature earthquake, perhaps two inches of sand shifting on its own. After a few seconds a small beetle emerged, looked around, apparently didn’t like where he had surfaced (or what he saw), and submerged again, not to reappear anywhere in my close inspection.
In the boatyard, there is a beautiful, sculpted sea gull on a stand which rotates with the wind, the bird’s wings flapping realistically. We asked a man painting a boat if he knew its origins. “I do,” he said, “follow me.”
He took us upstairs in the barn-like work shed to his “studio” where he made the birds and supports. We purchased one on the spot. However, he doesn’t ship, and there is no way the large structure would fit in my car. “No problem,” he said, “I’ll drop it off when I go to the boat show in Mystic. I have to drive right by East Greenwich.”
Welcome to Chatham.
I learned today that the despicable judge who was suing his dry cleaner for millions had his case thrown out of court. That signals a good day. Now, if Larry King would just tell Paris Hilton when he interviews her that she is a talentless, addle-brained, spoiled child, maybe there is hope for all of us.
An elderly Samoyed lives at the boatyard. He sleeps, moves gingerly, takes his meals in the shade. But just now I saw him walk the length of the 30-yard dock to see what was going on in the boats being serviced at the far end. It seemed to make his day. I know it made mine.
© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.