Sal, none like her

Sal, a friend of ours for decades, died this week. She was 95 years old, godmother to our youngest daughter, and only briefly ill and infirm before the end. By itself that detail limns her story. Her life was rich, busy, lived eagerly, and flush with friends for each of whom she was remarkable in their lives, a centerpiece. She was up and doing almost till the very moment time ran out.

The most fortunate of us have a Sal, maybe more than one if life is especially generous, to enjoy, to marvel at, and then to remember, someone unusual, surprising, unique. Not a scientist, a statesman, an artist, not a politician for damn sure, not remarkable or renowned in the worldly sense, but absolutely not like the others. She was at the heart of things in her company and alive and ready to hand in recollection.

Sally Mesta Reed was an athlete, an equestrian, a tennis player and fan, a golfer, and a dog lover. She was a crazed Yankees fan, wore Giants gear on Sundays, could not bear the Patriots. She traveled the world and lived widely in it. She was beloved by the owners and servers of every restaurant she dined at and made it her business to know them all. She concerned herself with the lives of her friends, and she laughed and laughed when she and we made fools of ourselves. She was a good egg, as the British say, a toff by birth perhaps, but she got over it.

With luck we’ll run across another like Sal, and if not, well, we’ve had our share.

George Wants a Word

“Let me now … warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party, generally,” George Washington, first president of the newborn country he had led to victory over the oppressor British, and after rejecting pleas that he allow himself be named president for life or even emperor, wrote in his farewell address to the nation.

“This spirit, unfortunately, is inseparable from our nature, having its root in the strongest passions of the human mind. It exists under different shapes in all governments, more or less stifled, controlled, or repressed; but, in those of the popular form, it is seen in its greatest rankness and is truly their worst enemy.

“The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism.

“The disorders and miseries which result gradually incline the minds of men to seek security and repose in the absolute power of an individual; and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation on the ruins of public liberty …

“It serves always to distract the public councils and enfeeble the public administration. It agitates the community with ill founded jealousies and false alarms, kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. It opens the door to foreign influence and corruption, which find a facilitated access to the government itself through the channels of party passions … “

Washington understood that joining up is a common human impulse toward strength in numbers, companionship, and an allegiance to a pre-defined understanding of dense and plaguey contradictory political issues. It may be “inseparable from our nature, ” to offer oneself to an embracing, and like minded cohort promising to advance one’s own cherished ambitions. But, there are worthier groups to join and contribute to, hundreds of them, with objectives more narrowly defined and comprehensible, all of them more local than a sprawling, grasping national political party.

We suffer today with the several political parties Washington had in mind, each decidedly perilous and destructive to our national well being, not always certainly, but often enough to prompt caution on the part of every thoughtful one of us.

Washington’s warning, as he ended his second term as president 224 years ago, bears remembering today.

Going Viral

The other day I went to the UPS store to collect a package that the email message said was waiting there for me. It wasn’t. This package (in name only) was, I suspect, the same package that three weeks ago was reported via email to be waiting for me at the UPS store. It wasn’t either.

I am resigned to package delivery disappointment. I have tried but failed to outsmart the gremlin who is screwing around with my supply lines. Lurking at the PO as dawn breaks, lurking at the mailbox at the end of the road to have a friendly chat with the postman who is smilingly sympathetic but doesn’t have my package, changing my address from my house to the UPS store, haunting those obliging folks at the UPS store who assure me it’s the delivery company’s computers that are responsible, and who can do anything to fix computers with minds of their own – nothing works.

It Happened Just Like This

Still, there are moments that light a spark in these otherwise dreary days. I was third in line on a blisteringly hot day to get into the UPS store. A handsome, casually dressed woman, dark hair with just a suggestion of grey, was first. I put her down as a longtime West Tisbury-ite with maybe a touch of latter day hippy in her. Second was a natty forty-five year old bicyclist, impatient and very important. He and his wife were dressed for sport, but he had a letter to mail overnight. He left his wife with his bike to hurry up to the door, where he learned he was Number Two and would have to wait. He muttered his disgruntlement. Number One, hearing him grumble, suggested that maybe Martha’s Vineyard wasn’t for him and that he shouldn’t have come. He rose to the challenge. “I’ve been coming here for thirty-three years,” he said, supplementing his testimony with a sneer. Number One let her own sneer do the talking. I thought, maybe we’re not all in this together.

By Bread, but Not Alone

My Moll has hurled herself, and of course me, into sourdough bread baking. I’d say she’s turned out about three loaves a day for three months. However you tote it up, that’s an awful lot of bread. We haven’t eaten it all ourselves. Her goal is to feed the world, or at least our world of friends and virally tortured. Each loaf is a simple message, or rather a hug in these strange times when all you want to do is hug your friends and family but can’t.

But an investment of this seriousness by Moll is seriously involving for me too. Not just the eating, not just fresh out of the oven with Irish butter slathered on it, or jam, or unheard of soft goat cheeses, or (forgive me) peanut butter, or dipped in soup – no, there is the array of specialized equipment for sourdough bread making. There’s the cast iron pot that, at 500 degrees, the bread likes for its early baking, and then when the cover is removed, oversees the bread’s browning and peaking. There are the specialized baskets to hold the rising dough, the smooth plastic shapers, the uniquely weird whisk to work the dough early on.

It’s not about yeast, by the way. It’s about starter. The starter is the mother culture, a sort of organism that you get from a learned bread baker of your acquaintance. Given a bit of it, you feed it up and make it your own so that you can use a slice of it – instead of yeast which for some reason is too brutal for sourdough bread making – for each loaf you bake, and you keep feeding its perpetual fermentation for the next, and the next. It’s like a stranger has taken up residence in your house and intends to make a life for himself with you.

Then there’s the vocabulary. Folding the dough. Kneading the dough. Stretching the dough. That’s all because you want holes in the crumb, which is what you spread the butter over, not the crust and someone untutored in the art might think. It’s a matter of texture. You want elasticity and chewiness.

There’s even hooch which is a layer of water that may form over the starter. And there’s spring or the final rise of the bread to its finished height, also called proofing. Oh, and slashing, which is done with a razor and results in the decorative peaking and curling of the finished bread’s top.

Everyone has a favored antidote to viral lockdown anxiety. Moll has made sourdough bread baking the tasty covid sequestration therapy that’s pulling us through.

One Big Job for Each of Us

In my town there is a young woman standing on a busy corner by herself. She carries a Black Lives Matter placard. Hundreds of passing drivers, cyclists, pedestrians, skateboarders, rollerbladers, and joggers pass through this intersection. Because this is a resort town, her message confronts visitors from all over the country. She is brave and determined to have that message and her determination touch people and mean something to them. She walks to the intersection each morning with her sign, which is almost big enough to obscure her tiny self completely. She stands there as if it were her job. 

She is not part of a protest ensemble, even though this particular corner attracts small protesting collections of neighbors holding handmade posters, waving at people they recognize as they go by, urging them to care about what it is the protesters are touting. Sometimes these small assemblies hear cheers, sometimes jeers. 

The lone woman appears not to be bothered that she has no reinforcements. She is not part of a crowd, not enfolded in a movement or a parade of marchers. She is certainly not a looter or a vandal, not a police antagonist or an arsonist. She speaks with her sign as people have for decades, for centuries, waving their hand lettered posters or shouting and arguing, sometimes with amplification, on street corners and in town squares. She is in the admirable line of the legions of soapboxers who have been trying to set things right, to improve their lot or the lot of their communities. 

In her modest way she is Frederick Douglass, the Maryland slave who emancipated himself and became a public speaker, whenever an occasion offered itself, on behalf of abolition, and also education. He settled in welcoming  Quaker New Bedford in the mid-19th century, and in his writing and his speeches he called education “the pathway from slavery to freedom.” As a child and a slave, white women taught him and nurtured his inborn commitment to learning. If he were alive today he would not say “Twitter is the pathway from slavery to freedom.” I think he would say that Twitter, Facebook, and the rest are hateful echo chambers from which there is no path out or up.

Anyhow, we free speech purists can be an incoherent bunch because, after all, if I open my mouth and utter, or if you do something similar, or worse if some politician does, aren’t we all speaking? All children of the First Amendment. All speaking at once.

It’s worth considering what’s free and what’s not in matters of speech, and critically, what’s hallowed by the First Amendment and what pretends to be but is not. What did the Founders have in mind when they put the right to speak freely first among all the rights born in each and every human? 

The goal was an untended national garden of ideas. They expected some to be good, some not so good, some dreadful, all freely spoken or written. Those wily old white guys reckoned that the bad ideas would be weeded out over time and composted, and that good ones would appeal to more people and be cultivated for the benefit of one and all. Frederick Douglass thought so too. But, none of that can happen if my thoughts – hobbled as they may be  by timidity, stupidity, impenetrable hardheadedness, or stubbornness –  or yours – doubtless each one a gem –  are not freely expressed.

Those imperfect Founders with their powdered wigs and knee-high socks wanted all the ideas in the arena, and they wanted discussion, debate, and communication to decide winners and losers. We weren’t supposed to quash the other guy’s idea, but to confront and defeat it. They certainly did not want us to cancel it, abuse its author, and enlist others to pile on..

So today, there are uncounted thousands of newspapers, journals, fan magazines, Hollywood tell-alls, National Enquirers, online, on glossy paper or newsprint, social media outlets (really earth’s own Black Holes). Each is convinced and trying to convince you that what it has to say is the truest, the most indispensable information you can get your hands on. Of course, that’s preening nonsense.

What is indispensable to all of us is the freedom to see it all, to hear it all, to consider it all, and to decide, each of us, like the woman alone on the corner, what makes sense. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.  

Social Media’s Sweet Spot May Be Journalism’s Final Resting Place 

I am a First Amendment absolutist. Well, sort of, but especially thanks to my years in the news business, a free press purist. But, the free press is getting clobbered by social media, thanks to the smarmy, fearful toadies in the Congress, which has carved out an undeserved protection for the wealthy and politically generous socials. And that heedless indulgence has successively turned the press into smarmy, fearful social media disciples, intimidated by the online mob and competing with it in the tastelessness sweepstakes.

Over time, the Supreme Court and the voters have allowed sensible abridgments to the Bill of Rights, which are the cornerstones of our liberty. The First Amendment is particularly dear because it protects the press; along with the right to say what you think; the right to worship (or not, as you chose); the right to peaceably assemble (though not to loot, assault, or torch); and to petition government leaders. Whether those leaders are paying attention to you, or to anything but themselves, is a question too deep for me.

The Constitution, which differs from the First Amendment in that it is a human, political conceit that may be modified or amended by law or popular decision, adjusted, and even abused by Congress, the President, and the courts.  

But, not the Bill of Rights and not the First Amendment. Its enumerated rights, we believe, inhere in each and every American at birth, indeed every human, American or not, although sadly the grasping tyrants ruling other societies elsewhere would insist otherwise. The First Amendment particularly, and the rest of the Bill of Rights protect for us these human rights by prohibiting government from messing with them.

They are not, in the first place, the government’s to give or take away, they are simply ours, from birth. Of course, voters may choose to modify, add, or even relinquish these cherished rights, but to do so is a daunting task, so difficult that efforts to make changes focus on politically susceptible lawmakers so as to chip, chip, chip away at, when they may not utterly do away with, our natural inheritance.

Now, I’m afraid, we’ve arrived at a national moment when we may have lost the guiding star of the historically unique political idea that binds us. Or perhaps we have given up on it. We derive from an idea that consecrates the variety of us and our views, distributes government authority widely and stingily, guards against majoritarianism, and fuels a determined skepticism of government and its prideful practitioners.

H.L. Mencken, a most recalcitrant but highly regarded journalist in his mid-20th Century moment, described  the American politician as “a man who has lied and dissembled, and a man who has crawled. He knows the taste of boot polish … He has taken orders from his superiors in knavery and he has wooed his inferiors in sense.” We must diligently keep that sort at bay, back-footed, Mencken advises. His view was that “All government, in its essence, is a conspiracy …” against us. 

Over the top, you say.  Well, maybe. 

Still, he does remind us of the responsibility each one has to ourselves and to others, one by one, to be what Orwell called “a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little orthodoxies which are now contending for our souls.”

Today those “smelly little orthodoxies” propagate themselves in social media, in the political class, and in the craven journalism that genuflects to them. 

Today the breadth and variety of newspapers, magazines, and niche publications of every sort, so cherished by the Founders who named them first in the list of our inborn rights, hopelessly dwindles, impoverished by the Twitters, Facebooks, YouTubes, Googles, et al. Thanks to their rapacious, bloodless intrusion, less odd and original music, fewer free swinging disharmonies and unorthodox opinions will catch our interest and attention, and prod us to say, “Just wait a minute. I have another thought.” The “cancel culture” will execute that variant, that fresh idea and see to it that the tune we will all find ourselves humming will require of us only one note. 

Social media platforms now enjoy unwarranted protection from responsibility and liability for the solicited but unpaid contributions of their constituents. So, not only do they suck up, also unpaid, every scrap of commercially valuable information about you and me and everyone else, but the content they post that attracts users also comes to them free of charge, a bottomless inventory that costs the platform nothing.

Whether the witless, uncouth, raging poster is paid for his participation or not, the social media platform collects the post and publishes it. And really, every newspaper, news site, and social platform is a publisher and should be treated as one. That means each is free to cover, discuss, and host what appeals to its owners and followers. Each may host opinions and comments that may please me but irritate you. It’s up to each of us – the citizens,  never the government – to decide what information is useful, truthful, inspiring for good or evil, or tasteful (if taste matters any more), and what is not. Each outlet’s long lived business success depends on the choices the readers or listeners or Tweeters, or Facebookers or Insta users make. 

Thankfully, the government cannot pick and choose by regulation what is freely posted, aired or written. But, consumers, by their deliberate patronage or disregard, can.

And, whether the news,  information, or social exchanges hire writers or analysts or gather all of their content from volunteers, foreign interlopers, political interest groups (even hateful ones), politicians, even presidents, legacy news organizations, or algorithms, they are publishers. They can and they must be sued for libel, defamation, invasions of privacy,  violations of anti-discrimination laws, or even disgraceful and coarsening vulgarity when they misbehave. They may shelter under the First Amendment, that’s what it’s there for, but to flower, multiply, and enrich the variety of us and what we think, none should be protected, as if some special class, from your disfavor or disregard.



What We’ve Lost

When I wandered into the newspaper business in 1972, I was a stranger in a strange land. What Manuel said to Mr. Fawlty, I might have said: “I know nothing. I know nothing.” But later, as Manuel told his deranged boss, I might have added, “I learn, I learn.” 

Since then, what I have learned about small community newspapers is entirely disheartening.

America lost a quarter of its journalists from 2008 to 2018, the vast majority of them covering local issues, University of North Carolina professor Penny Muse Abernathy told writer Jonathan O’Connell of The Washington Post, in a story published in December last year. Ms. Abernathy described the state of the art of local journalism for the year just ended, calculating that newsrooms lost at least 3,800 jobs, a gruesome toll, but that’s just the latest bad news.  She told the Post that  the country has lost 2,100 newspapers since 2004, 70 of them dailies. 

Mr. O’Connell writes that she calls “about 1,000 surviving titles as ‘ghost papers,’ because of their painfully thin staffs and reporting. She has dubbed places with few or no reporters as ‘news deserts.’  ‘There is a dearth of local news at all levels,’ she said.”

At the Vineyard Gazette, way back when, the first thing I learned was that newspapering in a small community was fun, and also challenging, though even the challenging parts were fun. Fun because every member of the community was a story, not just the town or county officials, and certainly not the state or, God forbid, federal pols, who only rarely could be distinguished from their public postures, except perhaps in their obituaries. 

Of course,  Democrat-Republican partisan warfare was muted and perhaps entirely inconsequential in those halcyon days. So selectman meetings, police and court news were fun too. Fun to research, to write, and to read. We smile, you smile, no one is wounded, or at least not terribly, and many are pleased, their profiles raised, and sometimes enhanced. 

Perhaps you found yourself surprised to learn that your neighbor was a highly regarded nuclear physicist, or you howled at the story about the rampant turkey gunned down by a town police officer. That one had a smile or two in it and was only mildly wounding to the officers whom the rampaging bird had attacked. No humans were harmed, except perhaps emotionally. It was the sort of story that makes the lives of small town reporters and editors as fun as they from time to time can be.

But, the smiles don’t predominate in community news coverage. Leaving aside the plays, movies, books, music, dance, good deeds, births, anniversaries, sports, club activities, fundraisers, and parades that formed the weekly diet, the news core of a weekly community paper is heavy with zoning/planning issues, budgets, taxes, school committee activities, law enforcement, court news, auto accidents, boating accidents, land disputes, economic development, conservation, and the like.

A good deal of this core stuff was distressing or exasperating, and some of it was heartbreaking, especially when then phone rang with an embarrassed or abused neighbor or friend, whose life has been tilted by finding himself the topic of general conversation in town. What made these stories rewarding was that the people written about were neighbors. One learned that each mattered, whatever side of the issue he supported.

The reward of the weekly community news business, particularly in a smallish setting, was that one got to follow the lives of neighbors, from birth announcement to obituary, from a newcomer’s arrival to her departure, whether for this side or the other. The weekly paper’s job was to describe as many of these human trajectories as it could, as these neighborly characters appeared and receded in the rich variety of their community roles over the years, and to do it without sneering at them, without deprecating them, without calling them names, wishing them dead, or hating them. Sadly, horrifyingly, nationally, that’s changed.

There are several myths about newspapers. One is that newspapers can only report what official sources, such as the courts, the police, the FCC, the White House, the EPA, the selectmen, or you name it, permit them to report. Another is that what newsmakers claim is private is off-limits. Oh, and that news reporters worth the name are doing a journalist’s job, getting the news, by asking some bigwig a question in a televised press conference. Rather, it’s pretend journalism.

Thank the Founding Fathers, news gathering – the press – is unregulated. Newspapers, unlike broadcast television or radio, are private enterprises, free to publish what they choose, as they choose, when they choose, whether it’s official or not. Consequently, there are all sorts of newspapers, some focused on international news, some on community and commercial boosterism, some on small town myth-making, some on the sad, sordid, and self-promotional antics of the celebs, or on the 90-year-old who gave birth to the Mr. Bean look-alike, or, well, you name it. Choose your poison.

Nor is it true in newspapering that everyone is innocent until proven guilty, obliging the reporter to add the word alleged at least twice in every sentence. It’s true in the law, and hooray for that, but it’s not true in journalism. The research and the story’s quality is the rule newspaper people should obey. Of course, make a mistake, publish the story without getting the story, risk a libel suit. Astonishingly also, there’s the myth that holds that some stories are so embarrassing or humiliating or ghastly that they ought to be kept secret by the newspaper, by those involved in the story, and by and from the community as a whole. None of this is true. It’s a choice for the reporter and his editor. The guiding spirit is, Find Stuff Out, Then Publish it.

Along with this freedom comes associated risk and a requirement for care and common sense.  Publish stuff that is not true, or so boosterish or pandering, or enough other stuff that readers find repugnant or merely trivial, and poof, you’re out of business, or maybe in court. But, the general rule is that when community newspapers publish stories that are sufficiently interesting, that obviously have the interests of the community of readers at heart, and that alert readers to matters that need attention, congratulation, or correction, such newspapers endure.

But the tide is running briskly, mortally, Woods Hole Passage-like, against news reporting and publishing today and has done so for decades. Social media has gutted journalism, coarsened, devalued, and discredited it, so that, with few exceptions, information online is indifferently researched, unedited, cocksure opinion, unexamined by a traditional editorial process. And although all of these online social media creatures are publishers, they take no responsibility for what they publish. After all, they are merely reporting or hosting what they’ve heard, what someone said, what groundless conceit has struck the poster today.

Worst of all, as the small, locally focused newspapers fall away, the profoundly personal linkage between journalists and their neighbors, who are also their readers, is lost. And finally, the nation, not the neighborhood, becomes the centerpiece of the life we live.


How on Earth Did They Manage?

I learned from the New York Post today that Tom and Giselle are still deeply in love. I had worried because apparently they had a rocky patch a couple of years ago, and Tom needed to get his priorities straight. He did, so in this bewildering moment of universal estrangement I guess things will turn out all right after all.

News like this seems to buck us up in these strange, dangerous times. So do the Instagram celebrity advisors, the tweeters, the political analysts, the online psychologists, even the TV news readers who tell us to wash our hands, keep our distance from one another, wear face masks and gloves. It’s as if, in this maddeningly,  inescapably connected world, there were no actual flesh-and-blood people, people we know, people we can call or meet over a sandwich (responsibly six feet apart) – family, friends, co-workers, buddies, all influencers with a small i – every one wise enough (or, sadly, unwise) to comfort, delight, surprise or appall us.

There are no small i’s in the broadbanded Influencer ranks. We seem to have accustomed ourselves to heed and even to pay allegiance to strangers,  secular priests oozing sanctimony.

My parents lived through the Great Depression, got married just as WWII was ending, when I was born. I understood gradually that no one during all that global chaos told them what was what. They knew, or if they didn’t they carried on anyway. How did they do it, I wonder, without Tom and Giselle and their good news.

Toilet Paper

We are anxious. Stalked by an illness that girdles the globe faster than an ICBM, we cannot unhear the order to keep an arm’s length from one another, just when in such fearful and bewildering circumstances one’s instinct is of course to join arms.

We are suddenly adrift in a vast turbulence of paradox. When it would be comforting to see a friend’s face, to gab and laugh, to hug and shake hands, to gossip and complain, ridicule, sympathize, razz, or reminisce, the face in front of us is masked. We cannot see her smile or frown. If we extend a hand it meets the other’s gloved in latex. When it would be refreshing to take a moment we’re in a rush, and so is he.

The news is always discomforting, sneering, apocalyptic, what should have been done, what is being done wrong, who has blundered and why we will all suffer for it. They closed the schools, that’s good. They closed the schools, that’s terrible. Or, there are the hapless prognosticators: here’s the worst case possibility, millions may die, the pandemic could last for most of the year, the economy will take decades to recover, the hospitals will be overrun, my neighbors will lie dying in the streets, there isn’t a leader one can rely upon.

No wonder folks are stocking up on toilet paper. What better feeling is there than to visit the family laundry room where three deep shelves of stacked Charmin Extra Soft stand by. You may run out of Cheetos, or Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food, but in that out of the way cupboard you have accumulated enough TP to see you through a year, maybe two. You won’t be the one who has to resort to using the MVTimes or the Gazette –or on a bad day the NYTimes or the Globe – in one of those crucial moments, because you lost track of your stockpile. You weren’t one of those big retailers that use the just-in-time system of restocking. No sir, maybe you didn’t plan for just this sort of extended calamity, but you certainly didn’t depend on a roll turning up in a moment of extremis.

Oh, and in this monumentally ironical global moment, astonishingly it turns out we are all in it together.





Not Another Like Him: Nelson Bryant

I’ve often reckoned myself lucky to have come across so many unique characters over the years, and especially over the 50 years I’ve lived on the Vineyard. The ones I’m thinking of were not necessarily the celebrated or the overlooked, the wheeler dealers, the politicians or the leaders devoted to their indispensable selves, and not the grouches or the wheedlers or the we-know-betters.

I have in mind men and women who have ever been merely and always themselves. It’s not easy to do, not easy to resist the daily calls to follow or to lead somewhere that is without a doubt not the right place, not your place. 

Each of us these days has strenuously held opinions, and the opportunities to detonate them are deplorably plentiful, varied, and handy. Many of us appear to be of the opinion that, in his or her life’s unfolding, there is the treasure of a memoir from which the world will certainly benefit. In this, they are, almost every one of them, wrong. On the other hand, Nelson Bryant of West Tisbury, who died on January 11, 2020 at 96, has judged correctly that his story — told in his plain, frank, unguarded, and flavorful voice — is worth telling. The result, memoir Mill Pond Joe (2014), rewarded his readers, especially those, whether old timers or newcomers, whose knowledge of and interest in Martha’s Vineyard human and natural history is keen. He delivers himself undraped in this book. He is himself, take it or leave it.

Bryant was the outdoor columnist for The New York Times for almost 40 years. As a young man, he participated in the D-Day invasion with the 82nd Airborne, then jumped again into Holland and fought in the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium. He was wounded twice. Later, he became managing editor for 15 years of the Daily Eagle in Claremont, New Hampshire, and then a dock builder on the Vineyard, before beginning a career as a columnist that would take him around the world and back again to the Vineyard. Mill Pond Joe describes most of his hunting and fishing adventures and visits many of the remote locations where game was plentiful and fish were biting. It’s a global story of a born naturalist’s devotion to the creatures he studied, admired, and hunted. He tells his life’s tale with a sharp aim and a storyteller’s gift. He describes an extraordinary working life that grew from an Island boyhood among the fields, streams, and especially West Tisbury’s Mill Pond.

“Now in my late 80s,” Mr. Bryant explains, “I have only an occasional urge to go far afield in quest of ducks and am usually content to visit Town Cove with my youngest son, Jeff, or my partner, Ruth. I don’t abuse the spot — don’t hammer it every day. I regard the marsh, the cove, and Mill Brook that enters it with reverence. My trips there are like re-reading a favorite poem. I never tire of the place even if no birds are flying, and I am deeply grateful to the various owners of the property who have allowed me to hunt there over the years.”

But, set aside for a moment the richly detailed chronicle of birds and animals he hunted, fresh and saltwater fish he caught, the friends exalted and humble he met, the wonderfully remote places he visited, his bravery and fear in combat, skinny dipping with Kay Graham on Chappy, his pedestrian taste in wine, his working relationship with the New York Times, all of which together form the framework for the telling. Instead focus on this story of a writer who, when his professional journalist’s life ended, needed to go on writing.

“All my goddam life here after the war and college,” Bryant said this week, “I’ve been a journalist, and I wanted to keep writing, for the pleasure of it. It’s always been about the words. I’ve loved words, and I didn’t want to stop using them, although really I’m inclined toward poetry.”

The poetry in this volume is plain in Bryant’s earnest self-reflection, his unflinching, really brutal, confession of his youthful romantic and embarrassing enthusiasms, his sense of guilt over the Tisbury Great Pond drowning of his sister, his betrayal of his wife, his “children’s shortcomings.”

“I was a horse’s ass,” Mr. Bryant told me one day, “but I thought, what the hell, I’ve been a journalist all my life, a reporter, and what a reporter does is put down the truth.” Instinctually and from the habits of a lifetime, if he was going to do this he wasn’t going to do it vaguely or evasively. “I thought if I was going to write this memoir, then goddamn it I’m going to tell the truth.”

Mill Pond Joe is the central character in stories he created to tell his children, in place of stories written by others and merely read to them at bedtime: “I was Mill Pond Joe, and my yarns were based on actual events in my boyhood…. A few years after my stint with the Times was over, I was moved to chronicle the story of Mill Pond Joe from childhood to old age. In part this came from having been a journalist most of my life. When I quit writing on a regular basis, I discovered that much of my emotional well-being was wrapped up in getting words on paper. Somewhat melancholic and guilt-ridden, I also had the notion that while assembling Mill Pond Joe’s history I might gain more understanding of his flawed and selfish, albeit life-embracing, behavior.”

The poet in Bryant takes clear-eyed measure of his life and himself. He can’t use W.B Yeats’s solution to the late in life uncertainty that occupies the thoughts of folks his age. He is not disposed to sail to Byzantium: “An aged man is but a paltry thing,/A tattered coat upon a stick …” Whatever happens next, Bryant told me, he will not “set a course for the “the holy city of Byzantium.”

“I must instead shuffle aimlessly toward eternity. I am, however, sustained by the knowledge that I am supremely fortunate to be living in comfort with someone I love, and with other loved ones close by, although with disturbing frequency I am troubled by contemplating the eternally fog-shrouded terrain of Hamlet’s ‘undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.’ In combat, I feared death, whether from shrieking shells, machine gun bullets plucking at my jacket, or the snap of a sniper’s round passing inches from my head, but after those things went by, and I had yet another chance to live, the fear they had engendered quickly faded. Now I sometimes feel as if I am on an unending and meaningless night patrol — without map and compass — to oblivion. I have discovered that this can be eased by actively sharing my life and thoughts with friends and loved ones.”

This sharing is generous and rewarding, because it is precisely himself. Mill Pond Joe’s life, so earnestly and frankly considered, was the work of a Vineyard lad whose odyssey began and ended at home but encompassed a landscape so rich and extensive that only a writer of real skill and a love of words could do it justice.

Note: I reviewed Nelson’s book for the Martha’s Vineyard Times in November, 2014.

At 75, The Ritz is the same old welcoming, musical place

It’s the 75th anniversary of The Ritz Cafe in Oak Bluffs. I wrote a piece for this month’s Boston Magazine to mark this remarkable moment.

Here is a link to the story:

Incurable hostility to change has been Martha’s Vineyard’s go-to stance for decades. The intensity has varied occasionally, but not the outcomes. Change has won. Today, the Gay Head Cliffs, the great ponds, and the beaches would be familiar to a mid-20th Century Vineyarder exhumed in 2019. Almost everything else is different – enlarged, renamed, upgraded, gone upscale, pricier. 

To the delight of the bar’s faithful congregation, among the holdouts there is the enduring Ritz Cafe. Along with the cliffs, the beaches, and the ponds, the blessed Ritz has held the line. It’s the same modest, local, beloved meeting, drinking, and music place that everyday islanders have depended on, after the day’s work is done and after the summer crowds have gone.

In 2019, Wednesday night at The Ritz, with John Hoy on vocals and the blues harp and dancers young and old madly sliding and wriggling among the musicians, recalls the impromptu, unsanctioned revels put on by clannish islanders of the 1970s and ‘80s – the horse races at Kappy Hall’s farm; the demolition derby at Hughie Taylor’s Gay Head (now Aquinnah) field; iceboating on a Sunday morning at Squibnocket Pond; the kids’ bicycle races around Ocean Park; 21st birthday parties arranged for young men and women by their happy families and friends. All welcome.

Often described as located at the bottom of Circuit Avenue in Oak Bluffs, the main business drag in that spiciest of the six Vineyard towns, The Ritz is actually at the heart of Circuit Avenue and the town, a few steps from the harbor, the ferry terminal, the movie theaters, Trinity Episcopal Church, the Methodist Camp Ground, the lovely, spacious Ocean Park with its bandstand and wading pond, and for years the police and fire stations, The Ritz remains a durable anchor to windward.

In 1970, fewer than 7,000 lived on Martha’s Vineyard year-round. There was no zoning or subdivision control. Government had a bit part in the production. Only a handful of ferries carried people and freight to and from the mainland at Woods Hole. Then, only two towns allowed the sale of alcohol –  exalted Edgartown, the county seat, and Oak Bluffs, OB, or Sin City, as it has been variously known. For decades, on a bitter, wind harried winter evening the lights at The Ritz extended the only welcome to be found, from one end of cheerless Circuit Avenue to the other. Edgartown was a drive too far.

A narrow, ground floor walk-in space built in 1930, the bar, featuring jars of 50-cent pickled eggs, extended front to back at the right. A few square tables, four chairs each, were at the left. The decor, bar and walls, sported a utilitarian fishboat green motif, and at the back two or three steps led up to the toilet and storage. In an adjoining space up three steps, called Topside, there were pool tables. The design approach emphasized the predictable need for periodic rapid rehab after a especially boisterous evening. Legacy customers like to tell a story, certainly generously embellished for effect, about the time one spirited customer, moved perhaps by a distaste for boiled eggs or rather because each egg was obviously a god made missile, and handy, began pitching the contents of a full bottle one at a time over the bar. Finding all the egg bits proved so difficult that the bar had to be dismantled and rebuilt to cure the smell. It was a place you made up stories to celebrate your being a part of it. 

Knowing its customers as well as it did, The Ritz was there on Tuesday mornings for the folks awaiting the weekly unemployment check distribution. It was common in the early days, well into the 1980s, that island tradesmen, shopkeepers, sales people, really workers of all sorts, expected to be laid off in the fall and rehired in the spring. In between, they got by on state unemployment benefits. The Ritz was there to comfort them, early before the checks were ready and later when the waiting had inspired a thirst.

Following the familiar Vineyard shape-changing retail tradition, The Ritz building had over the years done time as a fish market, a candy store, an ice cream emporium and a drug store, eventually approaching its true calling in Vineyard life, a liquor store. It debuted as The Ritz Cafe in 1944, Richard L Pease proprietor.

A lot of the old-timers have died, drifted away, sobered up, moved to Colorado, or decided to summer anywhere but Martha’s Vineyard. But all the people I talked with remembered the fun it was to be at The Ritz and enjoyed telling their stories. And I enjoyed hearing them. Plus, I discovered the secret to the place’s longevity. Good live music and an utter lack of artifice or pretension made The Ritz’s long success possible.