Martha’s Vineyard is kind of a minefield for me. I did some day trips here over the years. Always with the former husband, always pleasant and memorable. I’ll forever smile when I think about the two bigger boys in their dueling Yankees/Red Sox hats being playfully interrogated about their allegiances by the ferry guy. He ultimately understood their loyalties had been influenced by their parents’ places of birth, defusing a rivalry that long predates either boys’ arrival.
There are definitely some ghosts here. I went for a much-needed run this evening. It was challenging. I got a little lost as streets, appropriately enough, dead ended unexpectedly. I ran past the cute little cottage which my ex and I had rented for a long weekend to celebrate our last, in my mind, sincere wedding anniversary. I saw that it was for sale and felt a twinge of sadness about the way things change, how life, and the Vineyard, constantly twists and turns and the hills roll up and down.
Pandora threw an old Counting Crows song at me during that run, one of my favorites, “Long December.” The line that resonated was about how there were “a lot of oysters, but no pearls.” I immediately thought – “So? What’s so bad about oysters?” I mean, really, once they’re coaxed out of their hard shells there’s very little that can ruin them. Eat ’em au natural, dredge them in corn meal, fry them, whatever your fancy. They’re going to be good.
Martha’s Vineyard may have begun for me as a day trip spot with my still intact family, but it has become a place that my boys and I have experienced together. We’ve explored beaches and towns and witnessed sunsets. There have been days spent with friends playing in the waves and evening dance parties and epic Monopoly games. Pearls may be nice, but oysters are just fine.