One of my earliest memories of Martha’s Vineyard is of the south shore, of south beach. We lived in an ancient farmhouse, with woods to the north and west, and a many-acres field to the south and east. Sheep populated that field, and at evening would return to their dilapidated but sturdy barn. As night came, the whippoorwills called. Overandoverandover.
In bright daytime, there was often a walk across the outwash plain field, through grasses, goldenrod and pearly everlasting, to the beach.
Where we reached, under the blue sky, an Edenic intensity of summer sun, of beachgrass, of rosa rugosa, of white sand, of water and of waves. And the vast expanse of south beach sand.
What a wonderful place to be.
The photo above is a recent one, of a grandchild, but could be of me, over sixty years ago.