There is something to be said for living in a town where you can drive by a common centered by a white steepled church surrounded by antique homes and turn down a country lane bordered in granite stone walls to encounter two towheaded boys and one equally blond girl shouting “Lemonade for sale!” This, after the night before, when you attended a weekly farmer’s market selling fresh corn, green beans, tomatoes and zucchini on the aforementioned common--then wandered down to a “Village Stroll” where local merchants kept their doors open, leaving racks of goods unattended and served popcorn, cupcakes, cheese, and wine to their customers.
There is something to be said for a free visit (donation only) to a local museum in the middle of town, and touring a slanted four-room house that used to sleep eleven, peering out the original wavy glass windows at the laughing crowd below, and at 5’3” feeling like an awkward giant when required to duck as you traipse carefully down a creaking narrow stairway so you don’t hit your head.
There is something to be said for living in a town where 10-year-olds throw their life jackets on over their bathing suits, yank on their bike helmets and peddle furiously up hills and down rutted streets to the still harbor for an early morning sailing lesson. And for taking a steno pad to the beach and writing about the eight white sails leaning on the horizon off toward Boston, of the kayakers paddling past East Shag Rock and the lobster boat bobbing among a small tornado of sea gulls that dive as the captain pulls up his traps hand-over-hand. And, for the brown haired toddler in her pink skirted suit who runs fearlessly over sharp stones to the water, red plastic buckets in each hand--who fills them and then stands at the edge flapping her arms because they are too heavy to carry--then hugs her dad's knees when he wobbles over the rocks to help her out.
There’s something that should be said about all of this, just because you can.