In 1947 my parents decided that we would spend Christmas on the Vineyard. Up to that point, I had been a summer child. Except for my grandmother’s descriptions of old-fashioned Vineyard winters, I had yet to experience one for myself.
We left from Bristol, Rhode Island, on the twenty-third of December, boarding the first of four buses that would eventually take us to Woods Hole. We changed buses in Warren, Fall River, New Bedford, and Buzzards Bay. At one point, I noticed that darkness had caused the driver of our conveyance to turn on the headlights. Soon the large windshield wipers had trouble keeping up with the rain that fell in sheets across the windswept road. From Marion to Buzzards Bay, we drove through tiny towns where an occasional storefront remained lit for those brave souls hardy enough to venture forth on such a night.
We arrived at the Woods Hole parking lot on a vehicle that we boarded in Buzzards Bay, not much larger than today’s minivans. There was a tiny building where the New York trains embarked and where on this night the nine of us took shelter from the ferocious battering of a nor’easter. Today I would have driven to the nearest lodging, had a good night’s rest, and taken the morning boat. None of us enjoyed the luxury of an automobile, and lodging in Woods Hole appeared to be nonexistent. We were at the mercy of the elements and a steamer that might or might not come.
The potbellied stove in the middle of the station was too much of a temptation for a mischievous boy, who tossed his black rubbers into the inferno, causing enough noxious fumes to drive us out into the perils of a rip-snorting nor’easter.
In time, the steamer did arrive, and nine weary, wet, and frightened passengers boarded. The females of the group took advantage of the large leather couches and curled up, probably in fetal positions. Edgartown, family, and Christmas were just around the bend. I held that thought during the next hour as we tossed and floundered in the raging seas.
As it turned out, that was to be the only Christmas that I would ever spend on the Vineyard. I have never forgotten the magic of those few days: green latticed stands topped with fat, green Christmas trees, all brightly lit with fat, colored bulbs, a light covering of sparkling snow that fell on Christmas Eve, skating on Parsonage Pond, turkey, and the infinite joy of being with my mother’s delightful family.
Once more, before I am laid to rest in the Edgartown Westside Cemetery, I would like to experience the enchantment of Christmas in Edgartown. In my dreams, I would retreat to the Victorian splendor of the Harbor View Hotel. From my room, I would delight in the austere simplicity of the lighthouse. Unadorned but for a simple wreath and red bow, it is symbolic of all those hard-working individuals who lived and labored in the trades that have vanished with time. I would attend the Federated church where, at age two, I was baptized, and I would walk through the tiny streets of Edgartown where, in winter, peace and solitude reign.
