My Nantucket Life
Taking in the end of the day on my parents’ porch.
There’s a sorting stick on Nantucket that most people encounter as soon as they set foot on the island.
It separates who’s a local, who’s a summer person, who’s a child-of-a-summer-person-squatting-here-while-they-write-their novel, etc.
That sorting stick has jabbed me in the tuchus (I had to look up the spelling of that) a few times.
Shortly after I graduated from high school in 1997, my parents moved full-time to Nantucket. They built a house in Quidnet, far from the summer crowds, and planted a spectacular veggie garden that hung with dew and bounty. They continued to work—retirement’s doldrums held little appeal—and they built lasting friendships with other full-timers.
Over the coming years, I spent many seasons, and off-seasons, on the island working my tail off. With a free roof over my head, I worked as a housecleaner, a landscaper, a flower stocker, a smoothie maker, a toy seller, a babysitter, a waitress. I raked in the dough, and then I traveled the world.
Christoph and I walking Nantucket’s Sanford Farm with my sister and brother-in-law. They know all the secret pathways.
In my mid-20s, my big sister left New York City and moved to Nantucket full-time. She was no dummy. Within a few weeks, she met her future husband, also a full-time transplant, and her fate was sealed. They have built such a beautiful life on the island, and their two boys are growing up as “Islanders.”
Madaket in December.
The sorting stick has jabbed my family members enough by now. They are locals.
Though I live in Florida, I find it useful to masquerade as something local-ish when I’m on island, like when I’m trying to sell my new children’s book (ahem), or when I’m hoping that Glidden’s will give me a good cut of fish (they will), or when I’m hoping that Murray’s will accept a return for something I bought two years ago (they won’t).
My favorite time to visit the island is in the off-season, when the wind whips and the ocean broods and you sit with your parents by the fire with tea and stories. Or September, when the wind doesn’t whip and the ocean doesn’t brood, but the island is the color of an oriental rug. Or April, when the mud starts to melt and earth lets loose its cooped-up joy.
As I get older and, more importantly, as my parents get older, it’s hard to be so far away. Christoph and I talk regularly about spending more time on the island, perhaps even for long months at a time. In many ways, writing Colie Cobble was a way of building a stronger connection with the island, and it is a love letter to my family.
It was important to me to write a book that would appeal to local Nantucketers as much as it would appeal to summer people. This was harder than it might seem. I’ll get into that next time.
