These long, slow, sun-washed, seemingly unending days of September and October have reminded me of the first autumn I spent on the Cape, back in 1962. My first job was as a carpenter. My favorite member on the crew was Walt. I don’t remember his last name, but he was a tall, lanky, man of about sixty-five who didn’t say much, but when he did, he spoke with a slow Mid-Western drawl. Walt worked quietly and always uncomplainingly, going about his work in a measured but efficient way. After I got to know him a little better, I asked him how he ended up on the Cape.
“Well,” he said, “me and the missus ran a farm in southern Illinois for forty years. We never took a vacation, not a single day in all that time. Then, for our fortieth wedding anniversary, our kids got together and gave us a two-week vacation on Cape Cod. I protested, of course, but they told us not to worry, that they’d take care of things till we got back.
“So we went. It was September, with weather like this. At the end of the two weeks I called home and told them, 'Sell the farm.'”
He told me that he’d never been happier.
This is an excerpt from this week's Cape Cod Notebook. Listen to the entire essay in the audio post above.
