Robert Finch
A nature writer living in Wellfleet, Robert Finch has written about Cape Cod for more than forty years. He is the author of nine books of essays. A Cape Cod Notebook airs weekly on WCAI, the NPR station for Cape Cod, Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket, and the South Coast. In both 2006 and 2013, the series won the New England Edward R. Murrow Award for Best Radio Writing.
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My friend Ralph – as I’ve mentioned before on these broadcasts, has an uncanny eye for unusual things that most of us would overlook. But he outdid himself the other day when he showed me a picture he had taken of something that had washed up on the beach in Harwichport. -
My father was a resourceful man. He had to be. He was the youngest in a family of seven. His father died when he was eleven, and he had to quit school to help support his family. -
When I was a kid, my friend Jimmy and I would go to the Saturday morning matinee at the local movie theater. The main feature, usually a Western, was preceded by a short chapter from an adventure serial. Usually, each chapter would end on a cliff-hanger, sometimes a literal one, and we would have to wait to the following week to learn the fate of the hero. -
One of my favorite Jerry Seinfeld moments is not from his hugely successful TV series, but from a documentary entitled Comedian, which follows Jerry’s career after Seinfeld had ended. -
Well, it’s late October again, and once more the Red Sox will not be in the World Series. Once again the Fenway Faithful will turn to the past for comfort – and the nice thing about baseball is that there’s so much past to turn to. -
In the wake of another season of disastrous wildfires in the West, I‘ve been surprised that there have been relatively few forest fires on the Cape and Islands during our long dry summer and fall. -
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Over the years I’ve casually pursued a hobby of investigating unusual or enigmatic Cape Cod street names, especially names that turn out to signify something quite different than what they seem to suggest. -
We arrived home last Sunday after our annual three-week escape to Lake Dunmore in Vermont. Already I miss that great, deep, five-mile-long northern lake, so different from the Cape’s modest ponds. -
The other day I was walking through a small private cemetery full of 19th century gravestones when I came upon one for “Ruth Ann, daughter of/ Henry and Ruth Sears, / died November 19, 1836,/ aged 1 year, 8 mo.”
