I've been living on the mainland for two weeks now. Winter is almost over, but we have not yet moved to Daylight Saving Time. Would you believe me if I tell you that nights here at Duncaster in Bloomfield, Ct. seem darker than nights on the Vineyard?
On the Vineyard I lived about a half-mile from a paved road. In winter there were 14 people scattered over eighty acres. There were no lights on the road other than your headlights. Occasionally, one of the summer people would come down for a winter weekend and you'd see a kitchen light a quarter-mile away. In the morning you might have planned to go to a movie that night, but come 7 p.m. you just couldn't see yourself driving back and forth in the dark to the theatre.
Tonight at 10:45 there are lights on in the building opposite me. But there are very few, although two-hundred or so people live here. The building is quiet, interiors are well-lit but quiet. The windows are such that it's hard to hear the wind. On the Vineyard the wind was a constant winter companion. The other day it took me quite a while to realize that a fairly major rain storm was in process here on the mainland; even the rain was quiet.
Reading what I have just written seems to be telling me that it's the quiet, not the darkness, that is the difference between the Vineyard and the mainland as I am experiencing it. And I suspect that the quiet is a function of the age of my neighbors and of myself. There is no longer a need to make oneself heard; at our age we've exercised our lungs enough. I am not saying that old age means you stop working towards creating a better world. I guess I am saying you recognize that you need sleep and sleep comes easier when you and your environment are quiet. Tomorrow at dinner there will be enough noise so that you'll have difficulty hearing your dinner companion. And then an hour later silence will descend.
On the Vineyard I lived about a half-mile from a paved road. In winter there were 14 people scattered over eighty acres. There were no lights on the road other than your headlights. Occasionally, one of the summer people would come down for a winter weekend and you'd see a kitchen light a quarter-mile away. In the morning you might have planned to go to a movie that night, but come 7 p.m. you just couldn't see yourself driving back and forth in the dark to the theatre.
Tonight at 10:45 there are lights on in the building opposite me. But there are very few, although two-hundred or so people live here. The building is quiet, interiors are well-lit but quiet. The windows are such that it's hard to hear the wind. On the Vineyard the wind was a constant winter companion. The other day it took me quite a while to realize that a fairly major rain storm was in process here on the mainland; even the rain was quiet.
Reading what I have just written seems to be telling me that it's the quiet, not the darkness, that is the difference between the Vineyard and the mainland as I am experiencing it. And I suspect that the quiet is a function of the age of my neighbors and of myself. There is no longer a need to make oneself heard; at our age we've exercised our lungs enough. I am not saying that old age means you stop working towards creating a better world. I guess I am saying you recognize that you need sleep and sleep comes easier when you and your environment are quiet. Tomorrow at dinner there will be enough noise so that you'll have difficulty hearing your dinner companion. And then an hour later silence will descend.
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