We become natives in October. All of the summer residents migrate to

Hobe Sound, Darien, and Manhattan and we are left with each other.

October celebrates that. The stores clear their racks at 50% off, the

restaurants free up tables while the Chef tries some new tricks, the

yard sales are killer and good stuff finally comes to the dump. The

surf has a little heat left, the fish stay on the shoals, scallops are

sparse, but available, and every single evening has a glorious sunset.

October begins with fairs and farms then ends with a Halloween parade

of Power Rangers, Cinderellas and small Firemen.

We pay a considerable cost for living on Nantucket. Most of the time,

on the list, we list that cost as cash. The gas, milk, and Oreos cost

so much more out here. The rent and houses cost more than our families

made in generations. If we were honest, living out here costs more than

just money. Some of us martyr our careers to live bounded by sand.

Others leave parents and family at least 22 miles away. We may make

the birthdays, but miss the daily communions.

But on Friday, a day that had one unpleasant task, the island opened up

its heart to me.

After the necessary unpleasantness, She Who Must Be Obeyed invited me

to lunch at Centre Street Bistro, with dessert at Sweet Inspirations.

After I dropped her off, I hit drivers onto a northerly slip stream and

dropped the golf balls into the Land Bank Approved Scrub Oaks at

Miacomet. Then, Bill Sandole sold me swordfish with a smile. Rebecca

Bartlett sold me some corn. On the way back, I picked up two terribly

lost young men at the Quaker graveyard and brought them to Gardner

Street. When I got home, the boys were in high spirits chasing a

plastic baseball around the yard. After we fed them, I put the

smallest one in the stroller.

Walking the boys has been one of my pleasures for four years now. The

light was fading and Beck was chatty as we left Crooked Lane for Cliff

Road. The whole way into town, I was passed by one car. That car

stopped for a conversation. Once in town, I bought Beck a Watermelon

Cream and, as we waited, the Homecoming Parade lurched by in a shower

of candy. Becky Hickman and Debby Dooley stopped me on Main Street for

a long conversation. Finally, in the gloaming, Beck and I walked back

up the Madaket Road, once again without cars. We could have walked on

the double line into the fading light of another unbelievable sunset.

Near the bamboo path, I saw a Red Sox hat and a pair of Maui Jimπs

resting on a fence post. I had seen them for several days and, there

they still were, waiting for their absent minded owner to come back and

claim them. There are also two pairs of little kid shoes at Tom

Neversπ Playground waiting for the same absent minded owner, perhaps.

Many of my troubles this year could have been solved easily by a phone

call to Holderness, Milton Academy, or Northfield Mt. Hermon. And all

of those places are wonderful places to live and work, with Wal-Martπs

and movie theaters short drives away.

But not one of those towns is Nantucket. Those sunglasses and that hat

would never last a week on a fence post in Milton. If someone picked

them up, they would put them in their pocket. If they put them on the

fence post, they would be gone in 24 hours. And if I lived in one of

those towns, I probably would have taken them myself.

I think living on Nantucket makes us better people. I think that,

unlike the rest of America, we are reminded daily of the ties that bind

us to one another. Aware of those ties, most of us do our best to be

friendly and considerate. Some one of us put the hat on the fencepost

and many of us passed by without taking it. We may shout ourselves

hoarse over sewer fees and dormers, but in the daily communion of acts,

we keep an eye out.

The hat, the sunglasses, and the kidπs shoes will be there tomorrow.

Iπll bet the house on it.