By Icy Frantz
Hello September. I can see you peeking out from behind the staked green tomatoes that are beginning to blush a crimson red, interrupting my thoughts, my days, and waking me from the summer solitude.
Some years, it’s a lingering, slow coming-to, and other times it’s a shrill alarm that startles me, coercing me from a long barefooted beach walk back into shoes that are confining, rigid, uncomfortable at the very least. My feet have thoroughly enjoyed the plein air.
But as always, the quiet times allow me to think, and overthink — guilty as charged — and so I share with you some of my thoughts and insights gifted to me from the sandy shores of a small spit of land 30 miles from a Massachusetts coastline.
The island teaches in quiet ways, not from a pulpit, but in a whisper and I am grateful for the subtle learning. Returning home is always bittersweet. But like it or not, sand is eternal. It follows me into my car, my purse, and back to Connecticut, rubbing the rough edges of the forthcoming season.
In the center of town, the isle’s main street features cobblestones that were laid down in 1837. They were chosen for their durability. It was a good choice — they have endured. But in the early 1900s, with the growth of automobiles, there was a strong progressive movement to pave over the cobblestones for smoother driving. The movement was met with resistance and the stones are still there.
An editor for the Inquirer and Mirror wrote this in 1919: “It may not be next year, or the year after, or the year after that, but it will be smoothed over some year — when the time arrives that common sense takes precedence over sentiment.” One hundred and six years later, sentiment still triumphs.
And there is something deeply instructive about sentiment winning out over practicality. Common sense says: smooth the road, make life easier, hurry on your way. Sentiment says: slow down, watch your step, put away your heels, remember who came before you. The stones demand attention. They force you to lift your eyes from your phone and notice the rhythm of your walk, the sway of the hydrangeas, the salt in the air.
The cobbles are uneven, ankletwisting, stroller-jostling, and car-rattling, but they remind us that beauty, history, and even inconvenience are worth preserving. Sometimes the most memorable roads are not the easiest ones — and it’s the bumps, not the smooth stretches, that stay with us.
Not far from the cobblestones lies over 80 miles of beach. I like to go when it’s quiet in the early morning, with our golden retriever, Sailor. He runs. I walk. And looking out at the horizon, that endless sweep of sea and sky, instills perspective.
At the edge of the shore, with waves folding and unfolding at my feet, the horizon becomes more than just a line. It’s an invitation to put down any immediate worries, breathe, and consider the possibilities. I am small. The world is big. From that vantage point, although I cannot see beyond, the horizon suggests another shore, another chapter, another chance.
Occasionally, on those walks, a deep fog blankets the island and the familiar becomes unfamiliar. I am offered the chance to see what I have grown accustomed to in a fresh way, and in that shift, I realize that places — like people (and dogs) — hold depths I haven’t yet noticed.
And occasionally, on those walks, I come across another doing the same — someone with a dog or two at their side — and instantly, there is connection. We exchange a knowing smile, share the same secret: it was so worth rising early, slipping out of the warmth of bed, to take this all in. We are the lucky ones.
Unlike the beaches that are quiet at the start of day, the island sags from the weight of tourists in the summer. The roads are congested, the stores are crowded, and grocery shopping could be considered an Olympic sport. And yet, I am unbothered by it — nothing like the frustration I might feel on the post road or I-95, sitting in traffic. There is a gentleness to the everyday aggravation, a price to pay to have a very small stake in such a special place.
Is it the light — not just at sunset, which is stunning, but the way it strokes the harbor throughout the day, or bounces off the mighty masts of moored vessels, or the glow at dawn taken in from a widow’s walk?
Or is it the history that seeps from every plaqued house, where weathered shingles give a nod to centuries gone by, and dogs bark at the ghosts of whaling captains meandering down the narrow roads?
Maybe it’s all of it.
September is coming for me, for us. There is no denying it — back into shoes and schedules. But I bring with me the wise counsel of the island: that beauty is often found in what slows us down, that there is always more to notice, to discover, and that all seasons bring another shore, another chapter, another chance, and a new beginning.
While the island fades behind me, I toss a few pennies overboard as my ferry passes the light house to ensure my return. And if all else fails, at least I know I’ll still be finding sand in my shoes come Christmas — proof the island never really lets you go.
Icy Frantz
Icy@icyfrantz.net
The Icing on the Cake
