“Frost”

The winds were soft here. Cool. Not a breeze… an almost tangible calm. Pin Oaks provided brief shade along the trail and when the leaves shook and the Yellow Warblers sang, a beautiful duet was created. He pauses for a moment to smell what he believes to be Gardenias although he isn’t sure…

Today is Ernest’s 74th birthday. After his 2nd wife died, he moved to North Falmouth. That was 11 years ago. His father had purchased a summer home in Oak Bluffs; a stone’s throw just Southwest of the Inkwell-named such as this was the beach many Blacks visited-in 1952. As a child, he and his sister Celeste, his father and mothered visited The Vineyard every summer. The property now belonged to him. He discovered Airbnb through his eldest granddaughter who is currently studying film at NYU. She along with his daughter, son in law, son, daughter in law and three other grandchildren will be driving down tomorrow from New York City. Two in Brooklyn. Two in Queens.

Being that he lives on the mainland, he now rents the home to Howard, Hampton, North Carolina A&T, Harvard and MIT students for summer holidays.

The home was all that was listed in his father’s will for him when he returned to the essence yet it pleased Ernest beyond measure. The Cape brought him peace.

Leaving his home, the trail crossed Wild Harbor Road, ran along a stream, across East Avenue, past the Tea Room and eventually leading to Silver Beach.

With him he carried what he has carried for the last 11 years. A satchel containing his paint and brushes, two blank 6x6 inch canvases, a pipe, tobacco, a bottle of water, a mason jar and a compass. Under his arm, his collapsable easel and folding stool. The antiquated miniature Thermos cooler’s wheels creaked and scraped being half full of ice, 4 Red Stripe beers, two cans of tuna and a half eaten roll of Ritz crackers.

The beach is more crowded than usual which made him grunt with disapproval. There is a group of teenagers playing volleyball. Another group throwing a football, drinking and obnoxiously laughing. Random vacationers and their pets. He scans the beach and notices a less dense portion towards the south end. There, a woman calmly walks with her daughter through the cool sand and into the ocean. It’s early June and the water in the Atlantic is still a bit cold. The temperature in the air hovers just above 60. He decides this is where he’ll set up shop.

First unfolding the easel and placing it neatly in the dents left from his previous visit. The same holds for his stool. Next he removes the paint containers and neatly places each color in order of hue on the ground next to the right of his stool. He then pours the water into the Mason Jar and sets it slowly in it’s holder on the easel. Each brush (there are 6) is examined in the sunlight, flicked then settled into the jar awaiting their use. Opening up the cooler, he removes a libation and pops its top on the bottle opener on its side. The bottle opener is rusting and hanging on by one screw. He again grunts with disapproval. He sits the beer to the right of his stool. Next to the paint. He removes the pipe from his satchel, stuffs it with the tobacco and sparks his flint to ignite the bliss. The tuna and crackers are for later. Lastly, he removed the compass and gently places it next to the canvas. It’s no longer trustworthy yet his father used it in World War 1. It was given to him on his 10th birthday.

He glances around the bay to find his subject. His eyes rest upon a small sailboat floating just beneath the horizon.

Positioning himself on the stool, he reaches into the jar and removes the filbert. He begins to lean and dip the brush in the paint but pauses. Sitting upright he surveys the beach once more. Oddly the laughter doesn’t annoy him any longer. The barking dogs and playing children he now enjoys. The sun reflecting off of the waves and unto the sailboat seems brighter. He can see the smile from the little girl although her back is to him.

He smiles and says to himself aloud,

“Life is good…”