We each tumble into birth somewhere on this planet, and many of us just stay put. In fact, for most of human history the vast majority of people lived and died in their natal neighborhoods or villages. The exceptions included pioneers, refugees, or the just plain restless. I am not brave enough to be a pioneer, and I am fortunate enough not to be a refugee. So, I suppose I fall into the last category — although I think I was more curious than restless as a young man. Somehow, I knew that Harrisburg, Pa. — a nice enough place to grow up — was not my destiny. Where would it be, then?
I have too many times told the story of the hitchhiking adventure that brought me to Provincetown in 1968, and I won’t go over it again. But it is the solid truth — and not the romantic fog of recollection — that I instantly saw the total aptness of this place for me. It has remained so ever since. I have heard many others say the same thing.
I will spend the rest of my life trying to put into words exactly why this place fits me so well. In the simplest terms, I feel at home here. Something resonates. Like Mole in The Wind in the Willows, I feel a connection that is profound yet ineffable. Of course, the natural beauty of the place, its history, its vibrant community, its atmosphere of freedom and acceptance, its support for the arts — all of these contribute to the vibe that resounds within me.
But there is more. In what can only be described as a positive feedback loop, bits of me are mixed up with the town itself. Where does Provincetown end and Minsky begin? On any given day, a walk will take me past landmarks that call out memories. From the blinking light in the far East End to the rotary in the far West, almost every step tells a story either of the past or of current goings-on.
I have always been more of an East End person — funny how even a small town can contain enclaves — but for over 50 years I have ventured into small streets and lanes all over this town. I have lived long enough to have many friends among the dead, and indeed I have conversations with them. But I am not one to waste my time longing for the good old days while there is still life and vibrancy right here, right now. I celebrate what was but dig into what is.
I just trust this town. Anytime I walk out my door, I can expect to have a positive and affirming experience. On our bright and beautiful Labor Day, I got on my bike, left my quiet home on a leafy lane, and went into town to see if anything felt different. It did. While the weather was quite indistinguishable from the days before (and we were grateful for that), there was an indescribable lightness, a breath of relief, a sense of something changing. There were plenty of people still in town — and plenty more will come in September and even October — but a certain tension was released. Or at least it felt that way, and everyone I talked to felt the same.
Between leaving my home and reaching MacMillan Wharf I encountered at least a dozen friends or acquaintances. The first person I saw had made an appearance in my inaugural column in the Independent. Imagine that. As I pedaled past the Old Colony Tap, someone ran out of the bar and into the street and called after me. It was Tony, with whom I worked at Ciro’s in the late ’90s. We had a drink and a good talk.
Leaving the Old Colony, on my way home, I saw a tourist raise her camera and point it vaguely at something — the crowd, the street, the monument? Who knows? What was she trying to capture? Tourist, be my metaphor! What is it that I am trying to put into words?
Perhaps this: I am where I need to be. And grateful for it.
