Welcome to Verbatim, a re-telling of anything and everything on Nantucket through your own words. We accept photos, writing, and pretty much anything else that is an expression and celebration of the community we live in and the beauty around us. In this week's submission Robert Barsanti examines the scene at Sanford Farm.
Submissions may be sent to nantucket_web@plumtv.com, or dropped off at our office location in digital format at 4 North Water Street, Nantucket, MA 02554.
Dog Times
Sanford Farm has aged well. The island has popped up around it; sputnik is visible for most of the trip back to the parking lot and Cisco now looks like a small city perched between the pond and the ocean. Within the farm, the hills gently surrender to the outwash plain and the bushes. Osprey have returned to the poles, and they have produced chicks. Grass grown up in the old ruts and the trees and bushes have grown up. Otherwise, the paths remain as they were, the barn is as firm and as solid and the mud is full of tracks: Deer, dog, turtle, and Adidas.
Dogs love Sanford Farm. I walked it one afternoon in July and met easily a dozen friends bouncing around through the high grass and brush. They snuck up behind me and licked my hand. Afterwards, they walked alongside until an owner whistled or something far more interesting came bounding and slobbering along. Others scooted right past, on the track of some irresistible smell that led them deep into the bracken, the mud, the ticks and eventually to a long hose down in the back yard and some quality time getting the ticks picked off.
Runners also love it. They also come bounding behind me in packs, part, then reform and show their heels. Earphones on, they look at the path ahead, check their watches, and try to keep an optimum pace of grass and sand. The runners had about as much to say as the dogs, although they would have fewer ticks and would take their own shower, more likely than not.
This July afternoon blessed the runners. A good southwesterly was blowing into their faces and the grass rose up from the paths. The fog blew in off the south shore in low hanging punctuation marks. Over the land, those puffy colons and question marks kept the sun dim. They raced over-head and fell apart near the water tower.
I would have liked to be a runner, but I never wanted to run. I envied them for their narrow profile, and grace. The ground fairly tossed them into the air, while each of my feet left foot deep furrows. When I was younger and more illusioned, I thought that I could become a runner. Then, after six weeks of heaving and lurching over pavement, I saw that nothing was chasing me that couldn’t catch me given the will and the time. The calendar nearly lapped me.
Given a choice between marathon runner and Labrador, I suppose I would choose the dog. They run faster and can turn quicker than most human runners. Moreover, they have more interesting paths through the farm. Every new scent is a path to pleasure, which may take them through gorse, scrub oak, blackberries and lily pads. They chased their friends, then made new ones, then chased them too. The humans ran for duty, but the dogs ran for love.
In the early evening, I sat at the bench between two roads and watch the nearly full moon rise in the east. Now that I was stationary, I was the perfect plaything for Scout, who came up to me, put both wet forepaws on my knees and proceeded to lick my face with a tongue that had just left one of the ponds. I had a hard time pushing him away: he was wet, sandy, dirty, and as happy as dog can be more than a mile from his dinner.
A pack of runners paced by. Distracted, Scout ran after them for a few moments, but they wouldn’t let him lick their faces. He came back to me for more puppy kisses. The water tower slowly picked up the orange of the sunset. The shadows lengthened from the black pines and the fog crept lower and lower to earth.
The runners sprinted the last half mile up the hill, then walked and stretched in the distance. Under the eternal light of the moon, I think I would rather have the kisses of a wet dog than the timely beeping of a watch anyway.
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