the monkey

Nantucket

I recently attended the wedding of one of my second cousins on the island of Nantucket. The reception was held at the distinguished Sankaty Head Lighthouse Country Club. Around 9pm, after the festivities had peaked and most of the guests were inebriated, I looked out the window of the clubhouse and saw my granduncle Preston. Silver haired, 76 years old and wearing a super suede suit from 1976, Preston had one foot majestically placed on a small boulder as he boldly sipped a glass of brandy.

Sweeping golf courses cloaked in fog rolled out below the hill the Club sat upon. The cliffs dropping into the ocean could just barely be discerned through the mist, and only one half of the red and white striped Sankaty Lighthouse was visible. My cousin, just out of Duke and smartly dressed in a blue blazer, accompanied me as we walked out to have a quiet moment with our great uncle. My cousin's sister and his girlfriend, of course, did not follow. It was a man's thing we were off to do.

We stood silently next to Preston for a long while. At some point he turned and told us how proud he was of us, and how he wished our recently deceased grandfather might be here. He then lapsed into musings on the Virginia homestead. We contemplated what a shame it was that the new black member on Washington-Lee University's council had forced the school to remove a large bust of Robert E. Lee from the main lobby.

While we talked, a small boy clad all in white spun in circles on the 18th hole. Eventually, a friend of the family came out and we all sauntered back into the clubhouse, which was alive again as the band blasted out 1920's ragtime. Stepping onto the old wooden porch I noticed a small white plaque nailed into one of the posts, presumably from an old whaling vessel.

In small, faded letters it simply read: Nantucket

	Nantucket I recently attended the wedding of one of my second cousins on the island of Nantucket. The reception was held at the distinguished Sankaty Head Lighthouse Country Club. Around 9pm, after the festivities had peaked and most of the guests were inebriated, I looked out the window of the clubhouse and saw my granduncle Preston. Silver haired, 76 years old and wearing a super suede suit from 1976, Preston had one foot majestically placed on a small boulder as he boldly sipped a glass of brandy. Sweeping golf courses cloaked in fog rolled out below the hill the Club sat upon. The cliffs dropping into the ocean could just barely be discerned through the mist, and only one half of the red and white striped Sankaty Lighthouse was visible. My cousin, just out of Duke and smartly dressed in a blue blazer, accompanied me as we walked out to have a quiet moment with our great uncle. My cousin's sister and his girlfriend, of course, did not follow. It was a man's thing we were off to do. We stood silently next to Preston for a long while. At some point he turned and told us how proud he was of us, and how he wished our recently deceased grandfather might be here. He then lapsed into musings on the Virginia homestead. We contemplated what a shame it was that the new black member on Washington-Lee University's council had forced the school to remove a large bust of Robert E. Lee from the main lobby. While we talked, a small boy clad all in white spun in circles on the 18th hole. Eventually, a friend of the family came out and we all sauntered back into the clubhouse, which was alive again as the band blasted out 1920's ragtime. Stepping onto the old wooden porch I noticed a small white plaque nailed into one of the posts, presumably from an old whaling vessel. In small, faded letters it simply read: Nantucket