
our clubhouse was in the hayloft of the old barn
hot and stuffy in summer
freezing cold in winter
we listened to Beatle records over and over again
on a dusty turntable

our clubhouse was in the hayloft of the old barn
hot and stuffy in summer
freezing cold in winter
we listened to Beatle records over and over again
on a dusty turntable

the sweet scent of oranges
warm yellow walls
her curtains were gingham
like the aprons she sewed

when a small comfortable home
was just enough

July 3, 1971
driving my friend’s family’s Lincoln Continental
from Edgartown to Vineyard Haven
picked up few hitchhikers along the way
someone turned on the radio
to the news that Jim Morrison had died







there were signs
during the summer of 1968
she couldn’t remember my name