There’s a decided air of neglect about the Martha’s Vineyard Airport that has nothing to do with the Island’s casual vibe.

Good fences make good neighbors, the old adage goes, but surely flowers along fence lines are among the prettiest sights.

Two years ago I wrote a Gazette column about the boxes in my basement — or to be more precise (and pathetic), the boxes in our basements.

Every year I say the same thing to my husband, “I’d love to take a vacation . . . on Martha’s Vineyard.”

I’ve got last day blues. They are as blue as the waves crashing on Squibnocket when I flash my beach pass for the last time.

I was dreaming away on our back deck in Menemsha when the first drops arched over the railing.