The sky was blue, which we are learning this summer to never take for granted. The new teacher was visiting the island for a few days in July, prior to beginning her tour of duty in September. One always wonders what notions of island life a new person might have assembled. Has she been reading Elisabeth Ogilvie? Robinson Crusoe? Perhaps, with trepidation, the “society pages” out of the local papers? (That, by the way, means the court news.)

She sat in an Adirondack chair on a new friend's deck at the “four-corners;” the hostess and another couple of neighbors came out of the house carrying chips and homemade salsa, something akin to a plate of bruschetta, goat cheese from Appleton Creamery, locally baked French bread. Before long, another half dozen women were there, sharing wine, telling stories. One was Hanny, who works at the Farnsworth and is eighty-plus years old. One teaches French, one makes a line of local soaps which you may have seen in Rockland area shops, one is a full professor who has also climbed Kilimanjaro, one has sailed on the schooner Bowdoin. We all joked to the new teacher that “things are like this all the time…the weather is lovely, it's a regular social whirl…” Sure. She knew better, but heck, take it when you can get it.

Nobody went home drunk; one a little too talkative, perhaps (that would be me,) but nobody started a brawl. Nobody fell down over the steps. Nobody swore, nobody raved. I ate a lot of those little toasted delicious thingies, whatever they were. Maybe a really refined lady doesn't go to a “glass of wine on the deck” sort of gathering actually hungry, but I did, and I stooped to a couple of wise-aleck remarks about government. That's as rough as things got. Everybody else behaved in a manner which would earn a carefully-manicured thumbs-up from Emily Post (who, by the way, was a distant relation to somebody who lived here.)

Tonight, as I write, singer/songwriter Andrew Calhoun will be performing later. A couple of others will also be up there too for the “open mike,” Tom with the drum, Rob, who is somebody's company for a few days and who sings, and Nat will usually play us something. He's got some new songs out this summer (“…tryin' to make a living in paradise…”). We're hoping Dennis will play sometime too, although he prefers to play in his trap shop, meaning the audience comes to him. Nothing wrong with that. They've got the basement of the church set up as a sort of “coffeehouse” atmosphere, and if there happen to be musicians about, a few times a summer, an itsy-bitsy little concert breaks our routine. Andrew is playing this time to benefit Matinicus Island Rescue, which has put a defibrillator on the passenger boat, replaced an oxygen setup, bought a few epi-pens. It's not about the charity, though. People come for the music, because live music on this island is an absolute treat. CastleBay played here a couple of years ago. I had the chance once to gab with Steve Romanoff of Schooner Fare, who said something about playing on another, larger island and there having been a power failure. I assured him if they'd come play Matinicus we might not be able to pay the rate but we can at least guarantee them electricity.

We have very fine electricity.

A few days ago, we had “movie night” at the school, using the new projection setup. Our little school was given this equipment, if I am not mistaken; don't bother fretting about where your tax dollars are going. At any rate, about a dozen of us watched an indie film called “Once,” about some musicians in Ireland. No explosions, no blood, no sleaze, no computer-generated monsters. A couple of people brought popcorn to share; all very relaxing. Hey, why not? Some of us had to pry ourselves out of the house to go, as by that time in the evening we tend to fade. We're the early-rising sort of sophisticates.They're busy setting up for the Building Bridges Art Show, which is making the rounds of the islands this summer. Young island artists worked with established artist “mentors,” and the resulting work was shown at Julia's Gallery in Rockland last winter. For two weeks, we have the exhibit here, again in the church basement community room, which has been brightened up for the show. The opening is on Tuesday, the 29th of July (and you don't even have to eat bleu cheese, which is good, because I won't do it.)

A couple of the guys from Condon's Cove muscled an old refrigerator up off the point, across the beach and into the back of Alan's pickup truck, to be directed, eventually, to Rockland, and we the taxpayers of the Plantation will pay the 20 bucks or whatever it is for the disposal, and be glad to do it. Note to cheapskates: you cannot sink a refrigerator. (If you're not glad to help, too bad, you're paying your share just the same.)

Sure, amidst the birdwatchers and the organic strawberries and the art and the high-speed wireless, one of the neighborhood gun nuts was blasting away at nothing in particular today. This, of course, aggravates the paying clientele. The roads are dusty, the fuel is scarce, the bait is too expensive. Those things are the background rattle of authenticity. We can poke a little gentle fun at “wine and cheese” because on this rock we can indulge in that kind of harmless social fluff without obligation, without pretense; we're not going to impress anybody, we're not even trying (well, maybe when that native lobsterman had all that fancy stainless steel cooking equipment aboard his boat at the Stonington races that time a few years back, when it looked like a better set-up than Martha Stewart's place…) Anyway, if we choose to “get all rigged up” in our best kilt or Sunday hat, it's just for fun, just for laughs, no pressure. Yes, this is Matinicus, about which the yachting guide says “hostile savages.” Dangerous? Rarely. Authentic? That's better. Freedom doesn't always nurture considerate behavior, but it sure beats the other extreme. We don't live where the condo association tells a man what color socks to wear while trimming the hedge, if you get my meaning. That doesn't mean there's some rigid social norm that says we can't trim the hedge at all.

You can believe what you want about this place, but 21 years has taught me that with anything you say about Matinicus, the opposite is also true. Meanwhile, the deacon visiting from up north has brought some homemade wine, and we're thinking about choosing the movie for the next bit in the “Film Festival,” the new teacher spends a few days going through all the brand-new textbooks and science materials, and I think I'll have another little toasty bruschetta thing. How very civilized.

Eva Murray graciously begs to be excused from weepy chick-flicks, Roquefort, incomprehensible art jargon, raised eyebrows and rabid gun nuts on Matinicus Island.

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