Unhinged

I heard the wrecking machine before I saw it.
Creak creak creak then…Crunch.
The small crowd of onlookers took a collective three steps back.

Suspended high above the little fishing village of Menemsha
was the front wall of Larsen’s Fish Market.

Swinging high over the heads of the townsfolk
were shredded bits of cedar shingle and broken off lumber.
The crane creaked as it deposited the bits of building into a giant gaping roll-off.

The rumors of reconstruction were making the rounds on the island
but witnessing the demolition up close and personal like that was powerful.

Larsen’s is an institution.
The steady and reliable provision
of fresh off the boat
catch of the day seafood
is surpassed only by the warmth and kindness
of the always smiling family who runs it.

That day in October
I followed my long time routine
when scouting the island for painting ideas.
Parking down at the beach
I walked back up the dock
with sketchbook in my back pocket
and camera slung over my shoulder.

The main show was out front
so it was out back that I went.

The dock was empty
except for Betsy and her husband.
She’s the proprietor
and you’ve met her before
or at least her largess
in the painting Betsy’s Gift.

But again,
I heard before I saw.

Bang bang bang…crunch.

The two of them had heavy handtools
and were whacking the shit out of the back door.

I approached quietly
lens zoomed at the ready
as the Muses have taught me.

The two of them started laughing
Betsy turned and saw me
saying, “This stubborn old hinge is not letting go.”

Over our heads the big machine out front was lifting roof timbers
and complete sections of walls
flying them across the sky and into the dumpster
then rhythmically thumping them into smaller bits.

Chunk after chunk
they were getting closer
to this last wall
and the back door.

Now a sledge hammer was brought in.
Whack whack whack…creak.

By god they got that thing off
but it was the door that broke loose first.
The hinge held fast.

I know something of its strength
and a whole lot about its fortitude.

I’ve swung through that screen door a thousand times.
Out from the melee of islanders and tourists
ordering steamers and clams
through the steam of the tiny kitchen
over the freshly hosed down concrete floor
picking up where the swing of the last customer
banged that door shut
and pushing it out  once again
then walking onto the dock
in the brightening light
of that familiar harbor.

They had wanted to save the door
a powerful talisman indeed.

I wanted to mark its passage as well.

The hat is the very first one I ever bought.
Like the hinge
it signifies
and holds me fast
to that island.