On Wednesday I was in Wellfleet looking for a cup of coffee, and instead found tumbleweeds blowing through the empty streets. Not actual tumbleweeds, but it sure felt like it. It was quiet and deserted - shades drawn, doors closed - like a turtle patiently waiting for whatever's poking at it to give up.
I passed a truck with a bumper sticker that said, essentially, "don't bug me, I'm a local." Those stickers have always sort of bothered me. We're all local somewhere, and we should probably try not to bug each other - no matter where we are.
And then as the day unfolded I thought about how those people who are scrappy and combative are also the ones who are protective and loyal. It's like a great big family, these locals. Sometimes they're showing the scars from a thrown can of peas, other times they're helping each other to stand.
I am not part of that family, but I have loved and admired many of its members. I listen to and love the stories people tell as they reminisce about someone who's passed. Theirs is a rich and intricately woven culture. So many are inextricably tied by bonds of family and friendship and sheer history - their stories will just keep getting brighter.
Here's to the locals of Wellfleet. Bless your hearts.
If you've come looking for Caleb's family, go say hello to Sharyn.