“They keep feeling like long weekends,” Sofie said this Monday morning as she picked up her backpack and headed out the door.  “Why?”

I remember the first time she uttered the dreaded three-letter word.  It was my birthday a few years back, and she was just getting into her evening bubble bath.  It started off  as several different questions, “Wha-who-howwwwwwwWHY?”  This truly was the death knell for the last shreds of my parental sanity.

On the other hand, Monday morning’s WHY was definitely worth examining.  The previous weekend we had started off with baseball practice, a bike ride, then heading to Hyannis for our long-delayed digital television purchase, some indulgent investigation of our new HD channels, then the next day’s riding for the Pan Mass Challenge in the Brewster in Bloom Parade, a late lunch at Friendly’s, some helping in her neighbor’s garden, and finally watching a movie on that new HDTV.

Her assessment the next morning was that it felt like a five-day weekend.  And this morning, her aforesaid observation, and wondering about that.

I replied, “Well, maybe with the nicer weather, we can do so much more.”  Might be that with my seven-year-old Barbie Tomboy now passing four feet in height, her world of possible activities is growing as fast as our well-watered yard.

Last week I introduced the concept of “Time flies when you’re having fun.”  I’ll hold off for now on the related idea, “Summer is why we suffer through nine months of winter here.”

When I returned from Germany with my baby girl, alone, in 2004, it was with the desire to have her grow up much as I had.  In a safe small town near the water, surrounded by a large extended family.   And while she’s had a fairly active childhood, with summer rec programs, soccer, skating, tennis, South Beach campouts, and all the rest, I think there’s a certain shift in consciousness that comes about this age following first grade.

Now proficient in reading and math, she not only understands the concept of putting money into her savings account – she can make a sign for the much-anticipated cash cow of a lemonade stand.  She’s started writing her own stories, which leads to a desire to explore.  And unlike when she was younger, she has a greater physical ability to explore in relative safely.  I don’t have to keep an eye on her 100 percent of the time, although I am definitely the preferred playtime companion.  Still.

In February, when we had to take three different flights to get to Munich, I got a preview of this new level of confidence.  She was frequently ahead of me with her carry-on, as we navigated from one side of a large airport to another.  She could read the signs for the terminal or gates, and in reading the clocks be able to tell how much time we had to get there.  The concept of currency exchange still was tough, but then again I’ve traveled with a few adults who after a week were still struggling.

So if this is how we are heading into summer, I can only imagine what I will have on my hands by the end. By Labor Day, I am probably going to be looking back at countless skinned knees, bug bites, bruises, cuts from stepping on shells or sea glass, burns from getting too close to the grill or campfire even though I said stay well away, near-misses with oblivious drivers, sugar high crashes, episodes of getting separated in large crowds, jellyfish stings, waterlogging, stepping in God-knows-what and tracking it in the house, ice-cold garden hose rinse-offs after the beach, slips over the side of the boat or canoe, grumpy days from “sleeping” out in the tent the night before and not getting any rest, bugs eaten while berry picking, rashes from experimentation with poison ivy resistance, a few cat scratches, two bee stings, and at least one random dog bite.

That is, if we are lucky.  Given that she will likely survive intact, the greatest challenge she may face is remembering to regularly write at least some of it down.  This may be the year of the summer journal — to remember why we’re here.

I’ve already written about the scheme of the regional school with Harwich, and how simply bigger is only, well, bigger. Not better. Still, money has been spent on this because the state is pushing all districts to try regionalization, and Harwich needs a new high school. At this upcoming annual town meeting, Chatham voters will be asked to fund yet another $10,000 study to evaluate the benefits and costs of regionalization.

Really?

That amount sticks in my head because it is the same that the Women of Fishing Families were shorted this year for running the Chatham Maritime Festival.

It especially sticks in my head because I don’t think anyone has any doubt but that said “study” on regionalization will be anything but favorable. After all, Harwich (who wants to regionalize with Chatham) is paying half the cost, and the report is mandated by the state (who wants the same). Under the circumstances, it is highly unlikely that the conclusions will be little more than tired old “glass is half-full” assumptions and one-size-fits-all arguments that have been employed in one suburb after the other.

And still, when completed, this study will be used as a gong by pro-regionalization supporters. Before they have even begun, they are citing Peter “I-Never-Met-A-Town-That-Wouldn’t-Be-Better-Off-Regionalized” Francese. Of course, Mr. Francese is a demographer, not an educator. Just last week in a New Hampshire newspaper he predicted Americans would be so angry at the federal government that they would throw out their census forms. Francese had no data to back this up. Instead, he relied upon listening to talk radio.

So this is the guy we’re relying on to make decisions about the future of education.

Really?

In our case, however, Francese looks at the entire Cape and predicts a dwindling school population, coupled with older voter unwillingness to fund the schools. What he doesn’t factor in, specifically for Chatham, is that we steal students from other systems through school choice. We do that because we are small. There’s a cachet to Chatham, too, no doubt. But if we regionalize, we lose that.

In return we’re supposed to get state-of-the-art computer labs.

Really?

We’re supposed to get AP courses.

For all students? No. Just those who qualify. For the classes we can afford to hire a teacher for.

And more sports. Like hockey? The game that we already play with Harwich and the school committee tried to cut funding for recently?

Or maybe football. But hockey and football seasons overlap, and you might be talking some of the same kids then, so you’ll end up with, what, an opportunity for a handful of players from Chatham.

OK, but there is a downside. I can think of several. The first, as I’ve written before, is the way a regional school system’s budget would be presented to Chatham Town Meeting for an up or down vote. If it is amended, there will be a great wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth as it must then be approved by the voters of Harwich.

That shouldn’t be a problem. I can hear that familiar argument trotted out at Chatham Town Meeting: “We have to pass this or else we’ll have to start from scratch.” Democracy in action.

But here’s an even more concrete argument: I have a daughter. Sofie. She’s seven. She’s in first grade. The bus doesn’t come down our road. When she goes to middle school in a few years, she’ll ride her bike a mile and a half. It will take 10 minutes. Or she could walk. Or, in a pinch, I could drive her. That will take less than five minutes.

Same with picking her up.

In Chatham, even the house furthest from the middle school and high school is only five miles away. On the other hand, if the schools were regionalized, with either the middle or high school in Harwich, Sofie is looking at a seven-mile drive. Walking is out. Biking, for most of the year, is out. Other students in Chatham will be looking at up to a 10-mile bus ride. And that’s a straight line – which no bus does. How early are they going to have to get up?

Worse, with so many kids having after school activities, how many times a week am I going to have to go drive all the way into Harwich Center to pick her up? And if she forgets something at home, that’s me having to lose the better part of an hour during a workday on that roundtrip.

And we all know how much kids with drivers licenses love to continue to take the bus. So we’re looking at a convoy, twice a day, of carloads of Chatham teenagers on the roads between Chatham and Harwich.

We cancelled school this winter because of a threat of snow that never materialized. How about real ice- and snow-covered streets? Are they suddenly going to be safer for our kids to drive to school on just because they lead to a regional high school?

Not really. No.

Chatham has a good school system, with good test scores, small class sizes and strong local control. Yet we are being asked to throw good money at a study that says it can get even better if we get hitched with Harwich.

Really?

I’m trying to remember spring cleanup, but with the way the weather was this past summer, it was hard to separate the two seasons. Regardless, with the onset of colder weather prompting a change in Sofie’s wardrobe, and dogs being more inside now (with attendant vacuuming), it is definitely time to clean house. Definitely before the season gets away from us, and the onslaught of presents at Christmas.

A lot of mental housecleaning, too. Maybe not enough for a full column, but still worthy of pondering.

If the goal of the Bridge Street Parking plan was not to make money, but to discourage parking, it did. If the goal was to discourage Lighthouse Beach attendance, it clearly did not. If the goal of charging admission at beaches is to recover costs associated with maintenance (i.e. life guards, beach patrols, etc.), then there seems to be an amazing disconnect – revenue is down at Harding’s Beach because people want to go to Lighthouse Beach.

Harding’s is remote. Lighthouse is close to town. Harding’s has plenty of parking, and charges. Lighthouse has limited parking, but has some Rube Goldberg system for out-of-town beach goers. To maintain Harding’s takes a beach rake and life guards. To maintain Lighthouse it is going to take $100,000 for a very involved beach patrol system. And I, like many, many other people, would rather go to Lighthouse Beach even if not allowed to swim, than go to Harding’s and be able to.

So why not try to recover the cost of maintaining this very popular destination through parking fees?

* * *

There was a strong chord of dissonance sounded recently with rejoicing that the U.S. did not win the Olympic bid for 2016. I say “the U.S.” because Chicago is, still, part of the United States. I don’t care whose hometown it is, or what kind of political feather this would be in someone’s cap.

This is the Olympics, and the United States not only has every right to be considered equally – it is against our nature as Americans not to compete when given the chance. But worse, by rooting against the bid, Americans were rooting against home field advantage for our athletes. Never mind that our Olympic teams will now have to travel to another continent to compete, with their attending families – American families – having to bear the costs of overseas travel.

It’s about our athletes. Anyone bother to ask them what they wanted before running down our Olympic bid?

* * *

Whenever Afghanistan jumps into the public consciousness again, I’m reminded of Rina Amiri. During the winter I wrote my novel “The Bostoner,” I was up in Cambridge and Rina was one of my roommates. She had been a member of the Afghan royal family that was forced to flee in the ‘70s, and had eventually grown up in the Bay area. I recall a few conversations with this Kennedy School scholar about the then-new movement coming out of Pakistan – the Taliban – and her feeling she might never return there. And I recall her idealism, on United Nations Day, asking me to support the United States, under Bill Clinton, refusing to pay the full dues in light of clear patterns of waste and corruption.

It was probably a few short months after the U.S. invasion eight years ago that she did indeed return to help with the formation of the fledgling Afghan government and to especially work on women’s issues. She’s written in the Boston Globe and been on NPR since then, which is always a kick for me to encounter. And now, with the President seriously considering how to proceed in the region, I see she is now Senior Advisor to the U.S. Special Representative to Afghanistan and Pakistan, Richard Holbrooke.

This has always personalized Afghanistan to me. When you share a kitchen with someone, it makes it hard to accept that they cannot return to their country, under penalty of death. You then take some pride that the intervention of your country allowed them to return safely to theirs, to work for the welfare of their brutalized countrymen and women. More recently, however, a feeling of shame rises when we in this country, especially those who so value human rights, seem to willing to abandon a whole nation because a determined – but small – and violent faction is giving us the equivalent of a bloody nose.

It should not come as news to anyone claiming a broader international perspective that the work of the world is not done in a season or two. There is no shame in abandoning governments we have previously allied with, but what of their people we asked to believe in America?

Are our ideals so malleable? Are we so fickle? Are we, in the final analysis, just tourists with tanks?

“We do not have a housing problem.  We have an income problem.”

I was glad to hear this coming from Chatham Selectman Sean Summers recently.

In 2001, the first meeting I attended as a newly-minted selectman, outside my own board, was for the affordable housing committee.  I had always been proud of Chatham’s support for efforts to retain its working families.  It stood in such stark contrast to the out-of-town stereotyping that CHATHAM = RICH = CONSERVATIVE = HEARTLESS SNOBS.

However, over the years I’ve seen plenty of the housing for working people in town get redeveloped into high-end second homes, little by little, with little if any regard as to the cumulative effect on the community.  “What difference is just this going to make?” goes the argument.  This is how a town dies.

Meanwhile, as housing costs doubled, tripled, I saw wages stagnate and even fall.  More and more of the town was being covered in living space, and less and less of it was intended for or within reach of the people who lived and worked here.

I write this in the aftermath of our last town meeting.  But I raise this not to talk about the failure of affordable housing amendments to pass.  Rather, there’s a more important impact on Chatham’s housing that did pass – sewers.

Just as town water coming to a neighborhood allowed houses to be built on lots without regard to the proximity of a septic system to a well, by addressing our wastewater needs, we face some very serious side effects. With sewers, homes can now be built without worrying about the impact of their septic systems on the environment.

Yes, in years past we’ve seen a bylaw amendment enacted that would prohibit greater building on a lot that is newly sewered than was allowed prior to its sewering. But then, we’ve recently seen that Dunkin Donuts is not fast food, and an attempt to push poor families into our industrial zone (established because such uses were incompatible with residential areas).  There is a very human urge to fully exploit a public convenience when given the opportunity to make a private profit.

Hence, density will increase.  It is necessary to plan for the impacts, yet we seem stymied by a system that the public perceives as too closely affected by large property owners in town, and driven pell-mell towards a goal of 10 percent affordable housing so as to fit into a one-size-fits-all mandate by the state. In other words, not just doing the right thing for the wrong reason, but looking as if it was being done it for all the worst reasons.

There are many good reasons to assure that working people can live here.  Continuity.  Stability.  Fairness.  Hope.

But sadly we’ve continued to address just one side of the equation: lowering housing costs to match what our current local economy pays.  There seems to be no effort whatsoever to improve and diversify the economy.   Any talk of it seems to have the greatest thinking of the mid-20th century behind it, “General Motors is not going to build a factory here.”  That’s no news flash.  As if heavy industry is the only solution to improving a local economy.

Our national economy is changing.  We need to adapt.  We’ve heard time and time again that young people – whose education we’ve spent good money on — are leaving the Cape because they want more than waiting tables, swinging a hammer or making beds.  There are plenty of expensive, gorgeous places in this country where smart people move to start businesses because they are encouraged by these communities.

Meanwhile, there just seems something very wrong that two of the largest employers in town are Chatham Bars Inn and town government.

If asked, most people here would agree that any healthy town needs more balance in its economy and its people.  Educationally, we’re not a backward town by any measure, but there seems to be mulish unwillingness to look any further than addressing state mandates with short-term fixes.

We should not be looking to solve the problems others say we have.  We should be planning for what is inevitable (a rapid growth in density), and for what we all agree is a public priority (a way people can afford to live here).  If we start a public dialogue now, we might just be able to come up with some creative solutions, perhaps many small ideas, that can put us back in charge of our future.

With the first of the daffodil shoots foolishly poking out from the until-now frozen earth, Sofie and I have returned to the back yard for our major activities.  Clearing the sleds from under the blue spruce.  Trimming back the weaker of the branches on the pear trees.  Making a final decision on the location of that next thornless blackberry bush.  Picking up remnants of dog toys, and rescuing those still intact from the inevitable mower blade.

It is a time for spring cleaning.  Having spent the fall and winter on a creative project, I am faced with the myriad tasks that must be done — best be done now, than to be discovered in the summer in a panic.  Where is the tent?  I thought we had charcoal in this closet… somewhere.  The bicycle pump, you say?  I know we have two of them.  Try under the Christmas lights.

Not to even get into boat-prep issues.  That’s a column unto itself.

As described a few months ago, when working alone outside, podcasts like American Public Media’s Marketplace keep me company.  It has really kept me on top of business and economic issues just as they are at the forefront of public consciousness.  So it is an astounding contrast, too, the degrees to which some public officials seem to be far, far behind the curve.

There appears to be a complete unwillingness to see the current economic conditions as anything more than a departure from the norm.  Something that will “gotten over” in the matter of a few months, rather than a major correction — by that term meaning we now quickly return to the way things should have been all along.

This is not a departure down; rather the recent prosperity was a departure up.  Consumers stopped saving anything in the past decade and borrowed too much.  Optimism to spend, as recently prescribed by a sadly-misguided County Commissioner Bill Doherty, is not going to pull us out of this situation.  Toxic assets will become safer when all borrowers actually pay their debts off — first.

The sad reality is that plenty of service-based businesses were founded here and nationwide, based upon increasing affluence.  We have come to realize that much of this affluence was an illusion.  For example, buyers were willing to pay $2 million for a second home on the Cape because a) the value of their 401k was expected to only increase, b) the Cape house could always be rented seasonally at a high rate, and c) the buyer’s primary residence would fetch a high price when sold for the inevitable retirement here.

Now two of those legs have been kicked out from that three-legged stool (and the third may be just as illusory).  Optimism had brought the home price to a level as unsustainable as the rest of the economy.  As reality sets in, the price has dropped to a truer value set by that smaller pool of buyers who still possess the resources to purchase.

Yet too many of leaders in government, to varying degrees insulated from the gyrations of the private economy by the inviolate perks of public benefits, still fail to grasp three basic truths:

First, their constituents now have less money.

Second, that any money their constituents struggle to earn in these tough times should be saved.

And third, this is how it is going to be for a couple years, at least. As Olivier Blanchard, the IMF’s new Director of Research, told The Economist just last week, “We are closer to the beginning than we are to the end.”

Once this sort of mental spring cleaning — looking at what is actually around us, what we have and what we don’t, what still works and what is irreparably broken — hopefully will lead to some serious planning for the knock-on effects of what is being called our “Deprecession.”

For example, history tells us that in tough times, more shellfish permits are issued.  Yet the price of shellfish has stayed stagnant or even gone down, partly due to a lack of economic planning for increased supply.

Or with decreased household income, expect that many more local high school graduates will attending Cape Cod Community College (regardless of whether they were accepted to four-year schools off-Cape).  That means more 18 to 22 year olds here through the winter.  They will be needing jobs that provide a regular income.  Regular, as in a regular wage with regular hours, not seasonally tip-based gigs.

(Note:  They will not be needing housing.  They’ll be saving money by staying at home.)

These are but two examples, and are not the usual bad economy-homeless shelter-food pantry concerns.  The needs of middle class people who live here – yes, residents – are calling out to be addressed by our towns.  Now.

Nostalgia for the goods times won’t cut it, nor will unfounded optimism.  Spring is the time to re-assess.  And we need to get to work.

The most recent solution-in-search-of-a-problem championed by the local media is regionalization of government services. Sewers. Fire. Police. Schools.

Now, I am sure there are some savings that can be found when you have over a dozen municipalities occupying an area roughly the same square mileage and population as Jacksonville, Florida.

But the justification for regionalization now seems to be that this will help stem the tide of young adults leaving Cape Cod. Like maybe lower taxes? Or better schools because they’re bigger and cheaper? Sorry, I’m trying to play devil’s advocate here, but coming from a small town with a very low tax rate, by this reasoning we should have tons of young families. Instead, we’re the oldest town in the state. Maybe we’re just not doing it BIG ENOUGH?

This is how I summed up a query on Facebook, posted to friends who grew up on the Cape but have since moved away these two questions:  1) Why did you leave? and, 2) What would induce you to return?

The answers were not terribly surprising.  Not having any 4-year institution of higher learning in the area, many said they went away to school and then became ensconced wherever they were.  They liked what they found in the wider world.

It may sound heretical in this resort community, but yes, there are many, many other beautiful places in the world.  They are as much in competition with us for tourists as for that most locally-undervalued person – the full-time, year-round, wage-earning 25-45 year-old resident.

But, greater, was a theme of opportunity.  Specifically, one respondent answered why she left Cape Cod:

• a) Nowhere to work
• b) Nowhere to work in winter (yes, two things entirely)
• c) No career opportunities (see a and b)
• d) Its once cool austerity and grittiness has been replaced with cheesy gift shops and “quaint” cuteness imported from cities in an attempt to make it something it’s not
• e) Arts, shopping, etc.

She went onto explain, “I’ve lived in NYC for over 16 years. My living space is extremely small, my housing expenses astronomical and taxes are through the roof-BUT I have opportunity here — to make money, work in any industry (almost) I choose. Almost everything is accessible. I sorely miss the ocean, but the benefits outweigh the costs. Lower taxes and better schools would never entice me to move back. Even if housing were free, it would still make more financial sense to pay $90 per square foot and live some place where I could make a living. Simple as that.”

As for what would get her to move back:  “Jobs, jobs and jobs.”

Another friend who has worked both on and off-Cape (and likes performing those small town self-services like bringing his own trash to the dump), has the skills to earn much more elsewhere.  But the opportunities just aren’t there for his highly-trained spouse.

Talking directly to my concern, he observed, “Regionalization of services is a partial solution to budget woes, but it’s long-term and painful, and it’s not at all a reason someone moves to an area.”

Now, certainly this is an unscientific sampling, and I do not pass this off as representative of a cross-section of the Cape Cod Diaspora.  But they are for the most part well-educated, high earning, upstanding, responsible adults.  Just the sort of people you would want living next door, who on those rainy days when you get back from the supermarket and are trying to get everything inside, offer to lend a hand.  Or when the power goes out.  Or to check on your house when you’re on vacation.

The media here on the Cape have failed its expatriate children by failing to ask them what THEY WANT.  Instead, powers-that-be have announced what they are willing to do: make local government more efficient by making it bigger.  I’m reminded of a quote from the movie “Contact” – “First rule in government spending: why build one when you can have two at twice the price?”

Specifically, and to its credit, The Chronicle has deflated the argument that there will be any reduction of costs by regionalizing Chatham and Harwich schools.  That there would be a greater benefit to students by more educational programs is, however highly dubious.  Perhaps marginally, but no serious claims are being made that SAT scores will jump, or we’ll be getting state of the art gymnasium or science lab.

Worse, the “big schools” idea flies in the face of reams of studies that suggest what parents and teachers want most, and the environment in which students thrive best, are small, neighborhood schools with low teacher-pupil ratios.  So even if the argument is that better schools will attract more families to move here, we’re offering a Chevy Suburban when the customer clearly wants a Toyota Prius.  They want smaller, not bigger.  More control, not less.

I am concerned that what really is going on is yet another lurch away from Town Meeting control of any budgetary issues.  When regionalized, a bill for the service is simply rendered upon the Town.  Voters on the floor of Town Meeting do not have the chance, as they do with a purely-municipal budget item, to pick apart the budget, item-by-item.  With regionalization, those who work for the larger bureaucracy serve a larger population — and thus, are accountable to virtually no one.

In essence, we would be going in the opposite direction of what is most desired by those we so righteously protest to help.  But if we are serious about returning to a more balanced community, welcoming those of all ages, the answer bears repeating: “Jobs, jobs and jobs.”

Read this and other columns online at The Cape Cod Chronicle.

Ginger likes her sweater.  I think. Now, I’ve never been one of those dog people who dressed up their dogs to look like little versions of themselves.  No leather jackets.  No sweatsuits emblazoned with a sports team logo. No doggy raincoats, with matching rain hat and rubber boots.  Come to think of it, since the buttons of the last one rusted off, I haven’t even owned a raincoat.  So that’s not exactly an accurate comparison.

But last Christmas, Sofie asked about a present for our two Cardigan Welsh Corgis, Ginger and Colby.  They are sister and brother, but from different litters, and have served not only as surrogate siblings to Sofie, but as comedy team, always ready for her amusement.  Used for herding cattle and ponies in Wales, the breed are working dogs that get a little antsy when they can’t keep an eye on us.  When Sofie was just learning to use a real bed, Ginger slept on the bed while Colby slept underneath.

So when Sofie expressed a desire – no, the expectation – that she should give them a gift for Christmas, it only seemed right. Standing there, in PetSmart in Hyannis, faced by all sorts of dress-up gear for the latest fashionable toy breed.

Oh, sure, they have short legs, but they are otherwise medium-sized dogs.  Colby’s head is almost as big as a German Shepherd and I’ve seen him turn things like femurs and brake handles into tiny bits in the blink of an eye.  So they clothing that caught Sofie’s eye were on the disappointingly small size.

The only thing we could be certain of was a pink and purple striped sweater.  Fully aware of Ginger’s gender, Sofie agreed this was just the thing. Colby could have an extra cow hoof in his stocking, to make up for it.  Nature provided him with a much heavier coat, anyway.

So on Christmas Day last year, I became A Guy Who Dresses Up His Dog.  It fit, which was a relief, I suppose — not like there was any other clothing we could exchange it for.  Ginger didn’t try to get out of it, she didn’t carry in mud and leaves from outside (any more than on her feet), and it didn’t shrink.  In fact, she seemed less agitated and more restful, which I chalk up to drowsiness – always a good thing in the other occupants of a writer’s home.

And then a couple weeks ago, we took a walk down to the Chatham Bakery, with Sofie handling Ginger’s leash like a pro. Because of the dog, we ate our Gingerbread cookies at the picnic table out front.  With all eyes at the booths inside the bakery looking out at us, it was clear I had become THE Guy Who Dresses Up His Dog.

Oh, the shame of it all.

It is just a long, slow descent into a world of rhinestone leash with matching collar and tiara, patent-leather Mary Janes, and fancifully-flowered sunhats.  I flash-forward to a day not too long from now, when I would be clipping Ginger’s claws and wonder if it would ruin her French manicure.

Really, this anxiety is all after-the-fact, of course.  As a father’s indulgence to his five year-old, the cost to my male pride was fairly insignificant.  You pretty much have to set aside all pretense when you have a child, more so with a daughter. Even more so as the single father of a little girl.  I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve left the house forgetting that just a little while earlier I’d had my hair done up.  Sofie’s insistence notwithstanding, pink barrettes apparently do NOT complement my eyes.

Still, I’m looking for Colby to redeem the male-ness around here.  Christmas may have come and gone, but the sales are just beginning.  Big black leather collar with plenty of spikes should do it — something coyote-busting.

Yet, it is not that easy, when considering Sofie.  Such an accessory would put an end to her near-hourly hugs that squeeze the pulse out of him. I’m more worried about the underside of her mattress getting torn up.  We might have to pull it back a little.  Aviator sunglasses?  Nah.  A shoulder holster?  Might work.  A black Led Zeppelin T-shirt?  Not bad.  But I draw the line at rhinestones.

Over a dozen years ago, when I was on a research trip to Vancouver, BC for “The Bostoner,” friends invited me to a dinner party. At some point in the evening, I looked down and realized I was the person out of the six seated at the table who still had food on my plate. While everyone else had been eating, I’d been talking.

Quickly, I apologized for gabbing on so, and dug into my food. Our hostess quickly dismissed this by saying, “Oh, no, it is all very entertaining.” Then she turned to her other guests, explaining, “You see, he comes from a cold, dark little land where all the people have to get them through their miserable winters is to tell stories to each other. They’ve developed quite a gift for it.”

How’s that for an image of the Cape? I would have nearly bit my fork in half if there hadn’t been a fair bit of truth to this. Spinning yarns, fish stories and more than good-natured ribbing are hallmarks of those who have spent a good deal of time here.

Part of it is that history goes back a long way here, relative to the rest of the country. Some families have been here for well over 300 years. The first hundred would have been accompanied by a single book, the bible, for diversion. That leads to a great deal of invention outside of that medium.

Then there’s the relationship with the sea. There’s always something unexpected happening out on the water, which means something to talk about. On the other hand, while one is working, talking can make the time go faster. When clamming with Jamie Bassett, we’d get to analyzing some movie or changing the lyrics of popular tunes to reflect clamming culture, when all of a sudden Scott Eldredge, our patron, would forbid us from speaking another word.

We would look up and realize our chatter was causing other diggers to creep closer, to hear what we were saying. That’s a compliment to our entertainment value, but when you’re working a productive flat, the last thing you want is close company. This pre-dated waterproof headsets and iPods.

Then, of course, there’s the fact that when the world comes to stay with you for the summer, they want to know about the place. That can lead to stories. Many is the young local who has found himself invited to a rather posh cocktail party with his survival dependent upon his ability to talk entertainingly about what growing up here was like. More than likely, our real estate industry seems to have used this approach as a business model.

We tell good stories. For the most part, we don’t need to make anything up, either.

I was reminded of this yet again during a documentary scouting trip to the North Shore. Returning to thesubject of “The Bostoner” – the Columbia Expedition of 1787 – it begins with another great storyteller, Captain John Kendrick, who grew up on the shores of Pleasant Bay. One of the expedition’s two vessels, the sloop Lady Washington, was supposedly built on the Essex River. So I found myself at the Essex Shipbuilding Museum, interviewing their researcher, Justin Demetri, while two other of Chatham’s native sons were working at telling the story. Even though they are using the latest technology, Matt Griffin as cameraman and Chris LeClaire as set photographer were doing no different than generations before them.

Setting the scene. Telling stories about the sea, ships and the people who sailed them. Me, I just yak away with whomever is put in front of me. It takes real talent to step back, assess the situation, and focus on exactly the best way to convey what is really going on.

The technology of digital imaging, through still images or video, certainly allows users to go from neophyte to semi-pro in the matter of weeks. But there is no software program for talent. There is no hi-tech gadget or web site that confers creativity upon the user.

This homegrown resource is unique, and for the most part, completely overlooked and uncultivated. At best, young, talented and creative people are told they should leave to pursue their craft. Any other place this side of the Middle Ages would be falling all over themselves to find ways to staunch the brain drain. Yet a few hang on.

Let’s not kid ourselves, though. They remain for their own reasons, not ours. Our storytellers are willing to continue here not because of how we have preserved this place, but despite our inability to do so.

Here’s a practical lesson that the current incarnation of our Charter Review Committee can take from last week’s election: