Ellen Weiss

We came through Woods Hole in 1957, on the way back from an aborted vacation on the Vineyard, stopping to look wistfully at Stony Beach revelers, who 'belonged'. The next summer, owing to the kind offices of Harvard Medical School where my husband was an assistant professor, we were treated to a summer rental so that my husband could enroll in the physiology course and explore electron microscopy to enrich his teaching role at Harvard. We loved it of course, and with $1500 of savings and $1000 of a family loan, we got our foothold on Harbor Hill Road. Our small 24X36 cottage grew, as did our family of four to six, and Woods Hole became our shangri-la: let others travel the world, we were in place, and our six children had Science School to engage them, and freedom to be on their own in a town they viewed as their true home.

Fifty six years later grandchildren fill up the bedrooms, and I still man my spot on Stony at the water's edge, balancing conversation with old and new friends and swimming in the late hours of the afternoon, keeping my eye out for youngsters in distress and dogs who don't belong on our little-kids beach. (I love dogs, but not on Stony.)

Stony -- a giant stage to observe the generations of Woods Holers who treasure their time here in the village we all adore.

As I drive off at the end of my Woods Hole idyll, I start counting the days till my return.