My memories of Provincetown are like a series of snapshots that begin when I’m five. Its 1961. I’m walking on the wharf with my father. The water looks black and deep and oily. I’m afraid, wondering what it would be like to fall in. But he holds my hand tightly and I feel safe.
Its 1974. I’m a college student strolling Commercial Street with its colorful flags, artsy boutiques, and eccentric people. I chambermaid at a nearby motel. Although I hate making beds and scrubbing toilets, it subsidizes drinks at Governor Bradford’s and buying gauzy sun dresses. Everywhere I go, “Waterloo” by Abba is playing from transistor radios.
Its 1996. We bring our two little boys for the first time to Provincetown. This time we’re loaded down with strollers and juice boxes. We have lunch at theThat first visit with our sons, Randy and I place bets on how long it will take our two boys to notice P-town is different from Easton, Connecticut. Provincetown is a place where men are free to hold hands and women kiss on the streets.Its 2013. I’m with my writing group, staying with old friends, and meeting new ones.
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