I’ve Been Noticing: We Keep Booking Next Year
There is something I’ve been noticing.
Every July, after two wonderful weeks on Nantucket—our beloved “Grey Lady”—we sit down and reserve our rental for the following summer.
We’ve never owned a home here. We’ve always rented. And every year we make the same commitment: We’ll be back.
This summer marked our fiftieth year. Fifty years.
When we first came, our daughters were little girls. They spent their days collecting shells, riding bicycles, and falling asleep exhausted after long afternoons at the beach.
Today they arrive with husbands, children, careers, and lives beautifully their own.
The little girls are mothers now. And somehow, almost without noticing, Andy and I became the grandparents.
For two weeks each year, we leave our work behind. Emails can wait. Meetings happen without us. Deadlines somehow survive.
Instead, we ride our bikes. We sit on the beach. We play a little golf. We return to the same favorite restaurants. We laugh at stories we’ve all heard before—and somehow, they’re even funnier this year.
We also reconnect with friends who have their own Nantucket ritual—people who come for the same two weeks every summer, just as we do. We don’t see each other the rest of the year, yet we eagerly look forward to the reunion. We are friends connected by a place and by time, and somehow that has always been enough.
I often joke that Nantucket is my Never Never Land. For two weeks, like Peter Pan, I don’t have to grow up.
Of course, that’s not really true.
We have all grown up. Children have become parents. Parents have become grandparents. Some dear friends who once sat around our dinner table now live only in our stories. Life has kept moving, as it should.
But this year, something struck me.
When we signed the rental agreement for next summer, we weren’t simply reserving a house. We were making a promise. We were choosing to believe there will be another summer. Another birthday to celebrate. Another grandchild to grow taller. Another bicycle ride. Another sunset. Another chance to sit around the table telling stories that somehow become richer each time they’re told.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that memories rarely happen by accident. We create them by showing up—again, and again, and again.
That’s what rituals do. They don’t stop time. They give shape to it. They create a place where our lives can unfold together, year after year.
Looking back, I don’t remember every meal or every beach day. What I remember is the feeling. The laughter. The comfort of returning. The joy of simply being together.
Perhaps that’s why booking next year’s trip has become so meaningful. It’s not really about Nantucket. It’s about choosing to keep making memories while we can.
And these days, that feels like one of life’s greatest privileges.
Is there a place, a tradition, or a ritual in your life that quietly brings the people you love back together? I’d love to hear about it.
For more than 40 years, Carmel-by-the-sea has been part of our family’s story. Multiple generations have returned to the same beaches, restaurants and routines, creating the kind of memories that become family lore. There’s real comfort in revisiting a place that holds so much of your history.
But one of the lessons of positive aging is that nostalgia and curiosity don’t have to compete. As we grow older, we can honor our traditions while still making room for new experiences. So after four decades of Carmel, we’re heading to Michigan this summer, not because we’re done with honoring traditions, but because we’re still interested in creating new ones.
There is so much JOY in the sheer appreciation you’ve uncovered. I love this Andi. Thank you.