The Martha's Vineyard Times

1 day ago | mvtimes.com | Paula Moura

Aluísio Ferreira de Sousa, the host and reporter of a popular online show among the Brazilian community, had heard a lot about Martha’s Vineyard over the past few years — the stories of life as an immigrant, the struggles, and the accomplishments. But he had never visited the Island before. Last month, he was able to visit for the first time. “I had goosebumps when I stepped on the ferry,” he said.

1 day ago | mvtimes.com | Matt Pelikan

The easiest and most rewarding group of flies for amateurs like me to study is the family Syrphidae — that is, hoverflies or flower flies. True to the latter common name, adult flies in this family almost universally visit flowers for pollen and nectar, making them relatively easy to find. And by and large, flies in this family are boldly and brightly colored, making them both pleasing to the eye and easy to identify (at least to the genus, if not always to the species level).

1 day ago | mvtimes.com | Hermine Hull

I’m looking out my windows, not wanting to miss a moment as spring changes from its early subtlety to the thickness of summer. We have had just the right combination of sunny days and rainy days to make new leaves appear overnight through our woods, and everything seems to bloom in a rush before it gets too hot. Or too dry. Or too whatever the summer will bring. Harriet Bernstein invited me over to see her cherry trees. It’s always an iffy pleasure.

1 week ago | mvtimes.com | Abby Remer

Spring is upon us, and for the Wampanoag, “sequan” is the name for spring, or what they regard as the start to a new year, when everything is awakening and coming to life. “This is true of many Indigenous people, marking that transition into a period of healing and growth and life since time immemorial,” explains Brad Lopes, (Aquinnah Wampanoag) education and outreach coordinator at the Aquinnah Cultural Center.

1 week ago | mvtimes.com | Allison Roberts

Kindergarten. And I couldn’t wait for the end of each day. If my friend and waking companion, Allyson, dawdled, I’d leave her in the dust. Darting out of Johanna Perrin School in Fairport, N.Y., where I grew up, I’d run up James Street, past Potter, Dewey, and Miles, until I reached Briggs Avenue and raced down the hill to my house. I knew that once I was inside my mother would let me go directly to the china cabinet and pick out whatever teacup I wanted from her collection.