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🐚 You’ve passed it a hundred times

🐚 You’ve passed it a hundred times

Nothing tells you to stop. That’s the point.

Arthur Radtke
January 15, 2026

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It doesn’t feel like a big Thursday.
And that’s exactly why it works.

I was heading down Route 28 earlier than planned.
Salt still on the road.
Coffee half gone.
Parking lots shouldn’t be this busy.
Lights on earlier than you expect in January.

That’s the Cape in mid-winter.
Things don’t announce themselves.
They just happen.

This issue catches a few of those moments—
by the water,
around a table,
inside familiar rooms,
and in places quietly waking back up.

You’ll know which one’s yours.

If You’re Around This Sunday

I’ll be at the open house at 32 Areys Lane in Orleans on Sunday, 1/18 from 12–2.

32 Areys Lane in Orleans

Midday there has a way of settling in. The pond goes quiet. The light stretches across the water. The dock feels less like something added on and more like where the house begins. You notice how often the rooms pull you outside — to the porch, the deck, the fireplaces that make you linger a minute longer than planned.

If you’re nearby, stop in. Wander through. Step out back. Take the kind of look you don’t get from photos or listings.

No sign-in energy. No expectations.

I’ll be there.

Go Here When You Want a Real Dinner

The Place Someone Suggests When No One Wants Seafood. And everyone at the table nods.

If you live on this side of the Cape long enough, you don’t “discover” Red River.
You get eased into it.

You’re on Route 28.
Dinner comes up.
Someone says, “We could do Red River.”

And that’s that.

The Food Shows Up the Way You Hope It Will

Brisket
The most debated—and most ordered—item. On strong nights: clear smoke ring, solid bark, tender slices, sauce optional. Some nights run fattier or firmer. The kitchen is open about their long-smoke/overnight-rest process and quick to respond when it misses. That honesty counts.

Pulled Pork & Ribs
Pulled pork is the safest bet: moist, well-seasoned, excellent with the mustard-based Carolina sauce.
Ribs land a clean bite—flavorful, not mushy, not tough.

Wings
Brined, smoked, then fried. Dry rub with sauce on the side. Fans love that they stand on their own; critics want ranch/blue cheese. If you like crisp, smoky wings without a sauce bath, order them.

Cornbread + Honey Butter
Warm, slightly sweet, and nearly universal praise. Usually shared. Rarely finishes that way.

Mac & Cheese
Rich, creamy, and frequently called “best on the Cape.” Add pulled pork if you’re hungry.

Fried Green Tomatoes & Sides
Fried green tomatoes are light and crisp with mustard BBQ sauce.
Potato salad, slaw, fries, onion strings—house-made, generous, and reliable.

Portions, Prices, Pace

This is not small plates. Sandwiches are stacked; platters fill you up. Prices are fair by Cape standards, especially off-season. It can get busy by 6 pm; when it does, food may take a bit—most agree it’s worth it.

The Room Matters More Than You Think

The dining room surprises first-timers: clean, light, more Cape than smokehouse. Fireplace on cold nights.
Early evenings are quieter; live music nights get lively (great for some, loud for others).
Service gets name-checked often—for a reason.

It’s Not Perfect — and That’s Okay

This is a place with regulars — and critics.

Red River BBQ gets love because it tries hard, cooks honestly, and owns its misses.
Not every brisket wins over every Texan.
Not every wing satisfies every wing person.

But for a lot of Lower Cape diners, it fills a real gap:
a non-seafood spot, open year-round, with serious cooking, warm service, and food that feels like dinner — not a trend.

That’s why people keep coming back.

That old schoolhouse on Bells Neck has its lights on again

If you’ve lived in West Harwich long enough, you probably stopped seeing it.
It was just there — part of the drive, part of the backdrop.

Lately, it’s harder to miss.

The building looks finished now.
The parking feels on purpose.
Lights come on when it gets dark.

It’s no longer waiting.

What used to feel quietly shared is becoming something more specific —
an address.

Same view from the road.
A very different feeling inside.

Most of us will keep driving past.
A few people will start pulling in.

For the few who might be pulling in, here’s what to know.

Before the Legacy Came the Moment

What makes this Brewster exhibit different isn’t the story you already know—it’s the timing.

The photographs of Morrie Schwartz weren’t assembled after his death, or shaped by hindsight. Morrie insisted the work be finished, hung, and seen while he was still alive. He wanted to stand inside it—not as a symbol, but as himself.

That choice changes everything.

These images, now on view at the Brewster Ladies’ Library, aren’t about legacy-building. They’re about presence. Friends gathered. Conversations unfolding. Time being treated as something precious, not performative.

There’s no narration here, no attempt to explain what Morrie believed. Instead, the photographs quietly show how he lived—right up to the end—surrounded by attention, care, and community.

It’s a slower kind of exhibit. One that asks you to linger, not consume.

If You Walk the Beach in Winter, Keep Your Eyes Up

Snowy owls are around the Lower Cape again—but not in a way you can plan for.

This isn’t a loud winter for them. No surge of sightings. No guarantees. Which somehow makes it feel exactly right. The kind of year where you notice one because something doesn’t move when the wind does. A pale shape on a dune edge. A pause mid-walk you didn’t expect.

These moments tend to happen early, when the beach is half-awake. Or late, when the light goes flat and everything turns the same soft gray. Look where the land opens up: dune lines, marsh cuts, wide stretches with nothing but beach grass and space. Even the far end of an empty parking lot can be worth a scan in January.

If you’re lucky enough to spot one, give it room. Most of the snowy owls here are young—first winter, conserving energy, learning as they go. If it stiffens or locks eyes with you, you’re too close. Back up. Binoculars beat photos. Patience beats both.

What stays with you isn’t the sighting itself—it’s the reminder that winter here isn’t empty. It’s just quieter. And sometimes, if you’re moving slow enough, it shows you something unforgettable.

Worth the walk. Thought you’d like knowing.

Where the Week Slows Down — and Fills Up

This is where the week gets texture. Candlelight and old rooms. Hands in clay before lunch. Stone dust on sleeves. A harp carrying the afternoon. Poetry, portrait work, and pages that slow you down on purpose.

Arts & Culture this week isn’t passive. It’s participatory. You listen closely, you make something, you stay longer than planned. From winter ritual at the meetinghouse to studios that are already humming by mid-morning, this is the stretch of the calendar that rewards attention.

If you’ve been waiting for a reason to step inside, this is it.