What Do You Do All Day?
This question comes up from time to time when I visit old haunts on the mainland. City people, in particular, associate islands with day picnics or prisons or, at best, vacations. The thought of actually living on an island is too deep for many of them. For years I replied to the question from a small arsenal of sparkling quips I had gathered. Now I'm keeping notes for a more comprehensive documentation based on the season at hand.
·Monday. Worked on a leaking, no-freeze, water hydrant in the barn. Need to fix it prior to the first Nor'easter or I'll end up hauling water for the sheep all the way from the house. While I was in the barn a hawk flew in through the big West-end doors, grabbed a mouse (from somewhere), and crashed into a window while searching for an exit. It dropped the mouse and fluttered, stunned, out the East end. Then I started my annual clean up as we have a sheep-shearing party coming up. Don't know how anyone gets along without a barn.
·Tuesday. Drove to town
to get the mail. Used the Ford pickup that I got in trade for
my German iron when I crossed over in the late eighties. I like
to visit town every few days for the undiluted joy of the bakery,
drugstore, and the library-one of the finest in my experience.
I have yet to seek or request a book unsuccessfully. Our library
is nestled on a side street just beyond the equipment rental
shop and an aging county garage. The library is about two minutes
from the post office, which tends to be the social center of
the action on weekdays.
·Wednesday. Watched the sun rise over the distant Cascades.
The long spokes of light stretch past the trees and across the
fields, grasping for Canada to the West. The brightness won't
last, however, as the wind is piping up from the Southeast and
that means rain, most likely. I will have to drop by the boatyard
today to recheck my boat's lines. The winter pattern is setting
in: sunshine for a few short days and then, boom, big-time wind
and rain hammering everything. The storms form in ranks across
the Bay of Alaska and then slide down the Inside Passage one
by one to sweep across us. Each night we listen to the Weather
Radio Canada robot on our portable VHF to get a best guess on
tomorrow's conditions.
·Thursday. Ate serious soup for lunch today after an intense morning working on an abalone venture. The world's supply of abalone is half what it was thirty years ago due, in large part, to over fishing. Growing abalone on land in tanks (aquaculture) is one way of reversing the trend. About six we went out for dinner to a very nice restaurant. No reservations required.
·Friday. Checked out our pond this morning. It is filling nicely after being empty from its first cleaning in at least thirty years. After doing all I could with a chainsaw and tractor, I had the BIG excavator in and around the pond for three days when everything was August-dry. John is an artist with the rig, and he made the sides as smooth as a sheep's nose. Late in the morning I headed for the boatyard and the weekly brown-bag gathering of the Flat Earth Society. I hesitate to call the occasion a meeting as there are no officers, dues, agenda, membership requirements, rules, or organizational ambitions. The conversation oscillates between war and peace, boats and planes, yesterday and today. We don't spend much time on tomorrow on the unspoken agreement it will take care of itself. The highlight of any gathering is when someone is able to present a newspaper or magazine piece that mentions the flat earth. It makes everyone's day.
·Saturday. Tackled the cedar fences today. The criss-crossed, non-nailed ones are easy. A few of the top rails blow off during storms that exceed 35 knots; I put them back in place by hand before the sheep get curious and start poking around in search of greener pastures. The nailed sections around the main pastures take a little more effort to maintain. Our rails are inside the posts (to keep our animals in), and the key task is to check everything for looseness. While I was hammering away two bald eagles circled gracefully overhead. They have a very distinctive screech. You normally hear them before you see them.
·Sunday. Took it easy (paperwork, hike) as tomorrow I have to catch the early ferry to the mainland and then drive to our nearest metropolis, Seattle. The excursion is typically an intense experience as it involves high-speed dueling on a crowded freeway, parking searches, involuntary exposure to a thousand commercial intrusions, and jostling with throngs of strangers who, for the most part, aren't into island living. I wouldn't go if I didn't have to.
Copyright © 2000, 2003 Steven C. Brandt
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