The first week or so on Cortes has produced some keen, pithy observations. Here's one to consider. We wondered if Lili weren't the only Canadian on the Island. Nearly all of our new acquaintances and friends-to-be are either USAmericans, British or dogs. Is it possible that we are surrounded by former CIA and MI5... and dogs? What better place to be incognito than here? At the store I eavesdropped on two gents of the British persuasion and am quite sure the cryptic snatches of language I heard were much more meaningful than what was said. Holding a pound of butter, Brit #1 said, "Salted? Or no?" Brit #2's rejoinder was precisely what one might expect. "Salted, of course." Come on! That's spy language if ever I heard some. Then at the till (register to those of you below the 49th parallel), #2 says to #1, "We should get crisps for the girls?" Who besides Double 0-type spies could ever get away with a trade like that?
The Gringos are even more obvious in their subterfuge. A guy at the coop said he was from San Francisco and was a huge Giants' fan. Yeah right; every dope and his uncle knows that Giants play in New York.
Later in the week I encountered a Russian. Oh, man. What other explanation can there be? As the glacier that was the Cold War receded it deposited its flotsam right here on Cortes Island.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Issue the First
The Rocky Mountains and their smaller cousins proved no meaningful obstacles to the U-Haul and the Big E. A night in Kamloops, a ferry to Nanaimo, 2 lovely days with Tink and Lily and before we knew it Shag and Moxie were scarfing down treats from the Campbell River ferry lady and we were in the gravel driveway at 295 Seavista, Cortes Island.
Jean, Jamie and Ira were there to greet us and lessen the burden of deconstructing the the loads. They also brought island veggies and a blueberry crisp. Despite the hazards of walking a ton of stuff into the house, the only thing broken all day was the ice.We're really here.
Jamie and Ira come from families among the first Anglos to settle here. Ira self-identified as "talkative" in school, is a fisherman when he's allowed. He suggested the preparation technique we used on our salmon that evening. He knows a lot about a lot and seems curious, looking to expand his inventory. Jamie is more subdued but her eyes absorbed everything. She seems to be a connection to the more ethereal and esoteric.She's strong as hell, too.
Jean, originally from Moose Jaw SK (Moose Jawer? Moose Jawite?), is a teacher who can't teach. She cut her teeth in a private school before working under "a principal's letter" at Cortes Island School. Now she has to get certified in the more traditional, archaic sense. It seems self-evident that a profession that invests its energy in finding alternate creative ways to help kids educate themselves and assess what they know should be able, even encouraged, to fold that into their own credentialing, too. Jean teaches French and has a background that includes Spanish. She and Mikie threw some around the yard, bemoaning the rust.
Lili, not to be confused with St. Lily of Nanaimo, promised everyone a fiesta over red corn tortilla chips and ginger ale.
The house is three separate houses. Family room and storage in the basement sits beside the cold room. The loft adjoins the master bedroom, an odd term that. The center floor comprises the kitchen, living room/dining room and another (slave?) bedroom. It's focus is the wood-burning stove. The water-facing wall is mostly glass. Through that glass one's eyes fall first on the stand of bamboo (yup, bam freakin' boo), then the fruit trees and chef's garden, the evergreens to the ferry landing. Gorgeous except for the telephone poles messing with the image composition. Mikie is so offended by their presence he won't photograph it, unless readers ask him. (Ask him.)
Jean, Jamie and Ira were there to greet us and lessen the burden of deconstructing the the loads. They also brought island veggies and a blueberry crisp. Despite the hazards of walking a ton of stuff into the house, the only thing broken all day was the ice.We're really here.
Jamie and Ira come from families among the first Anglos to settle here. Ira self-identified as "talkative" in school, is a fisherman when he's allowed. He suggested the preparation technique we used on our salmon that evening. He knows a lot about a lot and seems curious, looking to expand his inventory. Jamie is more subdued but her eyes absorbed everything. She seems to be a connection to the more ethereal and esoteric.She's strong as hell, too.
Jean, originally from Moose Jaw SK (Moose Jawer? Moose Jawite?), is a teacher who can't teach. She cut her teeth in a private school before working under "a principal's letter" at Cortes Island School. Now she has to get certified in the more traditional, archaic sense. It seems self-evident that a profession that invests its energy in finding alternate creative ways to help kids educate themselves and assess what they know should be able, even encouraged, to fold that into their own credentialing, too. Jean teaches French and has a background that includes Spanish. She and Mikie threw some around the yard, bemoaning the rust.
Lili, not to be confused with St. Lily of Nanaimo, promised everyone a fiesta over red corn tortilla chips and ginger ale.
The house is three separate houses. Family room and storage in the basement sits beside the cold room. The loft adjoins the master bedroom, an odd term that. The center floor comprises the kitchen, living room/dining room and another (slave?) bedroom. It's focus is the wood-burning stove. The water-facing wall is mostly glass. Through that glass one's eyes fall first on the stand of bamboo (yup, bam freakin' boo), then the fruit trees and chef's garden, the evergreens to the ferry landing. Gorgeous except for the telephone poles messing with the image composition. Mikie is so offended by their presence he won't photograph it, unless readers ask him. (Ask him.)
What is the Garden of Eden Without a Few Serpents?
The flora presents little concern on Cortes Island. A few thorned plants and perhaps a poison ivy-type lurk gently. The fauna, on the other hand...
The deer, millions and millions of them, are the prey of he real Island meanies: the wolves. Everyone warns the newcomers that small dogs are the second-favorite meal of the pack. Diane II, not to be confused with Diane I, told us that her BIG dog will stop and insist they go no farther on some walks as he, Chancellor, knows what lies beyond, even on leash with a human protector. Shaggy, whose First Nations name is now Chicken Annoyer, is so curious that he'd be easy.
As quaint as it is to have an occasional doe and faun in the yard there is a tariff for that privilege.
Prior to the wolf education we've received I was only concerned that some of the spiders I have encountered might drag Shag off to their lair.
Cortes has serpents. What is purported to be the largest variety of swimming garter snakes lives here. Lili encountered one on the beach when we were here in July. "EEEK!" she exclaimed.
Then one day in one of the fenced gardens gathering apples for jam, she was surprised by another. She elevated just high enough for one of my slippers she was wearing to fall from her foot. In a rather excited state she hopped back to the house on her other, still shod foot. She EEEked, if EEEk starts with F, the whole way. Later she grabbed the gravel rake, changed shoes and went to show the snake who's boss. Much to her chagrin she discovered the snake was only half a snake, though it did die in a fit of jaw-extending anger. We figure a bird of prey - eagle, owl, hawk, pterodactyl - dropped it in the garden.
Of course the lesson here should be self-evident: wear you own damn slippers.
Is this snake, apple, woman, paradise, original sin thing creeping you out? We're alright; both of us have been baptized and have certificates to prove it.
A quick shout out to Marshall School, Class of 2013. I'm thinking of you and how different this place is from where you are. I hope you join and communicate with me through the blog. I could be a science project.
The deer, millions and millions of them, are the prey of he real Island meanies: the wolves. Everyone warns the newcomers that small dogs are the second-favorite meal of the pack. Diane II, not to be confused with Diane I, told us that her BIG dog will stop and insist they go no farther on some walks as he, Chancellor, knows what lies beyond, even on leash with a human protector. Shaggy, whose First Nations name is now Chicken Annoyer, is so curious that he'd be easy.
As quaint as it is to have an occasional doe and faun in the yard there is a tariff for that privilege.
Prior to the wolf education we've received I was only concerned that some of the spiders I have encountered might drag Shag off to their lair.
Cortes has serpents. What is purported to be the largest variety of swimming garter snakes lives here. Lili encountered one on the beach when we were here in July. "EEEK!" she exclaimed.
Then one day in one of the fenced gardens gathering apples for jam, she was surprised by another. She elevated just high enough for one of my slippers she was wearing to fall from her foot. In a rather excited state she hopped back to the house on her other, still shod foot. She EEEked, if EEEk starts with F, the whole way. Later she grabbed the gravel rake, changed shoes and went to show the snake who's boss. Much to her chagrin she discovered the snake was only half a snake, though it did die in a fit of jaw-extending anger. We figure a bird of prey - eagle, owl, hawk, pterodactyl - dropped it in the garden.
Of course the lesson here should be self-evident: wear you own damn slippers.
Is this snake, apple, woman, paradise, original sin thing creeping you out? We're alright; both of us have been baptized and have certificates to prove it.
A quick shout out to Marshall School, Class of 2013. I'm thinking of you and how different this place is from where you are. I hope you join and communicate with me through the blog. I could be a science project.
Friday, August 26, 2011
More Tales from the Island
Remember the show Green Acres? Those of a certain age will. Eddy Albert, one of the Gabor sisters (Kim? No, wait...), and a host of goofballs, hilarious talking pigs and rural stereotypes misunderstood one another for a half hour every week. It was Beverly Hillbillies in reverse. Anyway, I sing the theme song to myself as I walk up the hill towards the coop. I sing it if Lili is heading that way, too, which is a much more common event.
"Greeeeeeeen Acres is the place to be...."
Shaggy, bowing to instinct that predates his species' domestication, grabbed a chicken by the wing yesterday. Good choice, Shag. The wing is the best part. He snorted at me when I asked him if it tasted like chicken. He looked funny with a tiny feather hanging off his lower lip.
After Lili corralled Shag - and Moxie the not-so-innocent bystander - the chickens continued on their jaunt around the yard, though close to things they thought might protect them should Shag the Barbarian reappear. Lili and I repaired to the deck to watch the ferry arrive. Over the trees we saw a bald eagle soaring effortlessly toward the water. Mild panic ensued: Eagles like chicken, too, we exclaimed. If that guy saw the chickens a-hunting and a-pecking, the bout with Shag would become a footnote to history. Alls well, however.
A doe walked into the yard yesterday when Lili was out. They studied one another for a while. One of them took a dump on the grass and left. I hope she comes back.
"Greeeeeeeen Acres is the place to be...."
Shaggy, bowing to instinct that predates his species' domestication, grabbed a chicken by the wing yesterday. Good choice, Shag. The wing is the best part. He snorted at me when I asked him if it tasted like chicken. He looked funny with a tiny feather hanging off his lower lip.
After Lili corralled Shag - and Moxie the not-so-innocent bystander - the chickens continued on their jaunt around the yard, though close to things they thought might protect them should Shag the Barbarian reappear. Lili and I repaired to the deck to watch the ferry arrive. Over the trees we saw a bald eagle soaring effortlessly toward the water. Mild panic ensued: Eagles like chicken, too, we exclaimed. If that guy saw the chickens a-hunting and a-pecking, the bout with Shag would become a footnote to history. Alls well, however.
A doe walked into the yard yesterday when Lili was out. They studied one another for a while. One of them took a dump on the grass and left. I hope she comes back.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Chickens
Mikie and Lili have chickens and with chickens comes chicken responsibilities. There's 12 of them. They lay delicious eggs. All twelve. The chickens have names, sort of. Any two of them standing together: Eggbert and Shelly. If there is another pair close by, they are Eggbert and Shelly, too. If one chicken pecks alone, she is Shelly.
Lili has already mastered the "coop cleanse." The birds have been free-ranged. Smiling neighbors come by to offer their wisdom and assistance with the chickens, though not one noticed I was limping a little.
Shaggy and Moxie are nonplussed by Eggbert and Shelly, especially when they are out a-pecking in the yard. Tara, the chicken-sitter, refers to the flock as strange chickens. I'll take her word for it, though the only piece of evidence I have seen is that they peck your pant legs if you're wearing pants. Most will switch to your shoes if you have no pant legs to occupy them. There are two who make no switch. They pretend you are wearing long pants even when you are not. Perhaps Tara thinks they are strange because most chickens never pretend.
Lili has already mastered the "coop cleanse." The birds have been free-ranged. Smiling neighbors come by to offer their wisdom and assistance with the chickens, though not one noticed I was limping a little.
Shaggy and Moxie are nonplussed by Eggbert and Shelly, especially when they are out a-pecking in the yard. Tara, the chicken-sitter, refers to the flock as strange chickens. I'll take her word for it, though the only piece of evidence I have seen is that they peck your pant legs if you're wearing pants. Most will switch to your shoes if you have no pant legs to occupy them. There are two who make no switch. They pretend you are wearing long pants even when you are not. Perhaps Tara thinks they are strange because most chickens never pretend.
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