4.29.12 Animal, Vegetable, Mineral

Here is how my island constitutional began on this particular day, which was not today, mind you, as I've been finding it increasingly challenging to keep up my island wanderings, image-capturings, and blog production in any kind of consistent or single-threaded fashion. And that's okay. If this is the way my life is functioning at the moment, so be it. I will do what I can, when I can, and hopefully what I produce will still manage to possess something of passing interest to others. This is a view from my usual lookout point at the northwestern tip of the island, which means, as you may have deduced, that it is evening, the time when the sun is beginning its descent in the west. Just trees, water and sun, which form an impressively synergistic trio when it comes to the vistas that together they manage to produce.

 

A short ways to the southeast, my eye found something striking in this barbwire-framed view of the cloud-filled sky: causing me to think of the ways in which we attempt to keep things in or out of certain places. Interesting, that someone deemed the fence between the river and its bank worthy of barbwire. As though it could really prevent a determined person from getting to the river.

Here is a beloved pet named Lily, enjoying the evening air and the breeze-blown scents in which her doggie nose may yet take pleasure. Lily is suffering from intestinal cancer, and here you see her as she is pulled along by those who love her, a friendly neighbor couple with whom my companion and I stopped to exchange pleasantries (although Lily's condition made one of the less pleasant topics).

A little farther along, while dipping underneath the Hennepin Bridge, we encountered a photo shoot in progress. I hesitated only a moment before shooting the shoot. My island wanderings, camera in hand, have trained me to be highly sensitive to potential subjects, and to be prepared to snap them in an instant. If you're not ready & quick, a magical moment will vanish before your eyes.

I don't wonder that the photographer and his subjects chose this particular spot for their shoot, although the island boasts many extraordinarily beautiful locations for picture taking. I had only to take a few steps from where I shot the shoot, and look out over the river, to behold on its surface this stunning vision of the city's reflection. The trio of water, sun and sky here is joined by a 4th party, the interloper who will never cease trying—and failing—to improve upon nature: Man, and the lofty ambitions he plants in the earth. He may never improve upon nature, and the buildings in this picture may not be the most sublime representatives, but one must concede that the human race has, on occasion, attired the earth in some beautiful vestments and ornamented her with some dazzling baubles. At least, we seem to think so.

But let's get back to nature now, shall we? Here we encounter a daffodil at the southeastern end of the island, one of the many floral developments to emerge in recent days. The picture is presented sideways, because I prefer to view it that way. In fact, many things in life are best viewed sideways, or from above, below, or through a frame that you yourself furnish. In fact, we really can't help seeing the world through our own unique frame, when you think about it. Today I viewed phenomena consisting of animal, vegetable, and mineral, and I viewed them all through my own congenital frame. Maybe, as a result, they tend to assume a rose-colored tinge.  I guess I prefer to see them that way.

I'll leave you with a close-up of the scrolled-up manner in which this popular plant makes its way out of the earth and into our field of vision (and field of landscape design).  I can easily imagine how primitive peoples might have yanked one of these out of the earth, raised it like a chalice, and drank of the rainwater captured there.  Nature providing for nature.  We come to the earth, we see (through our own frames of reference), and we conquer.  We build, we create, we love, dance, laugh and cry, we do what we can before we must die, and when that day comes, it's hosta la vista, baby!   

Life flows on, in and around us—growing, multiplying, thriving and dying—while we're here we see it and live it as only we can—and if we are fortunate and wise, the ways in which we collide with other living things result in synergies, successes, and smiles.

D.E.S.

4.22.12 On Earth, As It Is (Or Might Be) in Heaven

Happy Earth Day to one and all! Here, in recognition of the day, is a piece of the earth on Nicollet Island, a cut of the riverside bluff upon which I frequently stand and gaze over the river. Here we are able to examine the earth's outer attire of wild and windblown grass, as well as her nether regions, where roots and rocks and dirt conspire to provide a solid stage for all of us to enact our lives' dramas upon. We each play our roles, take our bows, and are promptly replaced by others. Through it all, the earth remains, constant and unchanging, spinning on its axis, in its orbit, in a universe without end, timeless and indifferent. Happy Earth Day, you inscrutable planet, spin on and prosper!


It seemed only fitting that I should give second billing to that which is not earth, to the earth's counterpart—namely, sky. The immensity of sky dwarfs the earth, renders it infinitesimal, almost completely insignificant. And yet, our earth seems to imbue this lovely blue sky with a beauty and significance it would not otherwise possess. But of course, this beauty and significance only exists by virtue of our human consciousness, the romantic and arbitrary notions we project upon what we see and feel and experience. And thank the heavens and the earth that we are here, and possess such awareness and sensibilities as can make of this existence a thing of joy and wonder. To look upon the blue sky and the green grass and everything in between, with eyes that may be dazzled, flesh that may rise with excitement, and minds that may be enriched and developed to nearly limitless proportions—what more can any living creature ask for?

While walking the earth this morning, I was amused to encounter this fellow periscoping his yin-yang head over the gentle rise of an island knoll. It seems like a still taken from a film titled "Attack of the 50-Foot Goose!" (If such a film existed, I would happily pay to see it.) I find that, if you go out walking each day, you can almost always encounter something interesting, amusing or thought-provoking—if you are paying attention.

I thought that, in addition to earth and sky, the other element one ought not leave out of a tribute to Earth Day, is water—which, in my small corner of the world, is represented by Old Muddy. Therefore, as I got closer to home, I peered over a bluff and snapped this shot of my favorite island bridge. The network of branches, the lines of the bridge, the reflections in the river—all of it suggests to my fanciful mind the complex and impressive scaffolding nature throws up to support our hungry imaginations. Nature and the earth feed us in so many more ways than one.

Before heading home, I turned my gaze skyward once more, only to discover that clouds had stretched their gray beards across the firmament, and—at that very moment—an aeronautic agent of human ingenuity was cutting through the beards as smoothly as a steamship glides across the ocean or a Japanese bullet train whizzes on its rails over the Nipponese countryside.

As I lowered my eyes to the earth, so as to begin moving my feet in the direction of home, I was struck by the sight that greeted me: I had just witnessed the dizzying heights to which humanity was capable of ascending, only to encounter this eloquent reminder of humanity's more lowly products, of which we are not proud, which we are loath to acknowledge, and which we quickly hide inside the earth.

Happy Earth Day indeed!

Life flows on, in and around us—and will continue to do so, as long as earth, sea and sky together give it place.

D.E.S.

4.21.12 Beauty, Risen

How can I not begin with this picture? It is a perfect representative of the multifarious beauty that Spring has engendered upon the island—along the paths, in the yards, in the thickets, and along the riverside where I wander. It seems that tulips are de rigeur on the island (wink to my companion, with whom I recently shared a laugh over our American pronunciation of this Gaulish appropriation: də-rē-ˈgər, in case you were wondering), and the number of different colors in which they greet me as I wander repeatedly surprises and delights. Thus, I will be sharing some of the dazzling flora that surrounds me, and which prompts my companion to such effusive declarations as: "I feel that I don't need to go on vacation when I find that I am in a paradise just by stepping outside my door!" Be that as it may, I do hope that we can manage to forsake our island paradise for at least a brief sojourn abroad at some point in the year ("abroad"=non-Minnesota).

These grape hyacinths surround our home, and I have not seen them growing anywhere else on the island—our very own little treasure. I can't say that, throughout my life, I've ever been much of a flower enthusiast, but you may now put me down as a convert. It would be hard to ignore the gorgeous colors burgeoning all around me, and even harder to stifle a due appreciation and acknowledgement.

It is as though Mother Nature has stepped forward to say "Oh, you want some color? Here, have a boysenberry hyacinth! Have a bubble gum tree! How about an electric crimson tulip?" It seems that she has them all in stock, and promiscuously displays them all here on Nicollet Island by lifting her skirts and revealing the fruits of her fecundity. (My, what flowery prose!)



May as well trot out some more tulips, I have plenty to spare. They always remind me of the old rhyme that was written in many graduation books when I graduated 8th grade, back when kids still did that sort of thing and wrote quaint verses like this one: "Tulips in the garden, tulips in the park, but the tulips that Dougie likes are the tulips in the dark."

As I stood and looked out over the river this morning, I thought of one of my favorite songs, Many Rivers to Cross, by the great Jimmy Cliff. I pondered how I do indeed, like everyone else, have many rivers to cross, and I stood admiring the Mississippi, the literal river I cross more than any other these days, which is in fact many rivers, is it not? For isn't it true that it is a different river each time I cross it? Likewise, it seems to me that every figurative river we cross is always a different river—even if it is the same person we have encountered many times before, or the same place we have been, or the same sort of situation we have often known, each new experience represents a new opportunity to behave differently, for on each new occasion we ourselves are not exactly the same people we were the last time. Here is the song for you to enjoy, and let me just say for the record that I love Jimmy Cliff, and though I wish I could sing this song as well as he does, even if I could, I would still prefer to sit back and listen to him do it.

http://youtu.be/spCq1dAiZ6g

Thought you might enjoy a glimpse of this somewhat eccentrically designed front yard of a neighbor's home. I love the golden ball and the statue of ... uh, a female Eros/Cupid whose bow and arrow seems to be missing? Or perhaps, more likely, Artemis/Diana, the goddess of the hunt? At any rate, I love this yard, whose quixotic design pleases me each time I walk by.

And here's a sight that took me back to my childhood in Brooklyn, where clotheslines were often strung between houses, or from house to telephone pole, and where I would sit and watch my mother clothes-pinning the laundry to the line. Just one of the charming throwbacks to kinder, gentler days that we encounter and find so heartwarming here on the island, the Rockwellesque scenes that evoke a wistful smile and a few heartbeats of gratitude. Like the day my lovely companion came home to see a few small children out playing with makeshift wooden swords—she said all they needed was paper pirate hats to complete the nostalgic image. Or the time when I spotted a father and his sons fishing off a log in the river (see post of 4/4/12).

I couldn't resist including this shot of a determined waterfowl cutting swiftly upriver, leaving a vivid and lovely fan-shaped wake on the surface behind him. There was a gaggle of geese in the river off the southeastern shore this morning making an awful racket. I lingered in hopes of discerning the source of their discomfiture, but to no avail. Then I noticed something, and wondered if it might have been a factor.

My last post contains a picture of these steps which I could not have taken today without wearing waders. The river has apparently risen a great deal on this southeastern end of the island. As recent as a week ago, there was a great swath of shoreline at the foot of these steps. We have had some rain in the interim, but not really all that much, so I must believe that a great deal more rain has fallen at points farther north, which has contributed to the ascendancy of the waters embracing Nicollet Island. Might the higher water level have anything to do with the distress of the geese? I don't know the answer, but it seems possible. Whenever you notice something strange occurring, you must ask yourself: what within the context in question is suddenly different? What has changed? The answer may well lead you to a logical explanation for the strange occurrence. Or not. There is much in life we can explain to our satisfaction—and much we cannot.

Here are some blood red tulips for you to admire as I bid you farewell. Can you explain their beauty to your satisfaction? Does it matter?

Life flows on, in and around us—it rises and falls, ebbs and flows, and when its beauty defies our understanding and surpasses our expectations, there is nothing to do but embrace it, admire it, love it.

D.E.S.

4.14.12 Life is a Stairway

Here was my first vision of the morning, standing on the northwestern bluff of the island, as I so often do, and gazing upriver. Not a bad sight to inaugurate my day. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and the air was clean and crisp and redolent of the earth in a good healthy way. The moment was a wordless poem, a paean to the beauty found where earth and sun and sky and river all unite harmoniously, and someone like me is standing by to recognize, savor and acknowledge it.

And if that were not beauty enough, I had only to travel a few steps in a southeasterly direction to behold this floral exclamation point. What was that line from Alice Walker's novel: "I think it pisses God off when you walk by the colour purple in a field and don't notice it." I can safely say that I did not piss God off this morning. At least, not during my stroll around the island.

I know I've featured a fair number of feathered locals in my blog, but this fellow was begging to be photographed, so I happily obliged. Where were his friends and family, I wonder. Ah, but he could ask the same about me, couldn't he? We all require a bit of solitude, don't we, Daffy? I left him to his own devices and turned to face what I found to be both an attractive and suggestive image, set into the side of the riverbank.

For the writer ever in search of a rich or apt metaphor, the universal image that all can appreciate, that of the staircase will do as well as any other. In the same category as bridges and conveyances, the image suggests a place neither nor there but between two places, where one must choose: here or there, up or down, in or out? In addition to representing the choice, it also represents the means of getting from one place to another. Thus, it first compels us to be decisive, then supplies the means by which we may carry out our decision. Aren't we always on the staircase? Don't we perpetually face choices, alternatives, decisions that we can, should, or must make? From that perspective, life itself is a staircase, is it not? The only question is: are you heading up or down?

As I mounted the stairs (I was heading up), and continued my perambulation, my eye climbed a figurative stairway to the crown of this house, near the end of my walk. My eye was drawn not only by the attractive design, resembling rays of the sun, or the spokes of a wheel, but also by the color. Are you sensing a color theme emerging in this morning's post?

Lest there be any doubt, allow me to offer the final image of today's post, a house I see every day as I leave for work, and which always pleases me with the color Ms. Walker (and/or God) would not have me ignore. So why, of all days, should I choose to notice and comment upon this color today? Well, since you ask, last night my lovely companion began painting our bathroom purple. Inspired by her actions, I sat at my desk and began painting a picture featuring the same color. Ergo, you might say I had purple on my mind this morning.

And so, in honor of the color purple, and so as to avoid pissing anyone off, I leave you with this image. I have a doll's head sitting in a dish--don't ask why--and this was my attempt to render it in oils. This is just a beginning, and the painting has a long way to go, but every journey begins with that first step, no? Whether you are climbing a staircase, descending one, crossing a bridge, or being ferried by boat or car, plane or train, to a place where new experiences await. (And make no mistake, they always await.)

Life flows on, in and around us—filled with choices, means to act upon them, and the consequences of those actions. Choose, act, and live!

D.E.S.

4.9.12 Life, Death, and Everything In Between

Last weekend we set off for a walk, and this fellow was on hand to see us off. The island is literally swarming with robins, and I don't use the word 'literally' idly. I saw one after another along my walk this evening, to which a later photo will attest. But for now, we'll proceed to the place where our walk took us last weekend. It was near the dinner hour and we were both starving, so it's no surprise our feet led us to a restaurant, in this instance Psycho Suzi's Motor Lounge, a sort of tiki bar on the Mississippi about a 25-minute walk north of Nicollet Island. It's a place that is nowhere near as cool as it thinks it is and desperately wants to be, as one can deduce from this humdrum looking photo.

However, I did not take this photo, and maybe it had been taken during an especially dull occasion. At any rate, we found a couple of seats at the counter that ran alongside the river and ordered some grub. After our hike, the beer tasted very good, and we sat gazing out over the river as the sun began making its westward descent.



Here is one view from where I was sitting, in which you can see the tiki flames above and the dinner-date-who's-maybe-trying-too-hard down below. To my left, of course, is the river, and in front of me is my lovely companion who might have done a better job of blocking the fellow behind her. At any rate, we enjoyed our dinner as the sun sank into the river and the night grew just chilly enough to drive us indoors after a while.




Here is a much nicer view from where I was sitting, the sunset illuminating a stretch of river we haven't had much occasion to observe (Psycho Suzi's does not, alas, compel frequent visits).


It was a peaceful evening as we lazily wound our way through the streets of NE Minneapolis in the general direction of home. At one point, the moon appeared and I took this shot--not one of the best moonshots I've ever taken, but it conveys the general impression, I think, that it was a pleasant night. We ended up at a cafe to which we'd been before, and which we liked, called Maeve's.

I proposed a cuppa Joe, and as we entered the establishment found we had stumbled upon a poetry reading in progress. We discreetly entered and grabbed a couple of stools at the back of the room, and sat back to be regaled by the local literati. We enjoyed our coffee, and the reading, and I vowed to return in future with some work of my own to foist upon the unsuspecting public. This was just one of those serendipitous pleasures that makes living on the island, and in the NE Minneapolis area, so delightful. It's an artsy area where one may happen upon any number of interesting events while out for a stroll. We returned to the island over a charming wooden foot bridge in the dark, while catfish and small-mouthed bass frolicked below in the river currents (or at least I fancied they did).

Which brings me back to today. Or rather, yesterday, when another islander had sent out an email saying that he had sighted a coyote slinking into the woods right near where we live (and right near the railroad tracks). I was surprised, since I'd never seen or heard of coyotes on the island. Well, today I went out for a stroll after returning home from work, and took the path that I fancied the coyote would have taken. I came out into the small parking lot on West Island Ave., where I came upon an Animal Care and Control van, into which two workers were placing a carrying case which seem to contain a bit of orangish fur. I accosted them and asked what they had there, and they confided that it was a fox who had met his unfortunate end on the train tracks. I shared what I had read in the email about the coyote, and they said that it had probably been this poor fellow, as he had been large and mangy and had resembled a dog more than a fox.

So I went on my way, somewhat saddened for the loss of one of our vulpine population. How could he have let a train run him down? Perhaps these creatures are not quite as clever as folklore would have us believe. At any rate, I circled the island, and it was really rather chilly so I moved at a brisk pace, pausing only to snap this shot of a jaunty little redbreast who was tugging frantically at a worm that seemed quite determined to stay right in the earth where he was. It was one of those days when I was glad I wasn't a fox, or a worm, or even a robin. But I was perfectly content to be surrounded by them as I too strove to fill my belly while avoiding dangers.

Life flows on, in and around us—round and round it goes, and where and when it will stop, well ... who really knows?

D.E.S.

4.4.12 Good Day Sunshine

Today, after work, I seized the sunshiny day and went for a stroll, whereupon I came upon this Norman Rockwell scene on the northwestern end of the island. It appeared to be a father and his sons, fishing off a log in the Mississippi. It made me think of my own boys and wish that they were here to do likewise. Not that I've ever been the angling type. But who could resist this setting?


This kind of setting is my solace when returning from the cubicle and conference room ensconced world of corporate gamesmanship, where a matter like charging services to the correct cost center or achieving fully documented Sarbanes-Oxley compliance can be made to feel like matters of life and death. Then I return to the island, amongst earth and trees and sky, where the river flows grandly between its banks as it has for centuries, and the geese loiter in pairs while a homeless man kicks a crushed can along the cobblestone street. Each of these worlds may be real, but which is more real, which of them has the greater power to quicken my blood and gladden my eye?

Don't answer! Instead, admire the flowers of spring that greeted me next along my stroll. You can't grow these in a cubicle. And this is just the beginning! I can hardly wait to savor the wealth of beauty that the coming spring and summer have in store. When was the last time YOU stopped to smell the flowers, or just to drink in their colors? It's not too late to recapture the simple pleasures you may too hastily have relegated to the world of memory.

Here, while crossing the Merriam Street Bridge, my eye was drawn upward, where it discerned beauty in something wrought by the hand of Man, rather than that of Mother Nature. For Man must also be given his due, after all, and I am always happy to praise what Man has created, if only to steal attention away from all He has destroyed. Even better that my chosen subject is a lamp—something that supplies light rather than darkness. The discolored metal, the half-moon fringed crown, the dirt on the inside of the glass, and the criss-crossing metalwork in the background—all of these things make this one of my favorite images of today's post.




Now venture down St. Anthony Main with me and check out the Nice Rides supplied by the City of Minneapolis. They put the bikes out this past weekend, and if that's not another sure sign that spring has arrived, I don't know what is. This is a great program, and just one of the many things that make Minneapolis a great city, for natives and visitors alike. Just grab a bike, swipe your credit card, and away you go on any of the many scenic bike paths that snake through the city in all directions. You don't even have to return the bike to the place where you got it—just leave it at any of the bike racks located all throughout the city. My companion and I have all but decided to sell our own bikes and support this great program instead.

About ten paces away from the bikes, I mounted the stone spiral staircase next to the St. Anthony Main Movie Theater, and climbed to the east side of the Central Avenue Bridge, where I looked over the side and snapped this shot. There's something special about it to me, capturing the light in a unique way that says evening is about to fall on the island across that water, where I live.

A few steps farther along the bridge and I couldn't resist shooting toward the sun into this veil of foliage. This photo says something that cannot be put into words. It is something like life and joy and excitement and fire all balled up together and thrown into the sky, just so some idle wanderer like me could come along and get caught in its wondrous web. Shazam!

A good look up deserves a good look down to balance the world out. Standing in the same place, I simply tipped my head and snapped this one of the shoreline jutting out like a large nose the better to sniff out the river's essence, while the foliage dangles above like a parasol woven from the stuff of Spring. Someday this summer I'll sit on that shore with a good book, and make time stop.

The sun demanded I raise my sights and take this one, and I'm glad I obeyed. The sun is slow to retire for the night, as am I. And yet, the time that remains to me by the time I get home from work, before I must retire for the night, is regrettably brief. I resent the working life, and yet it is necessary, and provides what I need. And so there is nothing to do except savor every moment in which I am free to do as I please.

What pleases me at this moment is the vision of Nicollet Island you see reflected in the river, where the inlet swings around to embrace the shoreline. Why am I so fortunate, I wonder, to be privy to such beauty, to be lucky enough to live here, where I am not targeted by bullets or famine or disease, where life is easy and freedom surrounds me like air. I've gotten so spoiled that I'm not happy unless I can fill my lungs.

Well, there I am with a lungful, and don't I look self-satisfied? Why not? I'm alive, healthy, and the sun is shining. I am where I am by sheer happenstance, dumb luck. The things I have and enjoy owe nothing to my own actions or interventions—at least not in the big picture. I might have been born into slavery, or into a famine-stricken or war-torn land, or as a mosquito with a 24-hour life span (maybe a bit longer here in Minnesota), but I was born in Canada and grew up in America and have been luckier than most of the human beings who have ever lived. Like everyone else, I won't be around for long. But today I'm here, and while I'm here, I'll follow the sun.

Life flows on, in and around us—drink it in, bask in it, and know it well—it is yours, here and now, as deep and rich and fine as you make it.

D.E.S.

4.2.12 Six Months on the Island

With the end of March comes the end of our first six months as residents of Nicollet Island, and it's hard to believe that so time has flown by. This weekend was so busy that there was little time for me to wander the island in search of inspiration, and it was only today (Monday), while out for a walk on the Central Avenue Bridge, inspiration presented itself. It appears our island spirit has spoken once more, and his message for the month of April is both to INSPIRE all who behold his sign from the bridge--and a call for those beholders, in turn, to go and inspire others.

Naturally, I zoomed in for a closer shot. The first thing to strike me was the colors this time around: Minnesota Vikings colors, something that may well inspire many locals to start counting the weeks until football season returns. For those new to the blog, this appears to be a sheet of plywood marooned on the southeastern shore of the island, upon which someone has painted a different message for the month of February, March, and now April. The sign is pretty much only visible while walking across the Central Avenue Bridge.

The weekend was a busy one, with a great deal of time spent off the island rather than on. But then, my name is not Gilligan, and just because I live on an island doesn't mean I lead an insular existence. My lovely companion and I enjoyed a couple of dinners at restaurants visited for the first time, both of which we found wonderful.

Here is the first, where I ordered the duck, with some mild misgivings when thinking of all the feathered friends I walk amongst regularly on the island. Nevertheless, I put my conscience aside and indulged wholeheartedly, much to my epicurean delight. If you're in Minneapolis, you could do worse than have a meal at this place, found on 13th Ave. NE right off University and next to the 331 Club. The next day, after seeing a fantastic film called 'We Have A Pope' at our local Talk Cinema event, we tried another new place.

This place, found in the charming Linden Hills area, was called Tilia. I had some sort of pork concoction which was killer! Everything was delicious and we even made new friends over dinner (the couple at the next table). All of which was leading up the 5K race I was signed up to run on Sunday morning inside the Metrodome.

That's right, this is the place! Too worried about risking a parking ticket, I walked over the Stone Arch Bridge to the Metrodome on Sunday morning when it was rather cold and blustery, in only my shorts and t-shirt. Not wise. There, I entered Gate D and got my number for the World Without Genocide 5K.



It was pretty cool running around inside the Metrodome--apparently 8¼ laps equals 5K. I had a few cheering sections that supplied encouragement whenever I passed them, and I somehow managed to finish in 27:30 which was very good for me. Still, it was something of a Pyrrhic victory, with my calves hurting for the rest of the day. I also had drank strong coffee the night before (another real smart move), so was awake half the night, and meanwhile hadn't eaten anything since our mid-afternoon meal at Tilia. Hence, when I got home from the race feeling very cold from the walk, I immediately had another big cup of coffee (my 3rd smart move). Within an hour, I was seeing spots and feeling very disoriented. It got so bad I couldn't see anything that was right in front of me. Fortunately, this went away after about ... hmmm, an hour? Very freaky.

After eating something I felt a lot better, just in time for a visit from a 9-year resident of the island who is in charge of the resident directory (who knew such a thing existed?). We had exchanged a few emails and he had promised to drop by to help me with a computer problem. We ended up chatting for quite some time, as he filled us in on a lot of island lore, and it was great to make yet another friend on the island.

Life flows on, in and around us—though sometimes it ebbs as well, leaving little time in which to stuff all of our living.

D.E.S.