The Island Guardian
Locally Owned & Operated
(360)378-4900 - PO Box 38, Friday Harbor, Wa 98250
The Island Guardian is a member of the Society of Professional Journalists
xx Home | News | Business | Environment | Lifestyles | Entertainment | Columnists | Archives | Classifieds | Nag
Current news
Government News
Political News
Service Organizations
Guest Editorials
Real Estate
Weekly Nag
Weekly Nag
Letters to Editor
Letters to Editor
To Contact the Editor

Island Guardian

California Sunshine & More About Dogs

It is quite common for San Juan islanders to consider a trip south for part of the winter. The island is far enough north, for the days to get very short. When the sun does make an appearance, it is crouched low in the sky. The days are often dim and drizzly, and so … for the second year in a row, I succumb to the urge, and head south.

I pack up the car and leave the island two days after Christmas. Griffin, the Irish wolfhound, is nervously following me back and forth to the car with each load, worried that I may leave him behind. I stuff the last of the Christmas wrap into the recycle bin, put Griffin’s bed in the back of the RAV4 and we leave for Santa Cruz.

The sun is brighter in Santa Cruz. The days are warmer, and a little bit longer. While here, I reside in a most beautiful little house on Twin Lakes lagoon. I look out the windows to a California plein air impressionist painting. Only it is real. Reflections on the lagoon are ever changing. The color of the water ranges from blue, reflected from the sky, and white fluffy clouds, to dark rich greens and browns. The eucalyptus trees cast their shadows in painterly watery reflections, dotted with milky white patterns from pampas grass. White egrets, serene and beautiful, perch on a branch protruding from the water. They share this roost with cormorants, sea gulls and on some days, a huge heron. The lagoon is rimmed with enormous eucalyptus trees that tower above our house. A short walk, and the lagoon meets the salt water of Monterey Bay.

When I am on the Island, I always know the temperature and the basic weather conditions. I wake up to a cold house; means its cold out and I need to make a fire. Up north, there are windows all around and show me if clouds brew. I can watch them, to see which way the wind is blowing; things like that. If the cat doesn’t want to go out, that means inclement weather and most likely rain and wind gusts. I step outside to get an armful of wood for the stove, and then I really know the weather. That is the north house.

Here in the city of Santa Cruz, and in the south house, there are fewer windows, shelter from the wind and no long-range view; it is hit or miss weather wise. The lagoon gives me clues. Today the lagoon is brown and dark green. It looks stirred up and angry. The surface is dappled and pock marked with heavy rain and the sky is streaked. Wooden perch abandoned. Birds must find more shelter in the surf. I will need a raincoat.

It does rain some, but most of the days are bright and feel quite summery. Last weekend was 75 degrees and sunny. The beach was packed with parents with toddlers, young folks playing volleyball, dog walkers and others, just strolling along, taking in the beauty. Roller waves were coming in and crashing on the sandy picturesque beach. Waves are expected to reach 25 to 30 feet in the next few days. Be careful they don’t pluck a person off the rocks. The sound is meditative. It has to be healthy to get a dose of this every day. I think I will live forever. I sent a picture of the sunset to my friends on the island and the reply was, “what is that bright thing in the sky?” Kind of a contract with San Juan winter I think.

Rain or shine, we walk the dogs twice a day. Oswald, Ozzie for short, is a grumpy little Carron Terrier. Griffin is an Irish wolfhound. Tall enough to clean off the kitchen counter with all 4 feet on the floor. During the visit so far, he has absconded a block of cheese, a baguette and a hamburger. Griffin had a run in with a skunk a few days ago. Now we call him stinky. When we go for walks, we keep the dogs on a leash because Ozzie picks fights with all the big dogs he meets. Most hated are pit bulls, German Sheppard’s and especially, the Springer spaniel from up the street. Ozzie is fearless. He jumps up and down snarling and barking and lunging at the big dogs while Griffin plods along oblivious. If Ozzie were to start a fight though, Griffin would have to finish it.

He and Ozzie have an interesting relationship. When we leave the house and leave the two dogs inside the gate, they howl like the pack they think they are. When we return, Griffin and Ozzie get so excited that Griffin jumps and bounds and runs in circles, Ozzie then chases Griffin, going for his neck, barking snarling and growling for all he is worth. Griffin tolerates this behavior for the most part, but now and then grabs Ozzie in his huge jaws and pins him to the ground. So far so good, he lets him go and continues to run circles with Ozzie chasing behind and lunging for him.

I am learning about flea market culture here in Santa Cruz. It seems like the surfer dudes of yesterday, now sell and buy at the flea market. Gary is always there. Long hair, nice friendly guy. He smells of weed and wants to move to Chili. His wife’s name is Janet and she is also friendly and talkative. They are both very talkative. Kind of hard to get a word in edgewise when you are around the two of them. I am beginning to recognize a good deal and I have learned the best transactions can be had, when a storm blows in and it begins to pour. I am not as good at bartering as my companion, though. He knows how to haggle. He says, “Offer the guy ten bucks and duck.” It feels like I am becoming a regular. I recognize the same vendors each week, like the woman we call the white lady, because she sells white linen shirts. I am apparently paying way too much money for them. Maria the plant lady sells plants of all sizes for cheap, but one can still strike a bargain for volume. Then there is Don the food man, stooped over, unloading his truck of goods. Well, maybe not all good goods. Check those dates. Look for mold. Most popular words uttered by the food vendors at the flea market, “That doesn’t go bad.”

The harbor is another interesting spot. We walk by it every day - so much activity. Seals sunning on docks, otter rolled over on his back with cute little feet in the air. Fishermen selling crab, bike riders, dog walkers, tourists, and homies. One day getting drenched in the pouring rain, we stop by the boat ramp to witness a crew pulling a car out of the water. OK so how drunk do you have to be? “Take a right here honey, park over there by that boat.” Oh Boy! Another day, as we were walking to the lighthouse we saw a sailboat keeled way over on its side. The harbor had filled in with sand, as a result of the high wave action and the boat had hit the sand bar, keeled over and lost a passenger. Then, it hit the rocks and was eventually rescued. That must have been embarrassing. Another day, we see smoke and fire crews; a boat blew up and burned itself and another 3 boats. Two of which sank. Adventure in the harbor.

Space is a commodity here in our little south house. I miss my studio on the island, but have made do, by draping the antique furniture with plastic, the hardwood floors and antique rugs with cardboard, and turned the living room into a studio of sorts. I am working on smaller works inspired by the California plein air painters, as I look out at the gorgeous, ever changing lagoon.

This is a good place to spend a few months in the winter; a little warmer, a little brighter, longer days, and with many charms of its own. Griffin and I will be back on the island soon enough. Just in time to see the first of the daffodil blooms. See you then.

(On horseback, on foot and with wolfhounds, inspiration and motivation come from being present. The forest with its ambience and aesthetics provide seed for my paintings and stories. I paint what I sense. I write about my experiences, feelings and perceptions of life on our unique island. Teresa Smith B.A. Visual Arts Naropa University )

Old Dogs and Winter

The animals I live with are getting on in age, but then again, I guess I am too. Griffin is ten, and that is three years past expected for an Irish wolfhound. Kiwi, the marmalade cat is 15 and my horse is going on twenty-five.

It is winter on San Juan Island. There is a fire burning in the woodstove day and night, winds and rain are relentless. It is technically still morning AND it will be dark in four hours.

I was walking with Griffin in the woods today. Glistening green. Can I paint glistening green? It was the highest tide I have ever seen by the lagoon. It started to rain, and with the wind, we got soaked to the skin. Ducked into the wood and followed a deer trail that wove in through the moss covered limbs next to the rain-dappled lagoon. Griffin led the way through a four-foot high trail. After struggling over tree trunks and under branches, we eventually found ourselves back on the main trail. We were the only human and dog in the park today.

I often think of Fenny, my girl wolfhound who passed away last year. She and Griffin were never more than a few feet from each other until the day she died. I wonder if he senses her presence, like I do, when we pass through her favorite haunts.

We don’t walk as fast as we used to. No longer three miles of rugged terrain in less than an hour. Griffin is slowing down and there is a time and place for every action. The slowing down gives me time to pause and consider. I notice colors and shapes, smells and sounds. The moldery scent of leaves gone by reminds me of an eight year old walking home from school in a small town in Quebec. The brilliant fall leaves fallen after a storm. Finches are chirping and hustling in the undergrowth and eagles chortling in the distance. The colors are intense this time of year. Damp brings out the richest and lushest of color. Cedar tree appears green but when I look closely I see alizarin, gold and blue. There are thousands of shades of green. Where sun strikes foliage the light glistens white. The deepest shadows are as dark as raven. I ponder, daydream and make up stories. I meander and walk for the sake of walking, drinking in the grace and abundance of the woods. Just me and Griffin and all the creatures of the forest.

It is winter on San Juan Island. The people are friendly and I can turn left on Spring Street. The bounty of Christmas lights warms my heart. Christmas Eve, Kings closed its doors early; everyone hugged each other and went home to their families. This is the essence of the island in winter.

Back home, the sun is low in the sky and warming a spot in the clean straw. Kiwi and his old bones is curled up there, eyes closed and drunk in the warmth. The garden has been put to sleep and new beds are fermenting and fecund, preparing for spring planting.

It will be dark soon, so I bring in some firewood from the wood pile under the trees. Cut a few years ago and well seasoned. I am protective of the kindling and only use a tiny bit to start the fire. I am not so good with an axe so I cherish what I have. Dog bowls are filled with water and Kiwi, Griffin and I are ready to retreat to the warmth of the little wood house on the hill. Smoke is billowing from the chimney. It is inviting. Griffin takes to his four foot by five foot memory foam, Kiwi curls up by the fire and I begin chopping vegetables for dinner.

The animals are getting older and I take more moments to be in their presence. I sit in the chair by the fire, hold Kiwi in my arms and we look into each other’s eyes. Winter is about slowing down, going inside and reflecting. The colors are richer. Maybe it is because I slow down enough to notice.

Luck and Other Wintery Thoughts

A friend asks me, “How are you?” I say, “I am well thank you,” She says, “Of course you are.” “Your life is perfect.” “Perfect boyfriend, perfect house, get to ride your horse anytime you want, painting is your job.” “Of course you are great.” “You are lucky.”

As I go through my day I ponder my views on luck.

Winter is coming, here on San Juan Island. It is 7 in the morning and dark outside. The wind is howling and rain is pelting against the east facing windows. This is soothing to me. I can relax and give myself permission to sit down in the middle of the day and finish knitting that sweater. The garden is resting, it is too wet to ride and the studio is cold. I make soup and stew, cookies and zucchini bread. Finally, there is a need for a fire in the woodstove to keep the house warm. I have missed the fire in the center of this home.

I am a fan of weather. I hike the trails around Jackals lagoon and mount Finlayson almost every day. I notice the subtle differences. I love the days with the most intense winter weather. The ones where the trees are swaying so hard they look like dancers. Scary, exhilarating and dizzying to stand under. The roar of the wind makes me feel small. The farther I walk into the deep woods the more peaceful and protected I feel. It is usually just Griffin, my wolfhound, and me who venture out on such days. I like the solitude. It is cathartic; just my dog, the woods and me.

I have been noticing how some of the foliage on the great cedars turn ochre during the heat of summer. These fronds fly off in the wind and mingle with alizarin, raw sienna and burgundy leaves from big leaf maple, willow and alder. It looks like it is snowing colored glitter. The glitter falls and lays thick on the path below. When it rains, winding rivers are formed flowing down the hills, scraping away the layers of color to the black earth below. These black earth rivers are contrasted by yellow, umber, alizarin and gold.

After a big rain, droplets of water spill from wet foliage, as the sun streams in through the cathedral of monster cedars. Mist is rising in a thin veil as if illuminating an alternate world. I encounter a dad with his little girl in the woods today. She says, “there are lots of fairies in these woods.” I answer, “yes, there sure are.”

Is it luck, or did I dream it up?

My schoolteachers told my parents that I would have done a lot better in school if I would stop daydreaming. Ha! Yes, I did spend most of my time imagining. I dreamed about the woods and the lake. I imagined myself galloping through the woods on a beautiful horse. I dreamed of gardens and deer and foxes, rabbits, dogs and cats. I fantasized about the house where I would live, surrounded by beautiful pastures and trees and animals. I conceived drawings and conjured paintings of my invented personal paradise. I shaped my future out of sand. I dreamed up this life that I am living.

A few years ago I was not happy. I lived in a desert and I wanted to come home. I felt stuck ankle deep in muck that was holding me in place. I had forgotten to imagine. I had forgotten to believe that when there is a will, there is a way. I started to dream again. My musing brought me home.

I am dining on homemade brothy, root vegetable soup, rich with tomato, cumin and a hint of coriander. Sharing a bottle of 2005 Syrah with a beautiful man who smells of pine pitch and chain saw. My kind of man. Is it luck or did I dream this up?

No. Not luck. I believe in dreaming. I believe in appreciating the small things, and I believe there are fairies that live in the woods.

Summer Going By

The first hint of summer going by is waking up shrouded in fog. I am in a cloud. It will burn off because weather channel says sun for as long as can be predicted. This first misty morning brings the melancholy resolve of fall coming.

I had better plant the last crop of kale, lettuce and Swiss chard. Those tomatoes need to start turning red. I will google, “why are my tomatoes still green?” Squash, beans and cucumbers are coming on strong and that Hubbard is massive.

Dewdrops collecting on spider webs glisten in the morning light, like shimmering diamonds. A string of precious gems sparkling across a tree limb, across the snowberries, wild roses and tall grass. I had no idea there were so many spiders living among us.

The grass on the knoll is no longer green because it has not rained since June. That is the thing about our climate here on San Juan. Moist wet rain drizzle for months then dry dry arid warm for months. Change is good. The grass is not green but it is the beautiful color of caramel with a little cream added in. Dotted in, are happy yellow dandelion like flowers of the cat’s ear plant.

The roadsides are a mass of periwinkle blue from chickory, and tall taupe colored grass, and an alizarin " burnt orange colored sedge. Creamy white Queen Anne’s lace provide backdrop for this seductive color combination.

My first stargazer lily opened today. The sweet scents of the lilies, jasmine and Halls honeysuckle lure me to the comfy chair in my garden. The smells remind me of my girls as toddlers in a tiny kid pool, mid-late summer on Primrose Lane.

The county fair is right around the corner and marks a definite transition into late summer. First nip in the air and the coming of fall.

Winding down. Relaxing. Summer guests have been and gone. Harvest is plentiful. Sharing its abundance with friends. False bay at low tide. Hikes up mount Finlayson and long bike rides in the early morning. Gratitude and appreciation of the beauty of this place. Never ending change and moving forward into the next season.

75 Degrees And No Relief In Sight

I like to tease my sisters who live in Ontario and Alberta, and friends in Colorado. They tell me it is unbearably hot this summer. “It is hot here too, I say, 75 degrees, with no relief in sight.”

We get the boat in the water early morning when Griffin Bay is calm and looks like glass. Come back in with a quota of 5 crab. There is a family of children and grandma fishing for minnows off the dock. Giggles, flipflops and memories of a cottage in Quebec long ago, and a minnow net that my father made for me.

Summer on San Juan Island is about morning rides on my horse, when the dew is still on the grass from early fog that settles into the valley overnight. There is complete utter silence this time of day. A doe lifts her head to look at me as her dappled fawn hops over close to mama. I see a fox up ahead on the trail. Back at the barn, one fat barn swallow won’t leave the nest. Parents keep bringing food and more food. I am pretty sure he is too fat to fly.

Low tide in the summer is my favorite. I take off my shoes and walk way out at False Bay. Warm salt water on my feet. Dogs love to lope along and splash through the tepid pools. Clouds of birds shifting with the tides. Sea gulls and sand pipers run in and run out with the waves. I am mesmerized as I watch. Tide pools full of tiny crab, limpets, sea anemone and chiton. Especially low tide close to full moon and summer solstice reveal sun stars and purple stars, and once in a great lucky while an octopus.

The tractor showed up today and is cutting the hay. The smell is intoxicating. Reminds me of my first pony, Penny, and the smell of fresh hay that my dad and I stacked next to her stall. With the grass cut, the dogs and I can walk to the pond again. It has been 4 feet tall and quite a trek to get down the hill. The farmer will be turning the cut hay into huge round bails. Such a majestic sight out the front window. I am always sad when they come and take the bales away in the fall.

I go into town midday for the first time in awhile. Things are quite different here in summer. I have to walk 2 blocks to get to the gym. What an inconvenience. I never turn left on Spring Street any time of the year, but this is beyond turning left. It is grid lock. The ferry is unloading and someone is waiting for a parking space, holding up traffic all the way to the boat. Are you kidding me?

Night time and night life is quite different summer vs. winter. I go out with my girlfriend on Friday night. It is an adventure. So many people having a blast in a new port. Interesting stories to tell when I get home. Not many familiar faces. I think I prefer winter, where the place may seem bereft of life, but it is more about connecting with friends than a rowdy party.

This time of the year in the San Juan’s is pure magic. There is a sparkle that I don’t see anywhere else. A sparkle in the landscape and a sparkle in the people. Summer days are long long long. The garden is abundant, people are happy, birds are singing and it is 75 degrees.

I moved to this island in 1989. Although I have come and gone for a time over those years, I am still in awe of its beauty and its magical presence. Each time of year has its own special personality, but summer is the island at its very best. Spring is really my favorite, though. Fall is quite spectacular, actually. And winter is the pure healing joy of peace and quiet.

Sixty Dollar Salad

I have romantic thoughts about growing my food. Fresh organic food. Fresh picked and becoming salad. Packet of seeds 2 dollars and 99 cents.

I make raised beds. I buy untreated fir 4X6’s and treat them with some kind of all natural organic wood preservative. It takes a few days. I hire a handy guy who can assemble the wood into raised beds. I purchase several hundred dollars worth of organic soil and fill them. Now I am ready to plant.

I plant the seeds. Lettuce, spinach, kale, swiss chard. 30 days to harvest it says on the packet. This seems to me, that may be an optimistic assumption. If everything goes right and a garden has 4 feet of organic material, a perfect amount of water, sun and ideal conditions, maybe. On the other hand, if the temperature is not quite right, not enough water, too much water. Too cloudy, too sunny. Late frost, cold nights or hot days. The moon not in the correct quarter. The stars not aligned. You know the ones. Then the seeds don’t sprout and the salad is not ready in 30 days.

I keep buying more seeds and filling in where seeds have not made it. If, after 30 days, I still have seeds sprouting and becoming plants and the cats haven’t dug them up and the deer have not discovered them and the rabbits are staying away. If the house sitter hasn’t forgotten to water when I went away for the weekend and the bug that eats the tops of the peas and beans has missed a few and I remember to harvest the plants before they bolt, I consider the garden a huge success.

I am working on the second year. I added 6 inches of manure in the fall. I amended and mulched. I prune and preen and talk to my beloved plants. By May my kale is 6 inches high, lettuce the same. I have some lovely little radishes. I am gloating with pride, and then I go to the farmers market. There, I see kale the size of small trees, lettuce so beautiful it looks like the kind they photograph for the cover of a gardening book. Tomato plants 4 feet tall. How is this possible?

I ask advice to find out why my plants aren’t growing as fast as the plant lady’s at the market. Opinions come freely. “You probably aren’t watering enough.” “You are probably watering too much.” “Did you wait until the moon was in the first quarter to plant?” “Oh no!” “Did you mulch?” “Slugs.” “Probably slugs.” “Must be voles.” “Happens to me every year.” “Deer, that’s the problem.” “Birds.” “You should never have a bird feeder, or the birds will eat your seeds.”

I have two main obstacles so far this year. Cats and pill bugs. I have three beautiful cats that are now looking for good homes. Cats dig up my seeds right away or they wait until the little plants are barely up. I read that coffee grounds work to keep cats away. Cats don’t like coffee grounds apparently. So I give up tea and start drinking coffee. It takes a lot of coffee. Wood ashes work if there are enough of them but the seeds don’t seem too happy. I begin to pile sharp objects onto my garden. Pieces of wood, wire mesh, rocks, branches, metal grid. Now my garden looks like the Mexican border wall. Dismantle that. I am confident that by now the cats will have found new places to go and will leave my garden alone. No. Not so. I get a huge pile of sand and make them sand boxes. No. I make them a dirt box. Nope. Next is motion sensor sprinkler system. If that doesn’t work, electric fence with barbed wire around premises.

Something is eating the seedlings as they emerge. I have been replanting thinking that they are not germinating. Then with closer examination I notice stems sticking out of the soil. Only stems. Pill bugs only eat decaying matter I am told. Wrong. Pill bugs swarm attack and devour my new little beans as they peek above the soil line. First I try Diatomaceous Earth. This is made of Crustacean fossils and is not at all toxic. It is composed of tiny sharp shards that either dry out the bugs or debilitate them. But I have to re apply every time I water which is twice a day. 30 dollars worth of the stuff in 30 days. And if I forget or don’t get the timing right the little creature’s swarm, attack and devour the fresh new leaves. I can trap them with beer is another suggestion. Collect little cans; make holes in the soil around the plants. One can per square foot and fill with beer. Not exactly attractive and I don’t even like beer. Next, I make little walls around the seeds using toilette paper tubes or plastic bottles. When the plants emerge the bugs can’t get to them. Little walls to keep out the bug terrorists and another hypothetical solution that doesn’t work. I buy more seeds and I buy small plants already started. I also start my own seedlings. I will succeed.

I persevere. I plant the seeds, reseed after the cat digs up the first lot, reseed after I accidentally apply too much wood ash. Reseed after the pill bugs eat the seedlings. I am addicted. The first thing I want to do each morning is to check on the garden. Water and nurture. Watch things come alive.

What is it that compels me to grow year after year? What is it that gives me a rush when I see that first seed catalogue come in the mail each winter? The pure unadulterated pleasure of appreciating and sharing my first tender greens mixed with herbs in the spring. The taste and the exhilaration. Delicious yes, and that first salad is worth about 60 bucks. Money well spent.

If I Were A Cedar Tree

If I were a cedar tree I would sway in the wind, bend but not break. I would be aware of the moment and nothing more.

If I were a cedar tree I would watch the world change. More generations than I can count.

If I were a cedar tree I would never be alone. I would be mother and life force. From bald eagle to tiny microorganisms that live under bark. Lichen and moss, mama fox and kits live in hole under root, woodpeckers gorging on supper, junco’s and wood hatches flitting to safety. I would give shelter and safety, sustenance and perch.

Wise woman would cherish my wisdom and see the spirit within me. I would have seen settlers come and cut down brothers and sisters. Yet, I would not wake in the night and worry. Things would be simple.

If I were a cedar tree I would welcome back the salmon that spawn then became fry then swam out to sea. I would watch as the sea gulls, eagles and bear come and feed after the next generation has been laid.

If I were a cedar tree I would hear the whispers in the dark of night. No one would know I was there.

If I were a cedar tree I would stand proud for artists with their easels and paint. I would display my beautiful sweeping branches, massive trunk and flecks of red and gold and rust within the thousands of shades of green in my boughs.

I would stand tall and calm as children climb on me and parents teach.

If I were a cedar tree I would be whole, neither happy nor sad, but at peace with my life as it is. I would live among my brothers and sisters many hundreds of years we would be. I would be strong and steadfast as those around me.

If I were a cedar tree I would be whole. I would not be bothered by the judgment of others. I would stand in peace. I would not judge.

If I were a cedar tree I would not plan for my future nor fret over my past. I would notice the caw of the crow and the nip in the air.

If I were a cedar tree I would stand tall in grace.

(On horseback, on foot and with wolfhounds, inspiration and motivation come from being present. The forest with its ambience and aesthetics provide seed for my paintings and stories. I paint what I sense. I write about my experiences, feelings and perceptions of life on our unique island. Teresa Smith B.A. Visual Arts Naropa University )

Eat Around the Worm

I offer Emma, my teenage daughter, a juicy delicious apple off the ancient leaning apple tree. “What are those spots?” She asks. “Worm holes,” I tell her. “Worm holes!” She shrieks. “Eat around them.” I tell her.

It got me thinking. Life is like that. I am not able to prevent bad things from happening and worries do creep up. The question is, how I deal with them. Do I ignore the issue? Run away from it? Or do I skirt it, look at it with curiously and make the most of it? I eat around the worm because I cherish the juicy bits. The pleasure AND the tension. There is always a bit of risk. Just take a bite.

Sometimes life goes along swimmingly. Everything I touch seems to work. Selling paintings, making friends, money coming in. My future looks bright. Then a worm in the apple shows up. It wakes me up in the night. I ignore it. I am losing money. A house sits empty. It is not renting. I pay the mortgage every month but savings are depleting. Not worried yet, then I am. What to do? From there I feel a piece of lead in my stomach. A nagging feeling that won’t go away.

My future does not feel bright. Fears creep in from years past maybe from ancestors past. The colors aren’t quite as bright. There is a momentum. The momentum is down. It stays that way for a while. Could be minutes, hours, days. My choice.

It is just this little worm that I need to eat around. I remember that I am selling my paintings, that I live in a beautiful house, that I am fortunate to have a rental to worry about, that nobody died. I live in the most beautiful place and I remember I have the best job in the world. I am an artist.

Keep my hopes up, look on the bright side, hope for the best, be a dreamer, a positive thinker and eat around the worm.

John Evans
Greg Hertel
Mary Kalbert
Ron Keeshan
Gordy Petersen
Janice Peterson
Bruce Sallan
Teresa Smith
Terra Tamai
Amy Wynn
Helpful Links
Helpful Links
RSS Feed

Let the newspaper come to you with Real Simple Syndication

RSS Version

Web design by
The Computer Place

© 2008 The Island Guardian, Inc
All Rights Reserved.

Powered By Greymatter

To learn about this newspaper
how to place a free ad
to become contributor
click below:
The Island Guardian

or email: