First Day of Summer in a Prescribed Paradise

So summer arrived at 8 something here on the coast of North America that's sees it first. So be it. My evening was listening to blue grass music as its called here at our legion. I feel there among the seniors (I am close to the youngest participant) that I am among my Hatfield family, long lost, along some holla on the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy in West Virginia. Know that I only visited Williamson once, to visit the family cemetery. There Anse Hatfield, a hero of the Confederacy stands tall in marble along Mate Creek. Yes, Matewan fame. He was either my GGGrandad or Uncle depending on who slept with whom. In any case I was born dead-eyed shooting a revolver, so maybe there is something to the DNA thing.

My mom, Aunt and grand mom only talked in their hidden language among us....they would use certain letters to create whole words, for example "Fuff A Cause EE". Which meant face "face". Later I learned that during the feud they had to be careful about what they said. I think that secret way of talk among the Hatfield clan has never been said before...but I won't say it all...

Here the spring peepers of my youth on the streams are still singing. At this latitude it has just broken dark and its almost 10PM.

The trout fishing here on the island is pretty good. There are decent sea-run brook trout of the same type I caught with my father and son in the streams of Pennsylvania. When they go into the sea hey grow fatter and take on a silver tone. The little bright dots of blue-ringed red gone and bellies fat from a time in the salt. They are profound.

Here, I am completely "islandized". I am a member of the social clubs and accepted by nearly all the folks that considered me an off-lander and even a "Yankee". Its a gentle strain of people who crave the world across the ferry or the bridge but just can't go. Many have left for work in the Alberta tar sands or even the states. Those that remain lust for the annual Florida or Las Vegas vacation. My former and lovely young wife has either been deported for working without a visa or simply disappeared.

A fishing friend or mine, who has shown me great great trout streams (Up West-meaning anywhere West of our little town) works at the potato plant. He tells me that his job is to use water jets and flumes to get the crop into the hoppers. He works second shift sorting potatoes in a stark warehouse here. His name is Glen. His life is also an abject tradgedy but he is one of the few lucky enough to have a job, and looks forward to our fishing trips to his home town up West near O'Leary. There are some serious sea-trout to be caught.

My relationship with my island girl continues. She is stoic from a truly horrible childhood of parental loss, no running water, and struggling here in the 1950's. I am talking incest, physical attack, and rural horror.

Such a run from my personal background. When we go out she makes her face and hair flawless, trying to achieve a recognition for beauty that she has never known. She is Mary, the lady I see here. She is as far from Shel or a desert sunrise as a human could be, but she is my Mary.


Here as a retiree the days come and go. The tourists are starting to arrive and the hopeless little shops are opening. A place of real beauty-but one has to stay here to find it. Cape Breton is more rugged and prettier. Nova Scotia has Halifax and the great Eastern shore and the Annapolis Valley. New Brunswick, our "drive through province" has the Bay of Fundy and the Miramachi. And don't consider the awful "Magnetic Hill".

I have few complaints but I do miss my family and my desert-oddly enough. But the sun shines and my skin tans under a maritime sun by my abode alone along the beach.

Its what I wanted. No real financial worries, no relationship issues and a place to fish...a truck that will take me anywhere. I can see the point lighthouse from my home.

Still...I feel a missing..a longing..is this it?

My mom used to ask me during my business and consulting days-"What am I running from".

Maybe I can get out of block and finally write the story. Now that most of the pain is settling, and I actually have something to say.

OK-Maybe not totally "islandized". My gorgeous French-speaking dental hygienist said to me at the end of picking my teeth last week..."Your from the states!" Accent. I am working on it. Its easier to learn Canadian inflection than Russian when I went there so long ago on a UN mission.

She also said that she has rarely seen anyone my age here that HAD all of his original teeth...ok, I have one gold crown.