A Bag of Brussels Sprouts - Joan Shepherd

From a batch of maybe 50 cookbooks (I love to  read and buy cookbooks) I picked out an older paper back with a faded white sticker marked $1 and simply titled “VEGETABLES”. Flipping through the pages, I  found a recipe, Brussels Sprout Soufflé. Wanting something different and delicious –  that was it!

The first ingredient was 1/4 # Brussels sprouts.

Mentally, that sounded reasonable. The fancy scale that weighs in pounds, ounces, or kilos, showed 4, yes four brussels sprouts weighing 1/4 pound! Now I had a bag full and had hoped to use up certainly more than four lousy Brussels sprouts, so I added a few more. What would the pioneers have done without a recipe book or a fancy scale when crossing the plains and finding a brussels sprout plant as well as  a nest of eggs they hoped were chicken eggs? Maybe they wouldn’t try a Soufflé but measurements wouldn’t be precise. My Mormon background prevailed. I moved on.

   Two pounds potatoes! What!!! This should be called Potato Soufflé!  I also  cut that way down, cooked them separately, as directed, “in boiling water until very soft”, and read “put through a pureeing device”. Here, I ran in to trouble. Trying several culinary devices, the brussels sprouts just wouldn’t break up.

Re-reading “pureeing”, oh, puree, I guess they want then totally mushy” and got out the Quisinart. Success. 

Separating the eggs was no problem nor adding yolks but then I was to put the batter into a Soufflé dish. What was a soufflé dish? I had to call my talented cooking friend to find out, then hunt for something big enough and tall enough and oven proof but the real problem was I had probably enough batter to fill a  cereal bowl but it did enlarge folding in the egg whites. I had baked it at 350 degrees for 25 minutes when my partner came hone. I gave him instructions I had heard of somewhere  of being gentle with a Soufflé, no sudden change in temperature, not peeking into the oven periodically, no sudden jarring. we both carefully turned on the oven light, opened the door, and saw a slightly risen batter definitely not cooked. By extending the baking time, the oven door had to be opened more frequently to see what was happening. No wonder it wouldn’t rise to win a prize in my “new recipe experiments.

It took my well sighted friend to analyze the mistakes.

1. The temp was set at 300, not 350 degrees but the numbers have rubbed mostly off on the dial so I didn’t feel too guilty.

2. The recipe called for 1 and 1/4 pound Brussels sprouts, not 1/4. Macular degeneration causes me to eliminate the first letter or letters of words or in this case numbers. 

3. Only 1/2 # potatoes. Same eye  problem, but now I’m feeling guilty and embarrassed.

4. The fact that I had substituted sharp cheddar cheese for Gruyere...well, I didn’t know the difference in a Soufflé. but undoubtedly would have been more interesting.

Regardless of all this, the Soufflé tasted pretty good. I gave it 3 stars for taste and 2 stars for appearance. Served it with some delicious chicken whose juices helped the scoop of Soufflé on the plate, it didn’t taste bad at all.In fact, pretty darn good.  I haven’t lost my joy of cooking.

I can give you my original chicken recipe if you’re interested.

                                       ***

Oxymorons - Robyn Makaruk

The bridegroom had arranged everything in advance.  Their romance was an open secret and they planned to move into a mobile home after the honeymoon.  He was not known to be a spendthrift, but this was to be a bittersweet wedding, his first marriage ending just hours after the ceremony when his bride choked on eating too many jumbo shrimp after washing them down with firewater.  A friend had been hired to handle the speechwriting, and someone else had edited each piece with a ballpoint pen and given them to him as the final draft.  Both bride and groom had separately crafted their own vows that would be delivered as new and improved versions of the standard.

The venue was nothing fancy, and as the bride worked for a shipping and freight forwarding company, they chose an industrial park for the ceremony and the reception to be held in the plant itself.  A one-man band had been hired who would be presenting ‘golden oldies’ and new tunes which the artist had recorded live and these would be presented in random order.   

It was a small guest list, more from the bride’s side of the family than the groom’s.  Her cousin was an idiot savant who was into rock music.  He was a highly-paid consultant by the Pentagon as an expert in military intelligence, peacekeeping missiles and war games.

The chosen menu contained only organic produce, nothing fresh frozen as the prior event’s food had shown signs of freezer burn and tasted like airline food. The caterers were instructed to use paper tablecloths, plastic silverware, and plastic glasses all of which would be virtually spotless.

The bride’s gown had been purchased sight unseen from a mail-order store, and it was whispered that she would present herself barely clothed and with proud humility. Her engagement ring was a genuine imitation of real counterfeit diamonds.  The groom’s outfit was more likely to be along the lines of designer jeans.

How could this NOT be a winning event, so far from the standard deviation and with this diatribe containing 34 oxymorons!

                                                    ***

Growing Up- Lucille Hamilton

Auntie, as we called her, took me to the local school for

pre-admittance diphtheria shots.  I hadn't a clue what we were up to, so, properly dressed, I was taken through the town to stand at the end of a line made up of kids and their parents.  The line lead up to a card table set before the school's red doors.  A man in a white coat sat at the table, attended by a standing woman, dressed completely in white with an absurd little hat stuck on the top of her head.  There was something fishy and possibly nasty about that pair.  I saw that each child leaving the table was sobbing.  That did it.

When I got to the table, without much as a word, I hauled off and socked the startled doctor, thinking it better to take the offensive rather than wait for some feeble explanation while they jabbed me.  Needless to say, I was sent home, chastened and strapped down by lectures of compliance and threats as to what would happen if I repeated my performance.  I got my shots the next day, hunkered down into silence by the rampant and obvious injustice of it all.  Somehow though, I got the feeling that Auntie was very pleased with me.

Auntie was a tough old bird, someone mother had hired to take care of me.  We all loved her.  She was a Canadian widow of a sea captain with whom she had travelled the world.  When she came to our family, she was well in her seventies - a stout, substantial woman who was blessed with a spirit that could cut to the essential.  My parents' marriage was floundering, and they were soon to separate for the first time. But mother, in her distress and pre-occupation, had found someone so full of love that I - we -  all felt cherished.  I had long braids, something I had ambivalent feelings about as no other girl in the school had them.  Getting me ready in the morning, Auntie would take me on her ample lap to brush my hair and plait it.  We'd sit in the sun by the open window.  She would hold me and tell me seafaring stories of places called England or Greece or Japan.  When it came time to do other things, she made me feel special somehow by taking the hair from the hairbrush, balling it up and putting it on the warm window's ledge.

"The robins will come," she promised, "and they will use your hair to build their nests,"   

Of course I felt special, would you?

Long after, when we had to let her go in the wake of the Depression, mother took me on the two-hour journey by foot, bus, ferry - two of them - and trolly car that it took to get to her one-roomed apartment  on Staten Island.  It was a mistake. I'd become a little snob and saw my old friend now grown old and living in a crowded room.  She smelled old and musty, the way people do who need superheated rooms and don't move about anymore.  The walls and tables were covered with photographs and memories, which I examined, while she offered us tea.  The bathroom was shared and separate, down the hall, and this only served in my child's mind to heighten my sadness for my friend.  I never saw her again.  But she would still send us four children on Valentine's Day - as she had done when she lived with us - her homemade, cinnamon-hot, mouth-tingling, red lollypops formed in the shape of a heart.

                                        ***

Dream - Joan Brady

The dreams of wandering have begun again...

primary colors: blue...red...yellow...

high contrast...neon...fast focus.

Everywhere I see people going somewhere...

directions keep changing...

sometimes we stop...talk...touch...

but...then...we move on...always we move on...

to the next day...and its assessment of the weather

                                 ***

HOT,HOT,HOT ! - Meta Strauss

Cindy Rayburn, adjusted her glasses and fanned herself as she looked at the thermometer mounted outside her back door. “Oh Lord. It’s 90 degrees under the porch and it’s only 6 am. Today’s going be a real scorcher. ‘think it’s going to be too hot for the apartment complex’s party tonight?”

Laura Baumgartner, her roommate, leaned around the corner, already dressed for the day in her nurse’s uniform, the one with the multicolored balloon print. “Our group never says no to a party.”

Grabbing a box of cereal from the pantry Cindy said, “I hope you’re right. Jimmy’s supposed to bring a couple of friends with him. Single men! I always wanna meet single men.”

“Why? They’ll probably be duds like the last guys Jimmy introduced us to. ” She rolled her eyes and pulled her blond hair into a ponytail at the top of her head, stray curls framing her face and neck.

“Well, hope springs eternal, especially when it comes to finding Mr. Right.” Cindy scarfed down her breakfast while she stood at the kitchen counter. “I haven’t dated anyone steady for fourteen months. One week… and three days. But who’s counting? And on top of it all, today I have a huge project to complete for Mr. Bossy Davis.”

“You think you have problems? I’m hoping that UPS guy doesn’t come in today and talk and talk, taking up my time. He’s becoming a nuisance.”

“That’s not a problem, Laura. That’s an opportunity.” 

Laura frowned, “Not a UPS guy! I’m too busy for that. Mothers will be bringing in little kids with sunburns because they let them play outside all day yesterday in this heat. Dr. Patton will be booked solid and I’ll be racing to keep the office in order. I probably won’t feel like socializing tonight.”

“Well, Miss Party Pooper, it’s Friday and I want to have a fun week-end, no matter how hot it is. I say we drink iced coffee all day instead of our usual hot brew and by party time we’ll be ready to go, go, go!” Cindy fanned herself with a magazine.

“There’s lots more to do than party all the time, Cin. Why do you always think you have to have a love interest?” Laura tucked her lunch pack under her arm and scrambled out the door not waiting for an answer. Most days she looked forward to the five-block walk to her office, but today it was so humid she could almost swim. “It’s not that I don’t want to date,” Laura spoke to herself as she walked along. “But, I want a special man. Someone kind, smart, intelligent, ambitious… and, good looking wouldn’t hurt.”

“What did you say?” 

Laura was shocked to hear a voice. She hadn’t realized there was anyone else around. She turned to find the UPS deliveryman beside her. He was pushing a cart filled with boxes.

He chatted as he struggled to keep up with her. “It is a scorcher for sure. Supposed to get over 100 today. That’s why I got an early start. Don’t let these brown shorts fool you. They’re made out of some kind of synthetic fiber and are hot as blazes. UPS wasn’t thinking about this kind of weather when they chose them.”

Laura frowned at the man who kept talking like a TV game show host, never stopping to breathe. “I’ve been your UPS rep for the past 4 months.” 

“I thought I recognized you, brown uniform with UPS written across the pocket and all,” she said with sarcasm. “Thanks for the good service.” She walked away leaving him standing outside her office door.

“My name is Don,” he said to her back. “I’ll see you later?” He watched as the perky, curly headed blond with the big blue eyes rushed away. From the first time he saw her in the pediatric clinic he was interested, but, flirting with customers was frowned on by UPS.

Laura didn’t even turn around. “He’s friendly but I don’t want to get into a conversation with a UPS delivery guy, even if he is gorgeous. I have to stick to my plan for finding the right man. Educated. Ambitious.”

The day was a record breaker, reaching 105º in the afternoon. By the time Cindy and Laura got home from work all they wanted to do was take cold showers.

“You still think the party will happen?” Laura rested on the couch with a rotating fan blowing across her prone body. “I really don’t want to go.”

“You have to go. I talked with Jimmy and he says to bring our suits for a swim. And, he’ll have cold beer. By the way, he says one of the new guys told him he knows you. He thinks you’re hot, hot, hot.” Cindy chuckled.

“Who is that? Why would anyone say I’m ‘hot, hot, hot’?” 

“I sure don’t know, but he says the guy is a real catch. Graduated from Harvard Business School with him. Now he’s working his way through some executive training plan before he becomes a regional manager. Supposed to be a great guy.”

“I can’t imagine who that would be since I don’t know anyone like that. If I did I’d be dating him.” Laura rolled her eyes and tried to think of anyone she knew from her college days that fit the description.

By 9:00 the sun had disappeared and the temp was back down to the mid 80’s. Cindy lead as the two young women made their way through the small crowd that gathered at the complex’s party room.

“Oh, no, Cindy, it’s the stalker. The UPS guy that keeps hitting on me at work. Don’t turn too fast, but he’s the one talking to Jimmy.” Laura moved behind a palm tree beside the pool.

“I see him. Wow. He’s great looking. If you’re not interested, why don’t you introduce me? I’d like him to bother me.” Cindy smiled and waved to Jimmy. “Here they come and don’t you be hateful to that dreamboat.”

“He does look rather movie-starish without those brown shorts.” Laura smiled in spite of herself, as the two men approached.

“Hi there. It’s great to see you.” Don spoke to Laura. “Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we both know Jimmy? He and I were roommates in school.”

Laura just stared, speechless, as she realized this was “the” friend, “the” former roommate. Cindy stepped closer giving Jimmy a quick peck on the cheek. “Hi there. Thanks for throwing the cooling off party. And, Don, Laura mentioned you know her from work.”

                                                 *****

 When the girls returned home late that night they had a long talk. “So, Laura, your UPS guy, the stalker, is Jimmy’s friend and you two looked like you were getting along very well. Jimmy told me he asked you out.”

“Don’s such a nice person and very smart. Just think, I almost lost the chance to date him because I was a snob. What a day it’s been! Big lesson learned! Hot, hot, hot weather. Hot, hot, hotter guy!”

                                                                ***

Global Warming - John Field

               Global Warming

Everything as unreal as real can be.

Wallace Stevens

Last night in the comfort of my sleep

I had that dream again:

It’s cool and bright outside

Like the stage-set for a Technicolor movie

About the love affair I’m having

With the morning.

After breakfast

I’ve got the future in my pocket

As I stroll past hills decked out in daffodils

Which delight my eyes

Each time they flash

Their little trumpet smiles at me.

Now comes the hard part of my dream:

Suddenly and for no good reason at all

A heat wave turns my macadam road

Into a river of asphalt and tar

I’m wading in up to my knees,

So I seek shelter beneath a tree,

Knowing a chair will be there,

Stiff-backed to keep my spine upright

While I listen to the wind

Heave through every dying thing

On earth----after which the landscape’s

Not worth looking at,

Just the piecemeal junk

Of crumbling smokestacks

Belching lethal fumes in the air

Which transform the sky

Into a black hole

Only a death mask could survive.

Reminds me

Big things really matter

Because time is running out.      

            --------------

There are those whom only the dead

Can afford to forgive

Because they believe trees

Belong in museums instead of parks,

Animals in zoos.

Ecology is not one of their physical sciences.

Others exist solely for their self-completion

At drink-time: Hello, just fine, ta ta

And so forth onward to the very end.

Insist the bottom line

Is all that counts----easy math

Because only fools play by the rules of the game.

Condemn environmentalists to death

And leave it up to nature

To carry out their execution.

The rest of us shrug off the odds

And carry on----sign petitions,

Watch children at their play

And pray that when the final bill arrives

Its obscene total

Will be discretely folded over.      

              *** 

In the Shadows - Beverly Koepplin

In the moonlit shadows of my bedroom

my parents dance a perfect waltz,

gliding slowly in and out of the darkness

to the strains of the Tennessee Waltz.

My mother’s hair lies loosely waved on her neck,

her eyes shining with a secret she never shared.

In her best cotton dress and wearing the pearls my father gave her,

she sways silently on her feet, a phantom of grace.

My father holds her in his arms, strong and steady,

as though he will never let her go.

The collar of his white shirt lies stiff against his neck,

his reddened rough farmer’s skin hidden in its creases.

In the moonlight, they waltz on and on.

Between and through the columns of light and dark,

they float and swing and dip as they circle the room.

They never stop smiling, and they never stop dancing.

When at last the music fades and the final notes hang in the air,

my father dances my mother to the door,

where she turns and smiles at me, her red lips curving in joy

a gift of love through time, and then dances away, is gone.

                                     ***

Playing Games - Joan Shepherd

The best thing about the Corner  Store, she thought, was being able to leave messages on one section of the wooden wall. Humidity was high in this beach town which caused the notes on the wall to curl their edges and when a soft breeze crossed over, these curled notes danced like leaves on a tree. Nina was so taken with this image,that she decided to make a painting  of it. That’s when she met Paco, the good looking Hispanic  who operated the Corner Store.

Paco carried a limited supply of a wide variety of stock so folks wouldn’t have to drive in to the center of town to buy acrylic paint or Pernod. He and Nina were immediately attracted to one another and made a handsome couple with his dark hair and swarthy complexion against her freckled face and auburn hair. 

  

Nina couldn’t resist leaving a note for Paco on the wall of the store. ”Turn this note in for a kiss.” He didn’t read all the notes every day, only occasionally to get rid of old ones. Nina didn’t know that, thought they were having fun with this game.She read notes she thought were from Paco. “Hope to see you tonight after the meeting.” and it usually worked out well.

 Nina was thrilled when she saw the note in red ink saying,“I think Im in love with you!” but didn’t mention it when she met Paco later. She was enjoying this affair but had some misgivings about where it would go.

The next day or so, she wrote a note with ball point black ink, 

intentionally. “I’ll cook dinner on Saturday. I’ve been to cooking  school in Sonoma.” 

Paco didn’t mention the dinner when they were together on Wednesday and Nina was hurt. It also increased her misgivings about this relationship. Their sex was great nut did she want to marry a man whose life mainly existed with the Corner Store? He worked long and irregular hours since his father’s death and he made good money, even if they seldom got into the thriving city to spend it. She had enough money to live comfortably with  royalties from two published novels. 

“Paco”, she said coyly, “should we go into the city for dinner tomorrow night? It’s Friday, in case you’ve forgotten, and you need to relax a bit.” She expected him to comment about her dinner on Saturday and having two dinners in a row.

“Oh, Nina, I’m sorry. You deserve to get out too, but I have to 

meet with the union guys early Saturday and have to get up early.”

“OK”, she thought.”He either hasn’t read my note or is hesitant to say no.” 

She checked the colorful notes fluttering on the wall when she left and sure enough, hers was gone. But a new green ink one said more directly, “Nina, dinner is a surprise. And I will surprise you then.” Now she was confused.

She cooked Lasagna Saturday afternoon, fixed garlic bread, bought a good red wine, tossed a salad with home grown tomatoes from her neighbor, and would pick up some dessert from the bakery. A few violets that grew  by the door of the apartment house looked great on the table. She couldn’t wait to see Paco and his surprise for her as she drank a glass of wine to calm herself. Perfect timing as the doorbell rang while she drank the last swallow.

“Paco....oh. I’m sorry...Jeff! ...excuse me..I was expecting...”

Jeff extended a floral bouquet of roses saying, “Thanks for the invitation. I’ve been having such a good time with our notes to one another on the wall of the Corner Store. Its been weeks and I wanted so much to contact you. I was so happy you wanted to get together again. Having this dinner together tonight is just the beginning to renewing our relationship, and this time it will work!”

                                       ***

Stuff Happens - Dave Lewis

I heard an unusual story during a discussion with a friend at work. We had been talking about the occurrence of significant events and whether an unexpected coincidence was possibly caused by some esoteric agent or was just the result of a random statistical possibility. He briefly retold his father's tale of an actual experience.  I was so impressed by the story that we later fleshed out the minute details of when, where, and who.  We agreed that the story wouldn’t be repeated – nor need  be – while any of the primary participants still lived.

The story began when August Oleson, my friend’s father, started his freshman year at a mid-west, state university.  A resident of Oakland, California he was in a university  half way across the country, because he had received a full scholarship.  The scholarship was not one of the common ones for athletes but was for academic performance.  He was selected from several score of applicants proposed by the railroad group that operated the California Zephyr one of the nation’s most modern and famous passenger trains in the 1950s and 1960s.  August’s father, my friend’s grandfather, had been an engineer on the Zephyr,  but died in a collision with a logging truck using an illegal crossing in Colorado. August was just a grade-school kid when his father died and he would only see him two days out of twelve as the train crossed between Oakland and Chicago. The engineers operated on shifts during the 50 hour tours and then had a two day lay-over on each end till the return.

August was moderately surprised during his first term when a professor called roll and called two Olesons, one, first initial “M” and the second, first initial “A”.  August saw the “M” raise a hand, a female hand.    He saw the “M” Oleson acknowledge him with a smile, perhaps because she wasn’t expecting another Oleson either.  Later in the year he learned that the “M” stood for May as she probably discovered the “A” stood for August.

The second semester, August found May was in his physics class. It was rather a rarity in the early 1950s to find females in college physics classes but August found that was her major. She also showed up in Chemistry 101; chemistry was August’s major.  Both courses required a lot of homework, and both courses partnered a laboratory sideline which often required team experiments. During these encounters, August and May discovered that they both had been nominated for their scholarships by the railroad organization that ran the California Zephyr.  There was an eerie feeling when each of these two students thought how these two coincidences had descended on them; perhaps not powerful singularly but somewhat unusual in pairs.  The pondering of the mystery continued through the summer break for each of them.

During their sophomore year, August and May found they were once again class mates; this time in a statistics class. On first introduction one might believe that statistics theory is of interest only to mathematicians. In fact, it is the sharpest tool available to any science that must evaluate data.  May and August evaluated the history of their fathers. Where they knew facts they compared father “A” against father “M”:

Both fathers had been engineers on the California Zephyr.

Both fathers had stayed in one of the origin cities during the two day turnaround: 

May’s father stayed in San Francisco during turn around there.  

August’s father stayed in Chicago when he was not at home in Oakland, CA.

Both fathers had died in a collision in Colorado on the California Zephyr route.

Both fathers were known by the last name Oleson.

Both fathers had a life insurance policy of more than $50,000 face value, payable to the wife and children.

The train that collided with the truck in Colorado had a crew of two engineers who alternated in shifts.  Engineer Oleson was on station during the crash.

The children of both the Oakland and the Chicago Oleson families had been named after a month of the year by their father.  May, from Chicago, also had a younger sister named June.

When May and August calculated the joint probability of all the data events, they established that May and August were probably brother and sister, each expected to have half of their father’s genes. Now, in the 21st century, determining a persons genome is more automated than making donuts but in the mid 20th century the definition of DNA was just beginning.  May wanted proof that she and August had a common father, not giving up on the possibility of multiple coincidences.

The two researchers decided to search their family records. The targets were a photograph of their father and a copy of a marriage certificate for each where the signature of the husband could be compared. They returned from Christmas break, each with a photograph copy and a photostat of the marriage license.

August and May compared the photographs.  They had copies of similar photos,  a small-scale face of Engineer Oleson waving from the cab of the big Diesel locomotive of the California Zephyr.  Though their father died ten years ago, they accepted the photo as the man they remembered.  The marriage certificate comparisons looked like they were signed by the same person although one had used initials instead of full first and middle names and the other did not include a middle name.  They agreed that they must be brother and sister - a positive conclusion for August but a reluctant one for May..

My friend and I both used statistical analysis often in our profession.  We knew that statistics were in routine use compared to the 1960s and many techniques had been extended and refined. The same data August and May had used was applied to modern methods and criteria and it did not result in the bull’s eye conclusion that August assumed.

Now in 2016, an analysis of DNA from blood or saliva could provide a detailed genome analysis for a few hundred dollars. My friend and I split the costs and he carried the ball in convincing his father and his “Aunt” May to provide saliva samples for the tests.  We also used internet searches to learn about the railroad, the details of the Colorado accident, and genealogical data worked up by others from family records, government records, and passenger ship manifests.

The DNA comparisons indicated that August and May shared less than 1% similarity in their genes. They were further than 5th cousins. The genealogy records were completely swamped by the common occurrence of the Oleson last name among Scandinavians. With the variation excluding the “e” and the use of a -son or -sen ending, the window expanded proportionately.  

I was told that August and May each shed some tears as they found at an advanced age that someone they had grown very fond of in their youth had been separated from them by an unfortunate misinterpretation of coincidences.

                           

                 

                                                   ***

Corner Store - Michael James

Well, it was too big to be on a corner; instead it was in the middle of a block, the first main block up hill from the ferry, just after the grocery store. That meant you didn’t have far to walk if you only visited those two, the most important stores in Chemainus. Many of the others, with the exception of the gas station and the ice cream parlor, catered strictly to tourists and my wife and I disdained them, preferring to think of ourselves as “local” because we were building on Thetis Island, a thirty minute boat ride away, and thought of it as our future home.

“Chemainus General Store,” Vancouver Island, lived up to its name by carrying everything a householder/builder could possibly want with the exception of the larger materials like lumber and sacks of cement. It would have needed a big yard to include such items, for which there was simply no room down on the waterfront. But construction tools, hardware, woodworking gems from Germany, England, Japan, U.S.A., exotic blades, fishing equipment, lumberjack gear, mechanic’s needs, septic system necessities, cookware, wood stoves, everything to do with distributing and storing water, electrical components, huge reels of rope of all kinds: wire, dacron, hemp, nylon, were almost randomly spread around the floor and on the walls. A person could miss two ferry departures just gawking at all the stuff.

We rarely took the car over to the “Mainland,” as neighbors called Chemainus and other places nearby, because of the lengthy wait for the ferry; we walked or took the motorcycle if we had to go further than town, because bikes were “first on, first off,” on the ferry system, preceding even pedestrians since they loaded so much faster. We rode right past the long line of cars waiting, and plunked ourselves down in front of the first one, often to the driver’s complaints if he was unaware of our privileges, and eased the bike back between the car and the edge of the ramp, then joined the foot passengers. On board the single-decked little ferry there was also a small special place for us which we would jockey into quickly and put the bike on its stand; of course it was in the bow of the boat, next to the loading ramp.

In late summer the wait in a car for the ferry was miserable because there was no shade. Foot passengers could go into the waiting room and sit down, but there wasn’t enough room for the passengers of the cars and others who came on board late. So there was a good deal of incentive for people to walk, which meant that in summer, parking near the ferry was a big problem for all of the holiday-makers who swelled the population of Thetis and Kuper Islands in July and August, another reason to be on two wheels.

Early one summer I struck up a conversation with a young lady working in the store and she divulged her association with the owner, a Dane, her father, who had started the business when he was young. She was a teacher and this was where she worked during her vacation. We chatted amiably for several summers in succession, exchanging views on educational policy in our respective communities, on the behavior of certain groups of holiday makers, and on certain groups of locals, particularly those who lived on Kuper Island, a reservation. She spoke softly when mentioning  them, and I sensed all was not well between Indians and white locals. I was reminded of the times my wife had been asked by ferry deckhands if she wasn’t going to get off at Kuper, she being able to pass for a native very easily. On those occasions she usually moved closer to me and the questioner moved away.

The daughter of the General Store owner confided in me one summer that her father wanted her to take over the business but she demurred, knowing how much money his patrons owed him. The whole of Kuper Island was in his debt and he saw no way of collecting. A white person can go on Kuper only at the behest of one of the inhabitants, and he sure was not about to receive such an invitation. So year after year the Indians kept charging their purchases and the poor old Dane kept getting thinner and more bowed until he finally had to declare bankruptcy and close the store. It never reopened and we had to go to Duncan to purchase  items required for our homesteading, sad to lose such a superb supplier of our needs.

Eventually we had to give up our island paradise anyway for a number of very persuasive reasons unrelated to corner stores.

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