Muskrat

Muskrat. Wikipedia defines this animal as "semi-aquatic rodent." It's just a nice way of saying swamp rat. The muskrat lives throughout the marshes surrounding Elliott's Island. I remember seeing their nests in the marsh, hunters trapping them, the island ladies cooking them and various locals practicing their skinning techniques. The first two I mentioned are self-explanatory. The latter begs some explanation.

One of my most revolting, grossest memories of the island is my Nana stewing a muskrat -- with the head on including the nasty yellow rat teeth -- and then plopping it on a platter for us to eat. Disgusting doesn't quite describe what muskrat smells, looks and tastes like. And no, it doesn't taste like chicken. I guess if I was starving and there was nothing else to eat then maybe I would go for it. In any circumstance other than starvation I would definitely pass on this local delicacy.

I went out in the marsh trapping with my stepfather once. I remember seeing the muskrat nests and maybe some other trappers. I also distinctly remember getting my boot stuck in the marsh. For anyone who has never been in the marsh I will explain it a little. It is beautiful on one hand and very quiet. The sticky mud that can take one down in an instant if not schooled in how and where to walk overshadows the beauty. I flunked at my one outing and I don't think I attempted it again.

Now why were they trapping the muskrat? I don't remember, but my mom says it was for fur and meat. Either option was icky to me then and still is. Apparently Jack (my stepfather) used to trap sometimes and mom has memories of him skinning muskrat in our kitchen. Due to their musk glands (hence the name) they stink terribly. The main use I remember for the muskrat was to practice your skinning speed. Yes, you read that right -- skinning speed.

Why would someone want to skin a muskrat fast? Well, the answer is obvious. To enter and win the muskrat skinning competition in the National Outdoor Show. And get a big trophy. Oh my. Just typing this makes me laugh and brings back so many memories. The Show wasn't held on the island but many of us from there would make the trek to either watch or to partake in the spectacle. I highly recommend checking out the website (www.nationaloutdoorshow.org). For me, imagining the competitions are just as fun as actually seeing them. There are events such as a muskrat race for children, a beauty pageant, bird calling, oyster shucking, trap setting, log sawing and the highlight of the event -- the muskrat skinning competition. There is even a hall-of-fame for skinnin' winners on the website.

What I love the most is how they now call it the International World Muskrat Skinning Competition. The use of international and world in the same sentence brings me way too much joy. Also, usually the only entries into the competition are from Dorchester County and from Cameron Parish, Louisiana. But that's the whole world, right? And typically half of the contestants have been from the Abbott family who resided on Elliott's Island. I can remember many years when the championship would be passed back and forth between father and son. And there were women and children competitions as well. You guessed it, also typically won by Abbotts.

Growing up on the island I rode my bike by the Abbott house all the time and had the privilege of watching muskrat skinning more times than I can count. I also think that one of the Abbotts developed a unique technique of skinning the rat. It was something having to do with making a small cut and then turning it inside out. Disgusting. But nothing beat seeing it on the "big stage" and then reading about it on the front page of the county paper the next day. Yes, front page news. And I love the fact that on the same stage that held a beauty pageant one night was a muskrat skinning competition the very next night. There is a hilarious documentary about this called Muskrat Lovely. Check out that website too (www.muskratlovely.com) for more entertainment.

I can remember going to so many of the National Outdoor Shows. We would walk around and look at the exhibits, eat fried oyster sandwiches on white bread and watch the winner of the Ms. Outdoor Pageant wear a muskrat bikini. Yes, a fur bikini. I don't think they still make the ladies do that. At least I hope they don't.

And guess who was a contestant in the Little Ms. Outdoor Pageant? I didn't win and honestly don't remember anything about it other then wearing a long red dress and when the announcer was asking another cute little contestant what pets she had. My mother very causally leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Don't mention the raccoon." It was illegal to have them as pets of course, which made our pet Friskie, illegal. And you may be wondering if all this reminiscing about muskrats would make me want to go trapping, try the meat again or go to the International World Muskrat Skinning competition? That answer would be a resounding no. The memories and the song Muskrat Love are quite enough.

The Island Road

How much is there really to write about a road? A lot. I was young, so the road appeared to go on for eternity and so do the memories. It was one lane that winded first through the woods south of Vienna, Maryland. Then it dipped even lower and went through the marsh as a single lane road for what seemed like forever.

You never knew what you might come across on the drive. It was like it's own adventure theme park. Maybe there would be people you knew that would flash a peace sign or an index finger wave. Or maybe there would be someone from "away." You might even see some silly birdwatchers dressed in hats and netting that would brave the mosquito infested marsh road for the chance of seeing or hearing something spectacular (like the Elliott's Island Rail - an extremely rare marsh bird that could only be heard at night). There would likely be bald eagles, maybe some interesting road kill and possibly flooded sections with fish or crabs crossing the road. (Apparently one time I fell out of the open car door and got a concussion while watching crabs cross the road.) There could be a marsh fire, the senior citizen bus with the ladies in it, someone fishing in a creek, some trappers or people to see at one of the hunt clubs. The most exciting thing was usually if a car had sunk on the side of the road into the marsh, especially if they were from "away" and Lev had to come and tow them out. Or, maybe one of the teenagers on the island had managed to hit something other than the marsh, which they did with amazing accuracy. There were miles and miles of marsh and yet somehow they would fall asleep just at the point of a pole or power box or something. It was uncanny really how they did that.

The old-timers knew the island road like the back of their hands. They could navigate practically with their eyes closed even when the road was flooded and one had to judge where to put the car based on the tips of the marsh grass or possibly even snow poles put up by the state.  Before the state made the road into two lanes (which was a big controversy because it would bring in people from "away") there were pull-offs that you had to use to let someone pass. Now all of us "from there" knew to only use the pull-offs. But, people from "away" were not so enlightened. In the spring when the marsh was green and the state would trim the sides, it almost looked like grass. These "city folk" would pull onto the "grass" to let another car go by and then the car would sink. It was entertaining for us locals but probably not as much for those that now had to sit in the mosquito infested marsh waiting for someone to go and call Lev (who lived in a compound up the road in the woods) so he could come and charge an arm and a leg to tow them out. Lev's was another entertaining part of the drive. You never knew how many hunters, cars, pieces of broken equipment, etc. would be in his yard. He was such a character.

On the road we would pass Bill's, a dilapidated trailer in the woods just before the marsh. If the road was starting to flood there we knew we were in for an adventure. Occasionally when coming home on the bus he would come out and give Sherwood or Junior, our drivers, a report. Now this flooding was something to take seriously. When it really flooded, especially in the spring, it meant no one came to or left the island. This was always great fun for the kids because we would Ms. school for days sometimes. The phone would ring each day with a report from someone of what the roads were like and if anyone had gotten off the island yet. If need be someone would occasionally take a marsh boat up the road to get any needed supplies and be picked up by Bill or Lev. And who needed the TV news to tell us what was happening when we had the elderly island ladies. They gossiped on the phone constantly. Nothing happened on the island without everyone knowing in minutes. Even word of a strange car (someone from "away") crossing the bridge onto the island would reach the other end of the island within minutes. It was amazing really. One can't underestimate the power of the island ladies (more on them later).

Back to the flooding, as it really was impressive when it happened. And equally as entertaining was after the flood, as it was receding, watching the huge carp fish get stuck on the road. It wasn't so fun once they starting rotting and stinking. But then we would at least get to watch the vultures eating the carp. That was fun. It was a long ride to school so we would take whatever entertainment we could get!

The impressive memory I have about the flooding was one spring the tide was high and we happened to be getting a big rainstorm with heavy winds. The announcement came at the Vienna Elementary School that anyone riding our bus would be dismissed early. This was really exciting, especially for the kids that didn't live on the island but rode our bus. That particular day though was not average by any means.

Our driver, Sherwood, was one of the old-timers who could navigate the road with his eyes closed. He knew it like the back of his hand --- thankfully. But even he got concerned when there was some flooding in the woods. That wasn't supposed to happen. When we got to Bill's trailer all we could see was water. The little marsh bridge by his house was completely flooded. I remember him standing on the flooded steps of his trailer yelling out to Sherwood and them trying to decide if he should even continue and how to navigate through that turn. But Sherwood was stubborn and he wanted to get us home so he went for it.

As we went further it became amazing from a kid's perspective and likely very frightening for Sherwood. We were driving in what looked like Fishing Bay. You couldn't even see the marsh grass. All there was to show the road were the snow poles. Basically Sherwood was driving in a Bay with a bus of kids being guided only by his memory of the road and a few poles. Amazing!

Eventually Sherwood's miraculous navigation skills were no match for Mother Nature. Due to the heavy rains and wind and tide ---a lethal combo --- the engine of the school bus croaked not far from the island bridge. We almost made it. But unfortunately almost doesn't count except for horseshoes and hand grenades (a saying from my childhood). I remember the water being in the stairwell of the bus and if we opened the bus windows and reached down we could actually touched the water. Once we stalled I remember Sherwood communicating on the CB radio trying to figure out what to do. The details are fuzzy. I do remember it feeling like we were on the bus for an eternity and that Sherwood seemed very stressed. He was so stressed that he even asked one of the teenage boys for a cigarette, but for once they didn't have any. (He was always yelling at them for trying to smoke on or near the bus, so this was definitely desperation.) I also remember there being talk on the CB radio at some point of bringing in the National Guard to get us if the tide didn't recede soon. The plan was for the water level to go down enough that Junior could bring out his tractor and tow us in. Eventually this plan worked and Junior was able to tow us to the island. What an adventure. According to the old-timers this was one for the record books.

Friskie

One of the highlights of my childhood was my very unique pet, Friskie. Why was Friskie so unique? He was a raccoon. How and why did we end up with a raccoon? Impulsiveness and compassion I believe.

I was young, so my memories are fuzzy but I will do my best to tell an accurate story. I do know we were on the island road winding through the woods before getting to the marsh. I was in the back seat and my mother and Jack were in front. Suddenly, without warning, Jack yelled for mom to stop the car. He grabbed a towel from the back seat (which I think was there because I got car-sick sometimes) and ran into the middle of the road. He didn't explain what was happening. Next thing we knew he came back to the car holding a very sickly little raccoon. When we looked at the road there was a mother and other baby raccoons that had already crossed. Friskie was the runt and appeared sick so he was being left behind. That is, until Jack rescued him.

Jack appeared to be a tough German hunter/farmer/waterman type. It would seem out of character for him to jump to the rescue of some little wild animal. But, that is just how he is. Compassionate when you least expect it.

The next part is fuzzy for me to remember. Somehow we got him eye medicine and formula and bottle-fed him back to health. He ended up living in our kitchen in a big box that (I assume) Jack built for him. He couldn't roam in the house because he was a wild animal after all and was difficult to catch. He also had this nasty habit of tearing the plaster off of our kitchen wall. So, he lived in his big box in our kitchen with a chain leash so he could move around without "escaping."

He was quite entertaining to watch. I liked to feed him and watch him eat. For those that have never seen a raccoon eat (which is likely most people), it is pretty fascinating. He was very clean. He would dip his hands in water and pick up the food and eat it with his hands. He loved Fruit Loop cereal and scrambled eggs. At least that is what I remember. I worshipped my little Friskie.

The problem was he didn't stay little for long. Pretty soon he was huge and getting tired of being confined to our small kitchen. Now this part I think I have blocked mainly because it was too painful, both physically and emotionally. Somehow I got a few sets of nasty bites from Friskie (still have the scars). This led to him being moved outside to live in our doghouse on a leash. I believe it was mating season and he was just going wild. It was so sad because to me he was part of the family.

Soon after we moved him outside we found the empty leash one day. This meant Friskie was now loose in the wild. He had no skills to live in nature without us. It was also likely that the “trappers” that hunted raccoons would catch him in a trap. I remember being absolutely heart broken. My Friskie was gone.

I will never forget my time with Friskie (partially due to the scars on my arm). Some people have cats, dogs, hamsters, chickens - which we also had - but we had a pet raccoon. This was another interesting twist to life on the island.

(Disclaimer: I don't recommend rescuing baby raccoons from the wild due to risk of exposure to rabies, the fact that it is illegal, etc. But, like usual in my family growing up, we didn't really follow the rules. Luckily Friskie wasn't rabid!)

Bathroom Gratitude

My husband has never understood why I love the bathroom so much. I never tire of hearing the toilet flush or taking twenty-minute showers. It still feels like magic every time hot water flows from that faucet head and covers my body instantly. No work involved --- a miracle really. The shower is where I think, where I relax and reflect. I appreciate it every time. Complete gratitude.

This is not a typical relationship with a shower for someone my age. But if you know me at all or have read any of my island stories, you will know that there was nothing typical about my childhood. On Elliott's Island some of the newer homes or remolded homes had running water and toilets, but many still did not. Our lovely shack (turned into a home by my dear mother) didn't have running water or a bathroom. I do remember my brother's snide answer when people asked if we had running water. He said, "Yeh, we have it. I run and get it."

What did we have? Well, at first apparently we had a "two-holer." I was enlightened today to what that means. It is an outhouse with two seats side-by-side. "Ew gross" as my kiddo said and I tend to agree. Luckily I have no memory of the two-holer. My memories begin with the giant outhouse.

Giant outhouse? Yup. My father and his very tall friend (over 6 foot) Bud, and maybe some others - I don't remember whom, came down to "help out." Help they did. They, accompanied by some alcoholic beverages no doubt, built us a beautiful and sturdy outhouse. There was one catch though. When Bud was designing it he made it to fit him. That meant for children, or anyone less than 6 feet tall; cinder block stairs were needed to reach the seat. I remember being terrified to sit on that giant thing.

Now, imagine being six and having to go out at night in the cold and dark with just a small flashlight and walk down a path towards the woods to reach the outhouse. We could pee in the "pots" in the house -- more on that in a minute -- but no poop. Early memories of this for me include trying to "hold it" and then running to the outhouse while counting. Somehow I convinced myself that if I got there before I got to whatever number I picked that the boogieman wouldn't get me. (I still do this if I am outside and get scared of the dark.) Then I hoped there wouldn't be a snake lying in front and that I wouldn't fall in the toilet. There was an axe next to the outhouse in case there was a snake. But let’s remember, I was 6 and it was dark. Talk about fun memories. It makes me want to go bow to the porcelain throne that is in my bathroom, that wonderful bathroom that is inside and not in the dark scary woods. Again, total gratitude.

Back to the "pots." A few years ago I went to someone's house for a potluck and they had soup on the stove in one of those white pots. I stared at it for a whiles saying, "I didn't know people actually cooked in those." Growing up on the island those pots were for one thing - peeing. In our house we had four rooms only. No place to even put a piss-pot (as they were so appropriately called). So, you might wonder where we put ours in the house? The logical place that was a little bit out of public view of course, the food pantry. Gross. But, that is where it lived and I was grateful for anytime I didn't have to go to the scary, stinky, snakey outhouse. At least I didn't have to dig out the shitter - I vaguely remember David having to do that. Thankfully I was too young which was truly a small miracle.

Public peeing. This has always been an issue for me a little bit. It seems like a private event for the most part, but not to my Nana. Dearest Nana (more on her later as she deserves a whole post or two or three) was a snob in many ways. She was a snob who also had no bathroom and used piss pots and outhouses. But Nana seemed to think peeing was a public event and would do it anywhere at any time. I have very vivid memories of being in my front yard on the island and Nana dropping her pants and peeing for the whole world to see. I think I am still traumatized. Thankfully there is a picture to prove it. She is sitting outside on her front steps, enjoying the fresh air, while sitting on the piss pot. Again, gross. That was just Nana. Take her or leave her cause' she would never change.

All this talk about toileting got me away from the reason for this post - showering and how I developed my love for it. As I mentioned before, there was no bathroom. So, where do you think we bathed? Well, if Fishing Bay wasn't completely infested with jellyfish (I still have a vivid memory of my mom getting her long wavy hair tangled in jellyfish) we went there. That was always fun. I also remember in the summer bathing in a big metal tub in the yard. That was fun too. What about when it wasn't summer? Well, the logical place of course -- the kitchen. That is where we heated the water (after carrying it in from the Swiss Family Robinson style bucket-in-a-tree well) for cooking, kept our drinking water and bathed. We did have a sink (thankfully). I have vague memories of the towel rack next to the sink. I think the routine was to put a towel on the wood floor and fill the sink bucket with warm water and bathe -- sponge bath style. It worked. It had to, as there was no other choice. Well, I guess there was a choice to go without or bathe at friend’s houses. I believe this is what my teenage brothers did. And who can blame them. I have no memory of my parents bathing. I am sure they did. This is an event I either was not privy to or that I have blocked out --- thankfully.

Living on the island was magical for a cute little girl in Elementary School. I didn't realize we were dirt poor or different in any way. It was fun. The older I got the more I could see, or was shown, that maybe we were different and maybe there was a reason my brothers hated it so much and were angry. My memory of this, "we are different," realization is when I invited a classmate to come to my house for a sleepover. Her mother would not let her because we didn't have a bathroom. It was like my magic fairy balloon sprung a leak.

When we left the island and moved to a trailer in the middle of a former cow field (another story for later), we moved in before we even had hot water. There was water, so who cared if it was warm. It ran magically from a faucet. When you peed it magically went away without dumping a piss pot. I had my own bathroom in the trailer, which for me seemed like living in a mansion. Proof that appreciation is all about perspective.

I think it is obvious to all why I (and my mother) will always have complete and total bathroom gratitude. I hope that anyone who reads this (sorry for all of the detail) will have a little more appreciation for one of life's miracles.

Arrival on the Island

When our family arrived on the island I believe I was with my father as I was young, four I think, and the house we were moving to was rough and needing some major work. The terms “house” and “needing work” should be clarified here. The house consisted of two rooms on the bottom, two on top, no insulation, no electricity, no plumbing and no screens in the windows. The only thing I am told it had was a "dead stinkin' fox" (according to Mom), lots of garbage (Mom says it wasn’t trash - it was the beer can mountain), a very leaky roof and vines growing over it. Great-Uncle Reese had died in the house in a fire in the kitchen. He was an electrician not-to-be-bothered to perform his magic and wire his own house. Pictures of the early days include me in a cute little sundress with a sweet pudgy smile, my mother in a sundress with a smile and soot on her face, a blackened kitchen with a Coleman stove in the background, and a older brother with a scowl. The scowl of a teenage boy ripped from the basketball courts of the city and tossed into the great abyss of the island, was one we all would grow to know very well. 

Dick (mom's boyfriend) didn’t last too long, as he did live up to his name. I think my mom wanted company, even as she tried to escape and live off the land.  He wasn’t much help and an added negative mark in his column was throwing my brother out of a moving car. Now in his defense, I guarantee he was provoked. Provocation was David’s specialty. But as we all know, throwing children out of cars (no matter how tempting) is never socially acceptable, even for island standards. Island standards were quite different than average civilization, a different way of living for sure. A step back in time shall we say. Not the end of the earth, but you could see it from there---that truly is not an exaggeration.

The first year (when Dick was there) we didn’t have insulation or proper windows, so it was a bit cold to say the least. Our sole heat source was a woodstove in the living room. All I remember from that winter is everyone huddled around the stove in sleeping bags. The house was four rooms, two on top and two on bottom with a staircase in between. I don’t think we spent much time anywhere but the living room. We were without electricity too. Our only lights were oil lamps. My memories are vague, as I was only 4 or 5, but oil lamps and woodstoves still evoke a deep sense of home and comfort to me.

Over the summer we fixed up the house: new siding, insulation, windows, a roof and electricity. Seems like these items would have been essential prior to moving in, but not to my mom. She had a “vision” clearly. Being the parent of a teenager, now I see why my brother was full of rage. At age 13 my brother was suddenly moved from living in the middle of the city to clearly what must have felt like the end of the earth. Eating dinner from the Coleman stove and camping around the woodstove was fun for a five year old, but not so much for a teenage boy. Plus, he was immediately put to work.

Firewood had to be harvested, cut, stacked and hauled. I was too young for this chore at first. As the years went on I remember going with Jack (Mom’s long time boyfriend and eventually husband) to get wood and standing outside with a dog while he split it. I would help stack. The pile was amazing to me. It seemed to go on forever. It was fascinating to a little girl. I thought I was a great help. Now I know I must have been in the way, but thankfully I didn’t feel that way. It was another adventure for me. For the teenagers and grown ups, it was just a ton of work.

Pokes Road

The images of growing up on Elliott’s Island are many. Putting them into words that describe a magical place that time forgot, is not easy. It was magical, with a side of insanity. Pristine beauty and simplicity, mixed with isolation and extreme poverty. 

Thinking of the Pokes Rd. street sign immediately makes me feel at home. That was the street I grew up on. These are some of the best and sweetest images I have in my life really. The home of Mr. Dick and Ms. Dessa was right next to the road sign. I spent countless hours with Ms. Dessa. I would get off the school bus and go there to eat hot rolls out of the oven, watch soap operas (“the stories”) and knit or crochet. I still have a pink blanket that Ms. Dessa made me many years ago. Ms. Dessa was part of the old timers that were my friends growing up. They were my guardian angels that always knew my location even though I thought I was roaming free. They ranged from age sixty, to a hundred and most of them lived their entire lives on the island. I roamed from house to house from sun up to sun down eating and listening.

Further down Pokes Rd on the right was my house. I would often run from Ms. Dessa’s, past their huge garden, sometimes falling and filling my knees with gravel (I remember that like it was yesterday). In front of my house were huge patches of day lilies. I loved to munch on them. Behind our house was our garden filled with flowers and so many veggies to feed the family.

If I kept running I would pass a few more houses and a wooded area on the right side of the road. At the end of the road was the pot of gold…or more accurately described, Fishing Bay. It was my “own” private beach. When I was little I remember running down the hill to the beach. By the time we moved away when I was a teenager, I had to use a rope to get down the cliff onto the sand. Erosion was a reality on the island. Which makes me really perplexed to think that years after this someone bought the property and knocked down the forest to get a waterfront view. But for me, at that time, the houses, the forest, the descent down to the beach was all part of the journey. Along for the journey was likely a switch (a tree branch) I would swish back and forth to keep the flies and mosquitoes from carrying me away. Mosquitoes really are the unofficial state bird of the eastern shore of Maryland.

It didn’t matter to me if I was eaten alive (which I often was). Playing on the beach kept me busy for hours. I remember being there alone most of the time. In later years I had my friend John, but in the early years it was just me, myself, and I. I would make up stories and games, climb up and down the cliffs and walk on logs fallen in the bay. When trees would fall onto the beach from the cliff side, they would often go out into the water. I would walk on them into Fishing Bay (which felt so very far) and make up stories. It was my own fairyland.

As a mother now, I shutter at the thought of a child unsupervised by the water. I felt alone. But in reality Ms. Dessa and probably half a dozen other ladies knew exactly where I was. The power of the phone tree on the island was very much alive. I couldn’t move very far without being tracked. If mom wanted to find me all she had to do was make a phone call and the ladies would eventually report where I was or get a message to me to come home. I knew to be safe (whatever that meant) and to be home before dark.

Before my friend John moved to the island there were no kids my age.  It was quite entertaining listening to everyone tell their stories at Ms. Nora's store (for hours and hours), but I still yearned for a friend my age. And then John arrived. He was like a dream come true to me. Now I wasn't by myself for walks on the beach, bike rides to the wharf and skating on soda cans on frozen ponds. I had John. We spent hours and hours roaming every inch of the island...at least until he got his driver's license. Then I wasn't cool anymore. That I don't remember really. It is the memories of having a friend to share the magic and the craziness of the island that lights up that time for me.

Being on Elliott's Island was like going back in time. One of my favorite quotes that someone from "away" (i.e. their ancestors are not "from" the island) said about the island was, "It may not be the end of the earth, but you sure can see it from there."

The beginning

Born a coal miner’s daughter.... not exactly. I was born a hippy’s daughter in the early 70’s. Two young adults finding their way through times of experimentation and growth, both desiring to expand, but going about it in different ways. The beginning may have been the same. How cool was it to get high and then stand on your head and do yoga? 

Living in a yogic ashram, the energy at the time was high in every way so I am told. Enticing and frightening in some way to my mother. Addicting, another drug, to my father. I see now that it was experience hunting. For my mother it was the beginning of a lifelong journey. For my father it was a high, not the first and certainly not to be the last. I am not clear on why we left after a year or so. I believe it was so that we (my brother and I) would have options for our spirituality and not have it laid out for us. Truthfully I think my mother was running. It was so right, maybe too right. So away we went. Goodbye to the ashram in Pennsylvania and hello to downtown Wilmington, Delaware. It was quite a shift really. I was two or three during this time so my memories are only stories.

 

The stories in my head are beautiful. I remember pictures of my mom with her hair flowing, playing the harmonium and both of us in our nightgowns chanting. Pictures of me with my prayer bead strung pacifier with my eccentric Nana in the background. My Nana lived with us on the third floor of the big inner-city house. I have vague memories of a large porch. City houses with porches have since occupied a special place in my heart. Most of the stories of this time that fill my head are humorous ones about my Nana. Maybe that is because the marriage between my mother and father was unraveling. He was to continue his role as a hippy living in his reality. My mother was discovering that she couldn’t live with the ashram nor could she live without it. It was too hard to be in the middle. She had to face her fears or run again. She ran. 

 

This time she ran to Elliott’s Island. It was the remote island my ancestors on my Mom’s side were from. Mom wanted to get away from everyone and everything, so running to an island seemed to be the perfect solution. The tagalongs on this move in addition to my brother and I were her jackass boyfriend Dick and sometimes his young son Robin who lived with a major heart condition. We all took up residence in this bizarre remote land in one of the two overgrown shack-like properties our family still owned. 

A former reverend on the island once described it perfectly by saying, "God shook the world and all the loose nuts fell to Elliott's Island.” From an ashram, to a city, to an island in just a few years was quite the roller coaster ride. It is amazing what we humans will do in search of happiness or running from our demons.