A pair of Bald Eagles roost in the top of a tall snag down the beach a ways. Through binoculars the Eagles immense size is impressive. With high piping calls they alert others to their presence. One sits atop the graying snag, the other perches on a lower branch of green fir boughs.

Sunning to warm their bodies in the morning, they preen and ruffle feathers, then return to upright alert. Head spins, searching for prey, and predator. Not above banditry, one swoops over the bay, chasing a fish carrying gull. Ducking and swerving the gull successfully evades its pursuer.

Each morning I walk the half mile up Beach Haven Road to the intersection with Enchanted Forest Road anticipating there might be fresh farm eggs in the roadside stall. It’s not a stall really, more like a mailbox set sideways. The door is a tin hen, painted white and black. Even when the small metal “empty” flag that covers the $3.00 per dozen sign is down, I still always peek inside to see if maybe, just maybe, someone forgot to lift the flag. There’s nothing better than eggs fresh out of the chicken; their golden yokes bigger than silver dollars.

He’s mastered the technique of criticizing me and providing himself with an escape hatch; putting me down in a way that allows him to frame it as an “oh so innocent” remark. If he were only sincere, I might fall, but he’s not and I don’t. Just another form of dishonesty, and self deception. He can’t really like himself when he does it, but he persists, even when I confront him and challenge his ruse.

Nine years ago I was here alone, he was starting his descent into madness. A small insult, the first in a while, I can tolerate.

Faintly I heard the longing of her slowly mounting ecstasy as I walked the dirt drive from my cabin, past theirs, to the office. Undeniably the moans of a woman deep in the throws of sexual climax, emanated from closed windows into the roadside space through which I passed. Involuntarily I felt my clitoris swell and pulse as I clutched the soiled and ragged sheets I carried to my breast. After exchanging them for fresh, clean ones, I returned. Again the moans of coaxing loins filled my being. One hell of a fireworks going on in there, I must say.

Coffee worth waiting for; smooth and velvety, rich in its own right. Scott brews it ‘double handedly’ in his small bistro at the back of Darville’s Book Store. Tucked into a corner with a few chairs and a stereo system, we sip and listen. Through the rain drenched window shorebirds struggle in the blustering wind of Eastsound bay. Inside it is warm and friendly. We talk of music and laugh with this gregarious barista.

Greens, peas, carrots and sauces fill my basket as I shop the Farmer’s Market. Finally, a carefully selected bouquet of flowers, new material for my drawing.

As I sit here gazing out at the still, sunlit bay and wonder what to write about, a procession of three buck deer walk in front of my deck. The first is a yearling just getting its antlers, the second has three points, the third two. Nibbling the brush they amble along, cautious but unhurried. I wonder if they’ll find the carrot tops I tossed into their grazing grounds?

Often we see does with their young in the undergrowth of the expanse between our cabin and the next . And once, a mother with suckling twins browsed here, another unusual sight.

Though a manufactured house, it is nice, with a two car garage, decks, hot tub, sitting on a half acre plot on Enchanted Forest Road. The first day I walked out for eggs I saw the handwritten sign: For Sale, $309,000. I wanted it. Creighton did too. But how could we swing it right now? Within a week I dropped in to introduce myself and Patti showed me around, mentioning she wanted to sell soon to buy another house for sale closer to town.

The next morning she sought me out. She’d received an OK offer - but what about us?

After deliberating, even calling to determine if my family might be interested, Creighton and I decided it was simply not the right timing for us. The rental in Vancouver needs to sell first. I called Patti with our decision, “right place, wrong time” and encouraged Patti to accept an offer that was beneficial to her. Then she told me she’d been to her banker who said we could assume her loan. And, she learned that the house she wanted to buy had been taken off the market. Patti’s no longer in a hurry, and we have time to plan. Serendipity.

Chasing the sun.

The early breeze is chill off the waters, and the sun, filtering through these old growth firs from high in the east, provides scant patches of sunlight on the sea level deck. Even at midday I’m cold in my layers, but want to be outside in the light to complete my color pencil drawing. Doggedly I chase the shifting dapples around the deck, and for just long enough to become entranced in my drawing, sunbeams drench my shoulders.

Then I shiver, notice I’m entirely shaded again, and shift the table to the next small share of warmth.

Four turkey vultures lifted from the undergrowth as I passed, then perched in nearby trees. Unwilling to yield beyond this vantage they watched me; their naked blood red heads in a direct, steady gaze. Their feast, a deer likely struck on the road at night, is down to gristle and bones. Knowing they are carrion eaters, I compliment their skill at gleaning and cleaning, and assure them, “I shan’t be bothering ye again.”

Two days later, four ravens repeat the evasive maneuver. Cocking their heads at me, they nervously prance their branch as I observe, “down to the last scraps.”

The ritual of preparing to leave starts when the song sparrow trills me into consciousness. I linger a while on my pillow, then admire the sunlit ocean through the bedroom window. Bags, boxes, and baskets are set out to pack in the remains from the pantry and our new treasures: pottery bowls, vases and plates, books, CD’s, and Rob Kirby’s coffee and sauces are tucked away safely. The beach rock and driftwood for my garden fill the now empty wine carton. Everything is packed as it’s used for the last time. By 10:00 I can write, draw, and be.

Departure went smoothly as did our drive home. Jacques about wiggled himself in half greeting us and Mattie bounced, punching the air with his front paws as a sign of utter delight. Though I love time on Orcas, I also love being here, so it’s a sweet homecoming. House and grounds are in good order, and an early to bed is essential.

Recently I’ve heard about the trend to turn home and yard into the entertainment/vacation center. Heck, we've been doing that for decades! Now I can sit back and enjoy the fruits of the years of landscape labor.

Up early, I cleaned out the rose gardens in the cool of morning. They’re in sunlight most of the day and can become very uncomfortably hot. All my new gardens are thriving (except the wildflower one) and I am noticing more butterflies, though I haven’t seen any hummingbirds. The other small birds (chickadees, bush tits, and wrens) are nesting in our yard and our next-door neighbor’s too. Whenever I’m around to see them I yell at the crows in a tone like their call to chase them away. I realize crows have a purpose, but they’re also nasty nest raiders.

Two more rooms will get fresh carpet tomorrow, so today Creighton and I moved furniture out of both into the living room. What chaos! Poor dogs just hate it when we do stuff like this. Jacques mopes around with his ears hanging on the floor, eyes looking up at me mournfully. Creatures of habit and pattern, they get upset when their world is topsy-turvy. Well, I don’t like it either, but it’s very temporary - something they don’t understand!

There have been no bites on the house we have for sale. May need to lower the price. This market is brutal.

Two young journeyman started before 8:00, and by 9:30 both rooms were done. Then began the job of hauling furniture back, and reassembling some. After a half hour struggle we managed to put the futon together wrong then had to undo and redo. That prompted a beer break, which mellowed us substantially. This evening both rooms are almost complete. Books are still in baskets in the living room. Creighton wants to cull them out, but I’m tempted just to stuff them back on the shelves! We shall see. I’m totally pooped, and bed will feel like heaven tonight.

We’ve abandoned the idea of buying property on Orcas for now. Our two year plan is almost complete, and the five year plan, including my retiring, is yet to be fully worked out. And, though it would be wonderful to have a place to begin fixing up, we simply aren’t in the position to do that financially, unless we sold our home, something we’re not willing to do yet.

I’m on the deck and dear old Mattie is stretched out on his back beside me. He loves to “expose himself to air” back legs splayed, grinning while snoozing upside down.

The chestnut backed and black capped chickadees appear to be feeding a crop of young. Once in a while I’ll hear what sounds like it may be an insistent chick, pleading from somewhere in the holly tree. Another, similarly plaintive call emanates from the fir tree. When I hear them, both entreaties are from stationary places.

And I observe adults of each variety feast at the suet, then disappear into the dark safety of evergreen bowers. When both pairs are attempting to feed from the same suet at the same time, a ruckus of dive bombing and dominating is inevitable.

Dad is perplexed. Too many things coming on all at once: too much deferred maintenance, too much instability in the stock market, too little help from anywhere. He’s having trouble getting everything done in the space of a day. Very worried about how he can make ready, and when it will be. My offers to help are parried.

Sister says he’s obsessing. Maybe. But he’s a man of 86, living alone in his own home, with an acre of land, gardens, automobiles, boats, motors, assets, and desires. He wants to go fishing. We want to go fishing together. We will.

Our renters have asked to have some time to meet tomorrow. Creighton is obsessing already, and this sends him into a worry frenzy. He’s sure they’ll tell us they’ve found another place to live, and will give us notice. Somehow I think they have other intentions. I know they love living there. I’m hoping it is something more positive, but he’s not in a place to hear anything vaguely contradicting his mind set. So I’ll just hold it in my heart that I think there’s something else brewing and I won’t know until tomorrow whether his gut or mine’s correct.

Dreams. A lithe, lean young man, a sprint runner is attracted to me, an older lady, able to walk, not run, on ruined knees. What, I wonder is it that causes me to awaken from dreams of being pursued by younger men? Because, in fact I am not, and don’t aspire to be. Still, there is often a theme of someone wanting to partner with me. In one I realized I wasn’t married after I’d refused the “right” man. Then when I went to seek him, he was gone, so I began to pursue other men only to be discouraged.

They want to buy the house. We want to work it out. There’s no guarantee; she needs to qualify, we need to negotiate with our broker or wait out the six month obligation. Still, it is exciting to think that two people who love the place are determined to buy it.

One of Jacques’ teeth was on his food dish this morning. His gums have looked bad, and this prompts me to make an appointment to get him in for for tooth cleaning. He’s not the kind of dog to allow one to brush his teeth. Anesthesia will be required.

Occupied with preparing their fishing gear, she didn’t notice the sheriff approaching across the water. Her dad didn’t see him either. Looking up from her tackle task, she was startled to see the official launch as it came abreast their boat.

“My dad’s nearly deaf,” she hailed to the sheriff, “so please ask what you want through me, and we’ll all be able to communicate.”

He was youngish, like her work colleagues; fit, professional, friendly, and matter-of-fact. He asked how old her dad was.

“Eighty-six,” she replied, “and I’ll hazard a guess he’s been fishing since he was in diapers.”

“He built this boat,” she told him. “Every inch of it with his own hands.”

“There must be many wonderful memories here,” the sheriff replied.

Gazing into the varnished marine mahogany, past the now peeling glory of this once pristine work of her father’s art, she swallowed hard. “Oh yes...”

Every time she was in that boat on any water with him, more memories were being made. Today they’d fished four hours and had three kokanee in the box. After pulling ashore for a land break and lunch, they returned to the lake for another three hours with no bites.

Trains ply the mountains at five thousand feet, chugging up the rough terrain. At the crossing their whistles blow long. Moaning low, one reverberates into the dark melancholy of midnight's past, harkening to a century of train travel now lost. Another resonates in confident harmony, a champion of today's engines, announcing another dawn.

Rolling into her covers under the dome of the small nylon tent, she thought about the critters of night, the stars bright above the slender evergreen trees, and drifted gently back to sleep. All her life she’d camped out in wild areas, fearing only sociopathic human beings.

Sitting in the darkness, computer in my lap, sister’s dog Cass wrapped in her burka at my feet, I hear the conversation of sister, her husband, and my dad. They make plans for tomorrow and beyond; morning fishing, apple picking, another trip up the mountain for dad, grandson’s coming soon. Doves mourn above the canopy, as I join my beloved family for campfire closeness.

This coming together almost didn’t happen. Dad, overwhelmed by stock market dips, home demands, and worried about truck, boat and motors wanted to delay. Sister and I couldn’t adjust our schedules, so dad overcame his panic.

She was a sophomore in high school the year her dad raised turkeys. Great bug eating fowl, they were allowed to range freely through the yard and interior grounds of the farm. Curious and unperturbed, they were no threat to, and unruffled by humans.

In the excitement of dating young men, she’d forget the turkey's roosting habits until the moment her date opened the car door to escort her to the front stoop. There under the hulking bird bodies, piles of rotting and fresh manna greeted them. Even so, many a beau would lean in to kiss her good night.

She measured the success of her camping/fishing trip not by the amount of harvest she returned with, but by the hours of pleasure she’d had with her dad and family. This one was especially dear because she knew the number of times left to her to ply the wilderness waters together with her dad at the wheel of his boat were limited. Whether they caught fish became insignificant to her. Being together in this boat, on this day, in this place, engaged in an activity as primal to their collective beings as eating and sleeping, that’s what really mattered.

When shit happens, I prefer to take time before writing about it. As it occurs, I’m too consumed by the hellfire of the moment; the pressure of immediate decisions, fear of disasters (mechanical, physical, financial) to begin to be rational enough to write once I finally reach safe haven. And I don’t even give a shit whether I write my words today or not. They will be written.

This particular saga will come out of me, and here is its beginning. What in hell made it so important for my car to break down on the way home? Serendipity? Karma?

Just short of the exit to Corvallis, as I was driving home from fishing, an unfamiliar light appeared on the dashboard. I puzzled at it, then noticed the temperature gauge was all the way up to HOT. Shit. Continuing on the mile to the exit, I made it to a gas station where a very nice gentleman pushed me into the shade and pronounced the cooling system dead. Triple A towed me to U-Honda, and my family took me in for the night. Fifteen hundred dollars later, the car is running fine, and both it and I are back home.

Awaking to musical interludes on NPR’s Morning Edition, one snippet catches my ear and has me thinking about it all day. It was a solo guitar, somewhat fast, starting out with single notes and ending in a flourish, sounding like the history of music in a demitasse cup. Finally on the computer at the end of my day, I seek it out and find it is Alex de Grassi doing about a 30 second rendition of “Shortnin’ Bread.”

Imagine being paid to listen to the music of the world and select fragments that tie one NPR story to the next.

Another drawing completed; this one of the lovely gladioli that spike to the sky only to fall on their faces under the weight of water in their flamingo orange cups. So many flowers to draw, and not nearly enough time. The asiatic and oriental lilies in the shaded back yard are about 8 feet tall and just now blooming, while those in the sunny front yard are spent. Hydrangeas are fully covered with blue globes, some shading to pink in less acidic soil. These will be my next two specimens to draw and add to my growing collection of notecards.