Island Life

In the last two years — if you do not count our time in Manhattan — we have spent about a month on islands. One in New York, the other in Vermont; one in the middle of the St. Lawrence River, the other in the middle of Lake Champlain; one with the feel of a country club, the other more homey with farms and a year long community.

Wellesley Island, NY is the former and Grand Isle, Vermont the latter. Carrie Rose brought us to both and friends helped us to leave. Next year we are determined to remain on the mainland. We’ll see…

On islands, everyone seems to know (or at least seems to think they should know) something about everyone else on the island. I am not sure this is true but with only three weeks of experience, I am not qualified to this opinion. I take that back, I am qualified to an opinion, just not one based on any certainty.

Another thing I have noticed is that we sleep longer on an island. Charlotte and I try to wait until 9:30PM before crawling into the focsule, and in the morning, I have to talk myself into staying in bed past 6:30AM. It is dark and mostly quiet in the island’s marinas. Except, beginning on Friday the regulars start to show up and percolate until Sunday afternoon, when their energy exhausted and they flee until the next weekend.

The marina becomes ours for the week. Charlotte paints and I write. We look forward to a glass of wine and the simple dinners I habitually cook. Projects are imagined and occasionally completed. We take walks, ride our bikes, do a little shopping and sightseeing, and then one day head home. It is bittersweet time.

Carrie Rose, clean with everything in its proper place does not seem herself. It is as if she is telling us to go home and take care of the garden, see some family and friends, and restart city life. Leave her — in good hands, we trust — to rest for the winter. As we step off for the last time we can hear her say, “Don’t forget me”. To which we answer, “We’ll be back in June and get you on the water too another island or maybe not.”