The man, whom I had never seen before, was leaning on the open tailgate of Bill Stevens’s pickup truck, drinking from the mouth of a beat-up thermos. (Bill Stevens is our road commissioner, among other things, and often recruits muscle from the mainland to fill in where our lack of manpower needed it.) The man was dressed in heavy canvas chaps and a helmet with a full face shield that was now flipped up so that I could see his concerned look as I approached. “Hi,” I said as I stopped rolling down my window.
The man spun the top onto his thermos, glanced up, and said, “Hi.” I’m sure it must have seemed as if I had stopped to ask directions, which is funny considering the reality.
“Nice day for the chain saw.”
“Yep.”
“I’m Linda,” I said with a smile that should have melted the frozen snot on his mustache. He nodded. “Are you working for Bill?” Another nod and a look of nervousness made me think he might have mistaken me for some type of authority—maybe a code enforcement officer or planning board member out on inspection, which is also funny considering the same reality. “I’m heading to the pond to go ice-skating. Have you seen that part of the island?”
“No.” The man flipped his face shield back into place and picked up the saw. Before I could ask where he was from and whether he was planning to leave on the late boat, he had pulled the saw to a growling, unfriendly start, and flexed the trigger in and out in a menacing fashion. I would have bid him farewell and advised him to have a nice day if he hadn’t turned his back to me. Nothing says “I’m ignoring you” quite like the roar of a chain saw.
Most of the residents weren’t much more forthcoming with idle chitchat either, which is what I had always perceived as normal island winter mode, and perhaps why I had fit in so nicely in the past. Now every time I tried to strike up a conversation, I felt as though I were annoying my “target” (for lack of a better word), and usually abandoned such attempts feeling as though I couldn’t approach the same person twice in a week for fear of being accused of harassment. I am certain that some considered me the proverbial fly in the ointment. Not that I was causing trouble. I just wanted to be cheerful and energetic. And those scattered demonstrations of happiness tended to put me on the suspect list. Everyone just seemed so slow, like moving through cold molasses. Most people appeared to be slightly, or in some cases, fully depressed. I knew it was a simple function of winter on the island, but I guess I hadn’t noticed it as much in the past due to my own hibernation. Or maybe it was worse than ever this winter. Many people didn’t venture from the front of a television set, and those who did sort of moped around lamenting their existence. Out-of-work fishermen, who composed most of the heads-of-households group, were not happy campers. Idle hands may be the devil’s workshop, but my observations say the devil should have topped the invitation list.
A natural offshoot of what I was beginning to see as my personal, internal inconsistency of wanting to be alone but not wanting to be alone was the questioning of friendship, and whether I had ever experienced it. Alden, who had always been my best friend, had told me long ago that if I counted my true friends and used all the fingers on one hand to do so, I was a lucky person. Well, let’s see … Alden is one, Simon is two. How would I define “true” friend? If I broaden the definition, I might add an old crew member or two. There were a number of summer people with whom I had become “friends.” But when I recalled that some of them didn’t know my name until it appeared on the New York Times bestseller list, “friend” was a stretch. I was well aware of all the clichés about friendship. I knew that in order to have a friend I had to be a friend. And I knew that “a friend in need is a friend indeed,” and all the similar two-way-street bullshit. With this in mind, I quickly resolved that until now I hadn’t needed a friend. Perhaps “need” was too strong a word for what I was feeling. But I did want a friend, and wasn’t sure how to go about it.
I was battling the winter blues, too. But I refused to give in to them. I had been as down as anyone while dealing with my stranded float, which by the way did eventually drift off the ledge and in the right direction. Not as buoyant were my fellow islanders’ spirits. The float and herring gear were now secured to another summer person’s mooring, though Dave Hiltz had assured me, “It will never stay there.” I understood this negativity as a twinge of island winter funk, and prayed that Dave was wrong. It was rumored that most of the year-round residents had been prescribed some form of antidepressant or another. If this was true, they should think about getting some better drugs, because these sure weren’t working. After the school’s Christmas program, I figured that the entire population was stuck in the Gordon Bok song “The Hills of Isle au Haut.” That song is sung at every island function without fail. Everyone knows the lyrics, but the only verse that has any volume when sung by the community is the one about winter: “Now the winters drive you crazy, / And the fishing’s hard and slow, You’re a damned fool if you stay, But there’s no better place to go.” It’s our unofficial theme song, and it’s sung with gusto. And if you sing this winter part with some conviction, which it seems everyone does, you have no chance of being anything but depressed. We all hold dear the understanding that we are crazy, life sucks in the winter, and we are paralyzed to do anything about it because there isn’t any better option. Within that scenario, gloom is inevitable.
I set myself apart from those with paralysis in that I had made a conscious decision to remain on island this winter. I had chosen this. I could leave at any time. The only thing holding me back from escaping to some sunny place was my personal resolution to remain here and suffer, martyrlike, with the rest of the islanders, and perhaps a bit of anticipated guilt should I actually accept Simon’s offer to go away on a golf junket. I purposefully left my house and work obligations every day, looking for something—I’m not quite sure what. It wasn’t until early March that I discovered the bright spot on Isle au Haut.
…
I was a little bummed out to wake to six inches of fresh snow. There would be no skating today. But making lemonade with life-dealt lemons was easy once I remembered that I had retrieved my cross-country skis (among other things that had accumulated during the course of our relationship) from Simon’s place the last time I left Vermont. It was early, and I assumed the plow driver hadn’t made his route yet. In fact, every storm so far this winter, the driver had been somewhat frustrated by dead batteries, a bad starter, blown hydraulic hoses, et cetera. So I felt pretty safe skiing right off my front steps and planning to circumnavigate the island by road on my skis. It was a gorgeous morning, bright and crisp. I’d start on the main road to the south, I thought. My place is the last of the year-round homes going in that direction, so I would not encounter any tire tracks—just pristine, virgin snow. As I passed the drive that leads to the lighthouse, I felt a twinge of nostalgia. My family once owned the light keeper’s house. I had many fond memories of spending summers in a bedroom where the walls reflected a dull, red flash of light every five seconds. But there had been a lot of snow under the skis and water under the keel since then, and I had finally forgiven the older generation of Greenlaws and had gotten over the childish grudge I’d held for so long following the sale of the family property. Could it really have been more than twenty years ago? I wondered.
Before I had broken a sweat, I was coasting down the slight hill and around the bend after the trailhead that led to Seal Trap. Moore’s Harbor was absolutely glistening. The sun was just peeking over the trees that cast long shadows on vanilla frosted ledges. The old house and barn stood erect with perfect posture that lent credibility to the granite foundations and construction methods of an era long gone. In my mind’s eye I could see Carol Bergeson squatting in her garden and her husband, Lloyd, puttering with the hand pump on top of their well. I wondered how they were wintering in their off-island Massachusetts home. They were getting quite old. They always took time to visit whenever I happened upon them, I remembered. Things were different in summer. The c
limate was warmer on many levels. Everyone was more sociable. I coasted to a stop and took in the stunning vista while I tried to recite Robert Frost’s “A Time to Talk.” Frustrated that I couldn’t bring it back from the depths, I continued on my way vowing to look it up when I got home.
I startled a large snowshoe hare out of hiding at the end of Anne Davidson’s road. Its white fur was as fluffy as the snow it skittered over. I love rabbit tracks in their perfect triangular pattern. You can speculate on some tracks: Are they coyote or dog or some large cat? But nothing looks like rabbit tracks. The rabbit ducked under a low-hanging branch heavy with snow that clung to the needles and threatened to slide at any disturbance. If Greg and Diana hadn’t gone to Arizona for the winter, there would certainly have been a beagle chasing that bunny, and a gunshot would soon follow, I thought. The only sound here now was that of my skis swishing over and through the powder and an occasional scrape on a rock. I was soon deep in Acadia National Park, which makes up nearly half of the island’s acreage. Of course the park was officially closed this time of year. The two rangers were unemployed until spring. The campground was empty, the trails were all untraveled as evident from the unbroken blanket of snow at each sign marking entrances, and the float and ramp in Duck Harbor had been removed from the dock and towed to Stonington, where they were stored in the otherwise empty parking area of the Isle au Haut Boat Company.
It was easy to fall into a daydream of having the entire island to myself and imagining all kinds of grand adventures I might have if I were to be snowbound here for weeks … Whether at sea or ashore, I always have daydreams that include foraging for food and having to really fend for survival. Even as a kid, building forts or rafts and using slingshots or makeshift harpoons, I imagined myself as a castaway or a lone stranded survivor of some disaster. It’s a quirky but fun tomboyish exercise I have never outgrown. Today’s mind flex involved an avalanche. I’d have to build a snow cave, I figured. It would be easy to break branches from spruce trees for shelter, too. As I passed Duck Harbor, I thought about mussels and clams and how I might start a fire without matches or a lighter. I could eat the clams raw. I could easily spear a deer if my survival depended on it. The island is overrun with white-tailed deer, some so tame they’ll eat right out of your hand. By the time I had reached Head Harbor, I had grown bored with the Robinson Crusoe game, and was feeling slightly weary from the exercise.
I was just over halfway around the island when I came to the snowbank in the middle of the road where the plow had stopped and turned to go back toward town. So the truck had started this morning, I thought. Too bad for me, as that meant I couldn’t continue my circumnavigation. The only two options now were to continue around on foot, carrying my skis, or turn and go back the way from which I had come. Cross-country skiing gear was not the subject of Nancy Sinatra’s song “These Boots Were Made for Walking.” I turned and started back toward home—the long way. Now the day wasn’t as beautiful. I started feeling guilty about the time I was spending not working. By the time I had made it back to Moore’s Harbor, I was upset with myself for embarking on the circumnavigation I was unable to complete. I really needed to get on a schedule to meet a writing deadline. And that schedule would not allow for this amount of time playing. I was huffing and puffing as I ascended the last hill before my driveway. I looked up to see Kate Shaffer, my closest neighbor (only in proximity) headed toward me.
I didn’t know Kate or her husband, Steve, well enough to like or dislike them but I knew a little about them, and as usual was leaping to a few conclusions. I knew that they had very recently started a chocolate-making company in their tiny home. Black Dinah Chocolatiers was named for the small mountain behind their place. I thought I recalled hearing that Kate was originally from California, but couldn’t say for sure. She and Steve had been on Isle au Haut for a few years, coming at first to work as a chef at the Keeper’s House, which at the time was the only B and B on the island. Kate had a reputation as a fabulous cook. When the inn closed, the couple had scrambled to find a way to make a living and remain here, which they now considered home. California and chocolate making were both foreign to me. So I had imagined I had little in common with my neighbors. They could have been aliens as far as I knew. In spite of my craving for some verbal human contact, I planned a courteous nod of acknowledgment and hurried to pass as we grew near.
“Linda! Hi! Isn’t this the most gorgeous day? I am so glad to see someone else out enjoying it!” Kate stopped, spread her arms to both sides as if embracing the western hemisphere, tilted her head toward the sun, and closed her eyes. It was as if she were meditating, which was what I would expect from a Californian. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I remained silently staring at this woman who had a natural beauty, almost an aura about her. Then she suddenly snapped out of her trance and looked me in the eye. “How’s the writing coming?” she asked with some genuine concern. I had grown accustomed to people asking and then not listening. As if they felt it an obligation to inquire—like asking about someone’s health when they look fine and not wanting to hear if they aren’t. Now Kate raised her eyebrows in expectation of an answer.
“Slow. I am having the hardest time keeping a schedule. I thought I would crank the chapters out—there’s so little distraction here this winter. I think I’m going stir crazy.” I smiled now at my first public admission that life was not all hunky-dory.
“Oh dear. It must be awful. I’d be going nuts too if it weren’t for Steve. And Al and Kathie. And Lisa. And Alison. And Jeff and Judi.” Kate might have mentioned a few other names. I’m sure she didn’t mean this as a hint that I needed to make some friends. But the point was well taken. Why didn’t I have any friends? I had fishing buddies. I had Bill Clark and Hiltzie. I had my cousin, Dianne. I wondered if a cousin was automatically a friend. “We finally have a minute to catch our breath after the Valentine’s Day chocolate rush. I just got a note from Mariah asking for summer work. Can you believe the kids will be out of school in a couple months? You should come over sometime.”
This was the first almost invitation I had received to do anything since the summer crowd had left. I wondered if Kate was just being polite. She appeared to be getting ready to launch back into her walk. I couldn’t let her get away. It might be days before anyone else spoke to me. “Why don’t you and Steve come to my house tonight? I don’t know what I have to serve for dinner, but I must have something. And I have wine.”
“Oh, we’d love to. But we have other plans. Let’s get together sometime soon!” Kate left with a real spring in her step. I trudged the length of my driveway astonished that she and Steve had “plans.” And that, I presumed, would be the extent of my social life for what remained of the winter. And I had no one to blame for that but myself. I had so successfully kept people at arm’s length that if my neighbors didn’t include me in their scant social calendars, it was out of respect for my privacy and work schedule. How could they know that the “Do Not Disturb” sign had been replaced by a welcome mat? I had assumed that the island’s differentness in the winter was simply because it was winter. But was it the weather that made it so? Was it the lack of summer people? Or, now that Kate had mentioned the high school kids, I wondered if it was the younger generation that binds the community. In the absence of Mariah, three classmates who had graduated with her, and one the year before, only three children remained to hold down desks from kindergarten to eighth grade. And two of them were brothers, slimming family involvement in school activities to a deuce. Did the changing of seasons, the warming of weather and budding of spring, and the return of our five boarding students transform my home into a place I liked better? Or was it just my perception that had changed?
I was surprised and pleased, though, when Kate followed up on our conversation with a dinner invitation just a few days later. And just that simply, our friendship was born, a three-way bond between the married couple and me. We began spending time in the evenings either at my place or theirs, dri
nking a bit of wine, maybe stretching into dinner, and always sharing our hopes, dreams, and schemes. We discussed their plans to open a café at their house. The café would be a summer business, and as most of the chocolate-buying holidays were in the winter, the café would extend their profitable months. The café would be a great and much needed addition to the island! It was exciting to listen, and in fact contribute, to the couple’s innovative ideas. Kate and Steve were very supportive of my work and hopes for the future, too. They offered encouragement when I felt less than productive. Their support of my work was so different from my family’s favorable reception to everything. Family support can’t be trusted as it is totally biased! The three of us fell into a fast and easy friendship that felt older than it was. In spite of my earlier, ill-conceived notions, I was happy to have finally added two fingers to my true friend count.
The dismal tail end of winter lingered as spring threatened and teased with a frustrating game of hide-and-seek. My newfound rapport with the neighbors opened my eyes in a way that made me vow to never spend an entire winter alone like that again. I didn’t know at the time how true to that vow I would be, or why. With the greening of spring, winter was soon forgotten. Prior to the arrival of summer folks and return of high school kids came weekend visits to the island by my sister Bif. She, as usual, accused me of living in a bubble. Naturally gregarious and liked by everyone, Bif has always been someone to whom people talk. She has a knack for charm. Her first night on the island in months, she sat at my dinner table and filled me in on all I had missed during the winter, not a stone’s throw from my front door.
Lifesaving Lessons Page 5