Sunday, March 15, 2009
Silent Sunday: The Islander Edition
Of course you know by now I can't help myself and have to say something even on what is supposed to be a Silent Sunday. The funny thing is, in person you have to beat and pry the words out of me. On paper, or computer screen as it were, I don't know when to stop.
This is a picture of some of the "wild" Canada geese leaving my mother's yard going down to the creek. (They're no longer wild if a certain mother--who is not a goose but plays one in real life-- feeds and waters them, then trains the babies to eat from her hand such that they no longer migrate. But I digress.) Beyond the geese is Queens Creek, and all the way in the background with the sun's last rays bouncing off it is the Islander motel, marina and restaurant, which served as my "no adult supervision or any other responsible oversight required" babysitter during the summers of my youth.
OK, so it's no longer a restaurant; I don't think the motel is open to the general public, and the marina just barely survived Hurricane Isabel, but it used to be spectacular. The Chesapeake Bay Sisters spent many, many days here frolicking in the pool, combing the beach, and starving to death while our parents did who knows what but were nowhere to be found. But let me stop beating that dead horse which keeps rearing its ugly head. (Mixed metaphor, anyone?) Nobody was seriously injured except me, when I busted my head wide open running away from the Principal's son, yet we all turned out just fine. (Let's just go with that, for now.)
The Islander is not as close to our house as it appears in this picture; that's the result of a super duper zoom lens, so this is misleading. In reality the creek is a pretty good length. It's a darn sight too long when you're going against the wind and current in a row boat, let me tell you.
There are many, many stories that can be told about this stretch of creek and about the Islander, but since this is Silent Sunday I'll spare you the details.