bring the nuns back
A group of nuns used to be in charge of the ferry terminal here on Shaw Island but not anymore and let’s face it: A mooring rope dangling from the transfer ramp is just a plain old rope without a nun reaching down to pick it up and holding it in her hands with authority and conviction until that decisive moment when the ferry sways gently into the terminal with a muffled, rubbery thud. And are you thinking what I’m thinking? I wouldn’t trust that rope with a three-legged French Bulldog on the other end.
In case you were wondering, most of my pictures on the ferry from the sun deck and looking down ranged between 70 and 120 mm. I’d never really used that range on the boat before and it was fun getting some new perspectives-in-isolation at the terminals. I didn’t experiment nearly as much as I’d hoped: On the way to Orcas, it was mostly drab and gloomy. Then, on the way home I got preoccupied identifying as many seals as possible.
The little turn-of-the-century house I reminisced about a couple days ago: Officially kaput. On our way down to the school bus yesterday, Adam and I constructed various theories proposing simply run-of-the-mill excavation was being performed (work on the water main or gas-line?) and a tear-down wasn’t in the works, after all. Our Pollyannaish optimism hinged primarily on the lack of apparent recycling or salvage activity- all the doors and windows remained intact on the place. Yet, it was hard to feel good considering the Brontosaurus-sized excavator sitting so rudely upon the tiny front yard. And sure enough, yesterday in the afternoon the burning hell was smashed out of the little house accompanied by that telltale odor of old, bad stuff.
The excavator was back on the job this morning, piling debris into the dumpster and so I ran up the hill before the next splintered pile came spilling out of the excavator’s bucket, so as to minimize my exposure to whatever asbestos and lead-laden toxic stew was floating through the air like pollen. I had to laugh at the diminutive garden hose sprinkling water into the pile of hundred-year-old rubble, what a joke but that’s the state of affairs in booming Seattle.