Cranberry Island

Sonja's dad is not as good on his feet as he once was. We went for a drive around Cranberry Island with him on the weekend. He drove real slow so as not to miss any of the slow action or agricultural sights. As we approached a group hiking around the island he remarked, "Look at the walkers." I guess that is what he calls me too, a walker, like a Martian without a space ship.

Sonja's dad likes Indian women. Really likes them. There is a Reserve on the island so he was like a boy with his first hard-on in a porn store. "Look at that one Beer. She looks just like Buffy St. Marie back in the '60s. Too bad I can't still get it up or I'd ask her out for a few beer back on the mainland."

There is no pub on Cranberry Island. At one time a pub could have made money in the summer when the tourists come to rubberneck the Indians and the farm animals. Too many people have switched to the dope for a pub to make any money as laid back as this place - unless the publican was selling bags of Cranberry Island Green Gold on the side.

From the island we could see a few of the sawmills that have not yet been torn down. Sawmills are festering scars on a riverbank. I can see why some folks cheer when a new closure is announced. Used to be the river was a busy place even on a lazy February Sunday afternoon. The only action we saw on the river was the ferry making its monotonous back and forths.

Sonja got impatient with her dad's slow driving. "Are you going to drive this slow around the whole island?" "What's the hurry?" he asked as he reached into his cooler and pulled us all out another beer.