Spring Song may well have hung in my Nana’s home. At some point I stumbled on a print and brought it home. Rumor has it that the little girl is Glücklich’s blind daughter and that the the child has her eyes closed in the original painting.

A robin sings from a bare birch branch cast in muted light with only a muddy hint of spring. The girl is wearing a brocade jumper laced in green, sitting on a bench, her face turned towards the bird.

In Spring Song, I see the spirit of my Nana and am filled with gratitude for her and for my happy childhood days at her house. As I drift off to sleep at night, I look at the little girl and see myself as the pampered little girl. I feel the spirit of my childhood as it connects with Nana’s childhood, she as much the little girl as I am and the two of us connected in a sense, to all the little girls of the world.

Bob took a photo of a Blue Heron as we were canoeing down the Myakka river in the early ’90s, and later painted it in watercolor. It is one of his best early works, definitive proof that he does have artistic talent despite what he heard as a child from the adults in his life.

There are several ghosts in this one. There’s the spirit of my mother’s intrepid cousin Beverly, and of Bob and I at that heady moment, pivoting to leave Colorado, madly in love and ready to eat the world. And there’s the tug south, that yearning for the tropics, a spirit which will never die.

How cold it was in Colorado the day we left for Sarasota—15°F below—and the car wouldn’t start so we called a tow truck or a cab. How fresh the thick Florida air from Beverly’s screened porch, teeming with spring, no ice or snow in sight, only alligators slipping from the shallow beaches where they’d been soaking in the sun.

Beach Birthday, by Bob January, 2022 depicts the Topsail beach Bob chose for celebrating his birthday. It highlights a moment in which Bob is sitting on the veranda gazing out at the waves and at his wife lying in the sun after a swim.

The spirit of this picture is my love, Bob, the barefoot boy who speaks Twi and identifies with the fish. The man who transported me to four different tropical islands to live in heated splendor. This is us at our best, relaxed, with salt water licking at our ankles.

Tall Boy’s portrait of Little Corn Island’s cliffs has of course, captured his spirit, his quiet presence, towering and just. And by extension, his wife Maribel and our months there in Nicuargua, our Thursday snorkels, the ruined coke boat, the beans and rice, the pistols, the coconut palms, and the dogs.

The etching of Seabiscuit holds the spirit of my cousins Frank and Mark, and our childhood together in the neighborhood they shared with our Nana. It invokes memories of summers on the lawn, of playing pick-up-sticks on the dining room table after Sunday dinner, and of the Stone Church Fair where my little cousins bought this print with me in mind because they knew how much I loved horses.

Seabiscuit summons those sublime and safe years, all the magnificent food, the strawberries and cream beneath the shade of the big oak, the chocolate chip cookies, tetrazzini, poppy seed bread, potato leek soup, and English muffins drowning in butter. Here are the night crickets, our skinny beds beneath the looming screens, the dogs chasing through the leaves to the top of the hill, and the drone of a lone motorcycle near midnight.

Here are the roses and the tomatoes, the chives, the living room dancing with light from the prisms, the jade plant on its own table, the porcelain swan, wings arched over a keepsake bowl on the cutout shelves between Nana’s green chair with its matching dial phone and the dining room table where stories were told and olives placed on fingers.

This photograph of Jesse in his green halter—the halter Julie brought me the day I brought him home as a two-year-old—tied with the end of a lead rope for riding, conjures Jesse’s spirit. He is turning to look back, ears focused on something about to happen, coat shining with summer, his eye as deep as a well. Here I see the spirit of Bob and I galloping across the fields, eyes stinging from the wind, in a gait so smooth we could have passed a glass of wine between us. I see pride, solace, joy, and freedom.

We called him the wonder horse, the best there ever was, and god bless Julie for giving him the greatest gift, a fine home after we decided to leave the country for Belize. Julie welcomed him, pampered him, and gave him a beautiful, long life. Jesse was my first horse—a childhood dream realized in my thirties. I trained him myself and he was the envy of my friends. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me. If I told him to step off a bridge, he might have done it. And he saved my life at least once.

On September 11, I logged into Facebook and found myself scrolling past a minefield of 9/11-themed posts. I bristled each time I saw “never forget,” that war cry without an exit plan. I hated that this national tragedy had come to be an excuse for revenge, and was frightened by how nationalism has hijacked patriotism.

I imagine you could fashion a rosary of human tragedies and pray to each and every one: white for hissing holocaust gas, gangrene green for Civil War, red for World War II kamikaze headbands, and black for the smoke pouring off the World Trade Centers.

~*~

My aunt could see the Manhattan death plumes from New Jersey that day in 2001. She stared out her window through the trees, pacing, and taking short sips of air. She thought about her sons at work in the city, willing her beige wall phone to ring, longing to hear, “Mom? We’re both okay.”

She paced with a legion of other families while mayhem reigned at ground zero: rescue teams beyond exhaustion, stunned survivors, agitated newscasters. So many choking on the news, unable to swallow, only the dead at rest.

Bob’s co-worker at the Kaho’olawe Island Reserve Commission called before dawn; her voice pitched half an octave high. “Turn on your TV!” I climbed out of bed and was walking the floor in our little stick house, eyes squinting. What? Of course, we didn’t have a television. We had shed the TV on our way to Belize five years earlier.

We packed a light bag and drove down the volcano, hoping the inter-island puddle jumpers planned on flying anyway so that Bob could attend a native plant conference on Molokai. I brought my fencing tool, thinking that if we found ourselves in an end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it scenario, I might want to cut through some barbed wire.

“Even if we had a TV,” Bob said, “I don’t think I would have turned it on.” I agreed. Neither of us cared to have another catastrophe etched into our retinas. We already had unshakable images of the exploding Challenger and John F. Kennedy’s last moments.

The airports, all the airports, were closed and the skies were blessedly silent for days. Not even the volcano tour helicopters broke the calm. My father told me later on the phone, “I held my breath for a couple of days, hoping they’d do the right thing.”

A sense of peace becalmed the Pacific, petty squabbles abandoned, stranded tourists embraced. We felt lucky to be alive, all of us grieving for the people digging through the rubble 4,900 miles east. For two days, the entire nation was grounded and unified.

And then the skies roared back to life.

A year later Congress gave the president authorization to use military force against Iraq and within five months peace was destroyed by the ink of an angry pen. Our disappointment was so profound that we quit our jobs and moved to a tiny island off the coast of Nicaragua, a place without an airstrip, roads, motorized vehicles, or even a proper dock. We met the big cargo ship at the reef when it arrived with diesel fuel, and watched the crew pitch 55-gallon drums overboard for us to lash to our boat. I remember hearing the drone of a propeller plane only once and rushing out from under the coconut palms to stare.

We lived in Nicaragua just long enough to notice a cultural shift upon re-entry. The first time a grocery store clerk said, “Have a safe day,” instead of “Have a great day,” I thought I’d misheard. The second time I chuckled, wondering, Safe from what? I began rolling my eyes at every well-meaning, “Be safe!” “Stay safe!” “Drive safe!” and “Safe travels!” I wasn’t a fan of this new fear-based vocabulary.

Then I started seeing “Never Forget” bumper stickers. More salt in the wound. For all of us who had fervently hoped for peace, “Never forget,” sounded exactly like, “Never forgive.” I began to lose heart. The United States had hijacked an unforgettable tragedy and was using it as an excuse to perpetuate death and destruction.

Had my cousins died that day, I would mourn them as I grieved for all the other lives. And I would resent, even more, the overlay of nationalism and military might that seeks to blur our grief into hate and revenge. What could have been a pulling together became an excuse to kill. Two thousand nine hundred ninety-six souls sacrificed so we could take more lives. Their heartbeats immortalized in the beat of our war drums.

The first time one of the dogs got outside the fence, we tossed her back in. The other five turned on her as if she were any other intruder. We were shocked. Occasionally all six of them would escape and become a snarling mass of teeth and flying fur. The rest of the time they were backyard pets, goofy and polite.

Their hierarchy was completely territorial, the lone pack member instantly turned outsider by a few millimeters of fence. The humans were equally insular, separated from the mainland by miles of water, and therefore connected to everyone on this little island. At one point we had a problem with someone who was interfering with our staff and wanted to ban him from the grounds. But the lodge owner stayed our hand with, “You can’t write anyone off on an island.”

Another thing about this island; although there were no elected officials, everyone knew where to bring their troubles. We took our problems to a handful of elders who could be counted on to shoulder the burdens of dispute. Every social ripple ended up at their doors.

It’s easy to see how people sort themselves into groups on an island. You are either on the island or not, resident or visitor. Within the group of residents are levels of belonging based on time. On Maui we were often asked, “How many years have you lived on the island?” “One,” earned a sniff, “Two,” a nod, and “Four,” the hint of a smile.

Likewise, down here at the bend we hesitate to write anyone off, there are a handful of elders, and concentric circles of belonging. Tami and Lyle are the center of our community for all three reasons. They’ve been here the longest, actually sold many of us our homes, and never shrink from the difficult work of keeping peace. Radiating outwards are those who have lived here and been actively involved in the community for fifteen years or longer, then ten, then five. Populating the outer circles are renters, interns, and future homeowners.

But, unlike dogs inside a fence, or islanders strapped to a rock in the sea, our community members are far more mobile. Regardless of what I want to think about my connection to my neighbors, the truth is I am often outside the fence. I hop in the car and join other tribes for a time, then come back home and try to get back inside the fence.

It’s a challenge to behave in a tribal manner despite our jet-setting lifestyles. No way did our tribal ancestors move freely in and out of other tribes, yet we often find ourselves in communities dozens or hundreds of miles from home. We are constantly reconnecting. Despite our mobility, we do our best to mimic the bond we imagine tribal members had with one another. I have to say, we’re doing a pretty good job.

‘Read Part II: The Almighty We – Expectations

I: How does it feel to be leaving Nicaragua after living and working on a remote island community for 7 months?

MYSELF: I have an odd mixture of feelings at this moment, as I sit in the Managua airport waiting to board a flight to the United States. Mostly, I am savoring a rich collection of memories from my experience here. I am also cultivating resolve to make good use of the lessons I have learned going forward. And of course, I am feeling sadness to be leaving a beautiful place and trepidation over the prospect of an unknown future in what I fear may seem like an over-corporatized and soulless world.

I: Will you share some of your memories?

MYSELF: Sure – I saw many fleeting glimpses into the psyche of the human condition through my association with our co-workers. I’ll pick two, but first I need to say something about “Pura Vida.” The term “Pura Vida” was used often and it means, literally, Pure Life as in the Good Life or life without all the bullshit. “Pura Vida” is life lived close to the beauty of nature with family, good friends and lots of time to appreciate it all. While “Pura Vida” was an ideal, getting there was often an ordeal.

My first story concerns a hard working and cheerful woman who worked with us 6 days a week doing a little bit of everything. One day I noticed her smile was strained and found out that she was suffering from pain in her ear. Over the next couple of days, the full story came out and I was amazed that she had been able to function in any capacity, much less come to work every day and then return home to care for her household. (continued below in “More…”)

Sadly, the “More” section vanished when our web hoster accidentally began deleting our Trouts Farm site.

We took our good friend, Pamela, up on her generous invitation to stay at her home in Alaska and moved on. We are going to take advantage of the peace and quiet over the coming month, using it to plan the next phase of our adventure together.

Nearly every day, I have been taking Kimo for a walk. We generally get as far as the breadfruit trees. Now that they are beginning to bear fruit, I have been bringing breadfruit back with me to fry up as chips.

The first time I put the leash on Kimo, she panicked. She refused to follow me and finally just lay down. During the past three weeks, we have been building mutal trust and respect. It amazed me at first how like a horse she was in her reactions to new stimulus. Each walk produces more progress and breadfuit. I can now walk her through neighborhoods with other dogs and past really scary things like the power plant and herds of goats.

But this little (500 pound) bull was a bit too much for Kimo. She strained at the leash in an attempt to put more distance between herself and the bull. I was literally stuck in the middle. When the animal got within 6 feet, I made my choice and lobbed the breadfuit at its forehead. It landed square with a “Boink” and he made a U-turn and gamboled off.

Trouble came to the island along with the storm and soon everybody was stirred up. During the next few days, so many people arrived that the entire culture of the island was changed. No one was able to sleep through the night. Even after the furious winds subsided, the mood remained vicious.

On Saturday, the frenzy reached its peak in the early afternoon. After that, lots of people left and the next day, finally, all was calm again. The sea was crystal and aqua, sparkling and inviting us to play.

Bob and I celebrated by going snorkeling in the warm water to look at the wreck of a large steel boat just off our beach. As we swam out, the fish schooled languidly in and out of the coral while the sunlight filtered through the top of the water onto the sand below in hypnotic patterns.

The wreck itself was more formidable than we had imagined. It consisted of large slabs of rusted metal, mute testament to the kind of storm we witnessed last week. We stood on the deck in defiance of our fears.

As we swam away from the submerged disaster, we felt as if we were leaving the anxieties from the past week behind us. Three very large tarpon circled us in curiosity. Tiny neon colored yellow-tailed damselfish glowed florescent in and among the coral below. All was well with the world as we allowed the gentle surf to push us towards shore.

We are routinely mesmerized by the tiny crazy ants, stung by the black fire ants and alarmed by the size of the nocturnal carpenter ants. We are forced to throw away sugar, spray poison and flee in pain, slapping at our legs, from the vicinity of stinging ants.

“Crazy ants” are close to microscopic in size and whirl in so many directions that they confound their observers. I often don’t realize there were ants on the object in my hand until I feel a little tickle halfway up my arm. They are remarkably quick to retreat. When I see them in the sink, I only have to turn the water on to make them all disappear.

The “crazy ants” are unpredictable. At times they run along the edge of the counter, avoiding the towel, and at others they avoid the counter and travel solely across the towel. I picked up my toothbrush only once to find it covered in ants. Why they chose that day to enjoy the leftovers there, I cannot say.

The other day I was clearing breakfast dishes from a table at the lodge and stopped, plates in hand to look at a perfect row of tiny ants drinking from the edge of a water spill. They looked like zebras lined up at a water hole.

Outside our outhouse door is a new row of ant lion lairs, which fascinate me. I wonder how long it will be before I see a successful capture and wonder if I will be able to watch.

There are so many ants at Casa Iguana that I feel it is only a matter of time before they carry off one of the iguanas or perhaps one of the dogs.

During our year in Belize we woke one night to a torrent of Army Ants marching through the house in search of prey. We were forced to abandon the bed and the house. Tucking our pillows under our arms and picking up the cat, who was clearly in big trouble, we fled down the hill and slept in one of the cabañas. The next morning we returned to find the empty carcasses of scorpions and lizards that had been flushed out, consumed and abandoned by the marching ants.

“If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.” – Edward O Wilson

We have a school, a doctor, and a pharmacy. If someone needs hospital care, they take the panga to Big Corn and then a small plane to Bluefields. When we are in need of law enforcement, the local businessmen ask for some police officers.

In response to several incidents, the police have been making their presence known on the island. They have begun making rounds and routinely show up at the Casa Iguana gate for cold Cokes and ice water.

Now, this is the part I love: when the police arrest someone, they put them on a boat and take them off the island. How cool is that? And if those people return, they get hauled off again! In fact, one person in particular has been removed at least three times since the beginning of the year.

In addition to removing some of the human trash, a beach clean up was organized and completed today. Thirty island citizens swept the beach, picking up plastic and raking seaweed for as far as we could see from Casa Iguana. They removed the plastic garbage first, burying it in holes every 40 feet or so. They then raked all the seaweed into a long berm at the water’s edge. This effort was conducted with the help of Mr. Winnie and Mr. Rory, two of the islands main businessmen.

HOORAY!

It must come from wholesale art clearinghouses, which specialize in non-specific, un-obtrusive and inexpensive art. And what about the artists? When an artist creates something worthy of reproduction in the hundreds, it must be like a recording artist getting an album contract. The folks who create hotel art must be making pretty good money. I wonder if they have to wear sunglasses when they go out for dinner?

And what about the buyers? Someone with a designer background must be responsible for procuring hotel art. It must be quite challenging to find just the right images to dress the walls of say, 500 rooms. It seems to me you would go looking for art you liked in the appropriate color schemes and then order 500 sets.

My point is (and there is no easy way to say this) given that paid professionals put a fair amount of thought into what should go on hotel walls, why is so much of it bad?

We have seen a fair amount of hotel art and the majority of it fell into the range between “forgettable” and “downright disturbing”. It surprises us that something that requires so much planning and forethought turns out the way it does so often. What am I missing, here?