|Good bye, only way off the Island until morning!|
The buildings on sparsely populated Lopez Island are run down but not in an “everyone here has given up on themselves so that airstream with the flakey paint is probably a meth lab” kind of way. It’s more like everyone here has gotten together and artfully created a relaxed look in the same way hipsters put a lot of time and planning into appearing disheveled.
Our destination was a big, white 1914 farm house silhouetted against the woods and surrounded by fields of sun dappled barley where deer lazily grazed. The whole scene was of such unreasonably idyllic proportions that the theme from “The Andy Griffith Show” popped into my head and stayed there.
|They’re right next to my bed.
Watching me while I sleep.
With their eyes.
“Look at that maple baby grand piano in the corner,” I said conversationally, “You don’t see that very much in farm houses, even in Mayberry.”
|Everyone in this picture is dead now.|
I say “tried to text” because the text never got through since cell service was suddenly unavailable.
Wait here. I’ll be right back.