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morning’s exertion. She grinned with satisfaction, felt the tingling in her hands, and left the shed happily aware that her afternoon would be filled with discovery.

    Later that night China opened her journal and forced her aching fingers to record her tired thoughts.

    July 20/96
    My hand is so tired I can barely grip the pen. Had a great day of carving my new idea out of a beautiful piece of driftwood I found. I’m going to call my new series “Drifting Faces.” I had a bad night missing Tina and Jane. Missing Sam. But I’m proud that I managed to have a good, productive day.
    Grimshaw Island is so beautiful, but very isolated. It feels like I’ve moved to another planet. Can we build a life here? We know too much for such a small town. True acceptance may take years. They're waiting to see if we'll fit in or leave, feeling too strange without our city boundaries.
    We've been apart now for two weeks and we are aching from distance. I'm used to being alone and must be alone to survive, to work, but for him, being alone is not a good way to be. He can be absorbed, oblivious, even as I talk to him, but still, he wants me there. He listens with half an ear as I chatter, lecture, question, probe, philosophize.

    I plan A
    plan B
    plan C
    He nods quietly,
    seeming to agree,
    when all the while
    he's thinking...
    plan Z.

    However, I'll persevere. It's not in my nature to give up easily. No doubt some of my words of wisdom sink in to avert total disaster. This boat will weather any storm. I'll organize and think ahead. He'll steer an erratic course and use brute strength and stubbornness to overcome. And love...lots and lots of love and laughter. And when we are becalmed, the winds of fate asleep, we'll curl and cocoon and dream together, secure on a mutual sea.

    ~ ~

Recipes For Life

    The doorbell rang and China opened the door to find Sam’s cousin, Bear, and his current flame, Marisa, standing in the rain. Bear was aptly named. He was huge and shaggy and usually affable. According to Sam, Marisa was in her mid-thirties and had once been very pretty, but the ravages of alcohol made her look almost twice her age.
    “Hi,” said Marisa. “Do you want to go mushroom picking?”

    Although Marisa was often drunk and disorderly, she seemed sober this morning. China hesitated. Sam had told her that Bear could be trusted, now that he had taken the pledge and fervently attended twice-weekly AA meetings, but she found Marisa’s hard gaze rather unfriendly.
    “We need a lift,” said Bear shyly. “My car won’t go.”

    China quickly decided that it was time to mingle with the locals. A bit of adventure was just what she needed to distract her from her lonely self, so she quickly gathered her rain gear and they climbed into the car. In mushroom picking season the Grimshaw Indians could make about three hundred dollars a day. The ride was exceedingly bumpy and China wished that Sam had bought a pickup truck instead of a low-slung, albeit roomy, 1978 Cadillac. She always felt strange when driving the huge car as she could barely see over the wheel. Sam said it was a real “Rez” car and he’d already had several offers from envious Grimshaws. One guy wanted the steel engine for his boat when the body was rusted away to nothing. It looked like he’d have to wait a long time.
    When they finally arrived at their destination, deep in the forest, it was not only raining, it was pouring, and China hadn’t yet invested in long rubber boots. In fact her Toronto wardrobe was entirely useless on this swampy island. Her rubber ankle boots were full of water after fifteen minutes. She tried mightily to step daintily over and around bog but there was more bog then over or around, and she soon submitted to wet feet with good sport resignation. She had to give up wearing her hood because she couldn’t see anything and the chanterelle mushrooms had more experience at hiding then China had at finding. Unfortunately soaking wet hair was