As the summer begins to settle in, my daily routine is quickly becoming established. Each morning begins with a sleepy walk 20 yards to the director’s office, followed by a quick email and weather check (if the internet is functional). Afterwards it’s to the breakfast line. The weekly rotation covers just about every breakfast imaginable, beginning with oatmeal Sundays, poached eggs on Monday, pancakes on Tuesday, scrambled eggs on Wednesday, French toast on Thursday, Omelets on Friday, and finally baked fresh cinnamon roles on Saturday. Around here oatmeal Sunday’s traditionally includes a scoop of ice cream and some chocolate chips mixed in. On Tuesday I get the “director’s special,” banana pancakes made specifically for me.
Before I began the job, I heard two pieces of advice repeated by numerous individuals. First, I was to stay out of the way of the cook of 15 years, Mary Ellen. She knew what she was doing and all I had to do was get the food and propane to the island. She would take it from there. Secondly, I had to make Darryl, the marina owner, my best friend. I’ve been working hard at both goals and eagerly jump at any opportunity to win their favor.
The other day I received word of one of the dish washing sinks not draining properly. With the aid of my assistant director we twisted a snake down the drain as far as possible. With no success we opened up the grease trap. Anyone who has ever worked in a commercial kitchen will appreciate the dread of such a task. It isn’t a job for those with a weak stomach. After my assistant director scooped out the slimy layer of junk off the top into a 5-gallon bucket I shop vacuumed the rest of the trap dry. In an hour we had the sink functioning once again and more importantly, a happy Mary Ellen.
Later in the week the switch for the walk in freezer light broke. She informed me she was about to call the repairman to get it fixed. Unwilling to pay a repairman for an extra boat ride to the island for such a simple problem, I bought a new switch at the hardware store and decided to do it myself. I flipped off the appropriate circuit breaker and unscrewed all of the wires, making a mental picture of how to reassemble the new one in a functional fashion. My memory failed me as evident by the shower of sparks that flew from the switch after I reconnected the circuit. On the second try I was met with success and an ice-cream treat for a job well done.
One perk of living on an island includes the limited access outsiders have to our property, most important being the health and water inspectors. If they want to check out our facilities they first must call for a boat ride, leaving us plenty of time to prepare. I got my first phone call this past week from the water inspector. He came by with his cooler full of sterilized water bottles. I took him to the wellhead, enclosed by a small shack. I popped open the door as I had been taught to do. Inside was a gas can, both empty and full oil containers, a gallon of bleach, and an assortment of other plastic bottles of unlabeled substances. His head shook with disappointment as he scribbled some notes as he politely recommended we remove those toxins from such proximity to our water supply.
Next we traveled toward the lodge so he could survey our water softener system. I opened the door to the water softener closet only to reveal a 5-gallon bucket of the foulest smelling, vomit-like substance I have ever seen. “What the heck is that,” proclaimed the inspector as he turned away in disgust. It was hard to play dumb when I knew exactly what it was. I quickly realized my assistant found the closest out-of-the-way place to stash the remains from the grease trap. Embarrassed, I removed the bucket and diverted the conversation to the topic of water softening salts.
Not all of my time has been spent on the island. On a couple of occasions I’ve found a small window of opportunity to escape and enjoy some free time. I’ve begun to make friends with one of the local bar owners, Larry. He runs a simple place on the south side of town serving bar food and your choice of three different brews on tap. It’s the unfortunate truth but living on a Native American Reservation Larry knows when payday comes and notices a steady drop in business as the money runs out. Likewise, one of the most prominent businessmen in the area owns the local liquor store.
Alcoholism is at epidemic proportions in some spots up here. Perhaps as a result, crime is also a problem. One dare not leave any valuables in their car and expect to see them again. I’ve been told windows will be broken just to take a survey of what might be in the car.
A person like myself never really notices the wealth in a modest town like Caledonia until you drive through a place like Cass Lake. Most seasonal cabins on the lake are nicer than the year round houses that comprise the town. Up here finishing high school is quite a commendable achievement while in places such as Caledonia, it’s safely assumed to be a minimum standard of achievement. These differences are often expected to exist between other geographic regions, but many don’t recognize the struggles within our own state border.
Larry invited a contingent from our staff to come and play a bar gig next week. On staff we have two banjo players, two guitarist, and two fiddles. What we lack is the time to devote toward practice. As the end of each day roles around, sleep is often the forefront of our mind. Luckily expectations will be low as we take the stage. Larry’s bar isn’t exactly the hotspot for big entertainment in the area. In the meantime, I had better go practice.
Happy Trails,
Greg
