Sal is second alternate to the postmistress. She was called in today.

The post office is a floating one. Literally. One of only two in Canada. It is a little ‘shed’ on the main government dock and it has no electricity, plumbing, phone or even other staff. You go to work by boat, sit in a little 120 square foot room and sell stamps until the mail-plane arrives. Then you sort the mail and go home. Hours: 11:00 to 5:00, three days a week.

After the school, the post office is the ‘hub’ of the region. It is where one might ‘bump into’ a neighbour. Especially on Wednesdays when the dock shares space with the local market, a short three hour affair where all minor social intercourse is conducted. Major issues are referred to the more formal setting of the bunkhouse.

I was at the computer when my walkie talkie ‘toodled’ for my attention,
“Hi, sweetie, I’m home!” It was Sally. She was out front and I usually go to the front deck to meet her. And so I did. There she was in her little 11 foot whaler slowly heading round the point while thunder and lightning rumbled overhead. “I may just tie this up here so I don’t get soaked!”

She was talking about a log. Seems ol’ Sal had spied a nice ‘floater’ on the way home and, after pounding in a log dog and tying it to her stern, she towed it home for the firewood supply.

“Well, tide is high. Easy to get ér in the lagoon. May as well.”

“We are supposed to be there at 6:00. Plenty of time to tie your log.”

‘Course, as she disappears around the point, the skies open up. It`s a deluge.

So, there you have it. My wife goes to work and brings home a log. Not just the bacon but a whole log to go with it (and gets soaked to the skin in the process). Some people remember to bring home a loaf of bread or a litre of milk. Maybe a pizza or a movie.

Sal brings home logs.

Probably just a matter of time before she brings home a stray seal or dolphin, I guess.