I have some thoughts about doing a children's book with pictures about Mark Island (maybe told
from the standpoint of the mother otter that took up residence and gave birth under the dining
room), and an idea which I put in motion today regarding limited tours of the island (ie - Stuart
Workman and his 50 foot Seal Watch and Nature Cruise boat - might be a good promotion for my
But, I will leave that for tommorrow. Time to make dinner, take a stroll down to the ways and kick
back. Lots I want to do tommorrow. I am so fortunate! (Notice, I did not use the word 'lucky').
Lily at  kitchen
Below is one of several  plans I cooked up to put a light back in the tower. The light had been silent
since 1934, when the lighthouse was de-commissioned by the U.S. Govt and  the island sold into
private hands; the light replaced by a bell buoy off the southern tip of Mark Island. I could use an
orange light only, to signify that it was a privately maintained light and not a Coast Guard sanctioned
guide to mariners.
It made me feel so very good to do this. And, while the miniature Fresnel lenses, car top flashing
orange light and 12 volt battery I used threw light only for a limited distance, it was powerful enough
to be seen two miles away by the townspeople of Winter Harbor. And that was really only what I cared
about. A signal to them that this once proud woman marking the entrance to Winter Harbor was once
again alive and being cared for..
Flashing orange 12 volt car top light from auto supply
store inserted to protrude upward from hole in wood base.
Six miniature "Fresnel" lenses (of the same type used in
lighthouses around the world in conjunction with prisms and
mirrors to amplify and throw light, from the equivalent of a 15 watt
light bulb, up to 20 miles) inserted into slots on a wood base.
in line fuse
on-off toggle switch
12 volt battery
                                                                   THRS  9 - 12 - 96

The days fly by here. It's 4:30 pm and I've just concluded a half hour of reading "Westward Bound in
the Schooner Yankee", while lying on the couch in the music room. I'm sitting at the kitchen table
and listening to an east wind whistle on the Schoodic side of the house. It is very overcast and raw.
There is some weather coming. We've had an east wind all day, and even when it blows fairly hard,
say 20 knots (approx 24 mph), neither the entrance to Winter Harbor nor the Middle Ground (water
between Mark and Turtle) get really rough because both are in the lee of land - Winter Harbor in the
lee of Schoodic Peninsula, and the Middle Ground in the lee of Mark and Ned- with the wind out of
the east. But, that is uncommon, as the prevailing wind here is out of the southwest.

What shall I have for dinner? I am good tired; tired but a good tired feeling. Pasta? I think I am
pastaed out. Chipped beef sounds good, but no chipped beef (or bread - save two rolls). It's chilly.
That cold east wind all day, being outdoors. Temperature in the kitchen is 59-60 F. Not cold. Don't
want to light the old kerosene space heater because then I'll be cold when I move out of the
kitchen. Does that make sense? No!
Kitchen table
(where I sat and
made most of my
diary entries over
the years).
My favorite space is the sun room
(top left).  I dragged out  the
reading of
" A Life Without
a biography of
Ernest Hemmimgway,  for almost
three years, reading a few pages
every day, while lying on the day
bed there a few minutes every
afternoon, alternateing between
words on the page and dozing off
as the sun streamed in from the
west. But, the kitchen is a very
close second favorite. Photos here
of the kitchen and  trawler lamp,
lighted every nite, hanging between
sunroom and kitchen. The old wood
cook stove, which put me back to
the 1850's. And, yes, the 5:00 am
breakfast feast as the sun came up.
Two sunny side with ham, toast and
 parsley sprigs.... from the garden
next to the outhouse! Oh my,
doesn't get any better
"The rain is raining all around,
  It falls on field and tree.
It rains on the umbrellas here,
  And on the ships at sea."
   Robert Louis Stevenson,
 A Child's Garden of Verses