The Apostles' Crusoe

If you look closely, you'll see a man dressed in khakis out front of the middle building in this scene from Robinson Crusoe. I'm kidding, of course. But he's just as alone as Crusoe. Well, more so--Crusoe had Friday. This guy's obligations are few--keep your domicile and its surroundings ship-shape, as they say, and occasionally, when an island ferry cruises past, make yourself visible and be friendly--wave (see his hand?) 

Otherwise, the guy is on his own. There ain't no neighbors, none at'all, and if he gets groceries or other must-haves, those items are lovingly left on the dock, which you can just see on the far right of the picture. No quick trips to town. I'm sure he gabs with the delivery man, but one of the obligations of the job--I doubt it's a paid position--is to stay there, not bounce back and forth like some lost beach ball.

Here's another shot of the Apostle's Crusoe, just a bit pre-wave. 

I witnessed all of this from a ferry taking nosy vacationers out to see the Apostle Islands in Wisconsin's far, far north. I'm ashamed to admit that this real live badger's son had never heard of the Apostle Islands. My parents weren't big vacationers, and this series of incredible outposts lie way up in Lake Superior. You can hardly get farther away from the neighborhood.

We were there last week (if you're wondering about the almost week-long vacation from blogging), and I couldn't help wondering how I might do out there if I took the job, by myself, for a couple of months. Would I go bug-eyed bananas? I don't know. Something about the isolation looked interesting, even compelling. I could blog to my heart's content--if I had something to say. Would I? Don't ask me to do it without wi-fi.

The Crusoe thing reminded me of an old story, however. Goes like this:

Some war vet gets left behind when his army unit evacuates a South Sea Island--let's just say this happens after World War II. Poor guy is all alone. When, fifty years later, an adventurer determines to visit this unmapped jungle island, he's stupefied to walk into an entire village, a small one, but a full collection of houses--and, oddly enough, only one inhabitant.

 

When he finds the islander, the traveler discovers that the man he's talking to is, in fact, all alone, and that, shockingly, he's spent the last fifty years building this entire village, piecemeal. "That's my post office," the islander tells him, pointing up Central Ave, "and that's my laundromat and next to that is my elementary school."

The bedazzled visitor points to a pleasingly designed building at the other end of the block. "And that's your church," he says, getting into the swing of things. The islander nods proudly. "But then, what's that?" the traveler asks, pointing at another fancy building at the far corner.

"Why that's the church I used to go to," the islander says, proudly.

You might just think the islander's name was Vander Poot or Flipsma. Entirely possible, of course. But I first heard the story from a gang of Jewish musicians--I'm not lying--who used the word synagogue, not church.

I don't know how I'd do if I was the khaki man. Two or three months? Wow! I'd like to think I could stay out of church fights, but, even though I'm of one mind, I rarely am. You really think Mr. Khaki never fights with himself. 

Still, you can't help but feel sorry for the poor islander--can you imagine how painful it must have been to realize that, once more, he's got to cut down more trees and carve out another fifty pews? 

I wonder if the Khaki guy argues with the people who bring him toilet paper. I bet not. No man is an island.