Rain-speckled buttercups brighten this Earth Day in the San Juan Islands.

IT’S JUST THE SPIDERS AND ME in Wee Nooke, my 36-square-foot writing hut atop our rocky knoll, on this 50th anniversary of Earth Day.

Too wet for my usual editorial assistant, Galley Cat, who usually drops in every 10 minutes for a kitty treat when I’m working up here. Our little ginger feline sometimes perches on the desk next to my laptop, just being companionable, between forays to hunt mice or harass the local garter-snake population.

Persistent rain patters on the cedar-shake roof today. I’ve turned off the tunes I often listen to while writing; this rooftop percussion is music enough. It’s soothing and delightful, accented by soggy birdsong from nearby trees and a buzzing whir from a passing hummingbird, perhaps amped up on the sweet scents of wildflowers and organic compounds unleashed as the raindrops hit the earth.

The gray sky has lowered and everything outside my window drips greenly. I’ve cranked up the electric radiator under my desk. With toasty feet and a cup of hot tea, does life get better?

The rain is a gift. Seattle was on track for its driest April on record, with less than one-tenth of an inch of precipitation as of Monday.

Our San Juan Islands, in the Olympic rain shadow, almost certainly collected less, and it was showing. The forest duff was starting to crunch like corn flakes underfoot. The cozy mantle of moss upholstering our rocks and ramparts was taking on a yellow tinge usually reserved for the arid days of summer.

A wildflower called sea blush adds color to the rocks and moss outside my writing hut.

Today, the moss is like a lush and spongy carpet, greening up with every hour. Other beneficiaries include the Western buttercups (Ranunculus occidentalis) that add cheer at my hut’s front step, along with a purple-pink flower called sea blush (Plectritis congesta), aptly named because it can grow so thickly as to add a warm splash of color to an entire meadow or shoreline.

After an awakening five decades ago, the cause of preserving the planet has taken many hits under the other Washington’s current regime. But let’s hold out hope for the power of renewal, just as the rain renews our woods and meadows.

To mark Earth Day, my little piece of this planet is having a long, luxuriant shower. So, I’m setting aside all worries. A blissful cleansing is something to celebrate.

With Easter the fairy slippers have come to Center Island. The fairy slipper, or calypso orchid, is a tiny ornament on the forest floor, easily missed if you don’t know to look for it. The gnat atop this orchid shows its size.

Ranger Rick at the Hunter Bay dock: All spiffed up with no place (much) to go.

IF YOU’RE NOT A GEARHEAD, this might not be the blog post for you.

But one of the challenges of this “island pioneer” life (tongue only lightly in cheek) is maintaining motor vehicles so that we have mobility when we leave our island.

The modest Cantwell fleet includes a Honda sedan, for trips to Seattle and the mainland, kept in a private lot at Skyline Marina in Anacortes, and our “island car,” a 15-year-old Ford pickup we call Ranger Rick. It’s parked adjacent to the Hunter Bay county dock, three miles away on Lopez Island.

The biggest challenge is maintaining the pickup, which hasn’t returned to the mainland in two years. Jiffy Lube, Midas Muffler and Les Schwab haven’t arrived on Lopez yet (and I’m fine with that). There are a couple of homespun auto-repair shops around the island, but getting the truck there and leaving it would require bicycling back to Hunter Bay (which is doable, I just haven’t found the need yet).

With the return of dry and warmer weather, it was time for me to change Ranger Rick’s oil — and that ambition quickly expanded.

The truck had driven just 2,000 miles since the last oil change. (There just isn’t that far to go on Lopez.) It had been more than two years, longer than most experts recommend with such light driving, but the previous oil change was with a top-quality synthetic motor oil, so I hope it was OK.

One boon is that the Lopez marine chandlery, Islands Marine Center, also has a NAPA auto parts counter, so I had a good source for quality motor oil and other supplies, including a pair of jack stands I purchased so I could do the project safely.

Another challenge for us Outer Islanders (as we’re called in the San Juans) was where to stage the project. I decided I could park Ranger Rick at the far edge of the county dock’s parking strip, away from other vehicles and out of anybody’s way. I’d be extra careful about spills but would spread a big tarp, just in case.

While I was at it, I looked at a “needed repairs” list from the truck’s last trip to a Seattle auto-repair shop. One suggested item I hadn’t sprung for at the time was replacing the fuel filter. I’ve changed automotive oil many times, but had only changed fuel filters on boats. After watching a few YouTube DIY videos (you can find anything on the Internet) I added this to my project list.

I also really wanted to give the truck a good scrub. Lopez has no car wash. I’ve wiped the truck down now and then, but after two years without a proper wash it was (quite literally) getting mossy around the edges.

Other jobs I hoped to accomplish in one marathon day if all went well: replace some turn-signal lights; spray Rust-Oleum paint on a rusting black metal bumper, and apply color restorer to faded and streaked vinyl trim.

OK, I realize all this is likely too much information about my auto-repair ambitions, but it drives home a point: When you live on a remote island, simple things get complicated.

A big challenge was ensuring that I had all the supplies and tools I might need. It reminded me of Old West pioneers on wagon trains who had to have everything with them when they left Missouri. If I forgot the right wrench, it would mean a 6-mile round-trip boat ride and a 1 1/2 mile round-trip hike to our cabin to get it.

So I spent half a day organizing my supplies in advance. The cartful I loaded in to the boat included a tool chest, two 5-gallon jugs of water, a bucket with sponges and brushes, a tarp, five quarts of oil, and a boxful of other parts and materials.

Yesterday was Ranger Rick Project Day. Barbara packed me a lunch. It was a pristine spring morning with calm waters as I sped across Lopez Sound in WeLike, our runabout, to get an 8:30 a.m. start. I guess I was breaking the stay-at-home order, but I was on my own all day. It gave me another day of meticulous, intensive work to keep my mind off the worries of the world.

I checked off every project on my list and was home by 5, feeling every bit the manly man and savoring a sense of accomplishment.

A hot shower never felt so good. A cold beer never tasted so good. No wonder the Old West pioneers were so happy when they got to Dodge.

Ranger Rick stops on the way across Lopez Island, in the San Juans, as a roadside sign spreads good cheer.

EVEN A SHOPPING TRIP in times of plague can be warm and fuzzy on Lopez Island. And we kind of like that.

Yesterday we needed groceries, and it was time to take trash and recycling to the Lopez Dump, both “essential activities” allowing us to break the governor’s stay-at-home order.

We packed up our Purell, face masks and nitrile gloves and made a prison break from Alcatraz, er, I mean Center Island. We buzzed across Lopez Sound in the boat and hopped in Ranger Rick, the old Ford pickup we keep at the Hunter Bay Public Dock.

And as we drove toward Lopez Village, we started noticing hand-printed signs along the roads. They bore upbeat little messages, as if an out-of-work motivational speaker just couldn’t bear to sit home with nothing else to do.

We quickly realized it was just the lovable lefties of Lopez, boosting morale in this time of stress and challenge.  Here’s a photo essay:

At the dump’s drive-up window, the cheerful face-masked cashier accepted our payment with a long-handled net. Sadly, the “Take It or Leave It” warehouse, our favorite spot to browse through other folks’ discarded-but-still-useful treasures, is closed until further notice. All the good old stuff has been emptied out. Too potentially germy.

Barbara, whose immune system isn’t what it once was, read a book in the truck while I did shopping. Our first stop was Blossom, the natural foods store. During the virus emergency, they’re taking orders online only. I had filled out our order and paid by credit card a few days earlier. Staff met me at the door with our pre-bagged order of Barn Owl Bakery bread, vegan butter and Field Roast vegan frankfurters.

Next stop: Holly B’s Bakery, which is open limited hours, with the cash register stand  blocking the front entry. From a respectful 6 feet I asked for two cinnamon rolls, telling the friendly clerk, “Nothing will ever get so bad that you shouldn’t stop for Holly B’s cinnamon rolls!” “I hope not!” she laughed.

At the Lopez supermarket, about half of patrons wore face masks (like me) or bandannas over their faces. Barbara gave me a long list. They were out of regular flour, so I bought the expensive organic flour (better for us anyway). They had packs of poor-quality toilet paper, with no price posted and a limit of one package. Sometimes you take what you can get. We don’t want to hoard, but this is one item you don’t want to end up without.

We usually spend $25 or $30 at the Lopez supermarket every couple weeks, just to fill in our cupboards between major monthly shopping at Costco and Fred Meyer on the mainland, where prices and selection are much better. This time I filled a big cart, to the tune of $203. And I was glad they were open for business.

Our long day ended when we got home to Center Island and I spent an hour outside with a spray bottle of bleach water, wiping every can and box, and packing other items into a sealed bin to “age” until safer. I took all fresh produce out of plastic bags and sprayed it with the garden hose.

All this stuff is stressful. But we’re staying safe and sound so far. Hoping you are, too.

As they say on Lopez: Positive vibes!

HELPFUL TIPS

Time to go shopping? We found help in these links on how not to bring home the germs and how to clean up your groceries.

I WAS SADDENED to read that musician Bill Withers died this week — apparently of heart failure, at age 81, not COVID-19. His melodic and humble “Lean on Me” is my all-time favorite R&B tune. Always lifted my spirits in rough times.

These days, on our isolated island with about 20 residents, we’re all looking out for each other. Whenever a neighbor goes off-island for groceries or supplies, we ask around to see if anyone needs anything, and a sack of groceries might just get left on the doorstep. We’re keeping our distance, but depending on each other.

Listen to his beautiful old song. Considering the need right now for everyone to make sure friends and loved ones are weathering the storm, even if we can only check in by email or Skype, this Bill Withers classic could be an anthem for today.

You just call on me brother, when you need a hand
We all need somebody to lean on.
I just might have a problem that you’ll understand
We all need somebody to lean on.

WHO DOESN’T NEED SOMETHING to chortle about right now? There’s plenty of dark humor emerging in the coronavirus universe, but this is one of the funniest bits I’ve seen.

For the record, I am putting on pants every day.

So far.

A well-fed harbor seal belly-balances atop a rock in San Juan Channel.

‘OH, THAT CAN’T BE COMFORTABLE.’

Those were my wife, Barbara’s, words as we looked out from our recent picnic spot at Lopez Island’s Shark Reef Sanctuary.

Just offshore in San Juan Channel, a blimp-shaped harbor seal perched precariously atop a nearly submerged rock. This long-whiskered clown of the Salish Sea seemed happy to soak up some sun while somehow managing to maintain its balance.

But no, it didn’t look comfortable.

We’re very lucky in these trying COVID-19 times that we can get out occasionally and enjoy nature on a sunny day without putting ourselves or others at risk. When we had to make a necessary run to the Lopez Island supermarket recently, we took along sandwiches and made a side trip to our favorite all-but-deserted nature park.

Barbara looks out on San Juan Channel from our favorite picnic perch at Lopez Island’s Shark Reef Sanctuary.

The governor’s lockdown order exempts the occasional walk or other outdoor exercise so long as one maintains proper social distance. We encountered only two other hikers on the easy trail through gnarled old firs, chest-high salal, blooming salmonberry and Oregon grape. It was easy to step aside and maintain six feet of leeway as others passed. Privately enjoying an outdoor sandwich with my sweetie during an intermission in our hike seemed like a fair extension of the governor’s intentions.

To sit on sun-warmed rocks, look across to Cattle Point Lighthouse and gaze down on rocky islets crowded with seals was a welcome and healthful alternative to binge-watching Netflix.

Staying home and staying safe is important right now. But nature’s beauty offers balm for the soul if you can find your own private picnic spot.

With leaves still ablush from winter’s cold, spring flowers start to bloom on a sprig of Oregon grape in Shark Reef Sanctuary.

Putting finishing touches on our new composter. It could probably land on Mars. But at least it will help turn our banana peels and apple cores into rich black soil.

I CAN’T SAY I EVER truly “got” all the philosophical nuances of Robert Pirsig’s “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” when I was 20. The book, which Philosophy Now cites as the best-selling philosophy book of all time, was required reading in my first course of study at The Evergreen State College in 1976. Getting through the 500+-page book then was like swallowing 100 hamburgers. There were tasty bits — a pickle slice here, a smear of mustard there — but what a struggle.

Now, in this age of quarantine and pandemic, it has oddly come back to me.

I first thought about the book recently as I took apart WeLike’s outboard motor and carefully pieced it back together with fresh grease and carefully torqued bolts. It came to mind again as I spent this past week measuring and cutting lumber, drilling, sanding and following plans to build a new compost bin that at times seemed to rival a Mars lander in its intricacy of design.

And I realized that this time of angst and isolation is perfect for losing one’s self in a project of great detail and challenge, akin to Pirsig’s peace of mind found in comprehending the mechanical workings of his old motorcycle on a road trip from Minnesota to California. While his cycling companions relied on professional mechanics to make repairs when their new bikes developed problems, Pirsig’s character listened to his machine’s every purr and hiccup, and got out his own tool kit when it was time to smooth out his ride.

For me, keeping our new Evinrude buzzing happily through regular upkeep was a goal well met. Building the new bin was more a necessity, to replace an elderly cedar-slatted box that we’d come to call our “Leaning Tower of Compost.”

Understand, when you live on a remote island with no public services such as trash pickup, composting isn’t just something you do after waking up one morning and resolving to be more organic. It’s a necessity, unless you want to end up with a back porch buried in Hefty Lawn and Leaf Bags bulging with greasy black banana peels and rotting apple cores.

I got plans for the composter from an old Rodale guide to composting, checked out from the Lopez Island Library (which I love because they still have those lined “Date Due” stickers inside the front cover of every book, and they let you stamp the date yourself when you go through the check-out).

The Rodale plans included a complete list of needed lumber, nails, screws and hardware, which I picked up last weekend after bravely venturing to virus-ridden Seattle to visit our daughter.

With the parts assembled and the plans to study, I thought it would be a doddle. I went to work on the Nuthatch Cabin’s deck. Happily we had a week of sunshine, because it took all week to complete.

The Rodale folks are usually reliable when it comes to anything organo, but these plans were flawed. The list of lumber needed was off. The design was overly intricate, requiring some fancy powertools I don’t have. But I adapted and made it work. I even innovated a “hideaway” prop to hold the lid open. As I often tell Barbara, “I ain’t Joe Cantwell’s son for nothing.” (Dad was an aerospace engineer, my loyal reader might recall.)

In the end, our new compost bin, wrapped in shiny wire mesh to make it rodent-proof and sitting on a sturdy four-legged platform, does slightly resemble a Mars lander. With proper hinges and latches on the lid, and good air circulation on all sides, it’s a big improvement over the “Leaning Tower.”

And I enjoyed a week of mindful focus on a project that transported me away from other worries of the world.

I hear the government might send us all money to revive the economy. Maybe I’ll get an old motorcycle…

Kitty supervision is vital to most building projects, I’ve found.

One of our newly planted wild-currant bushes offers its first blooms in front of The Nuthatch cabin.

WE AWAKENED THIS MORNING, a bit groggily, to that annual harbinger of an emerging new season, that whispered wake-up call disturbing of slumber yet comforting in its message that winter won’t last.

Yes, daylight-saving time had arrived.

I stumbled downstairs to start the coffeemaker and turn the clocks ahead.

It’s a disturbing time in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle has become the coronavirus capital of America. It’s a good time to be a hermit on a small island with no public ferry.

But even here, we’re suddenly cautious about greeting neighbors fresh from the city. No hugs, no handshakes. Plenty of hand-washing. It’s awkward, but everyone gets it. One neighbor is here for a month because her employer sent her away from the growing pandemic. The news is more alarming day by day, as schools shut, illness spreads, travel is canceled, regional deaths become double-digit. In this, the Northwest would have happily let somewhere else be the trendsetter (though you really wouldn’t wish it on anyone).

We’re in good stead at The Nuthatch. Barbara just brought home weeks worth of groceries, and we already had plenty of toilet paper. (And what’s the TP hoarding all about, anyway? This is a pulmonary illness; there’s no diarrhea. People just get crazy.)

Rougher times are coming, we’re all told, unless you listen to a certain official who believes everything the federal government does these days is “perfect.” Old folks dying in nursing homes isn’t perfect. People trapped on cruise ships with too little food isn’t perfect. School kids with no place to study isn’t perfect.

We’re sheltering in place on our island, watching the real harbingers of spring sprout and bloom outside, and hoping our friends and loved ones will be as fortunate.

Miniature daffodils herald the coming change of season on Center Island.

Wearing a sweater against the cold during a January snow, Bosun takes his daily constitutional on the Nuthatch Cabin’s deck.

I FIND GREAT COMFORT in cats.

Everybody says there are dog people and there are cat people. I’m a bit of a crossover. I grew up loving Skippy, the Cantwell family’s fabled and unlikely crossbreed of black Lab and dachshund parentage (mama was the dachshund; don’t think about it too hard). But I’ve shared the majority of my life with cats.

This is about one of our current Nuthatch Cabin housemates, our elder statesman in formalwear, Bosun.

Bosun is a big tuxedo cat, mostly shiny black but with a white v-neck, paws and roguish half mustache. He’s about 17 years old now, which puts him well into his 90s in human years. He lived on our boat most of those years, with occasional weekends at the cabin until we moved here full-time in 2018.

The personality trait that best characterizes Bosun goes back to why we first chose him from a milling crowd of adoptable felines at a rescue shelter: He’s an easy purr. When we told a shelter worker we wanted a male cat with a beta personality, she pulled shy Bosun from under a table, put him in daughter Lillian’s arms, and he immediately sounded off with a booming, rumbling purr that has been his lifelong trademark. How could we not take this sweet guy home?

Since 2004, he’s been an affectionate companion who can melt your heart with soulful gazes from his big green eyes.

Now he’s in his twilight years, if not his twilight months, after recently suffering his second stroke.

But this isn’t a missive of mourning. It’s a tale of resilience, of a tough old cat who wants to live. What Australians would call a “battler.”

Twice we’ve thought we’d lost him. Twice we’ve sobbed over him. In September 2018, after his first attack, he could barely walk. He couldn’t navigate the stairs or climb on to a bed. Only the fact that it was a weekend and no nearby veterinarians were available stopped us from having him put down, out of mercy. We thought we had no choice.

But by Monday, he was getting better. And he just kept getting better. Up stairs and down. Within a week or two you’d never have known he’d seemed at death’s door.

The next 12 months I called “Bosun’s bonus year.”  Somehow it took away the sting of knowing we would probably lose him soon.

We thought the time had come a few weeks ago. This “bad spell” was even more unsettling. He fell over, one side of his face contorted and one eye blinked with a tic that went on and on. Finally, Barbara found and administered some herbal “cat calming drops” she had tucked away, and that seemed to help. Eventually the twitching stopped. But clearly Bosun had lost most control of one of his rear legs, and he was unable to retract his claws, so that he kept snagging his paws on rugs and bedspreads when he did manage to walk.

But once again, he has gradually gotten better. Still “unsteady on his pins,” as Barbara puts it, but walking almost normally. Barbara trimmed the tips of his claws, so he doesn’t get snagged as often. The soulful gaze is still there. And he is once again determined to go outside every day for what we call his “constitutional” — a supervised walk from one end of the deck to the other, while he sniffs the fresh air.

A few nights ago, I was awakened in the blackest, wee hours of the morning with a feeling that I was having some kind of mild angina. I soon realized that a feline was standing on my chest. I felt a nose touch mine. Reaching up to see which cat it was, I felt Bosun’s bony old body.

I pulled him down to nestle between Barbara and me, his fuzzy, geriatric cheek to mine. I whispered his name and that booming purr filled my ear in the darkness. It went on and on, engendering a sense of profound well-being as I drifted back to sleep.

Sometimes I find comfort in cats.