Christian and Lea Andrade
(Page 2 of 2)
March/April 1988
By the Mother Earth News editors
"The Carrieris pulled out of the house a year back," admitted Christian not long ago. "But that's because it didn't really take four people. There was no ill will. They live in Friday Harbor now, working here and there, happy, bent on staying on the island.
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"As for Olympic Lights," he went on, "it's beginning to pay its way, though Lea still tackles the odd freelance graphic assignment—for some reason she absolutely loves designing checks!—and I still peddle papers. Besides the modest income, it involves me in the community. It even lets me practice a little bartering. I trade the unsold papers, which I'm entitled to keep, for firewood from an artisan nearby who uses them to wrap the dried flowers he sells by mail order. He has plenty of wood. Oak, madrona. Douglas fir. I have plenty of old newspaper and no wood. Voila! Exchanges like that happen all the time around here. People can make do without a whole lot of cash if they're careful and have something to offer."
"We would never go back," added Lea while pruning the flower garden. "Look about: the hills, the water, feel the air. Why would we? Look at Christian. He's a happy guy. He loves tending his exotic chickens, something that would never have entered our lives back in the city. I mean, they've almost become our substitute children."
She paused, loosening more soil.
"Plus, our guests bring us all the company and outside stimulation we need. Don't get me wrong, however. We liked San Francisco. It's a beautiful city. Or used to be before all the high-rises went up. But it was the pace, the pressure, that finally got to us. That and the freeways and fast-food chains and all the craziness about making as much money as possible. God, I would be happy never to encounter any of that again."
She plunged her trowel into the soil at the edge of a stand of marigolds while Christian reached down and picked up Louie, his favorite chicken. Considerable cooing ensued. Between man and hen, that is.
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