Local Pillow

My pillow got wet during my rainy adventure at Walung.  

Normally, people would be like "Oh,  I'll just pop it in the dryer and drink some juice while I wait 35 minutes."

Nope.  Because here on the equator, the air is probably more moist that my pillow.  Therefore my pillow will probably take 2-3 months to dry, if it doesn't end up just acting like a sponge and lowering the overall humidity of Kosrae by a few percentages.  After desperately searching all of my options, I had to resort to the one option I was dodging.

I must use the local pillow.

When I first arrived here in, the bed in my room was fitted with a stained brown sheet and a pillow with a matching case, both looking like they had been possibly advertised as cheap critter housing during the summer absence of missionaries.  I knew by pure human instinct that there HAD to be perhaps a gecko apartment, or maybe some land-crab condos deep inside that pillow.  

I got up the courage to touch it.  I felt a lump.

Definitely a cockroach family.  Probably.

I pressed on the pillow a couple times.  For some reason in my sketched-out mind, I half expected a squirrel or a bat or something to come running out in a panic, carrying its bags and dragging its children behind them.  Thinking it was the safest thing for my well being as a student missionary, I stuffed it underneath my dusty bed and fitted my own pillow nicely on my sheets.  And everything was happy until a couple days ago.  

I stare under my bed.  The local pillow is staring back at me with a smirk on its face, as if to say "I am the local pillow, and I own this bed."

I take one of its corners, and pull it out from under my bed.  It has accumulated a nice layer of dust and mold on the sides, and the lumps seem even more lumpier that before.  I started to wonder if there was even any stuffing in it, or if it was just dead squirrels and bats I was feeling.  After a few good punches to at least make sure the critters were dead, I brushed it off as good as I could and began the process of laying my head down onto it.

Notice the word "process".  

My downward motion paused involuntarily.  Finally I was able to use the power of the mind to convince myself of its safety, and I slowly released all of my neck muscles on the pillow.  I touched down right on a mountain range of lumps, and adjusted the dead squirrels inside so that I was at least in a comfortable valley.  Somehow, I instantly fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning, realizing that I just had the best night of sleep so far in Kosrae.  

I looked down at my local pillow.  "how could I have ever doubted you, Magic-Kosrae-Pillow?"

And ever since, I have yet to return to my other pillow that is actually still exiled to the porch until it stops deciding to be a sponge.

I have no idea why I am even writing this.

Peace from the tropics I guess!

-Riv

Panda Express-ing

If someone could be so kind to maybe put some Panda Express in a ziplock bag and send it via priority mail, that would be great.  Really great.


Thanks again.

-Riv

The Wild Side of Kosrae

"Don't shine your light into the water, it makes the swordfish go crazy."

I don't really know what a crazy swordfish does, but if there was any animal I wouldn't want to go crazy it would be a swordfish.

With all lights off, it is pitch black.  I steady myself on the hull of our small boat while the little 30 HP yamaha engine sputtered to life, sending us out of the harbor and into the dark, open Pacific.  I look down beside me where the hull stirs up the warm equatorial water, and hundreds of bioluminescent creatures light up before my eyes, accompanying the reflection of a billion stars from above.  Beside me, the pastor and the guide are speaking merrily in Kosraen to each other as his flashlight beam occasionally catches a swordfish jumping out of the water in front of us.

I have a brief picture in my head of a swordfish jumping into my lap in the pitch darkness.

After scooting back on the boat a few feet, I watch the black outline of thick mangroves move past on the shore.  To my right, the pastor is silhouetted against a breathtaking display of the Milky Way Galaxy, stretching from horizon to horizon over the great dark ocean.

After about 45 minutes, we finally beach at a little village called Walung.  Walung lies at the southwest corner of Kosrae, a place only accessible by boat at high tide.  There is no electricity or road, but the beaches are pristine and the whole scene belongs in a calendar.  We unload the boat of the coolers and the generator the pastor brought and wade to the sandy beach.  Locals emerge from a little path coming out of the jungle greeting us with "ekewo"'s, and we are led up the short path from the beach to a local shack with a palm roof, where the owner is making tea and offering biscuits and rolls.  Gladly accepting, we sit on the sandy ground with the pastor and our new friend from the Philippines (who joined us on monday as the bible worker), talking about our home countries, the prices in the Philippines, Obama, and the oppression of SDA's in parts of the world.

After maps of the U.S.A and the Philippines were drawn out in the sand before us, it was time for bed.  Tyler and I grabbed our Eno hammocks and set course for a couple palm trees we saw on the beach upon our arrival.  The warm wind gently swung our hammocks high in the palms as we drifted off into a tropical sleep, lulled by the breeze, the sound of the waves, and the pastel moon filtering through the clouds.

I wake up suddenly.  There is an unusual breeze.  The surf sounds rough.

Ahh, no.

A single raindrop hits me in the eye, as if nature was saying "Ha!  You think you could last a night outside in the tropics?  Well, here's a rainstorm!"

Sure enough, it started to pour.  I jump out of my hammock and unclip it from the straps and dash across the dark beach towards the palm shack.  I am instantly soaked in my white t-shirt, and my hammock and bedding didn't fair any better.  For some reason the pastor is up, messing with the generator.

I look at my watch.  4:30 AM.
"Too much rain, eh?"
"Yep," I reply as I squeegee out my shirt.  For once in my 2 months here I felt genuinely cold and shivered in my drenched clothes.  We sat under the palm cover and made light conversation.  A land crab scurries across the flooded sand in front of us.

"That crab is called a Kuluk.  Legend says that whenever someone kills that kind of crab, it rains," the pastor remarks.
"So perhaps Tyler stepped on one while getting into his hammock?"  I suggest.
Then, speak of the devil, Tyler comes bounding up the path, also soaked to the bone.

We lay back under the cover on the plywood floor, trying to warm up and wait out the rain.

"It is almost sunrise, look the sky," the pastor points out after a while.

Sure enough, the sky had lightened enough to where we could see the outline of the palms against the cloudy sky.  Soon, the locals that came with us on the boat began stirring under their blankets, and the next thing we knew we were eating a breakfast of cold cereal and Kosraen donuts.  I look at the box of cereal, which I know must have been expensive.  On the cover it read:

"Fruity Wheels"
"You only pay for the taste!"

Soooo......wait what?


After breakfast, some of the folks go out to net fish while we decide to swim out to a tiny island that we passed on last night's boat ride.  The pastor and Winey (the philippino) join us on a big, foam panel that we use as a stand-up paddle board and push with a stick.  It is pouring rain again, but we are wet anyways.  Upon arrival to the island, we "dominate it" by climbing up the steep side and thrashing through the thick jungle to the other side where we all almost biff it down a small cliff hidden by brush. Feeling like fearless explorers, Tyler then proceeds to try and hack open a coconut with a VERY dull machete, and we all are entertained as he drops it off of our "raft" twice.

We reach land again and do some more exploring on the land.  A primitive cliffside stone staircase leads us up above the ocean, and I was a little disappointed to find a school building instead of a wise elder sitting cross-legged at the entrance to a cave, ready to impart wisdom upon me.

We go back to the shack for a meal of rice and freshly-caught reef fish and prepare for our journey home.  We all almost fall asleep on the deck of our little boat while we speed home at 5 MPH through the reef.  Sleep was welcomed that night, and I dreamt about cereal.  "You only pay for the taste" cereal.

My class was very pleased to have the day off yesterday, due to UN day.  I'm not sure anyone on this island knows exactly what we are celebrating, but no one is going to argue.  Today's lesson plan was interrupted by Murson's parents knocking at my classroom door.

"Hello, can I help you?" I poke my head out of my classroom.
"Yes, it is Murson's birthday today, and we brought some treats for the class!  Is now a good time?"

Moments later, I see a giant cake and a whole case of cola parade past out window.  The kids go NUTS.  As I watch my class gobble up cake and drink whole cans of caffeinated soda, I am thankful that I only have one class left.  I know that I have precious moments before the sugar and pure energy enters their bloodstream.

"Ok, class!  We are going to do our spelling test as quickly as possible!  Put your cake aside for just a moment.  Number one...."

I see Vilana twitching.  Time is running out.

"Number one is Basketball!  Number two......."

I look up.  Mitchigo is standing on top of her desk.

"Numberthree!  Thewordiswheelchair!" I frantically recite.

I blaze through the words, just in time.  By cleanup time, Kokok is ricocheting around the room, narrowly missing my head.  Faces are smothered in frosting, and Annesha is asking for more cake through a mouthful of cake.  The class bursts into a spontaneous rendition of "Do Lord" while Holter is once again dust-mopping himself on the floor.

Finally, we are quiet.  We barely make it through The Lord's Prayer before the students literally launch out of the classroom doors and probably into outer space.

Needless to say, I know what I am going to offer Ryan and Tyler's classes on April Fool's Day.






Peace from the tropics,

-River

Stepping off of the "Life Train"

Its not necessarily trendy to "miss home" while off on a grand missionary adventure in a foreign land.

What IS trendy:
To make your facebook profile picture one of you and a local kid, and collect miracle stories and keep a deep and poetic blog about your experience.

To say that you saw a shark in person and about how the locals are becoming family to you.

To frantically try and change the world in 9 months but realize that some things are best left unchanged and maybe some observance is in order instead.

To expect yourself to be a full-bore missionary every waking hour of the day, and to read your bible an hour every morning at 5:00 AM.

To realize how much we take for granted back in the states, and make every worship talk about that topic.

To introduce new songs to the locals and spice up their way of worshiping forever.

To complain about the heat.

To not admit to missing the homeland.


And then all of a sudden, I feel like a lousy SM.  These things are definitely not bad, don't get me wrong.  But recently "non-missionary" thoughts have been entering my head, the ones that I feel bad thinking about because I begin to feel like I don't appreciate where I am now.

Such as this:
I didn't count, but I think about 90% of posts on my facebook feed either have a picture of a pumpkin, a person holding a pumpkin, or just a talk about pumpkins.  The other 10% include girls being excited about pumpkin spice lattes, super fun things going on at Walla Walla, and someone instagramming their delicious homemade pie or gourmet pizza.

And a realization hits:  Life goes on regardless.  I don't think I expected it to come to a halt while I quick spent a year abroad, but maybe I didn't expect to care that it went on without me.  And while I drool over pictures of Melissa McCrery's cookies and yearn for cool, autumn air, I close my computer and look at myself.

Heat shimmers off the tin roof of the church next to us.  The sun bears down through the humid air onto the empty school grounds.  "It used to be "Wow, we live right next to palm trees with REAL coconuts!" And now it is more like "That palm tree means that we live on the equator, with no seasons."  And then all of a sudden, I feel guilty.  This is the dream!  Palm trees!  Tropical-ness!  Ocean!  Coconuts!  Grass huts!  All the things!  I LIVE where people pay thousands of dollars to visit on vacation!

And then I open up my computer, and look at more pictures of fresh apple pie and pumpkins and scarves.  I feel pathetic.

Sitting in front of my fan, staring at a computer screen of my old life at home.  In Walla Walla.  Wherever my friends and loved ones are.  A rooster crows outside, and I wipe the sweat off my forehead.  Aren't I supposed to be taking pictures with local kids or having an experience that could later turn into a children's story at church?

Sometimes I feel like I am doing it wrong.  Like for sabbath yesterday, the pastor has been telling us that the youth group is bored and becoming jaded with their programs, such as vespers (which is very mechanical and is in need of new life) and the sundown service in the church.  Ryan and Tyler and I took it on to try and revolutionize the youth group and get them excited again.  We planned out a sundown worship where we would drive out to see the sunset, and sit on the grass and sing new, fun songs instead of hymns.  Tyler gave a short but insightful talk about Abraham and Isaac, and we tried our best to spark interest in the youth members sitting in the circle.  During the closing song, I played Stella as good as I could and led out in "My Chains are Gone" to try and breath new life into the routine of singing hymns for everything.  As the song ended, I saw that no one was singing and were all distracted by one of the babies doing something cute.  I offered a closing prayer and prepared to offer more songs as an afterglow that I thought were new and refreshing to the group.
"Um, we will sing some of our own old songs," said one of the youth.  "Sue-Lynn, you lead out and play the guitar."

I knew there was no harm meant in the suggestion, but I couldn't help but feel defeated.  "Oh, um, of course!  Go for it."  I put Stella back in her case and walked a few yards out of the group to look at the sunset.  The youth were singing at the top of their lungs behind me.

I knew that it wasn't something to get discouraged about, but I felt like I was doing something wrong.  Like they didn't need me, or they didn't want the change we were offering.


And then I look back at my screen and I miss the life still going on without me.  The life that I am familiar with, the life that I used to live in.  The life where I could play "My Chains are Gone" and everyone would sing along.  And pretty soon there are a monstrosity of thoughts pouring into my head, such as how nice it would be to have a home cooked meal of a wide range of nutritious food, and how our Christmas dinner will probably be canned-something with rice.

And even now as I write this, I just paused and had a moment of feeling guilty for even mentioning all of this.  But I think I need to get it out of my system, so I can begin the journey of immersing myself even farther into Kosrae without these distractions.

So for rebellion's sake, I will just come out and say it:

I miss the Great Northwest.
I miss Sprack, Elliott, Andrew, Mack, Justin, and all the bros.
I miss being 1.5 miles from Panda Express.
I miss leading worship.
I miss wearing long sleeves.
I miss the cold mountains.
I miss Haley Coon.
I miss watching football.
I miss seasons.
I miss my dogs.
I miss the Atlas at Walla Walla.
I miss relatively short church services.
I miss being able to understand conversations.
I miss family road trips and my family in general.
I miss full pantries.
I miss vegetables.
I loath roosters.
I loath the sample music that comes out of cheap Yamaha keyboards.

Whew.  There.  Maybe its out of my system.  Now hear me out.

This is my mission now:
To not let a day go by that I don't find beauty in something.
To not let a day go by that I don't find beauty in someone.
To remember where I am.
To always remember where I came from.
To feel small standing next to the ocean every night before bed.
To come home and be able to look back at my time in Kosrae, and not regret a single second of it.

I want to miss Kosrae badly.  I want to be sipping a pumpkin spice latte a year from now in Walla Walla and be looking at pictures on my computer screen, yearning to shed my sweater and live free and uncertain again in the place that ultimately made me strong:  The little 42-square mile Island of Kosrae.




 Peace from the tropics,

River

The Three White Islanders

I suppose there comes a time in every ambitious SM blogger's life that they run out of things to blog about.

We are almost at the 2 month mark, and things are starting to form a routine.  Gone are the days when we were appalled at the amount of ants in everything and their ability to find our food.  Gone are the days when we wondered what that chirping noise was in our walls every night.  Gone are the days of melting in the excessive heat and guarding our skin from sunburns and being wary of the muddy river water that flows from our sink.  Gone are the days of trying to pace and savor a care package so we could make it last as long as possible.  

Our life has changed since that night when we nervously stepped off the United flight in our button up shirts and slacks into the hot, muggy, night air of Kosrae, driving through the jungle with no idea what the year would hold.  

The new, exciting adventure feeling is beginning to wear off, and our island adventure is becoming life now.  Not to say this in a negative way!  Every day holds its own adventure, but we are becoming less like strangers and more like inhabitants to the island.  

So I figured I would let you in on some of the daily life that we live here now, as we begin to feel the change from "Nervous Missionary who Can't Speak Kosraen" to "White Islander who Still Can't Speak Kosrean".  

Here is a picture of what seems to be an average day in the missionary household:

3:30 am:  Why am I up?  Oh, yes of course.  "Richard, normal roosters crow in THE MORNING.  Although it technically is morning, at least wait until the SUN IS UP!"  I scold in my head, but I don't have the will to actually get out of bed and do something about it.

3:45 am:  Richard again.

4:30 am: Woken up suddenly.  For some reason I see the dark form of a human against my far wall.  Instinctually I reach for my knife on my nightstand and flip on the light in terror.  Funny how a backpack looks like a body when it is hung on the wall.  

6:05 am:  Richard grants my previous request.

6:58 am:  I wake up just in time to see that my alarm is going to ring in 2 minutes.  I figure that is enough time to grab 2 more minutes of sleep.

7:35 am:  After deciding my alarm isn't loud enough, I get out of bed and brush the ants out of my leg hairs.  I sleepily whisk up some powdered milk, and indulge in some care-package cereal.  I try not to look at the brigade of ants weaving in and out of the delicious flakes and swimming in my milk.  At this point, ants weigh very lightly against Honey Bunches of Oats.  

7:59 am:  Ryan discovers that the ants have found the last safe place in the house:  The hammock.  Time to move the cereal stash.  We discover Tyler looking in the bathroom mirror, trimming his few facial hairs with a pair of nail clippers.  Ryan and I have a brief discussion about his manliness.  

8:05 am:  There is another brief discussion about how none of us have a good lesson plan for the day after last week's grueling "test week" and we decide that there will be lots of coloring and "winging it".  The conversation awkwardly concludes when Tyler confesses he dropped a clear push pin in the kitchen last night, and it is nowhere to be found.

8:20 am:  We realize it is 8:20.

8:20:03 am:  We are magically dressed into our collared shirts and long pants, ready to head to the 8:00 staff worship.  We are the first ones there.

8:30 am:  The school bus comes and ejects 60 students before it disappears as fast as it came, the evil laugh of the driver still echoing off the school walls.  Ryan, Tyler, and I march towards our classrooms as if we were marching to war.

8:35 am:  I pull out Stella for her daily exercise.  "Alright class, what song should we sing?"  

"King Jesus is All!  KING JESUS IS ALL!  KKKIIIINNGGG JJEEESSUSSSISALLLLL!!!!!

After the ringing in my ears subsided, I found that in the course of the song I had inadvertently started a "loudness competition" with Tyler's 1st and 2nd graders next door.  Within moments, both classes had the audible momentum as a runaway freight train.  Ears plugged, I pop my head in to Tyler's classroom.  He is shaking his head with a hopeless smile on his face.  

12:00 pm:  After I try and explain the concept of "place value", I come upstairs and collapse into a bowl of Ramen.  Few words are said at lunch in order to preserve precious energy needed for the rest of the day.  

12:35 pm:  While I am teaching singular and plural nouns, I suddenly realize that my whole class is imitating everything I do behind my back.  I turn around and make a motion with my arm.  All 16 of my kids do the same motion in unison.  

"Ooga booga booga!" I flail my arms.

"Ooga booga booga!" they repeat flailing.

"Beedoo beedoo!"

"Beedoo beedoo!" They echo.  

I all of a sudden was reliving that one scene from Ice Age 2, where all the little sloths are imitating Sid because they think he is the Fire God, and it was brilliantly fun.  I told this story to Tyler, and I quickly realized that you had to be there.

3:00 pm:  The kids are whisked away by the big yellow bus, and we come up to the apartment and over-damatically rip our clothes off.  

4:00 pm:  I go spearfish for dinner in the reef for a while, and see a stingray the size of a tablecloth hanging out with me.  Tyler claims he could have reached out and touched it from where he was fishing.  

6:30 pm:  Time for dinner.  Every evening is a chance to make food that is more and more edible.

10:00 pm:  Bedtime.  "Fung wo"'s are exchanged, and I brush my feet off to climb into bed.  My bedside lamp advertises its light to the entire bug population of Kosrae, and soon I decide that it will be short journal entry tonight.  I close my eyes, and next thing I know I will be doing it all again tomorrow.  But somehow in the clamor and unique routine, I find that I fall asleep with a smile on my face.  

Peace from the tropics, 

River

This is Holter

This is Holter.

Holter is the little guy.  He is one of my third graders.  He has a big brother named Webster in my 4th grade class, and Webster is a lot bigger than he is.  Holter is quite often a victim to his big brother, whether it is being pushed on the playground or getting candy taken from him.

Holter has a kind heart, despite living in the fearful shadow of his brother.

He struggles with most subjects, especially spelling.  Sometimes I will see him at his desk writing the words over and over to practice while the other kids are goofing off, or staying after school to finish a writing assignment while the other kids are playing kickball.  But when it comes time for the weekly test, he doesn't do well at all.  It breaks my heart.

He is easy to please.  I try and give him high-fives whenever I see him studying, and his assignments are always graced with little boy-mind drawings of spaceships and superheroes playing out the grand, imaginary world inside this little boy's head.

I admire him for this.  It reminds me of my childhood school years.  I believe there is much more going on in his head than meets the eye, and there is a secret "Holter world" that lies unseen in the shadow of his big, overpowering brother and peers.


Today during reading, I was having an especially hard day.  The kids weren't listening and everyone was off the wall.  I was about to pull my hair out when Holter comes toddling up to my desk.

"Hey, Holter.  You ready for your new book?  I just graded your book report," I wearily said.
"Can I read this one?" He asks in his high, small voice.
He holds up a giant Uncle Arthur Bible Stories book.  His level of reading sits around "Frog and Toad" status.
"Are you sure you want to?  Its a big book, and you have to read it all the way through to do the book report," I warned.
"Yes, I love Him!" He said.
"I know, I love these books too.  I used to read them all the time when I was your age."
"No, I love Him."


He was pointing to the picture of Jesus on the cover.


I looked into his eyes and couldn't help but smile.  He wore a little grin that showed his two missing front teeth.  This guy has a good heart, and this good heart will get him much farther than any perfect assignment will.

"You may read this book, Holter.  It is all yours."





Peace from the tropics,

River

Teacher River has a smelly, squishy, yellow banana on his head.

"Should we take flippers today?"

"Eh.  Sure."

Usually flippers are cumbersome while trying to spearfish, but we were going to try them today.  

School was out, and the little yellow bus had magically transported the kids back to there homes at noon.  It was friday, a half day.  This meant that we had ample time to relax and possibly get some fish for the weekend, so we grabbed our spears and snorkels and headed for the water.  It was high tide, and the waves were crashing big today.  After the long trudge through the calm, shallow water we reached the breakers and fought through them to the other side, where it was deeper and the fish were bigger.  

Much bigger, lets just say.

Swimming with my eyes down at the coral, I was hunting in about 8 feet of water.  The waves were cresting above my head, so I was trying to be careful not to get caught up in a swell.  All of a sudden I noticed that there weren't very many fish swimming in the rocks and coral below.  I looked up in the water ahead of me, facing the shore, and saw a large swimming animal. 

Thats a huge fi.......oh my.  Not a fish.  

About 10 feet in front of me between me and the shore, was a white-tipped reef shark.  

We shared a moment of awkward eye contact.  My next thought was a prayer.  I quickly loaded my spear as tight as I could and aimed it at the shark as I smoothly tried to swim a wide circle around it, staying out of its way as much as possible.  My heart skipped a beat when it turned and started to follow me, only a little quicker than I was swimming.  Spear still aimed, I paddled my flippers as hard as I could, but the shark was still gaining on me.   Finding Nemo was playing in the movie theater of my thoughts.  Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming....

Though the shark showed no major aggressive behavior, I still wasn't fond of it following me.  

Send a wave.  Please send a wave.

Sure enough, I looked up out of the water and saw a massive swell headed towards me, about to break. Perfect.  I launched myself forward into the wave and rode it 30 feet into shallow water.  After a few more wave rides, I was pretty sure the shark wasn't going to grow legs and wade in 1 foot of water.  

God watches out for us here.  

(A note on white-tipped reef sharks:  This kind of shark is about 5 1/2 feet long.  They are normally not aggressive unless the swimmer is carrying fish, such as a catch from spearfishing.  Thankfully I did not have any fish at the time.  They are not shy by nature, and are known to come close to swimmers out of curiosity.  So in the big scheme of things, I probably was not in major danger.  But, if you have ever seen a shark up close while swimming in real life, a shark is still a shark to someone in the water with it.)

Today I was tired of giving normal language assignments.  I walked up to the front of the class and asked for a "drumroll please!"

I received an overly excited drumroll, as if they were about to receive a wonderful gift or surprise.  I all of a sudden felt a little guilty.  

I dramatically wrote the word "Adjective" on the board.  The drumroll stopped behind me and instead there were overlapping mumbles of Kosraen children trying to pronounce the word "adjective".  

After a brief lesson with adjectives, I made an announcement.

"Today, I will write two sentences.  They will have plenty of adjectives in them.  I want you to pick out the adjectives, and then draw pictures on what the sentence is saying!"  

There was a below average level of excitement among the students.

"...and I will let you use the crayons."

Explosions of joy and fountains of happiness sprung forth from the 3rd and 4th grade classroom.  They carefully selected crayons to begin working on their illustrations.  I was so pleased by the depictions that I decided to share them with you tonight.  

Here are the two sentences to be illustrated:

1.  Teacher River had a smelly, squishy, yellow banana on his head.

2.  The chicken was carrying a noisy, smiling, wet guitar on his back.  

The results:

Great artwork.  Love the badger-chicken.  Although the faded face in the background may haunt my dreams for  a few nights....

Again, beautiful.  The blue odor coming from the banana makes me feel like I was there.  

Ok, the beard in this one makes my heart sing.  I have been attempting to grow a beard, and this is the first positive sign that it is making an impact on the world.

Again, a wonderful hedgehog-chicken with fork legs.  

So far the first chicken with two legs.  Or pill with two legs.  Whatever it is, I love it.  

Beautiful depiction of the rare Lion-Chicken.

Again, the beard.  And I am brown.  One step closer to becoming and islander....

What a wonderful array of chickens.  This one must be the mother hen.  

Perhaps the chicken is pleased that it is finally time to change the strings on the old guitar.  

I am a woman.  

This may be the coolest I have ever looked.  Its also a good thing that I have those spikes to hold the banana in place.

I love this crew!  Here's to many more drawings and crazy times.

Peace from the tropics,

-River