Dropped into town to meet with Jack the photographer and his wife, Lark, both originally from New York. Jack had been an art student. He was commissioned to take photos of the pole raising and potlatch. The lens on my camera had crapped out, so he was kind enough to lend me a couple of his shots. Lark was out in the yard, dumping compost when I dropped in. She’d spent a couple days working on a radio documentary about the history of Cuban folk music for a public radio station and was burnt out. We all stood in the yard enjoying the evening breeze and they told me about the years that they’d spent living off the grid. “There was that one year that we lived on $300,” said Lark. “Yeah, what did we buy?” said Jack, “Nails, rice…” “Rubber boots…” “Chicken feed.” “All we ate that year was cracked wheat, cracked corn, and rice,” said Lark. “And eggs, right?” I said. “No, no eggs,” said Jack. “What about the chickens?” I asked. “Chickens? What chickens?” replied Jack. “No, the chicken feed was for us. That’s what we ate.”
