Moving Mom and Betsy to the island was a simple event because most of their luggage was already on the island. We took the remaining bags on the day of checkout. Betsy occupied the second-floor bedroom, down the hall, across from the bathroom. A large window looked out over the ballpark and Papworth property. Two narrower windows looked out onto the shipping canal above the same porch that ran in front of Deb's room. Mom and Dad stayed in the room with the fireplace upstairs and a covered porch overlooking Alexandria Bay, but Mom's real niche was the front porch. Now I wonder if I shouldn't put a plaque there in his memory. He was content to sit and read for hours, keeping track of who was coming or going and in which direction. I came to see this porch as one of the many features that distinguished Comfort Island as an extraordinary setting. I thought about my treehouses that have never offered a better vantage point or a more comfortable place to sit and relax. I never tire of the bird's eye view of the boats and wildlife that comes into focus from that site. It's simply spectacular. Wicker furniture, comfortable tables and a railing with a story to tell are among the accessories that have made this place feel more like a nest than simply a place to sit and swing a bit. Mom enjoyed the company, a martini and conversation when the "porch" opened at five. A cornucopia of fun and interesting personalities came to enjoy a libation and often stimulating conversation. Those who demonstrated strong attendance records included Deb and I, Peter "Salad", George Gerhardt, Bouie Arnot, Tom Folino and, most notably, Trey Vars. Trey gets extra credit because, at some point, he brought with him a cast of characters who find themselves in the middle of the island's paper history. I didn't realize it until he pointed it out, but a section of the track was flat. Apparently one evening in 1883 Great-Grandfather Clark placed his martini glass on the tip of the railing in front of his rocking chair and it fell to the ground below. Dad went on to say, "The next morning the story was that Grandpa Clark had assigned one of his workers to pave that railroad and that he didn't care about the danger of rot." it was doing its part to uphold the tradition established by the first wave of Comfort Island martini drinkers, and it became a curiosity for me to test that flat section for sweet spots each subsequent summer by tapping it with my knuckles. The railing is now 130 years old, and despite decades of neglect, I have yet to find an area where the wood has even the slightest sag.