i'm the first to admit when i'm wrong unless r. or somebody else admits it first. i was invited back to the island by the snow and my bog boots itching to tromp. i admit, after four other boots, i mean eight, i come to realize the goodness of my bogs i already had by the fourth try. so, i had the perfumed italian kind, two tingley's, bogs, muck. so i was wrong four times, but i was right one. the bogs were relieved and they walked me on the frozen lagoon and through the weeds and the beaver felled trees. i said to myself there's magic here yet i hope the obamachron doesn't destroy this tiny island where the shadow of his white conning tower will soon preside.