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Some things just go together, Iike peanut butter and jelly, crayons and a child's imagination, a good book and a shady tree. Chelsea St. Thomas and Goat Island were like that, made to be together.
The first time that she saw Goat Island, it was early fall. She was just a wee thing and her eyes filled with wonder. She couldn't wait to cover every square inch of it.
She loved the sound of the autumn leaves crunching under her feet. She hopped with excitement with each spotting of the indigenous squirrels that came to visit in hopes of a contribution to the winter food-storage drive. She loved the broad, grassy area adjacent to the back parking lot where she would run, as fast as her little legs could carry her, until she flopped down in the browning grass trying to catch her breath.
She also loved the symphony of sound conducted by Mother Nature around the isle. The high woodwind wail of the soaring gulls, the driving percussion courtesy of a laboring woodpecker, the deep bass of the falls themselves as their echo resonated off the lower gorge wall, the free-styling jazz scat of a love-drunk chickadee, all backed by a tight chorus of bluesy crickets.
Yes, she loved all of these things, but she loved something else on Goat Island even more: the people. And the people loved her.
I don't know if such records are kept, but I'll state right here and now that Chelsea St. Thomas was Niagara's most photographed citizen.
Maybe it was her cheerful face or easy disposition. Maybe it was her deep soulful eyes. Or maybe it was a combination of these things.
But whatever the case, just like a Hollywood movie star, people wanted to be photographed with Chelsea St. Thomas. She was Marilyn Monroe, Madonna and Mae West all rolled into one. Classy, brassy and sassy. She never shied away from a photo opportunity. From cattle ranchers to stockbrokers, sailors to lawyers, office workers to officers of the law, everyone was drawn to her. They asked to have their pictures taken with her on Three Sisters Islands andLuna Island, at Terrapin Point and Prospect Point and in front of the Viewmobile. Some shook her hand, but most dispensed with such formalities and wrapped their arms around her, basking in the positive energy that she emitted.
Not everyone who came in contact with her walked in with a smile, but they all left with one (and not a quick-fading smile, either, but a day long gob-stopper of an ear-to-ear grin).
To me, she was more than a mini-celebrity, though; she was a friend. It has been said that you can count the number of true friends you make in a lifetime on one hand. Had I never made another friend in all my years than Chelsea St. Thomas, I would have died a blessed man.
If you were to sit and list the qualities you want in a friend, what words would stare back at you from the page? Loyal, compassionate, brave, trustworthy, non-judgmental, loving, fun?
Chelsea was all of these to me, and then some. She gave of herself unconditionally. She always had time to spend with a friend. She was a good listener.
I've been accused of being a hopeless optimist. I learned much of that optimism from Chelsea. She always refused to waste one of life's precious moments in a state of worry or despair.
Now, don't get me wrong. She wasn't perfect. There were times when she could be stubborn. She loved the rain, but hated thunder. While most Americans look forward to the Fourth of July, Chelsea was happy to see the fifth arrive. And like any true Western New Yorker, you did not dare lay a finger on her chicken wings. Nevertheless, these were minor faults and, truth be told, her idiosyncrasies simply served to endear her to me.
In her later years, her time spent on the Island decreased as her health worsened. Bad hips made what was once an effortless, a brisk walk around the island, now a laborious chore. She still loved to greet the world as they came, one by one, to her corner of the big blue marble, but she knew she had no more to give to an island that she loved so much.
The last time we walked the island together, we stopped and sat, as we'd done so many times before, by the current of water just above Luna Island leading to the Bridal Veil Falls. There were no words between us, our connection transcended words, and we said goodbye the only way we knew how ‹ just two old friends watching the sunset while the raging river washed away my tears.
She passed a week later. The fish wraps did not report her death. This would have made her happy, as the only use she had for newspapers is not fit for public discussion. She was cremated.
On a cloudy and cold spring morning, my wife Dawn and I took her ashes to the island and scattered them at her favorite greeting place near the entrance to Three Sisters Islands. A smattering of early season tourists milled about. Moments later, a ray of sunshine burst through the gray sky and drew everyone's eyes heavenward. Chelsea St. Thomas was on the job.
Chelsea St. Thomas Croisdale was an Old English Sheepdog and truly man's best friend.