We woke up on our first morning outside Alaska in spectacular surroundings. We were in a pull-out area and right across the road were hills that had fog moving across them. Behind us was a gorgeous looking blue lake. I would’ve liked to gaze at those hills and see if it was possible to hike near the lake, but there were no facilities in the little rest area and the priorities were bathroom and coffee. So we took the dogs outside to do their business, got back in the truck and got back underway.

We were both tired all day, since we’d barely slept the night before. It was the wee hours of the morning by the time we found a place to stop and then Miki was stressed and needing attention. So when we saw a nice camp ground in the middle of the afternoon, we stopped. It was a lovely spot, the weather was perfect, and we set our tent up under a tree. The two people and the two dogs were thrilled. The dogs loved tent camping and were happy to settle into the tent on their blankets. As the journey went on, they got really excited when we’d stop and they saw us setting up the tent. Once we were done taking stuff out of the truck, we placed some food on the floor of the passenger side and the makeshift litter box in the space under the steering wheel, opened the sliding windows on the cab and the back of the cab, and let Pearl (the cat) out of her carrier. Once the four-legged furry kids were settled, Bill and I took turns in the showers. We’d been living without running water for the whole of the previous year and most of the year before that, so we weren’t really used to showers any more. Bill went first. He came back and said it cost a quarter to get the hot water, but it went on forever. I actually found this a bit stressful! I went in, stuck my quarter in the slot and the water began coming. I washed my hair and the rest of me and the water kept coming. There was no way to turn it off and I didn’t want to waste it, but I was unsure what else I could do, so in the end, I just decided to stand there and enjoy it. We made some supper and hung out with the dogs. It was a nice evening and we all slept really well. 

The next day, the rain came. It rained, rained, and rained some more. We didn’t want to set up the tent under the circumstances, so we stopped at a place with little cabins and hoped they’d let us in with the dogs. Bill went in and asked. The woman said she wasn’t really supposed to let dogs in, but considering the weather, she would if we promised to clean up well when we left. We did and were grateful. It was a cute little cabin with a small kitchen and bathroom and a very comfortable bed. 

It was quite an enjoyable trip south. We’d agreed we would not rush but wouldn’t dawdle, either. We were on schedule until what we thought would be the penultimate night. We were somewhere in British Columbia and planned to stay the night there, cross the border the following day, and stay somewhere in Washington before going on to our new home. We stopped at what looked like a beautiful camp ground—and it was quite breathtaking with big trees and a sort of deep ravine running through it. Bill paid for a site, but when we got to it and I got out of the truck, I was almost blown into the side of it by the wind! Clearly we were not going to be able to set up a tent under the circumstances, so we decided to walk the dogs and see if it eased up. It didn’t. We decided to leave, push on across the border, stay in Washington that night, and get to our destination a day sooner than expected. Back into the truck we all went. We stopped somewhere and got subs to eat later for dinner. We stopped for the day a few hours later than we’d planned and we were both so hungry that subs never tasted so good! 

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 5

 Adventures in Fieldwork Part 5

Note: This essay is about my own culture shock and is not in any way intended to be disparaging towards the people in Village. The conditions there are complex and I am not being critical of the place or the people. My focus is on my own mindset and shortcomings in this situation.  Photo by Shari Burke.

the village late July sunset 

As I lay there fully dressed on top of the bed, I was thinking over everything that had happened to me in my degree program.  I was thinking of my last trip to Village.  I thought of what I would tell my advisor and my friends.  I realized I didn’t really care about any of that.  I had to be realistic. Now that I had a better understanding of the reality of Village life, I had to admit that doing extensive fieldwork, which would require me to live in Village for at least a year was probably not a good idea. Bringing our high-school-aged daughter to such a place was out of the question and I was not keen on being away from her and Bill for that long, even though I could’ve gone home for visits. Since there was no way I was going to sleep at all that night, I had plenty of time to think about the situation, the kind of work I wanted to do, my sense of ethics, and more. As I lay there fully dressed and on top of the covers, with my parka over me as a blanket, I listened as the son came home and was intercepted before he could enter his room and be instructed to sleep on the couch.  I heard people screaming down the streets on their snow machines.  I wanted to go home.  I really had no interest in fieldwork anymore.  I had changed my subject after the last trip from motherhood to language preservation thinking it would be less emotionally charged, but suddenly I knew that it was all emotionally charged. To my friends in Fairbanks I was Kuukpiaq.  To the people in Village, I was WHITE, which automatically made me suspicious. Could I overcome their suspicions? Maybe. Did I want to keep trying for even longer than the few years I’d already invested? I rather thought not. I watched the hands on my watch move closer to the time when I could get out of bed and leave.  I planned my strategy and what I was going to say.  

 As it turned out, most everyone was up and out early—there was a game. I got up as soon as they had left. Because I thought there might still be one person in the house, I pretended to call home and learn that someone was ill, so I could use that as my excuse for leaving without causing hard feelings. I called the airline to change my return ticket. I had a choice of a flight that was leaving in 2 hours or one that would be leaving in 12 hours.  The idea of 12 more hours there was not penetrating my brain, so I reserved a spot on the flight a mere two hours away.  Because I had no idea what the address was, I could not call a taxi, so I prepared to walk. I threw on clean clothes, brushed my teeth, wrote a note, left it with the gifts I’d brought, picked up my suitcase in one hand and my carry-on bag in the other and stepped out into the dark –25 F degree Village morning. Village is above the arctic circle and it was January, so there was not going to be any daylight for a long while. I began to walk toward the airport.  The streets were deserted. I could see the airport in the distance and it seemed to pull me toward it, but when I got to the gate that we had driven out of the night before, it was closed! My heart sank, but I doggedly kept on. I was determined to get to that airport.

 I put my suitcase down and looked around.  I spotted a road that seemed to go in the right direction, so I grabbed my suitcase and headed that way.  Suddenly there were headlights coming toward me.  “Please let it be a woman,” I repeated over and over as the headlights got closer.  The car stopped and an older woman rolled down her window.  “Where are you coming from?” she asked incredulously. She was apparently unaccustomed to seeing large white women hauling luggage down the street on foot in the dark and cold winter mornings.  “Back there somewhere,” I answered as I waved my hand in the direction I had come.  “Does this road take you to the airport terminal building?”  She invited me to hop in and I gratefully accepted.  I felt like hugging her, but settled for thanking her about a million times as she pulled up to the door of the terminal building. 

I went inside, checked in and called Bill.  He was still asleep, but woke up quickly as I told him in a quiet voice, lest I be overheard, that I would be home later that day.  I felt a bit silly, speaking in hushed tones hunched over the receiver with my hand cupped over my mouth and the phone, but it’s a small place where everyone knows everyone. It seemed a bit dramatic, but I was very tired and focused on getting out without hurt feelings. I knew the flight from Anchorage was already late, but I was not at all concerned about that.  I would have happily spent days in the Anchorage airport as long as I was out of Village.

I only had to spend three hours in Anchorage, and I did have to go buy a novel in one of those airport shops, because I’d foolishly brought only academic reading with me and given the small amount of sleep I’d gotten for the previous week or so, that wasn’t gonna cut it. The novel filled the time and I was soon stumbling off the plane and into the terminal in Fairbanks.  My husband greeted me with a rather wide-eyed look and explained that a friend had brought him because it was so cold (-45F) that the truck battery had frozen.  We walked up to the friend who had the same wide-eyed look about him as his mouth fell open.  I guess I was looking a little worse for wear.  

 Friend went to get his vehicle and we headed for home. On the way, I told them both what had happened. When I got to the end of the story, I said it out loud for the first time. ‘I won’t be going back to Village again,’  I stated. I watched our friend’s wide eyes in the rear view mirror as he slowly nodded.

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 4

 Adventures in Fieldwork Part 4

Note: This essay is about my own culture shock and is not in any way intended to be disparaging towards the people in Village. The conditions there are complex and I am not being critical of the place or the people. My focus is on my own mindset and shortcomings in this situation.

All photos by Shari Burke

One and a half years after I left Village, I was preparing to return.  I’d switched my research focus to language preservation, thinking that this might be more useful to the Native people I hoped to be working with. Also, I was quite fascinated by the topic. I had another grant and had managed to convince myself that since I had experienced the culture shock last time, I would be better prepared for the trip this time.  I kept repeating this to myself as if that would make something wonderful happen. Instead, I spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s with an upset stomach and headaches. I would leave on January 2.  

   This time, I would not be able to stay with my friends.  They were in Fairbanks and in their house were two of their daughters, their boyfriends and assorted children.  My friend thought I’d be more comfortable elsewhere and she wanted to be the one to find a place for me to stay. I would have rather done this myself, but she was adamant and I did not want to insult her. I was told not to worry—I could either stay with this woman from the Park Service, or with some relatives I had met last time I was there—since I was Kuukpiaq, she felt they would be happy to have me there, if they were in town. Besides, it would be better to stay with the relatives I was told.  The woman from the Park Service would be a last resort since she was white woman.  I stopped myself before I could remind her that I, too, was a white woman!

    On January 1, I heard that the call from the relatives had come—they would be happy to host me for the week I was there, I was told.  All I had to do was call and let them know when I would be arriving.  I did that immediately.  My call was answered by a barely intelligible drunk young man who informed me that his parents would not be home that night.  There was nothing else to do but to wait until morning.  I slept little that night.

    The next morning dawned clear and cold.  I called Village and spoke to a somewhat dazed sounding fellow, who said he would be at the airport later that day.  I left my house and in spite of the cold, found myself drenched in a cold, clammy sweat.  I sat in the plane at the gate for a long time while they waited to see what the weather was like in Anchorage.  I watched them de-ice the plane and prayed  for a blizzard in Anchorage.  Alas, no blizzard appeared and we were soon on our way.  My mental conversation with myself continued all the way to Anchorage and through the next flight.  “Everything will be fine,” I told myself.

 

I got to Village and walked out the back end of the plane and down the steps.  We headed toward the terminal building and I scanned the crowd looking for the people who were to meet me, but there was no sign of them.  By the time I got inside, the luggage was already being unloaded and there were stacks of beer cases duct taped together.  A couple of minutes before my suitcase appeared, my hosts rushed in.  They exchanged glances when they saw my suitcase, but I told myself it meant nothing.  It was just my nervousness.  I kept up the stream of cheerful chatter that was flowing out from my mouth.

    We rushed back to their house and wolfed down some dinner.  then we sped over to the school where a basketball tournament was being held.  In an Alaskan village, basketball tournaments are like the Super Bowl.  We settled into the bleachers as the game was starting.  I was informed that both teams were from Village, but one was Native and one was White.  As I dutifully began to cheer for the Native team, they relaxed and got into the game.  I started to relax, too.

    That was a bit premature, however.  We went back to their house after the game and engaged in small talk for awhile.  Then they told me that since as far as they knew their son hadn’t been home in a week, I would sleep in his room.  “I hope he doesn’t come home and get into bed with you, “ they said laughing.  I smiled weakly and thought of the drunken man I had spoken to on the phone.  I knew in my gut that he’d be home that night.  Then they finally got to the point.  “How long are you staying?” they asked.  I tried to be upbeat as I told them I’d be in town for a week.  Their faces fell and my heart began to pound.  They then proceeded to spend 15 minutes explaining why I could not stay there.  I told them that I could get in touch with the woman from the Park Service.  Acid dripped from every word as they asked with disgust, “Is she WHITE?”  “I think so,” I responded and felt very, very tired.  I said I would go to bed.

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 3

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 3

Note: This essay is about my own culture shock and is not in any way intended to be disparaging towards the people in Village. The conditions there are complex and I am not being critical of the place or the people. My focus is on my own mindset and shortcomings in this situation.  All photos are by Shari Burke

As July turned into August, my fear grew.  Suddenly the streets were filled with drunken people.  I speculated that unemployment and/or welfare checks had started to arrive and the bootleggers were getting some beginning-of-the-month business.  Whatever was going on, I did not like it. The same people that were looking at me as an intruder in their part of town now knew where I was and they were quite out of it.  They were not just tipsy, but staggering, falling and slurring their words so much it was impossible to make out what they were trying to say.  They banged on the (lockless) door at midnight and at 6 in the morning.  I was often alone in the house as my friends went to comfort families of the people who had died. I sat on “my” bed in the back corner of the house and wrote frantically in my fieldwork journal, trying to stay ahead of my own thoughts. I became irrationally convinced that I would never make it back to Fairbanks. I also knew that I was having a big bad case of culture shock and was probably not handling it well. I didn’t care. All I knew was that I had strayed way too far out of my comfort zone and I wanted to get back. I wanted to talk to Bill, but there was no way to do that, except at a public phone, where I would be overheard. 

 After what was unquestionably the longest week of my life, the day of my departure arrived.  It had not been a very successful week, as far as my goals to meet people went, other than the first day, when I was paraded around as a novelty. I did meet with one woman, who worked in some official capacity, but she was kind of suspicious of the work I wanted to do. This is unsurprising in retrospect. The situation in Alaska was changing at the time and Native groups and people were starting to be more clear about telling White researchers to back off. I hadn’t realised this when I’d arrived, but the department I was working out of was just starting to transition to Russian studies more than Alaska Native studies as a result. Native people didn’t like the colonial nature of the university and the people working there—a view I rapidly came to share. So on some level, I knew I would have to rethink some things, but at the moment, I just wanted to go home.

My friend went into her freezer in the yard and got out a big salmon for me to take home—for Bill, she said.  She had no box so she put it in a trash bag and used the one thin strip of duct tape she had to close it.  I thanked her for everything and went to the airport.  I was there before the building opened.  I waited by the door with my suitcase and my fish. All week, the radio had been making announcements about cancelled flights and I was terrified that mine would be another one.

   When the ticket agent arrived to open up, she looked at me as though I was the strangest person she had ever seen.  She said it would take her a few minutes to get her computer set up.  I told her that was just fine—I was extra friendly as if that would help ensure that I would get out.  She told me I needed a box for the fish.  I was about to thrust it at her and ask if she wanted it when she told me I could buy one for $10.  She was very apologetic, but I cheerfully told her that would be great and please give me a receipt.  My grant would pay for the box, thought I would have happily paid it myself.  Before long I was officially checked in.  I thought my knees were going to buckle I was so relieved.  The plane was coming and when it left again, I’d be on it!!  YIPPEE!!

    As we taxied down the runway and lifted off, I was repeating, “Thank you, thank you, thank you” in my head like a mantra.  The next thing I remember I was in Anchorage and my name was being called. I went up to the desk and they asked me if I’d mind sitting in first class on the flight to Fairbanks.  I said that would be no problem and inquired whether anyone ever refused this request. They said sometimes people who travel together don’t want to be split up. Not a problem for me and in fact I would have sat in the cargo hold if it meant getting home, but there I was in Row 1 while the extra solicitous flight attendant asked me if she could get me a beverage before the others got on the plane. I was rather amused when I asked for coffee. I had not showered in a week—just taken sponge baths when the house was empty and washed my hair in the yard.  When I went to use the bathroom on the plane, the door reached the floor.  I was getting into more familiar territory.

    I was first off the plane in Fairbanks and my husband was waiting.  As we waited for the suitcase and the fish, I began to tremble.  We were almost home when he asked me, “Well, how was it?”  I burst into tears and sputtered, “It was HORRIBLE!”  He looked at me in shock.  We got home. I greeted our daughter and got into a very hot shower.  I began to scrub my body while the tears that were still flowing scrubbed away the fear, discomfort and disappointment that my own naïve ideas about what village life was like were shattered.  The relief I felt that it was over continued to wash over me long after my shower.  I didn’t stop trembling for a long time and I have never forgotten the pain that I witnessed in Village.

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 2

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 2

(all names have been changed and all photos are by Shari Burke)

Note: This essay is about my own culture shock and is not in any way intended to be disparaging towards the people in Village. The conditions there are complex and I am not being critical of the place or the people. My focus is on my own mindset and shortcomings in this situation.

At the end of July, I boarded the plane for Anchorage—passengers in the back half, cargo in front. I do not remember any of the trip to Anchorage or from there to Village, but somehow I got there and was met at the airport by my friends.  We went to their house and had coffee, then went around town to meet various family members and friends.  Everyone knew I was coming and I was quite a novelty—Kuukpiaq—this white woman who could eat Eskimo food and speak some Inupiaq.  Fortunately for me, there was no niqipiaq—just vats of coffee—although this would change. 

After visiting several homes, we were in the last one for the day and when asked if I wanted coffee, I said, ‘No, thank you, I’ve had a lot today.’ I can drink a lot of coffee without issue, but I’d had so much on that day that I was feeling jittery and I didn’t need any more jitters! Nevertheless, when I was handed a cup of coffee a few minutes later, I took it and said thank you. The next morning, I was told that, since there was no running water in my friends’ house, I should go back to that house and tell them I wanted to take a shower. I was really unhappy about this, but my friend would not have it any other way, so I took a towel and walked over there, hoping more fervently with each step that they would not be at home. They weren’t.

 

I learned quickly how unusual I was.  Village is extremely segregated—Native people live on one side of town and white people, who are virtually all government employees with agencies like Bureau of Land Management and the Park Service lived on the other.  They were not wanted in town and people were suspicious of them. They had good reason to be suspicious of the government agencies, although many of the people working in them meant well. Sometimes whites and Natives mingled at the grocery store, but mostly, they just stayed in “their” parts of town.  My presence in the Native section raised some eyebrows and earned me some hostile stares from people.  My excitement began to dissipate a little and my nervousness grew.

On a practical level, I was learning to overcome some more discomfort.  The house my friends lived in was essentially a plywood room with curtains hung up in front of the beds.  Since there was no running water or septic, the “bathroom” was a bucket next to the furnace in a tiny alcove.  There was a piece of plywood over the bucket with a hole and a toilet seat.  The bucket was lined with a plastic garbage bag and when it was full it was taken into the yard and a new bag was put in.  This is called a “honey bucket” in Alaska.  It is a common system in rural areas.  That was fine—I expected something like that.  What I was completely unprepared for was the fact that the door didn’t reach the floor!  It was about two feet short.  I had never before had to attempt going to the bathroom behind half a door while people were sipping tea a few feet away!!  I began to time my beverage intake so that I could use public restrooms while we were out, but sometimes that didn’t work.  I had to just deal with my discomfort, which wasn’t the worst of it in any case.

 

I had only been there a couple of days when the dying began.  There were three deaths in town the week I was there—a very large number in such a small place.  The first one was a 17-year-old girl who was somehow related to my friends. She died when the minivan she was drag racing in (on a gravel road) flipped over.  I was asked to go along and give my condolences to the family since they were relatives and I was Kuukpiaq.  I went along, and felt awful.  They had never met me, but I was introduced as Kuukpiaq. They glared at me. As I murmured how sorry I was about their loss, I was trying to take in the house.  We walked into a kitchen, which was a plywood room with a cooler on the floor. There was nothing else. A filthy sheet was hanging up beyond that blocking off part of the house.  Everyone was congregated in a narrow dark room with a bed at each end, a couch against the wall and a TV, VCR and cable hook-up on the other wall.  I looked down and saw I was standing in piles of dirt and cigarette butts. I was no longer excited.  I was sad and scared—not an uncommon thing in a new fieldwork situation.

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 1

photo by Shari Burke

Adventures in Fieldwork Part 1

When I started my PhD studies at the university in Fairbanks, my original intention was to learn about the ideology of motherhood in Inupiaq culture. I’d just done my MA research on the same topic with white, suburban women and I was interested to see what was different and what was the same. I knew this would entail fieldwork in a village, if I could work it out with some residents of a village. I was open as to the exact location. When the new Inupiaq teacher arrived and named me after her sister, it seemed reasonable to try to work with her in her village. She was excited about this, so I proceeded in that direction. My advisor was all for it, as there was almost no work published about the area, which I will just call ‘Village’ here. She advised me to plan for a preliminary trip to Village to try to make contacts and set things up for a longer stay in future, and to apply for a particular grant to fund this trip. I worked with my teacher and her husband on the plan and budget.

I applied for and received the grant to go to fish camp for three weeks in the summer.  I would fly to Village, and we would go on a boat across to the mainland and then by 4-wheeler to camp.  I was excited about the prospect, but nervous about doing something like that.  It was far different than anything I had ever done in my life.  I gave my friends the money they said they needed for gas and oil and I shipped food to Village.  They had gone back there when the semester was over and were preparing for my arrival.  They were also planning something I did not know about—at least right away.

photo by Shari Burke

Our friends had kicked the booze in the past, but the stress of the year in Fairbanks had driven them to start drinking again and things were kind of weird when they were drunk. About 4 days before I was to leave, I got a phone call asking me to plan on bringing several cases of beer and large jugs of wine with me—not the small bottles, they emphasized—the big ones.  Village was a damp village-you could bring alcohol in but you could not buy it in town. My nervousness ballooned into near panic.  Was I really expected to travel from Fairbanks to Anchorage to Village with cases of beer and jugs of wine as my luggage?  Did they think that I would feel good about going to a very remote and inaccessible place where there would be guns, knives, strangers, and lots of booze?  But if I didn’t go, I’d have to pay back the grant and some of that money was gone already!  And what about their feelings?  Could I actually tell them that I was scared to go with them because they’d be drinking?  When my advisor invited me to her home for tea and a chat before I was to leave, I told her about the situation and she was very alarmed. She did not come right out and say, ‘Don’t go.’ but she strongly suggested I should not put myself in that situation. Her husband was also on my committee and he called me later that day, telling me that Fiona (my advisor, not her real name) had said that I was aware of the dangers of sexual assault in such situations (I was). He was also strongly suggesting that I not make the trip. I talked it over with Bill, who was also worried and I decided I was not going to go to fish camp. I needed a new plan, because I knew they would not be able to give me back the grant money I’d already given them. Things were also complicated by the fact that they had no phone and to get in touch with them, I had to call the radio station and have them broadcast a message to my teacher so she could then call me from a pay phone. 

I did this and told them that I was not going to bring booze with me and I was not going to fish camp. They were disappointed, and I think they felt bad.  There was relief all around when I managed to change my ticket and make plans to spend a week in town, trying to meet people.  I told them they could keep the oil and gas money if I could stay at their house and we’d call it rent.  Things were back on track.

the knotty shop

spruce-burl sculptures outside the store

Salcha just south of Fairbanks

a caribou or deer?

a mosquito

 

a moose?

pearl

One day several months after we’d moved to Fairbanks, for reasons that must forever remain a mystery to me, Bill took our daughter to the Humane Society ‘just to look around.’  This was not the first time this had happened. One of the cats that made the journey with us joined our family after such a visit. So it was no surprise that upon their return, there was discussion about the highly intelligent cat who knew a good thing when she saw it and reached out a delicate paw between the bars of her cage, to touch our daughter as she walked by. That’s all it took for Daughter to be smitten. Her birthday was coming up. Could we adopt Pearl? Please?

I am sure no one reading this will be surprised to learn that they went back, signed all the papers, and agreed to be humble servants to another feline boss. And boss is the word. Pearl made it known from the start that she was in charge and everyone else could either obey (humans) or get out of her way (canine and feline). 

She was not in a great mood by the time she entered her new home. It was standard procedure to give each adopted animal a tattoo in the ear so they could be identified if they got lost. Unfortunately, there was a mishap with the ink gun, which exploded, spewing ink over half of her face. When she was placed on the floor of her new castle, Inu, the 150-pound dog, went to say hello. Pearl greeted him with a whack in the face. When we saw the blood, we thought she had gotten him in the eye, but she made contact just next to it. The parameters of their relationship were set.

Pearl was an adult when she hired us and set in her ways. None of our other cats were outdoor cats, but there was no way to keep Pearl inside. Because we lived on three wooded acres in a place without much traffic, she was safe. She would go outside even in the extreme cold of winter.  

One thing she liked to do was sit on the stovepipe of the sauna cabin, surveying her territory. When she was ready to come in, she would sit on the outside windowsill glaring at us until someone noticed and rushed to let her in. If we did not hurry to the door quickly enough, she got down, stood on her hind legs and scratched at the window with her front paws while meowing (not that we could hear her). We started calling out, ‘Code P!’ when this would happen and we’d let Daughter take care of it. Then we got a gift that came in quite handy for such moments.

Someone gave us a torch (flashlight) that included a radio and a siren/alarm setting, complete with flashing light. Once we had that, whenever Pear was scratching at the window, one of us would yell, ‘Code P!’ and set the alarm off. ‘I know!’ Daughter would grumble as she stomped towards the door to let in she-who-must-be-obeyed.

Some years later, Daughter moved away and we moved to a cabin in a town 20 miles away, where we lived for about a year. When it was time for us to move from there, we were unsure at first about where we would go and what our situation would be, so we reluctantly placed ads looking for good homes for the three cats. The first couple to answer the ad came to see them. In addition to Pearl, we had two more rescues who had come to us as adults and who were already declawed. Pearl was not declawed. The couple had a baby. The wife insisted she wanted Pearl, even though Pearl was not friendly towards her. They took Pearl with them. A few days later, another couple came to see the other two cats, one black and one white. They also had small children. Everyone was thrilled—they wanted cats for the kids, but didn’t want kittens. The cats were friendly. They adopted both of them.

#

A couple of weeks later, I was sitting in my usual chair reading the newspaper. On Saturdays, they published the ‘pet of the week’ at the Humane Society. I called up to Bill, who was upstairs, that there was a cat that looked like Pearl in the paper and I started reading the accompanying story. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘This doesn’t just LOOK like Pearl! It IS Pearl,’ I exclaimed. Bill came rushing down the ladder-like ‘stairs’ to have a look. Then we called the Humane Society and talked to someone there, saying we’d be there soon to pick her up. We found out that the people who took her brought her there the very next day because she’d scratched the baby. Why they didn’t call us and say it wasn’t going to work out, I don’t know. We would have taken her back.

We got in our truck and made the drive to Fairbanks. Our first stop was Fred Meyer, so we could pick up cat food, another litter box, and some cat litter, since we’d given those things to the family who adopted the other cats. Then we went to the Humane Society, where they brought us to Pearl. She gave us a look and started meowing. We paid the fees, filled out paperwork and waited while they looked for her tattoo. The women at the Humane Society were happy Pearl was going home, but they also said they’d miss her. ‘She has such a personality. She’s like, like, a Queen!’ And so she became from that moment onward. I started calling her Queen. She seemed to be fine with that.

a cold day on the river

One day, my Inupiaq Eskimo language teacher asked me if I had a parka. I said I didn’t. She said she’d make me one. When she gave it to me, I was stunned. It was beautiful. Purple is my favourite colour, so she used purple velveteen for the outer layer, with a trim that went well with the deep colour. There was a layer in the middle and a lavender fleece fabric layer inside. It had a hood with a ruff made of wolf fur and it could be tied in such a way that there was just enough space for me to see out of, with the rest of my face protected from the extreme cold. The sleeves were tight at the wrists and lined with wolverine fur, to keep out the cold. The bottom edge tapered in for the same reason. She’d asked me if I wanted a ruffle at the bottom or not and I chose to not have one—either way was common for Inupiaq-style parkas.

One day we were visiting her. I wore the parka, of course. She commented that she should have made it warmer, but I assured her that it was perfect just as it was. The truth was, if she’d made it warmer, I would not have been able to wear it. If it was -30 or -35 (F), I could wear it unzipped, otherwise I would overheat. If it was colder than that, I could wear it as it was meant to be worn, as in the photo. On that day, it was very cold (-45 or below)--perfect for the start of the Yukon Quest sled dog race, which is what we were in town to watch.

The Yukon Quest is a sled dog race run between Fairbanks and Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory. They alternate directions each year—so it starts in Fairbanks on the frozen Chena River every other year. That year, I was glad to have my parka, my handmade mukluks, and my heavy mittens—and the latte I got from the coffee shop!

Bill on his way to the start of the race after parking the truck

spectators lining up on the bridge over the Chena River to watch the start of the Yukon Quest 1000 mile race.  It ends in Whitehouse, Yukon Territory.

The statue is Malcolm Alexander's “Unknown First Family,” which in his words is “Portraying the family of all mankind, the family of Fairbanks, and the nuclear family, let this statue symbolize, for families present and future, the pride and dignity of this great land.”

seasonal round

 

What Goes Around Comes Around

June, month of light; it never gets dark

I am up early and go to bed late.

I watch the sun move in a circle around the sky,

Changing the color of the birch leaves

Who knew there were so many shades of green?

July, endless summer and it’s getting old.

The days never end, 

The mosquitoes have gone.

I am tired of the sun.

I am tired of green.

I am tired.

August.  

Here comes the rain again bringing the colors with it.

Mushrooms poke their yellow and red heads from the brown earth,

While high bush cranberry leaves blush crimson red.

Every morning I go outside and breathe in deeply,

Hoping to feel the first bite of fall filling my lungs,

As a golden birch leaf falls silently to my feet.

September’s golden hills surround me.

I walk on a carpet of yellow leaves

That have let go of summer and have fallen like the sun

Finally we have night again.

October and the world is transformed from dead brown

To crystal white as the snow falls magically from a gray sky.

It is time to hibernate with my candles,

And my Christmas lights,

And my books and yarn,

And myself.

November, December—darker and darker,

 I feel more and more joyful with each passing day.

The peace and tranquility of the dark mornings

Fill me with gratitude for all I have,

And all that I am.

I sit and enjoy the silence and give thanks.

January and the light returns,

Six more minutes each day.

Outside in my purple parka on a clear –40 degree day,

Even my breath is brittle.

It feels like it will shatter and crash to the ground in tiny pieces

To blend with the snow that crunches under my feet 

Sparkling like a carpet of diamonds.

April and May and winter gives way.

The white melts into brown, as my mood turns black.

Piles of filthy snow sit in parking lots and along roadways.

Driveways and dirt roads become lakes of mud.

I can hear the mosquitoes breeding.

Turning my face to the sky,

I desperately search,

Hoping to see a faint wash of green against the blue,

That tells me the birch leaves are budding

And will soon be back.

Are there really that many shades of green?

being peace

BEING PEACE

Thanksgiving decorations

seem strangely

out of place

here

where the harvest has been

over for months and

the red and gold

leaves

have been smothered by the snow

that will be here until

April

overstaying its welcome.

The morning is cold, dark, and still

except for the manic chickadees

swooping to the feeder,

grabbing a seed and

flying away.

Wrapping myself in a shawl

I take my seat by

the window.

Cradling my cup of tea

I hold the mug to

my face

Letting my breath mingle with

the wispy tendrils of heat

escaping from the mug

into the air.

I feel the peace wrapping itself

around me 

and

flowing into me.

I watch the candle flames dance

to the peaceful sounds

of the chants that

flow from the 

stereo

no other light but that of my own

contentment.

In a while I will pick up some

reading

or some

knitting

but for now

I will just sit here

being peace

and radiating joy.

moose crossing

When we went to Fairbanks to find a place to live, one thing we noticed right away was the many moose crossing signs. They were everywhere. We eagerly awaited our first moose sighting. Alas, we did not see one moose on that trip, nor did we see one during the first few months after we’d moved there. We had met our neighbours, who lived down the road a bit, and mentioned our eagerness to see some moose. One night, they called to tell us that a moose was headed our way. We went directly to the large windows and waited. Then, all of a sudden, there it was! The tall, gangly being, slowly walking among the trees looking for something to munch on. We watched with rapt attention. I am not sure how long we stood there.

After living there for a while, moose sightings became commonplace and it was kind of sad to realise that. We just took them for granted We still enjoyed watching them, and we knew to respect them, because you don’t want to get between a mama moose and her offspring. She has a mean kick that can do serious damage and has killed small dogs. Our neighbours had a garden and they had to try to make a moose-proof fence. I chuckled, remembering my Nana, who used to see the deer in her large garden and would keep a pot and wooden spoon by the back door for just such moments. I vividly remember her storming out the door, banging on the pot and yelling, ‘You deer get out of my garden!’ I’m not sure how she would have dealt with moose munching on her veggies!

We had large windows in our round house and we had our dining table next to one of them. One morning, I turned around with my coffee and saw a moose on the porch looking in the window at my breakfast.

I loved winter mornings in that house. I would sit by one of the windows that looked out down the driveway, a curved path cut through the trees. It would not get light until 10:30 or 11, depending on the month, and I would sit drinking tea, listening to quiet music, and stitching or reading, stopping frequently to just look out the window. I had icicle lights hanging down in the windows, which were double-paned, so the lights were reflected in them, providing enough light, but not too much. I had candles burning. 

The cats would sleep in their improvised cat cabins, made out of boxes and set in front of the heater. The dogs napped on the floor in front of the heater. It was quiet. As sunrise slowly approached, the birds would come to the feeder, the squirrels would attempt to steal some seed (but never succeeded) and the moose would come. It was so blissfully peaceful.

Our dog, Inu, also liked the moose, but in a different way. One day, our Inupiaq Eskimo friends came to visit, bringing him the gift of a moose bone. He was thrilled and strutted around the house. But we apparently did not make enough enthusiastic noises to suit him, and he started whining as he marched around the house with the giant bone hanging from his mouth. We started making exclamations of delight in our high pitched voices. ‘Oh, what do you have there?’ ‘What a big bone!’ ‘What an excellent bone!’ After a minute or two of this, he was satisfied and settled down with his treat.

Sadly, it was pretty common for moose to get hit by cars and killed. When this happened, the list was consulted. I am not sure who kept this list, but it consisted of people and groups that signed up to come to the scene when a moose was killed by a vehicle. They butchered the moose and kept or distributed the meat, so it did not go to waste.

They are definitely magnificent creatures! 

water 4

After about a year of this, it got old, and we decided to start going to the laundromat and to get water from a place closer to town.  It cost two cents a gallon there, where the other place was free, but it was closer so we used less gas, and it was easier.  You could pull right up and they had hoses, like at the gas station.  It was right near where Bill worked, so it was convenient—and it meant no more getting up early on Sunday morning!

    About nine months later, Bill tried again to get someone to go into the tank and fix the hole.  He had tried when the hole was first discovered and no one would do it.  I can’t say I blame them—the only way into the tank was through a small opening about 18 inches across.  Then the person would have to stand in there with a torch and weld a new piece of metal over the hole!  The thought of being in that tank, with such a tiny opening with flame and smoke makes me queasy!  But this time, he found someone who would do it. Of course, by this time, the pump was frozen, as was the line to the house.  And the water heater was shot, so we had to get those things fixed.  Finally, one day, we turned on the faucet, and out came water!  It was weird.  So we tried to get used to having water once again.  It didn’t last long.  By this time we were selling the house and the new one we bought had a septic system, but no running water.  We knew how to live like that—we’d had lots of practice.  So we were back to hauling water.  We knew though, that we had it easier than people who don’t have septic systems.  We had an indoor bathroom and drains and things like that.  

We could take something like a shower in our own house, and we could stay inside to go to the bathroom, instead of trudging through the snow at –45 degrees to use the outhouse.  Because of that, it really wasn’t that bad to be without running water.  In some ways, it was easier.  We never had to worry about running out of water because we could always see how much we had and go get it ourselves when we needed more.  It was much cheaper to get it ourselves than to have it delivered.  And our electric bill plummeted.  It is amazing how much electricity we had used in our first years there simply for water!  We never had to worry about pipes freezing or plugging in the heat tape.  It was annoying at times, but it was satisfying in a way too.  I felt that I was living in a more basic way somehow.  The water wasn’t the only reason for that—I had gotten to a place where I was eliminating lots of extraneous stuff from my life, and running water became one more thing that was eliminated.  And I suppose I felt somewhat virtuous—I was conserving, and conserving a lot!  As a family of three, we used less than 100 gallons of water per week in the house, plus whatever we used to do our one load of laundry at the laundromat.  It was a real learning experience, and one I am rather glad I had!  It helped me to understand that what we commonly think of as “necessary” can usually be revised!

water 3

Things went along like that for several years.  Again we thought we were doing such a good job using water wisely.  Then we got to go to the next level.  One day I was doing dishes when there was a drop in water pressure.  From past experience, I knew that this meant the pump was not pumping water into the house.  Bill went to investigate and what he found was a flood!  The underground room was knee deep in water!  That meant the tank had sprung a leak.  It was December 30 and cold, but thankfully, not as cold as it could have been!  He called a rental place to try and rent a pump.  He explained the situation and the guy took pity on him, I guess.  He said they don’t usually rent out pumps in the winter because people bring them back frozen, but since technically we would not be using it outside, he would make an exception.  By the time we got the pump home and started pumping, it was 3 p.m.  We finished at midnight.  By the time the water was pumped out of the room, there was still some left in the tank, so I filled as many containers as I could find to get us through the next few days.  This began the next stage in our water adventure!

The next day we returned the pump and then went to buy some water containers.  We found seven, six, and five gallon jugs.  Then we went to find the spring that we had heard people talking about.  We discovered that we had driven by it without knowing what it was on several occasions.  

We pulled up, parked and brought our jugs up to the spigots.  There were two of them on a little platform over the spring.  We pressed a metal button and water came out of the spigot—sometimes fast and sometimes slow—it depended on the water level and whether both spigots were in use.  Once it was full, I went to pick up the six-gallon jug and almost fell down!  It was so heavy!  I had no idea water weighed so much!  And, to make matters worse, the place was a sheet of ice—all uneven and bumpy, with no traction at all.  Under the spigots was a metal grate so ice wouldn’t build up so fast, but around that was like this hill of ice and you had to kind of brace yourself against that to get the water.  It was always a nerve-wracking time, trying to get those full containers back to the truck.  And if people came up after you, instead of waiting by their vehicles, they had to line up their containers right behind you, so there was no room to move.  I grew to hate going there.  The water was really good, but the experience was tedious—at least in the winter.  

The metal button was cold, though someone showed us how to shove a penny in there to keep it depressed—that was good for my frozen fingers!  It was icy and sometimes crowded, and people were inconsiderate.  It was treacherous to try to get from the truck to the water and back to the truck.  And in order to beat the crowds, we got up very early on Sunday morning to get there.  It took an hour altogether from the time we left to the time we got back.    If, for some reason, we used more water than usual, we had to make an extra trip.  We were very careful with water.  We heated a kettle of water for dishes and for “showers.”  We learned to wash with even less water.  We used about a gallon to “shower.”  It took a long time to do things now that you had to wait for the water to heat up.  Instead of jumping in the shower, we had to heat up the water and mix it with colder water to get the right temperature.  Then we had to be very careful once we were in there washing up, because once that hot water was gone, there wasn’t any more.  To do dishes we filled a dishpan with hot water washed them all, then rinsed from the beverage cooler thing we had on the counter by the sink.  It had a little spigot, and that served as our “running water” for the sink.  Cooking changed because we never wanted to produce large amounts of dirty dishes—they were a pain to clean.  For a while, I even was doing the laundry by hand.  That was quite something in the winter—hanging dripping wet clothes outside on the clothesline and watching them steam until they froze, leaving icicles hanging from them.

water 2

So began our experience with water in Fairbanks.  We became very aware of every single drop we used.  It is one thing to pay your city water and sewer bill every three months and not pay much attention to it.  But when you have to constantly keep an eye on the water level in your tank and pay 6 cents per gallon (now currently 9 cents per gallon) when it gets too low, you have a different perspective!  As it turns out, our well produced a lot sometimes and very little at other times, so we never knew when we would need a delivery.  Bill would go down every couple of days and check the level in the tank.  In time, he was able to recognize the level at which an order for 1000 gallons of water should be called in for the next day.  In the winter, we usually went a few months between deliveries; at other times of the year it was more like three weeks.  One summer we went only nine days between deliveries.  That was expensive!     

 

Some people in town put tanks of 300-500 gallons in the back of their pick-up trucks or on trailers and they hauled water themselves.  They would go to the water station and pay two cents a gallon to fill their tank and then bring it home and fill the holding tank in their house.  We didn’t have the equipment for that, so we paid the extra to have it delivered to our house—and it certainly was convenient to have them do that when it was –40 outside.  We had one mishap when we ordered 1000 gallons (as we always did) and for some unknown reason, they pumped 1300 gallons into the tank—and all over the floor of the underground room.  We had to rent a pump to clean up the mess.  Still, we got used to things.

  We learned to take fast showers and to get wet, turn off the water, soap up, turn the water back on, rinse, and get out.  This was not as bad as you might think when taking a shower in the morning.  The bathroom was cold and standing there wet was not something I cared to spend lots of time doing!  It became second nature to us to turn off the water when brushing teeth, or washing dishes, and to simply be mindful when we were using water for any purpose.  It was a somewhat difficult transition for the Norwegian exchange student we had one year, who was used to 20-minute (literally) showers at home where there is water everywhere.  She also had to learn to turn off the lights when she left the room, which annoyed her mother to no end when she returned home.  Since they use water to produce their electricity, they pay virtually nothing for it, so they leave lights on all the time.  Even she got used to it, though I am sure she was happy to get back to her long, steamy showers when she returned home!

rest time

Inu taking a rest from being in the truck

As it turned out, our hard-found loaf of bread was unnecessary.  Our first clue that we were not out of the woods came at a stop for road construction where we were first in line.  The girl holding the stop sign came up to the window to tell us how long we’d have to wait for the pilot car.  Then she saw the tire.  “Ooooh, that doesn’t look good,” she informed us, “I’d get that fixed in Tok if I were you.  I don’t even think you’ll make it over the big rocks ahead.”  Unsure how we were supposed to get the tire fixed in Tok when we were not even going to make it out of the construction zone, my response was to put my head against the seat back and begin to cry.  Meanwhile, the cheerful stop sign girl had gone back to warn Rick that he should stay well behind us because clearly that tire was going to explode and send us careening off the road.  If he didn’t want to go with us, he should keep his distance!

  The pilot car came; we drove through the construction zone; and we were soon back on paved road.  The tire did not explode and we did not go flying over the embankment.  Maybe we’d make it to Tok after all!  Before we could get there, of course, we’d have to endure another border crossing, though.

The text is written by Shari and the photos were taken by me

border crossing

 we are now in Canada, onward toward Alaska.

As we all climbed into the trucks on that sunny afternoon, we certainly felt that the universe was with us.  Sure, we were starting out several hours later than we’d planned, but the weather was nice, the animals were safely in their spots, and we’d managed to fit all of the important things in the U-Haul—with a great deal of rearranging and creative positioning!!

  And so we pulled away from the curb and began our journey into a new life.  Bill was driving the U-Haul, which was being co-piloted by our daughter Helen and myself.  Rick and his son Kevin were in our truck.  We had all the of papers we needed to get the people and animals across the border—identification, a letter of permission from Kevin’s mother, truck registrations, house papers, proof of rabies vaccines, etc.

  We stopped at a rest area for a picnic supper and walked and watered the dog.  We tried to be patient as we sat in traffic trying to get past Seattle.  We stopped just before the border to fill the gas tanks.  Then we hit customs.

As we all climbed into the trucks on that sunny afternoon, we certainly felt that the universe was with us.  Sure, we were starting out several hours later than we’d planned, but the weather was nice, the animals were safely in their spots, and we’d managed to fit all of the important things in the U-Haul—with a great deal of rearranging and creative positioning!!

  And so we pulled away from the curb and began our journey into a new life.  Bill was driving the U-Haul, which was being co-piloted by our daughter Heather and myself.  Rick and his son Kevin were in our truck.  We had all the of papers we needed to get the people and animals across the border—identification, a letter of permission from Kevin’s mother, truck registrations, house papers, proof of rabies vaccines, etc.

We stopped at a rest area for a picnic supper and walked and watered the dogs.  We tried to be patient as we sat in traffic trying to get past Seattle.  We stopped just before the border to fill the gas tanks.  Then we hit customs.

 We pulled up and provided our IDs.  We told the guy in the booth that the truck behind us was ours and that our friend had permission to drive it.  He also had the papers for the animals in the back.  Mr. Customs Official didn’t seem to care much about that, though.  He seemed intently focused on whether any of us in the U-Haul had any pepper spray.  This was unexpected, but we kept a polite demeanor as we repeated our “no” answer over and over again to various forms of the question, “And you don’t have any pepper spray?”  At the point where I was starting to wonder if I had missed an important question somewhere, we were instructed to pull forward, park the U-Haul, and proceed into the customs building.  Rick, Kevin, and all of the animals seemed far less suspicious than we did, apparently, since they were waved through with barely a glance.

 The three of us marched into the building.  I was toting my soft briefcase style bag that had all of our papers.  We were directed to a window where we were asked a series of questions in rapid-fire succession: “where are you going?” “ What are you going to do there?” “You are both going to school?” “How much money do you have?” “ How long will you be in Canada?” To the last question I was tempted to respond that while I wasn’t even in Canada yet, I had high hopes that my stay would be a very short one.  I held my tongue instead.  I responded that we would be in Canada only as long as it took to get through it and into Alaska.  This was apparently a satisfactory answer, because we were directed to another window on the other side of the building where, astonishingly, we got to start all over with the same questions!  I began to consider the possibility that we had entered the twilight zone or were on Candid Camera.  When I thought I would not be able to contain my irritation any longer, our third interrogation came to an end and we were allowed to leave.  We were not quite finished yet, however.

 Outside examining the U-Haul was yet another friendly customs agent.  He instructed Bill to open the back of the truck and me to “step back on the curb, ma’am.”  As Bill slid the door up, we were hoping that our precariously piled up belongings would not come crashing down on the guy’s head.  Who knows how long we’d have to stay then!    Fortunately, things were wedged so tightly in there that no shifting had occurred and everything stayed where it was.  Mr. Customs picked up a few things and looked them over.  He turned to Bill.  “I could take this whole thing apart, you know—take everything out of here,” he said.  “I know you could,” Bill replied wearily.  I stood there silently on the curb thinking, “Aren’t you a big, tough asshole.”  Mr. Customs looked at me.  “Do you have any pepper spray?” he asked.  Not trusting myself to open my mouth, I simply shook my head, leaving Bill to answer with yet another “no.”  After peering at us for a minute and considering whether he had asserted enough authority, he said, “Welcome to Canada.  Enjoy your stay.”  Oh yeah, great to be here!

We climbed back into the U-Haul only to discover that they had searched Helen’s backpack.  We buckled up quickly and took off before they could change their minds and decide to tear everything apart in a hunt for that elusive pepper spray.     

  Thankful to be past that hurdle, we decided that since it was starting to get dark, we would look for a place to stop for the night.  We had no luck so after a couple more hours; we decided to simply stop at the next rest area.  Naturally, none of those appeared right away, either.  After what seemed like an eternity, we finally spotted a place.  We got as comfortable as we could—Bill and Inu (the dog) were on the ground behind the U-Haul, while Helen and I slept in the cab.  Rick and Kevin slept in our truck.  It wasn’t ideal, but at least we got some sleep and we were back on the road bright and early the next morning.

The text is written by Shari and the photos were taken by me