Nuka's Elegy (4/29/2016 - 2/18/2025)

Through tangled fields, your nose would lead,
Finding lost treasures with quiet speed.
No need for chains—your heart was free,
Bound by love and loyalty.

The Unalakleet called, and you would go,
Chasing the current, swift in its flow.
Sticks were treasures, carried back true,
Each one a promise, a gift from you.

Through tangled fields, your nose would lead,
Finding lost treasures with quiet speed.

A constant companion, on couch or trail,

Ready to please, never to fail.

No stranger you met, only friends on the way,
Your love was a light that never would stray.
You pressed against us, warm and near,
A steady presence through shadow and fear.

When days grew dark, you held me tight,
A warm, calm soul in the coldest night.
Your tail, a rhythm both sure and sweet,
An excited thump, a heartbeat's beat.

Meek and mild, yet strong and true,
A friend to all who knelt by you.
Children would gather, you’re name they’d call,
To roll in the grass and toss your ball.

Now silence lingers where paws once pressed,The echoes remain, though you're at rest.
In the whispering wind, in the river’s deep song,
I hear you, sweet Nuka, running along.

And though you've gone where we can't see,
Your spirit lingers quietly.
In rustling grass and skies so blue,
My sweet girl, we remember you.

My Big Story of Little Libraries

Sutton Public Library

I work from home as an English Professor teaching online classes. When we first moved to Sutton and were waiting for our internet to be installed, I went to the library every day to use an office space for work. The library is where I made my first friends. It’s where my husband and I attended our first community events. It’s where I joined the book club, then an exercise group, then Threads (a fiber artist group). It is where I found a place to serve and be served by my community.

It has grown into a space for a community garden, yearly summer picnic gathering space, Trunk or Treat location, and so much more. It became My community as I joined in on Ladies’ Movie Night featuring Barbie, silent auction fundraisers, and was invited to join Friends of the Sutton Library (our local library board) where I soon became President and then Vice Chairperson of the MatSu Borough Library Board.

When I was 10 years old, we moved from St. Louis to rural northern Wisconsin, Hayward. We lived in a house one block from Main Street, and the local public library was only four blocks away. I was tall for my age, head and shoulders above my classmates, quiet, and shy; I didn’t make friends easily, but I’d been born with a love for reading and writing. My home life with a new stepfather was rocky, at best. I spent many afternoons and weekends in the children’s section of the library, sitting snug in a corner under the big windows overlooking the hustle and bustle of Main Street. I discovered Laura Ingalls and Ramona Quimby, National Geographic World Magazine for kids, and everything written by Judy Blume.

Hayward's Carnegie Library

The Carnegie Library in Hayward was built in 1904 with funds from Andrew Carnegie and the townspeople of Hayward. Seventy-four years later, in that same library, I wasn’t bullied and there were no expectations placed on me. I was allowed to come and go as I pleased, leaving my bike parked outside on the bike rack while I lost myself for hours in imaginary worlds. As I moved into junior high school, I discovered Shakespeare and read his complete works before my first day of ninth grade, thanks to the public library.

I met one of my best high school friends in the school library during the lunch period one day that first week of ninth grade. Debbie, my only friend in the world, and I stopped into the library to the delight of our newly found freedom to roam the school during lunch and happened upon Sue, sitting at a table scattered with books and magazines. I recognized Sue from grade school, so we approached to see what she was doing. She told us that she was trying to find out if drinking alcohol was worse for the body than smoking marijuana. The three of us became fast friends.

School libraries continued to be important spaces to me as I finished high school and went to college, mostly relying on them for research and romance novels. However, if I’m being honest, I lost touch with libraries when I became a parent. My kids brought home library books from their schools which we read together, but my busy work and life schedule kept me from seeking out public libraries for many years. As a high school English teacher, I made time in the class schedule to take my students to the school library regularly, for pleasure reading and for research purposes. Still, I couldn’t have told you where the local public library was. However, I knew where all the popular bookstores were.

It wasn’t until I moved to Sutton five years ago that my need for a public library returned, and that need returned with a vengeance. I became involved in our local library just months before COVID hit and programming shut down. However, they still figured out a way for patrons to check out books remotely and, even though the doors were closed, the workers would wrap the books in plastic bags and place them on a table just outside of the door with the patrons’ names on them. When COVID passed and the doors reopened, I masked up and attended gatherings. Then, when restrictions eased and I joined the local and borough boards, it was just before the popularity of challenging books came into play, and that’s a story for another day!

Exhale: The Beginnings of a Story Started at The Tutka Bay Writers' Retreat, 2024

 As we pulled away from the dock, I could feel myself viscerally exhale. The anticipation of the peace and quiet, along with the creativity and adventure, that waited across the bay had me holding my breath coupled with the anxiety that followed me down the hillside into Homer.

I left Homer ten years ago with nothing more than my Jeep packed with everything I could stuff in the back seat and passenger front seat, and my dog tucked into the hatch storage area. Life there had not gone as planned, having moved there for a teaching position that was job-elimated due to funding after only 3 years, I floundered for 3 more before cashing in my teacher retirement to buy the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery and Cafe. The owner-financed loan agreement was unattainable and two years later, on the verge of bankruptcy, an empty bank account, and no retirement, I ran away from Homer with my tail between my legs. It was not my proudest moment, and I never look forward to coming to Homer because I’m afraid of running into previous employees that may still feel slighted by me. I’ve only been back twice, and both times were only to have lunch before boarding the water taxi to Tutka Bay. I don’t stop at any of the cute shops. I don’t have lunch in town with the locals. I don’t dare walk into a grocery store. I just head straight to the spit where I can blend in with the tourists, holding my breath as I scan the faces. So, the moment that boat pulls away from the dock, I allow myself to relax and breathe. Feeling the familiar ebbs and flows of the ocean current as we bob out of the marina and into the bay calm me. Water is my solace in a world of chaos. It’s so predictable and unpredictable at the same time. I can set my clock by the tides and breath more clearly facing the wind that swoops down off of Grewingk Glacier. Once, we were caught out in the bay, miles from the spit, when an unforecasted gale blew up, reminding me how unpredictable the sea can also be. So much like life, we control what we can and let the waves of time take the rest.

Home is Where Whiskey and Water Meet

The whiskey-colored slough at low tide reveals a teaming bed of life invisible at high tide. Murky and dense with moss and bull kelp, the wet scent of laundry that’s been left in the washing machine too long catches on my inhale. I give a little cough. 

What kind of barnacles or sea creatures are on those exposed rocks, do you suppose? She asks. Too small to be edible, I reply as I remember describing the taste of swan to fellow writers yesterday.

She laughs.

I walk on, continuing down the meandering boardwalk supported by soft logs 20 feet above the bottom of the slough. When the tide comes in, the change is drastic. The blueness of the icy bay waters blends with the bourbony slough, creating a murky dark green not unlike some of those smoothie drinks that the millennials carry as they walk across the Fairbanks campus.

The grassy undergrowth disappears and the tide brings with it a freshness, a newness that covers the damp laundry smell with a brininess, bringing with it fish and waterfowl. Nearly twelve hours will pass before the sea bottom reveals itself again, bearing new treasures, perhaps a starfish or some other sea creature that will make the long wait for the tide to come back in and carry them back home. Some will live out their life in the slough, having found a quiet place protected from the vast, and often violent, sea.

We are not so unlike these sea creatures. Some of us are swept into a foreign land, waiting for the chance to return to where we came from, home. Others find their home in the new land, forcing themselves to adapt and adjust, forever grateful for the safety and security that the new land offers, far away from the madness that was our life before. 

Moving to Alaska 17 years ago was not a decision that I made lightly; however, it had always been in my heart. I yearned for the far north, even when I lived in the extremeness of northern Wisconsin, I knew there was more. I let the tide take me to this foreign place where I found a safe harbor. I did not immediately find the safe harbor; I found myself being tossed and turned, broken and smoothed, not unlike the sea glass on the Bering Sea beaches. Persistence and a sense of adventure brought me finally to the arms of a man who is my forever, who is my safe harbor, who is my home.

Had I never taken that chance, at 40, no less, to see what lay beyond the horizon, I would have never found my home. Now, the tide takes me from one corner of this fast state to the other, showing me all of the beauty and blessings that abound in the Last Frontier. However, I always find my way back home to my safe space, my center of the universe, where I prefer whiskey in my glass.

The Joyful Journey of the King Cake

“Lassiez les bons temps rouler!” Let the good times roll! After spending eighteen years as an adult in Louisiana, from age twenty through thirty-eight, this saying is as much a part of spring as Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday). This year, Mardi Gras falls on Tuesday, February 13, and the weeks leading up to it are filled with food and fun that is grounded in centuries-old tradition. My favorite food tradition of Mardi Gras is the King Cake.

The first encounter with this circular confection is akin to stumbling upon a hidden treasure chest during a grand adventure. The vibrant colors of the sugary topping - purple, green, and gold - not only represent justice, faith, and power, respectively, but also symbolize the three wise men who followed the star to find the baby Jesus. Often filled with swirls of cinnamon, cream cheese, and/or pralines, this fattening concoction lives up to the pre-lent season’s reputation of carnival revelry. The most important feature of the King Cake is the small plastic baby figurine hidden within the layers of dough. This tiny treasure carries significant symbolism, representing baby Jesus, and the person who finds the baby in their slice of cake is bestowed with good luck, designated as the king or queen of the festivities, and has to bring the King Cake next time!

Beyond its delectable flavors, the King Cake carries layers of symbolism that prompt reflection on the essence of the celebration. The plastic baby reminds me of all of the hidden surprises that life offers and the interconnectedness of joy and community. The cake also serves as a reminder that traditions are fluid, dynamic, and capable of evolving while still retaining their core essence. As I move forward during this Carnival season, my friends on Facebook posting pictures of the hundreds of parades and multiple King Cakes, I am grateful for the time I spent and the friends I made in such a unique part of the United States.

Mardi Gras holds a special place in my heart as I recreate the decadent tradition of the King Cake. I have a friend who’s having a birthday party this weekend, and I think I’ll whip up a King Cake to share, but where to find a little plastic baby? At any rate, since food is my love language, “Lassiez les bons temps rouler!”

Just Trying to Escape the Pain

 My cardiologist recommended that I start taking one baby aspirin every day because of a sluggish artery and angina. I didn’t give it much thought until I took it out of the package and held the plastic bottle in my hand. My mind immediately zipped back to a time when I was 4 or 5 years old.

I remember kneeling on the top of the sink when I dropped the glass bottle in the sink. I don’t remember climbing up there, but I remember the yummy orange taste of the baby aspirin as I chewed a handful of it. My mom would give me an aspirin when I skinned my knee, and so, I associated it with pain, even though they tasted so good. 

That day, I was feeling a pain that I couldn’t explain to my mother because it partly included her. I had been up late, crying in bed as my parents yelled at each other in the living room, 10 feet from my bedroom door. The next day, my head hurt, but my heart hurt, too. I didn’t want my mother to know that I had heard them. Honestly, I was afraid of her. I was afraid that she would yell at me, like she had with my dad, and blame me for listening. Then, I remembered the orange-flavored baby aspirin.

When the glass bottle fell into the sink, it didn’t break, but it did make a lot of noise. I immediately heard my mother outside of the bathroom door, “Kathy? Kathy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” was not the right answer.

“Kathy, open this door now!” she yelled from the other side of the locked door. 

Shakily, I scrambled down from the counter and opened the door without thinking to shut the cabinet door or grab the empty bottle from the sink.

She immediately put two and two together and we were on the way to the hospital to have my stomach pumped.

I wouldn’t call it a suicide attempt, but I was trying to escape the pain, the emotional pain as much as the physical pain of a dysfunctional household. It would be the first of many attempts to escape the pain.

To Be or Not to Be - Native Enough

 Bristol Bay Campus Land Acknowledgement: We honor the indigenous people of the Yu’pik, Dena’ina, Sugpiaq, and Unangan that have given their land for the education of their people. We recognize the Curyung Tribe of Dillingham whose land the main campus resides on. We recognize the indigenous tribes of Unalaska, Saint Paul, Togiak, New Stuyahok, and King Salmon for their contributions.

It has become common practice for every University meeting to begin with a verbal Land Acknowledgement.

I attended a webinar last week called “Beyond Land Acknowledgement.” We had been discussing this very topic in our weekly Bristol Bay Campus meetings about how to not let our reading of the Land Acknowledgement at the beginning of every meeting become rote, which I think it has become. My anticipation for the webinar was that it would provide meaningful conversation and perhaps even some practical suggestions about how to make our Land Acknowledgement have greater depth and sincerity. That is not where the conversation between the four indigenous speakers went. Instead, it veered off down the road of blame and even making fun of white Americans who, in one speaker’s words, think it’s cool to claim Native American status on college applications because they figure that they must have a Native American great grandmother or someone kin to that in their family tree. That’s when I left the webinar.

As one-eighth Blackfoot (my daughters, at one-sixteenth, even have enough quantum to live on a reservation), I take exception to that. No, I have never lived on a reservation. No, I do not have a tribal identification number. No, was not raised with Blackfoot traditions or culture. Finally, no, that does not make me less Native American than the obviously mixed-race man who was making those comments in the webinar.

This week, for my “Images of the North'' graduate literature class, we read The Right to be Cold by Sheila Watt-Cloutier. Even though my story is much different from Watt-Cloutier, whose children are equally as indigenous (or unindigenous, however one chooses to look at it), as I am, I commiserate with her struggle of not looking native enough. Breaking through those stereotypes, and even using them to her advantage, she was able to make great strides for her people as well as for people around the world. As for myself, for the previous three semesters, I was taking courses toward my PhD in Indigenous Studies at UAF but was feeling that I wasn’t native enough to continue down that path and stay true to my own background, which I’m very proud of and felt that it was being belittled. For that reason, I have switched directions in my studies. Will I go back? I don’t know. However, I will continue to make Climate Change a focal point in all courses that I teach, and I will continue to impress upon my students the importance of local, indigenous knowledge as we move forward into an uncertain future for our state and our planet.

Because I don’t have a tribal identification number, since my grandfather opted to live “white” rather than be moved to a reservation, which meant giving up all current and future government and tribal benefits for himself and his descendants, I have never been able to claim that status on a college or job application. So, that webinar speaker who made those claims does not know what he’s talking about, and in my grandfather’s words, “Never judge a man before you’ve walked a moon in his moccasins.”