Skin Deep

Christmas
(I never could pose as well as my mother.)

My friends always told me how beautiful my mother was. She was from the old south, rural Louisiana. She wore her hair teased with heavy makeup. She didn’t know how pretty she really was without all that extra color. Raven black, curly hair, almond shaped, green eyes, a sharp nose and high cheekbones compliments of her Daddy’s Blackfoot blood, copper colored skin speckled with freckles from her Mother’s Scotch-Irish side. She was a 5’7” beauty. Homecoming Queen in the 50’s. Toned legs that never showed one dimple of cellulite, even though her stomach had the typical post-birthing pooch.

“Don’t worry, the doctors can do wonders with plastic surgery nowadays,” was what my Aunt Carol told my mother when I was born. I had no chin and they were worried. My sharp, prominent chin grew in with a vengeance – a curse, I’m sure.

With my cousins, Annette and Tonja
(notice my "cocked" hip...)

“Your Momma’s beautiful.” That’s what they all said. I don’t remember ever having a friend who didn’t comment on how pretty my mother was.

The first time I saw my mother without make-up was when I was 5 years old and she was in the hospital after a car accident. I remember hiding behind my babysitter’s blue gingham skirt, not believing that was my mother in the hospital bed. Her nails, makeup and hair had always been perfect, my whole life. After a pin in her eyebrow, her jaw sewed back together, and a plastic surgery patch-up, the only difference was the missing dimple in her left cheek.

I was skinny – looked like I was an Ethiopian child – ‘least that’s what my mother said. My dark brown hair was straight as a board. My Momma tried to curl it but no matter how much hair spray she used, the curls fell out within 30 minutes. I couldn’t even stand straight. One hip was always cocked and my mother was frustrated with me every time pictures were made. I learned to lift my right heel off of the ground just enough to even my hips out so that I’d stay out of trouble. (I found out when I was 29 that I had one leg longer than the other and severe scoliosis – I’d adjusted myself all those years in an effort to live up to my mother’s expectations.)

An embarrassing perm, compliments of my mother.

I was 5’10” when I was 12 years old, weighing all of about 110 pounds, soaking wet. My mother was mortified. As I started high school, she bought me flat shoes and told me to be patient, that when I was 30, I’d still be tall and skinny, but the short little cheerleaders (who were currently dating the tall basketball players),…. Well, their asses would all spread out like fresh cow shit. No kidding. Those were her exact words.

The stage was set. I spent most of my adult years trying to be as beautiful as my mother wanted me to be, but I couldn’t do it. I was always tall and awkward, with a bad back, and a too-prominent chin.

Divorcing my father when I was nine, my mother went through three additional husbands over the next 15 years. I experienced abuse of every kind and my mother refused to see any of it. I spent every possible moment out of the house and never found comfort in my own home.

Me and my Girls, in Hawaii!

Those defining moments growing up left me feeling 2^nd place. However, I hope I’ve turned those tables around with my own daughters.  My girls’ friends have never said how beautiful I am, but they always love coming to my house because of the comfort found there. I’ve always put my daughters first, making sure they understand their worth inside and out. Having raised my girls on my own for over 13 years, I’ve always made them first in my life. I’ve been blessed with daughters as beautiful as my mother on the outside but their strength of character on the inside comes straight from me.

It’s true what they say – Beauty is only skin deep.

Solstice Story

I was invited to a Solstice party Saturday. Solstice is actually today, but the party was on the 17^th since the real Solstice falls in the middle of the week this year. We rallied around a bonfire that started at 3pm
(the sun sets at 4).
 

I’ll give you a moment to process that… outdoor party around a bonfire after dark in mid-December in Alaska…

The keg of local Red Knot from the Homer Brewing Company sat outside on the porch, chilling in the night air. Phaedra and Ticker were the ultimate hosts and everyone brought a dish. My stuffed mushrooms were added to the bounty of Rabbit Stew in a crockpot, Pork Egg Rolls, BBQ Ribs, and a Black Bean Cheese Dip brought in a cast iron dutch oven. The food was inside their cozy cabin, as was the box of Merlot.

The snowy rain from earlier in the day had abated just in time for the fire to be lit. Temps in the low 30’s. Smiles Davis (longtime friend of Ticker’s) was busily splitting wood to make sure the fire would last the night. In attendance were friends of both Ticker and Phaedra – I am fortunate to have known them both as friends before they even knew each other.

As I sipped my wine out of a red plastic cup, I dodged to and fro to avoid the sparks from the fire – didn’t want them speckling my new leather jacket – and I listened to typical Alaskan campfire tales. One in particular bears repeating…

As the story goes, Jack and Ticker were out at the moose camp. It’s nothing like the deer camps of the lower 48 where you park your pick-up outside the cabin and the next day, you walk ¼ mile to the deer stand. We do things a little different in Alaska. Their cabin is about 10 miles from the road where they park their trucks. That’s where they unload the 4-wheelers and hook up trailers to them to make the bumpy trek through the wilderness to the cabin. It is not uncommon for the 4-wheelers and/or trailers to break down mid-way due to the extremely bad trail conditions and one must always keep a lookout for Grizzlies. As a result, there are several broken trailers at the camp that never made it back out.

In town the day before, Jack had bought some “Moose Juice.” I’m not exactly sure what it is but it is something that comes from or imitates the female moose aroma. It’s supposed to be powerfully attractive to the average bull moose. Well, the first day at camp, Jack and Ticker strapped their usual beers/whiskey to the 4-wheelers and set out to track down a moose. The trick is to open all of the beers at camp so that the moose don’t hear you pop the tops. The boys had done their best to keep all of this in mind and by the time they rolled back toward camp, they were empty handed except for a few open beers and a bottle of Captain Morgan. They found a place near camp to stop the 4-wheelers and rest and silently wait for the appearance of the hunted, all-elusive, bull moose. Ticker soon laid his head down on the handle-bars of his machine to nap. Meanwhile, Jack took a swig of Captain Morgan and the lightbulb went on over his head. He reached into his pocket and took out the expensive bottle of Moose Juice, smiled slowly at it, and slid down off of his machine.

Starting with a wide arc about 15 yards away from the 4-wheelers, Jack began to spread drop after drop of the secret potion. Then, he led the trail up to Ticker’s machine and spread a few drops, with a grin, on Ticker’s boots. Jack went back to his machine and settled into the seat with a chuckle. (you know where this is going…)

Ten minutes hadn’t gone by when an 800-pound bull moose with a full rack stepped out of the brush and started sniffing at the arc of drops Jack had laid as a trail. He stopped at each one, sniffed, huffed, snorted, and moved on to the next. As he got closer to the 4-wheelers, Jack started to get worried. He realized that his joke might not turn out so well so he finally threw a stick at Ticker to wake him. When Ticker pulled his lazy head off of the handlebars, he tried to focus as he heard a snort and then the moose began to paw at the ground, never taking his eyes off of the man with the juiced boots. Jack had pulled out his side arm, ready to shoot. When Ticker saw this, he shook his head to clear it, grabbed his own side arm and then Jack motioned to him that the moose wasn’t big enough to shoot (there were even bigger ones out there). Ticker uttered a few explicatives and then Jack motioned to Ticker’s boots and with a thrusting of the hips motion, Ticker understood what Jack had done. As those few seconds passed, the moose eased closer, snorting and pawing the whole way.

At five yards, Ticker shouted, “Not today, Big Boy!” And, with that Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and made his best cow call. The bull, startled, stopped in his tracks, looked behind him, and then slowly made his way back to the tree line, where he stayed for another hour just looking at the two men on the 4-wheelers, now instantly sober, guns in hand. Eventually, the bull sauntered back across the marsh the way he had come, undoubtedly confused by the luring smell of the white men.

I’m not sure if the story holds the same vigor on paper as it did around the campfire Saturday night, but we sure did have a laugh. Toes cold, I headed for the cabin to stand in front of the wood stove and have a piece of homemade Apple Pie. I thought to myself, “Funny story. Funny men. God, I love Alaska!”

Thanksgiving

Today has been a day about thankfulness, for sure. Right now, I’m simply thankful to be right here, sitting on my couch, with a bellyache from too much Oyster Dressing, watching Lady Gaga’s Thanksgiving Special on TV and having one of my daughter’s friends, Stephanie, with us. It’s such a complete 180 degree turn from last year’s Thanksgiving in the bush. Just to be able to change channels on the TV is something to be thankful for.

Sarah spent an hour or so shoveling snow off of the pond today, trying to make her own hockey rink. Denali spent her time outside chasing rabbits and bounding through the fresh snow – we have 6-8 inches on the ground now. It’s been a cold winter so far, so cold that Beluga Lake is frozen and there are cars driving around on it. Usually, the ice races don’t start until January. I’m thinking there will be Christmas races this year.

After our late afternoon feast, we took a plate of deliciousness in town to Stephanie’s mom, Lori, who works in the E.R. every year on Thanksgiving. Then, we came home and played a couple of rounds of Clue: The Office. Now, it’s time for Pecan Pie and Lady Gaga.

It makes me wonder what next year’s Thanksgiving will bring. Sarah and Stephanie will be away at college and I’ll be running The Fresh Sourdough Bakery and Café. I imagine that we’ll be open for Thanksgiving dinner, so maybe I’ll be taking a plate to Lori from the restaurant.

Life changes. People change. Even the weather changes. In the end, it’s good to be thankful for the changes.

Unmentionables

My friend calls me at work the other day and asks, “I don’t mean to be rude, but… [the proverbial but]… what’s your bra size?” I laughed as I scanned the office to make sure no one was within hearing distance and answered her question. As it turns out, she had ordered a slew of bras online several months ago and just never got around to trying them on. Since that time, she’s lost some weight and now the bras don’t fit. They still have the tags on them but it’s too late to return them. This is definitely another Alaska anomaly.

You see, the nearest city with a department store is 80 miles away and even there, you can only find Fred Meyer, Wal-Mart, and Kohls. So, shopping locally for some items can get tough and many of us resort to online shopping with its size discrepancies, lost orders, and added shipping charges to Alaska (the last time I checked, USPS flat rate boxes were the same price no matter where you send them… so I really don’t understand this last problem). My friend, who shall remain nameless, was a victim of the online shopping frenzy and needed my help. No, seriously, she just wanted to find a good home for 17 surprisingly beautiful bras of different brands and colors, but all the same size – my size! Some were even lacy, French made bras – ooo lala.

So, she brought them to me in a discreet, nondescript, black bag (felt kind of like a drug deal) and I took them home to discover that they all fit and I won’t have to make that purchase for the next 20 years.

This led to, “I’ve been cleaning out my closet…” The next thing I know, she’s bringing me armloads of designer jeans, Chadwicks and Talbots brand slacks, shirts, sweaters, everything – all lightly used and some with the tags still on them. In all seriousness, this dear friend of mine is tall like me, 5’ 9”, and we were about the same size until she started this “Fit for Life” program a couple of months ago. It was so gracious of her to think of me and most of her clothes are nice and tall and long – something that’s difficult for me to even find in the big city, much less in Homer, at the end of the road.

I know that sharing is not unique to Alaska, but our pervasive need to share is. If we don’t share, we do without or we watch others do without. We can’t just run to the store for a new bra or pair of jeans. We not only share clothes, but we share sourdough starters, fish, road conditions, and sometimes even pets and kids. (very seldom do people share their moose meat, however)

Homer is surprisingly filled with most everything we need. Still, we are at the end of the road system and occasionally cut off from the rest of the world. Just this last week, there was a car accident on The Road (there’s only one road in and out of Homer) 45 miles or so away which closed the road and that meant that anyone traveling… well, anywhere… couldn’t get there from here… at least not for several hours, until the road was open again. There are ships in our harbor that won’t be leaving for the next few days because of weather. I haven’t heard any planes today and am sure they are grounded because of the high winds. But, it’s all okay, because Homer is a sharing place and we will welcome those “stuck” souls as best we can. I wonder if they need a new bra? Just kidding, after all, sharing is more than caring, it's loving.

Moving On

I bought a restaurant. Well, actually, I bought a partnership in a restaurant with the intent to buy out the owners in the next 5 years. But, still, I’m an owner! I jumped in with both feet, no looking back. The Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery and Café usually closes in the winter so that the owners can spend it in Hawaii, but next May, we’ll be opening the restaurant and don’t intend to close the doors at all after that. You can Google the restaurant and find out about it online if you’re curious. Let me just tell you that the philosophy of this successful 30 year old business is to serve fresh, organic, local food in a way that is kind to the environment. Exciting? Yes!

When I came back to Homer last March, after having spent eight months in a Yupik village, my hopes and dreams were lost – forever, I thought. I had wanted to live the whole “get back to nature” life and thought the bush village of Kwethluk would give that to me. What an incredible disappointment. Coming back to civilization made me rethink my hopes and dreams. Did I really want to be a teacher? I thought so. Did I really want to live in the bush? Absolutely not. Did I want to just leave Alaska behind? No. Where did I see myself in 5 years, 10 years, 20 years? Homer.

As I began working at the Homer News, I truly enjoyed it. I like working in the world of advertising and marketing. I like helping businesses succeed, driving foot traffic through their front doors. I like meeting business owners in our area. I thought I knew a lot of people in Homer before, but now that has changed exponentially. I’ve made many new friends, gone into businesses that I’d never been in before, some of which I didn’t even know existed. It was definitely a positive change from the politics of teaching public school and made me question whether I ever wanted to go back to that world. As the months went by, I became better and better at my job and my income increased. Being on straight commission is a scary thing, but I learned to deal with the stress and came to feel like I was my own boss in many ways. I could see a future at the Homer News and was not looking for another job.

Over the summer, I stopped in at the Fresh Sourdough for lunch several times. It was close to my office, the atmosphere was casual, and many of my old students worked there. It just felt comfortable and the food was healthy but tasty. Their lunch specials were delicious – I particularly remember a pulled pork sandwich with a rhubarb bar-b-que sauce. The seafood chowder with a side of warm sourdough bread really hit the spot one very windy day. Then, there were the peanut butter shakes… If you’ve never had a peanut butter shake before, don’t bother getting one anywhere else but the Fresh Sourdough Express. I’ve had them all over town – Boardwalk Fish & Chips, Glacier Drive-In, Frosty Bear, even the Blue Bus in Anchor Point. They don’t even come close to the ones at the FSE. I know they’ve got to be a pain to make – gloppy organic peanut butter mixed with fresh vanilla ice cream in a blender with several restarts to manually stir the mixture to ensure the peanut butter gets incorporated before it gets hard from the cold… and then the blender has to be washed. But, Kevin (owner), never blinked an eye and served my peanut butter shake with a smile.

The FSE was one of my advertising accounts and when they started doing their end-of-the-summer advertising, it included the fact that the business was for sale. It’s been for sale for several years. I knew that. But, for some reason, this time it made me tilt my head with wonder. Hmmm. I called Donna, whom I thought of as a friend since I had briefly coached her son, Jazz, in DDF and we had worked together a lot on advertising issues over the summer. Donna and Kevin own the FSE. That’s all it took. Before I knew it, I was being coached on the nuances of buying a business by Bryan Zak, Director for the Southwest Alaska Small Business Development Center here in Homer. I had some money in the bank that I had thought I would use for a down payment on a house, but this seemed like a much better investment. So, here I am! New owner of the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery and Café.

Why is this a good fit? First of all, I love to cook AND bake. I like to think that I’m a very environmentally conscious person and use organic foods when I can. I love Homer and this business is an icon here. I love working with teens and hiring and mentoring young people is a major focus of the FSE – they have a very low turnover in employees even though they’ve only been open summers for the past 15 or so years. I’ll get a chance to teach adult cooking classes in the fall and winter months. I’ll be my own boss and having worked at the Homer News on straight commission for the past year, by the time I open the FSE in May, the threat of an irregular paycheck will only be a ripple. I know a lot of people in this town and everyone I’ve told of this new venture is excited and supportive, promising to frequent my business often.

For now, I’m still at the Homer News, but spend many of my off-hours planning menus and new bakery items, theme nights and cooking classes, and preparing for my first catering job this December 30^th. Then, May 1^st, the gloves will come off and I’ll dive into an exciting new adventure!

I had someone once tell me that we all have a need to feel loved and when we lose a love, it is okay to try to fill that emptiness with a new love. Perhaps it is the same way with dreams. Cheers!

Nanwalek

I read this on someone's blog today (they are referring to a nearby - across the bay - Aluttiq village)...
"Nanwalek feels more like a 3rd world country than anything I’ve encountered in the U.S. People own ATVs instead of cars, live in dilapidated houses, and struggle with deafness and diabetes related to in-breeding, not to mention mental health issues such as depression and alcohol addiction."

Nanwalek has a reputation for having the highest HIV rate in the nation. I had heard this before and don't know anyone who goes to Nanwalek to "visit," but I had wondered how much truth there was to it. After a little digging online, I found this...
"But secrets are badly kept in Nanwalek. Evans' job was to staunch the spread of the HIV virus that had infected one in seven adults. It came with the oil, when Exxon's clean-up crews shared their needles and sexual appetites with village residents. Nanwalek's unhappy secret was the women's discovery that children had been molested by drunk, possibly infected, relatives." (GregPalast.com)

Nanwalek, meaning "place by lagoon", is not more than 15 miles (as the crow flies) from Homer, yet it is truly a world away. This village of 200 people is accessible only by boat or plane, landing on the beach at low tide. Only 5% of the population has any college education. Their water is taken from a surface stream, treated, and piped to all homes in the village. Sewer is piped from village homes to a community septic tank. The village even has electricity. However, to travel to Nanwalek, one must have the prior approval of the village Chief.

Although Alutiiq people have lived in this region for thousands of years, the community of Nanwalek began as a Russian trading post, built by fur traders in 1785. It was first named "Alexandrovsk" after the Russian tsar, Alexander I. Alutiiq families settled Alexandrovsk as it was a center of commerce, a place where they could trade furs for Western goods. After the Russian's left Alaska in 1867, the village name was change to English Bay. In 1991, villagers changed the community's name again, selecting Nanwalek. I'm not sure why. I would guess it would have something to do with the natives wanting their village to have a native name. But, a name doesn't change a place's history. A name doesn't wipe the slate clean.

Knowing that 9% of Alaskan teenagers attempt suicide and 70% of those are natives, it makes me pause. As I roll these words and numbers around in my mind, I feel my chest tighten. I sit here, in Homer, a mere 15 miles from the third world. Disconnected. Thankful. Thoughtful.

Dreams

Today is a thoughtful day for me. Sarah had her senior pictures taken this afternoon. It was a two hour, outdoor process with several outfit changes. They started at Bishop’s Beach, then went to the docks at the marina and finally to a beautiful setting up on the bluffs above Homer where the leaves are changing. Today’s forecast called for a 60% chance of rain, but we actually had sunshine peeking through the clouds all day – a blessing. Most senior pictures in Homer are done outside – photography studios are a myth in this beautiful seaside community. The outdoors is truly embraced here like I’ve never seen anywhere else. The 50 degree temps made it a bit chilly but the mountains provided a blanket-like backdrop.

Sarah’s Senior year. While that brings much excitement with it, it is also bittersweet. It is an ending and a beginning all wrapped up in one. It will be the end to 14 years of my number one job being a single parent. My taxi service, overnight chaperone service, making of daily breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for someone else, and everything else that goes along with daily parenting will disappear, literally overnight, next August. Both of my little chicks will be out of the nest and on their own. It will just be me (and the dog and the cats). I understand that the empty nest syndrome is a difficult time for married couples. I cannot even fathom how I will deal with it alone. But, like the tides coming in every day, it will happen. It will change the landscape for me, but I will still be here, embarking on a new adventure.

Last March, my lifelong dream of living in the bush came crashing down around me. It’s all I’d ever wanted. That’s where I saw myself when my kids were gone from home. I’d live and teach in the bush. Reality became a nightmare. My dreams shattered. I stumbled back from that experience wounded and lost. I had to start over, literally. I’ve always been a person with big dreams and goals to make them come true. When I realized my dream was not what I wanted anymore, I was shaken to my core. What now? Forty-four years old and… what now? Well, I’ve gotten my balance back and have done a lot of soul searching. Who am I? What are my talents? What do I really want out of life? Where do I want to be emotionally, financially, and geographically in 10 years? How do my soon-to-be-grown children play into all of this?

Well, I’m here to tell you, “When your dreams turn to dust, vacuum. Then, begin to dream again!”

This is what I know about myself: I love Homer, writing, cooking, being outside, teaching, being around teens, making people happy, and trying new things. I’m good at writing, cooking/baking, organizing, managing and motivating people, teaching, and selling (that’s an awful lot like teaching).

While both of my daughters are embarking on the next big adventures in their lives, I’m working on a new dream. It will involve all of the things that I love and am good at. If there’s one thing I’ve taught my girls, it’s to dream big. I feel like one of those little mechanized toy cars that you wind up and put on the floor and it zooms off, only to run into a chair leg, back up, turn in another direction and zoom off again.

Carrie King (check out Kings of Small Things on Facebook) worked at the Homer News this summer and she’s working on a terrific project. She asked what my message to America would be. I didn’t even have to give it a second thought – LIVE YOUR DREAM!

Moses Discovered America

This is just too funny not to share...

Sarah was at her first college class today and the teacher was letting them know what to expect in class this semester, telling the students that they would all be expected to write an essay on their final about a famous person from history.

"Like Moses," he offered as an example (being that it is a history class covering that time period).

A girl sitting next to Sarah leaned over to her and asked, "Isn't that the guy who came over on the Mayflower?"

Ba-dum-dum!
She was serious, folks! And... she graduated in the top 10% of her high school class. Scary!

It's a Cruise Ship Summer

We had a cruise ship in town again today. I think we’ve got about 2 more left and that will make 15 total cruise ships that visited Homer this summer, bringing about 25,000 folks to our quaint little hamlet who have probably never been to Alaska before. It’s always fun to see the school buses running the visitors around town on a Saturday afternoon. No tour buses in Homer, you get the full-fledged small-town treatment here!

Some of the visitors take the Fermentation Tour which goes to the Brewery, Meadery and Winery for tastings (they’ll need a nap when they get back to the ship – lol). Some will go halibut fishing, kayaking, hiking, shopping, or even peruse our local art galleries – we’ve got quite a few. One thing is for sure, they’ll all go back with unforgettable memories and most will leave with a longing to return.

It was a cloudy day and a heavy mist hung on the mountains across the bay, obscuring the fantastic views of summer. Even on days like this, it’s still beautiful.

The last two ships of the summer will come and go over the next couple of weeks. Then, all of the shops and restaurants on the spit will close down, except for Land’s End, and our little town at the end of the road will exhale as we shrink back down to normal. It’s a calming time of year with the leaves starting to turn and the fall rains upon us. The end of summer is at hand and the hustle and bustle of fishing, gardening, berrypicking, smoking, canning, and freezing of nature’s bounty will fade away with the tourists.

It’s hard to believe that next summer will bring even more cruise ships with more first time visitors to Homer. Again, we’ll have a chance to share our way of life in our tiny paradise with those who come from hurricane-hit, tornado-ravaged, sunscorched, overpopulated corners in the Lower 48. Meanwhile, I’m ready to snuggle in for a dark, cozy winter filled with Northern Lights and Local’s Nights. I’m ready to go out to the Down East Saloon and recognize everyone in the place. I’m ready to go to Safeway on a Saturday afternoon without maneuvering around Winnebago’s in the parking lot only to discover that the “on sale” items are sold out on the store shelves.

Don’t get me wrong. I love meeting new people and I love the excitement that summer and cruise ships bring to town.  However, I love winter even more.

This Little Light of Mine...

I finally feel healed enough to start writing my book. Really, it’s just a matter of using my blog posts as a skeleton and filling in added details and side stories, adding a little finesse, if you will. It has taken me over five months to get to this point, emotionally, where I feel ready to tackle the subject. I still get teary eyed when I remember leaving Kwethluk. There’s still a part of me that is embarrassed that I wasn’t strong enough to hack it out there. My heart still breaks every time I let myself remember the exclusion, the shunning. But, I have enough support now to go forward. It almost feels like I’m on emotional crutches… but at least I’m out of the wheelchair!

I really had the wind knocked out of me. The wonderful thing is that here, there is plenty of wind to fill my sails. I honestly believe the teens here need me, the Homer News needs me, my friends need me. I didn’t realize how important it is to feel needed. I wasn’t needed in Kwethluk. I was tolerated. I now recognize that I’m worth more than that. I have so much more to give the world.

In a way, I feel like I’ve been hiding my light under a bushel… like that old Gospel tune, “This little light of mine. I’m gonna let it shine… Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine… Won’t let Satan blow it out. I’m gonna let it shine!” That’s very much how I feel right now.

Fireweed Rhubarb (left) and
Fireweed Strawberry (right) Jelly

My first step in that direction took place last weekend when I entered six items in the Kenai Peninsula State Fair in Ninilchik. I love to cook. I love to can. I know that I’m good at both, yet I’ve never entered a competition in my life. I was hiding my light under a bushel. Of the six items I entered, four won ribbons! I brought home a 3^rd place for my Fireweed Strawberry Jelly and Strawberry Pie, 2^nd place for my Fireweed Rhubarb Jelly, and 1^st Place Blue Ribbon for my kuspuk that I had sewn in Kwethluk this spring. I’m going to start entering cooking competitions when I can and share my gift of cooking more.

1st Place Blue Ribbon Kuspuk

Writing the book and submitting independent chapters along the way to various publications and writing competitions is the next step. “Won’t let Satan blow it out. I’m gonna let it shine!” I’ve been writing for years. I know I’m a gifted writer and have had many people from all walks of life confirm that. However, I’ve never even entered a competition. It’s time. It’s time to stop hoarding my gifts and instead, share them with the world.

The more I do these things, the more it confirms my own existence. Being a single mom is hard in so many ways. In one way, it has given me a reason to seclude myself, to hide my light. I have concentrated so hard on being a mom that I’ve lost a little of me along the way. Now that Sarah is a senior, the day when I will be totally alone is right around the corner. I’ll still be a mom but I’d better be more than that if I want to successfully deal with the inevitable loneliness that will come with having both of my kids away at college.   

So, it’s exciting to know that I can finally tackle my book on the bush. It won’t be long and I’ll be off the crutches!

First Day of School...

The first day of school. For the first time in many years, I was not a part of it; I was an outsider, not a teacher. This morning was especially difficult for me. It was hard to concentrate at work. Tears were just a breath away. For the past 12 years, I have seen myself as a teacher. It wasn’t just my job, it was who I was. I was a teacher. My daughter, Sarah, can’t remember me ever being anything else. I’ve been a teacher since before she started Kindergarten. I’ve even taught her for 3 of her 4 high school English classes. Today, she started her senior year and I’m not a teacher. Today, I’m an Advertising Sales Rep (and a damn good one, but still…).

The State of Alaska has suspended my teaching license until next May as punishment for breaking my contract in the bush this spring. Actually, it’s just a slap on the wrist. Usually, teachers in the bush who break their contracts get their Alaska teaching license permanently revoked. Most don’t care since they’re from the lower 48 and headed back there anyway. But, I see Alaska as my home. When the State asked for my response to the complaint issued from the Lower Kuskokwim School District, I wrote them a four-page letter, complete with names and dates, about my experience in Kwethluk. The resulting one-year suspension was really a gift and I felt like I needed some distance from teaching anyway. But, I left teaching five months ago. I think I would have been ready to go back today. That wasn’t an option.

However, I do have other options. I am a part of a terrific program sponsored by the Rec Room which is a local teen sanctuary sponsored by the Kachemak Bay Family Planning Center. I have been asked to participate in a teaching capacity in their FORK (Fresh ORganic Kitchen) program with other local chefs – basic cooking classes for teens. Check it out at http://recroom.kbfpc.org. Also, I’m going to volunteer to help out with the High School Drama, Debate, Forensics (DDF) team this year as Sarah is going to be involved. Check it out at  http://www.homerddf.org.

I’ll be back on top of my game tomorrow at the Homer News. I’ll concentrate on my writing and volunteer at local high school events over the next year. I’ll keep an open mind and an open heart and see where this journey takes me.

Too Tall Jones

The sunsets are returning (albeit at 10pm) and with them come moments of contemplation. I’ve been reading The Help and one of the main characters is a young, tall woman, with whom I closely identify.

I was 5’10” when I was twelve. Actually, I was always head and shoulders taller than kids my age, but the summer before 8^th grade, I grew six inches. No joke! I’m sure my mother thought that I was going to be a giant. Thankfully, I never grew after that point (at least not up). I was skinny (weighed about 110 pounds soaking wet and always knew that those Miss America contestants lied about their weight), had stringy brown hair (my daughters call it black), a prominent chin (at birth, my Aunt Chris suggested immediate plastic surgery), and absolutely no shape to my pencil thin body. Middle School was a nightmare.

You remember those days of teasing boys, bitchy girls, and scared parents. I was called Stork, Giraffe Legs , Too Tall, Bones, and Metal Mouth (yes, I had braces, too) by the boys, outcast or bullied by most of the girls, and ignored by my parents, who were divorced. My mother was remarried to my first evil stepfather and as I entered high school, she married evil stepfather #2 (but that’s another blog). To her credit, she was never outwardly degrading towards me. Her gentile, southern upbringing taught her to be more demure than that. She was beautiful; all of my friends told me so. She was a raven-haired beauty with sharp, Blackfoot features, green eyes, a large bosom, and nice legs well into her senior years. She wore heavy makeup and loads of hairspray. She had to be embarrassed of me, even thought she never said so, her actions told the story.

I was encouraged to wear makeup, she sewed dresses for me, helped me to shop for flat shoes and taught me how to smile without showing my brace-covered teeth, all while encouraging me to stand up straight. However, being born with a bone condition that caused a sunken chest which was repaired via a Pectus Excavatum when I was three years old, I also had severe Scoliosis and one leg longer than the other. Unfortunately, the last two conditions weren’t diagnosed until I was well into my 20’s because I had learned to compensate for them. My mother loved to take pictures, often dressing us up in matching clothes. On those photo op occasions when she was behind the camera instead of in front of it, she would admonish me, “Don’t stand with your hip cocked! Stand straight!” This was repeated to me so often that I began to lift my right heel off the ground just a tad… just enough to straighten out my hips. I remember being a crossing guard in the 6^th grade and standing on the street corner with that heel slightly raised, remembering my mother’s scorn and not wanting to look odd to passersby. It never occurred to me that there might be a medical problem (obviously, it never occurred to Mommy Dearest either), so I went through my life with my little secret heel lift, until one day, at the age of 29, when I threw my hip out and the physical therapist was amazed to discover that I had one leg a half-inch longer than the other.

I played basketball from 4^th through 10^th grade. I didn’t play because I loved the game. I played because people said, “You’re tall. You should play basketball!” I was miserable, but I was always on the team. I’m not a team sport kind of person. I’m a loner and I know that (another blog topic – wow, they are everywhere). I really don’t give a crap about sports. But, I was tall. I sat the bench for most of those seven years. My mother came to so few games that you could count them on one hand.

I was never so excited as I was my freshman year of high school when 6-foot tall Sonny Samu moved to town. Finally!... a boy taller than me! Of course, he decided to date cute, little, compact Candi Gustafson (future prom queen and first string point-guard on the basketball team) and never gave me a second look.

Finally, when I was a sophomore in high school, my mother came to a game and watched me sit the bench, daydreaming as I stared into the crowd seated on the bleachers across the gym from me. I couldn’t have told you the score to save my life! I’m sure the coaches put me on the team every year only because I was the tallest girl in school and it looked intimidating to the opposing teams for us to have a 5’10” girl on the roster in northern Wisconsin. After that fateful game, my mother asked me if I liked to play basketball.

“uh… no….” I stuttered.

“Well, Kathy! You can quit the team tomorrow.” She laughed as she said the words that took her seven years to form.

I did just that.

Those moments may seem insignificant to the casual observer, but they have definitely written on the slate of who I am. I definitely notice that my children’s friends don’t tell them or me how beautiful I am. When I walk into a room and people stare, I wonder what they’re saying about how tall I am. When I’ve interviewed for teaching jobs, I always tell them up front, “I don’t coach basketball.”

Oh, and I still raise my right heel in pictures.

Tourists

Aren’t we all? Tourists? One who travels for pleasure or culture. We are, after all, merely travelers in this life. I happen to be one of the fortunate few whose day to day life takes place in a place people save their whole lives to visit. Most days this summer, as I pass through the only stop light in town, there is a crowd of tourists (who don’t live here) with cameras large and small, taking pictures of an occupied eagles’ nest.

This is, without a doubt, the busiest intersection in our small, seaside hamlet. Having a lifespan of 20-30 years, eagles not only mate for life, but they also tend to return to nest in the area where they were born. They are not big “migraters” and most of our eagles here in Homer live out their lives right here since they have access to food year round. That eagles’ nest has been there ever since I’ve been in Homer, four years. It’s likely been there much longer. It’s interesting to think that that family of eagles’ has likely been near that intersection for generations, even before it was an intersection. Their nest is less than ½ mile away from the open ocean where they have a daily buffet waiting. Between the nest and the ocean is a lowland area, inhabited by any number of small animals – thus they never have to go far for food.

This morning, as we were waiting at the stoplight, I handed the camera to Sarah and had her take some pictures of the tourists taking pictures. I have never stopped to take a picture of the eagles’ nest. It’s not because I don’t think it’s a beautiful thing. It’s not because I don’t appreciate having this sort of natural display on my doorstep. It’s not because I don’t sigh in awe every time an eagle flies overhead. I’ve never taken a picture because I don’t have to. I don’t have to flip back through a memory book of pictures to remember the awesomeness of this place. I get to live it every day. I drive past that nest dozens of times each week. I’ll drive past it this winter when the tourists are gone with their only memory of it being a still photo and I’ll drive past it again next summer when town is again buzzing with camera carrying, straw hat wearing, folks from the outside.

This picture was taken by my sister, Holly, when she was visiting.

Sarah and I decided to have breakfast in town this morning, a special treat before she went to work. Amazingly, there are only a few restaurants in town that serve breakfast. We are generally a relaxed community, getting up early only to fish and even that doesn’t happen too often (the fish will be there when we get up). There were waiting lines for seating at each place we went. At 9am on a Saturday, there wasn’t an available seat for breakfast. Tourists. They were up early to eek out every moment of their stay here, I’m sure. Can’t say that I blame them. We eventually were seated and had an amazing breakfast of local and organic foods at the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery and Café. Sarah enjoyed biscuits with gravy, homestyle potatoes, and a raspberry Danish the size of her head. I had a smoked salmon omelet loaded with carmelized onions and swiss cheese and topped with a dill sauce; on the side were some of those homestyle potatoes and a couple of slices of whole wheat, sourdough toast. It was delicious and we were served by local teens, working hard and smiling often. This special restaurant, locally owned for almost 30 years and started as a bakery in the back of a van on the spit, is closed in the winter. We have quite a few eating establishments that close down in the winter, so it was good to be a tourist this morning.

I live in a magical place. I hope all of you who read this feel the same way about where you live. I will only be here a short time, in this life, on this earth. I strive to keep my tourist eyes so that I may live each day as someone who is here for pleasure and culture.

This morning, I drove past a moose cow and calf in a parking lot right in town. I didn’t stop to take a picture because I know I’ll see them again.

Dear Anonymous:

Seriously, if you can't use your name, don't bother to leave comments. This is ridiculous that I put my thoughts and feelings and experiences out there and get judged by people who won't even sign their names.

"When people don’t put their names to their words, it devalues what they have to say. In stories about sensitive subjects — alcoholism, sexual assault, people’s criminal pasts — the invisibility perpetuates stigmas. At some point, if a story matters to you and you want to get it out, you need to step up. And sometimes that means saying what only you can say, with your name backing it up.".... courtesy of newsobserver.com

In response to a comment left on "Yupik.... it's all Greek to Me" --- My daughter's teacher asked the class for someone to translate for her and not one student volunteered, so the teacher had to force someone to do it and even then the designated student refused to translate more than the bare minimum. I was informed that I was not allowed to approach an elder because I was a Gussack.

Open Mic

I signed up for “Open Mic” at the Kachemak Bay Writer’s Conference. The only open mics I’ve ever participated in were Karaoke style and I’d had a few whiskeys first.

“Your love is like bad medicine. Bad medicine is what I need – whoa-oh-oh!” I’ve belted out more than once down at Duggan’s Pub in this cosmic hamlet by the sea.

This was different in so many ways, not just because of its lack of liquid courage. These were going to be my words, not someone else’s, that I was going to be reading. Words that had stirred up controversy a few short months ago a few hundred miles away. Words that I was comfortable wearing but wasn’t sure would be appreciated by a roomful of real writers. This is the big league, published authors from around the globe, New York City agents and editors and hopeful authors. I’m surrounded by greatness, confidence, and promise. Mediocrity doesn’t cut it with these folks.

Three minutes. That was the time limit. I wrote my own introduction to be read by published author Sherry Simpson (www.sherrysimpson.net), fine tuned a blog post from February, “The Power of Words” and timed it over and over to make sure it was the right length. My time slot was set for today at 11:30am, just before lunch. As I squirmed in my seat during the morning session, taking deep breaths, wringing my hands and re-reading the piece I was going to read, I changed my mind. At 11:15, I changed my mind. Not about the reading of a piece, but about which piece to read. I carefully considered my audience and decided that something with a bit more action in it was in order. “One Racer’s Story” came to mind. I quickly plucked it from my blog, did a few edits, cut it to what I hoped would fit the time requirement and walked to the podium.

As I told Solomon’s story, I was right back there in Kwethluk. I could feel the blinding wind in my face and see the dog teams racing on the river outside my front door. I was back in my classroom with those three boys as they told me about the corrupt police officer who had shot all of Solomon’s dogs a couple of months prior. My voice wavered and my body shook and I had to swallow hard a couple of times to keep back the tears. But, I told my story to 150 plus writers from around the globe. I told Solomon’s story. I met the time requirement with two seconds to spare but felt like it was the beginning, not the end.

There were gasps of disgust and delight and there were heads shaking in sympathetic despair and there was applause. Many people stopped me at various times throughout the day, in the hall, at the lunch table, sitting in a conference room waiting for a workshop to begin. They stopped to encourage me with, “I loved your reading.” Or “You’re a great writer.”

Today was the day I started telling my story.

Random Autobiography

I remember the Muscular Dystrophy carnival fundraiser in my backyard.
Libby, the giant golden lab that we gave to Ducks Unlimited.
The taste of fresh, red and white radishes that my dad grew in the garden.
The night I missed out on seeing Peggy Fleming at the Ice Capades.
I remember getting caught skinny-dipping in a cold Wisconsin lake in late July.
Playing the bassoon in the high school band.
Waving from the back of a pick-up truck in the Homecoming Parade.
I dreamt about my stepfather’s impending death the night he died.
I remember praying nightly for that same stepfather to die,
And I never regretted it.
I gave an engagement ring back to my great love and walked away,
And then watched him marry another a month later and then another and another.
I gave up 13 years of my life to raise my daughters on my own.
I watched my dreams shatter in the bush.
I remember the cold fear while trying to sleep with the doors barricaded and a loaded .357 Magnum on my bedside table.

I remember what normal felt like.

I Am From

I am from Murrell and Al, Evelyn and Charlie, Betty and Dick.
I am from the rolling Midwest prairie, the heated bayous of Louisiana, and the heavy snow and deep waters of Northern Wisconsin.

Now, I am from Alaska.

I am from corn on the cob, mudbugs, bratwurst and the miracle of microwaves.
From poor, hard working folks surviving the Great Depression, strong, tall, proud Blackfeet fleeing life on the reservation, and a series of stepfathers.
I am from Bible beating, missionary loving stock with cocktails in their hands.
From “The truth shall set you free” and “Never judge a man until you’ve walked a moon in his moccasins.”
From Barbies, canoes, and a full tank of gas.
Jimmy Swaggart, Jimmy Carter, Jim Beam, and Elvis.

Now, I am from snow-capped purple mountains and the jade green sea.

I am now at the end of the road.

Ode to Boss Hoggz

The red plastic, cross-hatched basket contained the hamburger of my dreams. A web of Tilamook Cheese spread out from the patty like a tutu and I had to pull it apart and eat the chewy, yet crispy, cheese ring before I could take a bite of the burger. Ahhh, the burger. A third of a pound of Alaska grown fresh ground meat, made into patties an hour ago and grilled to perfection under all of that cheese. It was topped with a sweet and spicy barbeque sauce, freshly battered fried onion ring and a tomato slice that I only encounter in my dreams this early in the year. As I went in for my first bite, I realized that my mouth wasn’t big enough to take on this monstrosity, so I swallowed hard, squeezed down on the fresh potato flour bun and forced my way in as juice dribbled down my chin and barbeque sauce spread its way past the corners of my mouth onto my cheeks. My mouth began to water. Another bite was imminent and the napkin would have to wait.

My Pup

Loving eyes catch mine
Tall ears flattened in respect
Lifelong friend of mine

Suddenly she turns
Her ears twitch with silent sound
Nose tipped to the wind

Hidd’n threats all around
She circles to protect me
Then leans in for love


Note: Poetry is not my favorite thing to write but this was the result of today's writing circle.

FYI

For those of you who take offense to my blog, take heart in knowing that I understand that every village is different. I, in no way, mean to infer that every village in Alaska is as I experienced Kwethluk. I have friends who were in other villages - Quinhagak, in particular - who had very different experiences. I have been told that I just got a "bad" village. I also understand that villages, like people, go through phases and I seemed to have hit Kwethluk during a "down" time.

These are my experiences. They happened just this way. I cannot change that and you cannot change that. However, I hope that by enlightening others to the situation I found myself buried in Kwethluk, I can be a catalyst for change, for hope, and for optimism. For now, it is what it is and I will not be silenced.

Cultivate the Garden Within

Garden. The word itself seems awkward and heavy. Garden. The word actually, originally meant enclosure. I just don’t see gardens that way… as closed off, but I suppose they are, aren’t they? When I am in a garden, my heart feels a little less heavy, my thoughts a little more focused, and my soul is definitely smiling. Perhaps there is some innate feeling of safety to be found in a garden, something that only being bound by some sort of enclosure can provide. Like, how newborn babies are bound up in their blankets to make them feel safe and secure, to quiet them. That’s how I feel in a garden, quiet. Quiet, but free. There is a sense of freedom that only a garden can provide. A sense that anything is possible, an almost godlike omniscience when I know every plant intimately. I plant the seedlings with a delicate touch and watch them daily grow, sometimes hourly. When the first fruit emerges, I guard it like my own child, preparing the plant against unwanted insects, staking the stalk so it won’t break, fencing it off against wildlife, watering and feeding it and delighting in its daily growth. There are many lessons to be learned in a garden.

You can bury a lot of troubles digging in the dirt. It clears my mind by breaking down life to its simplest principles. Gardening is therapy for me, much like cooking is, though it’s not as predictable as cooking. Perhaps, that’s where the true joy is to be found, the true lesson – that unexpected outcomes can still be beautiful and worthy.

We planted a vegetable garden at the Homer News last weekend. It was a cool, overcast day – around 50 degrees, perfect for planting. Adam, our resident webmaster and gardener extraordinaire, brought extra fencing, posts, matting, tubing, gauze covering, tools, and over 100 Alaska-proven seedlings that he just happened to have on hand. Who just has that stuff… around? Adam, that’s who! Michael, newswriter, brought extra raspberry canes from his home. McKibbin (newswriter) and her husband (along for the ride) brought juice and bagels with all the fixin’s. Lori (editor/publisher), Merinda (receptionist/Girl Friday), and I brought garden gloves and willing spirits. Three hours, a half dozen bagels, and hundreds of spadefuls of dirt later… a bonified garden emerged. Cauliflower. Broccoli. Potatoes. Red Cabbage. And more.

When you work side by side with people in a garden, you become more than co-workers. It’s not that a lot of conversation takes place. Remember, gardens make us quiet – it’s not just me, apparently. It’s the common goal of preserving and growing living things. Now, we have that garden right outside our door to go visit during the day… when McKibbin needs some quiet time to brainstorm story ideas or Adam needs a break from his computer screen, or I just need to regroup after managing 70 different ads for one week’s paper.

I’ve only been at the Homer News for 2 ½ months and I already feel part of the team. We definitely all have to work together to bring that paper to fruition week after week. It was a natural extension to carry that team spirit to the garden.

Yupik... it's all Greek to me!

November 10, 2011

Yesterday, we had an elderly Yupik woman come speak to the class for Sobriety Week (our Dean of Students has spent hours and hours setting all of this up). The woman spoke occasional English, but mostly Yupik. This is what I heard (the dashes are Yupik):

You --- --- --- --- problem --- --- --- --- I have a friend that I talk to. --- --- --- confess --- --- --- --- I seen --- --- --- I seen --- --- --- If we did something wrong --- --- --- --- sexual abuse --- --- --- because of alcohol, things happen --- --- --- just because someone in the house is drinking --- --- --- as if they don’t have a house --- --- --- --- have you had that feeling! --- --- --- --- as parents --- --- --- I had two grandmothers that are living and one grandfather --- --- --- understand --- --- --- grandmother --- --- --- --- spending money on alcohol --- --- --- just because of alcohol --- --- --- reverse --- --- --- just to get high. I tried it one time and didn’t like it. Sniffing --- --- --- like alcohol and drugs --- --- --- marijuana --- --- --- how they act in their eyes --- --- --- just don’t bother to touch those things --- --- --- --- What sufferings we went through. --- --- ---

Remember that 80% of what she said was in Yupik. The kids understood, but I didn’t. That sort of thing makes me feel inferior. Neither the district nor the school offer any sort of Yupik language training, so the teachers are left to be outsiders – very much considered inferior because of their lack of Yupik language knowledge.