Trading In or Trading Up?

Love these!

I love that our kitchen cabinets are filled with mismatched coffee cups, Corel plates, and glasses of various styles and sizes. My mixing bowls are not color coordinated, nesting sets from Williams Sonoma. They are all completely different, picked up here and there or donated from folks moving out of town. My well-honed, Jenga skills come into play when carefully stacking those bowls in the cabinet.

Everything in its place.

I used to be that person with several different 12-piece dish sets. You know the ones – Christmas dishes with decorated trees and dancing snowmen, everyday dishes (the blue, hand thrown pottery set from an artist in Ruston, Louisiana, was my favorite), and silver-rimmed, family china that used to be Grandma’s. I had placemats and tablecloths and cloth napkins that all coordinated with the different dishes.

Of course, the designer shower curtain matched the earth-toned towels and floor rug in my bathroom.  Oh, and there was always a bathroom theme that changed every few years – the ocean, a flower garden, even peaches one time.

Jenga bowls

Fleur de Lis flower garden

My front yard was mowed precisely, sidewalks edged, hedges trimmed, fleur-de-lis shaped, English flower garden immaculately filled with root bound, Miracle-Gro enhanced starts from a 10-acre nursery in Baton Rouge. Big, leafy ferns were hung on the porch, always in odd numbers (they are more pleasing to the eye). A seasonal, ornamental, silk flower covered wreath with bright bows always hung on the front door commemorating not only the four seasons, but also every major holiday from Mardi Gras through Christmas. The photographer from the local newspaper even stopped to take a picture of my front yard once for the Sunday Living section.

Even the six-foot-high, wooden, privacy fence held a cutesy welcome sign with purple and gold flowers spilling out of wall-hugging, black iron planters purchased at an antique shop in New Orleans.

One of the many front door wreaths.

I was that person. Been there, done that. No judgment. I’m just glad that’s all in the past. Every time I stood on a stool to carefully take down the china from the back of the top, corner shelf to use on a special holiday, I swore that someday, my china and my everyday dishes would be the same. Every time I cleaned the toilet… okay, honestly, I hated cleaning the toilet and never really imagined having a “dream outhouse.” Every sweltering Sunday afternoon that I spent pushing a lawnmower across red ant hills, I swore to myself that one day, I would live somewhere where I didn’t have to mow the lawn, all natural landscaping.

Even as I picked out those matching towels at JC Penney’s, my ultimate dream was to live in a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness. As I cleaned the litter box of our low maintenance cats, I dreamed of having a house full of dogs lounging in front of a fireplace. As I wrote out the check for my car payment, I longed for debt freedom. Locking the privacy fence gate to the backyard made me long to be somewhere with no neighbors.

Greenhouse on July 24, 2017!

True, I never imagined the part about toting water and showering outside, but at least I don’t have to worry about how much chlorine and fluoride I’m ingesting and I don’t have to scrub out the tub while kneeling on a ceramic tile floor. I never imagined battling flying insects in the outhouse or changing the oil in the generator, but I don’t have to clean the toilet or pay an electric bill. I never imagined living in a cabin on such a steep slope up 40-some steps from the river, but I don’t own a lawnmower. Granted, we do live within a half-mile of both the Unalakleet River Lodge and a vacation home, but both are only inhabited for a brief time every year.

I’m very fortunate in that I chose my lifestyle. I could choose to go back to the city tomorrow and be quite successful, I’m sure. Instead, I’m living a dream fulfilled.

My first zucchini from seed!

I don’t wash dishes until I run out of plates, and I’ve discovered that a simple, red, Folgers can really makes the best kitchen tool caddy. Toast is actually much more satisfying when spread with bacon fat and toasted in a cast iron skillet, rather than browned in an electric toaster before being slathered with margarine. NPR (National Public Radio) has some really informative and entertaining programming, believe it or not, and growing organic vegetables from seed makes me smile much more than those store-bought flowers ever did. My magazine choices have changed from Southern Living to Mother Earth News, and my living room is full of dogs.

So, yes, my coffee cups are mismatched and I need to pick up a couple more Corel plates at a rummage sale, but I’m wiser and richer than I’ve ever been.

11:26

11:26pm. The clock was one of those original “digital” clocks that actually flipped the white numbers over on a black background back in 1980. The insignificant details are the ones that have stayed with me. I awoke with a start from a sound sleep that had begun less than five minutes after my head hit the pillow three hours ago. I sighed and rolled onto my back, glancing at Jamey breathing heavily beside me. My eyes drifted shut.

In March of my 12^th year on this earth (I would turn 13 in April), the first of my three stepfathers was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. What started out as a routine surgery to remove his gallbladder turned into a death sentence, as the surgeon discovered that the cause of his stomach pain was not his gallbladder, which he had been born without (apparently, it’s like an appendix, an organ that humans don’t really need anymore), but cancer that had started in his pancreas and spread throughout his abdominal cavity. He was given six months to live. He lived three. He was 41 years old.

After one chemotherapy treatment, Rich was too sick to endure another one. The doctor set him up on regular morphine and sent him home. He had been my stepfather for not quite three, hellish years.

Let me set the stage for you. Rich was born to German immigrants, Hans and Hattie Johns, their only child. He married and had three sons – Mark, Matthew, and Luke… yes, their last name was Johns. You just can’t make this stuff up. After the divorce (at least, I think they were divorced), he met my mother. That’s another story.

Anyhoooo, fast forward five years, and here we are. Rich is sitting in the recliner in the living room, high on morphine, wasting away from his original 190 pounds down to 130 or so, asking my mother for a chocolate chip cookie, thinking she is his actual mother, Hattie. My mother mimes giving him a cookie. He takes it, closing his eyes in blissful indulgence, and chews silently.

My guilt is overwhelming. I wished this on this man. Every day for the last few years, I had wished that he would die. I had actually prayed for it, specifically. He was a Deputy Sheriff in our small town, population 1,400, of Hayward, Wisconsin. The Sheriff’s department was located on a busy 4-way stop on the north end of Main Street. I was familiar with the place because I served as a school crossing guard there every morning and afternoon. Every night I prayed that a logging truck would blow through a stop sign and take him out right there while he was crossing the street. I daydreamed about it. I wished for it. I prayed to God for it. Now, it was happening, not quite the way I had prayed for, but he was dying. I was responsible. I did this.

After enduring three years of unending emotional and psychological abuse, I was ready for it to end. I was not sad for Rich. I was thankful for his demise. For all of the times he had told me how selfish I was for wanting to take a shower more than once a week, I was thankful. For all of the times he had called me incompetent for forgetting to clean the litterbox and made me clean it with my bare hands, I was thankful. For all of the times he had lectured me on respect for spilling a green bean on the table when trying to get it to my plate, I was thankful (Did I mention that he made me sit on my left hand during dinner?). For all of the times, he had told me I was unworthy because I had no friends, I was thankful. For all of the times he had verbally despised me for looking like my father, I was thankful. For all of the times he made fun of me for being shy and quiet, I was thankful. For all of the times he had locked me out of the house and told me to “go find a friend,” I was thankful. For all of the times he had called me a whore for wearing jewelry, I was thankful. For all of the times I had hidden in the attic as he came in the front door from work, I was thankful. For all of the times he had threatened to end my life if I told my dad what was going on, I was thankful. For all of the times I had considered stabbing him through the heart with a carving knife that I was towel drying after dinner while he stood over me, berating me, I was thankful. For all of the times, I was thankful.

When Rich went into the hospital for what would be the last time, my mother knew that it would be rough, so she sent me to stay on a friend’s dairy farm. It was June and I loved animals. We milked at 5am and 5pm. In between, we ate breakfast and lunch, bailed hay, fixed fences, chased loose cows, and fed calves. It was glorious.

I was a 5’10” string bean of a 13-year-old girl who loved animals and books. It was the perfect escape. I even made a new friend. Jamey lived on a neighboring farm and we were introduced at a BBQ, becoming fast friends, enjoying sleepovers, boy talk, and Air Supply.

That fateful night, she was at “my” house. Just before I awoke, I had been dreaming that Rich (currently in the hospital) had been buried in the ground up to his neck. His head, neck, and left arm were left above ground so that he could breathe, talk, and receive IV treatment. The stainless IV stand was hovering above his filled-in grave. His breathing was loud, labored, and slow. Everyone was standing around his grave – Mark, Matt, Luke, Hattie, Hans, and my mother. I was running around yelling at his sons, parents, and my mother to help him.

“You can’t just let him die,” I screamed, “Do something!”

BAM! 11:26pm.

The next morning, Rachel, the mother of the house, told me that my mother had called with the news that Rich had passed away in the night. I was going to be picked up that afternoon and taken home.

Yes, the details revealed that his time of death was 11:26pm.

I didn’t cry at the funeral. People attributed it to shock. It was shock. It was thankfulness. Yes, I believe in karma.

Living with Essential Oils

Living in a cabin off the grid in Alaska definitely comes with its challenges. However, essential oils have become my go-to when it comes to problem solving.

Ironing spray. I use a butane iron with an ironing board that consists of a tea towel spread over a large, wooden, cutting board. There is no temperature or steam selection on the iron, but I’ve learned that I never really needed them anyway. I don’t iron anything delicate. (I told you we live in the backcountry of Alaska, right?) However, I do a lot of sewing and quilting and it takes steam to get those fabrics wrinkle free. I fill a spray bottle with water (river water) and add a few drops of whatever-mood-I’m-in-essential-oil. At the moment, it is Spiced Orange, and it makes my fabrics and final result smell delightful, in addition to providing me with that extra umph that I need to make my fabrics crisp and smooth.

Bug Off. Mosquitoes, flies, gnats, no-see-ums. All of those little pests could easily drive me from my garden or off of the tundra during berry picking season, but thanks to a lethal combination of essential oils and witch hazel, my handy spray bottle keeps them at bay. Sometimes, I buy a combination already put together by my essential oil provider, or sometimes I just mix a few drops each of peppermint, eucalyptus, and lavender into a half cup of witch hazel and call it good. Basil also works well.  I laugh when I’m putting it together, feeling like a mad scientist, thinking that the peppermint is giving me extra energy, the eucalyptus is actually repelling the pests, and the lavender is making me so relaxed that I don’t care if there are bugs around or not. True, I do have to reapply every half hour or so, but I feel better about not spraying poison on myself or the plants around me.

Fly Away. If you have an outhouse, you know where I’m going with this. Summertime brings flies that can and will swarm the outhouse by the thousands if not kept at bay. I walk out to the outhouse, open the door, and they rise out of the depths through the toilet seat hole like a great mass of Death Eaters from Harry Potter’s worst nightmares. Never fear. A spray bottle filled with two cups of vinegar and 10 drops each of peppermint, eucalyptus, and basil will do the trick! Spray that magic potion on every surface, inside and out, and down the hole, for good measure, and your problems are solved. Another hint – you might want to take your coffee grounds out there and pour them down the hole as that kills mosquitoes breeding in the moist, yucky stuff that shall not be named. There is nothing more unsatisfying than looking out at the beautiful view from the outhouse as flies buzz up the hole behind your hiney and mosquitoes take a bite or two. Problem solved.

Purification. I’m 50 and proud of it. However, my bladder is not what it used to be and I often have to go to the bathroom two or more times during the night, at least once for sure. I did tell you we live in the Alaskan wilderness, right?! That means that a trip to the outhouse in the middle of the night is not at the top of my bucket list. So, I have an indoor port-a-potty that I use for those emergencies. I’ve tried the commercial deodorizer packets but they leave a chemical smell lingering in the air. I have a very sensitive sense of smell, so I use a synergy blend essential oil, Purification being my favorite. The scent is clean and natural and totally deodorizes to my satisfaction. The scent is a combination of lemongrass, rosemary, and citronella.

Heal Thyself. Whether you suffer from sickness or sore muscles, I’ve got the answer. I came down with pneumonia for the first time when I was 40. I had always had a tendency to get bronchitis from a simple cold, but that was the first time that it went a step further. I’ll never forget in the doctor’s office that day, when she used the phrase, “Well, when you get to be this age…” This age? This age! How? When? Did that happen? Eight of the last 10 years have brought pneumonia back to me in various degrees. Eucalyptus oil, rubbed on my chest, opens my lungs better than the dime store vapor rub. In addition, it’s great for cold sores and head congestion.

No matter your age, sore muscles afflict all of us sooner or later. Whether it’s that knot just below your neck on your left shoulder after a long day at work, the sore muscles from last night’s racketball extravaganza, or the achy knee from the abuse of motorcross or football, capsaicin is your friend. Personally, I use a stick (looks like a deodorant stick) that’s infused with capsaicin oil (found in spicy peppers). Its natural heat melts knots and soreness away. Try it.

My diffuser and a variety of oils

Diffuser. For my birthday this year, my daughter gave me a battery-operated essential oil diffuser. She knows me well. Most days, we enjoy fresh fish or wild game meals fried up in an iron skillet. Being without conventional electricity means there is no exhaust fan in the kitchen. Our cabin is 400 square feet, including the bedroom loft. Are you getting a clear picture yet? Or rather, are you smelling it yet? That diffuser is a godsend, swiftly changing the cabin scent from spicy fish to gentle lavender or fresh orange. Whether it’s the diffuser or a homemade candle with essential oils mixed into the beeswax, freshness is only a moment away.

Perfume. Did you know that there are even essential oil blends created to imitate pheromones? Crazy! But, hey, who am I kidding? I’m in! Being married to a hard working man almost 12 years my senior, if I can get a leg up in the attraction department, I’ll take it. The scents are subtle, woodsy, and musky. I learned a long time ago that the scent men are most attracted to is pumpkin pie (for women, it’s vanilla). No big surprise there if you’re familiar with the old saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” A little cinnamon behind both ears and you’re good to go! Seriously, using essential oils as an alluring fragrance has a long history of success, and if you can go all natural with what the earth intended instead of spraying on overpoweringly perfumey fragrances, why not?!

Dandelion Oil

Lotions, soaps, shampoos. Always looking to reduce the amount of man-made, chemically enhanced substances from my daily life, essential oil infused skin and hair care was a good fit from the start. I find them to be more gentle and cleansing at the same time than other over-the-counter products. My husband finds the soft smelling scents seductive, which is a definite plus. Lotions and soaps made with essential oils tend to have a lighter scent that soaks deeply into the skin. I’ve even embarked on the adventure of making my own dandelion oil, known for its skin healing properties (recipe below). All natural shampoos made with essential oils instead of artificial additives also seem to keep my hair cleaner longer, a definite plus when a bath or shower means hauling 40 lb buckets of water up 40-some steps from the river to heat on the stove.

At the end of the day, the benefits of living off grid in an old Alaskan trapper’s cabin definitely outweigh the challenges. It’s just a matter of shifting the way I think about daily life. Using essential oils requires a lot less label reading for toxic chemicals, giving me more time for the things I enjoy, like sitting on the porch with a glass of wine, watching the silver salmon jump their way upriver. Cheers!

Dandelion Oil

Topical use only: Healing for Psoriasis, Eczema, or other dry skin ailments. Also, soothes sore muscles.

1.     Pick and dry full-bloom dandelion flowers. Getting rid of the excess moisture is key to preventing bacteria or mold from growing.

2.     Fill a sterilized quart jar 2/3 full of the dried flowers and pour enough organic olive oil in to reach ½ inch below the bottom of the lid.

3.     If you’d like, you can add a few drops of your favorite smelling essential oil at this point. Personally, I like the natural olive oil scent.

4.     Tighten two-piece lid and place in a sunny location for two weeks.

5.     Strain oil through cheesecloth into smaller, sterilized jars. Tighten lids and keep in dark location for up to one year.

Optional: After the initial two weeks, you can strain the oil and add another batch of dried dandelion flowers, and set in sun for another two weeks in order to make an extra-strength batch.

A Toast to the Tundra

Land of the Midnight Sun

As I was foraging on the tundra this morning, I began to contemplate what makes a food particularly American. From hot dogs and apple pie to roasted turkey and mashed potatoes, what do you think of when you think of American food?

American food is seemingly its own genre, often separate from what a family in America might consider traditional foods. For example, you might ask someone living in Texas and they might answer that BBQ is most definitely an American food, while Pasole might be a traditional food in their family. Is Pasole really less American than BBQ? I think not.

Fireweed

Here’s a scenario for you. Most Fourth of July celebrations include hamburgers and hot dogs, even in Alaska. Even in Unalakleet. However, there are no cows or pigs or chickens out here. In order to have an American celebration, food has to be flown in – potatoes for French fries, ice cream, soda pop. Our local traditional foods include salmon, caribou, moose, greens, berries, rhubarb, whale, seal, bear, crab, and water fowl of all sorts. Are those less American?

For the first time in my life, I am going to live off the land. No job with a regular paycheck. Thankfully, I live in a land of abundance. I took a trek up the hill behind the cabin today. Along the way, I noticed rose hips and currants ripening in the woods and when I came into the tundra clearing at the top of the hill, I felt like the richest person in the world. The wind brought with it a view of never ending mountains and not a person anywhere. When I looked down, ripe blueberries dotted the ground, salmon berries were turning orange, cranberries were just starting to turn yellow, and Fireweed was in full bloom. There was even wild rhubarb here and there. All are amazing foods and they couldn’t be more American. They literally grow wild in my back yard.

Wild Rhubarb

Gregg already has a moose hunt planned for this fall, I plan to go with him caribou hunting, and we already have 30 pounds of salmon in the freezer. It looks like Nuka, our one-year-old Chocolate Lab is going to be a great bird dog, so we’ll have plenty of water fowl. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. That’s the epitome of American food!

Muktuk (whale blubber) in Alaska is as American as pasties in Michigan or cheese curds in Wisconsin. Jambalaya in Louisiana is as American as lobster rolls in Maine or tacos in New Mexico.  I’m grateful for the rich diversity of our country as a whole, but I’m even more grateful for abundance of life right outside my front door.