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!