Crisp Lake Chronicles - Vol 5

Crisp Lake Chronicle, Vol 5  1953

What follows may seem a little delicate to report but it is the job of all reporters to state the truth as they see it and let the chips fall where they may.  However it is also their duty to warn the reader that if they are of a sensitive nature or get easily offended that they should stop now.  Also if you are not of a mature age and on the front side of puberty it best you stop now unless you have the permission of your parents to continue. 

Mrs. Francis Huggins read an article in the Atlantic Monthly that described a nude bathing area that was becoming the rage in Yugoslavia.  She wondered to herself if that was one reason the people in Sugar Creek, most of Slavic decent, did not usually associate with those living in Fairmount in general and Crisp Lake in particular.  She had no proof of such but the thought was intriguing.  So intriguing was the thought that she suggested to the Crisp Lake Woman’s Auxiliary if they would be interested in developing such a place around Crisp Lake where people could sun bathe in the nude.

At first the women were not really keen on the idea but Mrs. Huggins explained it would be only women or only men and not naturally at the same time.  She then showed the article she had read to the women and with the few pictures that were present in the article the women of Crisp Lake got as intrigued as Mrs. Huggins.

A delegation met with the Crisp Lake Board of Directors and the suggestion was made that if they would build a privacy fence around Mrs. Sullivan’s, president of the Auxiliary, back yard it would be a healthy benefit to the neighborhood.  Being nude she said in an outdoor atmosphere was beneficial to ones health with all the vitamin D the sun provided all over the body.  The men readily agreed and saw the wisdom of the attire affair.  The fence was built in record time after receiving a pledge from Mrs. Sullivan that she would keep her blinds closed when it was the men’s turn to use the sun bathing facility.

It was decided that since it was a woman’s idea, that the women should be the first ones to use the facility.  The day came and many women from Crisp Lake and some even from Maywood showed up.  At first there seemed to be a little timidity in taking off their clothes but one by one the garments were discarded and the ladies lounged around on chairs, hammocks, and blankets.  Eventually they all decided to play volley ball.  It was then that strange sounds began to be heard from Mrs. Sullivan’s backyard.  There were deep sounding vocalizations of “Boom, Boom” and then sounds less than a big Boom all the way up to small little “Peep, Peep.”

The men kept their promise and did not try and look in on the women in fear they would see their mother, sisters, or daughters naked.  They even prevented Morris Applegate, an 80 year old vet of the Spanish American War, from climbing a tree to find out what all the Booming and Peeping was about.  It was very perplexing to all.  However we at the Crisp Lake Chronicle found out what was going on in side the fence that sunny afternoon.  This is what really happened.

The ladies on the west side of the lake had challenged the ladies on the east side of the lake to a volley ball game.  Everyone was naked of course so when the ladies would jump up and spike the ball the audience would make the sound of a boom or a peep or somewhere in-between depending on the size of the player’s breasts.  The bigger the breast the deeper and louder the chant from the crowd would be.  The smaller the bosom the higher and softer the response from the crowd.  The ladies found this very amusing among themselves and felt no embarrassment or shyness in all the bouncing bosoms and the subsequent noises that followed.  A good time was had by all.

A couple of days later it was the men’s turn.  They were a little shyer about discarding their clothes than the women had been but eventually got with the program.  They felt a little awkward just lying about so they started playing croquet but stopped because they could not hit the ball just right given the impediments associated with the between the legs swing necessary for excellent performance.  They then thought about wrestling but immediately dismissed that idea for the obvious reasons.  There was a net still up, so bad mitten was tried but there was one to many careless swings and the term shuttlecock took on a different meaning altogether.  Eventually a volleyball materialized from over the fence, no one knowing who through it over, and like the women the east side challenged the west side.

The women reported later that they did not know who played volleyball.  Several of the women were sure that their husbands did not play because they only heard a lot of “Boom, Booms” and no “peep peeps.”

Native Youth Olynpics - Alaska

Every year in Alaska they hold the Native Youth Olympics or NYO for short.  To prepare for NYO the kids begin practicing things like wrist carries, seal hop, scissor jump, one foot high kicks and other physical feats of strength and endurance that are based around when either you lived or died buy your skill and stamina.  But they also work on skills that are needed in modern times like essay writing, math contests and oral presentations, something perhaps that other Olympic event ought to include.

The coach here in Hooper Bay is always a native that has returned to the village to teach, which is the goal of all bush school districts.  It gives the rest of us a shelf life but we know that going in.  One of my students asked if I would help her with her speech and after reading it I asked her if she really wanted to give it.  She looked at me sort of puzzled and said she did, like why would I even ask.

I asked her if I could use the speech in this column if I gave her full credit.  She thought that would be great to see her name in print.  What follows is the speech delivered at the district NYO meet this year.

“Hello, my name is Samantha Hill.  I am 14 years old and I come from Hooper Bay, Alaska.  My speech is about my family.  Long ago I was born to Nancy Ann Hill and Arnold Davis Simon.

“In the year 1989 my mom graduated from Hooper Bay High School.  She wanted to go to college but she couldn’t because that was the year I was born.  My grandparents, Reuben and Kathryn Hill wanted to take me, but my mom wanted to keep me.  So she did.

“As I grew older my sister Paula was born.  Everything was doing well until October 29, 1990.  My dad died seven months after my sister Paula was born.

“The one thing I remember about my dad was the funeral.  Can you imagine a 2 year old remembering something like that?

“A few years passed and we were doing well.  As I grew older I asked my mom how my dad’s funeral looked.  She described it to me and it was exactly how I remember it.  I was really amazed.

“We grew up to be a happy family, just the way I wanted it.  When it came to holidays and birthdays our mom always gave us the most perfect presents any child could have.

“Before our dad died y mom became pregnant again.  So we had a sister.  Her name was Eva.  We had to give her away to Sam and Mary Black because we had too many girls.  After Eva was born my mom had another baby.  My mom called and asked us what we should name the new baby and I suggested Arnoldine Hill.  We decided to keep Arnoldine.  When they came home we were happy.

“Three months went by and I was holding Arnoldine over my head and she puked all over me.  She got sick when she was held in the air.  The one thing I wanted most was to have a baby brother.

“Arnoldine grew older and when she was about 6 we finally got a new baby brother, his name was Jon Raymond Louis Koby Hill.  My mom named him after out baby sitter, Koby Joe.  I was glad when mom came home with a baby brother.  He was the first boy we had gotten.  He has grown up to be a funny brother and every time I am sad he cheers me up.

“Everything changed on April 23, 1999.  The time was 3:50 P.M.  My mom told me not to come home because her boyfriend Balingo was drunk.  At 4:00 P.M., David Hill came to pick me up, but I didn’t want to go home, but knew I had to.  When I entered the house every body was crying.  I asked what had happened.  They told me that my mom was gone.  I started to cry.  I asked again and they explained that Balingo had shot her.  I cried even harder.

“They took her to Bethel and then to Anchorage.  When she got there she was still alive.  They called later and told us she had suffocated.

“When the body came back to Hooper Bay everybody went down to the airport.

“They brought her to our grandparent’s house, we had the body and everyone came by to visit.

“The day of the funeral we sang songs and then had the ceremony.  We gathered around her body and before we could go to the cemetery my auntie Romaon cried and yelled out my mom’s name.   Thank you for listening.”

Samantha won second place in the eighth grade division.

Log 9 - Alaska

Continued from Log 8

11/18/02

I went out tonight and walked around hoping to see the northern lights.  I didn’t so I then hoped I would see some Hooper Bay night life.  All I could see was a bunch of 4 wheelers running all over town, going God knows where.  Which brings something up, I did run into one of my students out in the dark, he said he was just walking around until he ran into his friends.  It is starting to get cold now , don’t know exactly what the temp is, but it is cold..

12/12/02

No entry for a long time.  Thanksgiving was spent at the Principal’s house.  Paula left for Dixon – I’ll leave on the 21.  she said she spent 26 hours in travel time including airport waiting areas.

At a pot luck for the students an old Eskimo man asked me if he could borrow Paula.  I wasn’t quick enough to ask him how many seal skins he had to trade. 

Things are quiet.  I did manage to piss off the post mistress, but am still getting mail.

The kids are very restless in the afternoon.  The morning class is good though.

Paula and I thought we would go to the Amboy Church Xmas eve – that ought to be interesting if my second wife is there also.  I need to some how make contact with Darren while there.

12/13/02

Got stopped in the hall on the way to lunch.  Marta was furious.  She got a bad evaluation.  I have never seen her teach but she can’t be a bad teacher.  In fact I have never heard anything but praise about her skills.  The administration does not like her because she is out spoken.  She is also the union rep.  She says she is going to appeal the evaluation than sue the principal personally.  Pot luck ought to be fun tonight.

Water Buckets - Alaska

Teachers are such a spoiled lot when you come right down to it.  Little things like not having enough pencils or paper, a broken electric pencil sharpener, or having to walk an extra 20 feet to your classroom when the temperature drops a little, can put them over the edge.  So when the most serious crisis to ever hit our village occurred one day a few years back I wondered how we would manage.

At our Friday night potluck dinners there was always a central topic of discussion.  Venting now and then was a basic necessity and always felt good to everyone.  The discussions were never really planned; they just sort of arose out of the ashes of burning complaints.  The week’s topic in question that potluck, over the aromas of sliced smoked turkey, barbecued caribou, moose stew, and pumpkin pie, was water – or the lack thereof.  The running water for the school, thus teacher housing, had gone out the previous day.

The well either had a bad pump or clogged filter, or was caved in or ran dry, no one seemed to know for certain.  In any case there was no drinking, washing, (dishes, clothes, or bodies,) or flushing water availale.  Gee, I thought at the time, just like the rest of the village.

I informed my friends in the lower 48 not to worry about me, however; because I was rather a resourceful person and there were other items at my disposal, albeit inconvenient.

First there were two watering points that tapped into different wells in the village.  One can walk to those points without much trouble and bring back a five gallon bucket of water.  We called that packing water.  The nearest watering point was only a quarter of a mile away and packing water a couple of times a day built character.

I suggested to my wife that she could make extra money packing water for the teachers but she showed little interest in doing so.  She only reminded me that one of the criteria she established before coming up here was that running water be available and that I would have to do the running.

We teachers had been warned that the main pump could go out and that we needed to store drinking water, we never seemed to store enough.  The acquisition of several five-gallon buckets was highly recommended so one did not have to resort to using honey buckets.  Most of the teachers spent the first day of the debacle scampering around looking for containers to store drinking water but for some reason the place my wife and I lived had 15 gallons of water standing by when we arrived and enough five gallon buckets filled so we did not have to resort to that honey bucket thing.

I chided my peers that Friday evening for being such wimps and told them we should be thankful that we had running water at all.  I told them I was aghast to hear them moan and groan.  Look at the bright side I told them, “By our contract if water is out for 10 consecutive days our rent is cut in half, school is out at one o’clock each day until the crisis is over, and the hauling of water is good exercise.”  The village watering point that week had some unfamiliar faces.

It was amusing to see teachers hauling water back to their dwellings.  There was snow on the ground, the temp was in the teens, and the boardwalks more slippery then ever.  My friends could not understand why I was not upset.

Secondly, they never understood that just a common ol’ pioneer type like me from Independence could take that sort of thing in stride, that my days in the army had prepared me for such things, my growing up in Fairmount made me tough because of all the guys I hung with from Sugar Creek, and working for the State Emergency Management Agency caused me to see real suffering and disaster.  What was happening was not a disaster.  Besides I had a secret.

My dwelling rested lower than the school and the other teacher housing.  I was not a hydrology expert, but I did remember from a Van Horn science class that water runs downhill.  I had also learned during my travels that you always made friends with the maintenance men.  They have keys to where you might want to go, respond quicker to your problems if they like you, and know where the valves are.

What little amount of pumping left in our worn out system did not create enough pressure to send water to the school or any of the housing save mine.  I received only a trickle but enough of a trickle for the necessities.  The pressure was enough to supply the engine room though.  Instead of going down to the village watering hole after work, when I determined that a trickle was not enough I just went out my back door, down the hall into the pump room, turned on the spigot, filled my buckets, and stealthily retuned to my abode.

I loved my fellow teachers but some things are better left unsaid.  I kept this bit of information to myself.  The last time this had happened was two years ago I was told and given the 80% turnover in personnel since then, no one knew about my source except Dennis, the maintenance man.  Cookies and a free lunch once a week bought his silence.

If anyone had gotten into real distress I would not have let them go with out naturally.  Distress and inconvenience are two different animals and comedic entertainment was hard to come by.

They had to set priorities as to what was important for them, ie, bathing, toileting, dish washing, or drinking water.    

It seems to me if I remember correctly they passed on bathing everyday in exchange for not having to use honey buckets.  I thought at the time that if the situation continued for more than a couple of weeks the aroma arising from the Friday night potlucks would not only yield smoked turkey, barbecued caribou, moose stew, and pumpkin pie.

Panama Pundit. 2

Jan 2, 1991

New Years Eve was spent going between Ft. Sheraton and down the coastal road to Nombre de Dios.  Three trips were made in all because one we had to find it, 2 we had to deliver 2 MP guards and two caterpillars, and 3 we had to bring the MP’s their overnight gear and feed them. 

It was a lot of riding but I saw a lot of the country side.  The country is pretty except for the trash.  It seems to be everywhere.  The houses are literally shacks  There are some exceptions but not many. If my pictures come out I’ll write what they are in some detail. 

The people are nice looking with their mix of Spanish, Indian, and black blood.  There are a lot of blacks here.  They seem to populate the cities while the more Indian looking people are in the forests.

Some of what I write will not make since because it will be in cryptic form.  It will be that little lost tantalizing part of social history lost forever that only the viewer can remember.

-waited at port for convoy commander.

-stopped traffic on lonely road, tried to tell a Panamanian to wait 5 minutes.

-a lot of pumps in the road.

-A young couple and naked little girl watched the convoy go by.  They were living inside a whole dug into a mountain side.

-a church is next to a whorehouse.

-saw the Caribbean Sea at midnight.

-saw European tourists in strange places.

-found a drunk in the road.

-the roads are rough and would not pass for anything resembling a road in the U.S.

-met Bob V’s.company commander, Capt Peterson.  We both agreed that Bob hadn’t changed a whole lot.  I’ll try to look him up before I leave (Bob was an employee of mine at UMB.  I talked him into joining the army.  I apologized to Capt Peterson.)

-Went to see Bob V. at his company area.  Small world.  He was a gate guard a the compound we were staying at on Sheridan.  He is homesick and has an attitude about the army.  I tried to pass on all my wisdom about moving forward and not looking back.  Someday he will understand out conservation.

Deutschland Diary. 2

Deutschland Diary 2

9/8//84

Today we left for Germany.  We boarded a 747 and took off.  Presently we are flying over Washington, D.C and Baltimore, Maryland.  We are supposed to land in Bangor, Main to refuel. 

All day today we spent being processed.  It amazes me how easily we all just follow instructions without comment.

Jerry Sonderegger got pulled out of line and had to empty his back pack.  The sniffing dogs smelled food and we were not allowed to carry food aboard.

Sunday in Germany.

After refueling we took off and headed towards Germany.  The plane holds 500 people by the way.

We crossed the Atlantic and I saw the coast of Ireland and an Island to the west and just the beginning of the coast line of England.  I was not able to see any other part of Europe because of cloud cover until we landed in Frankfurt.  I also occurred to me that I was the first McAnally to cross the Atlantic going East.

We loaded on some busses and took us to  Kaiserslautern or what they call K-Town.  We left of Gersheim but got lost.  Which was Ok with us since we saw a lot more of the country than we would have normally.  The fields are clean and the towns are mostly multi family dwellings.  Things are quiet modern, much more than I had thought they would be.

When we arrived at the base (which is small by U.S. comparison) our bags were missing and there was no place to stay.  We hung around the commanders headquarters for a long time and I tried to get hold of Verna, my cousin, but could not get anywhere in finding the phone number.  I even tried to get an overseas operator to call home but could not.  We ended up sleeping in a gym on post.  We had no covers or anything.

Monday  10^th

About 0300 another bunch of soldiers arrived without bags also.  They too slept on the floor.

When we woke up our bags had caught up with us.

Tuesday  11 September

We were transported to the mobilization station yesterday.  We made camp.  There are a bunch of people here and we have little to do.

My job assignment is sort of confusing.  I am not sure what my assignment is or how to do it.  We will not do much until Thursday and then will move to the Tactical Assembly Area.  It is dark, not sure what time it is, around 8 I think.  I am going to crawl in my tent and go to sleep now.

Crisp Lake Chronicles, Vol 4

Crisp Lake Chronicle,  1952

The Crisp Lake Association Board of Directors has announced that they have accepted the application for full membership by one Mr. Aldo Midget.  In a statement released by the president of the Association, Mr. Fenious T. Butler, stated that, “ The acceptance of Mr. Midget and family broadens the base of our Association and proves that we of the Crisp Lake community harbor no ill will towards those who some would say are different and lack conformity with the general populace.  We are proud to say that diversity in our community runs supreme.”

The Crisp Lake Chronicle has obtained documentation, however, that proves that

Mr. Midget’s induction in the Association was less than smooth and was based more on financial considerations than openness to those who are less than perfect in the eyes of the community.  This is what really happened.

The old Baker house had been for sale for several months and given the outlandish price asked for the dwelling the neighbors thought the house would never sell.  So it was met with surprise and relief when the real estate agent removed the for sale sign one Sunday afternoon and a moving van pulled up in the drive way.

The next morning a small contingent of the Crisp Lake Women’s Auxiliary knocked on the door to welcome the new neighbors, bringing pies, cakes, and other eatables as is customary when new people move into the neighborhood.

The ladies were shocked when the door was answered by a 3’ 5” midget.  The women had been raised properly so they did not show their surprise but did immediately leave their goodies after mumbling and stuttering about how nice to have the Midget family as neighbors and declined an invitation by Mrs. Midget to come in and share the treats. The women returned to their homes and started calling one another on the phone and later held an emergency meeting of the Auxiliary.

When the men arrived home that evening they too called an emergency meeting of the association board.  It was decided in a closed door meeting that although they realized that we lived in America and anyone could buy a house anywhere they wanted, unless of course they were Negroes, Polish, Hungarian, Gypsies, those speaking with questionable accents, communists, or Italians.  There had never been an instance when midgets were denied access to the community with all the rights and privileges pertaining there too, but as it was pointed out my President Butler, none had ever applied.  They did not want a neighborhood of former cast member from the Wizard of Oz it was said, which was bound to happen because, “Once you let one in, others are sure to follow.”  A precedent had to be established.

It was also decided that being Americans there was nothing to say that anyone had to talk to anyone or associate with anyone if anyone did not want to.  It was further decided that the Midget family would be treated politely in public but no one would associate with them in public.  It was felt that by isolating the family they would soon move on their own. 

A month of isolation went by and it was felt by the normal community that their plan was working.  So it was with great surprise and consternation when at the regular monthly meeting Mr. Midget showed up with an application for membership in the Crisp Lake Association and all the accruements that it pertained. Mr. Midget was ignored for most of the meeting but efforts were made to find him a chair at the back of the room that was small enough so that his feet could touch the floor when he sat down. 

The last order of business was New Membership.  A silence fell over the assembly when Mr. Midget raised his hand and asked if he could address the meeting.  After an awkward silence Mr. Butler gave an inaudible assent and Mr. Midget began reading from a prepared statement only deviating from the text now and then.

“Gentleman.  Thank you for allowing me to address this august body.  Before

 you vote on my membership I think it only proper that you know a little, no pun intended of course, about your new neighbor and hopefully newest member of the association.

“I was born in Australia but was raised in Rumania.  My father and mother were circus performers and as a child I traveled all over the world and was an interregnal part of the act.  We were tumblers and acrobats.  I left the circus at the age of 18 however and moved to Chicago where I became a professional wrestler.  Some of you might have heard of my ring name, Mighty Moe.  I can see by the nodding of some of your heads that you have.  I eventually married a lady from Allen Town, Pennysalvian and together we had three children.

“I grew tired of all the traveling that a professional wrestler had to do so I eventually used my circus skills and opened up a side show on the Atlantic Board Walk in New Jersey.  I taught my children how to tumble, juggle, ride a unicycle and other skills associated with the circus.  I might add that my side show business was very successful.

“I soon acquired enough money to retire, so sold my side show to my oldest son and looked for a place where my wife and I could settle down and live out the rest of our days in comfort.  We selected the Crisp Lake Community.  Your accepting me as a full fledged membember of the community will be greatly appreciated...  Thank you.”

President Butler was not sure what to say next, so Al Wisdom stood up and said that he appreciated Mr. Midget’s presentation and felt honored that he thought enough of the community to decide to make it his home.  “However, I checked our liability insurance and it appears that we cannot allow you to join our association because in so doing you would be illegible for all the rights and privileges of full membership, which includes swimming and diving during the summer months.”

“I am not sure I understand Mr. Wisdom.  I mentioned that my family made a living from the art of acrobatics and tumbling, did I not?”

“Gentleman everyone here was surprised to see Mr. Midget show up for our meeting tonight, except for me.  I suspected he would eventually seek membership so I arranged for Mr. Standard from our liability insurance carrier to be here tonight to explain why

Mr. Midget can not be made a member.  It has everything to do with money and liability and nothing to do with Mr. Midget’s stature.  Mr. Standard, if you please.”

“Thank you Al.  Gentleman your liability insurance is based on statistics.  The length of the swimming area from one side of the lake to the other is 56 feet.  The average height of the residents of Crisp Lake is five foot six inches.  The diving board is 10 feet high.  Your premium is based on the fact that one only has to swim ten times his own height and fall only 4’2” if hanging from his hands from the diving board, given a two foot arm length.  So you can see if Mr. Midget is allowed member ship those averages would change, making the average length of the swim across the lake and the use of the diving board a greater distance thus raising your premiums, and quite frankly I an not sure I could sell you a policy under such circumstance.  If there is no liability insurance there is no swimming or diving.”

“Well,” said President Butler, “That sort of sums it up.  It is just the law of averages and unfortunately Mr. Midget you fall below the line of acceptacance.  It is nothing personal, just business, so if there is no further business….”

“Mr. President,” replied Aldo Midget, “Are you saying that if I were taller that I would get admitted to the association?”

“Yes.”

“And are you saying that my rejection is based only on statistics?”

“Yes, and basic business principals.”

“And therefore if the average height of the community members would remain at 5’6” than I could be admitted to this body of gentleman?”

“Why yes Mr. Midget, but under the circumstances I do not see how such a thing would…”

“May I use your phone President Butler?”

“Certainly Mr. Midget.”

A few minutes passed and Mr. Midget returned to the meeting.  “Gentleman I told you I sold my side show business to my oldest son but did not mention anything about my two other children that accompanied my wife and I to Crisp Lake.  Gentleman I would like to introduce to you Tampa and Orlando Midget, my two youngest boys.

 The meeting participants turned towards the open door and there stood two of the finest looking specimens of manhood ever to grace the area of Crisp Lake.  They were well over 6 foot tall, blond hair, blue eyes and muscular build.  “Now Mr. Wisdom and Mr. Standard, and you too President Butler my two sons will be living in the old Baker house with us, and if my calculations are correct they will boost the average height of the local populace over the 5’6” mark.”

Mr. Standard made some rough calculations on a note pad and soon told Mr. Midget that he was correct and that in fact the premium would decrease based on the average height increasing.  “Statistically speaking and based on sound business principles, by accepting Mr. Midget’s application there is less distance to swim and less distance to fall.”

Over Due at Station Two - Alaska

I’m over due, at station two.  I know they’ll begin to worry.

The snow is cold, and the wind takes hold, and my mind’s in a little flurry.

I should have known, that to go alone, to my village by the sea,

Down cold trails, and through iced dales, was not my best idea.

When it’s forty below, you don’t solo, I’ve always heard it said,

So I’ll just fight, through the frozen night. The alternative is dead.

I feel my mind go, at forty below, but to where I’m not so sure.

I’ll cuss, and I’ll fuss, and if that weren’t enough, my vision is a blur.

It blurs to a time, that seems so sublime, back to a time that’s lost.

Back to the day, when yellowish hay, the wind swayed like froth.

The sun does shine, through silvery pine, while a boy plays only half clad.

The time seems sweet, and the youth not beat, out of this pristine lad.

But now I see, the boy is me. before the fever struck.

Before the gold, took right hold, and I went on a northern truck,

Then the temperature slid, and shut like a lid, all over my dreams and hopes.

Out all alone, in the great unknown, God I’m a miserable bloke.

But I figured it all, on the trail last fall, I figured what it’s about.

If I’d stayed a lad, only half clad, I’d never been able to shout,

To the malamutes, and their frozen snoots, “Onward and onward, now mush.”

I’d have been, like the rest of them, and never done real much.

I would not have seen, a world serene, cloaked in a whit fur coat.

Nor the mountains high, just short of the sky, a wreckage of purple boats.

Some men can venture, some great adventures, some stay with the city lights.

But I for one, have gone and done, so I’ll just continue the fight.

I fight the trails, and blistery gales, I fall down a slippery slope.

I can’t get up, I shout at the pups, there is no longer hope.

I’m over due at station two, they’ll send out a party I guess.

They’ll find me here, in about a year, hunched in a snowy rest.

I Won't Be Home for Christmas - Alaska

In all the years I spent in Alaska I only decided to return to the lower 48 for Christmas once.  My kids were a little up set, more for me than for them I suspect.  They had visions of me sitting in my little basement dwelling, watching television all alone with a little TV dinner while I cried into my eggnog.  That was not the case due to nice people that always seemed to take pity on a single person around Christmas time.  I always had a Christmas dinner and a New Year happening to go to.  The reason I did not return more than once had a lot to do about not spending the $1000 the trip would have cost and the hassle it involved.

The coming and going from the village over Christmas vacation was always a real mental and physical hardship let alone a financial drain.  Leaving from bush Alaska is not an easy task under the best of circumstances let alone over a busy holiday period.

The year I did return, my first year there, it went something like this -

Around the 20^th of December the teachers who were leaving congregated in the school office.  They waited for the fifteen minute warning call from a plane that would carry them off.  When the call was received all the bags were thrown into a sled attached to a snow-go and we piled on top of them and sped towards the landing strip.  We hoped our timing was right so as not to miss the plane or worse yet get to the strip to early and wait in the freezing cold longer than necessary.  The plane only held nine people plus baggage and it takes two and sometimes three trips in an out of the village to the regional airport, about an hour away, to get everyone on their way.

Once arriving at the regional airport, in this particular case Bethel, it is easy to transfer to a regular jet liner, seating about 50, for the trip to Anchorage.  We got into Anchorage around 10:00 PM and the flight to the lower 48 took off at 6:00 AM.  Going to a motel seems ludicrous so it is customary to find a soft metal bench or an even a softer portion of some indoor outdoor carpet and try and sleep. 

The flight I was on was going to Seattle first where you may or not spend the night.  Sometimes the flight goes to Chicago or even Houston non stop but not this time.  From Seattle we went to Denver then to Chicago, my final destination that year. 

After visiting that year the return trip I thought would be more relaxing due mostly to the fact I didn’t care if I got back on time or not.  However it turned out to be far more taxing.

It was a direct shot to Anchorage from Chicago.  What could go wrong?  Well, as we were going down the runway and were just about ready to lift off for our seven hour flight the engines suddenly unwound, setting the nose back on the tarmac and the plane started heading back towards the terminal.  The captain came over the intercom and explained that there was nothing serious but a light had come on indicating a pressure door was malfunctioning.  It needed to be checked out.  It took two hours to check the situation out and naturally we were not allowed to deplane. 

We tried the takeoff again and this time met with success.  The seven hour flight went smooth enough but every time we hit an air pocket I had visions of one of the doors blowing off.

Our landing in Anchorage was as smooth a landing as I had ever experienced.  We parked by our gate but then it took another two hours to get the door opened.  I guess they did a good job of closing it in Chicago.

By this time it was midnight and our plane to Bethel was leaving at 4:00 AM.  So I found another soft metal bench and some softer indoor outdoor carpeting close to the ticket gate and settled in.

I had planned on being first in line that morning but so did everyone else and I was number 29.  By the time I was number 10 an airline employee made an announcement indicating I was in the wrong line.  I informed whoever would listen that I was in the line I was told to be in.  I was then informed by a very polite soft spoken lady representing the airline that I was now being told to do something else and that I need not yell.

I am ashamed to say that I must have made quite a scene going to another line because two airline ticket agents came out from behind the counter and gave me special attention.  I was calming down and things were going well when it was discovered that the computer did not have me listed on the flight to Bethel and there were no seats left for over twenty-four hours.  Another scene arose.  As I was shouting out my confirmation number a phone call was made and security guards started congregating in the area.  The problem was soon rectified and I thanked the ticket agent the best I could through my hyperventilating and went off to my gate.

We took off without door problems or lights coming on and an hour later we landed in Bethel amidst a blizzard.  I took a $12, three block cab ride to the air carrier that would take me to Hooper Bay in about an hour.  I was informed that the flight had been delayed due to weather.  Ten hours later the flight was canceled.  I was put on a stand by list for the following morning.

In the mean time more teachers had arrived trying to catch a flight to the bush. They were more experienced than I about such things so I just sat back and listened to what they had to say.  The terminal was closing down and the authorities would not allow anyone to stay in the terminal over night.  To bad I thought because the metal benches seemed sort of comfortable.  The travel pros had made tentative reservations at one of the several motels and by the time I started calling around there were no rooms at the inn.  I pictured myself standing out in the cold all night when a teacher suggested I call the police to see if they had room.  I was a little perplexed until he informed me that sometimes the police let stranded passengers sleep in one of the cells if one was available.  I had no choice.

I made the call to the local constabulary and was told to come on over.  Twenty minutes and $15 later I was placed in a cell with two other transients for the night.  It was the first and only time up till now that I have ever been incarcerated as such.

The next morning I caught a taxi back to the airport, this time costing $20 and got ready for my supposedly 9:00 AM flight.  Nine AM came and went and around 10:00 AM I began to hear rumors that weather was still bad in Hooper Bay and that we would be in Bethel another night.  It was then that the luck of the Irish placed its charms around me.

 As I was leaning against the counter listening to the pros talk about what to do next, an employee came out of the back room from behind the counter and told the Eskimo ticket agent to get nine people on a manifest to Hooper Bay and he did not care which nine they were.  So much for a stand by list.  I immediately turned around and said, “Give me a ticket.”  The teachers began jostling and shoving their way to the counter and I got out of the way for fear of life and limb.  The plane took off about an hour later.

When we landed in Hooper Bay it was 10 below and the wind chill brought the temperature down to minus 42.  There was no time to delay.  We hurriedly through our bags on the sled trip to school, jumped on top and off we went towards the school about a mile away.  We zoomed across the tundra at 35 mph which was fast but not fast enough into the wind and a teacher later told me that he calculated the temperature was -75 degrees with the wind chill.

The following years I made no special attempt to go home fro Christmas.  It was too much of a hassle.  I had a choice and was fine each year I stayed in Alaska over the holidays.  I told my family and friends not to worry about me but to instead concern themselves with those young men and women that are really spending Christmas far away from home and really have no choice.  They are not teachers, I think the term used is "being in the military."

Hooper Bay Hoops - Alaska

Basket Ball

The Hooper Bay Warriors played the Chivak Comets one night a few years back, their biggest rival.  The game was decided by one point by a defensive maneuver that no one expected.

Eskimos love basketball.  They have their own NBA, the Native Basketball Association.  The village of Hooper Bay had I think six teams of men and four of women they called the City League.  Why they didn’t call it the Village League I don’t know.  It was and I am sure still is the ambition of many a young Eskimo lad and lassie to be on the school basketball team thus getting their training for the City League.  The teams are usually made up of family members and best friends.

I am not a sports writer so I can only try to make a few comments and a couple of observations about what I observed that night. 

After the team introductions the crowd grew quiet.  Everyone stood for what I assumed was going to be the national anthem.  Instead the packed house turned in the direction of the flag near the main entrance and in walked the eldest of the Elders.  He took a seat on a folding chair that appeared with great fan fair next to the entrance.  He looked over the crowd, smiled, waved and sat down. Play soon began. 

Referees call the games in the bush a little looser than they do in the rest of the world I think.  Not being a basketball fan I am not real sure, but few high school or college games I have attended did not have a representative from the health clinic strategically placed.  I heard later that the particular game I was watching was a lot less physical than most.  Only four players were treated for minor cuts and abrasions.

The game seesawed back and forth.  It was one fast break after another.  This continued until about the last thirty seconds of the game.

The score was tied 87 to 87.  Hooper Bay had the ball.  Barney passed to Obadiah, Obadiah to Masontoo, back to Barney, up he went with a jump short  when from out of no where a Chivak player bounded off the knee of one of his own teammates  and grabbed the ball out of mid air before it started its downward decent, thus eliminating a goal tending call.  Now the Comet’s had possession, fast break back to the Comet goal, up for a lay up but missed because number 32, Barney, got in the way.  The ref determined that Barney had fouled.  Two shots.

Chivak missed the first shot but made the second.  88 to 87.  Back toward the Hooper Bay goal.  Passage down the court went like clock work until Barney had the ball within five feet of the net.  Up he went for a sure two pointer when again a Chivak player grabbed the ball out of mid air just as it was leaving Barney’s hand.  But then Obadiah grabbed Masontoo lifted him up in the air.  Mansontoo made a gesture toward the Chivak player that loosely interpreted meant, “May you mother be mistaken for a walrus.”  The Comet got mad and through the ball at Mansontoo, who caught the ball in mid air and just as his feet were ready to hit the court he tossed the ball up toward the goal….nothing but net.  The Warriors won 89 to 88. 

All slept well in the village that night.

The Power of Ten - Alaska

The Power of Ten – Alaska

The winter snow, wets the valley below, and I know I must get through.

Fred’s on the sleigh, from the previous day, and he’s turning a ghastly blue.

As I look down the path, through frosted lash, I spot a possible trail.

“Onward,” I cry, to the huskies backsides, as they howl and whip their tails.

Off we go, though weary and slow, and I swore I would not fail,

To get ‘ole Fred, to a comfy bed, and out of the freezing gale.

Now it weren’t Fred’s plan to put his hand, into a beaver snare.

He seemed quite sure, he could grasp the fur, as his face wore a greedy glare.

Then a cry split the cold, and pain took hold, it darned near killed the bloke.

He flopped all around, on the cold white ground, and my shoes got blood red soaked.

All I could see’ was a new amputee , as he pointed the reddish stub,

Right at my face, through the white falling lace, it looked like a bloody club.

“It weren’t real smart, to trap in the dark,” He said with lips so thin.

“I may not be, as quick as you Lee, but I’s been proud to count to ten.”

So I searched the ground, for the hand laying round, and found it to no surprise.

The red soaked meat, I tucked away neat, into my parka’s side.

Three days have passed, and the wintry blast, makes me wonder why we’re alive.

“Look here Bub” as he shows me his stub, “All I can count to is five.”

“Don’t worry,” says I, with frost in my eye,“you still will be able to.

Your hand I’ve hid, in my parka lid, although a finger’s turning blue.”

“You will be able again, to count to ten, as long as we keep it chill.

There’s a Doc up ahead, whose able it’s said, to attach it with expert skill.”

We mushed into Kline, I seek and then find, the Doc we needed to see.

The Doc looks at it, and then thinks a bit, and pulls on a large whiskey.

He works all night, by candle light, just a sewing and stitching and such.

And then with a grin, through a breath of gin, “There, that weren’t so much.”

He thumps on his chest, “I’m one of the best,”

He says with saintly pride.

“He’s got all ten, success once again,”

Then Fred just ups and dies.

Appian Way - The Interpreter

Appian Way – The Interpreter

Four days on the coast of the Italian Riviera, a BMW, living in a spa overlooking a nude beach, on an expense account, and now an interpreter.  Fighting communism could not get much better than this.

The interpreter the commanding officer lent us was a Staff Sergeant who was getting ready to rotate back to the U.S.  He was going to be assigned to the 101^st Air Assault Division at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky.  His father had married an Italian and he had lived in Italy most of his life including most of his tour of duty.  His assignment to the 101^st was going to be for four years and he was not looking forward to the assignment.  He loved Italy.

He was full of questions about the states and Kentucky in particular, and for reasons that I guess were typical European, he was interested in whores.  He asked if I knew what the whore situation was like in Kentucky.  I told him I did not know and even though I had served two short tours there I never saw the reason to find out.  Other than that he seemed like any other young American soldier being sent oversees, or I guess I should say he was typical of any young man being sent away from home for the first time.  Women have always been a high priority to young men away from home.

I told my contingent that we had the sergeant’s language expertise at our disposal but they seemed unimpressed.  They had developed their own itinerary for the next few days and decided to leave me out of their plans.  I did not mind. There was a difference in rank and ages and I am sure they thought I would be a drag.  I am glad they felt that way, besides I had the car.  I did tell them that we needed to be back at the base no later than 0800 Friday and not to be late.

I asked my interpreter if he would mind taking me on a tour of the surrounding area.  He was more than happy to oblige.  He picked me up at the spa that evening and suggested we drive into Livorno.  We headed toward the Italian seaport, weaved in and out of traffic, up and down the streets of the old section of Livorno, and eventually arrived at a spaghetteria.  A spaghetteria, according to my guide, is a restaurant that serves typical types of food common to Italy but specializes in different kinds of pastas. 

The tone of any Italian meal differs from one part of the county to another and so to the differing restaurants.  First was wine, then some shelled muscles, next a pasta dish, a fish of some sort accompanied by crushed spinach, garlic, olives and bread.  Then came a fresh salad followed by fruit with a demitasse of espresso.  If that were not enough a rich thick creamy pudding followed.  Of course wines of different sorts were brought out with each course ranging from dry to sweet. 

I staggered back to the car, not from the wine but from over indulging my gastronomic side.  The sergeant thought we should now go out and look for some whores but I declined the invitation and he returned me to the spa. 

I needed to rest up for the county side tour the next day the sergeant had promised to take me on.

Deutschland Diary - 1

Deutschland Diary – 1

9/4/84

Today is Seann’s birthday.  I am not there to celebrate it because I am on my way to Germany to participate in an army exercise called Return Forces to Germany or REFORGER for short.  This exercise is held each year and consists of moving an army division, usually, from their home base in the United States to Germany.  Once there they participate in a gigantic field exercise, pitting the state side division against the U.S. Division  stationed in Germany. The idea is to let the Soviets know that we still had the resolve and ability to move a large number of troops on short notice quickly.

It will be a great experience for me and the guardsman I will accompany.  On a more personal note I realize that I will be the first McAnally to cross the Atlantic going east and only the second McAnally to visit a foreign country.  My dad spent time in Korea.

Marty and kids drove me to Sedalia armory.  From there are band of brothers boarded a bus and immediately the driver went the wrong way.  We missed a turn in outside Little Rock, Arkansas and ended up lost for awhile.  We did drive by the State House where my great great Grandfather Copeland was discharged from the civil war according to family documents.  About ten hours later we arrived at Ft. Polk, Louisiana.

9/7/84

Things are very unorganized here in Ft. Polk, or so it seems to me.

This morning we got up at 0400 to catch a truck at 0500 that would take us to the chow hall so we could eat at 0600 only to find out it did not open until 0630.  We did not eat because we were supposed to be at a processing center at the same time.  Typical army hurry up and wait.

Processing consisted of standing in line, carrying our two duffel bags through a warehouse and being stopped several times to sign papers and answer questions.  There was a screened off area where you could go behind with your duffel bags and unload anything that you needed to dispose of after being told in the line that that you could not take with you.  It was called the amnesty area.

We then were trucked to a gymnasium, made to line our nap sacks in a line and let drug dogs sniff the contents while we all sat in bleachers waiting for the dogs to finish.  Half way through the sniffing all the dogs seemed to congregate around one certain nap pack.  So did the MP’s.  Pretty soon an announcement was made over the intercom for Major Jerry Sonderegger to come forward. 

Jerry walked to where the MP’s and dogs were and opened his pack for them to explore further.  They confiscated a large jar of peanuts.  It was considered contraband and not allowed.

We were then trucked to a large opened area to wait for more busses to come by and pick us up and take us to our departure area.  We waited for over four hours.  Eventually we all piled on busses and drove to the landing strip.  We began loading, all 500 of us, on a 747 Jumbo Jet.

Log 8 - Alaska

Continued from Log  7 

11-1-02

November already, amazing.  The computer is set up, I am on line but still need to hook up the scanner and printer.  Paula got her second pay check today.  The twist is she was supposed to get it yesterday but the plane was not able to come in – where else does that happen? 

Halloween was calm. Nothing exciting.  Big to do  tonight.  Dance and a spook hallway up in the school.  Looks good, will have to walk through it later tonight. 

One couple has been here twenty years, love to camp, own a boat, four wheeler, and snow machine.  They live in one of the nicer places.  He is a jack of all trades, fixed our cable when it went out, let us use his satellite unit, very helpful but remains isolated a little from the rest of us.

11-05-02

We had a housing inspection yesterday by the central office.  They are looking at all the teacher housing in the district to levelize rents. Some units better than others but the rents are not equal.  Ours is OK for the most part, don’t expect the rent to go up or down.

One of the new teachers is kind of a sad case.  Flunked out of a PhD program, should not be teaching middle school, poor class room management.  No real friends, no TV, no stock pile of food.  We had him over for dinner once, nice enough guy to talk to, seems to know a lot about Russia.

11-12-02

Megan had Eva yesterday or the day before depending on the time between here and there.  Seems as though Dad left an insurance policy to be divided between us kids and Marsha – don’t know how much.  There is little to write about my Alaska adventure right now and it is too cold to go out exploring without transportation of some sort.  Been writing some stories.

11-14-02

One of my students is dieing from a head injury she suffered from a four wheeler accident.  Chasing around at night, hit a log on the beach, flew off.  She is on life support.  Benise Smith, 13,  Two other girls were hurt also.  Benise is in the hospital in Anchorage. Her parents flew there, they have no money to speak of.  The father is one of our janitors and her mother is a sub and works with Paula sometimes.  We will have to go to the funeral – I hear it is an ordeal.  I will let you know, dear reader.