It was a nice little German drinking establishment. The beer was good, I talked to a lady that had actually heard JFK's speech near the Berlin Wall, had a German English teacher wanting to practice his English with a real American, the accordion player played for us several times the only American tune he knew - Deep in the Heart of Texas - and we all sang with gusto, oh yes, I discovered that Germans had at least two uses for shoes.
Our little contingent of National Guard troops were allowed to go to the walled city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, which means on the river Tauber, one weekend while participating in a three week exercise with the regular army. It was my first time outside the United States and I was enjoying every minute of my great adventure.
My NG compatriots and I were having a grand time in the little bar, but I decided that I wanted to walk around town a little. I left my buddies and just roamed around Rothenburg. It was dark and I couldn't see much but it was a crisp Bavarian night and I was so very impressed just to be there. It dawned on me that I had been the first McAnally to cross the Atlantic going east.
I eventually went back to where my friends were and my buddy Jerry came up to me and said, "You can't believe what just happened. A bunch of Germans poured beer in one of their shoes, started singing a beer drinking song and at the end of the song they tried to slam back their beer faster than the others at the table."
"Disgusting!" I said.
An hour or beer or so later Jerry came up to me again and said they were singing that song again. I walked up to the table where the Germans were, I slapped my shoe on the table, they greeted me warmly, poured beer in my shoe and at the appropriate time in the song, we all drank the beer as fast as we could. I slammed my shoe on the table at about the same time this one German did but there was a discrepancy on who finished first. We got into a friendly argument so it was decided that a rematch was in order.
He poured beer in my shoe than his, we counted to three, he picked up both shoes, handed me his and started drinking out of mine. He won of course because he had bigger feet. I think he must have worn ten and half, at least that's what it tasted like.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Ice Capades - Alaska
There is not a Paul's Pizza to hang out at nor a pool hall in Sugar Creek, Blue Ridge, or Maywood (remember Art's?). But the kids in the village I lived at during my second year in Alaska did seem to have an active social life of sorts along with games that are similar to those in the lower 48.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Ircinrraqs - Alaksa
Being of Scotch-Irish decent, I have always believed in Leprechauns. I have never seen one, of course, but there are many things I have not seen that I believe. However, believing in Leprechauns is a far cry from believing in Ircinrraqs, or the Little People as they are called by my Eskimos friends.
More than just a few Yup'ik Eskimos believe in reincarnation, ghosts, animals that change into humans, humans that change into animals, bouncing fireballs over the Bering Sea, lights that mysteriously appear on the tundra, and a host of other things that go bump in the night.
Although where I use to live while in Alaska, according to village lore, was built over an ancient burial ground, I cannot say with any certainty that I have experienced any mysterious bumps in the night. But, strange things are done, or happen, in the midnight sun, and who am I to discount such beliefs?
Not every Eskimo I have talked to believes in ghosts, humans and animals that change places at will, tundra lights, or the big bouncing fireball. But I have never talked to an Eskimo who does not believe in the Ircinrraqs. That does not mean they all do, it is just that I have never found one who doesn't.
Ircinrraqs apparently are very tough, resilient, and mean. They were the only phenomenon that really struck fear into the hearts of the villagers.
The little people are rarely seen other than in the middle of the night and then just fleetingly. They live somewhere on the tundra and only venture into the village when everyone is supposed to be asleep. They rummage through the trash, steal fish off the drying racks, and latch on to items left loose. They seldom hurt anyone unless you come upon them suddenly. The kids who are wandering around at all hours of the night are not in real danger but only because they avoid the places where it is said the Little People have been.
On one particular night of the year, however, Ircinrraqs come out in droves and terrorize the village. Of course that night is Oct. 31. According to popular belief, they gather in the graveyard just outside the village and participate in all sorts of debauchery. They eventually work themselves into a frenzy and scamper into the village and a look for any man, woman, or child foolish enough to be out after the witching hour or answer a knock on the door.
My first year in Alaska, on Halloween, I was unaware of the danger and thought it strange that no one showed up for candy after 8 p.m. No child of any repute would consider going home at such an early hour, normally. I've only known of one other time that the children of Hooper Bay observed the curfew. That was when a pack of wolves were reported to be near the river. But none but the brave or foolish venture out after curfew on Halloween in the little village by the Bering Sea
There have been many a lad or lassie, so it is said, caught out on the boardwalk or under the school and dragged out onto the tundra never to be seen again. Some kids have escaped from the little people and are able to tell the tale. A teacher's aide told me that she was one of the lucky ones many years ago who escaped from certain death. I am sure she is still much in demand among the school children this time of year to tell the story.
I tried to pin my good friend Nanook down about the subject and since he was educated at the University of Alaska, I guessed I would gather some insight into the legend.
He told me it was not a legend but a truth that should not be regarded with skepticism. When I asked him how he could believe such an outlandish tale he just looked at me and said, "Isn't it just as outlandish, using your logic, to believe in a place where everyone is happy and you live forever?" Well, that is different, I said, and he said "to you."
Every year there is a costume dance on Halloween starting right after school, and afterward the kids comb the village from shanty to shanty acquiring candy. The teachers get hit pretty hard, and are well stocked. The kids, and some adults, will go after the goodies with a fervor, but by 8 p.m. there will not be a soul, at least a human one, who is not snugly wrapped in their seal skin coats, hid snugly away in their plywood houses.
I stated earlier that I, for one, did not believe in such things as Ircinrraqus, Leprechauns being the exception of course. The few fleeting images I noticed when outside at night when I was there can be explained, I assume, and the things that went bump in the night below where I lived were probably due to the heating system. The bouncing ball over the Bering Sea is undoubtedly the sun, and I have known many a human who acted like an animal.
However, one does not have to see to believe and one should never take chances when one does not have to. I made a personal pledge when I was there to participate in the total experience. I handed out candy with the best of them up until the bewitching hour. I got a knock on the door that Halloween night around 8:30 pm and got up to answer it. Well I am here now writing this so one of two things happened. I either opened the door and was not confronted with an Ircinrraqs or I thought about it and went back to my easy chair and pretended to hear nothing. Faith and begorra.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Log 3, Alaska
Continued from Log 2...
8/18/02
Quaint is not the right word. The town for the most part is a ghetto. Everyone seems poor. There is no running water in any of the homes and the water supplied to the school is yellow and must be distilled. White clothes look dingy after washing. The housing in the old part of the village is nothing but plywood shacks it seems. There are newer homes a little sturdier and are painted bright colors.
Went to church this morning. Part of the mass was in English, part in Yupick.
Our food and TV still have not arrived. We are thankful for the generosity of the staff for letting us buy or borrow needed items.
Called Mom today to have her send some things.
8/21/02
Called Dad, left a message. First day of school, no problems. The kids seem no different than kids the same age anywhere.
8/25/02
Talked to each one of the kids today, except for Shannon. I left a message. Last night we had two couples over for dinner, nice people, will probably become friends with them. George and Sandy, Katy and Jodie, and their son Andy.
I have been walking around the village and have taken a few pictures. TV got here and is up and running.
Kids keep stopping by to visit. I don't let them in, am polite but don't want to get it started or it will never end.
Still haven't gotten Paula to the beach yet, have walked around village. Food is expansive here and all the stuff we ordered from Anchorage has not arrived yet.
8/27/02
Three kids knocked on the door tonight and offered me some dried fish. They said it was Chum, which I think is part of the salmon family. I tasted it after making them taste it first. They gave me the whole fish, said it was for my wife too. I thanked them, closed the door and through it away. So much for the taste of the local food.
Note to reader: After reviewing what I wrote back then it seems callas, but I was in not the best state of mind as you will tell in subsequent logs. I did start letting the kids visit and they came by a lot, and I even developed a taste for Chum. In fact I even started feeling affection for the kids.
8/18/02
Quaint is not the right word. The town for the most part is a ghetto. Everyone seems poor. There is no running water in any of the homes and the water supplied to the school is yellow and must be distilled. White clothes look dingy after washing. The housing in the old part of the village is nothing but plywood shacks it seems. There are newer homes a little sturdier and are painted bright colors.
Went to church this morning. Part of the mass was in English, part in Yupick.
Our food and TV still have not arrived. We are thankful for the generosity of the staff for letting us buy or borrow needed items.
Called Mom today to have her send some things.
8/21/02
Called Dad, left a message. First day of school, no problems. The kids seem no different than kids the same age anywhere.
8/25/02
Talked to each one of the kids today, except for Shannon. I left a message. Last night we had two couples over for dinner, nice people, will probably become friends with them. George and Sandy, Katy and Jodie, and their son Andy.
I have been walking around the village and have taken a few pictures. TV got here and is up and running.
Kids keep stopping by to visit. I don't let them in, am polite but don't want to get it started or it will never end.
Still haven't gotten Paula to the beach yet, have walked around village. Food is expansive here and all the stuff we ordered from Anchorage has not arrived yet.
8/27/02
Three kids knocked on the door tonight and offered me some dried fish. They said it was Chum, which I think is part of the salmon family. I tasted it after making them taste it first. They gave me the whole fish, said it was for my wife too. I thanked them, closed the door and through it away. So much for the taste of the local food.
Note to reader: After reviewing what I wrote back then it seems callas, but I was in not the best state of mind as you will tell in subsequent logs. I did start letting the kids visit and they came by a lot, and I even developed a taste for Chum. In fact I even started feeling affection for the kids.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Disaster Plan, Alaska
Being next to the Bering Sea, our position above sea level was not great.
I lived on the highest ground around, and it measured 7 feet above sea level. We ddid't worry about tornadoes or hurricanes, and the earthquakes that happened were of no consequence. However when the wind is out of the southeast and the rain has not turned to snow, conditions up there resembled the Plaza Flood.
For two years I gazed out my window, past the dump, beyond the graveyard, just east of the abandoned oil tanks and out on to the tundra. I had always wondered why there were large boats sitting out there, hundreds of yards from the bay. Perhaps the boats were pulled there for repairs or were old and were incorporated into fish drying racks.
One day in the fall during first period it started to rain, by second period the wind started blowing – hard. By third period the principal announced that school would be dismissed so the students could get back home before the water covered the only road in town.
As I looked west out my window I could tell the ponds on the tundra were filling up, flowing over the grass and joining to make one big lake.
Pretty soon the water began to spill over the road and quickly flooded the north tundra plane as far as the eye could see. I went to the opposite side of the school and to the northeast I saw the entire tundra under water with boats floating where I had recently been stomping around on the soggy marsh. I began to realize the entire village was surrounded by water and wondered if it would get higher than the 7 feet. If so I wondered what would we do. No one seemed to be in a panic so I was not real concerned, but I did check to see what our emergency hand book had to say about the situation.
There was information on what to do if a person came on campus carrying a gun and what to do if a wild animal wandered into town, (lock the doors, not to keep the animal out but to keep the kids in). There was an earthquake procedure and a standard fire evacuation procedure.
An interesting one told you what to do if you were caught on an ice drift during a field trip. But nothing about flooding.
After the water subsided, I asked as to why there was no procedure in place in case there was a 100- or 500-year rain.
I should have kept my mouth shut, because the principal read my resume and found that I had once worked for the State of Missouri Disaster Operation Office, now called the State Emergency Management Agency. A far better title. Anyway, he appointed me a committee of one to write the procedure.
Not wanting to reinvent any wheel that might be out there, I asked the police chief about such a plan. He did not have one, nor did he think it was necessary, but he did say that after I got done he would like a copy. I went to the village and regional native corporation thinking they might have one, but was told no, but they wanted a copy also.
Apparently word got out, and a couple of other schools in the district asked if they could have a copy.
It had been years since I had written a disaster plan. Back when I was helping to write such plans for the state we had a tried and true method.
We would take an old plan and just change the name of the town or city, make sure we put in the correct nearby river or stream, then visit the area and present the plan to the governing body with much fanfare. Everyone was happy and felt a little safer. I am sure that as the years have gone by the procedure is more professional.
However at the time that did not help me in drafting an emergency plan that dealt with flooding caused by high winds and waves. I thought about contacting an old friend of mine to see if he had a copy of a disaster plan concerning flooding, or better yet tidal waves, or at least something I could finesse into a local disaster recovery plan. He sent me what he had and I developed a pretty good plan by changing Brush Creek to the Bering Sea and the Plaza flat lands to the Alaskan tundra .
However the principal never mentioned it to me again so I did not turn it in. I guess they are getting along OK.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref
Another Fine Mess, Alaska
Remember when we were young and there always seemed to be one or two guys that your mom did not want you to play with? You know, those neighborhood kids who kept getting you to do things that your mother knew you would not have done if those delinquents had not talked you in to it.
"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.
George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.
The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.
George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.
I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.
Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.
The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.
Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.
George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.
George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.
I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.
George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.
Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.
By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.
George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.
The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.
"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.
George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.
The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.
George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.
I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.
Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.
The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.
Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.
George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.
George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.
I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.
George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.
Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.
By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.
George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.
The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
ONCE UPON A TIME IN BUCH
You had to know Jerry. You had to know Dutch.
Jerry - serious and studious, concerned about appearances, gullible, such an easy mark... and Dutch - Mr. Know-It-All, brash, loud, impossible to embarrass, and, in his mind, a born leader, and not far off - were friends of mine and fellow artillery officers with me in the Missouri National Guard.
Our unit was sent to Germany on a training exercise, and being an artillery headquarters, we were assigned to work with our Regular Army counterparts in mock war games across the country. We were there learning how to defend Germany from attack from the East, and this being before unification, the citizenry was grateful for our participation and wanted to accommodate us. So, it was serious business.
A long, wet, night road march brought our combined convoy to Buch, a small village of maybe a thousand, where we set up our initial field operations in a clearing above town. In accordance with the doctrine of the day, we were to be prepared to move quickly to other positions as dictated by the tactical situation. So, few accommodations were available for the comfort of the troops. No need for sleeping facilities because of around-the-clock operations and naps were grabbed under the trucks. Nature’s calls were answered as time permitted in cold, wet, drafty uncomfortable portable toilets set up far away from work areas.
Being a field grade officer meant Jerry was on duty for far longer stretches than Dutch and I who were mere captains. We even ventured into Buch when off shift and were able to slake our thirst or have a meal, but not Jerry. He kept to the tasks at hand, got little sleep, stayed wet, and owing to the inconvenient facilities, put off “staying regular”. Finally, after a few days of this denial, it got the best of him, and, duty be damned, he was going into the village to find a warm, dry, comfortable “WC” to relieve himself.
Dutch, now being quite familiar with the town, took charge. Off we went into town, sure that there would be a public bathroom available for what was quickly becoming an emergency situation. We came across the City Hall and Dutch, being the leader he was, said he could speak German and went inside to look for the WC. I’m not sure what he said or to whom he said it, but in less than two minutes, out came Dutch and the mayor of the town who quickly hustled the six of us into his car and off we sped. As we careened through the town, Jerry is asking Dutch what did you say? and where are we going?, but got no answer. All the while, the Mayor is talking in rapid-fire German to Dutch who apparently didn’t speak the language nearly as well as he led us to believe.
After a few minutes of daring, sliding hairpin turns, we pulled in to a large school/gymnasium/church complex where the Mayor proudly presented what he thought were the desired facilities, a huge hall with dining rooms, kitchens, sleeping quarters, and bathrooms. Turns out, Dutch’s limited German skills had confused the Mayor into thinking we were looking for a place to accommodate our entire unit, not just Jerry’s singular need for a warm, dry stall. By this time, Jerry is beyond embarrassment and needed to go immediately, whatever the Mayor understood.
Leaving the group to sort out the misunderstanding, he found his private stall and great relief came after days of depriving himself. But, German toilets don’t function the way we are used to in the U.S., in that there is no water in the bowl to start with. Jerry deposited such a load in the dry bowl that no amount of flushing after the fact would get rid of it. Sheepishly, he had not much choice other than to step into the hall and ask for something to assist with the disposal, something that Dutch later loudly called, in artillery parlance, a rammer staff.
Hearing the news that an entire American army unit was deploying to their complex, a rather large group of nuns, cleaning crew, teachers, officials, and other townspeople had gathered just outside the bathroom with the Mayor to see if we found the place adequate for our needs. As Jerry finally exited the bathroom, embarrassed and with rammer staff in hand, he was met with a smattering of bemused, but polite, applause.
Dutch assured the Mayor that he approved of the facilities and they would be hearing from us. Thankfully, our unit received a mock attack in the middle of the night and had to make an immediate move, so Buch’s offer of hospitality went unused.
Jerry - serious and studious, concerned about appearances, gullible, such an easy mark... and Dutch - Mr. Know-It-All, brash, loud, impossible to embarrass, and, in his mind, a born leader, and not far off - were friends of mine and fellow artillery officers with me in the Missouri National Guard.
Our unit was sent to Germany on a training exercise, and being an artillery headquarters, we were assigned to work with our Regular Army counterparts in mock war games across the country. We were there learning how to defend Germany from attack from the East, and this being before unification, the citizenry was grateful for our participation and wanted to accommodate us. So, it was serious business.
A long, wet, night road march brought our combined convoy to Buch, a small village of maybe a thousand, where we set up our initial field operations in a clearing above town. In accordance with the doctrine of the day, we were to be prepared to move quickly to other positions as dictated by the tactical situation. So, few accommodations were available for the comfort of the troops. No need for sleeping facilities because of around-the-clock operations and naps were grabbed under the trucks. Nature’s calls were answered as time permitted in cold, wet, drafty uncomfortable portable toilets set up far away from work areas.
Being a field grade officer meant Jerry was on duty for far longer stretches than Dutch and I who were mere captains. We even ventured into Buch when off shift and were able to slake our thirst or have a meal, but not Jerry. He kept to the tasks at hand, got little sleep, stayed wet, and owing to the inconvenient facilities, put off “staying regular”. Finally, after a few days of this denial, it got the best of him, and, duty be damned, he was going into the village to find a warm, dry, comfortable “WC” to relieve himself.
Dutch, now being quite familiar with the town, took charge. Off we went into town, sure that there would be a public bathroom available for what was quickly becoming an emergency situation. We came across the City Hall and Dutch, being the leader he was, said he could speak German and went inside to look for the WC. I’m not sure what he said or to whom he said it, but in less than two minutes, out came Dutch and the mayor of the town who quickly hustled the six of us into his car and off we sped. As we careened through the town, Jerry is asking Dutch what did you say? and where are we going?, but got no answer. All the while, the Mayor is talking in rapid-fire German to Dutch who apparently didn’t speak the language nearly as well as he led us to believe.
After a few minutes of daring, sliding hairpin turns, we pulled in to a large school/gymnasium/church complex where the Mayor proudly presented what he thought were the desired facilities, a huge hall with dining rooms, kitchens, sleeping quarters, and bathrooms. Turns out, Dutch’s limited German skills had confused the Mayor into thinking we were looking for a place to accommodate our entire unit, not just Jerry’s singular need for a warm, dry stall. By this time, Jerry is beyond embarrassment and needed to go immediately, whatever the Mayor understood.
Leaving the group to sort out the misunderstanding, he found his private stall and great relief came after days of depriving himself. But, German toilets don’t function the way we are used to in the U.S., in that there is no water in the bowl to start with. Jerry deposited such a load in the dry bowl that no amount of flushing after the fact would get rid of it. Sheepishly, he had not much choice other than to step into the hall and ask for something to assist with the disposal, something that Dutch later loudly called, in artillery parlance, a rammer staff.
Hearing the news that an entire American army unit was deploying to their complex, a rather large group of nuns, cleaning crew, teachers, officials, and other townspeople had gathered just outside the bathroom with the Mayor to see if we found the place adequate for our needs. As Jerry finally exited the bathroom, embarrassed and with rammer staff in hand, he was met with a smattering of bemused, but polite, applause.
Dutch assured the Mayor that he approved of the facilities and they would be hearing from us. Thankfully, our unit received a mock attack in the middle of the night and had to make an immediate move, so Buch’s offer of hospitality went unused.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Denmark Patriot
By Curt
In the winter of 1944-45 I was asked to be a look-out for a group who would blow up the rail road track near Randers at a bridge over the river Gudenaa. I can whistle loudly through my teeth, so I was to blow the whistle if a German patrol should come along, and so as it happened I did the whistle thing to warn my fellow saboteurs. The sabotage was successful, but I got caught by a German patrol and was shown some gruesome tortures of people in order to make me talk, but I told them I was stopped because I had a flat tire on my bike, which I did, and eventually they let me go. I was also involved with the castration of a German soldier who had raped a Danish Girl.
note to reader from Conley: This is a very short portion of an actual event from a much longer article that Curt wrote for his family.
In the winter of 1944-45 I was asked to be a look-out for a group who would blow up the rail road track near Randers at a bridge over the river Gudenaa. I can whistle loudly through my teeth, so I was to blow the whistle if a German patrol should come along, and so as it happened I did the whistle thing to warn my fellow saboteurs. The sabotage was successful, but I got caught by a German patrol and was shown some gruesome tortures of people in order to make me talk, but I told them I was stopped because I had a flat tire on my bike, which I did, and eventually they let me go. I was also involved with the castration of a German soldier who had raped a Danish Girl.
note to reader from Conley: This is a very short portion of an actual event from a much longer article that Curt wrote for his family.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Net Fishing, Alaska
Fishing has never been a deeply held passion. In fact I cannot think of any deeply held passion I have ever had. I have fished some, especially when I was a kid living in Fairmount. My buddies and I use to have a whale of a time catching bluegills, sun perch and crawdads. One summer while in Alaska I got to go net fishing with the patriarch of one of the two teaching families that lived in the village year round and that was interesting.
We loaded the necessary nets and poles into the trailer attached to the four wheeler and headed down toward the Bering Sea. We turned left at the shore line and went another five miles or so and came around the northern edge of the bay.
When we reached a spot that he thought appropriate he took the net and poles and waded out into the bay to set his net and then returned to the four wheeler where we just sat and talked about guy stuff. This net fishing seemed pretty easy from my view.
My fishing companion said that it took several years for he and his wife to reach the level of acceptability they had in the community. He said that when he first started fishing he would give most of his catch away and for that fact he still does.
No fish would be given away that day because after about an hour he waded back out and, started bringing in the net. We had caught (we?) a very small flounder, a hooligan fish and several jelly fish.
There were others out that same day and as we started our trip back and my friend would stop and talk to each fisherman and ask about their luck that day. No one admitted to catching anything but a few said that there was a couple that were pretty big but somehow got away.
As we were about to make our right turn toward the village I noticed a lump of something on the beech. I asked to go by and have a look. It was a headless walrus, a dead one of course. It had washed up on the beach and was so rank looking and smelly that even the gulls were not interested.
I asked if he had any idea how it got there and he said it could have been any number of ways. One could have been that it was just sick and died and it was found to late to be of any use accept for the ivory tusks and some one just took them off. Or, he continued, it could have been shot but sank before the hunters could retrieve it and then again found later by another, thus the ivory saved. The last thing that he said could have happened was that some poacher just shot the animal, cut off its head and left the rest.
It was probably one of the first two reasons because I have never met an Eskimo who would ever waste a good hunk of walrus meat on purpose.
We loaded the necessary nets and poles into the trailer attached to the four wheeler and headed down toward the Bering Sea. We turned left at the shore line and went another five miles or so and came around the northern edge of the bay.
When we reached a spot that he thought appropriate he took the net and poles and waded out into the bay to set his net and then returned to the four wheeler where we just sat and talked about guy stuff. This net fishing seemed pretty easy from my view.
My fishing companion said that it took several years for he and his wife to reach the level of acceptability they had in the community. He said that when he first started fishing he would give most of his catch away and for that fact he still does.
No fish would be given away that day because after about an hour he waded back out and, started bringing in the net. We had caught (we?) a very small flounder, a hooligan fish and several jelly fish.
There were others out that same day and as we started our trip back and my friend would stop and talk to each fisherman and ask about their luck that day. No one admitted to catching anything but a few said that there was a couple that were pretty big but somehow got away.
As we were about to make our right turn toward the village I noticed a lump of something on the beech. I asked to go by and have a look. It was a headless walrus, a dead one of course. It had washed up on the beach and was so rank looking and smelly that even the gulls were not interested.
I asked if he had any idea how it got there and he said it could have been any number of ways. One could have been that it was just sick and died and it was found to late to be of any use accept for the ivory tusks and some one just took them off. Or, he continued, it could have been shot but sank before the hunters could retrieve it and then again found later by another, thus the ivory saved. The last thing that he said could have happened was that some poacher just shot the animal, cut off its head and left the rest.
It was probably one of the first two reasons because I have never met an Eskimo who would ever waste a good hunk of walrus meat on purpose.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
In the Line of Duty
By Ken
I really wish I could think of something worthwhile to send you. I can see myself now reposing in a loft somewhere in France overlooking the champs de ellysse (sp??), spending rainy nights, eating that cold soup crap they like, getting to know frenchmen and sacrificing my youth toiling away on the next great american novel. But as fate would have it, the closest I came to France was picking up a few words of french in a vietnamese cafe in the Cholon fish market section of Saigon.......granted, the people were unwashed, the food sucked, and it rained a lot but the experience didn't have the jene se' quois necessary for great writing, there is a story there however.
There was a guy in the local house of ill repute who was AWOL from his unit. Several other Americans were in there also and I can only speculate that they were there participating in the military's then ongoing attempts to win the hearts and minds of the people - as some wag once said "grab'em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow"........anyway, I digress..........A sapper came through and tossed a satchel charge into the joint and this poor bastard jumped out a window to save his ass. He was cut up a little but nothing fatal. He made his way back to his unit and his company CO didn't want to have to explain to the battalion commander how this guy ended up AWOL in such a place un be known to anyone at company level. So to make a long story not quite so long, the guy ends up with a purple heart for "wounds sustained while combating the insurgent forces of communism."..........pretty heroic stuff, eh??
I really wish I could think of something worthwhile to send you. I can see myself now reposing in a loft somewhere in France overlooking the champs de ellysse (sp??), spending rainy nights, eating that cold soup crap they like, getting to know frenchmen and sacrificing my youth toiling away on the next great american novel. But as fate would have it, the closest I came to France was picking up a few words of french in a vietnamese cafe in the Cholon fish market section of Saigon.......granted, the people were unwashed, the food sucked, and it rained a lot but the experience didn't have the jene se' quois necessary for great writing, there is a story there however.
There was a guy in the local house of ill repute who was AWOL from his unit. Several other Americans were in there also and I can only speculate that they were there participating in the military's then ongoing attempts to win the hearts and minds of the people - as some wag once said "grab'em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow"........anyway, I digress..........A sapper came through and tossed a satchel charge into the joint and this poor bastard jumped out a window to save his ass. He was cut up a little but nothing fatal. He made his way back to his unit and his company CO didn't want to have to explain to the battalion commander how this guy ended up AWOL in such a place un be known to anyone at company level. So to make a long story not quite so long, the guy ends up with a purple heart for "wounds sustained while combating the insurgent forces of communism."..........pretty heroic stuff, eh??
Friday, October 22, 2010
Toys for Tots
Pitka's Point is along the Yukon River on the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta.
It is not exactly known when the first settlers came to Nigiklik, but they brought with them the Yupi'k Eskimo culture along with the name of "Nigiklik," meaning "to the north." Nor is it exactly known when Mr. Pitka decided to open a trading center.
Mr. Pitka and the trading center are long gone. The people of Pitka's Point enjoy their quiet little village and feel privileged to do so. One hundred and twenty-one Yup'iks live here. The school is the smallest in the Lower Yukon School District. So I went from the largest village and school in the Lower Yukon School District to the smallest.
The high school has been transferred to St. Mary's a few miles down the only road in the Delta and that leaves our school with a population of 32 in K-8. My class size was six. The teacher-to-student ratio can overwhelm one. The other three teachers had about the same class load but one of them had the responsibility of being the lead teacher and site administrator. Because of the astronomical class load, we had three aides, a librarian, a Yup'ik instructor, a maintenance man, a custodian, a cook and a secretary who did not really need the rest of us.
Cynics might think Pitka's Point is a place where teachers go who want to retire but don't want to give up the fat paycheck. Think again. I had four subject matter preparations a day along with at least three and some times four levels for each prep. I also coached cross country, sponsored the student council, was in charge of the yearbook, showed movies every Friday night, and held open gym each night for those students who could control their behavior during the day. And, oh yes, my favorite because it is so nondescript – special projects coordinator.
On afternood I was passing the time away drinking hot chocolate, warming my feet by the stone fireplace and watching a sled being pulled by dogs on TV.
The phone rang and the caller said, "Is this Conley McAnally?" Without waiting for a reply he continued, "This is Sgt. Jones." I paused a moment and said, "This could be Conley McAnally. What do you want?"
Sgt Jones laughed and replied he got a lot of comments like that lately and assured me he was not a recruiter or the one who tracked down retired National Guardsmen for reactivation. I immediately became suspicious, though, because how did he know I was a retired NG?
"Conley," he said hurriedly, interrupting my paranoia, "your name was given me as the contact person for Toys for Tots for the kids in Pitka's Point." I relaxed, and we coordinated the arrival of the packages.
A few days later early in the morning a C-130 landed at the St. Mary's air strip – no small feat for such a big plane on such a little landing strip on such a cold snowy day. I drove the school truck to the rear of the plane and three Marines jumped down off the ramp and loaded four big bags in the truck bed.
We could not hear to speak over the roar of the engines, but the young Marine who seemed to be in charge – and I mean young – smiled, we shook hands, and he and his small band of brothers jumped back on the plane and took off, I suppose to some other small arctic Eskimo village.
Driving back to Pitka's Point, it occurred to me that I did not even get the kid's – man's – name. He was doing the kids of Pitka's Point such a huge favor and they would be receiving Christmas cheer from a total stranger.
As I sit here writing this I realize how many Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, and Air Force young men and women are allowing us to enjoy a Christmas this year and how they are giving us the most precious gift of all. All are giving us their time many have given their lives and like the young Marines that delivered toys to a bunch of Eskimo tots, we don't even know their names.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Log 2, Alaska
Continued from Log 1.
Later the same evening. 8/15/02
I have tried reading a book and magazine, listened to the radio, and tried a crossword puzzle. I am already bored and the evening has just begun. I have thought I would do a character sketch on the people I have met so far but I really don't know them well enough to be accurate. So I have decided to write down what has happened so far since we left Tucson but only hit the high points.
Mom dropped Paula and I off at the airport. Mom did pretty good saying good bye, didn't even cry, at least not in front of me. The plane left on time at 6 A.M. The two and half hour flight to Seattle was uneventful as was the hour and half lay over. The three and half hour flight to Anchorage left a lot to be desired because it was over cast and Paula could not see the mountains below. She was disappointed.
We went from the Ted Stevens International Airport to the Sheraton Anchorage. Got settled in the room then walked around town, had a drink at a bar named Humpys, went to a School District reception, met a couple named Kroll, went to bed, got up the next morning and went to some meetings, then to Sam's to buy supplies, went back to Humpys for dinner, bed, meetings in the morning,caught a flight at 6 P.M. which didn't leave until 6:40. While waiting we met a guy from Kansas City who was going to Bethel also to fix some sort of medical machine and also an Albanian who had once lived in Dixon.
We landed in Bethel and got the last room in town at a place called the Long House. Bethel is a poor excuse for a town. It has no central business district and what shops there are are stretched out along the roads more or less hidden from view.
We asked a cab driver, all cabby's seemed to be Korean, about a restaurant and he suggested the Depries. Sounded exotic, but it turned out to be no more than a cafe, food wasn't bad however
The next morning our flight was supposed to leave at 9 A.M. ended up departing at 1:30 P.M. It was an hour flight to Hooper Bay in a nine passenger bush plane. The bags were in the same fusel lodge as we were.
We flew over the tundra and it looked like flying over the great planes, but flatter. The area was very green and there seemed to be ponds of water everywhere.
We circled Hooper Bay once and from the air the village looked very quaint. We were met at the landing strip by the school principal and taken to what would be our home for the next nine months. More Specifics later. (un edited)
.
Later the same evening. 8/15/02
I have tried reading a book and magazine, listened to the radio, and tried a crossword puzzle. I am already bored and the evening has just begun. I have thought I would do a character sketch on the people I have met so far but I really don't know them well enough to be accurate. So I have decided to write down what has happened so far since we left Tucson but only hit the high points.
Mom dropped Paula and I off at the airport. Mom did pretty good saying good bye, didn't even cry, at least not in front of me. The plane left on time at 6 A.M. The two and half hour flight to Seattle was uneventful as was the hour and half lay over. The three and half hour flight to Anchorage left a lot to be desired because it was over cast and Paula could not see the mountains below. She was disappointed.
We went from the Ted Stevens International Airport to the Sheraton Anchorage. Got settled in the room then walked around town, had a drink at a bar named Humpys, went to a School District reception, met a couple named Kroll, went to bed, got up the next morning and went to some meetings, then to Sam's to buy supplies, went back to Humpys for dinner, bed, meetings in the morning,caught a flight at 6 P.M. which didn't leave until 6:40. While waiting we met a guy from Kansas City who was going to Bethel also to fix some sort of medical machine and also an Albanian who had once lived in Dixon.
We landed in Bethel and got the last room in town at a place called the Long House. Bethel is a poor excuse for a town. It has no central business district and what shops there are are stretched out along the roads more or less hidden from view.
We asked a cab driver, all cabby's seemed to be Korean, about a restaurant and he suggested the Depries. Sounded exotic, but it turned out to be no more than a cafe, food wasn't bad however
The next morning our flight was supposed to leave at 9 A.M. ended up departing at 1:30 P.M. It was an hour flight to Hooper Bay in a nine passenger bush plane. The bags were in the same fusel lodge as we were.
We flew over the tundra and it looked like flying over the great planes, but flatter. The area was very green and there seemed to be ponds of water everywhere.
We circled Hooper Bay once and from the air the village looked very quaint. We were met at the landing strip by the school principal and taken to what would be our home for the next nine months. More Specifics later. (un edited)
.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Critical Hour, Alaska
One blizzard evening while living in Pitka's Point along the Yukon River, an event occurred that reminded me of the critical hour.
There use to be a TV show on one of the health channels that followed medical emergencies through what the show called the "critical hour." The premise of the show was that when an emergency occurred, like a heart attack or severe accident, statistically you had one critical hour to begin treatment or the possibility of dying greatly increased.
We had a small clinic in Pitka's Point, but like clinics everywhere, it had its limits. Besides, at the time there was not a trained health aide assigned to our village. That meant that all medical concerns, questions, and procedures had to go to St. Mary's about 15 miles away. St. Mary's had a regional clinic and could provide medical treatment but anyone having a very severe problem would have to be evacuated to a larger regional clinic or even Anchorage, weather permitting.
There were four teachers assigned to Pitka's Point. I was the only male and it seemed that I was relied on more than one might suspect in this age of enlightenment and equality between the sexes. One teacher called me and said that the other two teachers were at her house and that one of them, the youngest one, had a swollen throat and was starting to have trouble breathing. They asked me if I could take her to the clinic, a health aide was going to meet them there.
Well what was I supposed to do say no? I told them I would go start the truck and for them to be ready to go in about 10 minutes. Fifty minutes left in the critical hour.
I no sooner had the truck started when all three came out and said they were very concerned now because since they had called the throat seemed to be swelling faster and the young teacher was having more trouble breathing.
I backed the truck out through the snow, onto the icy road and started winding up the hill toward the main road a mile away. The window wipers worked and my vision through the blizzard was unimpaired but the snow drifts kept causing me to swerve all over the road. Forty minutes left.
As I approached the last hill before the main road I zigged when I should have zagged and plowed into a snow drift. I was stuck.
I immediately put the truck in reverse and tried to back out, did not get very far, and then started the rocking motion I had learned during defensive driving classes. Drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Luckily I managed to get out of the drift, backed back down the hill, got another run, got stuck again but this time the engine died.
I tried to get the truck started but it just sat there and the ignition made the clicking noise we all have heard when the battery dies. Thirty minutes had gone by.
I was wondering what to do, wondering if anyone in the truck knew how to do a tracheotomy, and wondering if we would freeze to death before morning.
I tried the ignition one more time and between prayers and perhaps language that would make a sailor blush the engine started.
I slammed the gear into reverse, backed down the hill, shifted into second and gunned the engine. We slipped and fished tailed back up the road but this time shot onto the main road leading to St. Mary's. Twenty minutes left.
The road was relative clean but for some reason the window wipers became inoperative. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out and drove the rest of the way into St. Mary's without further difficulties.
When we arrived at the clinic with five minutes to spare. The critical hour had been kept intact. The Health Aide on call met us at the door. He examined my friend, and called the on call doctor in Anchorage.
A diagnosis was made and prescription given. The trip back was uneventful, going down hill through the snow was a lot easier.
The medicine the doctor prescribed over the phone apparently worked, the teacher recovered. But the whole episode made me realize that this is not a place for the sick, lame, or lazy.
There use to be a TV show on one of the health channels that followed medical emergencies through what the show called the "critical hour." The premise of the show was that when an emergency occurred, like a heart attack or severe accident, statistically you had one critical hour to begin treatment or the possibility of dying greatly increased.
We had a small clinic in Pitka's Point, but like clinics everywhere, it had its limits. Besides, at the time there was not a trained health aide assigned to our village. That meant that all medical concerns, questions, and procedures had to go to St. Mary's about 15 miles away. St. Mary's had a regional clinic and could provide medical treatment but anyone having a very severe problem would have to be evacuated to a larger regional clinic or even Anchorage, weather permitting.
There were four teachers assigned to Pitka's Point. I was the only male and it seemed that I was relied on more than one might suspect in this age of enlightenment and equality between the sexes. One teacher called me and said that the other two teachers were at her house and that one of them, the youngest one, had a swollen throat and was starting to have trouble breathing. They asked me if I could take her to the clinic, a health aide was going to meet them there.
Well what was I supposed to do say no? I told them I would go start the truck and for them to be ready to go in about 10 minutes. Fifty minutes left in the critical hour.
I no sooner had the truck started when all three came out and said they were very concerned now because since they had called the throat seemed to be swelling faster and the young teacher was having more trouble breathing.
I backed the truck out through the snow, onto the icy road and started winding up the hill toward the main road a mile away. The window wipers worked and my vision through the blizzard was unimpaired but the snow drifts kept causing me to swerve all over the road. Forty minutes left.
As I approached the last hill before the main road I zigged when I should have zagged and plowed into a snow drift. I was stuck.
I immediately put the truck in reverse and tried to back out, did not get very far, and then started the rocking motion I had learned during defensive driving classes. Drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Luckily I managed to get out of the drift, backed back down the hill, got another run, got stuck again but this time the engine died.
I tried to get the truck started but it just sat there and the ignition made the clicking noise we all have heard when the battery dies. Thirty minutes had gone by.
I was wondering what to do, wondering if anyone in the truck knew how to do a tracheotomy, and wondering if we would freeze to death before morning.
I tried the ignition one more time and between prayers and perhaps language that would make a sailor blush the engine started.
I slammed the gear into reverse, backed down the hill, shifted into second and gunned the engine. We slipped and fished tailed back up the road but this time shot onto the main road leading to St. Mary's. Twenty minutes left.
The road was relative clean but for some reason the window wipers became inoperative. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out and drove the rest of the way into St. Mary's without further difficulties.
When we arrived at the clinic with five minutes to spare. The critical hour had been kept intact. The Health Aide on call met us at the door. He examined my friend, and called the on call doctor in Anchorage.
A diagnosis was made and prescription given. The trip back was uneventful, going down hill through the snow was a lot easier.
The medicine the doctor prescribed over the phone apparently worked, the teacher recovered. But the whole episode made me realize that this is not a place for the sick, lame, or lazy.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Log 1, Alaska
I look back on my time in Alaska with smiles, happiness, and humor. Today I came across a log I wrote at the time I was experiencing all the wonders of Alaska. Realities and memories don't match up sometimes it seems.
8-15-02. Hooper Bay, Alaska
We arrived yesterday. This is the most dismal looking place I have ever been in. It is dirty, the houses are little more than plywood shacks and the teacher housing, at least for us, is some where next to the type you would find in the ghetto.
There are fly's all over the place, our food has not arrived, we have no phone or TV yet and we only get one station on the radio. We are very remote here, you can feel it, we feel forlorn and even with both of us here we cannot help feeling alone and isolated. A silence has fallen between us but it isn't out of anger. I think I might have made a mistake.
Women are the ones who are the real pioneers and are the back bone. They make a house a home. Paula is doing all the right things but I can tell her heart is not in it. It pains me to see her unhappy.
It is 52 degrees outside, the wind is out of the west at 17mph.
The school building is the pits. My classroom is OK and in all fairness everyone we have met, native and teacher, have been very nice and helpful. This is a good thing I guess given the fact that yesterday we were all strangers.
Note: I will now and then blog more of this unedited log.
8-15-02. Hooper Bay, Alaska
We arrived yesterday. This is the most dismal looking place I have ever been in. It is dirty, the houses are little more than plywood shacks and the teacher housing, at least for us, is some where next to the type you would find in the ghetto.
There are fly's all over the place, our food has not arrived, we have no phone or TV yet and we only get one station on the radio. We are very remote here, you can feel it, we feel forlorn and even with both of us here we cannot help feeling alone and isolated. A silence has fallen between us but it isn't out of anger. I think I might have made a mistake.
Women are the ones who are the real pioneers and are the back bone. They make a house a home. Paula is doing all the right things but I can tell her heart is not in it. It pains me to see her unhappy.
It is 52 degrees outside, the wind is out of the west at 17mph.
The school building is the pits. My classroom is OK and in all fairness everyone we have met, native and teacher, have been very nice and helpful. This is a good thing I guess given the fact that yesterday we were all strangers.
Note: I will now and then blog more of this unedited log.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Keeper of the Sacred Bundle, Alaska
Every culture has a keeper. A keeper of a bundle of information. The one who keeps the stories that make the clan, tribe, or village what they are. They may be a shaman, elder, or just someone in the village who likes to tell stories. Pitka's Point nestled along the banks of the Yukon River, was no exception. The Keeper was a teacher named Elaagna mallra, or as we called him, Sergie Nick.
Sergie taught Yup'ik language and cultural skills to all 32 students at Pitka's Point. The older ones he took to the shop and showed them the finer points of building sleds. Some of the more talented students he taught to carve in ivory, wood, bone, and soap stone. The art of sewing skins was part of the curriculum, be it a boy or girl student. Bead work was attempted by all, but the girls seemed to enjoy it more than the boys.
The younger children liked the stories and legends he told and several times a year all participated in the "talking circle." That is when all the students or adults connected with the school, and sometimes the community, sat in a circle, given an object that may or may not have any significance, and tell the group how they felt or their innermost thoughts.
The only rule was that no one could interrupt, and what was said in the circle stayed in the circle. The children respected that and I never heard anyone make fun of anyone after the circle disbanded.
The last few years Sergie told me had been hard. "It becomes harder and harder," he said, "for the old ways, beliefs, and customs to mean what it used to, to the next generation. Video games, television, action movies, and other western perks seem to take hold much easier." The bundle of information Sergie had however nor his enthusiasm to relate it never seemed to diminish.
If there was one thing I learned living in an Eskimo village it was that kids are kids, people are people, and every time I saw something different or what I thought was different, I stopped and realized that the same thing happens in the Lower 48. We teachers got appalled up there when we would see or hear of bullying, when a kid got involved in drugs or alcohol, when a 14-year-old returned from an exclusive boarding school because he or she was home sick, or when we noticed that Eskimos parents spoil their children. Any of this sound familiar?
Being of Scotch/Irish decent I have found that my children really don't care that much about their ancestry. If you would ask any of them where their ancestors came from they are more often than not to say Indiana. You ask an Alaskan Native where their ancestors came from and they probably will say "here."
The bundle of sacred information our fathers and grandfathers have has less and less meaning each generation. But hope is not lost. Every so often a spark is lit by the Sergies of this world and the torch and stories are passed along. It has probably been that way for generations and no culture past or present has been immune. If one were to visit Pitka's Point, Emmonic, Kotlick, Bethel, or a host of other villages in bush Alaska they will find a Sergie passing on to the next generation all that is and was held sacred, at least once upon a time. A fire will be lit in one or two of the students and the process will repeat itself.
There will always be a Keeper of the Sacred Bundle.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372261480&sr=1-1&keywords=tales+from+homer
Sergie taught Yup'ik language and cultural skills to all 32 students at Pitka's Point. The older ones he took to the shop and showed them the finer points of building sleds. Some of the more talented students he taught to carve in ivory, wood, bone, and soap stone. The art of sewing skins was part of the curriculum, be it a boy or girl student. Bead work was attempted by all, but the girls seemed to enjoy it more than the boys.
The younger children liked the stories and legends he told and several times a year all participated in the "talking circle." That is when all the students or adults connected with the school, and sometimes the community, sat in a circle, given an object that may or may not have any significance, and tell the group how they felt or their innermost thoughts.
The only rule was that no one could interrupt, and what was said in the circle stayed in the circle. The children respected that and I never heard anyone make fun of anyone after the circle disbanded.
The last few years Sergie told me had been hard. "It becomes harder and harder," he said, "for the old ways, beliefs, and customs to mean what it used to, to the next generation. Video games, television, action movies, and other western perks seem to take hold much easier." The bundle of information Sergie had however nor his enthusiasm to relate it never seemed to diminish.
If there was one thing I learned living in an Eskimo village it was that kids are kids, people are people, and every time I saw something different or what I thought was different, I stopped and realized that the same thing happens in the Lower 48. We teachers got appalled up there when we would see or hear of bullying, when a kid got involved in drugs or alcohol, when a 14-year-old returned from an exclusive boarding school because he or she was home sick, or when we noticed that Eskimos parents spoil their children. Any of this sound familiar?
Being of Scotch/Irish decent I have found that my children really don't care that much about their ancestry. If you would ask any of them where their ancestors came from they are more often than not to say Indiana. You ask an Alaskan Native where their ancestors came from and they probably will say "here."
The bundle of sacred information our fathers and grandfathers have has less and less meaning each generation. But hope is not lost. Every so often a spark is lit by the Sergies of this world and the torch and stories are passed along. It has probably been that way for generations and no culture past or present has been immune. If one were to visit Pitka's Point, Emmonic, Kotlick, Bethel, or a host of other villages in bush Alaska they will find a Sergie passing on to the next generation all that is and was held sacred, at least once upon a time. A fire will be lit in one or two of the students and the process will repeat itself.
There will always be a Keeper of the Sacred Bundle.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372261480&sr=1-1&keywords=tales+from+homer
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Eskimo Scouts
Eskimo Scouts
A local National Guard detachment had been given notice that they were to be deployed to Iraq a few Junes ago. This in and of itself was not newsworthy unless you lived in the area. It was and still is a story that is being replayed in cities, towns, hamlets, and villages all over the United States.
Like in all small communities, relationships among the residents was tight, and it was hard to find anyone not related to someone else around Buckland, either by blood, or common law adoption, not affected by the call-up.
A couple of the community leaders approached the school and it was decided by all that there needed to be a special event in honor of all the veterans and members of the community who were soon to be leaving to serve their country. So as in all small places where people live out their lives, it was decided that a community potluck should be held, followed by a short honoring ceremony.
As the time rolled around for the event to begin the serving table filled with food. Plenty of meats, fish, soups, potatoes, pastas, and cakes adorned. Someone even had time to bake a huge cake resembling the U.S. flag.
After the opening prayer, to which the school cafeteria was no stranger, and after everyone had their fill, the principal started the program with heartfelt words about his own relatives being sent off to war years ago.
He asked all veterans in the audience to come forward and be recognized. I was proud to be one of those so honored.
To watch the throng move forward from the crowd reminded me of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. I had no idea there were so many veterans in our small village along the banks of the Buckland River just short of the Arctic Circle.
Every major conflict since WW II had at least one representative, and several villagers – including one woman – had served in peacetime.
The senior vet was asked to remain, and the two school employees and the wife and mother of one young man not yet back from basic training were brought to the front. The principal and the elder vet honored the three citizen soldiers with little mementos.
Each was given a yellow ribbon pen for their spouses, a small U.S. plastic flag, National Guard T-shirts for their children, a window banner with a star in the middle, and a camouflaged handkerchief emblazoned with the 91st Psalm, which was promptly read to the audience.
The guardsmen had their pictures taken; the photographs will be hung in a prominent place in the school until their return, and if my tenure among the Inupiaq people serves me well, for a long time to come.
The school counselor, a major, said a few words of thanks and credited his wife for assisting him in anything that anyone might think he ever did that was admirable. Next came the maintenance man/basket ball coach, a 1st sergeant (who looked like a 1st sergeant should,) who told the young men who were not going that they had the responsibility of taking care of the young and elders. The lady teacher, who was married to the young man in basic training, said she had just talked to her husband in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and that he was proud to be doing what his country had called him to do.
That June the Inupiaq Eskimo villages of Kobuk, Shungnak, Kiana, Noorvik, Noatak, Deering, Kotzebue, Kivalina, Buckland and all villages that dot either side of a line we call the Arctic Circle, once again sent their best and brightest off to war.
Just like their fathers and grandfathers, who helped protect our northern border during the Cold War, as members of the Alaska Territorial Guard Scout Battalion, the 207th Infantry Brigade (Scouts), carried their banner to a far distant land, protecting a far different kind of border, in a place and war that is not so cold.
A local National Guard detachment had been given notice that they were to be deployed to Iraq a few Junes ago. This in and of itself was not newsworthy unless you lived in the area. It was and still is a story that is being replayed in cities, towns, hamlets, and villages all over the United States.
Like in all small communities, relationships among the residents was tight, and it was hard to find anyone not related to someone else around Buckland, either by blood, or common law adoption, not affected by the call-up.
A couple of the community leaders approached the school and it was decided by all that there needed to be a special event in honor of all the veterans and members of the community who were soon to be leaving to serve their country. So as in all small places where people live out their lives, it was decided that a community potluck should be held, followed by a short honoring ceremony.
As the time rolled around for the event to begin the serving table filled with food. Plenty of meats, fish, soups, potatoes, pastas, and cakes adorned. Someone even had time to bake a huge cake resembling the U.S. flag.
After the opening prayer, to which the school cafeteria was no stranger, and after everyone had their fill, the principal started the program with heartfelt words about his own relatives being sent off to war years ago.
He asked all veterans in the audience to come forward and be recognized. I was proud to be one of those so honored.
To watch the throng move forward from the crowd reminded me of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. I had no idea there were so many veterans in our small village along the banks of the Buckland River just short of the Arctic Circle.
Every major conflict since WW II had at least one representative, and several villagers – including one woman – had served in peacetime.
The senior vet was asked to remain, and the two school employees and the wife and mother of one young man not yet back from basic training were brought to the front. The principal and the elder vet honored the three citizen soldiers with little mementos.
Each was given a yellow ribbon pen for their spouses, a small U.S. plastic flag, National Guard T-shirts for their children, a window banner with a star in the middle, and a camouflaged handkerchief emblazoned with the 91st Psalm, which was promptly read to the audience.
The guardsmen had their pictures taken; the photographs will be hung in a prominent place in the school until their return, and if my tenure among the Inupiaq people serves me well, for a long time to come.
The school counselor, a major, said a few words of thanks and credited his wife for assisting him in anything that anyone might think he ever did that was admirable. Next came the maintenance man/basket ball coach, a 1st sergeant (who looked like a 1st sergeant should,) who told the young men who were not going that they had the responsibility of taking care of the young and elders. The lady teacher, who was married to the young man in basic training, said she had just talked to her husband in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and that he was proud to be doing what his country had called him to do.
That June the Inupiaq Eskimo villages of Kobuk, Shungnak, Kiana, Noorvik, Noatak, Deering, Kotzebue, Kivalina, Buckland and all villages that dot either side of a line we call the Arctic Circle, once again sent their best and brightest off to war.
Just like their fathers and grandfathers, who helped protect our northern border during the Cold War, as members of the Alaska Territorial Guard Scout Battalion, the 207th Infantry Brigade (Scouts), carried their banner to a far distant land, protecting a far different kind of border, in a place and war that is not so cold.
Lost, Alaska
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to go down by the beach and look at the pack ice forming on the Bering Sea. The snow-go, what they called snowmobiles up there, was to small for the two of us, so we hooked up a dog sled sort of thing. George being the younger and more athletic stood on the back like he was driving a team of malamutes or huskies, I drove.
We cut across the tundra and because I was fully clothed in Arctic gear I found it difficult to keep an I on George. I was able to turn my head just far enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, so really all was well.
We made it to the beach without incident, dismounted and walked out onto the ice and marveled at all the structures that waves and freezing cold produced. We went out as far as we thought safe and then realizing we did not have a rifle and a Polar Bear had been reported a few weeks earlier, we decided to return and began our trip back to the village.
We followed the coast line which we knew would take us back to the village but after travelling for awhile I got bored and tired of the monotonous journey and decided to use dead reckoning. I cut across the sand dunes, around and between piles of snow and ice and just wove my way through the maze. I was not concerned about George because I could see his shadow in front of me.
Eventually I got through the the dunes and made what I figured was a bee line to the village. The sun had changed directions and there were no more shadows but the tundra was flat and little could happen to George. My dead reckoning was good because I soon saw the village just a little south of where I thought it should be.
We entered the village and the natives we passed on our way back to our abodes seemed a little more friendly than normal. They kept waving and yelling out something I could not understand because of the roar of the snow-go. I smiled and waved back.
I pulled up in front of George's place, shut off the engine, dismounted, turned to talk to George and ...no George. My stomach turned over. I hurriedly unhooked the now empty sled, tried to figure out where I had lost him and if I could retrace my path.
As I was winding my way back out onto the tundra through the village I saw George. He was smiling and un hurt. He told me that he had tied his left leg onto the sled when we hit the village ice roads because the sled was whipping around and he was afraid of losing his balance. The sled did go side ways on the ice and he lost his footing and was dragged down the icy road for aways. He said the natives were yelling and waving at me to stop but the noise of the snow-go was to great and I had not hurt them. He was eventually able to get his knife out and cut the rope thus freeing himself.
For some reason George never again invited me to drive his snow-go.
We cut across the tundra and because I was fully clothed in Arctic gear I found it difficult to keep an I on George. I was able to turn my head just far enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, so really all was well.
We made it to the beach without incident, dismounted and walked out onto the ice and marveled at all the structures that waves and freezing cold produced. We went out as far as we thought safe and then realizing we did not have a rifle and a Polar Bear had been reported a few weeks earlier, we decided to return and began our trip back to the village.
We followed the coast line which we knew would take us back to the village but after travelling for awhile I got bored and tired of the monotonous journey and decided to use dead reckoning. I cut across the sand dunes, around and between piles of snow and ice and just wove my way through the maze. I was not concerned about George because I could see his shadow in front of me.
Eventually I got through the the dunes and made what I figured was a bee line to the village. The sun had changed directions and there were no more shadows but the tundra was flat and little could happen to George. My dead reckoning was good because I soon saw the village just a little south of where I thought it should be.
We entered the village and the natives we passed on our way back to our abodes seemed a little more friendly than normal. They kept waving and yelling out something I could not understand because of the roar of the snow-go. I smiled and waved back.
I pulled up in front of George's place, shut off the engine, dismounted, turned to talk to George and ...no George. My stomach turned over. I hurriedly unhooked the now empty sled, tried to figure out where I had lost him and if I could retrace my path.
As I was winding my way back out onto the tundra through the village I saw George. He was smiling and un hurt. He told me that he had tied his left leg onto the sled when we hit the village ice roads because the sled was whipping around and he was afraid of losing his balance. The sled did go side ways on the ice and he lost his footing and was dragged down the icy road for aways. He said the natives were yelling and waving at me to stop but the noise of the snow-go was to great and I had not hurt them. He was eventually able to get his knife out and cut the rope thus freeing himself.
For some reason George never again invited me to drive his snow-go.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Igloo
Teaching in bush Alaska had some advantages. One was the money but one that I found more important was the flexibility in following class decorum.
The kids were always ready to do anything other than the 3 R's, so I had not gotten "out side" out of my mouth before they had bolted from the room one cold and snowy morning. I was much impressed at their behavior and felt a little smug because they all used the door instead of jumping out the nearest window which had not been uncommon when I first arrived.
We soon had constructed two snowmen about 10 feet from one another and decided to build an igloo between them. We built our structures in front of a conex, which I might add permeated the land scape and were used for storage. The only problem is that they were like magnets to the kids. They would climb on top of them then hurl themselves off the top on to the snow. Sprains and broken bones were not uncommon.
When we began building the igloo I realized that we needed a snow knife to trim the edges and cut the blocks more efficiently. I sent a couple of the kids home to bring one back, (try that in the lower 48.)
It took us less than 30 minutes to build our structure. I was impressed. It was not every man, I thought, who could direct the building of such an elaborate structure that would last until at least the end of May.
All the kids started crawling in and out of the igloo and suggested I do the same. I decided it would not hurt anything, besides they said they were wanting to figure out where a rear exit should be cut. I took a young boy with me and we decided where the cut should be made and he started whacking away with the snow knife. He made the exit just large enough for him to get through so I had to turn around and leave by the front entrance.
As I was just about to leave, a giant snow ball was rolled in front of the entrance preventing me. Ha, ha, I got the joke, very funny, "now let me out." Silence. More silence. I looked at my watch, it was about lunch time. Could they have gone on to lunch and left me there? Certainly not. All of a sudden two young agile Eskimo children came crashing through the top of the igloo. They had jumped from the conex.
We dug our way out, went on to lunch where I picked up a different bunch of kids for the afternoon class. They decided that it would be fun to build an igloo. What a surprise. They even produced a snow knife that looked a little familiar.
After we had built their igloo, they wanted me to go inside to help decide where the rear exit should be placed. I had learned my lesson well and did not bite this time, but I did manage to do a somersault off the top of the conex on to the igloo that would have scored a 10 at any Olympic competition.
The kids were always ready to do anything other than the 3 R's, so I had not gotten "out side" out of my mouth before they had bolted from the room one cold and snowy morning. I was much impressed at their behavior and felt a little smug because they all used the door instead of jumping out the nearest window which had not been uncommon when I first arrived.
We soon had constructed two snowmen about 10 feet from one another and decided to build an igloo between them. We built our structures in front of a conex, which I might add permeated the land scape and were used for storage. The only problem is that they were like magnets to the kids. They would climb on top of them then hurl themselves off the top on to the snow. Sprains and broken bones were not uncommon.
When we began building the igloo I realized that we needed a snow knife to trim the edges and cut the blocks more efficiently. I sent a couple of the kids home to bring one back, (try that in the lower 48.)
It took us less than 30 minutes to build our structure. I was impressed. It was not every man, I thought, who could direct the building of such an elaborate structure that would last until at least the end of May.
All the kids started crawling in and out of the igloo and suggested I do the same. I decided it would not hurt anything, besides they said they were wanting to figure out where a rear exit should be cut. I took a young boy with me and we decided where the cut should be made and he started whacking away with the snow knife. He made the exit just large enough for him to get through so I had to turn around and leave by the front entrance.
As I was just about to leave, a giant snow ball was rolled in front of the entrance preventing me. Ha, ha, I got the joke, very funny, "now let me out." Silence. More silence. I looked at my watch, it was about lunch time. Could they have gone on to lunch and left me there? Certainly not. All of a sudden two young agile Eskimo children came crashing through the top of the igloo. They had jumped from the conex.
We dug our way out, went on to lunch where I picked up a different bunch of kids for the afternoon class. They decided that it would be fun to build an igloo. What a surprise. They even produced a snow knife that looked a little familiar.
After we had built their igloo, they wanted me to go inside to help decide where the rear exit should be placed. I had learned my lesson well and did not bite this time, but I did manage to do a somersault off the top of the conex on to the igloo that would have scored a 10 at any Olympic competition.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Senseless Death
Prose by Ed Leonard
DEDICAR A DEJESUS
I met the tall dark smiling
Mexican sitting on a sandbag.
101st Airborne Division
Headquarters, Vietnam 1969.
he was playing the
most beautiful music
on a 12 string guitar.
surrounded by American
boys in uniform
too serious for their ages,
some carrying weapons.
we spoke several times.
he was drafted into the
Army of his newfound country
from a poor Mexican
neighborhood in California.
operating in a language
foreign to him, tending to
withdraw into his music.
always smiling.
the Commanding General
of the 101st was a cultured man.
he required DeJesus to play
in his mess hall during meals.
this was no place for his training
as a ground pounder infantry man.
so he was listed in charge of the
3,500 watt generator
tucked into a dugout
on the side of a hill
providing power for
the whole company.
there was one power pole
and a single supply line
stretching over the dirt road
to our barracks.
with no training or
certification,
DeJesus kept the generator
running 24 hours a day...
it was a loud,touchy,
cantankerous old machine
converted to burn jet fuel.
one rainy day
I heard an inhuman
undulating screeching sound
I will never forget.
I ran out to the road
to see the pole just as
his harness released.
he fell straddling
straight down the pole
and landed sitting up
unconscious
forehead to the pole.
dead.
of all the death I witnessed
the death of DeJesus
has a special place...
the unjust ironic
unnecessary
tragic loss
still makes me sob
40 years later.
DEDICAR A DEJESUS
I met the tall dark smiling
Mexican sitting on a sandbag.
101st Airborne Division
Headquarters, Vietnam 1969.
he was playing the
most beautiful music
on a 12 string guitar.
surrounded by American
boys in uniform
too serious for their ages,
some carrying weapons.
we spoke several times.
he was drafted into the
Army of his newfound country
from a poor Mexican
neighborhood in California.
operating in a language
foreign to him, tending to
withdraw into his music.
always smiling.
the Commanding General
of the 101st was a cultured man.
he required DeJesus to play
in his mess hall during meals.
this was no place for his training
as a ground pounder infantry man.
so he was listed in charge of the
3,500 watt generator
tucked into a dugout
on the side of a hill
providing power for
the whole company.
there was one power pole
and a single supply line
stretching over the dirt road
to our barracks.
with no training or
certification,
DeJesus kept the generator
running 24 hours a day...
it was a loud,touchy,
cantankerous old machine
converted to burn jet fuel.
one rainy day
I heard an inhuman
undulating screeching sound
I will never forget.
I ran out to the road
to see the pole just as
his harness released.
he fell straddling
straight down the pole
and landed sitting up
unconscious
forehead to the pole.
dead.
of all the death I witnessed
the death of DeJesus
has a special place...
the unjust ironic
unnecessary
tragic loss
still makes me sob
40 years later.
Bear Hunt, Alaska
Bear Hunt Tales From Conley
The sighting of a polar bear in the part of Alaska I lived in for awhile was not common, if at all. You would hear stories now and then that one had been observed a few years back, but never who it was who actually saw Ursus maritimus. I figured it was the village version of our urban legend.
However one day my teaching partner, George, came back to the village after an afternoon tundra excursion all excited and said he had spotted what looked like paw prints down along the beach several miles north . The towns people grew very excited because they knew George would not fabricate such a story. So off they went in search of the polar bear.
They returned several hours later and nothing to show for their efforts other than empty gasoline tanks and a touch of frostbite or two. George was a little crestfallen because the hunters of the north had not even been able to find the tracks where he told them to look.
The next morning George called me on the phone and asked if I knew how to fire a rifle and was I comfortable driving a snowmobile. Yes and some was my reply.
We met about an hour later, mounted our snowmobiles, equipped with rifles, one camera and a GPS. An hour after that we were standing over the paw print of, what seemed to me , must have been a tremendous size bear. The tracks were leading north down along the beach. George took several pictures to prove to the villagers that what he had seen was true. I thought that would be all we needed.
George on the other had thought we should track the bear and see if we could take some close up pictures. I thought this was a terrible idea especially when he mentioned taking close up pictures. He countered that our snowmobiles could out run the bear, but I still had no desire of being chased along the Bering Sea by a pissed off creature.
Logic eventually prevailed and we returned to the village with picture proof. Problem was the camera had not worked. We tried to convince the villagers what we had seen was accurate and we had GPS data in hand and it was worth another try on their part, but they had more important things to do.
George never did quite forgive me for talking him out of tracking the bear. It was not that I was afraid to you see, it was just I remembered a friend of mine telling me once that "you never hunt anything that is big enough to hunt you back."
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Trading Places
While not an adventure as such it really did happen and an event I cannot tell another about in person without tears coming to my eyes and not choking on the last two words I say.
It was the summer of 1966 and for some reason that eludes me to this day I decided I wanted to be a pilot. I first thought of jets and talked to the Navy and Air Force. They were not very encouraging because of my lack of a college degree but did offer to let me take the test. I did and failed. Then I thought the Army might be the way to go. The first person I mentioned the matter to was Carl Simonie, my high school English teacher. He just shook his head and said, "Well you know where they will send you."
I then thought it best to say something to my family. That is when the trouble began. They went wild with dread and worry. It seemed like they were more concerned about southeast Asia than I was. My dad, a veteran of Korea told me he really couldn't give me any advice because if he said go do it and then I got "shot up" he would forever feel responsible. If he told me to wait and then I went and got shot it would be his fault also. My grandmother cried most of the time, my mom did almost the same, my aunts and uncles got after me about how could I do this to my family. My grandfather did not say much at all.
As the time drew nearer for me to take the test that would determine the family future it seemed, the more intense it got around the house. It became almost unbearable, it seemed like the tension could not even be cut with a knife.
Finally it was the morning of the big test. I was standing out on the back porch. My grandfather came out, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you really want to be a helicopter pilot?" I responded yes. "Then son you go do it. I just want you to remember one thing. If I could go in your place, I would." .....Gee I thought I could get through writing this account without tears anyway.
It was the summer of 1966 and for some reason that eludes me to this day I decided I wanted to be a pilot. I first thought of jets and talked to the Navy and Air Force. They were not very encouraging because of my lack of a college degree but did offer to let me take the test. I did and failed. Then I thought the Army might be the way to go. The first person I mentioned the matter to was Carl Simonie, my high school English teacher. He just shook his head and said, "Well you know where they will send you."
I then thought it best to say something to my family. That is when the trouble began. They went wild with dread and worry. It seemed like they were more concerned about southeast Asia than I was. My dad, a veteran of Korea told me he really couldn't give me any advice because if he said go do it and then I got "shot up" he would forever feel responsible. If he told me to wait and then I went and got shot it would be his fault also. My grandmother cried most of the time, my mom did almost the same, my aunts and uncles got after me about how could I do this to my family. My grandfather did not say much at all.
As the time drew nearer for me to take the test that would determine the family future it seemed, the more intense it got around the house. It became almost unbearable, it seemed like the tension could not even be cut with a knife.
Finally it was the morning of the big test. I was standing out on the back porch. My grandfather came out, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you really want to be a helicopter pilot?" I responded yes. "Then son you go do it. I just want you to remember one thing. If I could go in your place, I would." .....Gee I thought I could get through writing this account without tears anyway.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Death on the Tundra
Bright Moon and a bunch of her friends were riding their four wheelers on the beach late one night. They were playing a game the kids called ditch'm. Bright Moon was riding with three other girls when they hit a piece of driftwood and thrown in different directions. All suffered head trauma. They were evacuated to the regional hospital a couple of hundred miles away by plane. No small feat in the middle of the night in the Alaskan bush but unfortunately a common one. Bright Moon was the most severely injured so she was sent on to Anchorage. The family managed to raise enough money to be at her side the next day and eventually faced the horrendous decision of pulling the plug.
School was sort of a dismal place waiting for news about Bright Moon's condition. The vice principal spoke over the intercom to try and set the record straight about her condition and asked everyone to observe a moment of silent prayer. An hour later he came back over the intercom and informed us that Bright Moon had died. School was dismissed.
The next day some village elders, a social worker and the missionary came to Bright Moon's classroom and had everyone who wanted talk about her and more or less comfort one another. They sang songs, held hands, and prayed. No separation of church and state that day.
A day or so later her body was flown back to the village where it was laid out on the family's living room floor. The wake was like a wake anywhere else. Friends and neighbors brought food, shared hugs and memories, shed tears, and bid Bright Moon farewell.
The next day a large funeral was held in the school gym. All the stores were closed, school was put on hold, and even the post office closed down.
A few days later Bright Moon's mother came to our classroom and presented us with an 8 x 10 colored photograph of Bright Moon. I found an old rosary and draped it over the picture. The picture and rosary hung there the rest of the school year.
When I returned the next school year the picture was still hanging on the wall. Some of Bright Moon's friends came by and asked if they could take it to their new classroom. It was a procedure that would be followed until her class graduated from high school.
The year book that year will have a page dedicated to Bright Moon and her presence and at the graduation ceremony her picture will be placed on the seat where she would have sat. Her name will be read as if receiving a diploma and then a close friend or relative will carry the picture down the aisle towards the future that should have been hers.
School was sort of a dismal place waiting for news about Bright Moon's condition. The vice principal spoke over the intercom to try and set the record straight about her condition and asked everyone to observe a moment of silent prayer. An hour later he came back over the intercom and informed us that Bright Moon had died. School was dismissed.
The next day some village elders, a social worker and the missionary came to Bright Moon's classroom and had everyone who wanted talk about her and more or less comfort one another. They sang songs, held hands, and prayed. No separation of church and state that day.
A day or so later her body was flown back to the village where it was laid out on the family's living room floor. The wake was like a wake anywhere else. Friends and neighbors brought food, shared hugs and memories, shed tears, and bid Bright Moon farewell.
The next day a large funeral was held in the school gym. All the stores were closed, school was put on hold, and even the post office closed down.
A few days later Bright Moon's mother came to our classroom and presented us with an 8 x 10 colored photograph of Bright Moon. I found an old rosary and draped it over the picture. The picture and rosary hung there the rest of the school year.
When I returned the next school year the picture was still hanging on the wall. Some of Bright Moon's friends came by and asked if they could take it to their new classroom. It was a procedure that would be followed until her class graduated from high school.
The year book that year will have a page dedicated to Bright Moon and her presence and at the graduation ceremony her picture will be placed on the seat where she would have sat. Her name will be read as if receiving a diploma and then a close friend or relative will carry the picture down the aisle towards the future that should have been hers.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Humpy's Beer, Alaska
After being in Anchorage for only four hours I had obtained a job with the Lower Yukon School District, assignment Hooper Bay. I always wanted to live along the ocean but never thought it would be the Bering Sea.
To celebrate my success I ventured into the wilds of Anchorage and came accross a little bar and grill called Humpy's Alehouse. Their speciality seemed to be halibut sandwiches. They also had a lot of different kinds of beer. I ordered a Kodiak Brown and perused the beer list while waiting for my halibut.
Almost immediately I noticed a beer for $68. I was surprised that anything that expensive would be sold in a place like Humpys. I pondered the situation for awhile but decided even though I was celebrating I wasn't going to celebrate that much. I was intrigued none the less.
For the next four years I went in and out ,around and through Anchorage on my way to and from different places where I would teach school. Every time I passed through Anchorage I would stop at Humpys and check the price of the beer that had so intrigued me.
The price remained the same for three and half years but then on my way to Noatak, 70 miles north of the Arctic Circle, I saw an increase in the price to $75. I still could not bring myself to buy a bottle. However nine months later when I came back through Anchorage my situation had changed and I thought that was the last time I would be in Humpys. Alaska was going to be a thing of the past. (that turned out to be a wrong though and another story.)
I ordered the bottle of $75 beer but the waiter came back in a few minutes and told me they were out and did not expect another shipment for over a week. I was crest fallen. He did say they had a smaller bottle of the same stuff for $25. My spirits rose. Bring it to me.
I poured the liquid ever so slowly into a tall glass took a small sip, then a big pull. It tasted terrible.
Conga Queen
I have never been one to question the wisdom of the military so when I was assigned to a Military Police Company as a Major of Artillery in charge of security I took it in stride. I knew nothing about building roads, military policing actions, or security. I was sure that my three weeks in Panama were going to be a cross between SNAFU and FUBAR. Oddly enough things went smooth because I made a command decision and turned everything over to an MP Captain and stayed out of his way.
Having the captain run things allowed me to roam around the jungle area and visit those places that were off limits to the troops. Some one had to recon those areas to make sure those who were not supposed to be there were not. Might as well have been me. Apparently the GI’s were behaving themselves because I never did find anyone where they were not supposed to be.
My snooping took me into Nombre a lot. I made friends. So good of friends in fact that I would eat lunch and most of my dinner meals at what passed for an outdoor café.
To call Nombre a town would be giving it to much credit. It did have a school and a church with no pews, a clinic which I never saw open, an out door bar supported by telephone looking poles, and a combination grocery store and oriental restaurant, which to call it such is a stretch. But what made Nombre alluring were the many huts made from plywood, most resting on stilts surrounded by a beautiful bay with a black sand beach.
I quickly made friends with the town’s chief law enforcement officer and mayor. They introduced me to this old black lady whose house rested on stilts just off the lagoon part of the bay. I never really understood why she took a liking to me since we did not communicate very well. I spoke no Spanish and she spoke only a smidgen of English. But regardless I would sit on her porch in the evening, listening to the waves break upon the shore, watch the stars and moon glide across the Atlantic side of the Panamanian sky while drinking a beer perhaps, which cost twenty-five cents. She may have wanted me around because I would bring her fruit and MRE’s the soldiers did not want. It was a fare trade as far as I was concerned.
One evening while protecting my country from the onslaught of some creature from what I referred to privately as the Black Lagoon, I heard the faint sound of drums and beautiful voices in the distance. Through a communication system that the lady and I had developed she told me the people were practicing for the visit of the Conga Queen.
Two nights later I had organized a cook out for some of the neighbors. I had one of the guys go buy beer and steak to feed twenty or so and only insisted that the local yucca root be sliced like French fries and deep fried. This party cost me less than $20.
We were done with our meal when a delegation of sorts came to the party. They informed the gathering that the Conga Queen was about ready to begin but did not want to start until the American’s showed up. ( I did not mention that I needed help in my recon that evening so asked the Captain to come along.)
It seemed like the entire village was there waiting for us. The village people formed a large circle with the drums and singers I had heard two nights previously congregated at one arc. In the middle of the circle was this very tall black lady, wearing what reminded me of African dress and adorned with a large Carman Miranda headdress.
She swayed and back and forth looking as though she was in a trance but in reality just dancing and ignoring the crowd. Now and then a male would jump into the circle make stalking like moves towards her and she would still ignore the advances and when tired of her intruder she would just wave him off and then another would enter the arena. I got the impression that I was watching a mating dance or a ritual related to a hunt. I never did find out exactly what they were doing.
The Conga Queen eventually started undulating and swaying over to where I was standing and took my hand and led me to the center of the circle. I was supposed to do the same thing the other men had done, but could not really get into the ceremony. I just sort of stood there rocking back and forth feeling very awkward. I was finally waved away by the Queen to my great relief.
She took a short break and food was served along with some pretty good tasting stuff I was sure was loaded with alcohol.
She returned to the circle, the music began and everything started repeating itself, but this time the men who jumped in the circle were more aggressive and she just as aggressive would wave them off. It was like none were good enough for her.
Having been embolden by the beverage that I had grown very faun of I walked into the ring, took the Conga Queen in my arms looked up into her eyes and told her that she was going to dance the way I wanted to now. The crowd was very delighted.
We did a belly rub sort of dance to a slower beat than had been played and things were going along just fine. Then the music started getting faster and faster and all of a sudden the Queen grabbed my butt with both and hands and started humping me right there in front of everyone. I tried to extract myself from the embrace but to no avail. The crowd was cheering and whistling and creating all sorts of noise. Then with one final lunge to my mid section or there a bouts, the Conga Queen dropped to the ground and seemed to have fainted. Two men came out and led me away from the Queen and the crowd started clapping. The Congo Queen stood up bowed and the show was over.
One of the local villagers came up to me with the Conga Queen in tow and let me know that the Conga Queen wanted me. I was a little confused at first but eventually figured out what he meant and gracefully declined. I told the interpreter to inform the Queen that I was greatly honored but I felt that she was mistaken about my animal prowess and would be greatly disappointed with my real life performance.
Conley McAnally
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