From Whispering Wind - American Indian: Past and Present
Effie Talks - as told to Conley McAnally
"Our people need to survive. I had heard the expression 'harsh survival' used many times when listening to the elders talk about the days long ago." Said Effie Hadley, herself now an elder. "A group would take their wives, kids, and dogs, everything they owned and walk the land hunting for food and trying to select the best place to spend the winter. Sometimes they would find a place and then another group would come along and they would have to leave, fight, or welcome them.
"At a place we called Inuktag a girl once saw a group of people coming out of the fog carrying logs. These people looked strange to her so she ran to tell her people. But as she was running the other group's shaman threw a feather with a sharp point that hit her in the neck. By the time she had reached her people she had forgotten what it was she was going to tell them. All the people in Buckland were surprised by the attack and killed.
"Shamans had great power over our people, even when I was small. The wise ones would have a vision and would tell people what they should or should not do. I remember very well that the shaman told a friend of mine not to braid anything. Not grass, not hair, not sinew - nothing. No reason was given and after a time the girl forgot.
"One day my friend started braiding some grass for a basket. She was just about to finish when she saw a lot of people running towards her sod home. She remembered what the shaman had told her, but it was to late. Her father had died.
"After that her life and her mother's life got very hard. She ended up getting married at thirteen to a hunter. She had no choice. He provided food for her and her mother but he was a cruel man. He would let other men play with her, but my friend leaned how to do her chores and be a good wife and not complain. Young girls cannot imagine that happening to them today. But strange things happen out here away from the eyes of the people.
"My friends plight was not typical but it did happen often enough. Many don't like to talk about those things. It is embarrassing to them, but what was is."
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Eskimo Voice - 2. Ayauniq, Part 1
This article was first published in Whispering Wind - American Indian: Past and Present Vol 36 No 1,
Issue # 251
Ayauniq, better known today as Effie Hadley, was born January 7, 1939 in a sod logged top hut far from anything that most of us would come close to calling civilization. Other than a midwife, mother, and father everyone else in her group had already left the temporary camp for Buckland. Ayauniq's mother was due anytime and traveling was not an option.
Effie said that when she was born she was scrawny and cross-eyed. She said that it reminded her years later of what Quasimodo must have looked like. However, she was her mother's youngest, her mother's favorite. "Mother thought I was beautiful and was going to fatten me up." Effie attributes much to her mother and promised me she would write down some remembrances to share with anyone who might be interested.
She did tell me that her mother was smart and wise. To make pliable and remove the hair off seal skins for the making of mukluks, leggings, and shirts, "She would give each one of us a skin, showed us how to fold t, and send us outside to sled down the hills during winter. This loosened the fur and made it much easier to peal off. " Tom Sawyer and his fence was not a new idea.
Effie said that another way to loosen the fur was to bury the skin in the corner of the hut and let it stay there for a week or so. There was some sort of chemical reaction with the fat, meat, and fur so that after digging it up it fur pealed of easily. The trouble she said was, "It smelled terrible. You had to ware seal skin pants or an apron and gloves, but the stink would never go away. You could wash and wash and the stink just stayed and stayed, it seemed like forever. But it was something that needed to be done. All needed mukluks, pants, and parkas."
Effie recalls that the men of the village use to make a pumgayuq, loosely translated as bobsled because it was so close to the ground. It doubled as a sort of a boat that could be taken out on the ice and shallows while looking for seal. The kill wold be brought back to the village, distributed, and the pumgayuq would be used for fuel. Continued in Part 2.
Issue # 251
Ayauniq, better known today as Effie Hadley, was born January 7, 1939 in a sod logged top hut far from anything that most of us would come close to calling civilization. Other than a midwife, mother, and father everyone else in her group had already left the temporary camp for Buckland. Ayauniq's mother was due anytime and traveling was not an option.
Effie said that when she was born she was scrawny and cross-eyed. She said that it reminded her years later of what Quasimodo must have looked like. However, she was her mother's youngest, her mother's favorite. "Mother thought I was beautiful and was going to fatten me up." Effie attributes much to her mother and promised me she would write down some remembrances to share with anyone who might be interested.
She did tell me that her mother was smart and wise. To make pliable and remove the hair off seal skins for the making of mukluks, leggings, and shirts, "She would give each one of us a skin, showed us how to fold t, and send us outside to sled down the hills during winter. This loosened the fur and made it much easier to peal off. " Tom Sawyer and his fence was not a new idea.
Effie said that another way to loosen the fur was to bury the skin in the corner of the hut and let it stay there for a week or so. There was some sort of chemical reaction with the fat, meat, and fur so that after digging it up it fur pealed of easily. The trouble she said was, "It smelled terrible. You had to ware seal skin pants or an apron and gloves, but the stink would never go away. You could wash and wash and the stink just stayed and stayed, it seemed like forever. But it was something that needed to be done. All needed mukluks, pants, and parkas."
Effie recalls that the men of the village use to make a pumgayuq, loosely translated as bobsled because it was so close to the ground. It doubled as a sort of a boat that could be taken out on the ice and shallows while looking for seal. The kill wold be brought back to the village, distributed, and the pumgayuq would be used for fuel. Continued in Part 2.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Letters from the Last Frontier - Alaska, 3
Dear Jodi,
I can only guess as to why a lot of the kids don't want to leave the village and go "see the world" as they say. I guess most of them like the things the way they are. Some leave but many come back after a short stay in some city down south. I guess the village is sort of like a family.
The boys have grown up hunting and fishing like their dads and uncles and like the life for the most part. Even the girls have started to branch out and learn what their brothers have been taught. One of my girl students shot a moose this year.
A lot of the kids talk about being a doctor or a pilot, the opportunities are there, but how much is whimsy remains to be seen. A few of the kids have talked to me about where I live but they are not that interested in the outside world. That surprises me.
One social psychologist that comes to the village now and then told me that many of the kids have a feeling of hopelessness and feel totally unprepared to meet the challenges of the real world. They get scared and come back to the village with baggage they did not have when they left.
For instance the other day there was a burial of a 21 year old boy that died of an over dose in Las Vegas. This happens in the lower 48 too, when a kid leaves a small town for the bright lights, but this is the third kid this year from the village that either died from a self inflicted wound or an overdose of drugs or alcohol.
The school district started a program whereby the kids would be taken to Anchorage for two weeks at a time and taught the rudiments of city life. I thought the program had a lot of potential, but the program failed because of poor administration, programing, and abuse of the facility by some board members and their friends.
Many of the kids have no idea what it is like outside the village other than what they see on TV or videos. I mentioned about mowing my yard the other day and they had no concept of what I was talking about. We have kids here that have never seen a tree. The place is really isolated.
There are some really great leaders in the village and they have a tremendous challenge ahead. We teachers are supposed to be here to help but sometimes I think we only get in the way.
Snapper
I can only guess as to why a lot of the kids don't want to leave the village and go "see the world" as they say. I guess most of them like the things the way they are. Some leave but many come back after a short stay in some city down south. I guess the village is sort of like a family.
The boys have grown up hunting and fishing like their dads and uncles and like the life for the most part. Even the girls have started to branch out and learn what their brothers have been taught. One of my girl students shot a moose this year.
A lot of the kids talk about being a doctor or a pilot, the opportunities are there, but how much is whimsy remains to be seen. A few of the kids have talked to me about where I live but they are not that interested in the outside world. That surprises me.
One social psychologist that comes to the village now and then told me that many of the kids have a feeling of hopelessness and feel totally unprepared to meet the challenges of the real world. They get scared and come back to the village with baggage they did not have when they left.
For instance the other day there was a burial of a 21 year old boy that died of an over dose in Las Vegas. This happens in the lower 48 too, when a kid leaves a small town for the bright lights, but this is the third kid this year from the village that either died from a self inflicted wound or an overdose of drugs or alcohol.
The school district started a program whereby the kids would be taken to Anchorage for two weeks at a time and taught the rudiments of city life. I thought the program had a lot of potential, but the program failed because of poor administration, programing, and abuse of the facility by some board members and their friends.
Many of the kids have no idea what it is like outside the village other than what they see on TV or videos. I mentioned about mowing my yard the other day and they had no concept of what I was talking about. We have kids here that have never seen a tree. The place is really isolated.
There are some really great leaders in the village and they have a tremendous challenge ahead. We teachers are supposed to be here to help but sometimes I think we only get in the way.
Snapper
Friday, November 26, 2010
Crisp Lake Chronicles, Vol 3
Crisp Lake Chronicle - 1951
In a dual ceremony last Saturday Doc Walsh and Steve O'Banion received the coveted Crisp Lake Association award for Valuable Service to Mankind. Doc Walsh was given the award for reattaching the left big toe of Beeney Watts and Steve for thinking quickly enough to carry Beeney and his severed left toe to Doc's office in Fairmount.
In sworn testimony Steve and Beeney told authorities that Beeney had been doing dishes for his mother late in the afternoon because Beeney's mother was working second shift at Charlie's Market. A butcher's knife fell from Beeney's hand thus slicing his left toe completely off. Steve and some friends just so happened to be walking on the lake bank of Crisp Lake when they heard Beeney scream. They rushed into Beeney's house and found Beeney on the floor with blood spurting from where his left toe once had been. Steve immediately took charge of the situation, applied some dish towels to the bloodied area, found the toe among the blood, put it in his pocket, picked up Beeney and between he and his pals carried Beeney to Doc's office, like I mentioned above.
Doc Walsh had never really done a toe reattachment but tried anyway. Apparently it was successful and Beeney will be fine and the limp will eventually go away. Doc is expected to receive an additional award from the Fairmount Volunteer Fireman's Club while Steve and his friends will receive a salt cured ham from Charlie's Market.
However upon further investigation by the Chronicle the truth was found. This is what really happened.
Steve, Beeney, and some other boys were rummaging around Beeney's grandfather's garage when they came across a large hunting knife that both thought would work better for their favorite game, stretch'em, than the little pen knife they normally used.
Now to the one or two of you who do not know what stretch'em is, it is when two opponents face each other standing at attention. One throws a knife to the left or right of the other and then the one being thrown at stretches his closest leg to where the knife was thrown, as long as it sticks in the ground and one can get two fingers between the handle and the ground. Then the process is reversed and continues that way until one of the players either can't stretch any further or loses his balance.
Steve is a master of the game but Beeney came up with the idea to play "chicken." That is where two opponents face each other with legs spread as far apart as possible and each player takes turns throwing the knife between the others legs and one foot is drawn to the center where the knife stuck, given the two finger rule of course. This continues until one of the boys (girls are not allowed to play) decides that his feet are to close together and doesn't think the other guy can throw the knife accurately enough. Then he says Chicken.
Beeney had about six inches between his feet when Steve suggested Beeney give up and call Chicken. Beeney refused to quit. Steve begged him to chicken out, but Beeney would not be reasoned with. Beeney said he wanted to throw the knife back towards Steve one more time and watch Steve chicken out. Beeney taunted Steve and said he was the Chicken not he, Beeney.
The only part of the story told to investigators that was true was that Steve did pick-up the severed toe, put it in his pocket and carry the crying and screaming Beeney to Doc Walsh's office.
It is not clear who really won the contest because Beeney did not chicken out and Steve, by the rules, has to let Beeney throw the knife back, or chicken out. The word on the Lake is that as soon as the swelling goes down and the toe is healed that a rematch will take place.
In a dual ceremony last Saturday Doc Walsh and Steve O'Banion received the coveted Crisp Lake Association award for Valuable Service to Mankind. Doc Walsh was given the award for reattaching the left big toe of Beeney Watts and Steve for thinking quickly enough to carry Beeney and his severed left toe to Doc's office in Fairmount.
In sworn testimony Steve and Beeney told authorities that Beeney had been doing dishes for his mother late in the afternoon because Beeney's mother was working second shift at Charlie's Market. A butcher's knife fell from Beeney's hand thus slicing his left toe completely off. Steve and some friends just so happened to be walking on the lake bank of Crisp Lake when they heard Beeney scream. They rushed into Beeney's house and found Beeney on the floor with blood spurting from where his left toe once had been. Steve immediately took charge of the situation, applied some dish towels to the bloodied area, found the toe among the blood, put it in his pocket, picked up Beeney and between he and his pals carried Beeney to Doc's office, like I mentioned above.
Doc Walsh had never really done a toe reattachment but tried anyway. Apparently it was successful and Beeney will be fine and the limp will eventually go away. Doc is expected to receive an additional award from the Fairmount Volunteer Fireman's Club while Steve and his friends will receive a salt cured ham from Charlie's Market.
However upon further investigation by the Chronicle the truth was found. This is what really happened.
Steve, Beeney, and some other boys were rummaging around Beeney's grandfather's garage when they came across a large hunting knife that both thought would work better for their favorite game, stretch'em, than the little pen knife they normally used.
Now to the one or two of you who do not know what stretch'em is, it is when two opponents face each other standing at attention. One throws a knife to the left or right of the other and then the one being thrown at stretches his closest leg to where the knife was thrown, as long as it sticks in the ground and one can get two fingers between the handle and the ground. Then the process is reversed and continues that way until one of the players either can't stretch any further or loses his balance.
Steve is a master of the game but Beeney came up with the idea to play "chicken." That is where two opponents face each other with legs spread as far apart as possible and each player takes turns throwing the knife between the others legs and one foot is drawn to the center where the knife stuck, given the two finger rule of course. This continues until one of the boys (girls are not allowed to play) decides that his feet are to close together and doesn't think the other guy can throw the knife accurately enough. Then he says Chicken.
Beeney had about six inches between his feet when Steve suggested Beeney give up and call Chicken. Beeney refused to quit. Steve begged him to chicken out, but Beeney would not be reasoned with. Beeney said he wanted to throw the knife back towards Steve one more time and watch Steve chicken out. Beeney taunted Steve and said he was the Chicken not he, Beeney.
The only part of the story told to investigators that was true was that Steve did pick-up the severed toe, put it in his pocket and carry the crying and screaming Beeney to Doc Walsh's office.
It is not clear who really won the contest because Beeney did not chicken out and Steve, by the rules, has to let Beeney throw the knife back, or chicken out. The word on the Lake is that as soon as the swelling goes down and the toe is healed that a rematch will take place.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Log 7, Alaska
Continued from Log 6
10/14/02
Last weekend our friends Bill and Sue came over for dinner and brought two quarts of beer (home brew.) It was a little on the dark side but I enjoyed it none the less.
The satellite keeps going out and I spent almost all day climbing around buildings and up and down poles. I got it going but weather conditions keeps the signal erratic. Have emailed all my friends to send up some videos of normal TV as a back up if one day I cannot get it fixed.
I have changed the seating configuration of my room about five times trying to do some internal levelizing, not that it makes much difference. They are all still behind.
I enrolled in another class, so this year I will pick-up nine college hours from the University of Alaska - so what - perhaps I will learn something though. It is about the History of Alaska, required for full certification.
So far I have heard that the the following teachers don't want to come back next year - VP, first grade, second grade, seventh grade and a kindergarten teacher. Two teachers say they want to transfer to Russian Mission and the Principal had a heart attack. It is only October.
10/20/02
Just got back from Jane and Jim's. Great couple. Jane is about my age, Jim a little older. They have a daughter named Kimmy who teachers here also. We go for coffee and roles on Sunday usually. They are from Idaho and have some connection to Tennessee. Their summer home is in Soldotna, about 3 hours from Anchorage. Kim says she is going to Nevada next year and teach.
It has started getting cold, down to around 0 with the wind chill a lot lower. The ponds that dot the Tundra are freezing over. The kids go out and play on them - running across the thinnest parts and are surprised when they fall through. I am sure they do this just for fun and not training for when they are adults and hunt on the pack ice, but I bet it is a carry over for when it really was necessary to have that skill.
Had a good size snow yesterday but it was a very fine snow so the wind whipped it around and you still see brown spots.
10/25/02
Visited with Marta. One of the old hands around here. Between her and Jane they have made life easy here. Nice lady. Friendly to the "newbees" as we are called. Comes from Florida. Summer home is in Anchorage. Always willing to give a helping hand. Does not like the principal much.
10/14/02
Last weekend our friends Bill and Sue came over for dinner and brought two quarts of beer (home brew.) It was a little on the dark side but I enjoyed it none the less.
The satellite keeps going out and I spent almost all day climbing around buildings and up and down poles. I got it going but weather conditions keeps the signal erratic. Have emailed all my friends to send up some videos of normal TV as a back up if one day I cannot get it fixed.
I have changed the seating configuration of my room about five times trying to do some internal levelizing, not that it makes much difference. They are all still behind.
I enrolled in another class, so this year I will pick-up nine college hours from the University of Alaska - so what - perhaps I will learn something though. It is about the History of Alaska, required for full certification.
So far I have heard that the the following teachers don't want to come back next year - VP, first grade, second grade, seventh grade and a kindergarten teacher. Two teachers say they want to transfer to Russian Mission and the Principal had a heart attack. It is only October.
10/20/02
Just got back from Jane and Jim's. Great couple. Jane is about my age, Jim a little older. They have a daughter named Kimmy who teachers here also. We go for coffee and roles on Sunday usually. They are from Idaho and have some connection to Tennessee. Their summer home is in Soldotna, about 3 hours from Anchorage. Kim says she is going to Nevada next year and teach.
It has started getting cold, down to around 0 with the wind chill a lot lower. The ponds that dot the Tundra are freezing over. The kids go out and play on them - running across the thinnest parts and are surprised when they fall through. I am sure they do this just for fun and not training for when they are adults and hunt on the pack ice, but I bet it is a carry over for when it really was necessary to have that skill.
Had a good size snow yesterday but it was a very fine snow so the wind whipped it around and you still see brown spots.
10/25/02
Visited with Marta. One of the old hands around here. Between her and Jane they have made life easy here. Nice lady. Friendly to the "newbees" as we are called. Comes from Florida. Summer home is in Anchorage. Always willing to give a helping hand. Does not like the principal much.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thanksgiving Potlatch - Alaska
One year in early November while I was living in the wilds of the Last Frontier a fellow teacher approached me and asked if I was interested in co-sponsoring a potlatch around Thanksgiving. I reminded my friend that a potlatch was where the host gives nearly all his possessions away to the invitees and thus raises his status in the community and I was still attached to my television set. He ignored my protests and I consented, of course, knowing that one Gussick's potlatch is another one's potluck.
The kids made invitations to send to their parents and village elders. We held the feast the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and at the appointed hour the guests arrived promptly – Eskimo time not being an option where food was concerned.
A couple of teachers furnished turkeys and the type of food brought by the Eskimos did not surprise me. There was akgutq (Eskimo ice cream made from Crisco and tundra berries,) a huge vat of moose stew, dried salmon, corn dishes, plenty of breads, and the obligatory green bean casseroles. There was one item however that did cause me great consternation.
We all were about to go through the line a second time when some one yelled out "Mike is here!" Mike is declared by many to be an Eskimo's Eskimo. His grandfather was depicted once in a Disney Adventure film as being the best hunter in the village, and the skill has been in Mike's family ever since. I had heard about Mike but had never met him. It was a great honor that he showed up.
Mike entered the classroom dragging a dead seal by a rope. As I stood there sort of perplexed someone yelled, "Giviak.!" A great hurrah went up from the crowd. Giviak is like a stuffed turkey but the stuffed stuff are auks and the stuffee is a seal. Well sort of like a stuffed turkey I guess.
If you are interested in adding a traditional festive Eskimo item to your Thanksgiving meal this year it is to late, but if you think it appetizing for next year start now and just follow this simple recipe:
First kill a seal. Then use a long knife to cut around the tip of its nose and separate the meat from the blubber all the way down to its tail, being careful to keep the skin in tact, this is called flensing. Pull the meat from the seal in one quick motion.The meat pulled from the seal is used for a variety of things but is incidental to the preparation of the Giviak. If done properly you will have a seal skin lined only with blubber. Then stuff the seal with freshly dead auks.
A quick wrenching of the neck or pressing on the breast bone to crush the heart of the auk is the best way to kill the bird. If auks are not available you can use parakeets purchased at any pet store.
When the skin is full you sew up the carcass at the nose, and any other spot that the flensing might have punctured, with thread made from the seal's intestines. Dental floss will work also.
Find a secure spot to bury the carcass and cover the grave with stones to provide for heat conduction during the summer. The heat causes a chemical reaction and cooks the auks or parakeets. After one year dig the seal up and if not fully frozen – which will probably be the case in most of the lower 48 – put in the freezer.
Remove from the permafrost or freezer just prior to serving. Take to the gathering and with an ax or hatchet,chop into as many servings as needed to feed the gathering crowd.
The auks or parakeets are eaten first then the blubber. Consume the bird whole and since they still have their feathers, skeleton, and innards in tact be careful to spit same out before swallowing.
The seal skin is saved and given to the kids to chew on like bubble gum. Much better for their teeth.
The giviak went quickly. Being the good host I am, I retreated to the end of the serving line making sure my guests got their fair share first. The Giviak was all eaten before I arrived at the head of the line.
It was just my luck. Life can be so unfair.
The kids made invitations to send to their parents and village elders. We held the feast the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and at the appointed hour the guests arrived promptly – Eskimo time not being an option where food was concerned.
A couple of teachers furnished turkeys and the type of food brought by the Eskimos did not surprise me. There was akgutq (Eskimo ice cream made from Crisco and tundra berries,) a huge vat of moose stew, dried salmon, corn dishes, plenty of breads, and the obligatory green bean casseroles. There was one item however that did cause me great consternation.
We all were about to go through the line a second time when some one yelled out "Mike is here!" Mike is declared by many to be an Eskimo's Eskimo. His grandfather was depicted once in a Disney Adventure film as being the best hunter in the village, and the skill has been in Mike's family ever since. I had heard about Mike but had never met him. It was a great honor that he showed up.
Mike entered the classroom dragging a dead seal by a rope. As I stood there sort of perplexed someone yelled, "Giviak.!" A great hurrah went up from the crowd. Giviak is like a stuffed turkey but the stuffed stuff are auks and the stuffee is a seal. Well sort of like a stuffed turkey I guess.
If you are interested in adding a traditional festive Eskimo item to your Thanksgiving meal this year it is to late, but if you think it appetizing for next year start now and just follow this simple recipe:
First kill a seal. Then use a long knife to cut around the tip of its nose and separate the meat from the blubber all the way down to its tail, being careful to keep the skin in tact, this is called flensing. Pull the meat from the seal in one quick motion.The meat pulled from the seal is used for a variety of things but is incidental to the preparation of the Giviak. If done properly you will have a seal skin lined only with blubber. Then stuff the seal with freshly dead auks.
A quick wrenching of the neck or pressing on the breast bone to crush the heart of the auk is the best way to kill the bird. If auks are not available you can use parakeets purchased at any pet store.
When the skin is full you sew up the carcass at the nose, and any other spot that the flensing might have punctured, with thread made from the seal's intestines. Dental floss will work also.
Find a secure spot to bury the carcass and cover the grave with stones to provide for heat conduction during the summer. The heat causes a chemical reaction and cooks the auks or parakeets. After one year dig the seal up and if not fully frozen – which will probably be the case in most of the lower 48 – put in the freezer.
Remove from the permafrost or freezer just prior to serving. Take to the gathering and with an ax or hatchet,chop into as many servings as needed to feed the gathering crowd.
The auks or parakeets are eaten first then the blubber. Consume the bird whole and since they still have their feathers, skeleton, and innards in tact be careful to spit same out before swallowing.
The seal skin is saved and given to the kids to chew on like bubble gum. Much better for their teeth.
The giviak went quickly. Being the good host I am, I retreated to the end of the serving line making sure my guests got their fair share first. The Giviak was all eaten before I arrived at the head of the line.
It was just my luck. Life can be so unfair.
Monday, November 22, 2010
My Boy in Blue
The mail is here and it's quite clear
I haven't heard an iota,
From my boy in blue who fights the Sioux
Way up in cold Dakota.
The crazy fool could have gone to school
But he heard the bugle call,
So he took a horse and joined the force
And left real late last fall.
Now it's my guess he's with the best,
So I don't feel to flustered
'bet he's proud to be in the Calvary
Under General George Armstrong Custer.
I haven't heard an iota,
From my boy in blue who fights the Sioux
Way up in cold Dakota.
The crazy fool could have gone to school
But he heard the bugle call,
So he took a horse and joined the force
And left real late last fall.
Now it's my guess he's with the best,
So I don't feel to flustered
'bet he's proud to be in the Calvary
Under General George Armstrong Custer.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Eskimo Voice - 1
Note to reader. This was first published in Whispering Wind - American Indian: Past and Present, Vol. 35 No. 2
Mother
As told to Conley McAnally by Elena Wasky
My grandparents adopted my cousin and I right after we were born. Although first cousins we became brother and sister just as much as my grandmother became my mother.
My brother's name was Gabriel Joseph Meyers, we called him Joey. He died at nineteen but those were a good nineteen years. A little bit later Dad died from pneumonia. Mother and I were left behind. We became very close and I never wanted to be without her; but that was not to be.
Mother and I lived in a cabin on a hill side over looking the Yukon River. It was a very quiet place about a quarter mile from the village. During the summer we were surrounded by colorful plants sprouting from the ground, birds making nests in trees, and bees buzzing the pretty flowers of yellow, pink, and purple. Butterflies flew around enjoying the warmth. In winter we would be covered with a magical blanket of snow.
Mom worked hard all her life, but she always had time to help if others were in need. It made no difference if it was a place to stay, fish to cut, skins to prepare, or if a friend just needed an ear to talk to, she was always there. Mother loved berry picking and cutting fish during the summer. When it was not too busy and the weather was nice and breezy she and I would gather drift wood that had floated down the Yukon River and washed up on the bank. We did well together.
She taught me how to sew material and skins, to cook, and other little jobs in and around the house. Sometimes in the evening we would sit on the floor under a bright light, and my mom would sew mukluks or boots and I would crochet in an attempt to make scarf. How I miss those days.
A few years went by and I got married and had a family of my own. Two daughters were born. My first daughter, Josephine, was named after my brother Joey, and my second daughter, Agnes, was named after my Godmother's mom, Vera. My mom stayed with us because I did not want her to live alone.
She got sick after a few years. She tried ayuq, tundra tea, then cailuq, a green plant that grows in the summertime. You can also boil and drink it for medicine, but nothing helped. She died. I am still sad.
Mother
As told to Conley McAnally by Elena Wasky
My grandparents adopted my cousin and I right after we were born. Although first cousins we became brother and sister just as much as my grandmother became my mother.
My brother's name was Gabriel Joseph Meyers, we called him Joey. He died at nineteen but those were a good nineteen years. A little bit later Dad died from pneumonia. Mother and I were left behind. We became very close and I never wanted to be without her; but that was not to be.
Mother and I lived in a cabin on a hill side over looking the Yukon River. It was a very quiet place about a quarter mile from the village. During the summer we were surrounded by colorful plants sprouting from the ground, birds making nests in trees, and bees buzzing the pretty flowers of yellow, pink, and purple. Butterflies flew around enjoying the warmth. In winter we would be covered with a magical blanket of snow.
Mom worked hard all her life, but she always had time to help if others were in need. It made no difference if it was a place to stay, fish to cut, skins to prepare, or if a friend just needed an ear to talk to, she was always there. Mother loved berry picking and cutting fish during the summer. When it was not too busy and the weather was nice and breezy she and I would gather drift wood that had floated down the Yukon River and washed up on the bank. We did well together.
She taught me how to sew material and skins, to cook, and other little jobs in and around the house. Sometimes in the evening we would sit on the floor under a bright light, and my mom would sew mukluks or boots and I would crochet in an attempt to make scarf. How I miss those days.
A few years went by and I got married and had a family of my own. Two daughters were born. My first daughter, Josephine, was named after my brother Joey, and my second daughter, Agnes, was named after my Godmother's mom, Vera. My mom stayed with us because I did not want her to live alone.
She got sick after a few years. She tried ayuq, tundra tea, then cailuq, a green plant that grows in the summertime. You can also boil and drink it for medicine, but nothing helped. She died. I am still sad.
Tundra Walk - Alaska
One day in September near Hooper Bay I decided to go for a walk on the Tundra. It had not yet snowed and the temperature, while cold, was not bone freezing and there was still water in the ponds and finger like projections that connected some of them.
The Tundra seemed to me to be made up of grass with a marsh thrown in here and there. Sometimes it was grass up to your knees and other times you walked on soft moss that reminded me of walking on a trampoline.
I saw a ridge in the distance and decided to head in that direction. After about a half hour of trekking I realised that the distance to the ridge was deceiving so I altered my plan and veered left toward what I guessed was the direction of the Bering Sea.
Because of ponds and connecting water ways I could not walk in a straight line and it seemed like for everyone 100 feet I went straight I went 200 feet sideways one way or another. The going was slow.
After about an hour I decided that I was not that interested in seeing the Bering Sea again so decided to return to the village. That was no problem because I never let it out of my sight. I began my weaving between the ponds and the muck and the streams and was making very little forward progress. The streams were just wide enough that I could not jump but I did find one spot that looked shallow enough for me to wade. My boots were good, having found them in the closet when I moved in, so I had no fear of them leaking. I stepped into the little stream and immediately sunk to mid calf. I put the other foot in and it did the same. Water seeped down into my boots and it was cold. I lunged forward trying to hit the opposite bank with my chest and crawled out. Not being a fast learner I repeated the process one more time until I made it back to the edge of the village.
I thought to myself what would have happened to me if it had been 40 below or something. Well if it had of been I realized I could have just walked in a straight line across the frozen Tundra and not have gotten wet.
The Tundra seemed to me to be made up of grass with a marsh thrown in here and there. Sometimes it was grass up to your knees and other times you walked on soft moss that reminded me of walking on a trampoline.
I saw a ridge in the distance and decided to head in that direction. After about a half hour of trekking I realised that the distance to the ridge was deceiving so I altered my plan and veered left toward what I guessed was the direction of the Bering Sea.
Because of ponds and connecting water ways I could not walk in a straight line and it seemed like for everyone 100 feet I went straight I went 200 feet sideways one way or another. The going was slow.
After about an hour I decided that I was not that interested in seeing the Bering Sea again so decided to return to the village. That was no problem because I never let it out of my sight. I began my weaving between the ponds and the muck and the streams and was making very little forward progress. The streams were just wide enough that I could not jump but I did find one spot that looked shallow enough for me to wade. My boots were good, having found them in the closet when I moved in, so I had no fear of them leaking. I stepped into the little stream and immediately sunk to mid calf. I put the other foot in and it did the same. Water seeped down into my boots and it was cold. I lunged forward trying to hit the opposite bank with my chest and crawled out. Not being a fast learner I repeated the process one more time until I made it back to the edge of the village.
I thought to myself what would have happened to me if it had been 40 below or something. Well if it had of been I realized I could have just walked in a straight line across the frozen Tundra and not have gotten wet.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Appian Way - The spa
Upon arriving at the Tirrenia di Navigazione spa we were greeted with warmth and enthusiasm. The desk clerk assigned us rooms along the beach side. The men in our little contingent shared two to a room and I being a field grade officer got a suite all by myself. The room was comfortable and luxurious, at least for a guy from Independence.
The group planned on meeting in the lobby around 6:00 that evening to decide what we were going to do for dinner. I had a couple of hours left after getting settled in, so I called room service, ordered a bottle of some sort of Italian red, tried to tip the bell hop who refused my lira but did take a couple of American dollars.
I sat on the balcony in very comfortable chairs, watched the rolling Ligurian Sea and thought how nice it was to protect my country from the evils of communism. The only thing that disappointed me was that for being a nude beach there were no swimmers or sun bathers. It was in mid February and even close to southern Italy it was to cold for such things.
I left my room in plenty of time to meet up with my small band of brothers and explored the spa. There was a huge outdoor pool but no pool side loungers, a very large drinking establishment in the basement area but closed for the season, a work out room with no one there, no one in the sauna, a good sized restaurant, but again closed for the season. I started thinking that I might run in to Jack Nicholson, when I came across what was advertised as an American Bar. It was full.
After ordering some red wine it was immediately known to all in the bar that I was an American and for the next 45 minutes I never had to buy a drink. They were friendly and were not that interested in what I was doing in Tirrenia. They eluded to the fact that they knew I was a soldier and they were use to soldiers not being to specific on what they were up to or where they were from. I found out later Livorno, just down the road from Tirrenia, was the center for the Italian Communist Party. I gave no state secrets away.
My comrades and I met in the lobby and we discussed where to eat. No one but me was over the age of 21 so our food desires were not the same. One wanted to go back to Camp Darby because he saw a sign in the mess hall that informed everyone that it was Taco night at the bowling ally. Another saw a McDonald's sign as we came into town and thought that would be interesting. Yet another said he had walked a little bit around town and just down the block was a place that advertised American Pizza.
I was weary enough that I did not want to point out the obvious so I just told them we had been in each others company for over 24 hours and perhaps we ought to go our own separate ways that evening and meet up in the breakfast cafe which was on the second floor at six the next morning. Besides I said I was tired. I threw the senior sergeant my car keys and headed back to the America Bar for one more drink.
Breakfast was good. All you could eat buffet and part of the room price so we all were able to save part of our Per-Diem that morning. Eggs, bacon, sausage, something that looked like hash browns, oatmeal, flaked cereal, hard rolls, and, don't ask me why, pork and beans.
We piled into the BMW and headed to Camp Darby, that with pin and pencil we would begin doing our part to win the cold war.
The group planned on meeting in the lobby around 6:00 that evening to decide what we were going to do for dinner. I had a couple of hours left after getting settled in, so I called room service, ordered a bottle of some sort of Italian red, tried to tip the bell hop who refused my lira but did take a couple of American dollars.
I sat on the balcony in very comfortable chairs, watched the rolling Ligurian Sea and thought how nice it was to protect my country from the evils of communism. The only thing that disappointed me was that for being a nude beach there were no swimmers or sun bathers. It was in mid February and even close to southern Italy it was to cold for such things.
I left my room in plenty of time to meet up with my small band of brothers and explored the spa. There was a huge outdoor pool but no pool side loungers, a very large drinking establishment in the basement area but closed for the season, a work out room with no one there, no one in the sauna, a good sized restaurant, but again closed for the season. I started thinking that I might run in to Jack Nicholson, when I came across what was advertised as an American Bar. It was full.
After ordering some red wine it was immediately known to all in the bar that I was an American and for the next 45 minutes I never had to buy a drink. They were friendly and were not that interested in what I was doing in Tirrenia. They eluded to the fact that they knew I was a soldier and they were use to soldiers not being to specific on what they were up to or where they were from. I found out later Livorno, just down the road from Tirrenia, was the center for the Italian Communist Party. I gave no state secrets away.
My comrades and I met in the lobby and we discussed where to eat. No one but me was over the age of 21 so our food desires were not the same. One wanted to go back to Camp Darby because he saw a sign in the mess hall that informed everyone that it was Taco night at the bowling ally. Another saw a McDonald's sign as we came into town and thought that would be interesting. Yet another said he had walked a little bit around town and just down the block was a place that advertised American Pizza.
I was weary enough that I did not want to point out the obvious so I just told them we had been in each others company for over 24 hours and perhaps we ought to go our own separate ways that evening and meet up in the breakfast cafe which was on the second floor at six the next morning. Besides I said I was tired. I threw the senior sergeant my car keys and headed back to the America Bar for one more drink.
Breakfast was good. All you could eat buffet and part of the room price so we all were able to save part of our Per-Diem that morning. Eggs, bacon, sausage, something that looked like hash browns, oatmeal, flaked cereal, hard rolls, and, don't ask me why, pork and beans.
We piled into the BMW and headed to Camp Darby, that with pin and pencil we would begin doing our part to win the cold war.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Letters From the Last Frontier - Alaska, 2
3/22/2003
Dear Tucson Bunch,
Monday starts Louis Bunyon Days here in Hooper Bay. One might ask who is or was Louis Bunyon? Well I don't know. The best I can get out of anybody is that he was someone who did a lot for the community or influenced it in some way. If that be the case he might have been shot of like our own James brothers should have been. But then again no one who knows is telling me much.
Louis Bunyon Days is Hooper Bay's version of St. Patrik's Day (they have a parade,) Oktoberfest (without alcohol, lol,) Santacalogon and Rodeo Days.
The school does not close down but it might as well. Each teacher is supposed to have a four day program consisting of art and cultural Yupik stuff. The administration doesen't tell you how to do it however or provide any money to pay the locals. The shop teacher is making dog sled by scrounging up wood, another guy is making a drum, and I have a bunch of popcycle sticks I found so perhaps I will make a basket. My teaching partner George is cheating, he is hiring a local to come in and make masks and grass baskets. Of course the money he is spending is coming out of his own pocket, a dedicated guy. Perhaps I will do the same next year, or may be I will just send the kids out on the Tundra on a scavenger hunt and put on the list something like a bowling ball.
Anyway if I make it through the week I only have about seven to go. Oh, yes I have applied to teach summer school but either way I will be in the lower 48 for a visit.
Conley
Dear Tucson Bunch,
Monday starts Louis Bunyon Days here in Hooper Bay. One might ask who is or was Louis Bunyon? Well I don't know. The best I can get out of anybody is that he was someone who did a lot for the community or influenced it in some way. If that be the case he might have been shot of like our own James brothers should have been. But then again no one who knows is telling me much.
Louis Bunyon Days is Hooper Bay's version of St. Patrik's Day (they have a parade,) Oktoberfest (without alcohol, lol,) Santacalogon and Rodeo Days.
The school does not close down but it might as well. Each teacher is supposed to have a four day program consisting of art and cultural Yupik stuff. The administration doesen't tell you how to do it however or provide any money to pay the locals. The shop teacher is making dog sled by scrounging up wood, another guy is making a drum, and I have a bunch of popcycle sticks I found so perhaps I will make a basket. My teaching partner George is cheating, he is hiring a local to come in and make masks and grass baskets. Of course the money he is spending is coming out of his own pocket, a dedicated guy. Perhaps I will do the same next year, or may be I will just send the kids out on the Tundra on a scavenger hunt and put on the list something like a bowling ball.
Anyway if I make it through the week I only have about seven to go. Oh, yes I have applied to teach summer school but either way I will be in the lower 48 for a visit.
Conley
Thursday, November 18, 2010
It's Cold, It's Dark, It's Alaska
People ask now and then how I put up with the darkness and cold during the winter while living in Alaska.
That is sort of a misconception held by many in the lower 48. It is not dark all the time, at least not in Hooper Bay, Pitka's Point, or Noatak. Yes, it does get cold, but it gets cold in Independence also, albeit not for as long or perhaps as cold.
The sun usually came up around 11:30 a.m., and sat around 4:30 p.m., until the last part of December and then started to gain a few minutes of daylight every day. The only strange thing to me about that was the way the sun traversed the sky.
The sun appeared on the southeast horizon and then scooted along the southern edge of the earth until it eventually sat in the southwest. Purists and those who have lived up there for a long time could give you better coordinates, but you get the picture.
Some of the teachers really did have a problem with the whole thing , however, and my best friend up there suffered tremendously. So much so that he planned on only staying one year. He went into a depression about November and did not come out of it until around March.
I kept telling him it was because he was from Wisconsin and he couldn't make it to a Packers game, and the cheese he got up there was not the same, and beer was nowhere to be found at a reasonable price.
His wife installed indoor lighting designed to fight off the depression but it not work very will
It really is a problem, and I was blessed by not having the malady. The villagers seemed to adjust well and you never heard about any of them suffering from the problem, but sometimes I wonder if the higher-than-normal suicide rate and alcoholism could have been attributed to latitude.
I had the reverse problem with the sun. When I was teaching summer school it did not get completely dark until 1 a.m., and then the sun seemed to be shining like noon at 4 a.m.. This played havoc on my sleep cycle.
It is a strange sensation to be sitting looking out the window at midnight and not having to turn on the lights to read a book. Give me the dark and just a few hours of daylight anytime.
I guess if any natural happening effected me at all it was the lack of seasons. I have a brother who lives in Columbus, Ohio, and one of the reasons he moved from Tucson was that he missed the change in seasons.
There did not seem to be seasons in the places I lived in Alaska. There was winter, then a little less winter, a mild winter, and then winter again. Now and then the temperature rose to near 70 in July or August, and people complained that it was too hot and many of the kids cast off their clothes and jumped into the Bering Sea, Yukon or Noatak Rivers.
The cold is something you needed to deal with and deal with seriously. The Alaskan winter can be unforgiving. For instance if I wanted to go outside let's say for 15 minutes I would have to do the following. I slipped into a set of silk underwear and flannel pajamas I then put on a pair of insulated socks and carefully stuffed the tops up under my leggings. Over the flannel PJ's I put on a pair of jeans and a sweat shirt and top it off with a waterproof nylon set of bib overalls. I would bend down the best I could to put on insulated boots, tie them with bated breath, waddle to the closet and squeeze into my Colombian coat with hood, certified to 50 below. I'd don gloves, face mask, eye protectors, and skull cap. Putting on all that stuff did keep me warm and I hadn't been cold yet.
Some villagers now and then could be heard to say it was really cold out but did not complain. They were used to the cold and knew how to dress and survive in temperatures that fell well below the zero mark.
Besides if it gets really cold they told me they just stay inside. Very ingenious.
That is sort of a misconception held by many in the lower 48. It is not dark all the time, at least not in Hooper Bay, Pitka's Point, or Noatak. Yes, it does get cold, but it gets cold in Independence also, albeit not for as long or perhaps as cold.
The sun usually came up around 11:30 a.m., and sat around 4:30 p.m., until the last part of December and then started to gain a few minutes of daylight every day. The only strange thing to me about that was the way the sun traversed the sky.
The sun appeared on the southeast horizon and then scooted along the southern edge of the earth until it eventually sat in the southwest. Purists and those who have lived up there for a long time could give you better coordinates, but you get the picture.
Some of the teachers really did have a problem with the whole thing , however, and my best friend up there suffered tremendously. So much so that he planned on only staying one year. He went into a depression about November and did not come out of it until around March.
I kept telling him it was because he was from Wisconsin and he couldn't make it to a Packers game, and the cheese he got up there was not the same, and beer was nowhere to be found at a reasonable price.
His wife installed indoor lighting designed to fight off the depression but it not work very will
It really is a problem, and I was blessed by not having the malady. The villagers seemed to adjust well and you never heard about any of them suffering from the problem, but sometimes I wonder if the higher-than-normal suicide rate and alcoholism could have been attributed to latitude.
I had the reverse problem with the sun. When I was teaching summer school it did not get completely dark until 1 a.m., and then the sun seemed to be shining like noon at 4 a.m.. This played havoc on my sleep cycle.
It is a strange sensation to be sitting looking out the window at midnight and not having to turn on the lights to read a book. Give me the dark and just a few hours of daylight anytime.
I guess if any natural happening effected me at all it was the lack of seasons. I have a brother who lives in Columbus, Ohio, and one of the reasons he moved from Tucson was that he missed the change in seasons.
There did not seem to be seasons in the places I lived in Alaska. There was winter, then a little less winter, a mild winter, and then winter again. Now and then the temperature rose to near 70 in July or August, and people complained that it was too hot and many of the kids cast off their clothes and jumped into the Bering Sea, Yukon or Noatak Rivers.
The cold is something you needed to deal with and deal with seriously. The Alaskan winter can be unforgiving. For instance if I wanted to go outside let's say for 15 minutes I would have to do the following. I slipped into a set of silk underwear and flannel pajamas I then put on a pair of insulated socks and carefully stuffed the tops up under my leggings. Over the flannel PJ's I put on a pair of jeans and a sweat shirt and top it off with a waterproof nylon set of bib overalls. I would bend down the best I could to put on insulated boots, tie them with bated breath, waddle to the closet and squeeze into my Colombian coat with hood, certified to 50 below. I'd don gloves, face mask, eye protectors, and skull cap. Putting on all that stuff did keep me warm and I hadn't been cold yet.
Some villagers now and then could be heard to say it was really cold out but did not complain. They were used to the cold and knew how to dress and survive in temperatures that fell well below the zero mark.
Besides if it gets really cold they told me they just stay inside. Very ingenious.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Crisp Lake Chronicles - Vol 2
The Crisp Lake Chronicle 1950
The Crisp Lake Association Board of Directors was presented with the annual environmental award given by the Standard Hauling Institute of Technology Company of Maywood. The institute gave the award this year to the organization that did the most for the community to maintain high standards or excellence concerning the local community.
Details of the reasons of the award were not given but the Chronicle has found out what really happened and that the award was not given to those who are the real deserving.
When Homer Steinbeck first noticed the green and brown sludge looking material oozing out of the drainage line that feeds Crisp Lake he immediately called the health department. The inspector did not know what the problem was so he called the county engineer who was just a confounded and subsequently called the Army Corps of Engineers who was just as baffled. The Independence Health and Roads Department said they would be glad to help but it was out of their jurisdiction.
The Crisp Lake Association board held an emergency meeting and decided the best thing to do was to dam the drainage pipe line and build a hold pond to collect the debris, then they would have the Institute in Maywood haul the waist away. The vote was unanimous, yes build the dam.
The Woman's Axillary of the Crisp Lake Association thought other wise, especially Mrs. Sullivan. She thought that it would be best to get to the root of the problem and not just put a band aid via a dam and holding pond. The male board members told her that the problem was no longer worth looking into, the problem was solved and the source of the whatever would be impossible to trace.
Mrs. Sullivan was determined to find out the real problem. She and some of the auxiliary members met early one morning at the drainage pipe. She tied a rope around her waist and started crawling though the tunnel through the merk and mire. The rope was just in case she got lost in the tunnel and needed to be pulled out. With a flashlight she followed the green and brown sludge to a broken pipe just below a man hole leading to the surface. She stood up, lifted the man hole cover and found herself in the parking lot of the Standard Hauling Institute of Technology. She went directly to the managers office, after cutting the rope and giving it three tugs to let her ladies on the other end know that she was OK, and suggested he follow her back down the man hole. He reluctantly did and that is when he saw that the sewer pipe serving the facility and half of Maywood was draining directly into the pipe and thus into Crisp Lake.
The manager was embarrassed and asked if Mrs. Sullivan would not mention the problem because of the negative publicity. She agreed if the Crisp Lake Association would be given the prestigious award for environmental protection and that the lady auxiliary be given a cash donation.
The men built the dam and the holding pool, the Standard Hauling Institute of Technology kept their reputation in tact, and the Lady's Auxiliary received a nice little cash donation.
This brought to mind an old saying from a book I once read: If you have an impossible task to perform always give it to small children and women, they don't know it can't be done.
The Crisp Lake Association Board of Directors was presented with the annual environmental award given by the Standard Hauling Institute of Technology Company of Maywood. The institute gave the award this year to the organization that did the most for the community to maintain high standards or excellence concerning the local community.
Details of the reasons of the award were not given but the Chronicle has found out what really happened and that the award was not given to those who are the real deserving.
When Homer Steinbeck first noticed the green and brown sludge looking material oozing out of the drainage line that feeds Crisp Lake he immediately called the health department. The inspector did not know what the problem was so he called the county engineer who was just a confounded and subsequently called the Army Corps of Engineers who was just as baffled. The Independence Health and Roads Department said they would be glad to help but it was out of their jurisdiction.
The Crisp Lake Association board held an emergency meeting and decided the best thing to do was to dam the drainage pipe line and build a hold pond to collect the debris, then they would have the Institute in Maywood haul the waist away. The vote was unanimous, yes build the dam.
The Woman's Axillary of the Crisp Lake Association thought other wise, especially Mrs. Sullivan. She thought that it would be best to get to the root of the problem and not just put a band aid via a dam and holding pond. The male board members told her that the problem was no longer worth looking into, the problem was solved and the source of the whatever would be impossible to trace.
Mrs. Sullivan was determined to find out the real problem. She and some of the auxiliary members met early one morning at the drainage pipe. She tied a rope around her waist and started crawling though the tunnel through the merk and mire. The rope was just in case she got lost in the tunnel and needed to be pulled out. With a flashlight she followed the green and brown sludge to a broken pipe just below a man hole leading to the surface. She stood up, lifted the man hole cover and found herself in the parking lot of the Standard Hauling Institute of Technology. She went directly to the managers office, after cutting the rope and giving it three tugs to let her ladies on the other end know that she was OK, and suggested he follow her back down the man hole. He reluctantly did and that is when he saw that the sewer pipe serving the facility and half of Maywood was draining directly into the pipe and thus into Crisp Lake.
The manager was embarrassed and asked if Mrs. Sullivan would not mention the problem because of the negative publicity. She agreed if the Crisp Lake Association would be given the prestigious award for environmental protection and that the lady auxiliary be given a cash donation.
The men built the dam and the holding pool, the Standard Hauling Institute of Technology kept their reputation in tact, and the Lady's Auxiliary received a nice little cash donation.
This brought to mind an old saying from a book I once read: If you have an impossible task to perform always give it to small children and women, they don't know it can't be done.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Letters From the Last Frontier - Alaska, 1
April 2003
Hi Brother and Sister:
It is 10:30 Wednesday night, a little early to write my weekly up-date about the fun and adventures in the frozen north but nothing else to do.
I can read a newspaper while sitting outside. Why Alaska went to day light savings I have no idea. It does not get dark until around 11 and that wont be the case in a couple of weeks and this summer it really will be the Land of the Midnight Sun.
I have been trying to figure out when I will be coming through Tulsa and Chicago and will let you know later.
I walked down to the beach after school today but it ended up not being a good idea. Walking in the snow for two miles out and back and along the beach sort of wore me out. When I got to the beach I thought so what, I mean how much snow, ice and sea can one see without it becoming sort of meaningless. However I kept telling myself that not everyone goes to Alaska and I wanted the total experience. So walking along the beach along the Bering Sea 4000 miles away from home is sort of unique. I felt a little isolated, I could have dropped dead out there and my body would not be found until the middle of the summer if a wind storm came up.
The one thing I found very strange though was the silence. There was no noise. When was the last time you experienced no noise, nothing, nothing at all? It was really an odd feeling. I kept straining my ears to hear something but there was nothing. It reminded me of part of a poem, "There wasn't a breath in that land of death..." At least it was comforting to realize that I wasn't the first person to experience that, my mind must still be intact.
Love Snapper
Hi Brother and Sister:
It is 10:30 Wednesday night, a little early to write my weekly up-date about the fun and adventures in the frozen north but nothing else to do.
I can read a newspaper while sitting outside. Why Alaska went to day light savings I have no idea. It does not get dark until around 11 and that wont be the case in a couple of weeks and this summer it really will be the Land of the Midnight Sun.
I have been trying to figure out when I will be coming through Tulsa and Chicago and will let you know later.
I walked down to the beach after school today but it ended up not being a good idea. Walking in the snow for two miles out and back and along the beach sort of wore me out. When I got to the beach I thought so what, I mean how much snow, ice and sea can one see without it becoming sort of meaningless. However I kept telling myself that not everyone goes to Alaska and I wanted the total experience. So walking along the beach along the Bering Sea 4000 miles away from home is sort of unique. I felt a little isolated, I could have dropped dead out there and my body would not be found until the middle of the summer if a wind storm came up.
The one thing I found very strange though was the silence. There was no noise. When was the last time you experienced no noise, nothing, nothing at all? It was really an odd feeling. I kept straining my ears to hear something but there was nothing. It reminded me of part of a poem, "There wasn't a breath in that land of death..." At least it was comforting to realize that I wasn't the first person to experience that, my mind must still be intact.
Love Snapper
Monday, November 15, 2010
Appian Way - Camp Darby
A small contingent of National Guard personnel were sent to Camp Darby, Italy to rewrite the defense plan for Livorno.,one of the main sea ports in Italy. I was the Major in charge of rewriting the plan.
We had a lay -over in London for a few hours and were subjected to a high degree of security as only one would suspect for Heathrow. We eventually were notified that our flight to Pisa on Alitalia was ready to board and we proceeded to the appropriate gate. That is when security stopped.
You might say that Italians are a little more lay back than most. We passed through the passenger gate with hardly even a glance from the airline attendants, took whatever seat we wished, received no instructions on how to fasten our seat belts or where our life preservers were, or anything else that might help us survive an un-forseen occurrence. To prevent a hijacking a curtain was drawn across the cabin separating the cockpit and the passenger section. I felt safe, sure.
The attendants were gracious and served all the espresso, biscotto , and wine that we could eat and drink. They were not bad looking either, the attendants not the biscotto. I began to feel safer.
When we landed in at the Aeroporto di Pisa we were left on the runway to pick up our own bags while the other passengers walked to the terminal building. That turned out not to be as bad it sounds. While the rest of the passengers were working their way through customs and machine gun carrying Carabinieri, we shouldered our duffel bags and walked right past everyone. I guess they thought if we were carrying OD duffel's we were OK.
My worst fears were realized when I soon realized there was no one at the airport to meet us. There was not an American uniform in site. I made my way to a public pay phone, figured out how to use it and called Camp Darby and identified myself as if my first name was Major. The operator switched me to the Officer of the Day, a 2LT, who said that they did not expect us until next week. I asked if he thought I ought to camp out on the front lawn and wait. He said he would send someone to pick us up right away.
An hour later a young captain picked us up and wanted to know where we were staying. I said I had no idea and that he better figure something out soon because I had some people who needed food and sleep and I as getting cranky.
He took us to Camp Darby which was about 5 miles away and were shown a cabin that four could sleep in. Unacceptable I informed him. We went to an enlisted mans barracks and found 8 empty beds and I told him that too was unacceptable. I suggested we go to the housing office. The captain explained our plight to a GS whatever, and that accommodations on post were not available. I and my rank and crankiness suggested that we be given off base lodging. Everyone agreed and we were given a government voucher to be used at a hotel in Tirrena, just three miles down the road. Fine I said, but how are we going to get back and forth. No problem the lady said, here is a voucher to rent a car. Later my little entourage and I were driving to the Tirrenia di Navigazione spa over looking a nude beach on the Italian Riviera in a five speed BMW.
I could tell this was going to be a hardship tour.
We had a lay -over in London for a few hours and were subjected to a high degree of security as only one would suspect for Heathrow. We eventually were notified that our flight to Pisa on Alitalia was ready to board and we proceeded to the appropriate gate. That is when security stopped.
You might say that Italians are a little more lay back than most. We passed through the passenger gate with hardly even a glance from the airline attendants, took whatever seat we wished, received no instructions on how to fasten our seat belts or where our life preservers were, or anything else that might help us survive an un-forseen occurrence. To prevent a hijacking a curtain was drawn across the cabin separating the cockpit and the passenger section. I felt safe, sure.
The attendants were gracious and served all the espresso, biscotto , and wine that we could eat and drink. They were not bad looking either, the attendants not the biscotto. I began to feel safer.
When we landed in at the Aeroporto di Pisa we were left on the runway to pick up our own bags while the other passengers walked to the terminal building. That turned out not to be as bad it sounds. While the rest of the passengers were working their way through customs and machine gun carrying Carabinieri, we shouldered our duffel bags and walked right past everyone. I guess they thought if we were carrying OD duffel's we were OK.
My worst fears were realized when I soon realized there was no one at the airport to meet us. There was not an American uniform in site. I made my way to a public pay phone, figured out how to use it and called Camp Darby and identified myself as if my first name was Major. The operator switched me to the Officer of the Day, a 2LT, who said that they did not expect us until next week. I asked if he thought I ought to camp out on the front lawn and wait. He said he would send someone to pick us up right away.
An hour later a young captain picked us up and wanted to know where we were staying. I said I had no idea and that he better figure something out soon because I had some people who needed food and sleep and I as getting cranky.
He took us to Camp Darby which was about 5 miles away and were shown a cabin that four could sleep in. Unacceptable I informed him. We went to an enlisted mans barracks and found 8 empty beds and I told him that too was unacceptable. I suggested we go to the housing office. The captain explained our plight to a GS whatever, and that accommodations on post were not available. I and my rank and crankiness suggested that we be given off base lodging. Everyone agreed and we were given a government voucher to be used at a hotel in Tirrena, just three miles down the road. Fine I said, but how are we going to get back and forth. No problem the lady said, here is a voucher to rent a car. Later my little entourage and I were driving to the Tirrenia di Navigazione spa over looking a nude beach on the Italian Riviera in a five speed BMW.
I could tell this was going to be a hardship tour.
From Alaska - Log 6
Continued from Log 5...
9/30/02
School is going well, at least the preparation of the lesson plans. I seem to have a knack for it. I could improve my presentations I think. I went to the local Covenant Church yesterday. It was a little more interesting than the local Catholic service. The church is headed by a missionary. A relative young couple in their mid or early 40's I suspect. They own an airplane and he teaches natives how to fly along with being a real asset to the community. There is going to be a teachers retreat next week. The sponsoring organization picks you up in a plane and you fly to some location, stay in a cabin, have religious services, and they feed you. It will be a nice change of events.
I am glad I have done this, coming up here, but there is a part of me that wished I hadn't. Seems a long way from home. Over all Paula and I have a pretty good balance on things.
They say it will start snowing soon.
There seems to be a lot of interest in keeping the Yup'ik culture and language alive, the language is about to disappear. But how do you do merge a subsistence life style with the 21st century. The parents want to help and most see the importance of an education but a lot of the time it does not carry over into the classroom. The state is demanding that the kids pass tests to move on to another grade level, and they should but how do they do it.
10/08/02
It snowed today. It came down real hard and blowing in from the sea. A white blanket covered the ground in no time. My first thought was that I hoped it did not effect our TV reception. But within an hour it had stopped. The sun came out, no snow, but did have TV.
The water pump went off for a day or two. No water for the school or our place. Had to walk a quarter of a mile to get water from the center of the village. It got fixed OK.
The village ran out of money and could not pay their 10 city workers for about 2 weeks.
A friend - Jerry, went to Mountain Village for a math conference. He didn't know when he was to supposed to leave, where he was going exactly or where he was staying, or if they would even feed him. Typical Hooper Bay travel arrangements I am told by the veterans here.
Apparently the school is built on an old Eskimo cemetery. There is supposed to a ghost running around. One teacher at least says she has seen it. There is also a story about little people that live out on the Tundra. It is sort of interesting that the same legend about the Little People is told among the Greenland Eskimos. Might make a story about that some day.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1371306837&sr=1-1&keywords=tales+from+homer
9/30/02
School is going well, at least the preparation of the lesson plans. I seem to have a knack for it. I could improve my presentations I think. I went to the local Covenant Church yesterday. It was a little more interesting than the local Catholic service. The church is headed by a missionary. A relative young couple in their mid or early 40's I suspect. They own an airplane and he teaches natives how to fly along with being a real asset to the community. There is going to be a teachers retreat next week. The sponsoring organization picks you up in a plane and you fly to some location, stay in a cabin, have religious services, and they feed you. It will be a nice change of events.
I am glad I have done this, coming up here, but there is a part of me that wished I hadn't. Seems a long way from home. Over all Paula and I have a pretty good balance on things.
They say it will start snowing soon.
There seems to be a lot of interest in keeping the Yup'ik culture and language alive, the language is about to disappear. But how do you do merge a subsistence life style with the 21st century. The parents want to help and most see the importance of an education but a lot of the time it does not carry over into the classroom. The state is demanding that the kids pass tests to move on to another grade level, and they should but how do they do it.
10/08/02
It snowed today. It came down real hard and blowing in from the sea. A white blanket covered the ground in no time. My first thought was that I hoped it did not effect our TV reception. But within an hour it had stopped. The sun came out, no snow, but did have TV.
The water pump went off for a day or two. No water for the school or our place. Had to walk a quarter of a mile to get water from the center of the village. It got fixed OK.
The village ran out of money and could not pay their 10 city workers for about 2 weeks.
A friend - Jerry, went to Mountain Village for a math conference. He didn't know when he was to supposed to leave, where he was going exactly or where he was staying, or if they would even feed him. Typical Hooper Bay travel arrangements I am told by the veterans here.
Apparently the school is built on an old Eskimo cemetery. There is supposed to a ghost running around. One teacher at least says she has seen it. There is also a story about little people that live out on the Tundra. It is sort of interesting that the same legend about the Little People is told among the Greenland Eskimos. Might make a story about that some day.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1371306837&sr=1-1&keywords=tales+from+homer
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Remembrance
Strangely enough I found my military stuff and the clerk's name was Bessie Crose until 1970 when she married and became Bessie Chitwood. A real "sweetheart" to say the least.
This is not much about collecting things for WWII and I didn't know about this at all until my late brother (Newton Brown) contributed this piece for my mom's memorial service. His son (my nephew) wrote it down and we included it so it isn't really much and I don't know any more than what is here -between the asterisks - I imagine lots of families did the same thing:
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Oldest son Newton well remembers "Den Mother Margaret" baking cookies for her young charges and how they spent many hours over an old table doing various craft projects to keep little minds occupied. During World War II, Margaret could be found with Newton going up and down the streets of Fairmount, pulling a little wagon, collecting cans, bacon grease and other materials for use in the War Effort. They would obtain feedsacks from a local store to make shirts, towels and other things that could be useful at home.
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""Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake."
-Napoleon Bonaparte
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Bear'ly Friends - Alaska
One day I was reading in the Anchorage Daily News about a man who was walking his dog near the military base that bumps up to the city limits of Anchorage. It was not the wilderness by any means.
All of a sudden a big Brown bear jumped out onto the wooded path. He (the man walking the dog not the bear) immediately pulled out his .357 magnum and several shots later the bear lay dead. Several things came to my mind after reading the article. I had seen moose walk along the side of the road in Anchorage proper, a friend of mine said she could not keep a garden in the suburbs because moose would eat up her planting, and I could not remember the last time I walked a dog and carried a gun.(of course many do that today in Arizona and several other states all the time I hear.)
There were no bears in Hooper Bay. There were bears in Pitka's Point and Noatak. I use to ask the villagers how they protected themselves against the bears when they would go out berry picking. They told me they didn't worry about it and if they did come across a bear they just left it alone.
Some of my students at Pitka's Point told me that one night a bear did come into the village and wondered around. They had been outside playing and to keep out of the Bear's way they took refuge in an abandoned house and waited for the bear to go away.
I have a phobia about being eaten by a bear so that hindered my exploring the country side. I am sure I missed out on a lot of things by not communing with nature but a bear is a bear and I know I could not out run one even if my legs became unfrozen after I stumbled onto one.
In Pitks's Point it was about 100 yards from my front door to the school's main entrance. I seldom ventured out after the sun went down and when I did I was cautious. Call me silly and you can tell me about the probability of not being eaten by a bear all you want, but it is like people who buy lottery tickets weekly. The odds of winning are stacked against them but try telling that to the guy who won last week. It is the same as the chances of being eaten by a bear or a shark for that matter (I never swim in anything I cannot see the bottom of ), someone always wins and I would just as soon it not be the bear.
So how do the villagers manage their fear? Do they fear an attack at all? It does happen you know, at least enough to make the paper or Internet.
I decided to ask one of the elders if he was afraid or did he just "leave them alone." He was wise, most elders are. He said you have to respect the bear. "The bear has a spirit and there are good spirits and there are bad ones. If you respect the bear and understand that we are all bears, ravens, moose, rabbits, and salmon, we all just have different skins. We leave each other alone and the spirits we have blend and we become one. We all have animal spirits and all the animals have human spirits." "At last," I thought to myself, I should have talked to this guy many months ago.
He then said one more thing that brought everything in to perspective and focus and provided me with a touch of Eskimo wisdom that I shall carry with me for the rest of my day.
"It also helps," he said, "that when you are walking across our great land, enjoying what the great Eagle and Raven have made, that you walk with a friend, a close friend, a friend that you have known for many years, a friend you know that you can run faster than."
All of a sudden a big Brown bear jumped out onto the wooded path. He (the man walking the dog not the bear) immediately pulled out his .357 magnum and several shots later the bear lay dead. Several things came to my mind after reading the article. I had seen moose walk along the side of the road in Anchorage proper, a friend of mine said she could not keep a garden in the suburbs because moose would eat up her planting, and I could not remember the last time I walked a dog and carried a gun.(of course many do that today in Arizona and several other states all the time I hear.)
There were no bears in Hooper Bay. There were bears in Pitka's Point and Noatak. I use to ask the villagers how they protected themselves against the bears when they would go out berry picking. They told me they didn't worry about it and if they did come across a bear they just left it alone.
Some of my students at Pitka's Point told me that one night a bear did come into the village and wondered around. They had been outside playing and to keep out of the Bear's way they took refuge in an abandoned house and waited for the bear to go away.
I have a phobia about being eaten by a bear so that hindered my exploring the country side. I am sure I missed out on a lot of things by not communing with nature but a bear is a bear and I know I could not out run one even if my legs became unfrozen after I stumbled onto one.
In Pitks's Point it was about 100 yards from my front door to the school's main entrance. I seldom ventured out after the sun went down and when I did I was cautious. Call me silly and you can tell me about the probability of not being eaten by a bear all you want, but it is like people who buy lottery tickets weekly. The odds of winning are stacked against them but try telling that to the guy who won last week. It is the same as the chances of being eaten by a bear or a shark for that matter (I never swim in anything I cannot see the bottom of ), someone always wins and I would just as soon it not be the bear.
So how do the villagers manage their fear? Do they fear an attack at all? It does happen you know, at least enough to make the paper or Internet.
I decided to ask one of the elders if he was afraid or did he just "leave them alone." He was wise, most elders are. He said you have to respect the bear. "The bear has a spirit and there are good spirits and there are bad ones. If you respect the bear and understand that we are all bears, ravens, moose, rabbits, and salmon, we all just have different skins. We leave each other alone and the spirits we have blend and we become one. We all have animal spirits and all the animals have human spirits." "At last," I thought to myself, I should have talked to this guy many months ago.
He then said one more thing that brought everything in to perspective and focus and provided me with a touch of Eskimo wisdom that I shall carry with me for the rest of my day.
"It also helps," he said, "that when you are walking across our great land, enjoying what the great Eagle and Raven have made, that you walk with a friend, a close friend, a friend that you have known for many years, a friend you know that you can run faster than."
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Crisp Lake Chronicles, Vol. 1
Crisp Lake Chronicle, 1950
A farewell party was held for Uncle Bill last Saturday evening at Hutcheson Park on Lake Drive. Uncle Bill has been the head Post Office official at the postal station in Fairmount ever since his return from the war. He was a natural for the job because he had done the same thing for the Army APO - European Theater, in London, England.
Uncle Bill says he is not real happy about the transfer but would make the best of it given the fact that it was politically motivated. "You play with a snake and you are going to get bit," was one of his replies. He claims it was politics pure and simple and had nothing to do with his performance. He said he made a mistake and told his cousin Walter on his mother's side that he had voted for Dewey and not Truman in the last election and Walter told Mr. Jones the precinct captain who in turn told Bill Serman. Well that is possible I guess but upon further inquiry I found out the real reason for the transfer to the Kansas City office.
It was no secret to anyone living in and around Fairmount that Uncle Bill had acquired the habit of drinking a beer with his lunch each day. It was against postal rules to drink in a government facility so he would take his sack lunch over to the Calico Cat each day to imbibe in a brew but never more than two. So as not to inconvenience the postal patrons he would leave his cousin on his wife's side, Homer, in charge who was the custodian but whom he had trained to sell stamps with instructions never to sort mail or do anything else around the office, only sell stamps.
One day however after arriving at the Calico Cat Uncle Bill found a birthday celebration in progress for Herb McIntosh. Two beers turned into six so my informant recalls because Herb's brother Hal was buying and Uncle Bill told folks he could not be rude and leave the party early. Besides Homer was capable of selling stamps and anything else could wait until the next day.
The whole matter could have been a non incident except when Uncle Bill did not return at his normal time Homer decided to take his lunch break anyway. He left instructions on the counter along with a role of stamps and a jar. The instructions stated that customers should take however many stamps they needed and leave the correct change in the jar or bring the money by the next day.
Leaving the post office unattended and the stamps on the counter would not have been a problem either either except just by chance a Kansas City postal inspector was on his way to the Independence branch and thought he would stop by the Fairmount station just to say hi.
The audit that followed found that there was nothing missing at our local branch.
Homer has been transferred to Sugar Creek and Uncle Bill to the Kansas City main office. His assignment is on the mail train that runs between Kansas City and Chicago where he helps sort and put the mail bags out for pick-up and delivery for the towns in between.
Uncle Bill says that the job is OK in and of itself but the main problem is that the mail car is always attached to the rear of the train and there are too many train cars in between it and the club car where they keep the beer.
A farewell party was held for Uncle Bill last Saturday evening at Hutcheson Park on Lake Drive. Uncle Bill has been the head Post Office official at the postal station in Fairmount ever since his return from the war. He was a natural for the job because he had done the same thing for the Army APO - European Theater, in London, England.
Uncle Bill says he is not real happy about the transfer but would make the best of it given the fact that it was politically motivated. "You play with a snake and you are going to get bit," was one of his replies. He claims it was politics pure and simple and had nothing to do with his performance. He said he made a mistake and told his cousin Walter on his mother's side that he had voted for Dewey and not Truman in the last election and Walter told Mr. Jones the precinct captain who in turn told Bill Serman. Well that is possible I guess but upon further inquiry I found out the real reason for the transfer to the Kansas City office.
It was no secret to anyone living in and around Fairmount that Uncle Bill had acquired the habit of drinking a beer with his lunch each day. It was against postal rules to drink in a government facility so he would take his sack lunch over to the Calico Cat each day to imbibe in a brew but never more than two. So as not to inconvenience the postal patrons he would leave his cousin on his wife's side, Homer, in charge who was the custodian but whom he had trained to sell stamps with instructions never to sort mail or do anything else around the office, only sell stamps.
One day however after arriving at the Calico Cat Uncle Bill found a birthday celebration in progress for Herb McIntosh. Two beers turned into six so my informant recalls because Herb's brother Hal was buying and Uncle Bill told folks he could not be rude and leave the party early. Besides Homer was capable of selling stamps and anything else could wait until the next day.
The whole matter could have been a non incident except when Uncle Bill did not return at his normal time Homer decided to take his lunch break anyway. He left instructions on the counter along with a role of stamps and a jar. The instructions stated that customers should take however many stamps they needed and leave the correct change in the jar or bring the money by the next day.
Leaving the post office unattended and the stamps on the counter would not have been a problem either either except just by chance a Kansas City postal inspector was on his way to the Independence branch and thought he would stop by the Fairmount station just to say hi.
The audit that followed found that there was nothing missing at our local branch.
Homer has been transferred to Sugar Creek and Uncle Bill to the Kansas City main office. His assignment is on the mail train that runs between Kansas City and Chicago where he helps sort and put the mail bags out for pick-up and delivery for the towns in between.
Uncle Bill says that the job is OK in and of itself but the main problem is that the mail car is always attached to the rear of the train and there are too many train cars in between it and the club car where they keep the beer.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Ski Lesson - Alaska
Two of my so called friends when I was living in an Alaskan village decided I needed to learn how to ski. I suggested to them that there did not seem to be many hills on the tundra. They said cross-country skiing is what they meant.
I have always been a reluctant athlete. Neither my father nor grandfather ever did anything physical unless being in the Calvary for my grandfather or my dad participating in an extended camping trip they called Korea counts.
My athletic training was left to the 20 or so kids that lived on Lake Drive. I was usually the tackling dummy or the right fielder or the person on whom everyone else practiced their wrestling holds and throwing over their shoulders. I eventually did play football at Van Horn but the only real ability I had was that I did not mind getting knocked down.
Living as the youngest kid on the block gave me a lot of practice; I could always hit the ground without breaking anything and still can. When it comes to falling I am very coordinated and good at it. Getting up, however, at my age gets to be a struggle.
Things are usually scarce in bush Alaska, but let me just tell someone that I would love to learn how to cross-country ski but, alas, have no equipment, and sure enough skis, poles, and boots showed up out of nowhere.
Having exhausted any possible excuse, I met my "friends" behind the school one Saturday. They helped me put on the skis, showed me a few pointers, like how to move forward, gave me some encouragement as I began, then set off ahead of me and yelled over their shoulders that they would wait for me on the small rise just up ahead, which seemed sort of far to me. I did what they told me, putting my left arm forward opposite my right foot and vice-versa, crouching over the skis like a gorilla, and swaying like a fat lady from side to side. Those are terms they used and typical in cross-country ski jargon, I guess.
I found the rhythm and was doing very well, even if I did say so, which I did because I was all alone watching them on the rise waiting for me. It was very exhausting and lonely work. By the time I got to the rise I was huffing and puffing and looked for a soft blanket of snow to lie upon, feeling sort of smug that they would have to lug my body back to the village after my coronary.
They were amazed that I had not fallen and heaped much praise upon me. Good balance has always been a trademark of mine. We three were standing there, I savoring mastering yet another sport, when I fell over. Not from exhaustion or anything, I just fell over. Apparently when on skis on soft snow you must always concentrate on keeping your ankles, knees, and hips aligned and not shift your weight from foot to foot.
As I was lying there waiting for assistance from my "buddies" they said that happens now and then, and I needed to learn how to get up on my own. They were nice enough to offer me words of encouragement and instruction while I flopped around like a wounded walrus. Getting up on two skis is not an easy task. My feet would not turn the way I wanted, the ankles would not bend in the proper direction, my skis kept getting tangled and every time I put a pole into the tundra snow to brace myself it would hit a soft spot and down I would go again.
My two nemeses did try to stifle their laughter between instructions on how to regain an upright position but they failed miserably. Eventually my ski pole struck one of the four boulders on the tundra and I managed to get to one knee, then another, and finally to my feet again. No sooner had I assumed my position as a crouching gorilla when they said we needed to move on. I followed them around the dump, thorough the abandoned oil tanks, and into and through the grave yard. Nice touch, I thought, just in case.
We eventually made it back to the rear of my semi subterranean dwelling. They helped me stumble up the back steps. They pounded on the back door for me because I could not raise my arms that high nor had the strength to knock, plus they thought it unseemly to watch a grown man butt his head against the door to get his wife's attention. What are friends for. I was let inside by a bemused wife, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch checking my vital signs.
I have always been a reluctant athlete. Neither my father nor grandfather ever did anything physical unless being in the Calvary for my grandfather or my dad participating in an extended camping trip they called Korea counts.
My athletic training was left to the 20 or so kids that lived on Lake Drive. I was usually the tackling dummy or the right fielder or the person on whom everyone else practiced their wrestling holds and throwing over their shoulders. I eventually did play football at Van Horn but the only real ability I had was that I did not mind getting knocked down.
Living as the youngest kid on the block gave me a lot of practice; I could always hit the ground without breaking anything and still can. When it comes to falling I am very coordinated and good at it. Getting up, however, at my age gets to be a struggle.
Things are usually scarce in bush Alaska, but let me just tell someone that I would love to learn how to cross-country ski but, alas, have no equipment, and sure enough skis, poles, and boots showed up out of nowhere.
Having exhausted any possible excuse, I met my "friends" behind the school one Saturday. They helped me put on the skis, showed me a few pointers, like how to move forward, gave me some encouragement as I began, then set off ahead of me and yelled over their shoulders that they would wait for me on the small rise just up ahead, which seemed sort of far to me. I did what they told me, putting my left arm forward opposite my right foot and vice-versa, crouching over the skis like a gorilla, and swaying like a fat lady from side to side. Those are terms they used and typical in cross-country ski jargon, I guess.
I found the rhythm and was doing very well, even if I did say so, which I did because I was all alone watching them on the rise waiting for me. It was very exhausting and lonely work. By the time I got to the rise I was huffing and puffing and looked for a soft blanket of snow to lie upon, feeling sort of smug that they would have to lug my body back to the village after my coronary.
They were amazed that I had not fallen and heaped much praise upon me. Good balance has always been a trademark of mine. We three were standing there, I savoring mastering yet another sport, when I fell over. Not from exhaustion or anything, I just fell over. Apparently when on skis on soft snow you must always concentrate on keeping your ankles, knees, and hips aligned and not shift your weight from foot to foot.
As I was lying there waiting for assistance from my "buddies" they said that happens now and then, and I needed to learn how to get up on my own. They were nice enough to offer me words of encouragement and instruction while I flopped around like a wounded walrus. Getting up on two skis is not an easy task. My feet would not turn the way I wanted, the ankles would not bend in the proper direction, my skis kept getting tangled and every time I put a pole into the tundra snow to brace myself it would hit a soft spot and down I would go again.
My two nemeses did try to stifle their laughter between instructions on how to regain an upright position but they failed miserably. Eventually my ski pole struck one of the four boulders on the tundra and I managed to get to one knee, then another, and finally to my feet again. No sooner had I assumed my position as a crouching gorilla when they said we needed to move on. I followed them around the dump, thorough the abandoned oil tanks, and into and through the grave yard. Nice touch, I thought, just in case.
We eventually made it back to the rear of my semi subterranean dwelling. They helped me stumble up the back steps. They pounded on the back door for me because I could not raise my arms that high nor had the strength to knock, plus they thought it unseemly to watch a grown man butt his head against the door to get his wife's attention. What are friends for. I was let inside by a bemused wife, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch checking my vital signs.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
82nd Airborne, D-Day
From: jim sterner
One of the men I worked with at Mobay ( now Bayer ) told this story. His name was Bob Abernathy. He was in the 82nd Airborne and jumped on D-day in Normandy. When he landed, he broke his leg and couldn't walk. He crawled under the hedgerow ( which were very dense and wide ) and hid as long as he could. He was finally captured, and the Germans taking care of the prisoners were just keeping ahead of the allied advance. When they finally realized they had to do something to speed up, the German officer in charge pulled his side arm and started walking toward the prisoners. Bob said he put the pistol to the head of one of the prisoners and just stood there for a minute. He finally shook his head, lowered the pistol and turned around and walked back to the trucks and left all the prisoners there. That was the last action Bob saw. The leg was broken so badly, they had to ship him back to the US and he spent 14 months in and out of hospitals. He walked with a pronounced limp to the day he died. Thank you Bob.
One of the men I worked with at Mobay ( now Bayer ) told this story. His name was Bob Abernathy. He was in the 82nd Airborne and jumped on D-day in Normandy. When he landed, he broke his leg and couldn't walk. He crawled under the hedgerow ( which were very dense and wide ) and hid as long as he could. He was finally captured, and the Germans taking care of the prisoners were just keeping ahead of the allied advance. When they finally realized they had to do something to speed up, the German officer in charge pulled his side arm and started walking toward the prisoners. Bob said he put the pistol to the head of one of the prisoners and just stood there for a minute. He finally shook his head, lowered the pistol and turned around and walked back to the trucks and left all the prisoners there. That was the last action Bob saw. The leg was broken so badly, they had to ship him back to the US and he spent 14 months in and out of hospitals. He walked with a pronounced limp to the day he died. Thank you Bob.
The McAnallys, Reluctant Warriors - Part 2
...and then there was me.
It was January 1968. I was in a state of post adolescent depression. Two failed relationships, one lost athletic scholarship due to grades, a dead end job at a gas station, one half hearted attempt at returning to the football arena but failed to make the grades at a junior college that was a prerequisite, and a war in Viet Nam that didn't seem to want to go away. The only positive thing I had done in the last two years was to accumulate enough college hours to give me the status of a Junior if I ever did go back full time.
My draft status was a little iffy. I had a card in my pocket that said 2S, but the draft board didn't know I wasn't attending college right then and I expected a notice any day congratulating me on a 1A classification. I was so directionless though that I wish they would hurry up and send me a notice just to move things forward.
For some reason I still am not sure why, I decided that given the fact that I had two good college years under my belt, surly I could some how get another two, but when. If I got drafted into or joined the service by the time I got out I would have two whole years remaining and knowing myself like I did I was sure I would get side tracked and never complete my education. However, if I some how could eek out one more year, the one year remaining after my discharge would probably be doable. I devised a plan and went to see the Draft Board people.
I walked into the Draft Board office and went to see Charlotte. Every 18 year old boy in Independence knew her by name. She was the lady who made decisions about a young man's future. She didn't really make the decisions about who was classified as what, she just followed the rules governing the draft. I am sure she took no joy in being part of sending boys off to war.
"Charlotte," I said, "Here's the deal. You leave me alone for another year, let me get one more year of school under my belt, then you can have me."
"I don't know if we can do that,"she replied. "What was your name again?" I told her.
She walked over to a file cabinet searched through some cards, selected one, turned to me, handed me the card and said, "Here, you just saved the government six cents."
With my newly acquired 1A card and a feeling of sickness in my stomach I listlessly went to visit some friends at the Warrensburg Extensions Center to tell them my tale of woe. As I was walking down the hall I saw a sign on one of the doors that read, "You want to beat the draft?" I took another look and under the big words were something like "if so report to room 212 at 1400 this Tuesday." I did.
Central Missouri State College was just starting up an ROTC program. They needed Juniors and Seniors to comprise the senior cadre. My reasoning was that I was going to have to go to Viet Nam anyway it appeared so I might as well go as an officer so when I was shot at I would at least be making more money. Besides I would get to finish school and who knew, perhaps the war would be over by the time I was ready to go on active duty.
I took basic at Fort Benning, Georgia that summer, came back to CMSC, took the required classes, spent the next summer at Fort Riley, came back to CMSC, took the required classes and received my commission as a 2LT in the Infantry. Soon after that I received orders to report to Fort Benning for the Infantry Officers Basic Course the following January. I filled in for a teacher in Sedalia while I waited.
The army had contracted with several doctors in Sedalia to give pre- induction physicals. I happened to pick a doctor who had a child in my class. He gave me a proper physical, took me in his office and told me that that my sugar was at such a level that he could write the report either way. "Do you want to go or not?" he asked.
Many of my friends had gone, a few had been killed, there was a long line of family members who had served, I was now married, had a job at the school, and now all I had to do was to say no and I was out of any obligation and could always say it was for medical reasons. My pride and honor would remain in tack for the rest of the world. The doctor and I would be the only ones who knew.
"I cannot not go," I replied, " I have to."
Two weeks after my faithful decision and never wishing I had not been noble I received another letter from the Army. It said something like this: "We are sorry to inform you that your services as a full time Army Officers is no longer required. We have to many officers right now. You still have an obligation however to do one of the following..." One of those options was to join a National Guard unit. They had one in Sedalia. I walked in the door to see what they had to offer so as to fulfill my military requirement and walked back out the door 20 years and 9 months later.
It was January 1968. I was in a state of post adolescent depression. Two failed relationships, one lost athletic scholarship due to grades, a dead end job at a gas station, one half hearted attempt at returning to the football arena but failed to make the grades at a junior college that was a prerequisite, and a war in Viet Nam that didn't seem to want to go away. The only positive thing I had done in the last two years was to accumulate enough college hours to give me the status of a Junior if I ever did go back full time.
My draft status was a little iffy. I had a card in my pocket that said 2S, but the draft board didn't know I wasn't attending college right then and I expected a notice any day congratulating me on a 1A classification. I was so directionless though that I wish they would hurry up and send me a notice just to move things forward.
For some reason I still am not sure why, I decided that given the fact that I had two good college years under my belt, surly I could some how get another two, but when. If I got drafted into or joined the service by the time I got out I would have two whole years remaining and knowing myself like I did I was sure I would get side tracked and never complete my education. However, if I some how could eek out one more year, the one year remaining after my discharge would probably be doable. I devised a plan and went to see the Draft Board people.
I walked into the Draft Board office and went to see Charlotte. Every 18 year old boy in Independence knew her by name. She was the lady who made decisions about a young man's future. She didn't really make the decisions about who was classified as what, she just followed the rules governing the draft. I am sure she took no joy in being part of sending boys off to war.
"Charlotte," I said, "Here's the deal. You leave me alone for another year, let me get one more year of school under my belt, then you can have me."
"I don't know if we can do that,"she replied. "What was your name again?" I told her.
She walked over to a file cabinet searched through some cards, selected one, turned to me, handed me the card and said, "Here, you just saved the government six cents."
With my newly acquired 1A card and a feeling of sickness in my stomach I listlessly went to visit some friends at the Warrensburg Extensions Center to tell them my tale of woe. As I was walking down the hall I saw a sign on one of the doors that read, "You want to beat the draft?" I took another look and under the big words were something like "if so report to room 212 at 1400 this Tuesday." I did.
Central Missouri State College was just starting up an ROTC program. They needed Juniors and Seniors to comprise the senior cadre. My reasoning was that I was going to have to go to Viet Nam anyway it appeared so I might as well go as an officer so when I was shot at I would at least be making more money. Besides I would get to finish school and who knew, perhaps the war would be over by the time I was ready to go on active duty.
I took basic at Fort Benning, Georgia that summer, came back to CMSC, took the required classes, spent the next summer at Fort Riley, came back to CMSC, took the required classes and received my commission as a 2LT in the Infantry. Soon after that I received orders to report to Fort Benning for the Infantry Officers Basic Course the following January. I filled in for a teacher in Sedalia while I waited.
The army had contracted with several doctors in Sedalia to give pre- induction physicals. I happened to pick a doctor who had a child in my class. He gave me a proper physical, took me in his office and told me that that my sugar was at such a level that he could write the report either way. "Do you want to go or not?" he asked.
Many of my friends had gone, a few had been killed, there was a long line of family members who had served, I was now married, had a job at the school, and now all I had to do was to say no and I was out of any obligation and could always say it was for medical reasons. My pride and honor would remain in tack for the rest of the world. The doctor and I would be the only ones who knew.
"I cannot not go," I replied, " I have to."
Two weeks after my faithful decision and never wishing I had not been noble I received another letter from the Army. It said something like this: "We are sorry to inform you that your services as a full time Army Officers is no longer required. We have to many officers right now. You still have an obligation however to do one of the following..." One of those options was to join a National Guard unit. They had one in Sedalia. I walked in the door to see what they had to offer so as to fulfill my military requirement and walked back out the door 20 years and 9 months later.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The McAnallys, Reluctant Warriors- Part I
Pat,
Here are a few things that might interest you. First let me set at least one rule of engagement: Don't feel it necessary to respond to any thing I send you. Sure I would like to hear from you on several subjects that I will eventually get around to asking, but don't feel obligated to respond to my muses or some might say diatribe. I don't play golf, my bike riding is limited and my hobby is writing stuff for my own enjoyment. Now and then I send some stuff to people and they have to bare with me. The two items enclosed are part of one of my blogs.
The McAnally's, Reluctant Warriors - Part 1
From the best the family can tell Charles McAnally, Sr was born in Scotland in 1685 and came to American in 1693. He died in 1740 and was reportedly a farmer by trade. There is no record he ever fought in any war but being on the frontier he might have had a run in with an Indian or two.
He did have two sons, Charles, Jr. and John who did fight in the French and Indian War for the Virginia Colonial Militia, Charles, Jr as a captain and John of unknown rank fought in the Revolutionary War with the North Carolina Militia.
Charles had a son named Jesse who also fought for North Carolina. John had a son named David who was in the RW but seemed to break the tradition of North Carolina and was assigned as a guard of British prisoners, was a sergeant and served with General Mead and General Lafayette.
Later on there was a John McAnally who fought in the Mexican War, but no one seems to know what he did, where he was from, or who he was related to in the McAnally linage.
The one soldier the McAnally's point to with ah was Charles McAnally a captain in the Civil War. He won the Congressional Medal of Honor. The citation read "In hand to hand encounter with the enemy captured a flag, was wounded in action but continued in action until he received a second wound." This took place at Spotsylvania. He was a member of the 69th Penn. Vol. Inf. He must have seen a lot of action and received at least what we call now one friendly fire wound. His records show that in the early part of 1861 he was shot in the right leg as a result of two junior ranks having an altercation. Later in 1861 on a night patrol he was shot just below the right knee at Manson Hill, VA. Then in 1863 he received a head wound on July 3 at Gettysburg from a saber. He was again shot at Cold Harbor on June 1864 in the right leg and surgeons wanted to remove his leg but he talked them out of it. He was promoted to Captain in October of 1864 and in March 1865 he was presented with a sword by the men of his Regiment. He received a military pension until 1905.
At the same time there was another Charles McAnally, Sgt, who was with K Company, 37th Infantry, Confederate States of America. It is not known if either Charles faced each other in combat.
Although not a McAnally, Thomas Conley Copeland was a private in the Kansas Volunteer Infantry and fought at the battle of Lone Jack. He was my great great grandfather on my great grandmothers side. I have his discharge papers and his later commission in the Missouri Army National Guard.
There was a Thomas McAnally who fought with the 1st District of Columbia Volunteer Infantry, Co A during the Spanish American War and James McAnally was a member of American Expeditionary Force in WW I, both cousins of mine.
My grandfather, Joseph Conley McAnally, ran away from home and joined the US Calvary after WW I and spent his time riding horses in Wyoming and Montana. He did not like it and asked his dad to buy him out of the service, which great grandpa did for $1,500.
James McAnally is reported to have been on Wake Island but no one is sure if he is of our linage.
Dad was drafted and had no real desire to go but did of course and served in Korea and in the reserves for a couple of years.
And then there was me.
Here are a few things that might interest you. First let me set at least one rule of engagement: Don't feel it necessary to respond to any thing I send you. Sure I would like to hear from you on several subjects that I will eventually get around to asking, but don't feel obligated to respond to my muses or some might say diatribe. I don't play golf, my bike riding is limited and my hobby is writing stuff for my own enjoyment. Now and then I send some stuff to people and they have to bare with me. The two items enclosed are part of one of my blogs.
The McAnally's, Reluctant Warriors - Part 1
From the best the family can tell Charles McAnally, Sr was born in Scotland in 1685 and came to American in 1693. He died in 1740 and was reportedly a farmer by trade. There is no record he ever fought in any war but being on the frontier he might have had a run in with an Indian or two.
He did have two sons, Charles, Jr. and John who did fight in the French and Indian War for the Virginia Colonial Militia, Charles, Jr as a captain and John of unknown rank fought in the Revolutionary War with the North Carolina Militia.
Charles had a son named Jesse who also fought for North Carolina. John had a son named David who was in the RW but seemed to break the tradition of North Carolina and was assigned as a guard of British prisoners, was a sergeant and served with General Mead and General Lafayette.
Later on there was a John McAnally who fought in the Mexican War, but no one seems to know what he did, where he was from, or who he was related to in the McAnally linage.
The one soldier the McAnally's point to with ah was Charles McAnally a captain in the Civil War. He won the Congressional Medal of Honor. The citation read "In hand to hand encounter with the enemy captured a flag, was wounded in action but continued in action until he received a second wound." This took place at Spotsylvania. He was a member of the 69th Penn. Vol. Inf. He must have seen a lot of action and received at least what we call now one friendly fire wound. His records show that in the early part of 1861 he was shot in the right leg as a result of two junior ranks having an altercation. Later in 1861 on a night patrol he was shot just below the right knee at Manson Hill, VA. Then in 1863 he received a head wound on July 3 at Gettysburg from a saber. He was again shot at Cold Harbor on June 1864 in the right leg and surgeons wanted to remove his leg but he talked them out of it. He was promoted to Captain in October of 1864 and in March 1865 he was presented with a sword by the men of his Regiment. He received a military pension until 1905.
At the same time there was another Charles McAnally, Sgt, who was with K Company, 37th Infantry, Confederate States of America. It is not known if either Charles faced each other in combat.
Although not a McAnally, Thomas Conley Copeland was a private in the Kansas Volunteer Infantry and fought at the battle of Lone Jack. He was my great great grandfather on my great grandmothers side. I have his discharge papers and his later commission in the Missouri Army National Guard.
There was a Thomas McAnally who fought with the 1st District of Columbia Volunteer Infantry, Co A during the Spanish American War and James McAnally was a member of American Expeditionary Force in WW I, both cousins of mine.
My grandfather, Joseph Conley McAnally, ran away from home and joined the US Calvary after WW I and spent his time riding horses in Wyoming and Montana. He did not like it and asked his dad to buy him out of the service, which great grandpa did for $1,500.
James McAnally is reported to have been on Wake Island but no one is sure if he is of our linage.
Dad was drafted and had no real desire to go but did of course and served in Korea and in the reserves for a couple of years.
And then there was me.
Spy Dad
Dad left me two items when he died. One was a box of letters he had mailed home from the time he went into the army until he was discharged. The other was an envelop with letters from a woman who I shall call Marcia Smith. The letters dad sent home are interesting and when I read them it is sort of like visiting with him when he was 25 years old. Those letters will comprise a section of my blog at a later date.
The letters from Marcia however were the letters I had waited several years to review. There were about 12 letters. They were mailed the first of each month to Dad while he was in Korea. The letters are a little newsy, nothing romantic, just friendly little tid bits of information from back home. Marcia however lived in Eldon, Missouri and Dad of course was from Independence. Marcia was doing something very common back then, sort of a patriotic thing - writing the boys who were fighting the bad guys to keep them remembering what they were fighting for.
My name was mentioned a couple of times in the letters but mostly just in response to letters Dad had apparently sent her. For the most part the letters were humdrum, poorly written many times, awkward sentence structures, but I guess for a soldier far away any news about the home front is welcome. So why might you ask yourself had I been looking forward to reading these letters for several years.
When I retired from the military Dad told me that he had a box of letters with my name on it and when he died he wanted me to open it and read the contents. He then went on to tell me that there was a series of letters in the box from a Marcia Smith of Elden, Missouri and I was to pay special attention to those letters. Marcia he said was his "handler." He went on to tell me a story.
After receiving some special training by Naval Intelligence, Dad and some other men were sent to different parts of Korea. Their job if they happen to be captured was to supply information through letters handled by the Red Cross as to what was really happening in the POW camps. The information the army had been receiving about those camps were incomplete and confusing and together with the fact that there had been fewer escapes from prison camps than in any other war, they wanted to know why.
They gave him an address of Marcia Smith, 221 Elm Street, Eldon, Missouri. After he arrived in Korea he was supposed to write her, send information in code to keep from losing the skill he had committed to memory, and she in turn would write back in code answering questions he might have asked and asking new ones. They continued their correspondance for a year.
Dad said that the last letter he sent to Marcia said he was returning home the following month and would really like to meet her. She responded that she did not think that would be a very good idea because the boy friend she had now was the jealous type and it would just cause problems. Dad said he wrote back and told her he understood and it had been nice visiting with her and would send her a Christmas card or some such thing. She wrote one more letter back and said that that would not be a good idea either but she would make it a point to keep track of him and if she ever needed anything she would contact him. Dad dropped the issue, will almost.
When he got back to Independence one of the first things he did was to borrow a car and drive to Eldon. He found that 221 Elm Street did not exist.
Twenty years went by Dad was a chief flight instructor for Wilson Flying Service. One of his students was a local secret service agent who wanted to learn to fly so it would be easier to transfer to the border patrol. He said the service was sort of boring anymore. The agent said he just stood around and watched people and made pointless contacts for other agenicies. After one of the lesson the agent said he had a friend that wanted to meet Dad. Sure Dad said, where and when. The agent told dad that the parking lot at Wilson's would be fine and how about midnight that night.
Dad was a little taken aback, but went along with the plan. Dad did not recall or choose to tell me the conversation that took place that night but the up shot was that the guy he met asked Dad if he would be interested in running an airport for the firm he represented. Dad said he might be but where was it exactly he was talking about. The guy told Dad he could not tell him right then, but it was some place in southeast Asia. The guy told him they did not need an answer right then but did in a day or two. He would be in touch. "Oh, by the way," the guy said in parting, "Marcia says hi."
Dad turned down the job and never mentioned anything about it to anyone except my grandfather and me.
At Dad's funeral there were two retired FBI agents as honorary pallbearers and some flowers from some one that only signed the card, "Thanks, MS"
The letters from Marcia however were the letters I had waited several years to review. There were about 12 letters. They were mailed the first of each month to Dad while he was in Korea. The letters are a little newsy, nothing romantic, just friendly little tid bits of information from back home. Marcia however lived in Eldon, Missouri and Dad of course was from Independence. Marcia was doing something very common back then, sort of a patriotic thing - writing the boys who were fighting the bad guys to keep them remembering what they were fighting for.
My name was mentioned a couple of times in the letters but mostly just in response to letters Dad had apparently sent her. For the most part the letters were humdrum, poorly written many times, awkward sentence structures, but I guess for a soldier far away any news about the home front is welcome. So why might you ask yourself had I been looking forward to reading these letters for several years.
When I retired from the military Dad told me that he had a box of letters with my name on it and when he died he wanted me to open it and read the contents. He then went on to tell me that there was a series of letters in the box from a Marcia Smith of Elden, Missouri and I was to pay special attention to those letters. Marcia he said was his "handler." He went on to tell me a story.
After receiving some special training by Naval Intelligence, Dad and some other men were sent to different parts of Korea. Their job if they happen to be captured was to supply information through letters handled by the Red Cross as to what was really happening in the POW camps. The information the army had been receiving about those camps were incomplete and confusing and together with the fact that there had been fewer escapes from prison camps than in any other war, they wanted to know why.
They gave him an address of Marcia Smith, 221 Elm Street, Eldon, Missouri. After he arrived in Korea he was supposed to write her, send information in code to keep from losing the skill he had committed to memory, and she in turn would write back in code answering questions he might have asked and asking new ones. They continued their correspondance for a year.
Dad said that the last letter he sent to Marcia said he was returning home the following month and would really like to meet her. She responded that she did not think that would be a very good idea because the boy friend she had now was the jealous type and it would just cause problems. Dad said he wrote back and told her he understood and it had been nice visiting with her and would send her a Christmas card or some such thing. She wrote one more letter back and said that that would not be a good idea either but she would make it a point to keep track of him and if she ever needed anything she would contact him. Dad dropped the issue, will almost.
When he got back to Independence one of the first things he did was to borrow a car and drive to Eldon. He found that 221 Elm Street did not exist.
Twenty years went by Dad was a chief flight instructor for Wilson Flying Service. One of his students was a local secret service agent who wanted to learn to fly so it would be easier to transfer to the border patrol. He said the service was sort of boring anymore. The agent said he just stood around and watched people and made pointless contacts for other agenicies. After one of the lesson the agent said he had a friend that wanted to meet Dad. Sure Dad said, where and when. The agent told dad that the parking lot at Wilson's would be fine and how about midnight that night.
Dad was a little taken aback, but went along with the plan. Dad did not recall or choose to tell me the conversation that took place that night but the up shot was that the guy he met asked Dad if he would be interested in running an airport for the firm he represented. Dad said he might be but where was it exactly he was talking about. The guy told Dad he could not tell him right then, but it was some place in southeast Asia. The guy told him they did not need an answer right then but did in a day or two. He would be in touch. "Oh, by the way," the guy said in parting, "Marcia says hi."
Dad turned down the job and never mentioned anything about it to anyone except my grandfather and me.
At Dad's funeral there were two retired FBI agents as honorary pallbearers and some flowers from some one that only signed the card, "Thanks, MS"
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
911 - Alaska
The following is an edited version of a column that appeared in the Independence Examiner on January 17, 2004
Even up here 911 is a magic number
Conley McAnally
the Examiner
You have read about my friend and teaching partner George. George is a young man and very fit, however he is clumsy. Last year he fell off a snow-go while sitting in front of the post office and dislocated his shoulder. The local missionary/EMT set it. This year he was visited by the missionary again, not to save his soul but perhaps his life.
I was getting ready to go to my classroom one Saturday morning when the phone rang. It was George. He asked me if I could come over to his place sort of quickly. He lives in the trailer next to my semi subterranean dwelling so I was there in less than a minute. His back door was opened so I walked in and called out his name. I heard his voice coming from the kitchen and when I saw him he was holding a towel wrapped around his left hand which he held high above his head. He had cut his hand .
He said he wanted to look at the cut but when he looked at it the last time blood started spurting out all over the place and he wanted me around to make sure we could pack the wound if it had not coagulated yet. It was then I noticed that there was blood all over the sink, the floor, and kitchen table. As we started taking the towels off we soon realized that the cut had not clotted. Blood began running down his arm and spurting over my shoulder. We compressed the wound and stopped the bleeding.
I suggested we call Grant, the missionary but when I tried the number the call did not go through. We tried the clinic and the police station, still no luck. We figured something was wrong with the phone lines which was not abnormal.
Blood started running down George's arm so I abandoned my calling to apply pressure to the wound again and told George not to go into shock. He said he did not plan on it. He said he was more worried about the loss of blood.
I told him I thought he still had plenty.
George said this sounded like a 911. Neither of us knew if the service was provided here in Hooper Bay and if it did was it a local call or routed to Bethel and then back here, but I punched in the numbers anyway deciding not to speculate or discuss the matter further.
The 911 operator came on immediately, it was the Hooper Bay police dispatcher. Yes even Hooper Bay has 911 service. The call went something like this
Operator: Emergency
Me: This is Conley, George has just cut his hand and needs assistance immediately.
Operator: (She said something in Yup'ik that I could not understand.)
Me: What? Operator, are you sending help, we need it now.
Operator: How did he cut his hand.
Me: It does not matter how he cut his hand are you sending some one?
George yelled so the lady would hear that this was getting serious and we needed help now. In deed it was and we did, George's blood was now flowing down his arm.
Operator: I have contacted the officers already George (like she was talking to him and not me) they should me there any time now.
Me: Remember it is the trailer behind the old clinic next to the hallway leading to the maintenance shed behind my place, and come to the back door.
Operator: WILCO
No sooner had I gotten that out when a knock came at the door. "COME IN!" It was one of Hooper Bay's finest and right behind him came a second officer. They got out their equipment. One started to put gauze on the wound while the other contacted dispatch to get Grant over there. The dispatcher came pack and said that one of the officers would have to go get the missionary, his snow-go was being used by one of his kids. The situation was under control and the other officer relieved me from applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
Grant was there within five minutes and assisted in dressing the cut while making arraignments to get George transported to Bethel.
Now to wrap up some loose ends. George had just returned from his Christmas break that morning and he was trying to pry meat apart with a knife when it slipped and sliced the area between his thumb and index finger. The phone would not work because he had coded it before he left for Christmas and was to rattled to tell me how to decode the phone when I tried to make my calls for help, although he had done so when he called me.
The 911 system worked like a charm and the village police handled the situation in a very professional manner.
An officer and health aide accompanied George to Bethel by commercial carrier and they returned the next day no worse for the wear. There was no nerve damage and his hand would be fine in a day or two they told him. "Just don't strain the hand, watch for discoloration, and if there is pain take two aspirin and call us in the morning," the lady doctor in Bethel told him.
Just like being home.
Even up here 911 is a magic number
Conley McAnally
the Examiner
You have read about my friend and teaching partner George. George is a young man and very fit, however he is clumsy. Last year he fell off a snow-go while sitting in front of the post office and dislocated his shoulder. The local missionary/EMT set it. This year he was visited by the missionary again, not to save his soul but perhaps his life.
I was getting ready to go to my classroom one Saturday morning when the phone rang. It was George. He asked me if I could come over to his place sort of quickly. He lives in the trailer next to my semi subterranean dwelling so I was there in less than a minute. His back door was opened so I walked in and called out his name. I heard his voice coming from the kitchen and when I saw him he was holding a towel wrapped around his left hand which he held high above his head. He had cut his hand .
He said he wanted to look at the cut but when he looked at it the last time blood started spurting out all over the place and he wanted me around to make sure we could pack the wound if it had not coagulated yet. It was then I noticed that there was blood all over the sink, the floor, and kitchen table. As we started taking the towels off we soon realized that the cut had not clotted. Blood began running down his arm and spurting over my shoulder. We compressed the wound and stopped the bleeding.
I suggested we call Grant, the missionary but when I tried the number the call did not go through. We tried the clinic and the police station, still no luck. We figured something was wrong with the phone lines which was not abnormal.
Blood started running down George's arm so I abandoned my calling to apply pressure to the wound again and told George not to go into shock. He said he did not plan on it. He said he was more worried about the loss of blood.
I told him I thought he still had plenty.
George said this sounded like a 911. Neither of us knew if the service was provided here in Hooper Bay and if it did was it a local call or routed to Bethel and then back here, but I punched in the numbers anyway deciding not to speculate or discuss the matter further.
The 911 operator came on immediately, it was the Hooper Bay police dispatcher. Yes even Hooper Bay has 911 service. The call went something like this
Operator: Emergency
Me: This is Conley, George has just cut his hand and needs assistance immediately.
Operator: (She said something in Yup'ik that I could not understand.)
Me: What? Operator, are you sending help, we need it now.
Operator: How did he cut his hand.
Me: It does not matter how he cut his hand are you sending some one?
George yelled so the lady would hear that this was getting serious and we needed help now. In deed it was and we did, George's blood was now flowing down his arm.
Operator: I have contacted the officers already George (like she was talking to him and not me) they should me there any time now.
Me: Remember it is the trailer behind the old clinic next to the hallway leading to the maintenance shed behind my place, and come to the back door.
Operator: WILCO
No sooner had I gotten that out when a knock came at the door. "COME IN!" It was one of Hooper Bay's finest and right behind him came a second officer. They got out their equipment. One started to put gauze on the wound while the other contacted dispatch to get Grant over there. The dispatcher came pack and said that one of the officers would have to go get the missionary, his snow-go was being used by one of his kids. The situation was under control and the other officer relieved me from applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
Grant was there within five minutes and assisted in dressing the cut while making arraignments to get George transported to Bethel.
Now to wrap up some loose ends. George had just returned from his Christmas break that morning and he was trying to pry meat apart with a knife when it slipped and sliced the area between his thumb and index finger. The phone would not work because he had coded it before he left for Christmas and was to rattled to tell me how to decode the phone when I tried to make my calls for help, although he had done so when he called me.
The 911 system worked like a charm and the village police handled the situation in a very professional manner.
An officer and health aide accompanied George to Bethel by commercial carrier and they returned the next day no worse for the wear. There was no nerve damage and his hand would be fine in a day or two they told him. "Just don't strain the hand, watch for discoloration, and if there is pain take two aspirin and call us in the morning," the lady doctor in Bethel told him.
Just like being home.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Anonymous
Not often enough some people leave comments on one of my blogs. I appreciate that but seldom can I figure out who they are. A couple sign their name, others use a coded name but from what they say they seem to know me and I can almost figure it out. So far however there are two I am not sure about. One calls them self Papaed. I have that narrowed down to two, one woman and one man. The other signs Sortajkr. That also is narrowed down to one of each gender. I like the feed back and wish there was more, but I would like it more if I knew who they were. I guess they wish to remain anonymous. By the way Sortajkr, post away.
Crisp Lake Chronicles
The Crisp Lake Chronicle was an underground newspaper published in the early to late 1950's. It's circulation never mounted to much and the best I can determine from reading the now yellow toned pages it was a paper that printed all the news that was really unfit to print anywhere else.
Some might call it a gossip rag, others might say it was a collection of a bunch of stories that were meaningless to anyone other than the reporter, still others might say everything was made up and untrue. I on the other hand believe every word of what I read in the CLC and look at it as little slice of Americana.
What is really strange to me is that other than my grandfather's collection there does not seem to be any record of it ever existing. The Examiner has no mention of it in its archives, the Jackson County Historical Society has no record of it among their catalog of the Inner City News, nor does the Internet give it any mention. It is like a conspiracy. It is a mystery.
So I feel it is my obligation to resurrect some of the articles and place them from time to time in my blog. Social historians will applaud me, my readers will gain some in site as to what it was like back in the 50's living in and around Fairmount, Maywood, and even Englewood but even more so on Crisp Lake proper, and some might even be offended if they have a thin skin about their ancestors.
The big mystery however is that in all the papers I have perused so far there is not the slightest mention of who the reporter was or who actually was the publisher or distributor.
The few old timers left in the old neighborhood claim they have no knowledge of the publication and change the subject when questioned about an event that was claimed to have happened.
My grandfather left a note on the outside of the box the papers were in that said not to open until 40 years after his death. A note in side the box, just opened recently, says that anyone reading the contents could do anything they wated with the information contained in the CLC becasue most of the people mentioned would be dead or to old to read anyway.
First edition coming soon.
Some might call it a gossip rag, others might say it was a collection of a bunch of stories that were meaningless to anyone other than the reporter, still others might say everything was made up and untrue. I on the other hand believe every word of what I read in the CLC and look at it as little slice of Americana.
What is really strange to me is that other than my grandfather's collection there does not seem to be any record of it ever existing. The Examiner has no mention of it in its archives, the Jackson County Historical Society has no record of it among their catalog of the Inner City News, nor does the Internet give it any mention. It is like a conspiracy. It is a mystery.
So I feel it is my obligation to resurrect some of the articles and place them from time to time in my blog. Social historians will applaud me, my readers will gain some in site as to what it was like back in the 50's living in and around Fairmount, Maywood, and even Englewood but even more so on Crisp Lake proper, and some might even be offended if they have a thin skin about their ancestors.
The big mystery however is that in all the papers I have perused so far there is not the slightest mention of who the reporter was or who actually was the publisher or distributor.
The few old timers left in the old neighborhood claim they have no knowledge of the publication and change the subject when questioned about an event that was claimed to have happened.
My grandfather left a note on the outside of the box the papers were in that said not to open until 40 years after his death. A note in side the box, just opened recently, says that anyone reading the contents could do anything they wated with the information contained in the CLC becasue most of the people mentioned would be dead or to old to read anyway.
First edition coming soon.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Log 5, Alaska
Continued from Log 4 dated November 4, 2010
9/8/02
Dad is still not doing well. Brian and Traci keep me posted. They have to return to their homes tomorrow which will leave Marsha to deal with it by herself. Johnny and Marlyn are out of town, at least Renee is there. Shannon keeps in touch. I told Darren not to return for the funeral, concentrate on his Chicago experience.
Some of the kids brought by some berries. They wanted to make us some Eskimo Ice Cream. I declined but paid them for the berries. Don't know what kind of berries they are, little round blue things. One would think they are small blueberries, but every time I ask I get a different answer.
Mike Jump is coming for lunch today.
9/15/2002
Last week a moose came into town or at least close enough to cause a lot of excitement. The elders say it was the first time that has happened. A girl in my class dad shot it. The district had a cross country meet yesterday. 150 kids flew in from all over the district. The fourth season of the Sopranos begins tonight.
It is raining again. The TV is out - satellites and rain don't mix. We need to start taping movies or something. Mike Jump fixed the short wave radio. I signed up for a college class at the University of Alaska. Not looking forward to it.
The regional newspaper is called the Tundra Drums. Just regional stuff, nothing I am much interested in. Paula has fixed up the small bedroom and made it a den. She picked up another cleaning job, is the only one to have applied for the special ed position so far. I wrote a short story about seal hunting.
9/17/2002
Marsha called, Dad is doing worse. I am not surprised. Brian emailed me and said that Dad wrote on a message board. "Tell Snapper I love him." Later he wrote, "Tell Paula I love her." That is the first time I remember dad saying that to me or anyone else. I am sure there were other times but I don't remember. They must have faded from memory. This is a memory I will keep.
9/19/02
Marsha called. Dad died at 6:30 PM CST. I am blank, the feelings will come later.
9/24/02
Dad's funeral was today. I talked to Seann, he called, so did Traci. It was a nice funeral by all accounts. Seann said it made him feel close to the extended family. He said he spent a lot of time with Brian and JQ.
I finally cried for the first time. Afterwords I wrote a funny email to the kids and Brian and Traci. Time to move on and with good memories of dad. We were not physically close most of our lives, but we had come to an unspoken understanding. There was nothing left unsaid between us.
Bye DAD, see you in the morning.
9/8/02
Dad is still not doing well. Brian and Traci keep me posted. They have to return to their homes tomorrow which will leave Marsha to deal with it by herself. Johnny and Marlyn are out of town, at least Renee is there. Shannon keeps in touch. I told Darren not to return for the funeral, concentrate on his Chicago experience.
Some of the kids brought by some berries. They wanted to make us some Eskimo Ice Cream. I declined but paid them for the berries. Don't know what kind of berries they are, little round blue things. One would think they are small blueberries, but every time I ask I get a different answer.
Mike Jump is coming for lunch today.
9/15/2002
Last week a moose came into town or at least close enough to cause a lot of excitement. The elders say it was the first time that has happened. A girl in my class dad shot it. The district had a cross country meet yesterday. 150 kids flew in from all over the district. The fourth season of the Sopranos begins tonight.
It is raining again. The TV is out - satellites and rain don't mix. We need to start taping movies or something. Mike Jump fixed the short wave radio. I signed up for a college class at the University of Alaska. Not looking forward to it.
The regional newspaper is called the Tundra Drums. Just regional stuff, nothing I am much interested in. Paula has fixed up the small bedroom and made it a den. She picked up another cleaning job, is the only one to have applied for the special ed position so far. I wrote a short story about seal hunting.
9/17/2002
Marsha called, Dad is doing worse. I am not surprised. Brian emailed me and said that Dad wrote on a message board. "Tell Snapper I love him." Later he wrote, "Tell Paula I love her." That is the first time I remember dad saying that to me or anyone else. I am sure there were other times but I don't remember. They must have faded from memory. This is a memory I will keep.
9/19/02
Marsha called. Dad died at 6:30 PM CST. I am blank, the feelings will come later.
9/24/02
Dad's funeral was today. I talked to Seann, he called, so did Traci. It was a nice funeral by all accounts. Seann said it made him feel close to the extended family. He said he spent a lot of time with Brian and JQ.
I finally cried for the first time. Afterwords I wrote a funny email to the kids and Brian and Traci. Time to move on and with good memories of dad. We were not physically close most of our lives, but we had come to an unspoken understanding. There was nothing left unsaid between us.
Bye DAD, see you in the morning.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Prohibition Village Style - Alaska
Alcohol, or the lack thereof, has never been a problem for me. When I was informed that Hooper Bay did not allow the consumption, possession, or sale of alcoholic beverages, however, the forbidden fruit, or grain in this case, seemed more appealing.
Prohibition works about as well here as the 18th Amendment did for the rest of the United States.
Home brew is made by the gallons here and it is no secret who makes it, who drinks it or who sells it. Most of the men and many of the women drink. In fact the only ones who do not drink are the teachers, and when they do they do not admit it to anyone. A teacher being found with alcohol gets a one way ticket out of the village at his own expense.
Once things are forbidden, they become desirable. Once desirability sets in, obtaining such becomes an obsession and once obsession grabs hold ignorance doesn't seem to be far behind.
A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, said that when he first got here he thought it was unfair that the natives got by with drinking and he could not. He tried buying from the local bootlegger but at $150 a fifth it was too steep a price even for a teacher.
His dad was willing to send him alcohol in used after shave lotion bottles. "It worked in Korea," his dad told him. But that never came about. He turned to his mother for help, as all true men do when confronted with a problem, but she was doing penance in a convent and wouldn't be a party to such a thing. His brother, when told of his plight, was appalled and said he would supply all that was needed for $100 a fifth plus shipping and handling. Not a real close family I guess.
He flirted with the idea of mailing it to himself when he went home for Christmas and put his wife's former husband's return address on the package just in case postal inspectors decided to open the package or it broke in shipment. Plausible deniability I guess, but he chickened out.
Making his own was out of the question because he heard that the process smelled and would be a sure to attract attention. He told me that NyQuil on ice with a splash of seal oil was an urban myth and not to try it, it tasted terrible.
He was right. He eventually resigned himself to a life of sobriety, and so have I.
I asked one of my Eskimo friends that since most everyone in the village seemed to drink more often than not, why didn't they just vote prohibition out? They had that right; other villages had done so. Yes, my friend told me, they did have that right, but the elders were against legalizing alcohol and they respected the wishes of their elders.
There is logic somewhere there I guess.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By Jim Sterner
We were building bridges across the Rhine River ( same time period as the last story I related) and on a daily basis the bridge builders would build sections of a float bridge and put them together, but never complete the bridge, because to do so would require closing the river to boat traffic. The Rhine is a major transportation route, so in order to close the river, the United States had to pay Germany around $100,000 an hour while the river was closed.
The plan was to practice for five days and then actually complete the bridge one time for an hour on Saturday. The Battalion Commander thought it would be a great idea to have the families bussed out to the site on Saturday and let them watch the bridge closure, and to that end, the battalion built bleachers for the families to sit and watch.
So when Saturday arrived, three buses brought the families out. There were snacks and drinks available and every one sat down in the bleachers ready for the bridge closing.
When everything was in place and it was time for closing the river by adding the last section of the bridge, someone decided that to make it authentic, they would lay down a smoke screen.
Everything was so obscured by the smoke screen, no one could see the closing. The battalion had brought everyone to the site to see the smokescreen it so happened. What a great day.
We were building bridges across the Rhine River ( same time period as the last story I related) and on a daily basis the bridge builders would build sections of a float bridge and put them together, but never complete the bridge, because to do so would require closing the river to boat traffic. The Rhine is a major transportation route, so in order to close the river, the United States had to pay Germany around $100,000 an hour while the river was closed.
The plan was to practice for five days and then actually complete the bridge one time for an hour on Saturday. The Battalion Commander thought it would be a great idea to have the families bussed out to the site on Saturday and let them watch the bridge closure, and to that end, the battalion built bleachers for the families to sit and watch.
So when Saturday arrived, three buses brought the families out. There were snacks and drinks available and every one sat down in the bleachers ready for the bridge closing.
When everything was in place and it was time for closing the river by adding the last section of the bridge, someone decided that to make it authentic, they would lay down a smoke screen.
Everything was so obscured by the smoke screen, no one could see the closing. The battalion had brought everyone to the site to see the smokescreen it so happened. What a great day.
From Russia With ....? - Alaska
Russia is closer to Hooper Bay than Anchorage. Russian influence is just around an Alaskan corner.
I had reason to travel to my first Eskimo village outside Hooper Bay one weekend. The settlement was, and still is I guess, called Russian Mission.
Russian Mission is about an hours plane ride just northeast of Hooper Bay. It hugs the side of a mountain and creeps toward the Yukon River. Russian Mission is home to about 350 Yup'ik Eskimos with a smattering of other than brown eyes. Names like Vaska, Kozev, Nikoff, Alexie, Nickoli, and Stafphanoff are proudly displayed on the school sports banner.
Promyshlenniki – Russian fur traders – established a trading post on the banks of the Yukon in 1830. The Russian Orthodox Church soon followed and started a mission, thus the name. Of course a thriving Eskimo village had been on the same spot for around 10,000 years but such technicalities have never stopped a Gussick from naming anything.
The first thing that struck me as we pulled up to the school, other than all the trees, was a strange-looking animal hanging from a drying rack. I found out it was an otter, caught and skinned by the students to feed the Lower Yukon School District board members who were meeting at the school that day. It was not ready for cooking, though, and the board had to be fed caribou and dried salmon instead. Life is hard sometimes in the Last Frontier.
The Russian Mission school had and I hope still have a subsistence curriculum. Besides learning the three R's, the kids ran trap lines twice a week, spent three weeks a couple of times each year at a fish and hunting camp and learned survival skills. The high school girls were just getting ready to go on their own three-day caribou hunt when I arrived, the boys having gone the previous week.
The Russian Orthodox Church still dominated the scenery with no less than two churches having seen use and a brand new one displaying the onion dome.
The school had 100 students K-12, about one-third of the village population, and nine certified staff including the principal a 17-year veteran of the district and responsible for developing many programs that could be a model for many an Alaskan bush school.
In addition to the subsistence curriculum the school raised enough money the previous year to send some students to Japan to environmental conference and were planning another trip.
I was there because I was the Academic Decathlon coach, and Russian Mission was sponsoring the tournament. The gym was too small to host athletic events and each village in the district was designated to hold at least one district wide event each year. It was Russian Mission's turn.
Forty students from around the district participated in the event. They gave speeches, wrote essays, gave interviews, and took tests in math, English, economics, science, and the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
The event lasted two days and, through superb coaching, Hooper Bay did just fine. Our five girls came in second, third, fourth, and fifth. Two will attend the state championship in Anchorage and our team tied for third with Russian Mission.
I would like to take the credit for our team's achievement but in reality I did very little. I could not get the girls to practice very much and the few times I was half way successful, they more than not did their research by checking and sending e-mails to the boys they met in Russian Mission.
I had reason to travel to my first Eskimo village outside Hooper Bay one weekend. The settlement was, and still is I guess, called Russian Mission.
Russian Mission is about an hours plane ride just northeast of Hooper Bay. It hugs the side of a mountain and creeps toward the Yukon River. Russian Mission is home to about 350 Yup'ik Eskimos with a smattering of other than brown eyes. Names like Vaska, Kozev, Nikoff, Alexie, Nickoli, and Stafphanoff are proudly displayed on the school sports banner.
Promyshlenniki – Russian fur traders – established a trading post on the banks of the Yukon in 1830. The Russian Orthodox Church soon followed and started a mission, thus the name. Of course a thriving Eskimo village had been on the same spot for around 10,000 years but such technicalities have never stopped a Gussick from naming anything.
The first thing that struck me as we pulled up to the school, other than all the trees, was a strange-looking animal hanging from a drying rack. I found out it was an otter, caught and skinned by the students to feed the Lower Yukon School District board members who were meeting at the school that day. It was not ready for cooking, though, and the board had to be fed caribou and dried salmon instead. Life is hard sometimes in the Last Frontier.
The Russian Mission school had and I hope still have a subsistence curriculum. Besides learning the three R's, the kids ran trap lines twice a week, spent three weeks a couple of times each year at a fish and hunting camp and learned survival skills. The high school girls were just getting ready to go on their own three-day caribou hunt when I arrived, the boys having gone the previous week.
The Russian Orthodox Church still dominated the scenery with no less than two churches having seen use and a brand new one displaying the onion dome.
The school had 100 students K-12, about one-third of the village population, and nine certified staff including the principal a 17-year veteran of the district and responsible for developing many programs that could be a model for many an Alaskan bush school.
In addition to the subsistence curriculum the school raised enough money the previous year to send some students to Japan to environmental conference and were planning another trip.
I was there because I was the Academic Decathlon coach, and Russian Mission was sponsoring the tournament. The gym was too small to host athletic events and each village in the district was designated to hold at least one district wide event each year. It was Russian Mission's turn.
Forty students from around the district participated in the event. They gave speeches, wrote essays, gave interviews, and took tests in math, English, economics, science, and the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
The event lasted two days and, through superb coaching, Hooper Bay did just fine. Our five girls came in second, third, fourth, and fifth. Two will attend the state championship in Anchorage and our team tied for third with Russian Mission.
I would like to take the credit for our team's achievement but in reality I did very little. I could not get the girls to practice very much and the few times I was half way successful, they more than not did their research by checking and sending e-mails to the boys they met in Russian Mission.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Log 4, Alaska
Continued from Log 3 posted in October.
9/1/02
My first full week of school. It went OK. Need to prepare more and better. The AM class is very good, the PM class is a challenge. We went for fresh baked salmon to a teachers house last night, yesterday afternoon we borrowed a four wheeler and drove to the beach. We heard they (Eskimos) had killed 2 whales yesterday and were butchering. We didn't go far enough down the beach because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find my way back. We cruised along the surf, picked up a shell and stopped and examined a jelly fish that had been washed up on the shore.
The fly's are getting less numerous the cooler it gets. Still light at 11 PM.
The place we live is roomy, plain, but adequate. We will be ordering meat for the rest of the year but for odds and ends we are done spending money for food.
I keep the email going frequently.
My overall impression is that it is an experience and as of right now I am not inclined to return because I fear for my health. I have a back pain and being the hypochondriac that I am fear the worst, but don't really know what to do about it. Besides by doctor buddy Don said that if it hurt it is to late anyway. I don't want to up set everyone so I just suffer in silence.
Today my teaching partner George and I are having an open gym for the kids from 1 to 3 p. Tomorrow is Labor Day we are having people over for tacos. Our social life is full.
9/6/02
Another week of school has passed. Dad is in the hospital and not doing well. His kidneys and lungs aren't functioning well. He had gangrene in his intestines and they cut part of them out. I have talked to Brian and they all understand that I wont be coming home if and when dad dies, if soon.
The AM kids are great the PM kids still lack a little. I almost told them today they were acting like a bunch of wild Indians, but changed my mind at the last minute, good thing I guess. Wild Eskimos would be more appropriate, but I let it go.
We had Jodie and Katie over for dinner. Last night we went to our weekly pot luck at Marta's. It was Andy's birthday, Jodie and Katie's boy. Sweet Downs kid.
Paula has made friends with the vice principal. He is a good guy, all 350 pounds of him. He is from New Mexico and has always worked with Native Americans. He and Paula hit it off ever since she told him that this place is a $%#@& zoo. There is a job opening for a special ed assistant she applied for but probably wont get it being a non native. She does some house cleaning and volunteers in Katie's room.
It was Sean's birthday a couple of days ago, 30. I called but he wasn't home. I left a message.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref
9/1/02
My first full week of school. It went OK. Need to prepare more and better. The AM class is very good, the PM class is a challenge. We went for fresh baked salmon to a teachers house last night, yesterday afternoon we borrowed a four wheeler and drove to the beach. We heard they (Eskimos) had killed 2 whales yesterday and were butchering. We didn't go far enough down the beach because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find my way back. We cruised along the surf, picked up a shell and stopped and examined a jelly fish that had been washed up on the shore.
The fly's are getting less numerous the cooler it gets. Still light at 11 PM.
The place we live is roomy, plain, but adequate. We will be ordering meat for the rest of the year but for odds and ends we are done spending money for food.
I keep the email going frequently.
My overall impression is that it is an experience and as of right now I am not inclined to return because I fear for my health. I have a back pain and being the hypochondriac that I am fear the worst, but don't really know what to do about it. Besides by doctor buddy Don said that if it hurt it is to late anyway. I don't want to up set everyone so I just suffer in silence.
Today my teaching partner George and I are having an open gym for the kids from 1 to 3 p. Tomorrow is Labor Day we are having people over for tacos. Our social life is full.
9/6/02
Another week of school has passed. Dad is in the hospital and not doing well. His kidneys and lungs aren't functioning well. He had gangrene in his intestines and they cut part of them out. I have talked to Brian and they all understand that I wont be coming home if and when dad dies, if soon.
The AM kids are great the PM kids still lack a little. I almost told them today they were acting like a bunch of wild Indians, but changed my mind at the last minute, good thing I guess. Wild Eskimos would be more appropriate, but I let it go.
We had Jodie and Katie over for dinner. Last night we went to our weekly pot luck at Marta's. It was Andy's birthday, Jodie and Katie's boy. Sweet Downs kid.
Paula has made friends with the vice principal. He is a good guy, all 350 pounds of him. He is from New Mexico and has always worked with Native Americans. He and Paula hit it off ever since she told him that this place is a $%#@& zoo. There is a job opening for a special ed assistant she applied for but probably wont get it being a non native. She does some house cleaning and volunteers in Katie's room.
It was Sean's birthday a couple of days ago, 30. I called but he wasn't home. I left a message.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref
Bremerhaven
By Sue Wemett
The Bremerhaven MEDDAC was a very interesting old building in a nautical town with a tradition, that of being the receiving & departing location for troop ships during WWII and earlier, prior to air transport. Somewhere near the Emergency Desk of the MEDDAC was a somewhat grand staircase with a round window, reminding me of round nautical windows. Our MEDDAC was not only a military installation, in the middle of town and not on a post, but also employed German civilians. Though I remember my military buddies, it is the warm German civilians I remember most fondly. There was a kindly elderly German fraulein, and if I recall correctly, it was her husband who spent a significant amount of time teaching me the German children's song "Muss ich denn," if my German spelling is correct. I can still sing it, in German, and occasionally do. It became a favorite ditty of mine for quite awhile. I will always fondly remember the kindly people of Germany and her fascinating culture. .
The Bremerhaven MEDDAC was a very interesting old building in a nautical town with a tradition, that of being the receiving & departing location for troop ships during WWII and earlier, prior to air transport. Somewhere near the Emergency Desk of the MEDDAC was a somewhat grand staircase with a round window, reminding me of round nautical windows. Our MEDDAC was not only a military installation, in the middle of town and not on a post, but also employed German civilians. Though I remember my military buddies, it is the warm German civilians I remember most fondly. There was a kindly elderly German fraulein, and if I recall correctly, it was her husband who spent a significant amount of time teaching me the German children's song "Muss ich denn," if my German spelling is correct. I can still sing it, in German, and occasionally do. It became a favorite ditty of mine for quite awhile. I will always fondly remember the kindly people of Germany and her fascinating culture. .
The Pits
By Jim Sterner
I was stationed at the 317th Engineer Battalion in Eschborn Germany. We were building float bridges across the Rhine (Rhein) River in the summer of 1969. During the day, we were tactical, but after work was done we were allowed to be relaxed and even had a beer (Henninger) tent set up. Several of us were sitting outside the tent having a beer when this good looking young lady walked down the dirt road in a skimpy bikini. As she walked on down the road, we all decided to take a walk ourselves. We followed her for about half a mile when we came to what appeared to be a large farm pond, but there were a couple hundred people swimming and standing around a small shack that sold beer and snacks. The young lady kept turning around and smiling at us until she finally did one of those Playboy poses where she sticks her butt out and runs her hands through her hair. As she raised her arms, there was a giant tuft of hair under each arm. We had had enough beer that two of the guys got sick and threw up, and the rest of us were laughing so hard the Fraulein became a little irate and made a gesture that is considered very insulting in Germany. Needless to say, we all headed back to camp.
I was stationed at the 317th Engineer Battalion in Eschborn Germany. We were building float bridges across the Rhine (Rhein) River in the summer of 1969. During the day, we were tactical, but after work was done we were allowed to be relaxed and even had a beer (Henninger) tent set up. Several of us were sitting outside the tent having a beer when this good looking young lady walked down the dirt road in a skimpy bikini. As she walked on down the road, we all decided to take a walk ourselves. We followed her for about half a mile when we came to what appeared to be a large farm pond, but there were a couple hundred people swimming and standing around a small shack that sold beer and snacks. The young lady kept turning around and smiling at us until she finally did one of those Playboy poses where she sticks her butt out and runs her hands through her hair. As she raised her arms, there was a giant tuft of hair under each arm. We had had enough beer that two of the guys got sick and threw up, and the rest of us were laughing so hard the Fraulein became a little irate and made a gesture that is considered very insulting in Germany. Needless to say, we all headed back to camp.
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