Saturday, January 29, 2011

Appian Way - Tidbits

(Diary kept while in Italy)

25 Feb 92

Yesterday was a long day.  There is some sort of problem with the orders but I really don’t care, I am here now.  At least the lodging and transportation is working out fine. 
The BMW we rented is really too small for all six of us but some how we all manage to pile in.

Last night we all walked around Tirrenia stopped to drank some wine and eat spaghetti and bread.  Sgt. Kennedy and I left the others, went to another restaurant/bar and just sat around till in the morning talking and drinking beer between wines. 

26 Feb 92

I get my days mixed up.  Yesterday, or I think it was yesterday, I got the Sgts started on a project and scanned some secret op-plans (they didn’t seem to secret to me.)  The only highlight of the day was when Sgt Ball, our interpreter, and I went to Livorno.  I thought it might not be a bad idea to put boots on the ground at the place we were developing new defense plans, albeit never to be used I suspect.  Sgt. Ball readily agreed just to get off post and besides he said he wanted me to know where the bars were.  It seems like that is all he ever has on his mind.  Ever since he brought up the subject, the first time I met him, I have continually told him I wasn’t interested.  He said he realized that but suggested that perhaps some of my enlisted men would be.  Two might I think. 

We road around the city dodging traffic, weaving in an out between cars (I was driving) and he pointed a couple of the bars out.  The trip was so confusing and I was so turned around that I could not get back there if I wanted – which I don’t.  The two guys who might be interested will just have to suffer.

Other than all the traffic my observations were of narrow streets, cars parked on sidewalks, and an extremely dirty city over all with trash on the streets and dried dirt on what would other wise be very attractive edifices.  The buildings could use a good sandblasting.

As we were driving along I kept wondering what type of businesses were in the buildings, what did the insides look like, wondered when they were built, and if they had any significant history attached.  Sgt Ball, who has lived in Italy, France, and Germany for the last 19 years has no idea and cares less.  He is much more interested in the whores.

As we went back towards camp he said he new a short cut and thought I would like the scenery along the way.  I soon found out what kind of scenery he was talking about.  The whores apparently stand along the road in some areas that look like a rural setting.  There were a couple of whores he knew standing along the road.  One looked like a nice young girl, the other whom he apparently knew better than the other, looked every bit the part of being of whore – short dress, low top, bad teeth.  Of course he had to stop.  They muttered something in Italian.  He said she wanted to know if I wanted a “date.”  I said no.  He pinched her on the boob, they both laughed and we drove off.  He wanted to know if I thought she was good looking.  I tried to be polite and be non committal because I feared she might look like his wife.  He thought she was hot.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

An Eskimo Child's Day - Alaska

This was first printed in:  Whispering Wind, American Indian: Past and Present  Vol 34 No. 4

While not typical, this could be an average day of one Eskimo child in “bush” Alaska, let us call him Itauk.

Itauk wakes at because he is cold.  The family spot smells from not being dumped the previous day.  Mom was to sick to take it to the landfill and no one has seen Dad for two days because he does not want to return from the hunt empty handed.  Itauk steps outside to relieve himself.

He is numbed by the cold but he always is.  His tooth still hurts and his nose is running and his cough won’t seem to go away.  He digs through a pile of clothes on the floor and picks out what he wore yesterday because that is the cleanest things he has, not that he cares that much anyway.  He hurries off to school for the warmth that a centrally heated building provides.  He goes into the special education class where rolls and hot chocolate are sold.  He sits there long enough until the teacher offers him something free and one of the other kids shares one of this rolls that more than likely he also got free.  The coffee shop does not make much money.  He stays as long as he can but finally is forced to go to class.

He does not have a pencil has no idea what happened to his home work, does not understand what the teacher is saying, finds no relevance in what is being taught and therefore puts his head on his desk and goes to sleep.  Eventually he slips to the floor and uses his jacket for a pillow.  The teacher does not bother to wake him because if he is asleep at least he is not causing a disturbance, thereby requiring Itauk to be sent to the office thus being kicked out of school for up to two weeks.  The teacher realizes that school is far better than home.  Let him sleep.

When kids line up for lunch he awakes and gets in line.  Lunch is hot, plentiful, and free.  After lunch he plays basketball until a different teacher comes to the gym, they line up and goes to his afternoon class.  He is awake now but doesn’t do much because he does not understand what sustained and silent reading means, wonders why anyone would want to circle a noun even if they knew what one was, and cannot imagine why anyone would want to learn the capital of Missouri even if they knew what Missouri was.

Some how he manages to get through the rest of the afternoon without getting into to much trouble, and when school is dismissed he lingers and asks the teacher if he can check his email.  The teacher knows Itauk does not have an email account but lets him get on the computer and ignores the fact that he has gone on the Internet and is playing a video game. When the teacher is ready to go home he tell Itauk that it is time to go and Itauk reluctantly signs off.  The teacher retreats to a world not imagined by Itauk.

Itauk goes, not home but to the playground or the gym and hangs around other kids who do not want to be anywhere else.  If it is warm they play outside.  Warm being above 0 degrees.  Ituk gets tired of playing and is hungry.  He goes to a teacher’s house (he goes to a different one each day) and asks if he can visit.  About half the time he is welcomed in, he is likeable and cute.  He watches TV, uses the bathroom, is offered something to eat and out stays his welcome.  He is politely reminded he should be going home and he just as politely agrees. Itauk, though not a good student or understands why he should be is not a stupid child.

He wanders around the village, perhaps stopping by a friend’s house , perhaps an aunt or uncle’s, maybe the local missionary, or a half dozen places that might give him some warmth or something to eat.  He runs into other kids and if they have a four wheeler or snow-go he rides around with them.  He does this for hours going from one part of the village to the other, down to the beach, out on the tundra, anywhere.  If there is a basketball game, which there is most nights, he and his friends go to the gym and hang around outside until a teacher who has not been hardened pays his way in or he is asked to do a small errand, payment being free entry.

After the game he continues his journey around the village.  The local police start to enforce the curfew at , but this does nothing but to make riding around the village more fun.  Who can stay away from the police, and not get caught the longest is a badge of honor.  This lasts until at least and eventually the inevitable takes place and Itauk goes home.

The one room house is cold, the family pot is full, Mom is still sick and Dad is not there.  The TV reception is not good but there is an old video and it is watched.  Around in the morning Itauk drifts off to sleep.  There is school tomorrow.

So ends the day of Itauk, just one of the next generation of a culture that has lived and survived in the Arctic for ten thousand years.

Note to reader:  When I returned from Alaska I started teaching school in the inner city.  Itauk’s life was not a lot different than many of the students near the urban core.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Panama Pundit 4


Jan 6, 1991

I am tired; the wreck took it out of me emotionally.  Poor young man.  He had come to Panama for his first real great adventure of his life probably and died here.

The rest of the day was uneventful.  We returned to Sheraton and will be here for a few days coordinating convoy departures to what is now called Camp Thomas.  Presently I am sitting by the ocean, sea, or bay, or what ever you want to call it.  Anyway it is the entrance to the canal.

Jan 8

Went to see Bob Vaughn at his barracks.  We just talked and watched a tape he had.

Jan 9

Last night we returned to base camp to stay over night at least, or so they say.  Went to the river to wash our vehicles, we call it the Panamanian Car Wash.  Talked to Jerry for awhile.  He seems to be staying busy, busier than I.

Today so far has been interesting.  Johnson, another guy and I walked through the jungle area.  We went to the top of a hill and looked out over the ocean.  We later walked into Nombre and gave it a complete walk through.  Strictly third world I suspect, if I knew what a third world looks like.  We ran into Rodriguez, our interpreter, and he took us to a back ally place near the lagoon.  We found a house that had a picnic table outside under a wooden canopy where the owner served us lunch.  It was some kind of fish which we were not familiar with, a fried banana thing, might have been a polenta,  some sort of squash we think, and a rice dish consisting of coconuts and lintels.

Jan 10

Today is Darren’s birthday.  Went back into Nombre and ate lunch again at the same place we did yesterday.  We discovered that if we spoke Spanish the meal was $3, if we did not it was $4.  The lunch was octopus, shrimp, that rice dish again along with the fried banana thing.  I am really not impressed with Panamanian food.  Looks like we will head back to Ft Sheraton for awhile. 

Jan 11

The trip back and forth between Sheraton and Thomas is getting routine.  The people still wave at us as we go by and we of course wave back and when we stop for some reason always pass out candy to the kids that seem to flock around the vehicle.  Jerry was there doing an inventory or something.  That night in the military club I ate pizza and won $12 on a nickel slot machine.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Where's the Moose? - Alaska, part 3


“Years ago, there were three brothers named Wolf, Bear, and Moose.  Each brother took on the characteristics after the animal that was in his spirit.  Wolf was clever and swift of foot, Bear was strong and brave, and Moose was lazy and stupid.

“Wolf and Bear would hunt the seal and the salmon.  Moose, finding that hunting of seal and fishing for salmon was much work, would wonder around the village eating the garbage thrown out by his neighbors or rummage through the tundra looking for berries and other edible plants.  When winter arrived and berries and plants went deep in the earth not to return until spring, Moose would have to beg for food from his brothers.  The brothers did not mind at first because they were good hunters and stored up plenty for the long dark days of winter.  But then Wolf and Bear took a wife and had many children and the women told their husbands that they had no excess of food to share with one who would not even try to provide for himself during the lean times.

“Moose did not understand why he would have to work as hard as his brothers.  So one winter day after eating all the garbage that could be eaten, he stole the children of his brothers and ate them.  It was easy, as the children did not run away – in fact, they would even seek Moose out because he was funny looking to them.  Moose found out that this was easier than foraging for garbage and much easier than walking the tundra, so he began to eat all the children in the village that he could.

“The villagers went to the other two brothers and said that Moose must be killed.  Wolf and Bear loved their brother and did not want to hurt him so they dressed in skins of their spirits and chased Moose far way and when they had chased him far enough, they returned to the village to tell everyone that Moose was dead and would not return to Raven Bay.

“The brothers were afraid that even though Moose was stupid, he might accidentally find his way back to the village, so each day they would roam the tundra to hunt and guard the village against the return of Moose.  The guarding interfered with their hunting so the brothers went to their spirit animals and made a deal with them.  They promised all the bears and wolves that if they would protect the village from the return of Moose, they would leave some of their game on the beach each day so they could concentrate on protecting the village and not do much hunting.  That is why other than man, the moose has no enemy except the wolf and bear.”

Jimmy Rivers stopped talking and I found it necessary to ask, “What happened to Moose?”

“Well as often happens to lazy and stupid people,”  Jimmy continued, “He got lucky.  The place Moose was chased to was rich in berries and tall plants and shrubs that grew above the Tundra snow.  He met his spirit, married and had many Moose children.   He became so ashamed that he had eaten his brothers children, he made his own children promise never to return to the village area.  Besides he told them there was no food in the winter and that they would starve.  Would you like another cup of tea, Gussick?”

I drank another cup of tea, talked about Michael Jordan, and Jimmy’s time in the army.  I finally asked him how he became a shaman.  He told me.  I would tell you but you would not believe me.

After another cup of tea, I said it was time to go and started for the trap door when Jimmy said, “Why don’t you use the front door,”  pointing to the blanket hanging next to the Jordan poster.  “It is easier on the back.”

I left the semi-subterranean dwelling standing upright and walked out onto the Bering Sea beach with Jimmy following me.  As I was mounting my 4-wheller he asked, “Do you believe me Gussick?”  “Certainly,” I replied and drove off and thought I heard some chuckling behind me.

From that time on every time I sat in front of my fireplace thinking about my conservation with Jimmy Rivers, I found myself wondering why such a story could not be true or at least have some basis in fact.  The longer I would sit there and stare at the moose head hanging over the stone fireplace, I swear to this day that it was grinning down at me.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Where's the Moose? - Alaska, part 2

Jimmy Rivers lived out by the Bering Sea among the dunes in an area the locals referred to as the Old Village.  The Old Village was where Eskimos lived at one time that no one ever knew, nor no one ever knew anyone who ever knew anyone who lived there; except Jimmy River that is.

His dwelling would not have been easily located unless one had the skill and training to detect semi-subterranean housing.  Nothing distinguished one part of the tundra dunes from any of the other mounds in the area.  But given my training, I knew what to look for - the subtle changes in the contours of the earth, the faint discoloration of the tundra, and the slight relocation of the various moss and sod would have been completely unnoticed to the untrained eye – Jimmy Rivers sitting on his 4-wheller in the front yard didn’t hurt my skills of observation either.

I dismounted my 4-wheeler and walked towards Jimmy.  I was not sure how I should address him and then he said, as if reading my mine, “Jimmy is fine.”  I stuttered something or other as we shook hands and was then invited inside for tea.

Entering his house was no small feat because he had an Arctic entrance way, meaning you got down on all fours, crawled into a hole down a few feet, then parallel for another few feet then up again to the entrance of his dwelling.  I was a little taken aback from what I found.  I was expecting to see totems, hanging skins, masks, and other Eskimo artifacts.

The first thing I noticed however was a poster of Michael Jordan hanging on one of the sod walls.  There was also a television, microwave, toster, and something cooking in the crock-pot.

“I was an electrician in the Army and know how to tap in.”  He said, beating me to my question.

He poured me some strong tea, offered me a rolled cigarette which I reluctantly accepted having sworn off tobacco forever that morning and said,  “Jimmy I was…” 

“You will not believe me,” he interrupted. 

I protested that I would, but how did he know what I was going to ask I asked myself?  I was beginning to think that this guy was a real mind reader or perhaps Nanook had tipped him off.

“I don’t know what you were going to ask, but Gussicks never believe shamans.  And I am not a mind reader and how is my good friend Nanook, I have not seen in him in weeks.  Now about the Moose.”  Well that did it, I realized I was in the presence of a true mind reader or a true shaman, one with native abilities far beyond those of mortal men, and who, disguised as Jimmy Rivers was going to give me the truth, justice, and the Raven Bay explanation as to my enquiry.  Clark Kent eat your heart out.

“I hear you are a good Gussick, you do not judge, you do not condemn and even some of your people are of color.  All that makes you my brother.  So as a brother I will tell you.  Being my brother you will believe me – being a Gussick you will not – let your heart decide which way you will hear.”

“Years ago……”  

To be continued….

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Where's the Moose? - Alaska, part 1

 Alces alces  (Latin)

Moose are everywhere in Alaska.  You can find them in school yards, you can find them in backyards, you can find them in yard gardens, you can see them walking down the right of ways in Anchorage, you can find their antlers adorning entrances, exits, dens and over fireplaces, you can find them or parts of them anywhere you look – anywhere that is except for Raven Bay.

Whenever I had a question that gnawed at me concerning local matters while living in Raven Bay, I always asked my good friend Nanook.  Yes there really is a Nanook of the North. 

Nanook was a wise man.  He had lived all his life in Raven Bay and one of the first of a growing number of villagers that had sought and received a college education.  Except for time spent in college he never has left his village for very long however, and had no visible means of support, other than welfare, subsistence hunting, and the yearly oil money.  His life style was by choice.  He could do any paying job that was in the village but mostly was only interested in acting as an elder, advisor, and a wise old sage.

So with all his local knowledge and wise sageism, with a degree to boot, I was sure that he could explain to me why the absence of moose.

“Nanook,” I asked one day, “Why are there no moose in Raven Bay?”

“Because they are some where else.”  He replied.

“Yes, I have figured that out, but ‘why’ is the question.”

“Why do you always ask questions when the answers make no difference!

“Nanook, we have been friends now for a long time.  You have helped me blend into the community and you have put your feet under my table more than once, as I have yours.  I think you know the answer to my question so why don’t you just tell me.”

“You would not believe me, talk to the Shaman.”  With that he walked away.

Shaman?  Well so much for the scientific and educational part of his nature I thought.

My wife was cooking dinner later that night and I casually mentioned my conversation with Nanook.  I said that I had thought that shamans did not exist anymore around villages and if they did I certainly didn’t know who it was. 

She just laughed and said, “Oh, you mean Jimmy Rivers.  He lives out by the old dunes.  Sort of a hermit the kids say.”

The impossible becomes the possible when you put it in the hands of a woman who substitute teaches and small children who appreciate the fudge and Italian cookies she would bring them each time she was called to sub. 

I was surprised she knew who the village shaman was.  Beverly didn’t know that she was not supposed to know nor did the kids know that they were not supposed to tell.  However, candy and cookies are eagerly consumed once presented and there must have been a direct correlation between treats and wiggly tongues.

“Why don’t you go ask him?”

To be continued…

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Deutschland Diary - 4


Thursday, September 13, 1984

We woke at 0230 and sat around after loading our 5T tuck and left at 0530.  We traveled for about an hour and stopped for 20 minutes where we were the German army served us Bruska (hard roles) and coffee.

We then traveled SE for two more hours, rested for 2 hours and were served more Bruska and hot Austrian tea along with some kind of meat. 

We continued SE and at 1430 we pulled into our new Tactical Assembly Area near a town called Bouck.  We are setting up now.  Things are still confusing.

Friday the 14th

Last evening a lot of the neighborhood kids came by and bummed food from us out of our extra MRE’s.  One little girl had on a University of Missouri sweat shirt.  A boy had on a pair of tennis shoes which had Elvis written on the side of each shoe.  They understood a little English.  I kept thinking about you kids, how kids everywhere are just the same.

Our camp site was next to the local soccer field.  I think it is called a Sportplats.  The town is off limits but Thomas, Jerry, and I walked there anyway.  It is just an old rural town.  The church we found out was over 800 years old.

My first German meal was eaten at the soccer fields guesthouse.  I had bratwurst, French fries, and a coke.  That is all they had.

We found out that our tour is approved for next weekend.  At least I will get to call and buy you all something.  Perhaps take some pictures.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Gold - Alaska

Note to reader:  This is part of an email I sent to many friends when I decided to return from Alaska.

May 2006

     Gold is where you find it and does always hold its glitter after it is panned.

     Four years ago I came up here because I read a book.  Now it is time to leave for the second time.  I almost left last year but it would have not been under the right circumstances and the money was a very big draw.  But that is over and now it really is time to come home, and if not directly to where you are, at  least a lot closer to those who love me, warts and all.

     I think back on my tenure here in Alaska, in Hooper Bay, next to the Bering Sea, Pitka’s Point along the  banks of the Yukon, and Noatak, 70 miles north of the Arctic Circle and wonder if this life adventure was worth the journey.   The answer may shock you.
  
      I have hunted whale and seal, eaten at the table with the Eskimo, been places, seen things that perhaps not many white people have.  I was not a great explorer or anything, far from it.  But building and igloo, ice jumping, walking on the Yukon, snow machine journeys, and just picking berries on the tundra are things that many that read this have not.
  
     I have met people who have seen ghosts, animals turned  into humans, humans into animals, little people, Big Foot, and one or two I am sure are in the witness protection program.

     I have sat by the side of a grieving father after his daughter died in a foolish accident, went to her wake and prayed over the body that was laid to rest on the front room floor in a home made coffin.  I helped build a casket and dig a grave in the frozen ground for a lady elder.  I went with the men of the village to search for a young man that became lost in an Arctic blizzard and discovered that he had survived the night in a self made snow cave.

      I will always remember the shock of walking down the  streets  of  more than one village and seeing half eaten walrus heads used for dog food, moose skulls strewn about, and snow higher than the roof tops.  Very few people I know have ever tracked a polar bear, albeit reluctantly, eaten seal jerky (more reluctantly,) beluga whale, swan (yes swan,) or musk ox.

   Last winter I was fascinated to watch automobiles and trucks drive up and down the Yukon only to be followed by a musher pushing his dogs to some unknown village up river.  When the ice broke and the huge chunks started moving down the river, the view was about as powerful a sight I had have ever witnessed.

   I have said many times never be one who wants and never does because you are afraid the pay the price.  Such quips are true for some but when it comes down to it not for most.

   My dad died soon after I got up here and it was to far to return for the funeral.  My children were confronted with some very life altering situations while I have been  here and all though they are adults and managed, they had no  Dad to turn to, if not for sound advice, at least some parental guidance .  I have a grandson that suffered from Kawasaki Disease  and I have never seen him. My other grand children  hardly  know who I am.   I spent almost a year away from a wife and was not there to help her when she needed me the most and it cost us both dearly.

   So was it worth it?   No.  I don’t regret coming though, I have seldom really regretted anything I have ever done, because I am the some total of my experiences and I pretty much like myself.  However regretting something is not the same as feeling the pain of the casualties you’ve left in your search for that elusive quality that some of us always seem to be searching for.
 
   Would I recommend to anyone that they should try Alaska bush teaching?  One couple from Independence did, specifically because of my column two years ago.  I understand they are doing fine but have not talked to them in depth.  I don’t know what I would recommend to anyone who would seek my advice about teaching in Alaska, but I do know that we would talk for a very long time.

    Now don’t think that I feel the last four years have been a waste.  There are memories that will last a life time and I will be able to be the life of any party, spinning my yarns,  and with each successive year they will grown in daring and  aw.  But having  an adventure can be just as far as the local laundry matt if you want it to be. 

    One excellent thing has happened beyond a doubt and that is that I would not have come in contact  with many old friends if I had not taken this road less traveled.  Especially those who live in and around Independence.

      Now and then I suspect that selective memory will kick in and for a few moments all will seem to be worth the while.  I do not know how to end this  muse, my last one from this area of the Arctic, so let me call upon Robert W. Service to leave you with a thought:

 There’s gold and it’s haunting and haunting,
It is luring me on as of old;
Yet isn’t the gold that I’m wanting , so much as finding the gold.
It’s the great broad land way up yonder,
It’s the forest where silence has lease.
It’s the beauty that fills me wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.


Moving Where? - Alaska

There were and probably still is four basic reasons people move to Alaska to teach school:  The young just out of college looking for adventure; couples who want to increase their retirement portfolio; those who want to start a fresh life; and those who can’t find a job in the lower 48 and just want one.

The young are divided into two varieties – singles who crave adventure and the married who realize that with the money they make they can pay off their student loans in just one or two years.  They leave debt free and, if they are careful, have a little nest egg to buy a house back in the lower 48.  Some stay longer of course and pay cash for the house when they return which usually coincides with them wanting to start a family.

The older couples are usually retired school teachers and want to fluff their retirement nest egg.  They claim they are going to stay until vested in the Alaskan state retirement system but usually leave after three or four years.  They begin to miss the life they had near shopping centers and restaurants and their children start to have children and the grandparent things pulls them home.

The person who wants to start fresh and thinks the last frontier is just what is needed usually find that places change and people don’t.  They leave after one year or sometimes at the semester.

The last group of people, and the ones becoming more prevalent, are those just looking for a job.  They are first year teachers who can’t find employment in the lower 48 or those who have been laid off from teaching positions and any job will do.  They really don’t have the desire to go north but a recruiter paints such a rosy picture, that they think why not.  Not a good reason.  They start putting their resumes out the day they get here and as soon as a job in the lower 48 opens, they leave.

One of the bigger problems with education in bush Alaska, or at least it use to be, is the turn over rate.  We always had a huge turnover rate in every school I taught in.  My first year I saw 60% of the teachers leave, the next two years 50% left and one year I went to a school that every teacher there was new.  Try to run a business with turn over like those.

So why you may ask did I go to Alaska, and more importantly why did I stay as long as I did and would under the right circumstances go back again?  Good question, one that I have not satisfactorily been able to answer in my own mind let alone explain to anyone else.

There were days I would have gotten on the next stage out of Dodge but reality would strike and staying was the only logical thing to do.  The money was a draw but it wasn’t enough to go in the first place and not enough to keep me there longer than I was.  There were more kids that irritated me than warmed my heart and if any of my friends from back home would call and I was not at home, my answering machine said “Greetings from the land of nonsense.”  That quote always seemed to sum up about how I felt about the place day-in and day-out and all the idiotic situations that occurred in and around the villages.  Someone said I was odd to go and stay or the phrase I liked best was that I was just one dog short of a team.

The best reason I can come up with as to why I went and why I stayed and would go back was the fact that I had a dazzling social life.  I had plenty of friends back in Independence especially and I knew they would be glad to see me, but after the flurry of get togethers they would manage to ease back into the life they had with out me.  Some how they all would have managed to move fore ward while I was gone.

My social life in Alaska was much more active and stimulating than any other place I ever lived.  It was out of necessity of course to keep from going bonkers but the interaction between and among teachers kept me busy and stimulated.  Other villages were better than some but there was always something going on to keep from getting cabin fever.  Hooper Bay had the best teacher interaction and the village I liked the least. While Noatak had very little teacher to teacher contact on a social basis but the village I liked the most.  There was always something going on and the community made you feel a part of it.  Go figure.

But back to the social life.  In Hooper Bay, and this is as true as I can recall, the following was a typical week:  On Sundays we would go to the Marshall’s for coffee and pastry.  Later that same day a bunch of us would pile onto a four wheeler and sled and go to the beach to hunt clams.  On Monday, those of us who did not eat clams would go back to the beach to see what had washed up the night before, some times a whale would be there if we were lucky, or even a walrus if we were really lucky.  On Tuesdays the Gillans came over for dinner and always had pictures to show us about the previous summer they spent at a youth camp or tell us stories about the last 10 years they had spent in Hooper Bay.  Wednesday we had a Bible Study with the local missionary, which we sacrilegiously called Back to God Night.  Thursday the Krolls would come to dinner and we would watch our favorite TV show (it was such a favorite I can’t remember what it was now) but if the cable was out, which it tended to be now and then we would just gossip about everyone one else.  Which we figured was alright because it was not Wednesday.  Friday was pot luck at Marta’s or Jane’s and Saturday we would usually dine with the Neufeldts.  Life did not get a whole lot better than that. 

I realize that Tom Wolf was correct when he coined the phrase “you can’t go home again” and I don’t want to relive the past I just don’t want to forget it.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Letters from the Last Frontier 5

November 22, 2002

Professor Boris Segerstahl
Director, Thule Institute
University of Oulu
Finland

Dear Boris,

I have written about the wake and funeral that is taking place for the young girl, but it is really to lengthy to send over via email.  Just a couple of pages so I am incorporating the event into a series of short stories and would just as soon not type them more than once.

I still would like to share it with you so if you would send me your mailing address there at the university I will send it off as soon as possible.

Regards,
Conley

Email from Professor Segerstahl

24 Nov 2002

Hi Conley,

This is a long message but be patient and read it.  Ignore it, if it does not make sense.

I read your previous message several times.  Before I continue I want to tell you that one of my (too many) academic fields is literature, and I have read a lot of American literature.  Your message could have been a preliminary synopsis for a novel.  Not only for the content, but there is a possibility that you have a capacity to produce a literary style.  If the text had been in a quiz, I would have been tempted to say that it tries to show a style somewhere between Tom Wolfe and Ernest Hemingway, with a taste of Claude Simon (a French writer.)

Don’t fall off the chair – you are not there yet.  But have you ever thought of writing a novel?  I know that authors hate advice from editors, but let me be brave and suggest that the title could be “The Wake” and it starts:  “The wake and the funeral have been postponed.  The dead body cannot be flown in due to bad weather.”  The rest is only hard work, depression, long nights and disappointments, before you possibly end up with a good novel.  More than the average reader ever notices.  I am sure you could get support and advice from course material that exists on creative writing.

Your synopsis invites stylistic ideas connected to the Latin American school of fantastic realism.  I don’t know whether you have access to library services in Hooper Bay.  If you have, you should try to get “The Death of Artemio Cruz” by Carlos Fuentes and “Home is the Sailor” by Jorge Amado.

In your most recent message you indicate that you are working on a series of short stories.  That is great, if I understand correctly that you already write.  A novel is however a completely different animal.  Talking about short stories – one of the greatest short stories in American literature (but completely forgotten) is Bernhard Malamud’s “Idiots First”.

Mail is really terribly slow.  How about cutting the text about the wake into bits of plain text and send it as a few small messages.  I will patch them together when they arrive.  I would guess that you use MS Word and communicate over a modem.  Save it as plain text and it should be as compact as it can be without compression.  If you really want to send as snail-mail, I put in my official signature at the bottom of this message.  I really dislike it.  It makes me look like a pompous ass (I hope I am not).  I have been told that that impression is needed now and then.

I assume we are of approximately the same age.  I have been a university professor for 33 years since the age of 29.  I will leave the details for a future message.  Stay in touch, Boris

One more thing:  Service’s writing is nice but not great.  He was overrated a hundred years ago.  Not his fault.  He certainly gave many readers a lot of relaxing entertainment and perhaps even fun..  It is, however, possible that Sam McGee and Dan McGrew are better known than Robert Service.

Professor Boris Segerstahl
Director, Thule Institute
P.O. Box 7300
, FIN-90014 University of Oulu
Finland

Note to my blog readers:  I do not remember sending Boris anything and if I did he never responded.  I do know there were several emails but they have been lost through the years and we eventually lost touch.  Just recently I sent him an email, but it got bounced back, so I sent a note via snail-mail.  We shall see if he gets it or not.  If by chance any of you are computer stalkers and can track him down, please let me know.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Deutschland Diary 3


Tuesday 11th September 2300 hours, 1984

I have been asleep for 2 ½.  It is cold and windy.  I hope it does not rain.  The day has been long and for the most part boring.  I worry a lot about not performing well.  I also worry about you all at home.  I know you can all take care of yourselves, but I worry.  I worry most I guess about you all missing me.  I worry about all the times I could have done things with you and didn’t.

It is the strangest feeling to know that the Russians have 30 Divisions of soldiers less than the distance between KC and St. Louis.  I don’t really worry about them attacking or anything, it just seems strange.

On Monday on our way to K-Town we saw from the distance the ruins of an old castle and then stopped at a gas station.  That is the only experience I have really had with Germany.  I hope I can call Saturday.  Love

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Log 10 - Alaska

 Log 10

1/14/03

No entry for a long time.  Went to Dixon and KC, had a nice time visiting kids, better than usual.  Been doing most of my writing working on stories, trying to get them ready to send to friends.  There is a lot of snow and the weather is very cold now.  Alexa came back with us.  She doesn’t appear to like me much, perhaps time will change that.

The teachers are all in a ditty because they heard that a consultant was making a hit list.  I’ve gotten along well with the guy but people like Mike Jump says he is not to be trusted.

There are some things wrong about the educational system in Alaska.  The Administrators by and large are inept and have no long range programs.  The school boards are comprised of well meaning but culturally different Eskimos who think tradition should over shadow all.  There are a lot of teachers that just give up and are staying for the money only and find it easy to fool the administration and community that they are doing a great job.  All one has to do is keep the status quo, tell the parents how great their kids are doing, and basically just not rock the boat.  All so the parents are very lenient.  Given the combination above it doesn’t make for a good learning environment. 

There are many ways to solve this problem one of which is to have everyone held accountable via standardized tests.  One problem I can see is how do you standardize a test for Eskimos, some of which have never seen a side walk?

1/18/03

Snowing, cold, and basketball game.  Have spent the morning doing little except studying on my Alaskan History course and sending emails.  Paula cooked a nice breakfast – Egg omelet, bacon, raisin bread, yum, yum.

2/2/03

Saw the northern lights.  Spent a long time getting on my clothes to go see them.  Not a real good display.  Reports of polar bear prints north of town.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Hunting and Gathering - Alaska



There is a cycle to hunting and gathering.  Not as much today as in the past because there is always the local Native store that sells everything from fruit to CDs.  But the cycle still exists albeit modified some due to modern technology. 

Effie Hadley, friend, confidant, and village elder says she can remember how they use to hunt and gather food and can even recall the cycle they use to follow, although she does admit, “It is hard to say for sure, some of it just sort of blends together at my age.”

“When springtime came," Effie continued, “and the snow returned to the earth we use to hunt for eggs and pick berries.  After a long winter it really was a treat to eat something different.  Eventually though it would be time to hunt the beluga and seal and we would walk the riverbank leading to the ocean.  Along the riverbank we would find berry patches, some eggs, and now and then rhubarb.  I liked rhubarb.  I would pick as much as I could find and what I did not eat or give away I would bury.  That would keep it fresh until I returned from the coast.

“There were a lot of seal and the men would have no trouble getting all they wanted or could use.  Every part of the seal was used either for food or clothing.  The bones we would make into needles, the skin of course for clothing, the flippers and sinew for mukluks, and of course the oil.

“It seems like we would work all day and all night,” Effie said with a chuckle.  “The beluga would start to come around and the men had found out that you can run down a beluga with a motor boat pretty easily but some men thought that when they did they did not get as many whale.  They said the noise scared them off.  So depending on things, the men would line up their boasts and stretch them out as far as they could and sit and wait quietly.  As a beluga would come close the men would attack.  After a kill they would light a lantern and that was the signal for the women and children to boat out and drag the kill back to the beach.  We would prepare the beluga, divide it among the families as to need and the men would continue the hunt.”

Apparently nothing of the beluga was wasted either.  Bones, meat, even what Effie called rancid flippers were saved to boil during the winter just in case they ran out of food.

“Even the head was cooked.  We would scrape out the brain, mix it with a local leaf called surra, and fry it in seal oil or its own oil.  It was a real treat to eat it out there on the beach.  It tasted like crispy fried rice.

“You had to be careful however of what combinations you ate.”  Effie said emphatically.  Some things apparently did not go well together and were even lethal.  Effie claims that her people learned a long time ago that you did not eat muktuk (whale meat) and raw salmon berries.  “It would kill you.”  I asked her if she knew anyone who died from eating that combination.  “Yes,” she said, “My sister died from doing that ,  But that was a long time ago before I was born.  I don’t know anyone now that would be so foolish to try it.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Appian Way - Tirrenia


I appreciated the use of the interpreter, but I told him the next morning after leaving the restaurant in Livorno that I thought that his time would be spent better helping out the younger members of our contingent.  I decided to explore the surrounding area on my own. 
I started out not real early, perhaps around and decided to walk around Tirrenia on my own.  It was a modern little Italian village but different in a lot of ways.  The center section of the town had cobble stone streets with a lot of little shops of all kinds that seemed to specialize in different products.  Tobacco, wine, pottery, clothes, jewelry, and several quaint little cafes.  I found an ice cream shop and bought a cone of some strange flavor that I really can’t describe.  There was a festival that the local Catholic Church was having to raise money I guess for some worthy cause, so I bought some flavored coffee, which wasn’t much good, sat on a park bench and just watched the people parade around in their Sunday best. 
I went to Mass that afternoon at the local church and was able to follow the service pretty well.  I understood every part of the Mass except for the serman of course.
After leaving Mass I ran into one of the young men that was part of our group named  Terdoff.  He was a little older than the other guardsman and had grown tired of pretending he was on just another army post.  He too wanted to take advantage of seeing the local Italian scene.
We went to a place that was a combination deli, ice cream parlor, and bar and had a glass of wine.  I joked with the owner about him giving us California wine (it was a white wine from Tuscany.)
We ventured back to the festival area and ate a pastry that was creamy on the inside and fried on the out side sprinkled with sugar.
We went to a spegatteria  across the street that served different kinds of pasta but it was run by some Arabs.  After another glass of wine we decided not to eat there and walked down a side street that I had not noticed before  We stumbled across a quaint little café that reminded me of the restaurant where Michael shot the Turk and the corrupt police captain in the Godfather.
We ordered a dinner that consisted of red wine and spaghetti with white sauce that had small chunks of ham infiltrated though out.  They served some interesting flat bread sticks, a small pizza with mussels, a chocolate éclair and some of the worst coffee I ever tasted in my life.
We both went back to the spa and to bed.  I woke around , still suffering from jet lag, went down to the main lobby and started writing some letters and post cards.  The desk clerk thought I was crazy.
I noticed during my meanderings that day that the normal people, the middle class I guess, dressed a little different.  They all seemed to be just a touch more poor than our middle class, but that might have been because it was a small town and not very cosmopolitan.  Their clothes did not match it seems and their shoes were not up to our standards. Many of the women who walked around held hands and the older ladies dyed their hair a deep red, almost purple. 
I just hung around the lobby writing and “reading” magazines until breakfast and hoped that the coffee would be better in the morning.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Panama Pundit 3


Jan. 3, 1991

We convoyed over to Camp Russo to deliver a 5 Ton truck and pick up two smaller vehicles for the return trip to Base Camp.  We almost had to transport a large sum of money back to the Base Camp, which I was not looking forward to, but it got cancelled at the last minute.

While at Russo we heard that an American helicopter got shot down in San Salvador.  The American soldiers that survived the crash were executed by the rebels.  It was a couple of hundred miles away but it did make us stop and think.  We realized that we “weren’t in Kansas anymore” and there were people in the general area that didn’t really like us. 

Captain Johnson said he had heard that Air Force One had landed at Howard AFB near Russo, but I didn’t believe him, so we decided to check it out before we returned to Base Camp.

Jan 4, 1991

The trip back to Base Camp was uneventful.  I did miss a turn in a town called Solo Palto.  There were five Panamanian bar fly’s hanging around the outside of a bar.  I guess they had been there all day according to their appearance, watching all the trucks go by.  They all pointed in the direction we were supposed to go.  As I was turning the convoy around I drove by them, leaned out of the jeep and yelled, “American Stupido.”  Which is Stupid American in Italian.  They understood what I meant and laughed very heartedly.

The set up of the Base Camp had made a lot of progress in the two days we had been absent.  We put our gear away and walked into town, if you can call Numbre a town.  They have a dirt road, shacks, two grocery stores (or a least a place where you could buy food), a café operated out of a house and an Asian Restaurant that also doubled as a grocery store.  One of the grocery stores had a bar.  We went to the one that had the bar.

There were a bunch of Panamanian playing something that looked like dominos and a pool table that was infested with beetles.  We didn’t play pool, just drank their $0.25 bottled beer, called Panama oddly enough.

Jan 5, 1991

We got up and took a ride to Ft. Davis and requisitioned material to paint directional signs for when the main body arrived.  Captain Johnson and I took the material down to a rocky beach and painted them.  We needed to clean our brushes so after soaking them in kerosene we cleaned them in the ocean.  I had been watching the waves and had figured out that every 5th wave was larger than the other 4.  So when the 5th wave was coming in we would dash back up the rocks.  I did not count on any abnormality in the wave cycle.  One wave took us by surprised and drug us both off the beach into the Atlantic Ocean.  Lucky for us there was a large boulder that we latched on to or we would have been picked up by some sort of current and our bodies found floating in the Gulf of Mexico or off the tip of Florida.  We took longer to dry than the paint on the signs.  We returned to Base Camp after driving by the supposed Air Force One, which it was not, and finished our brush cleaning on a sand bar in the Numbre River next to Base Camp.

Jan 6, 1991

We got up early and drove into Ft. Sheridan to pick up a truck convoy to lead to the Base Camp.  Just as we were about a mile away from camp we heard over the radio that there had been an accident on the road just ahead and a medivac helicopter had been requested immediately.  From a hill we watched as a group of men tried to save another man’s life.  We halted all traffic going down the road and took in the event.  Apparently the driver of a fork lift had lost control of his machine, the fork lift started to bounce, he un hooked his seat belt and stood up trying to get a better view of the road and guide the lift around the pot hole and large rocks.  The lift turned over and trapped the young man under the lift just below his waist.  It crushed him but he was still conscious.  Controlled panic developed.  His band of brothers immediately called for assistance, but the only medical helicopter available was in Panama City.  It was dispatched immediately but distance was against him.  They did what they could for the young man but by the time the helicopter arrived the 19 year old National Guardsman from Sikeston, Missouri was dead.  The Base Camp was named after him, Camp Thomas.  Some day I might write a story about that.