Wednesday, May 18, 2011

The County - Prologue

Prologue:
It was several years ago that I enrolled in a new sort of archaeology class at what is now my almamater.  It was a different kind of archaeological dig in the respect that we were not looking for dinosaur bones or Indian relics or those types of things that Indiana Jones and his ilk seek.  (I did buy a fedora though.)  No, this was what Professor Simpson called Village Archaeology.
The Prof had located a site near central Missouri not far from the campus that he felt was just right for his fledgling class of archaeologist wannabes.  Our mission was to comb a mile square area among the ruins of an old village and find out what we could about the former inhabitants and see if we could determine the “flavor of the times” as he called it.  Most of the class found little glass vials, old hammers, part of a wagon, ice tongs, some horseshoes now and then and even part of a vintage airplane.  I, on the other hand, found nothing.  Nothing that is until one day when visiting my grandfather in the old folks home I mentioned my recent college adventure and what miserable luck I was having finding anything of importance.
“You ain’t looking in the right place”, he told me.  “No kidding”, was my reply.
“Now, where is this place again?”, he asked.  I gave him the general location and he said, “Well, I know all about that place, got wiped out by a tornado years ago and the damage was so complete they never rebuilt the place.  People just went other places.  Later, if you remember your history, they also had a big earthquake in these parts and it just flattened what was left there, which wasn’t much, along with the surrounding area.  In fact a friend of mine use to be what you’d call the chronicler of the place, sort of the town historian, reporter, and poet laureate, also the city jailer”.
“Gee”, I said, “he would have been a great guy to talk to”.
“Well, why don’t you?  He lives just down the hall”.
Mr. Homer I Storebeck was old, a lot older than Grandpa, but how old I was never really able to determine.  He was more than happy to discuss the old days and the history that surrounded the village.  While my classmates were exploring and digging in the July Missouri heat I whiled away my time drinking iced tea and listening to his yarns in air-conditioning.  This was far more palatable to my archaeological taste.
After several days of note taking and recording, he asked me what I was going to do with all the information he was giving me.  I told him I was going to compile the information into a term paper and present it to Professor Simpson and hope I got an A for the course.
He asked if original documents would help me out.  I perked up because I had always heard that original documents or primary sources were much better than second hand accounts or broken pieces of pottery.
He then reached into an old trunk and pulled out a bunch of papers.  “Think these might help."

.....To be continued

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

My Subterranean Dwelling - Alaska

This was a mass email I put out on Thur, 13 March which has been edited a little.

Dear Friends,

Excuse the impersionaless of this letter but I did not want to write it several times.  I get questions every now and then about two things, one my so called subterranean dwelling and the other about Hooper Bay itself.  I have told some of you some things, some of you other things but none of you everything,  so....this will be the first part of what perhaps will be a two part letter, but who knows, I get very verbose now and then and it could be a three part letter rolled into one or I might not write another one at all.  Regardless if you get tired of reading this ditty just send it to cyber space but don't tell me.

We live in the basement of the school, but the school is build on a large mound (use to be a cemetery which could account for the strange noise we hear at night sometimes, but that is another story) so part of where we live does have an outside entrance.  The north side of our place looks out over one of the prettiest maintenance sheds one could ever hope to see.  I have often gazed at the the edifice and wished Shannon or Meghan could be here to paint a mural of a desert or tropical scene on the rustic plywood covering.  If you look to the right at eye level you See a just as pretty passage way to the trailer behind us and to the right.  Those who live in the trailer, George my teaching partner and his friend.  They really do have a good view once you look past the graveyard and junkyard, not to mention a bulk oil storage plant.  My magnificent maintenance shed saves me from such grandeur.

If you look over the passage way, which would be to the east, you can see the vast tundra and small mountains which are 40 miles away.  My adventures have not taken me there yet and I look at them with longing.  Between the maintenance shed and my backdoor is a small grass area I call the court yard.  You would not want to spend anytime there though but could sun bathe without being bothered if one had the mind to do so.

To leave or arrive by the above described door, at what I refer to fondly as my subterranean dwelling, you have to walk under two pipes, over one, turn right past the maintenance shed and then walk out onto the tundra, which of course you then immediately see the graveyard, junkyard etc.  Leaving by that rout is not altogether that difficult during the non snowing months, which means June to September, but during the winter months the snow piles up so much that you cannot get under the pipes unless you crawl because they are still to high to climb over, which at 55 I  am not really inclined to do anyway.

So that leaves the rear entrance.  When you leave by the rear entrance you go out through the room containing the washer, dryer and stand up freezer.  You go down a hallway that is twenty feet long, turn right to go down another plywood hallway a little longer and then turn left through a door into the boiler room.  There are pipes all along the path and because of cracks in the sides of the walls it is not unusual for snow to have drifted in.  It is like walking through a freezer.  The boiler room is an OK boiler room as far as boiler rooms go.  You have  your usual leaky pipes and strange noises, with strange looking tools about resting on the floor which you take care to step over, and different chemical products that must be dumped some where I guess.

You maneuver over some more pipes and odd looking wires, hoping they are not connected to the electrical system, through a door on the right and you feel relief at last.  You open the door and start up the flight of stairs.  Immediately before traipsing up the steps you look left and decide if you need any school supplies, note book, pencils because that is where the school supply room is kept.  You walk up 27 steps go out the door on the right and you are in the main school hallway.

The inside of our dwelling has been described in some stories I have written.  For those of you that have not gotten you copy yet let it suffice to say that we have 3 bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom, informal dining room, utiltiy room and a mud room.  My moose head is hanging over the stone fireplace with a polar bear rug in front of the fire place just like the movies, which is just standard fair for this part of Alaska.

PS:  To my good friend Karen, please send this one back to me also.  Some of you remember Karen Shuttleworth.  She now lives in Tennessee.


Sunday, May 8, 2011

The Interviewing of Mrs. Henrietta Naneng - Alaska

This interview was first published in Whispering Wind.  American Indian: Past and Present
Vol. 33  No. 6

Arctic Circle.  Native Life and Culture in Alaska

"The Interviewing of Mrs. Henrietta Naneng"

Two of my better students were given an assignment to interview a village elder.  The two girls were, Florence Naukusuk and May Lola Joe.  What follows is an edited version of the paper they submitted.

"A log time ago in the sprig time we use to put the fresh seal blubber in a can and boil it.  We would then put it in clean snow and and chew it like you do gum today.  It was much better for our teeth than the chewing gum you use today.

"We would play outside all day log.  We did not have insulated boots like you do but our mukluks were much warmer than yours I bet.

"When the men would catch a seal the wives would cut the seal up and yell 'UKUKIKIA'!

"Our mud houses were very warm and the windows were covered by intestines from the walrus and seal.

"In the summer we would camp near the ocean.  We dug for clams and watched for whales.  Some people would get a lot of clams because they were easy to find but not everyone got a whale.  It was a big celebration when we did and the whole village shared in the kill."

Mrs Naneng was married on August 2, 1953 to Mr. Walter Naneng.  She said he was a good hunter and that their house never went without food.  He was especially good at hunting and killing seal.  He was always able to catch a lot of black fish. 

She told us that the people were not mischief or mean, they were always friendly to one another. 

They did not use any primer stoves.  They would use seal oil laps but only at night time.  They did not have any toys.  They made Eskimo dolls to play with.  They made a family of dolls.  Some people use to tell stores by drawing in the mud with long knives.  They walked around the tundra for cranberries, black berries and salmon berries.

"Life was hard but good,"  Mrs. Naneng said.  "It still is."

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Hooper Bay fire

A few years ago after I left Hooper Bay some children were playing with matches next to the old Hooper Bay School and living quarters for many of the teachers.  The grass caught fire and the wind took over.  The school and most of the teacher housing was destroyed.  It was a complete loss.  Fortunately no one was severely injured and school was not in session.

Old School and teacher housing
    New School and teacher housing

Monday, May 2, 2011

Panama Pictures



Some pictures but not nearly all of Portebelo, Fort Sherman, Camp Thomas, Nombre de Dios

The Black Jesus in Portobelo

The Conga Queen

Church and Plaza in Nombre de Dios


Part of Camp Thomas

Nombre de Dios Lagoon

Beach at Nombre de Dios

Portobelo fort


Portobelo

Fort Sherman



I have found out that the Spanish use to ship gold and silver out of Nombre de Dios but it was ransacked and destroyed by pirates.  Portobelo was then used and to make sure that would never happen again the Spanish built a large fort.   Pirates such as Henry Morgan and Francis Drake were no stranger to the area.

Also a few years later I started  reading a book I picked up at a yard sale.  It was called "Gold."  I was about half way through the book when it mentioned Nombre de Dios and Portobelo.  I started paying closer attention.  It was written in the 1920s and by who I do not recall, but it was a prequel to Treasure Island.  I thought that very interesting.  I had always wondered how Long John Silver new there was buried treasure on that island.

Panama Pundits - 9, Last Diary Entry

Jan 20

Last night or rather yesterday morning we made our way back to Camp Rousseau.  Everything has gone as I suspected.  The lines, the waiting, the inspections.

If one has never gone through a military customs, one cannot appreciate what boredom and waiting in line is really like.

Last night they gave us a customs form to fill out.  On it we put down what we bought while in Panama.  The only thing I had to declare was a machete.  Later that night Jerry and a couple of others went to the local VFW down the road, drank, ate and watched the news.  We got plenty of each.

Before that however we were all herded into the "bubble."  The bubble is sort of like a Quonset hut but kept erect by blowing air inside it.  There we were instructed to dump our duffel bags on the floor and stand behind it.  Custom agents went through the baggage confiscating some objects or making sure other items were cleaned properly.  No amount of dirt or mud was allowed to be taken out of Panama.

At 9:30 we emptied our carry on bags on the cots we slept on and made to stand in line and they searched them and any carry on packages we might have had.  They then conducted a personal body search. 

We were taken to the plane, piled on and I went to sleep.  As I was drifting in and out of sleep I heard a bell go off.  I looked up and saw a sign that read, "fasten seat belt, Life vests under seat.  I thought we were going to crash because we started banking to the left at the same time.  I could not get the life vest free from under the seat and noticed that no one else seemed to be in a panic. I was puzzling what to do when the Captain of the plane came on and announced we were making or decent into Birmingham.  We landed with out trouble. 

Note: We flew from Birmingham to St. Louis, caught a truck and headed back to Independence.  The trip was over.   The adoption thing never happened.  I never got called up. 

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Panama Pundits - 8, continued

......I felt it was time to go.  Our PNP escort accompanied us back to the Plaza.  The drummers were still there beating away.  The Queen was still there but another dancer had taken her place inside the circle.

I have found out you never go any where here with out stopping some where else.  As we watched the ritual one of the PNPs, the darkest one, jumped into the dance and he did well.  I've narrowed the dance down to this:  It is part of their African heritage and what they are doing has been done for years.  The dance is either a dance of the hunt or a mating dance or one depicting the normal hunt and court of women.  The woman acts oblivious to the man's aggression but when she is captured or allows herself to be swayed by the hunter or suitor she thrusts into the activity.  She sways her hips in his direction and then they dance closer and closer until the hips are joined and they are bumping and grinding.  At first this sound sort of hedonistic but before you pass judgement, how many bars have you gone to and watched or even participated in a similar ritual.  The men and women in the bar sit around and drink.  A man asks a lady to dance.  She refuses him but then finally the right guy comes along.  They have a regular dance, they go back to the table and drink some more (Conga dances all have a lot of alcohol also) and then a particular song come on and the mood is right and they go out and grind on the dance floor.  What sometimes follows is I am sure what follows in the Conga dance.  Places and times change but people are about the same all over.

We keep hearing rumors of activation.  I can't believe it, may be I wont allow myself to believe it.  If we do get activated I will go as a filler some where, but March seems to be the magic day.  If it goes on after that then perhaps, we shall see.