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.
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Drum Beat - Alaska
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun..." Robert W. Service
When I was young my given name of Conley was the same as that of my grandfather. I never liked that name growing up because I identified it with old people.
I much preferred the nickname given me by my name sake – Snapper. Why Snapper? Well, the family story goes that when Baba (my grandfather) first saw me I was red and blinked my eyes like a red snapper. I am sure he had never seen a red snapper but facts like that never got in his way.
Times have changed and I no longer introduce myself as Snapper. It sounds sort of silly for a person of my age. I have come to think of Conley as a very sophisticated and beautiful name.
In most of the villages I lived in while in Alaska the naming of a child took on a complexity all its own.
Many children, when given a Christian name, were named after the recently deceased, relative or not. Some believed the spirit of the deceased entered the body of the person thus named. So if you take this to the extreme you can really be your own Grandpa.
Most villagers had two names, Christian and native. When given Christian names, the girls were often named after their mothers and were tagged with the Junior and Senior thing, just as boys. It was not uncommon for children to take their mother's last name.
To complicate the matter, some children were given to relatives or neighbors after being born, and they kept their birth name regardless of who raised them. For instance Sandi Collins' mother was Sandi Collins, her father was a Kohely, and she was raised and adopted by a Quinn but she is always Sandi Collins Jr. Her brothers and sisters, even if she was a twin, might have altogether different last names depending on who's who in the tribal hierarchy at the time.
Trying to tell who belongs to whom or who is related to whom got very confusing.
I have not figured out tribal naming customs to a great extent, and the natives have a hard time explaining it to an outsider. They are sort of reluctant to anyway, because they have been conditioned to feel that Gussicks (non natives) don't approve of the double name thing. Perhaps way back that was true, but all the Gussicks I knew think it really a neat thing. But old wounds do not heal very fast between cultures.
I use to ask kids what their tribal names were but I seldom called them that because I could not pronounce the names correctly and when I tried I got laughed at.
Now and then Gussicks are given an Eskimo name. Usually it is just a casual thing, and the name more often than not refers to an animal or a physical feature the Gussick might have. Like Polar Bear (for a big guy), Walrus (for someone who has long teeth), bearded one, or baldy, things like that.
These names when said in English do not sound flattering, but when said in the local language, it is almost elegant. Besides the names are not given to be insulting, just descriptive.
Sometimes, however, a Gussick is named by an elder under unusual circumstance, usually without warning, and it takes on a mystical quality, almost as if that elder has or had some connection to the ancient shamans. There are no shamans anymore, or so the natives would have you believe, once again keeping such knowledge to themselves so as not to suffer ridicule by the Gussicks. There are hints from time to time that one or two are still around, but don't try to pin a native down on who or where.
I now have a Yup'ik Eskimo name. It was given to me by an elder who was telling stories to my students one day. She stopped her story in mid sentence, looked at me and asked if I had a Yup'ik name. I had not and said so. She looked at me for a long time and said, "You will be known as Cauyam anngaa."
Don't even try to pronounce it. I have heard it several times and still can't. I wondered at the time if she was one of those closet shamans that are said not to exist.
I use to write a weekly column for The Independence Examiner and liked Tundra Drums as the title. But there was a newspaper up there that served the delta region with the same name so that was out. I also used the same title for a collection of short storie I wrote and made available to friends and family. I use to have a web page called "Arctic Drums" and the first story I ever wrote was about the making of a drum. No native at the time knew any of this.
So why do I think the elder might have been a shaman in hiding? What mystical quality surrounds my Yup'ik name to make me think such? Well the English translation for Cauyam anngaa is "Brother of the Drum." Go figure.
So this is Conley Stone Snapper Cauyam anngaa McAnally wishing you well, as always. The beat goes on.
When I was young my given name of Conley was the same as that of my grandfather. I never liked that name growing up because I identified it with old people.
I much preferred the nickname given me by my name sake – Snapper. Why Snapper? Well, the family story goes that when Baba (my grandfather) first saw me I was red and blinked my eyes like a red snapper. I am sure he had never seen a red snapper but facts like that never got in his way.
Times have changed and I no longer introduce myself as Snapper. It sounds sort of silly for a person of my age. I have come to think of Conley as a very sophisticated and beautiful name.
In most of the villages I lived in while in Alaska the naming of a child took on a complexity all its own.
Many children, when given a Christian name, were named after the recently deceased, relative or not. Some believed the spirit of the deceased entered the body of the person thus named. So if you take this to the extreme you can really be your own Grandpa.
Most villagers had two names, Christian and native. When given Christian names, the girls were often named after their mothers and were tagged with the Junior and Senior thing, just as boys. It was not uncommon for children to take their mother's last name.
To complicate the matter, some children were given to relatives or neighbors after being born, and they kept their birth name regardless of who raised them. For instance Sandi Collins' mother was Sandi Collins, her father was a Kohely, and she was raised and adopted by a Quinn but she is always Sandi Collins Jr. Her brothers and sisters, even if she was a twin, might have altogether different last names depending on who's who in the tribal hierarchy at the time.
Trying to tell who belongs to whom or who is related to whom got very confusing.
I have not figured out tribal naming customs to a great extent, and the natives have a hard time explaining it to an outsider. They are sort of reluctant to anyway, because they have been conditioned to feel that Gussicks (non natives) don't approve of the double name thing. Perhaps way back that was true, but all the Gussicks I knew think it really a neat thing. But old wounds do not heal very fast between cultures.
I use to ask kids what their tribal names were but I seldom called them that because I could not pronounce the names correctly and when I tried I got laughed at.
Now and then Gussicks are given an Eskimo name. Usually it is just a casual thing, and the name more often than not refers to an animal or a physical feature the Gussick might have. Like Polar Bear (for a big guy), Walrus (for someone who has long teeth), bearded one, or baldy, things like that.
These names when said in English do not sound flattering, but when said in the local language, it is almost elegant. Besides the names are not given to be insulting, just descriptive.
Sometimes, however, a Gussick is named by an elder under unusual circumstance, usually without warning, and it takes on a mystical quality, almost as if that elder has or had some connection to the ancient shamans. There are no shamans anymore, or so the natives would have you believe, once again keeping such knowledge to themselves so as not to suffer ridicule by the Gussicks. There are hints from time to time that one or two are still around, but don't try to pin a native down on who or where.
I now have a Yup'ik Eskimo name. It was given to me by an elder who was telling stories to my students one day. She stopped her story in mid sentence, looked at me and asked if I had a Yup'ik name. I had not and said so. She looked at me for a long time and said, "You will be known as Cauyam anngaa."
Don't even try to pronounce it. I have heard it several times and still can't. I wondered at the time if she was one of those closet shamans that are said not to exist.
I use to write a weekly column for The Independence Examiner and liked Tundra Drums as the title. But there was a newspaper up there that served the delta region with the same name so that was out. I also used the same title for a collection of short storie I wrote and made available to friends and family. I use to have a web page called "Arctic Drums" and the first story I ever wrote was about the making of a drum. No native at the time knew any of this.
So why do I think the elder might have been a shaman in hiding? What mystical quality surrounds my Yup'ik name to make me think such? Well the English translation for Cauyam anngaa is "Brother of the Drum." Go figure.
So this is Conley Stone Snapper Cauyam anngaa McAnally wishing you well, as always. The beat goes on.
Monday, May 29, 2017
Teddy's Letters
McAnally, Teddy Stone, Papers, 1953-1955
4182 .7 cubic feet
RESTRICTED
This collection is available at The State Historical Society of Missouri. If you would like
more information, please contact us at shsresearch@umsystem.edu.
INTRODUCTION
The papers of Teddy Stone McAnally contain the correspondence of a sergeant
from Independence, Missouri, who served during the Korean War. The collection is
largely comprised of letters home to his parents and son. Also included are coded letters
between McAnally and Ruth Streaber of Eldon, Missouri, miscellaneous military
correspondence, and several photographs of McAnally and his fellow soldiers.
DONOR INFORMATION
The papers were donated to the State Historical Society of Missouri by Conley S.
McAnally on 2012 25 October (Accession No. 6335).
RESTRICTIONS
Permission from donor required for commercial uses.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
Teddy Stone McAnally was born on October 6, 1928, to Joseph Conley McAnally
and Marie Tennessee McAnally (maiden name Kingsoliver) in Independence, Missouri.
As a young man he resided in Joplin and Sedalia before moving back to Independence.
McAnally made Sergeant First Class while serving in Korea from 1952-1954. He
belonged first to Company “G” 5th RCJ APO 52 and switched to the 19th Infantry
Regiment 24th Division September 20, 1954. Before he was sent to Korea, he received
training by military intelligence at a naval base in San Diego, California, on how to send
and receive coded messages if he was ever captured by the North Koreans.
After his service, he returned to Independence and to his job at Westinghouse
Electric Company, and later became a pilot instructor and an active member of Quiet
Birds. At the age of 42, he began work at the Federal Aviation Administration and
retired as a GS 15. After retirement, he joined the VFW and became a member of the
Horse Mounted Guard in the Shrine. McAnally died on September 28, 2002.
SCOPE AND CONTENT NOTE
The papers have been arranged into the following three series:
Personal Correspondence
Miscellaneous Papers
Photographs
The Personal Correspondence series contains letters written by Teddy Stone
McAnally to his mother (Marie Tennessee McAnally), father (Joseph Conley McAnally),
C4182 McAnally, Teddy Stone Page 2
and son (Conley McAnally, addressed as Snapper). These letters date from 1953-1954
and cover his induction into the army at Camp Crowder, Missouri, basic training at Ft.
Roberts, California, and his involvement in the peace-time occupation of Korea. The
letters mention such topics as his base pay, his daily activities, TV shows he watched as
well as USO shows he saw, and his response to different events, such as the Bobby
Greenlease kidnapping and the Korean ceasefire.
Folder 10 contains letters he received from 1953-1954, including letters from
Gary P. Sipes and Ernest E. Lewellen. Folder 11 includes correspondence between
McAnally and Ruth Streaber of Eldon, Missouri. These letters are coded letters based on
a poem, and since McAnally was never actually captured by the North Koreans, they may
have been a way for him to practice the skill.
The Miscellaneous Papers series consists of material pertaining to his service in
Korea. The papers include an army camp newsletter dated October 9, 1953, a registration
certificate for McNally issued on September 18, 1948, and a leave of absence letter from
Westinghouse Electric Company dated February 16, 1953. Also included is a letter to
Mrs. McAnally from the Lt. Col. Arty Commanding, noting McAnally’s arrival at Camp
Roberts, California on February 21, 1953, and his assignment to Battery A, 440th
Armored Field Artillery Battalion.
The Photographs series contains photographs and negatives of McAnally and a
few of his fellow soldiers, taken during his time in the army. The last names included on
the photographs are Thiederman, Stulby, Lewellen, Miller, and Sipes.
FOLDER LIST
f. 1-11 Personal Correspondence
f. 1 2/9/1953-3/31/1953
f. 2 4/5/1953-7/5/1953
f. 3 8/3/1953-9/30/1953
f. 4 10/1/1953-11/30/1953
f. 5 12/1/1953-2/28/1954
f. 6 3/1/1954-4/27/1954
f. 7 5/1/1954-6/29/1954
f. 8 7/6/1954-9/28/1954
f. 9 9/30/1954-12/6/1954
f. 10 Letters Received, 3/9/1953-7/9/1954
f. 11 Coded Letters, 7/30/1953-10/6/1955
f. 12 Miscellaneous Papers, 1953
f. 13 Photographs, 1950s
INDEX TERMS
Subject Folders Image
Camp Crowder, Missouri 1-10
Fort Roberts, California 13 y
Fort Roberts, California 1-11
C4182 McAnally, Teddy Stone Page 3
Subject Folders Image
Fort Roberts, California--Weather, 1950s 1-11
Greenlease, Bobby--Kidnapping 3-11
Korean War, 1950-1953--U.S. Army 13 y
Korean War, 1950-1953--U.S. Army 1-12
Korea--Weather, 1950s 1-11
McAnally, Teddy Stone (1928-2002) 13 y
McAnally, Teddy Stone (1928-2002) 1-12
U.S. Army, Infantry, 19th Regiment, Company G 13 y
U.S. Army, Infantry, 19th Regiment, Company G 1-12
U.S. Army--Military life, 1950s 13 y
U.S. Army--Military life, 1950s 1-12
U.S. Army--Pay, 1950s 1-11
U.S. Army--Training, 1950s 13 y
U.S. Army--Training, 1950s 1-12
United Service Organization--Camp shows, 1950s 3
4182 .7 cubic feet
RESTRICTED
This collection is available at The State Historical Society of Missouri. If you would like
more information, please contact us at shsresearch@umsystem.edu.
INTRODUCTION
The papers of Teddy Stone McAnally contain the correspondence of a sergeant
from Independence, Missouri, who served during the Korean War. The collection is
largely comprised of letters home to his parents and son. Also included are coded letters
between McAnally and Ruth Streaber of Eldon, Missouri, miscellaneous military
correspondence, and several photographs of McAnally and his fellow soldiers.
DONOR INFORMATION
The papers were donated to the State Historical Society of Missouri by Conley S.
McAnally on 2012 25 October (Accession No. 6335).
RESTRICTIONS
Permission from donor required for commercial uses.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
Teddy Stone McAnally was born on October 6, 1928, to Joseph Conley McAnally
and Marie Tennessee McAnally (maiden name Kingsoliver) in Independence, Missouri.
As a young man he resided in Joplin and Sedalia before moving back to Independence.
McAnally made Sergeant First Class while serving in Korea from 1952-1954. He
belonged first to Company “G” 5th RCJ APO 52 and switched to the 19th Infantry
Regiment 24th Division September 20, 1954. Before he was sent to Korea, he received
training by military intelligence at a naval base in San Diego, California, on how to send
and receive coded messages if he was ever captured by the North Koreans.
After his service, he returned to Independence and to his job at Westinghouse
Electric Company, and later became a pilot instructor and an active member of Quiet
Birds. At the age of 42, he began work at the Federal Aviation Administration and
retired as a GS 15. After retirement, he joined the VFW and became a member of the
Horse Mounted Guard in the Shrine. McAnally died on September 28, 2002.
SCOPE AND CONTENT NOTE
The papers have been arranged into the following three series:
Personal Correspondence
Miscellaneous Papers
Photographs
The Personal Correspondence series contains letters written by Teddy Stone
McAnally to his mother (Marie Tennessee McAnally), father (Joseph Conley McAnally),
C4182 McAnally, Teddy Stone Page 2
and son (Conley McAnally, addressed as Snapper). These letters date from 1953-1954
and cover his induction into the army at Camp Crowder, Missouri, basic training at Ft.
Roberts, California, and his involvement in the peace-time occupation of Korea. The
letters mention such topics as his base pay, his daily activities, TV shows he watched as
well as USO shows he saw, and his response to different events, such as the Bobby
Greenlease kidnapping and the Korean ceasefire.
Folder 10 contains letters he received from 1953-1954, including letters from
Gary P. Sipes and Ernest E. Lewellen. Folder 11 includes correspondence between
McAnally and Ruth Streaber of Eldon, Missouri. These letters are coded letters based on
a poem, and since McAnally was never actually captured by the North Koreans, they may
have been a way for him to practice the skill.
The Miscellaneous Papers series consists of material pertaining to his service in
Korea. The papers include an army camp newsletter dated October 9, 1953, a registration
certificate for McNally issued on September 18, 1948, and a leave of absence letter from
Westinghouse Electric Company dated February 16, 1953. Also included is a letter to
Mrs. McAnally from the Lt. Col. Arty Commanding, noting McAnally’s arrival at Camp
Roberts, California on February 21, 1953, and his assignment to Battery A, 440th
Armored Field Artillery Battalion.
The Photographs series contains photographs and negatives of McAnally and a
few of his fellow soldiers, taken during his time in the army. The last names included on
the photographs are Thiederman, Stulby, Lewellen, Miller, and Sipes.
FOLDER LIST
f. 1-11 Personal Correspondence
f. 1 2/9/1953-3/31/1953
f. 2 4/5/1953-7/5/1953
f. 3 8/3/1953-9/30/1953
f. 4 10/1/1953-11/30/1953
f. 5 12/1/1953-2/28/1954
f. 6 3/1/1954-4/27/1954
f. 7 5/1/1954-6/29/1954
f. 8 7/6/1954-9/28/1954
f. 9 9/30/1954-12/6/1954
f. 10 Letters Received, 3/9/1953-7/9/1954
f. 11 Coded Letters, 7/30/1953-10/6/1955
f. 12 Miscellaneous Papers, 1953
f. 13 Photographs, 1950s
INDEX TERMS
Subject Folders Image
Camp Crowder, Missouri 1-10
Fort Roberts, California 13 y
Fort Roberts, California 1-11
C4182 McAnally, Teddy Stone Page 3
Subject Folders Image
Fort Roberts, California--Weather, 1950s 1-11
Greenlease, Bobby--Kidnapping 3-11
Korean War, 1950-1953--U.S. Army 13 y
Korean War, 1950-1953--U.S. Army 1-12
Korea--Weather, 1950s 1-11
McAnally, Teddy Stone (1928-2002) 13 y
McAnally, Teddy Stone (1928-2002) 1-12
U.S. Army, Infantry, 19th Regiment, Company G 13 y
U.S. Army, Infantry, 19th Regiment, Company G 1-12
U.S. Army--Military life, 1950s 13 y
U.S. Army--Military life, 1950s 1-12
U.S. Army--Pay, 1950s 1-11
U.S. Army--Training, 1950s 13 y
U.S. Army--Training, 1950s 1-12
United Service Organization--Camp shows, 1950s 3
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Cheeseburger blues
One might think that living in Western Alaska one would miss fine dining. Such things as steaks and chops or even a good plate of spaghetti and meatballs are really not to be had anywhere where I was and even if there was a café I doubt if it would be very good or affordable. I mean seal and moose can only be fixed so many ways.
The one café Hooper Bay did have was closed down a couple of years before I got there when the state licensing officials realized the village had no running water. Steak, chops, and fine dining is not what is missed however. To a teacher the food item missed most is a cheeseburger.
Not just an ordinary cheeseburger, but a double cheeseburger or DCB as known hence.
Each teacher there had their favorite DCB eating establishment in the lower 48 and they were not above bragging about how much more delectable "mine is than yours." It was a never ending debate.
It came to no surprise to me then that someone eventually suggested that we each fix DCB's based on the particular recipe used back home and bring them to the next Saturday night card game. Perhaps then we could get a better understanding of why each thought their's was the best.
I found myself at a little disadvantage because I did not now how my favorite DCB-making establishment went about making what I was sure the best tasting DCB anywhere. All I knew was that they were good, and I was always stressed-out trying decide between ordering a DCB or the giant tenderloin, equally as good, every time I was in Independence.
The stress would always subside however when I decided to order both. A side of onion rings was mandatory of course. OK, it is just once a year so no lectures.
I did the best I could from what I thought I knew about preparing them but to no avail. I never even came close to the culinary delight as I remembered; my efforts came very short of perfection.
We all showed up a little earlier than usual for the card game on Saturday and proudly displayed our various concoctions. The teachers from California and Arizona did not have much imagination, I thought, because they just put slices of avocado and salsa respectively between the patties.
There was more cheese than meat on the one provided by the teacher from Wisconsin and the DCB from Pennsylvania was burnt as black as coal.
The one with the most daring, I thought, had orange peels laced across the top of the burger, compliments of the Florida representative, and the vice-principal from Mississippi breaded and deep fried his entry and insisted upon serving fried okra as a side dish.
The whole process was an exercise in futility because they each faced the same problem I had. None of us could duplicate the taste of what we remember our particular DCB to be. Any event featuring and eating cheeseburgers with friends with some onion rings and fries thrown in cannot be all bad. That evening we just made the best of the situation.
The one café Hooper Bay did have was closed down a couple of years before I got there when the state licensing officials realized the village had no running water. Steak, chops, and fine dining is not what is missed however. To a teacher the food item missed most is a cheeseburger.
Not just an ordinary cheeseburger, but a double cheeseburger or DCB as known hence.
Each teacher there had their favorite DCB eating establishment in the lower 48 and they were not above bragging about how much more delectable "mine is than yours." It was a never ending debate.
It came to no surprise to me then that someone eventually suggested that we each fix DCB's based on the particular recipe used back home and bring them to the next Saturday night card game. Perhaps then we could get a better understanding of why each thought their's was the best.
I found myself at a little disadvantage because I did not now how my favorite DCB-making establishment went about making what I was sure the best tasting DCB anywhere. All I knew was that they were good, and I was always stressed-out trying decide between ordering a DCB or the giant tenderloin, equally as good, every time I was in Independence.
The stress would always subside however when I decided to order both. A side of onion rings was mandatory of course. OK, it is just once a year so no lectures.
I did the best I could from what I thought I knew about preparing them but to no avail. I never even came close to the culinary delight as I remembered; my efforts came very short of perfection.
We all showed up a little earlier than usual for the card game on Saturday and proudly displayed our various concoctions. The teachers from California and Arizona did not have much imagination, I thought, because they just put slices of avocado and salsa respectively between the patties.
There was more cheese than meat on the one provided by the teacher from Wisconsin and the DCB from Pennsylvania was burnt as black as coal.
The one with the most daring, I thought, had orange peels laced across the top of the burger, compliments of the Florida representative, and the vice-principal from Mississippi breaded and deep fried his entry and insisted upon serving fried okra as a side dish.
The whole process was an exercise in futility because they each faced the same problem I had. None of us could duplicate the taste of what we remember our particular DCB to be. Any event featuring and eating cheeseburgers with friends with some onion rings and fries thrown in cannot be all bad. That evening we just made the best of the situation.
Friday, May 12, 2017
Ice Capades Alaskan Style
There is not a Paul's Pizza to hang out at nor a pool hall in Sugar Creek, Blue Ridge, or Maywood (remember Art's?). But the kids in the village I lived at during my second year in Alaska did seem to have an active social life of sorts along with games that are similar to those in the lower 48.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Ircinrraqs of Alaska
Being of Scotch-Irish decent, I have always believed in Leprechauns. I have never seen one of course, but there are many things I have not seen that I believe. However, believing in Leprechauns is a far cry from believing in Ircinrraqs, or the Little People as they are called by my Eskimos friends.
More than just a few Yup'ik Eskimos believe in reincarnation, ghosts, animals that change into humans, humans that change into animals, bouncing fireballs over the Bering Sea, lights that mysteriously appear on the tundra, and a host of other things that go bump in the night.
Although where I use to live while in Alaska, according to village lore, was built over an ancient burial ground, I cannot say with any certainty that I have experienced any mysterious bumps in the night. But, strange things are done, or happen, in the midnight sun, and who am I to discount such beliefs?
Not every Eskimo I have talked to believes in ghosts, humans and animals that change places at will, tundra lights, or the big bouncing fireball. But I have never talked to an Eskimo who does not believe in the Ircinrraqs. That does not mean they all do, it is just that I have never found one who doesn't.
Ircinrraqs apparently are very tough, resilient, and mean. They were the only phenomenon that really struck fear into the hearts of the villagers.
The little people are rarely seen other than in the middle of the night and then just fleetingly. They live somewhere on the tundra and only venture into the village when everyone is supposed to be asleep. They rummage through the trash, steal fish off the drying racks, and latch on to items left loose. They seldom hurt anyone unless you come upon them suddenly. The kids who are wandering around at all hours of the night are not in real danger but only because they avoid the places where it is said the Little People have been.
On one particular night of the year, however, Ircinrraqs come out in droves and terrorize the village. Of course that night is Oct. 31. According to popular belief, they gather in the graveyard just outside the village and participate in all sorts of debauchery. They eventually work themselves into a frenzy and scamper into the village and a look for any man, woman, or child foolish enough to be out after the witching hour or answer a knock on the door.
My first year in Alaska, on Halloween, I was unaware of the danger and thought it strange that no one showed up for candy after 8 p.m. No child of any repute would consider going home at such an early hour, normally. I've only known of one other time that the children of Hooper Bay observed the curfew. That was when a pack of wolves were reported to be near the river. But none but the brave or foolish venture out after curfew on Halloween in the little village by the Bering Sea
There have been many a lad or lassie, so it is said, caught out on the boardwalk or under the school and dragged out onto the tundra never to be seen again. Some kids have escaped from the little people and are able to tell the tale. A teacher's aide told me that she was one of the lucky ones many years ago who escaped from certain death. I am sure she is still much in demand among the school children that time of year to tell the story.
I tried to pin my good friend Nanook down about the subject and since he was educated at the University of Alaska. I thought I would gather some insight into the legend.
He told me it was not a legend but a truth that should not be regarded with skepticism. When I asked him how he could believe such an outlandish tale he just looked at me and said, "Isn't it just as outlandish, using your logic, to believe in a place where everyone is happy and you live forever?" Well, that is different, I said, and he said "to you."
Every year there is a costume dance on Halloween starting right after school in many an Eskimo village, and afterward the kids comb the village from shanty to shanty acquiring candy. The teachers get hit pretty hard, and are well stocked. The kids, and some adults, will go after the goodies with a fervor, but by 8 p.m. there will not be a soul, at least a human one, who is not snugly wrapped in their seal skin coats, hid snugly away in their plywood houses.
I stated earlier that I, for one, did not believe in such things as Ircinrraqus, Leprechauns being the exception of course. The few fleeting images I noticed when outside at night when I was there can be explained, I assume, and the things that went bump in the night below where I lived were probably due to the heating system. The bouncing ball over the Bering Sea is undoubtedly the sun, and I have known many a human who acted like an animal.
However, one does not have to see to believe and one should never take chances when one does not have to. I made a personal pledge when I was there to participate in the total experience. I handed out candy with the best of them up until the bewitching hour. I got a knock on the door that Halloween night around 8:30 pm and got up to answer it. Well I am here now writing this so one of two things happened. I either opened the door and was not confronted with an Ircinrraqs or I thought about it and went back to my easy chair and pretended to hear nothing. Faith and begorra.
More than just a few Yup'ik Eskimos believe in reincarnation, ghosts, animals that change into humans, humans that change into animals, bouncing fireballs over the Bering Sea, lights that mysteriously appear on the tundra, and a host of other things that go bump in the night.
Although where I use to live while in Alaska, according to village lore, was built over an ancient burial ground, I cannot say with any certainty that I have experienced any mysterious bumps in the night. But, strange things are done, or happen, in the midnight sun, and who am I to discount such beliefs?
Not every Eskimo I have talked to believes in ghosts, humans and animals that change places at will, tundra lights, or the big bouncing fireball. But I have never talked to an Eskimo who does not believe in the Ircinrraqs. That does not mean they all do, it is just that I have never found one who doesn't.
Ircinrraqs apparently are very tough, resilient, and mean. They were the only phenomenon that really struck fear into the hearts of the villagers.
The little people are rarely seen other than in the middle of the night and then just fleetingly. They live somewhere on the tundra and only venture into the village when everyone is supposed to be asleep. They rummage through the trash, steal fish off the drying racks, and latch on to items left loose. They seldom hurt anyone unless you come upon them suddenly. The kids who are wandering around at all hours of the night are not in real danger but only because they avoid the places where it is said the Little People have been.
On one particular night of the year, however, Ircinrraqs come out in droves and terrorize the village. Of course that night is Oct. 31. According to popular belief, they gather in the graveyard just outside the village and participate in all sorts of debauchery. They eventually work themselves into a frenzy and scamper into the village and a look for any man, woman, or child foolish enough to be out after the witching hour or answer a knock on the door.
My first year in Alaska, on Halloween, I was unaware of the danger and thought it strange that no one showed up for candy after 8 p.m. No child of any repute would consider going home at such an early hour, normally. I've only known of one other time that the children of Hooper Bay observed the curfew. That was when a pack of wolves were reported to be near the river. But none but the brave or foolish venture out after curfew on Halloween in the little village by the Bering Sea
There have been many a lad or lassie, so it is said, caught out on the boardwalk or under the school and dragged out onto the tundra never to be seen again. Some kids have escaped from the little people and are able to tell the tale. A teacher's aide told me that she was one of the lucky ones many years ago who escaped from certain death. I am sure she is still much in demand among the school children that time of year to tell the story.
I tried to pin my good friend Nanook down about the subject and since he was educated at the University of Alaska. I thought I would gather some insight into the legend.
He told me it was not a legend but a truth that should not be regarded with skepticism. When I asked him how he could believe such an outlandish tale he just looked at me and said, "Isn't it just as outlandish, using your logic, to believe in a place where everyone is happy and you live forever?" Well, that is different, I said, and he said "to you."
Every year there is a costume dance on Halloween starting right after school in many an Eskimo village, and afterward the kids comb the village from shanty to shanty acquiring candy. The teachers get hit pretty hard, and are well stocked. The kids, and some adults, will go after the goodies with a fervor, but by 8 p.m. there will not be a soul, at least a human one, who is not snugly wrapped in their seal skin coats, hid snugly away in their plywood houses.
I stated earlier that I, for one, did not believe in such things as Ircinrraqus, Leprechauns being the exception of course. The few fleeting images I noticed when outside at night when I was there can be explained, I assume, and the things that went bump in the night below where I lived were probably due to the heating system. The bouncing ball over the Bering Sea is undoubtedly the sun, and I have known many a human who acted like an animal.
However, one does not have to see to believe and one should never take chances when one does not have to. I made a personal pledge when I was there to participate in the total experience. I handed out candy with the best of them up until the bewitching hour. I got a knock on the door that Halloween night around 8:30 pm and got up to answer it. Well I am here now writing this so one of two things happened. I either opened the door and was not confronted with an Ircinrraqs or I thought about it and went back to my easy chair and pretended to hear nothing. Faith and begorra.
Hooper Bay Disaster Plan
Being next to the Bering Sea, our position above sea level was not great.
I lived on the highest ground around, and it measured 7 feet above sea level. We ddid't worry about tornadoes or hurricanes, and the earthquakes that happened were of no consequence. However when the wind is out of the southeast and the rain has not turned to snow, conditions up there resembled the Plaza Flood.
For two years I gazed out my window, past the dump, beyond the graveyard, just east of the abandoned oil tanks and out on to the tundra. I had always wondered why there were large boats sitting out there, hundreds of yards from the bay. Perhaps the boats were pulled there for repairs or were old and were incorporated into fish drying racks.
One day in the fall during first period it started to rain, by second period the wind started blowing – hard. By third period the principal announced that school would be dismissed so the students could get back home before the water covered the only road in town.
As I looked west out my window I could tell the ponds on the tundra were filling up, flowing over the grass and joining to make one big lake.
Pretty soon the water began to spill over the road and quickly flooded the north tundra plane as far as the eye could see. I went to the opposite side of the school and to the northeast I saw the entire tundra under water with boats floating where I had recently been stomping around on the soggy marsh. I began to realize the entire village was surrounded by water and wondered if it would get higher than the 7 feet. If so I wondered what would we do. No one seemed to be in a panic so I was not real concerned, but I did check to see what our emergency hand book had to say about the situation.
There was information on what to do if a person came on campus carrying a gun and what to do if a wild animal wandered into town, (lock the doors, not to keep the animal out but to keep the kids in). There was an earthquake procedure and a standard fire evacuation procedure.
An interesting one told you what to do if you were caught on an ice drift during a field trip. But nothing about flooding.
After the water subsided, I asked as to why there was no procedure in place in case there was a 100- or 500-year rain.
I should have kept my mouth shut, because the principal read my resume and found that I had once worked for the State of Missouri Disaster Operation Office, now called the State Emergency Management Agency. A far better title. Anyway, he appointed me a committee of one to write the procedure.
Not wanting to reinvent any wheel that might be out there, I asked the police chief about such a plan. He did not have one, nor did he think it was necessary, but he did say that after I got done he would like a copy. I went to the village and regional native corporation thinking they might have one, but was told no, but they wanted a copy also.
Apparently word got out, and a couple of other schools in the district asked if they could have a copy.
It had been years since I had written a disaster plan. Back when I was helping to write such plans for the state we had a tried and true method.
We would take an old plan and just change the name of the town or city, make sure we put in the correct nearby river or stream, then visit the area and present the plan to the governing body with much fanfare. Everyone was happy and felt a little safer. I am sure that as the years have gone by the procedure is more professional.
However at the time that did not help me in drafting an emergency plan that dealt with flooding caused by high winds and waves. I thought about contacting an old friend of mine to see if he had a copy of a disaster plan concerning flooding, or better yet tidal waves, or at least something I could finesse into a local disaster recovery plan. He sent me what he had and I developed a pretty good plan by changing Brush Creek to the Bering Sea and the Plaza flat lands to the Alaskan tundra .
However the principal never mentioned it to me again so I did not turn it in. I guess they are getting along OK.
I lived on the highest ground around, and it measured 7 feet above sea level. We ddid't worry about tornadoes or hurricanes, and the earthquakes that happened were of no consequence. However when the wind is out of the southeast and the rain has not turned to snow, conditions up there resembled the Plaza Flood.
For two years I gazed out my window, past the dump, beyond the graveyard, just east of the abandoned oil tanks and out on to the tundra. I had always wondered why there were large boats sitting out there, hundreds of yards from the bay. Perhaps the boats were pulled there for repairs or were old and were incorporated into fish drying racks.
One day in the fall during first period it started to rain, by second period the wind started blowing – hard. By third period the principal announced that school would be dismissed so the students could get back home before the water covered the only road in town.
As I looked west out my window I could tell the ponds on the tundra were filling up, flowing over the grass and joining to make one big lake.
Pretty soon the water began to spill over the road and quickly flooded the north tundra plane as far as the eye could see. I went to the opposite side of the school and to the northeast I saw the entire tundra under water with boats floating where I had recently been stomping around on the soggy marsh. I began to realize the entire village was surrounded by water and wondered if it would get higher than the 7 feet. If so I wondered what would we do. No one seemed to be in a panic so I was not real concerned, but I did check to see what our emergency hand book had to say about the situation.
There was information on what to do if a person came on campus carrying a gun and what to do if a wild animal wandered into town, (lock the doors, not to keep the animal out but to keep the kids in). There was an earthquake procedure and a standard fire evacuation procedure.
An interesting one told you what to do if you were caught on an ice drift during a field trip. But nothing about flooding.
After the water subsided, I asked as to why there was no procedure in place in case there was a 100- or 500-year rain.
I should have kept my mouth shut, because the principal read my resume and found that I had once worked for the State of Missouri Disaster Operation Office, now called the State Emergency Management Agency. A far better title. Anyway, he appointed me a committee of one to write the procedure.
Not wanting to reinvent any wheel that might be out there, I asked the police chief about such a plan. He did not have one, nor did he think it was necessary, but he did say that after I got done he would like a copy. I went to the village and regional native corporation thinking they might have one, but was told no, but they wanted a copy also.
Apparently word got out, and a couple of other schools in the district asked if they could have a copy.
It had been years since I had written a disaster plan. Back when I was helping to write such plans for the state we had a tried and true method.
We would take an old plan and just change the name of the town or city, make sure we put in the correct nearby river or stream, then visit the area and present the plan to the governing body with much fanfare. Everyone was happy and felt a little safer. I am sure that as the years have gone by the procedure is more professional.
However at the time that did not help me in drafting an emergency plan that dealt with flooding caused by high winds and waves. I thought about contacting an old friend of mine to see if he had a copy of a disaster plan concerning flooding, or better yet tidal waves, or at least something I could finesse into a local disaster recovery plan. He sent me what he had and I developed a pretty good plan by changing Brush Creek to the Bering Sea and the Plaza flat lands to the Alaskan tundra .
However the principal never mentioned it to me again so I did not turn it in. I guess they are getting along OK.
Monday, May 8, 2017
On pack ice
Remember when we were young and there always seemed to be one or two guys that your mom did not want you to play with? You know, those neighborhood kids who kept getting you to do things that your mother knew you would not have done if those delinquents had not talked you in to it.
"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.
George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.
The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.
George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.
I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.
Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.
The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.
Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.
George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.
George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.
I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.
George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.
Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.
By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.
George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.
The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.
"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.
George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.
The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.
George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.
I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.
Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.
The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.
Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.
George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.
George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.
I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.
George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.
Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.
By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.
George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.
The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Net Fishing
Fishing has never been a deeply held passion. In fact I cannot think of any deeply held passion I have ever had. I have fished some, especially when I was a kid living in Fairmount. My buddies and I use to have a whale of a time catching bluegills, sun perch and crawdads. One summer while in Alaska I got to go net fishing with the patriarch of one of the two teaching families that lived in the village year round and that was interesting.
We loaded the necessary nets and poles into the trailer attached to the four wheeler and headed down toward the Bering Sea. We turned left at the shore line and went another five miles or so and came around the northern edge of the bay.
When we reached a spot that he thought appropriate he took the net and poles and waded out into the bay to set his net and then returned to the four wheeler where we just sat and talked about guy stuff. This net fishing seemed pretty easy from my view.
My fishing companion said that it took several years for he and his wife to reach the level of acceptability they had in the community. He said that when he first started fishing he would give most of his catch away and for that fact he still does.
No fish would be given away that day because after about an hour he waded back out and, started bringing in the net. We had caught (we?) a very small flounder, a hooligan fish and several jelly fish.
There were others out that same day and as we started our trip back and my friend would stop and talk to each fisherman and ask about their luck that day. No one admitted to catching anything but a few said that there was a couple that were pretty big but somehow got away.
As we were about to make our right turn toward the village I noticed a lump of something on the beech. I asked to go by and have a look. It was a headless walrus, a dead one of course. It had washed up on the beach and was so rank looking and smelly that even the gulls were not interested.
I asked if he had any idea how it got there and he said it could have been any number of ways. One could have been that it was just sick and died and it was found to late to be of any use accept for the ivory tusks and some one just took them off. Or, he continued, it could have been shot but sank before the hunters could retrieve it and then again found later by another, thus the ivory saved. The last thing that he said could have happened was that some poacher just shot the animal, cut off its head and left the rest.
It was probably one of the first two reasons because I have never met an Eskimo who would ever waste a good hunk of walrus meat on purpose.
We loaded the necessary nets and poles into the trailer attached to the four wheeler and headed down toward the Bering Sea. We turned left at the shore line and went another five miles or so and came around the northern edge of the bay.
When we reached a spot that he thought appropriate he took the net and poles and waded out into the bay to set his net and then returned to the four wheeler where we just sat and talked about guy stuff. This net fishing seemed pretty easy from my view.
My fishing companion said that it took several years for he and his wife to reach the level of acceptability they had in the community. He said that when he first started fishing he would give most of his catch away and for that fact he still does.
No fish would be given away that day because after about an hour he waded back out and, started bringing in the net. We had caught (we?) a very small flounder, a hooligan fish and several jelly fish.
There were others out that same day and as we started our trip back and my friend would stop and talk to each fisherman and ask about their luck that day. No one admitted to catching anything but a few said that there was a couple that were pretty big but somehow got away.
As we were about to make our right turn toward the village I noticed a lump of something on the beech. I asked to go by and have a look. It was a headless walrus, a dead one of course. It had washed up on the beach and was so rank looking and smelly that even the gulls were not interested.
I asked if he had any idea how it got there and he said it could have been any number of ways. One could have been that it was just sick and died and it was found to late to be of any use accept for the ivory tusks and some one just took them off. Or, he continued, it could have been shot but sank before the hunters could retrieve it and then again found later by another, thus the ivory saved. The last thing that he said could have happened was that some poacher just shot the animal, cut off its head and left the rest.
It was probably one of the first two reasons because I have never met an Eskimo who would ever waste a good hunk of walrus meat on purpose.
Saturday, May 6, 2017
Toys for Tots
Pitka's Point is along the Yukon River on the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta.
It is not exactly known when the first settlers came to Nigiklik, but they brought with them the Yupi'k Eskimo culture along with the name of "Nigiklik," meaning "to the north." Nor is it exactly known when Mr. Pitka decided to open a trading center.
Mr. Pitka and the trading center are long gone. The people of Pitka's Point enjoy their quiet little village and feel privileged to do so. One hundred and twenty-one Yup'iks live here. The school is the smallest in the Lower Yukon School District. So I went from the largest village and school in the Lower Yukon School District to the smallest.
The high school has been transferred to St. Mary's a few miles down the only road in the Delta and that leaves our school with a population of 32 in K-8. My class size was six. The teacher-to-student ratio can overwhelm one. The other three teachers had about the same class load but one of them had the responsibility of being the lead teacher and site administrator. Because of the astronomical class load, we had three aides, a librarian, a Yup'ik instructor, a maintenance man, a custodian, a cook and a secretary who did not really need the rest of us.
Cynics might think Pitka's Point is a place where teachers go who want to retire but don't want to give up the fat paycheck. Think again. I had four subject matter preparations a day along with at least three and some times four levels for each prep. I also coached cross country, sponsored the student council, was in charge of the yearbook, showed movies every Friday night, and held open gym each night for those students who could control their behavior during the day. And, oh yes, my favorite because it is so nondescript – special projects coordinator.
On afternoon I was passing the time away drinking hot chocolate, warming my feet by the stone fireplace and watching a sled being pulled by dogs on TV.
The phone rang and the caller said, "Is this Conley McAnally?" Without waiting for a reply he continued, "This is Sgt. Jones." I paused a moment and said, "This could be Conley McAnally. What do you want?"
Sgt Jones laughed and replied he got a lot of comments like that lately and assured me he was not a recruiter or the one who tracked down retired National Guardsmen for reactivation. I immediately became suspicious, though, because how did he know I was a retired NG?
"Conley," he said hurriedly, interrupting my paranoia, "your name was given me as the contact person for Toys for Tots for the kids in Pitka's Point." I relaxed, and we coordinated the arrival of the packages.
A few days later early in the morning a C-130 landed at the St. Mary's air strip – no small feat for such a big plane on such a little landing strip on such a cold snowy day. I drove the school truck to the rear of the plane and three Marines jumped down off the ramp and loaded four big bags in the truck bed.
We could not hear to speak over the roar of the engines, but the young Marine who seemed to be in charge – and I mean young – smiled, we shook hands, and he and his small band of brothers jumped back on the plane and took off, I suppose to some other small arctic Eskimo village.
Driving back to Pitka's Point, it occurred to me that I did not even get the kid's – man's – name. He was doing the kids of Pitka's Point such a huge favor and they would be receiving Christmas cheer from a total stranger.
As I sit here writing this I realize how many Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, and Air Force young men and women are allowing us to enjoy a Christmas this year and how they are giving us the most precious gift of all. All are giving us their time many have given their lives and like the young Marines that delivered toys to a bunch of Eskimo tots, we don't even know their names.
It is not exactly known when the first settlers came to Nigiklik, but they brought with them the Yupi'k Eskimo culture along with the name of "Nigiklik," meaning "to the north." Nor is it exactly known when Mr. Pitka decided to open a trading center.
Mr. Pitka and the trading center are long gone. The people of Pitka's Point enjoy their quiet little village and feel privileged to do so. One hundred and twenty-one Yup'iks live here. The school is the smallest in the Lower Yukon School District. So I went from the largest village and school in the Lower Yukon School District to the smallest.
The high school has been transferred to St. Mary's a few miles down the only road in the Delta and that leaves our school with a population of 32 in K-8. My class size was six. The teacher-to-student ratio can overwhelm one. The other three teachers had about the same class load but one of them had the responsibility of being the lead teacher and site administrator. Because of the astronomical class load, we had three aides, a librarian, a Yup'ik instructor, a maintenance man, a custodian, a cook and a secretary who did not really need the rest of us.
Cynics might think Pitka's Point is a place where teachers go who want to retire but don't want to give up the fat paycheck. Think again. I had four subject matter preparations a day along with at least three and some times four levels for each prep. I also coached cross country, sponsored the student council, was in charge of the yearbook, showed movies every Friday night, and held open gym each night for those students who could control their behavior during the day. And, oh yes, my favorite because it is so nondescript – special projects coordinator.
On afternoon I was passing the time away drinking hot chocolate, warming my feet by the stone fireplace and watching a sled being pulled by dogs on TV.
The phone rang and the caller said, "Is this Conley McAnally?" Without waiting for a reply he continued, "This is Sgt. Jones." I paused a moment and said, "This could be Conley McAnally. What do you want?"
Sgt Jones laughed and replied he got a lot of comments like that lately and assured me he was not a recruiter or the one who tracked down retired National Guardsmen for reactivation. I immediately became suspicious, though, because how did he know I was a retired NG?
"Conley," he said hurriedly, interrupting my paranoia, "your name was given me as the contact person for Toys for Tots for the kids in Pitka's Point." I relaxed, and we coordinated the arrival of the packages.
A few days later early in the morning a C-130 landed at the St. Mary's air strip – no small feat for such a big plane on such a little landing strip on such a cold snowy day. I drove the school truck to the rear of the plane and three Marines jumped down off the ramp and loaded four big bags in the truck bed.
We could not hear to speak over the roar of the engines, but the young Marine who seemed to be in charge – and I mean young – smiled, we shook hands, and he and his small band of brothers jumped back on the plane and took off, I suppose to some other small arctic Eskimo village.
Driving back to Pitka's Point, it occurred to me that I did not even get the kid's – man's – name. He was doing the kids of Pitka's Point such a huge favor and they would be receiving Christmas cheer from a total stranger.
As I sit here writing this I realize how many Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, and Air Force young men and women are allowing us to enjoy a Christmas this year and how they are giving us the most precious gift of all. All are giving us their time many have given their lives and like the young Marines that delivered toys to a bunch of Eskimo tots, we don't even know their names.
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Critical Hour
One blizzard evening while living in Pitka's Point along the Yukon River, an event occurred that reminded me of the critical hour.
There use to be a TV show on one of the health channels that followed medical emergencies through what the show called the "critical hour." The premise of the show was that when an emergency occurred, like a heart attack or severe accident, statistically you had one critical hour to begin treatment or the possibility of dying greatly increased.
We had a small clinic in Pitka's Point, but like clinics everywhere, it had its limits. Besides, at the time there was not a trained health aide assigned to our village. That meant that all medical concerns, questions, and procedures had to go to St. Mary's about 15 miles away. St. Mary's had a regional clinic and could provide medical treatment but anyone having a very severe problem would have to be evacuated to a larger regional clinic or even Anchorage, weather permitting.
There were four teachers assigned to Pitka's Point. I was the only male and it seemed that I was relied on more than one might suspect in this age of enlightenment and equality between the sexes. One teacher called me and said that the other two teachers were at her house and that one of them, the youngest one, had a swollen throat and was starting to have trouble breathing. They asked me if I could take her to the clinic, a health aide was going to meet them there.
Well what was I supposed to do say no? I told them I would go start the truck and for them to be ready to go in about 10 minutes. Fifty minutes left in the critical hour.
I no sooner had the truck started when all three came out and said they were very concerned now because since they had called the throat seemed to be swelling faster and the young teacher was having more trouble breathing.
I backed the truck out through the snow, onto the icy road and started winding up the hill toward the main road a mile away. The window wipers worked and my vision through the blizzard was unimpaired but the snow drifts kept causing me to swerve all over the road. Forty minutes left.
As I approached the last hill before the main road I zigged when I should have zagged and plowed into a snow drift. I was stuck.
I immediately put the truck in reverse and tried to back out, did not get very far, and then started the rocking motion I had learned during defensive driving classes. Drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Luckily I managed to get out of the drift, backed back down the hill, got another run, got stuck again but this time the engine died.
I tried to get the truck started but it just sat there and the ignition made the clicking noise we all have heard when the battery dies. Thirty minutes had gone by.
I was wondering what to do, wondering if anyone in the truck knew how to do a tracheotomy, and wondering if we would freeze to death before morning.
I tried the ignition one more time and between prayers and perhaps language that would make a sailor blush the engine started.
I slammed the gear into reverse, backed down the hill, shifted into second and gunned the engine. We slipped and fished tailed back up the road but this time shot onto the main road leading to St. Mary's. Twenty minutes left.
The road was relative clean but for some reason the window wipers became inoperative. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out and drove the rest of the way into St. Mary's without further difficulties.
When we arrived at the clinic with five minutes to spare. The critical hour had been kept intact. The Health Aide on call met us at the door. He examined my friend, and called the on call doctor in Anchorage.
A diagnosis was made and prescription given. The trip back was uneventful, going down hill through the snow was a lot easier.
The medicine the doctor prescribed over the phone apparently worked, the teacher recovered. But the whole episode made me realize that this is not a place for the sick, lame, or lazy.
There use to be a TV show on one of the health channels that followed medical emergencies through what the show called the "critical hour." The premise of the show was that when an emergency occurred, like a heart attack or severe accident, statistically you had one critical hour to begin treatment or the possibility of dying greatly increased.
We had a small clinic in Pitka's Point, but like clinics everywhere, it had its limits. Besides, at the time there was not a trained health aide assigned to our village. That meant that all medical concerns, questions, and procedures had to go to St. Mary's about 15 miles away. St. Mary's had a regional clinic and could provide medical treatment but anyone having a very severe problem would have to be evacuated to a larger regional clinic or even Anchorage, weather permitting.
There were four teachers assigned to Pitka's Point. I was the only male and it seemed that I was relied on more than one might suspect in this age of enlightenment and equality between the sexes. One teacher called me and said that the other two teachers were at her house and that one of them, the youngest one, had a swollen throat and was starting to have trouble breathing. They asked me if I could take her to the clinic, a health aide was going to meet them there.
Well what was I supposed to do say no? I told them I would go start the truck and for them to be ready to go in about 10 minutes. Fifty minutes left in the critical hour.
I no sooner had the truck started when all three came out and said they were very concerned now because since they had called the throat seemed to be swelling faster and the young teacher was having more trouble breathing.
I backed the truck out through the snow, onto the icy road and started winding up the hill toward the main road a mile away. The window wipers worked and my vision through the blizzard was unimpaired but the snow drifts kept causing me to swerve all over the road. Forty minutes left.
As I approached the last hill before the main road I zigged when I should have zagged and plowed into a snow drift. I was stuck.
I immediately put the truck in reverse and tried to back out, did not get very far, and then started the rocking motion I had learned during defensive driving classes. Drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Luckily I managed to get out of the drift, backed back down the hill, got another run, got stuck again but this time the engine died.
I tried to get the truck started but it just sat there and the ignition made the clicking noise we all have heard when the battery dies. Thirty minutes had gone by.
I was wondering what to do, wondering if anyone in the truck knew how to do a tracheotomy, and wondering if we would freeze to death before morning.
I tried the ignition one more time and between prayers and perhaps language that would make a sailor blush the engine started.
I slammed the gear into reverse, backed down the hill, shifted into second and gunned the engine. We slipped and fished tailed back up the road but this time shot onto the main road leading to St. Mary's. Twenty minutes left.
The road was relative clean but for some reason the window wipers became inoperative. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out and drove the rest of the way into St. Mary's without further difficulties.
When we arrived at the clinic with five minutes to spare. The critical hour had been kept intact. The Health Aide on call met us at the door. He examined my friend, and called the on call doctor in Anchorage.
A diagnosis was made and prescription given. The trip back was uneventful, going down hill through the snow was a lot easier.
The medicine the doctor prescribed over the phone apparently worked, the teacher recovered. But the whole episode made me realize that this is not a place for the sick, lame, or lazy.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Keeper of the Sacred Bundle
Every culture has a keeper. A keeper of a bundle of information. The one who keeps the stories that make the clan, tribe, or village what they are. They may be a shaman, elder, or just someone in the village who likes to tell stories. Pitka's Point nestled along the banks of the Yukon River, was no exception. The Keeper was a teacher named Elaagna mallra, or as we called him, Sergie Nick.
Sergie taught Yup'ik language and cultural skills to all 32 students at Pitka's Point. The older ones he took to the shop and showed them the finer points of building sleds. Some of the more talented students he taught to carve in ivory, wood, bone, and soap stone. The art of sewing skins was part of the curriculum, be it a boy or girl student. Bead work was attempted by all, but the girls seemed to enjoy it more than the boys.
The younger children liked the stories and legends he told and several times a year all participated in the "talking circle." That is when all the students or adults connected with the school, and sometimes the community, sat in a circle, given an object that may or may not have any significance, and tell the group how they felt or their innermost thoughts.
The only rule was that no one could interrupt, and what was said in the circle stayed in the circle. The children respected that and I never heard anyone make fun of anyone after the circle disbanded.
The last few years Sergie told me had been hard. "It becomes harder and harder," he said, "for the old ways, beliefs and customs to mean what it used to, to the next generation. Video games, television, action movies, and other western perks seem to take hold much easier." The bundle of information Sergie had however nor his enthusiasm to relate it never seemed to diminish.
If there was one thing I learned living in an Eskimo village it was that kids are kids, people are people, and every time I saw something different or what I thought was different, I stopped and realized that the same thing happens in the Lower 48. We teachers got appalled up there when we would see or hear of bullying, when a kid got involved in drugs or alcohol, when a 14-year-old returned from an exclusive boarding school because he or she was home sick, or when we noticed that Eskimos parents spoil their children. Any of this sound familiar?
Being of Scotch/Irish decent I have found that my children really don't care that much about their ancestry. If you would ask any of them where their ancestors came from they are more often than not to say Indiana. You ask an Alaskan Native where their ancestors came from and they probably will say "here."
The bundle of sacred information our fathers and grandfathers have has less and less meaning each generation. But hope is not lost. Every so often a spark is lit by the Sergies of this world and the torch and stories are passed along. It has probably been that way for generations and no culture past or present has been immune. If one were to visit Pitka's Point, Emmonic, Kotlick, Bethel, or a host of other villages in bush Alaska they will find a Sergie passing on to the next generation all that is and was held sacred, at least once upon a time. A fire will be lit in one or two of the students and the process will repeat itself.
There will always be a Keeper of the Sacred Bundle.
Sergie taught Yup'ik language and cultural skills to all 32 students at Pitka's Point. The older ones he took to the shop and showed them the finer points of building sleds. Some of the more talented students he taught to carve in ivory, wood, bone, and soap stone. The art of sewing skins was part of the curriculum, be it a boy or girl student. Bead work was attempted by all, but the girls seemed to enjoy it more than the boys.
The younger children liked the stories and legends he told and several times a year all participated in the "talking circle." That is when all the students or adults connected with the school, and sometimes the community, sat in a circle, given an object that may or may not have any significance, and tell the group how they felt or their innermost thoughts.
The only rule was that no one could interrupt, and what was said in the circle stayed in the circle. The children respected that and I never heard anyone make fun of anyone after the circle disbanded.
The last few years Sergie told me had been hard. "It becomes harder and harder," he said, "for the old ways, beliefs and customs to mean what it used to, to the next generation. Video games, television, action movies, and other western perks seem to take hold much easier." The bundle of information Sergie had however nor his enthusiasm to relate it never seemed to diminish.
If there was one thing I learned living in an Eskimo village it was that kids are kids, people are people, and every time I saw something different or what I thought was different, I stopped and realized that the same thing happens in the Lower 48. We teachers got appalled up there when we would see or hear of bullying, when a kid got involved in drugs or alcohol, when a 14-year-old returned from an exclusive boarding school because he or she was home sick, or when we noticed that Eskimos parents spoil their children. Any of this sound familiar?
Being of Scotch/Irish decent I have found that my children really don't care that much about their ancestry. If you would ask any of them where their ancestors came from they are more often than not to say Indiana. You ask an Alaskan Native where their ancestors came from and they probably will say "here."
The bundle of sacred information our fathers and grandfathers have has less and less meaning each generation. But hope is not lost. Every so often a spark is lit by the Sergies of this world and the torch and stories are passed along. It has probably been that way for generations and no culture past or present has been immune. If one were to visit Pitka's Point, Emmonic, Kotlick, Bethel, or a host of other villages in bush Alaska they will find a Sergie passing on to the next generation all that is and was held sacred, at least once upon a time. A fire will be lit in one or two of the students and the process will repeat itself.
There will always be a Keeper of the Sacred Bundle.
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