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
Monday, May 29, 2017
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.
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