Alcohol, or the lack thereof, has never been a problem for me. When I was informed that Hooper Bay did not allow the consumption, possession, or sale of alcoholic beverages, however, the forbidden fruit, or grain in this case, seemed more appealing.
Prohibition works about as well here as the 18th Amendment did for the rest of the United States.
Home brew is made by the gallons here and it is no secret who makes it, who drinks it or who sells it. Most of the men and many of the women drink. In fact the only ones who do not drink are the teachers, and when they do they do not admit it to anyone. A teacher being found with alcohol gets a one way ticket out of the village at his own expense.
Once things are forbidden, they become desirable. Once desirability sets in, obtaining such becomes an obsession and once obsession grabs hold ignorance doesn't seem to be far behind.
A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, said that when he first got here he thought it was unfair that the natives got by with drinking and he could not. He tried buying from the local bootlegger but at $150 a fifth it was too steep a price even for a teacher.
His dad was willing to send him alcohol in used after shave lotion bottles. "It worked in Korea," his dad told him. But that never came about. He turned to his mother for help, as all true men do when confronted with a problem, but she was doing penance in a convent and wouldn't be a party to such a thing. His brother, when told of his plight, was appalled and said he would supply all that was needed for $100 a fifth plus shipping and handling. Not a real close family I guess.
He flirted with the idea of mailing it to himself when he went home for Christmas and put his wife's former husband's return address on the package just in case postal inspectors decided to open the package or it broke in shipment. Plausible deniability I guess, but he chickened out.
Making his own was out of the question because he heard that the process smelled and would be a sure to attract attention. He told me that NyQuil on ice with a splash of seal oil was an urban myth and not to try it, it tasted terrible.
He was right. He eventually resigned himself to a life of sobriety, and so have I.
I asked one of my Eskimo friends that since most everyone in the village seemed to drink more often than not, why didn't they just vote prohibition out? They had that right; other villages had done so. Yes, my friend told me, they did have that right, but the elders were against legalizing alcohol and they respected the wishes of their elders.
There is logic somewhere there I guess.
Thursday, June 1, 2017
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
From Russia with...Alaska
Russia is closer to Hooper Bay than Anchorage. Russian influence is just around an Alaskan corner.
I had reason to travel to my first Eskimo village outside Hooper Bay one weekend. The settlement was, and still is I guess, called Russian Mission.
Russian Mission is about an hours plane ride just northeast of Hooper Bay. It hugs the side of a mountain and creeps toward the Yukon River. Russian Mission is home to about 350 Yup'ik Eskimos with a smattering of other than brown eyes. Names like Vaska, Kozev, Nikoff, Alexie, Nickoli, and Stafphanoff are proudly displayed on the school sports banner.
Promyshlenniki – Russian fur traders – established a trading post on the banks of the Yukon in 1830. The Russian Orthodox Church soon followed and started a mission, thus the name. Of course a thriving Eskimo village had been on the same spot for around 10,000 years but such technicalities have never stopped a Gussick from naming anything.
The first thing that struck me as we pulled up to the school, other than all the trees, was a strange-looking animal hanging from a drying rack. I found out it was an otter, caught and skinned by the students to feed the Lower Yukon School District board members who were meeting at the school that day. It was not ready for cooking, though, and the board had to be fed caribou and dried salmon instead. Life is hard sometimes in the Last Frontier.
The Russian Mission school had and I hope still have a subsistence curriculum. Besides learning the three R's, the kids ran trap lines twice a week, spent three weeks a couple of times each year at a fish and hunting camp and learned survival skills. The high school girls were just getting ready to go on their own three-day caribou hunt when I arrived, the boys having gone the previous week.
The Russian Orthodox Church still dominated the scenery with no less than two churches having seen use and a brand new one displaying the onion dome.
The school had 100 students K-12, about one-third of the village population, and nine certified staff including the principal a 17-year veteran of the district and responsible for developing many programs that could be a model for many an Alaskan bush school.
In addition to the subsistence curriculum the school raised enough money the previous year to send some students to Japan to environmental conference and were planning another trip.
I was there because I was the Academic Decathlon coach, and Russian Mission was sponsoring the tournament. The gym was too small to host athletic events and each village in the district was designated to hold at least one district wide event each year. It was Russian Mission's turn.
Forty students from around the district participated in the event. They gave speeches, wrote essays, gave interviews, and took tests in math, English, economics, science, and the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
The event lasted two days and, through superb coaching, Hooper Bay did just fine. Our five girls came in second, third, fourth, and fifth. Two will attend the state championship in Anchorage and our team tied for third with Russian Mission.
I would like to take the credit for our team's achievement but in reality I did very little. I could not get the girls to practice very much and the few times I was half way successful, they more than not did their research by checking and sending e-mails to the boys they met in Russian Mission.
I had reason to travel to my first Eskimo village outside Hooper Bay one weekend. The settlement was, and still is I guess, called Russian Mission.
Russian Mission is about an hours plane ride just northeast of Hooper Bay. It hugs the side of a mountain and creeps toward the Yukon River. Russian Mission is home to about 350 Yup'ik Eskimos with a smattering of other than brown eyes. Names like Vaska, Kozev, Nikoff, Alexie, Nickoli, and Stafphanoff are proudly displayed on the school sports banner.
Promyshlenniki – Russian fur traders – established a trading post on the banks of the Yukon in 1830. The Russian Orthodox Church soon followed and started a mission, thus the name. Of course a thriving Eskimo village had been on the same spot for around 10,000 years but such technicalities have never stopped a Gussick from naming anything.
The first thing that struck me as we pulled up to the school, other than all the trees, was a strange-looking animal hanging from a drying rack. I found out it was an otter, caught and skinned by the students to feed the Lower Yukon School District board members who were meeting at the school that day. It was not ready for cooking, though, and the board had to be fed caribou and dried salmon instead. Life is hard sometimes in the Last Frontier.
The Russian Mission school had and I hope still have a subsistence curriculum. Besides learning the three R's, the kids ran trap lines twice a week, spent three weeks a couple of times each year at a fish and hunting camp and learned survival skills. The high school girls were just getting ready to go on their own three-day caribou hunt when I arrived, the boys having gone the previous week.
The Russian Orthodox Church still dominated the scenery with no less than two churches having seen use and a brand new one displaying the onion dome.
The school had 100 students K-12, about one-third of the village population, and nine certified staff including the principal a 17-year veteran of the district and responsible for developing many programs that could be a model for many an Alaskan bush school.
In addition to the subsistence curriculum the school raised enough money the previous year to send some students to Japan to environmental conference and were planning another trip.
I was there because I was the Academic Decathlon coach, and Russian Mission was sponsoring the tournament. The gym was too small to host athletic events and each village in the district was designated to hold at least one district wide event each year. It was Russian Mission's turn.
Forty students from around the district participated in the event. They gave speeches, wrote essays, gave interviews, and took tests in math, English, economics, science, and the Lewis and Clark Expedition.
The event lasted two days and, through superb coaching, Hooper Bay did just fine. Our five girls came in second, third, fourth, and fifth. Two will attend the state championship in Anchorage and our team tied for third with Russian Mission.
I would like to take the credit for our team's achievement but in reality I did very little. I could not get the girls to practice very much and the few times I was half way successful, they more than not did their research by checking and sending e-mails to the boys they met in Russian Mission.
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.
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