Dear all,
"Break-up" is Alaskan for what other people call "spring" (and New Englanders call "mud season"). I call it the “I can’t get to sleep anymore because the sun doesn’t even start to go down until 9pm and where the heck did all this daylight even come from anyway” season. The snow is still falling lightly, the boyfriend remains clean-shaven, and the (pre-Pevensie) Narnian layer of snow and ice covering everything is starting to break-up. New features of the landscape begin to emerge: people's yards, lines telling you where the road actually starts, bears ...
We think the bears are awake because a few dogs have gone missing from the neighborhood (sorry, but it’s true). If/when I actually see them, I want to know how to shoot a gun. I don’t plan on carrying it – that’s the boyfriend’s job – but I do want to know how to use it. You know, just in case the bear gets to him first. So for the moment, all outdoors adventuring has been put on hold until I can bring to you the second part of the Alaska-grams Playwriting Series, this one to be titled: “How to Shoot a Gun: A Play in (hopefully no more than) Three Acts.” In the meantime, we’ve been playing a lot of Monopoly. And while it will come as no surprise to anyone that I make a horrible capitalist, I was pleased to discover that I do sort of enjoy playing the game.
In keeping with my “A” series (Austen and Achebe already under the belt), I’m reading Jane Addams’ “Twenty Years at Hull House.” I picked it up because the blurb on the back bore a strong resemblance to “The Long Loneliness,” an autobiography by Dorothy Day that I have read many, many times. I haven’t actually gotten to the part yet where she moves to Chicago, founds Hull House, and changes the pattern of American engagement with the working class, but I have been struck by her discussion of the “snare of preparation” that Tolstoy claimed both engaged and ruined our young adulthood. In the very years when we are best suited to go out and actually do, we find ourselves caught instead in “curious inactivity.” (And let’s not pretend that playing Monopoly counts, either.)
Last weekend we did go out – way out – to the northern end of the peninsula where friends’ family has a homestead, and a sauna. This was not a “sahna,” fyi. That’s the sissy kind of steam bath. This was the Finnish word, which I can’t reproduce for you here because I honestly wasn’t too preoccupied with pronunciation while I was sitting in the 200 degree temperature. The family chose and settled on this homestead a long while ago – long for Alaska being anytime fifty years ago, of course – and now much of the family has portioned off land and built their own houses around the lake. The main road out holds their last name – for privacy’s sake, let’s call it “Doe Trail.” The smaller roads carry first names: Sue’s Lane, Jack’s Drive. So Mary Doe lives, basically, at the intersection of Mary and Doe. There’s only one sauna, though – and that’s where everyone congregated at noon on Sunday, to sit and sweat and catch up. Being half-naked and sweaty is the best way to really bond with your family, I think. And it was fun, even if I skipped the part where you emerge from the sauna, skin steaming and face red, and walk through the snow down to the lake where a garden hose neatly transfers water through a hole in the ice and onto you. I opted for the slightly less abrupt “sit outside in your bathing suit and slowly lose all your body heat until you are cold and want to go back into the sauna.” Maybe next time.
In the meantime, I continue to search for a job that doesn’t involve making other people coffee, to contemplate both the strength of the familial unit and the snare of preparation, and to look around -- very carefully -- before I walk out of the house.
Much love to you all,
Showing posts with label books books books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books books books. Show all posts
April 6, 2011
February 16, 2011
Day 47
Dear all,
First, a few items of business:
1. Happy 91st Birthday, Grandpop!
2. Yes, moose meat (and caribou meat) is kosher. I checked.
3. For all of those who have been (im)patiently waiting, I have health insurance again.
No photos this week – I’m trying to back up my computer before I add anything more to it. Just (a lot of) words instead. Consider yourself warned. Next time I’ll have some good shots of the trees, the mountains, and the moose. (Oh, and me learning how to chop wood. You won't want to miss that.)
I’ve been reading more Jane Austen this week (I have to retake the Praxis tests in order to try and switch my teaching license) and thinking a lot about communication, and language. In Austen’s time more could be said indirectly through social codes than directly. Pride and Prejudice’s Elinor Dashwood can’t even ask her own sister if she’s become engaged for fear of crossing the boundaries of indiscretion. And yet the simple act of Marianne (the sister) writing a letter to Willoughby (the man in question) acts as a coded signal for if they weren’t engaged, Marianne could never, by the rules of the uber-polite society to which she belonged, hazard such familiarity. Where direct communication is impossible, indirect language – coded through actions and etiquette – becomes verbose.
I’ve also been listening to the radio far more than I have ever cared to in the past: pop music at the bakery and “Focus on the Family” in the mornings when I’m not at work. (Cause-and-effect of these scenarios: the radio is turned on, I happen to be present, thus I listen.) With Valentine’s Day coming (and going) I’ve heard an insufferable amount of today’s love songs (at the bakery) and a good amount of advice on relationships (at the house). According to our pop music stars, I should either “take a grenade for love” or “stand there and watch you burn.” Meanwhile Jim, Juli, and John advise that I learn to speak my partner’s “language of love.” (For the record, I find “Focus on the Family” to be the more reasonable.)
This past weekend I went up to Anchorage via plane, which takes about 25 minutes. The plane we flew in seats about 9 passengers. My disbelief that we were actually able to fly through the air was topped only by my utter astonishment that we were able to land safely on the icy runway. I find all attempts at flight amazing – it’s just that in a plane this size I am not so removed from the process of flying that I can forget to be in awe of it.
Chester and I went to see the Anchorage Symphony Orchestra perform “Classical Mystery Tour,” which I had assumed would be a collection of Beatles’ hits performed by a classically-trained orchestra. And it was, at first – a nice medley of pop tunes and love songs enriched by a large group of wonderful musicians. And then, it got better.
I have to admit that my focus was first on the costumes (gray matching suits with skinny ties), and only secondarily on the music. I was primarily curious if the mop-tops of “John,” “Paul,” “George,” and “Ringo” were wigs. They were: their haircuts changed time periods along with their outfits, from skinny suits to oversized, shiny Sgt. Pepper uniforms and back to skinny with 70s era jeans, vests, and peace necklaces. To truly communicate “The Beatles” to us, these veteran impersonators used all kinds of language, from the visual symbols of costumes and haircuts to the aural code of somewhat contrived Liverpoolian accents. Most of all, they used the language of music, communicating messages of love both potent (“Maybe I’m Amazed”) and painful (“Yesterday”), of hope (“Imagine”), of loneliness (“Eleanor Rigby”), and of … marine mammals? (“I am the Walrus.”)
The primary communication, though, was of joy. After I had tallied the costumes, lights, and stage mics (old habits die hard), I sat and watched the audience watch “The Beatles” entertain us with wonderful songs (and slightly less wonderful between-song patter). The kids next to me, eight or nine years old apiece, were as entranced with “All You Need Is Love” as those in the audience who could remember hearing it the first time around. And as much as I loved the songs, the live performance, and yes, the impersonations (“John” was by far the best), it was this act of communication that struck me the most – the one that brought together an entire hall of disparate persons into one place, one time, one shared experience of happy entertainment.
On the way back from Anchorage it was windy out, and we buckled into the plane with full warning that the ride might be somewhat “bumpy.” Bumpy, my friends, is certainly one word for it. As I attempted to keep my eyes closed, thoughts calm, and stomach firmly in place, I found myself grateful for the language our pilot expertly knew how to speak, one of dials and gauges and wind currents and who knows what else.
When I moved to France for a year, it was hard to be patient as I slowly grew accustomed to the language -- of French, yes, but also to the language of culture that had me feeling very far away from home. Here I am now just as far away as before, but with new forms of communication that make all the difference in the world. Cell phones, text messaging, email, video chat, and, implausibly, even a blog – I am so grateful for all of the communication I’ve been able to keep up with you all. At times it makes me feel much farther away, but it’s worth it.
I never thought I’d be able to convince myself that keeping a blog was a good thing, but then I never thought I’d find myself listening to “Focus on the Family” in the mornings. Or, for that matter, see the Beatles play a live show. As we say around here: with God all things are possible. Even, implausibly, hurtling through the nighttime air to land a tiny plane on an icy runway in a lot of wind.
Much love,
First, a few items of business:
1. Happy 91st Birthday, Grandpop!
2. Yes, moose meat (and caribou meat) is kosher. I checked.
3. For all of those who have been (im)patiently waiting, I have health insurance again.
No photos this week – I’m trying to back up my computer before I add anything more to it. Just (a lot of) words instead. Consider yourself warned. Next time I’ll have some good shots of the trees, the mountains, and the moose. (Oh, and me learning how to chop wood. You won't want to miss that.)
I’ve been reading more Jane Austen this week (I have to retake the Praxis tests in order to try and switch my teaching license) and thinking a lot about communication, and language. In Austen’s time more could be said indirectly through social codes than directly. Pride and Prejudice’s Elinor Dashwood can’t even ask her own sister if she’s become engaged for fear of crossing the boundaries of indiscretion. And yet the simple act of Marianne (the sister) writing a letter to Willoughby (the man in question) acts as a coded signal for if they weren’t engaged, Marianne could never, by the rules of the uber-polite society to which she belonged, hazard such familiarity. Where direct communication is impossible, indirect language – coded through actions and etiquette – becomes verbose.
I’ve also been listening to the radio far more than I have ever cared to in the past: pop music at the bakery and “Focus on the Family” in the mornings when I’m not at work. (Cause-and-effect of these scenarios: the radio is turned on, I happen to be present, thus I listen.) With Valentine’s Day coming (and going) I’ve heard an insufferable amount of today’s love songs (at the bakery) and a good amount of advice on relationships (at the house). According to our pop music stars, I should either “take a grenade for love” or “stand there and watch you burn.” Meanwhile Jim, Juli, and John advise that I learn to speak my partner’s “language of love.” (For the record, I find “Focus on the Family” to be the more reasonable.)
This past weekend I went up to Anchorage via plane, which takes about 25 minutes. The plane we flew in seats about 9 passengers. My disbelief that we were actually able to fly through the air was topped only by my utter astonishment that we were able to land safely on the icy runway. I find all attempts at flight amazing – it’s just that in a plane this size I am not so removed from the process of flying that I can forget to be in awe of it.
Chester and I went to see the Anchorage Symphony Orchestra perform “Classical Mystery Tour,” which I had assumed would be a collection of Beatles’ hits performed by a classically-trained orchestra. And it was, at first – a nice medley of pop tunes and love songs enriched by a large group of wonderful musicians. And then, it got better.
I have to admit that my focus was first on the costumes (gray matching suits with skinny ties), and only secondarily on the music. I was primarily curious if the mop-tops of “John,” “Paul,” “George,” and “Ringo” were wigs. They were: their haircuts changed time periods along with their outfits, from skinny suits to oversized, shiny Sgt. Pepper uniforms and back to skinny with 70s era jeans, vests, and peace necklaces. To truly communicate “The Beatles” to us, these veteran impersonators used all kinds of language, from the visual symbols of costumes and haircuts to the aural code of somewhat contrived Liverpoolian accents. Most of all, they used the language of music, communicating messages of love both potent (“Maybe I’m Amazed”) and painful (“Yesterday”), of hope (“Imagine”), of loneliness (“Eleanor Rigby”), and of … marine mammals? (“I am the Walrus.”)
The primary communication, though, was of joy. After I had tallied the costumes, lights, and stage mics (old habits die hard), I sat and watched the audience watch “The Beatles” entertain us with wonderful songs (and slightly less wonderful between-song patter). The kids next to me, eight or nine years old apiece, were as entranced with “All You Need Is Love” as those in the audience who could remember hearing it the first time around. And as much as I loved the songs, the live performance, and yes, the impersonations (“John” was by far the best), it was this act of communication that struck me the most – the one that brought together an entire hall of disparate persons into one place, one time, one shared experience of happy entertainment.
On the way back from Anchorage it was windy out, and we buckled into the plane with full warning that the ride might be somewhat “bumpy.” Bumpy, my friends, is certainly one word for it. As I attempted to keep my eyes closed, thoughts calm, and stomach firmly in place, I found myself grateful for the language our pilot expertly knew how to speak, one of dials and gauges and wind currents and who knows what else.
When I moved to France for a year, it was hard to be patient as I slowly grew accustomed to the language -- of French, yes, but also to the language of culture that had me feeling very far away from home. Here I am now just as far away as before, but with new forms of communication that make all the difference in the world. Cell phones, text messaging, email, video chat, and, implausibly, even a blog – I am so grateful for all of the communication I’ve been able to keep up with you all. At times it makes me feel much farther away, but it’s worth it.
I never thought I’d be able to convince myself that keeping a blog was a good thing, but then I never thought I’d find myself listening to “Focus on the Family” in the mornings. Or, for that matter, see the Beatles play a live show. As we say around here: with God all things are possible. Even, implausibly, hurtling through the nighttime air to land a tiny plane on an icy runway in a lot of wind.
Much love,
January 28, 2011
Day 25
Hi everyone,
First of all, I know I promised to send these out more frequently than every 10 days. If you count my failed attempt two days ago, then I succeeded. If you don't count that, then I'm sorry, I lied.
Secondly, sometimes I'm bad about being in touch with the people I care about. I was hearing from family members that they were forwarding on my messages to friends and others asking how I was doing, so partly by request and partly by arrogance (I'm vain enough to assume you'll want to receive updates on how I'm doing) I've added a lot more family and friends to these emails. If you don't want to receive them, I won't be offended - just let me know. If you want to order any back issues (Alaska-gram Days 1, 5, and 16) just give me an email. They cost 3 cookies apiece (I accept chocolate-chip or oatmeal, no raisins).
So, to answer the question "what exactly are you doing up there?" here's what my week often looks like:
Monday: Cooking/Baking. I've made a lot of soup, a little bit of meatballs (which, surprisingly, turned out ok) and a lot of bread. I also tried to make croissants, which was a disastrous failure, but oh well - it just means I can only improve next time.
Sometimes the three-year-old at the house helps me cook. Here was our conversation while counting the butter sticks needed for the croissant dough.
Me: One stick of butter ...
E: One ...
Me: What comes after one?
E: Um... Not-one!
Me: Well, true. Also - two. Two sticks of butter.
E: Two!
Me: What comes after two?
E: Um ... one!
Tuesday: Continuing Attempts to Learn the Guitar. No photos of this one, sorry. Tuesday night is "Bluegrass Night" at Guido's Pizza. (You can't make this stuff up, people.) It's a motley collection of people in their 40s and 50s learning to play guitar, fiddle, banjo, and one guy with what looks to me only like a stick, washtub, and a big string. Well, some people are learning to play, and some already know how. (And some who apparently already know how still appear, to me, to be learning.) Chester plays fiddle there and I knit. I'm working up the courage to bring along his guitar. After all, I already know the three chords they play.
Wednesday: Bible Study. Chester gets together with a bunch of his friends from high school and I contribute in the best way I know, namely, food. Last week I made a big stir fry and, that's right, Bible verse fortune cookies.
Thursday: Miscellany Night! Sometimes we go to movies at the Bear's Tooth, which is a local restaurant that also happens to have a movie screen. They took out every other row of seats and replaced them with tables, so you can order your pizza or burrito and then eat it while you watch the movie. Here's my advice: if you are going to see an action movie with lots of killings (RED), don't order something with lots of tomato sauce (chicken and mushroom pizza). Both would probably be pretty good, if separate from each other.
Sometimes we hit up thrift stores to buy things like wool pants for hiking and ice skates for, well, ice skating. So far I'm sticking to things that require a level surface - hiking, snow shoeing, ice skating, and hopefully soon cross country skiing. Maybe soon we'll up the stakes, so to speak, with something more downhill. But first I'm still getting used to the cold -- I only lasted 10 minutes when we tried ice skating, but I'm hoping to try again this weekend. As long as it above 20 degrees.
Last week on Thursday Chester and I went to the local Brewer's warehouse and picked up the supplies for beer. I tried to take pictures of the process, but it basically just looks like a giant pot of really gross tea boiling on the stove, so it wasn't too picturesque. The beer is currently sitting in the bucket, doing its fermenting thing, but I think there'll be some bottling this weekend so stay tuned for updates.
(Side note: we picked the combination of malts by taste, but if I had the choice I would have picked the recipe for "You're-A-Peein' Altbeer" or "Stinky Hermit Stout" just for name alone.)
Fridays we try to head to the Peninsula where Chester grew up, for outdoor adventuring (for me, "brief strolls" for Chester) and meeting up with friends and family. In the times between, I'm looking for work, trying to get my licensure transferred (a simply ridiculous series of red tape hurdles), and reading some books I've always meant to read. I just finished Kavalier and Clay and, for those of you who kept telling me to read it, you were right. It is simply wonderful.
As are all of you.
Love –
Addendum:
The video that failed to work in the last email -- I've put it up here. (Or I will, as soon as I can figure out how.)
This should (will) show up as little video. If so, you can click on it. If you click on the triangle symbol on the bottom left-hand, the video should start playing. If you accidentally click twice, it will start to play and then pause itself, so you'll have to try clicking again. If this doesn't work, you might need to ask a Grandchild. The video is short - 15 seconds - and the sound is mostly just the noise of the truck. AT the end you can hear me say, "I don't think I did that right" (which I hadn't), and then Chester starts laughing.
First of all, I know I promised to send these out more frequently than every 10 days. If you count my failed attempt two days ago, then I succeeded. If you don't count that, then I'm sorry, I lied.
Secondly, sometimes I'm bad about being in touch with the people I care about. I was hearing from family members that they were forwarding on my messages to friends and others asking how I was doing, so partly by request and partly by arrogance (I'm vain enough to assume you'll want to receive updates on how I'm doing) I've added a lot more family and friends to these emails. If you don't want to receive them, I won't be offended - just let me know. If you want to order any back issues (Alaska-gram Days 1, 5, and 16) just give me an email. They cost 3 cookies apiece (I accept chocolate-chip or oatmeal, no raisins).
So, to answer the question "what exactly are you doing up there?" here's what my week often looks like:
Monday: Cooking/Baking. I've made a lot of soup, a little bit of meatballs (which, surprisingly, turned out ok) and a lot of bread. I also tried to make croissants, which was a disastrous failure, but oh well - it just means I can only improve next time.
Sometimes the three-year-old at the house helps me cook. Here was our conversation while counting the butter sticks needed for the croissant dough.
Me: One stick of butter ...
E: One ...
Me: What comes after one?
E: Um... Not-one!
Me: Well, true. Also - two. Two sticks of butter.
E: Two!
Me: What comes after two?
E: Um ... one!
Tuesday: Continuing Attempts to Learn the Guitar. No photos of this one, sorry. Tuesday night is "Bluegrass Night" at Guido's Pizza. (You can't make this stuff up, people.) It's a motley collection of people in their 40s and 50s learning to play guitar, fiddle, banjo, and one guy with what looks to me only like a stick, washtub, and a big string. Well, some people are learning to play, and some already know how. (And some who apparently already know how still appear, to me, to be learning.) Chester plays fiddle there and I knit. I'm working up the courage to bring along his guitar. After all, I already know the three chords they play.
Wednesday: Bible Study. Chester gets together with a bunch of his friends from high school and I contribute in the best way I know, namely, food. Last week I made a big stir fry and, that's right, Bible verse fortune cookies.
Thursday: Miscellany Night! Sometimes we go to movies at the Bear's Tooth, which is a local restaurant that also happens to have a movie screen. They took out every other row of seats and replaced them with tables, so you can order your pizza or burrito and then eat it while you watch the movie. Here's my advice: if you are going to see an action movie with lots of killings (RED), don't order something with lots of tomato sauce (chicken and mushroom pizza). Both would probably be pretty good, if separate from each other.
Sometimes we hit up thrift stores to buy things like wool pants for hiking and ice skates for, well, ice skating. So far I'm sticking to things that require a level surface - hiking, snow shoeing, ice skating, and hopefully soon cross country skiing. Maybe soon we'll up the stakes, so to speak, with something more downhill. But first I'm still getting used to the cold -- I only lasted 10 minutes when we tried ice skating, but I'm hoping to try again this weekend. As long as it above 20 degrees.
Last week on Thursday Chester and I went to the local Brewer's warehouse and picked up the supplies for beer. I tried to take pictures of the process, but it basically just looks like a giant pot of really gross tea boiling on the stove, so it wasn't too picturesque. The beer is currently sitting in the bucket, doing its fermenting thing, but I think there'll be some bottling this weekend so stay tuned for updates.
(Side note: we picked the combination of malts by taste, but if I had the choice I would have picked the recipe for "You're-A-Peein' Altbeer" or "Stinky Hermit Stout" just for name alone.)
Fridays we try to head to the Peninsula where Chester grew up, for outdoor adventuring (for me, "brief strolls" for Chester) and meeting up with friends and family. In the times between, I'm looking for work, trying to get my licensure transferred (a simply ridiculous series of red tape hurdles), and reading some books I've always meant to read. I just finished Kavalier and Clay and, for those of you who kept telling me to read it, you were right. It is simply wonderful.
As are all of you.
Love –
Addendum:
The video that failed to work in the last email -- I've put it up here. (Or I will, as soon as I can figure out how.)
This should (will) show up as little video. If so, you can click on it. If you click on the triangle symbol on the bottom left-hand, the video should start playing. If you accidentally click twice, it will start to play and then pause itself, so you'll have to try clicking again. If this doesn't work, you might need to ask a Grandchild. The video is short - 15 seconds - and the sound is mostly just the noise of the truck. AT the end you can hear me say, "I don't think I did that right" (which I hadn't), and then Chester starts laughing.
Day 1
Hi all,
Well, I've survived my first twenty-four hours. I didn't get much sleep on the first plane, mostly because I was reading "Looking for Alaska," the young adult novel by John Green that Little Brother gave me for Christmas. It has nothing to do with Alaska the place - that's just the name of one of the characters - but it is an incredible book. HJ, when we were talking about the likelihood of getting published as a young adult author in today's economy, let me just say - if either of us managed to write a book like that one, it would be criminal NOT to be published. It's one of the few times I've read a book and thought, yes, every single word needed to be on that page.
Also, here's something interesting - each of my two flights was jam-packed with families. At first I thought I was just lucky (I sat next to adorable children BOTH times, though on the second flight we were both asleep) but then I realized it made sense - who would want to fly on New Year's Eve? People who don't care about the holiday, that's who - therefore, me, and parents of small children. Anyway, thanks to the invent of the Ipod, Iphone, and various other small screens that can show repeat Dora the Explorer shows, the finger puppets I had packed were unnecessary. No worries - I now live with a 3- and 8-year-old, so they'll come in handy in time.
By the time I boarded the second plane (12:30am Boston time) I was so tired that I fell asleep before we even taxied onto the runway. I woke up somewhere over the Western coast to see cities, large stretches of water, and one marvelous display of large fireworks (so now I have a small idea what the fourth of July looks like to God, which I have to admit, is pretty cool). I did wake up enough to hear them say, 'Happy New Year' over the intercom (no, no Champagne) and then a little while later to catch the second announcement as we flew into the Alaska time zone, "...and now it's 2010 again." If the airline celebrated a second New Year's (which then would have been my third!) I didn't hear it. I woke up as we were getting ready to land, remarked that Alaska looked a lot like Wyoming (very dark, according to Dad), and got myself off the plane and towards the baggage carousel where I met up with Chester Tree-Hopper. He very graciously gathered up all three of my bags, led me past the taxidermied musk-ox in the airport lobby, and out to a 1980s era red Viper that you'll just have to see to believe. He swears it drives really well in the snow. I don't care, I just think it's awesome.
Then I slept. Not as much as I would have liked, but enough to feel slightly recovered. We had a big breakfast with A1 (Chester’s friend from high school, and the main renter of the house) and the two afore-mentioned kids, J (8) and E (3 - or, 'fwree,' depending on who you ask). There's a final adult housemate, A2, who hails from the mid-West. She's Cherokee - I think that's the language she's been studying on flashcards, anyway - and her last name is 'Whitekiller.' No, seriously. But so far she's been very sweet to us.
We did a lot of sitting around after that – A1's brother (one of Chester’s best friends growing up) was here for his last day in town, so we hung out in the living room and played video games. Well, they played video games (mostly Frisbee golf - which apparently, is also a real sport, even though I only remember playing it with hula hoops taped to trees in 8th grade gym class) and I knit. I had started a pair of socks on the plane with the Alpaca yarn from Mom, and it is very soft and welcoming. So welcoming that I actually had to put it away well hidden, because the Manx tabby cat named Tundra could not stay away from what she considered a bouncing, unraveling, delicious ball of joy. Neither could E, for that matter. Turns out that what interests cats often interests 3 year-olds as well. I gave them a decoy ball of red, plain yarn that they both played with for an hour.
The other thing Tundra was desperately interested in was the pair of slippers Chester’s mom sent up for me. I'm sorry, HJ - I was wearing your Bob the Tomato slippers all morning but had to change into the ones from Chester’s mom after I unwrapped them. Don't worry - the rate at which Tundra is trying to eat them ensures that they won't last long. Why is she trying to eat them, you might ask? Because they are made out of cow hide lined with deer skin insoles and beaver fur, with a wolverine-lynx fur ruff. Yes, I'm wearing more types of animals on my feet than I've eaten in my life. And yes, I said wolverine.
Chester had a bunch of presents for me as well, which I'll detail later. Most of them involve "staying warm while out of the house." I think I'm well equipped. Oh, and a cast-iron muffin tin, for which I unsuccessfully tried not to show the most excitement. I'm going to make muffins tomorrow!
Chester loved his present from the Shore St family (a hand-knitted scarf to match my hand-knitted hat). When the sun came out (around 11am) we went for a walk on a path around the neighborhood creek. I tried to get to a place where I could take a picture of the mountains in the near distance, but the pine trees kept blocking my view. I'll try again today. After the walk we hung out a bit more, then went out for pizza in a (successful) attempt to keep me from taking a nap and disturbing my body's ability to adjust to the time change. We went to a place called "Moose's Tooth," a local pizza joint named after a local mountain. It could probably be picked up as-is, clientele still seated, and air-lifted to Vermont where it would fit right in. Hippies in Carharts, Tibetan prayer flags on the walls, and some high-quality inventive pizza on good, thick dough (we had the "Thai Chicken" pizza with bean sprouts, carrot slices, and peanut sauce). And local beer, of course. So far I've noticed that while most of the dairy products and produce are shipped in, the beer is always local.
We went to REI after that since Chester’s friend had given both of us gift certificate for Christmas. Chester looked at avalanche beacons and I looked at books on how to stay alive in Alaska - one of which fell on my head, making shopping at REI the most dangerous part of living here so far, and then went food shopping after that, at a chain store called "Cars." Maybe it's actually "Carr's," but still - it made me keep my eyes out for any car dealerships named "Foods." I didn't see that, but I did see a "Laser Car Wash." Which, apparently, is exactly what it sounds like - they wash your cars with lasers. If I ever prove adventurous enough to see what that's all about, I'll let you know how it goes.
The other thing that made me think of Younger Sister (the first being the food store named "Cars-y") was the way they named their streets downtown. Yes, at 300,000 people, apparently Anchorage likes to think it has a "downtown," "midtown," and various other neighborhoods. Whatever. Anyway, Anchorage being a new-ish city -- unlike old cities such as Boston, whose road system was designed by a blindfolded Octopus with access to a box of Sharpies and a large piece of paper -- is laid out like a grid. Chester told me that the numbered streets run East-West and the lettered streets run North-South. I expected that the "lettered" streets would be, you know, streets with letters in their names. Like "Shore St" or "Oakridge." I did not expect that each street would only have ONE letter - "C St" and "K St." Which led to my delightful discovery that there is, in fact, "A St." If I ever design a town, I will attempt to name as many streets as possible with obvious articles and adjectives: "The St," "Paved St," "Driveable St" ... and so on.
I think that's pretty much everything, and certainly a long enough letter for today. After we drove around for a while on the snow-covered byways (apparently there's no point in trying to get rid of the snow, so rather than salting the roads they just pack it down so it's flat and not too icy) we came home and, since everyone was excited that it had warmed up to 35 degrees, grilled some salmon A2 had caught and frozen. Well, Chester put on his jacket and grilled, and I watched through the window with E and tried to stay awake. Then after dinner I continued to try to stay awake and everyone else played Frisbee golf on the thing that looks-to-me-like-a-Wii-but-
apparently-is-some-other-kind-of-gaming-system. And then finally, at 9pm, I went to bed. I got a full night sleep and woke up feeling very refreshed which is a good thing because apparently, it being so warm and balmy out, today we're going to hike a mountain. At least I've got a nice warm jacket.
Love to you all --
editor’s note: The car is a Probe, not a Viper. I think I made up the name “Viper” because it sounded more appropriate to the car.
Well, I've survived my first twenty-four hours. I didn't get much sleep on the first plane, mostly because I was reading "Looking for Alaska," the young adult novel by John Green that Little Brother gave me for Christmas. It has nothing to do with Alaska the place - that's just the name of one of the characters - but it is an incredible book. HJ, when we were talking about the likelihood of getting published as a young adult author in today's economy, let me just say - if either of us managed to write a book like that one, it would be criminal NOT to be published. It's one of the few times I've read a book and thought, yes, every single word needed to be on that page.
Also, here's something interesting - each of my two flights was jam-packed with families. At first I thought I was just lucky (I sat next to adorable children BOTH times, though on the second flight we were both asleep) but then I realized it made sense - who would want to fly on New Year's Eve? People who don't care about the holiday, that's who - therefore, me, and parents of small children. Anyway, thanks to the invent of the Ipod, Iphone, and various other small screens that can show repeat Dora the Explorer shows, the finger puppets I had packed were unnecessary. No worries - I now live with a 3- and 8-year-old, so they'll come in handy in time.
By the time I boarded the second plane (12:30am Boston time) I was so tired that I fell asleep before we even taxied onto the runway. I woke up somewhere over the Western coast to see cities, large stretches of water, and one marvelous display of large fireworks (so now I have a small idea what the fourth of July looks like to God, which I have to admit, is pretty cool). I did wake up enough to hear them say, 'Happy New Year' over the intercom (no, no Champagne) and then a little while later to catch the second announcement as we flew into the Alaska time zone, "...and now it's 2010 again." If the airline celebrated a second New Year's (which then would have been my third!) I didn't hear it. I woke up as we were getting ready to land, remarked that Alaska looked a lot like Wyoming (very dark, according to Dad), and got myself off the plane and towards the baggage carousel where I met up with Chester Tree-Hopper. He very graciously gathered up all three of my bags, led me past the taxidermied musk-ox in the airport lobby, and out to a 1980s era red Viper that you'll just have to see to believe. He swears it drives really well in the snow. I don't care, I just think it's awesome.
Then I slept. Not as much as I would have liked, but enough to feel slightly recovered. We had a big breakfast with A1 (Chester’s friend from high school, and the main renter of the house) and the two afore-mentioned kids, J (8) and E (3 - or, 'fwree,' depending on who you ask). There's a final adult housemate, A2, who hails from the mid-West. She's Cherokee - I think that's the language she's been studying on flashcards, anyway - and her last name is 'Whitekiller.' No, seriously. But so far she's been very sweet to us.
We did a lot of sitting around after that – A1's brother (one of Chester’s best friends growing up) was here for his last day in town, so we hung out in the living room and played video games. Well, they played video games (mostly Frisbee golf - which apparently, is also a real sport, even though I only remember playing it with hula hoops taped to trees in 8th grade gym class) and I knit. I had started a pair of socks on the plane with the Alpaca yarn from Mom, and it is very soft and welcoming. So welcoming that I actually had to put it away well hidden, because the Manx tabby cat named Tundra could not stay away from what she considered a bouncing, unraveling, delicious ball of joy. Neither could E, for that matter. Turns out that what interests cats often interests 3 year-olds as well. I gave them a decoy ball of red, plain yarn that they both played with for an hour.
The other thing Tundra was desperately interested in was the pair of slippers Chester’s mom sent up for me. I'm sorry, HJ - I was wearing your Bob the Tomato slippers all morning but had to change into the ones from Chester’s mom after I unwrapped them. Don't worry - the rate at which Tundra is trying to eat them ensures that they won't last long. Why is she trying to eat them, you might ask? Because they are made out of cow hide lined with deer skin insoles and beaver fur, with a wolverine-lynx fur ruff. Yes, I'm wearing more types of animals on my feet than I've eaten in my life. And yes, I said wolverine.
Chester had a bunch of presents for me as well, which I'll detail later. Most of them involve "staying warm while out of the house." I think I'm well equipped. Oh, and a cast-iron muffin tin, for which I unsuccessfully tried not to show the most excitement. I'm going to make muffins tomorrow!
Chester loved his present from the Shore St family (a hand-knitted scarf to match my hand-knitted hat). When the sun came out (around 11am) we went for a walk on a path around the neighborhood creek. I tried to get to a place where I could take a picture of the mountains in the near distance, but the pine trees kept blocking my view. I'll try again today. After the walk we hung out a bit more, then went out for pizza in a (successful) attempt to keep me from taking a nap and disturbing my body's ability to adjust to the time change. We went to a place called "Moose's Tooth," a local pizza joint named after a local mountain. It could probably be picked up as-is, clientele still seated, and air-lifted to Vermont where it would fit right in. Hippies in Carharts, Tibetan prayer flags on the walls, and some high-quality inventive pizza on good, thick dough (we had the "Thai Chicken" pizza with bean sprouts, carrot slices, and peanut sauce). And local beer, of course. So far I've noticed that while most of the dairy products and produce are shipped in, the beer is always local.
We went to REI after that since Chester’s friend had given both of us gift certificate for Christmas. Chester looked at avalanche beacons and I looked at books on how to stay alive in Alaska - one of which fell on my head, making shopping at REI the most dangerous part of living here so far, and then went food shopping after that, at a chain store called "Cars." Maybe it's actually "Carr's," but still - it made me keep my eyes out for any car dealerships named "Foods." I didn't see that, but I did see a "Laser Car Wash." Which, apparently, is exactly what it sounds like - they wash your cars with lasers. If I ever prove adventurous enough to see what that's all about, I'll let you know how it goes.
The other thing that made me think of Younger Sister (the first being the food store named "Cars-y") was the way they named their streets downtown. Yes, at 300,000 people, apparently Anchorage likes to think it has a "downtown," "midtown," and various other neighborhoods. Whatever. Anyway, Anchorage being a new-ish city -- unlike old cities such as Boston, whose road system was designed by a blindfolded Octopus with access to a box of Sharpies and a large piece of paper -- is laid out like a grid. Chester told me that the numbered streets run East-West and the lettered streets run North-South. I expected that the "lettered" streets would be, you know, streets with letters in their names. Like "Shore St" or "Oakridge." I did not expect that each street would only have ONE letter - "C St" and "K St." Which led to my delightful discovery that there is, in fact, "A St." If I ever design a town, I will attempt to name as many streets as possible with obvious articles and adjectives: "The St," "Paved St," "Driveable St" ... and so on.
I think that's pretty much everything, and certainly a long enough letter for today. After we drove around for a while on the snow-covered byways (apparently there's no point in trying to get rid of the snow, so rather than salting the roads they just pack it down so it's flat and not too icy) we came home and, since everyone was excited that it had warmed up to 35 degrees, grilled some salmon A2 had caught and frozen. Well, Chester put on his jacket and grilled, and I watched through the window with E and tried to stay awake. Then after dinner I continued to try to stay awake and everyone else played Frisbee golf on the thing that looks-to-me-like-a-Wii-but-
apparently-is-some-other-kind-of-gaming-system. And then finally, at 9pm, I went to bed. I got a full night sleep and woke up feeling very refreshed which is a good thing because apparently, it being so warm and balmy out, today we're going to hike a mountain. At least I've got a nice warm jacket.
Love to you all --
editor’s note: The car is a Probe, not a Viper. I think I made up the name “Viper” because it sounded more appropriate to the car.
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