The World Looks Better in Green

The world looks better in green. And I’m not talking about being in the jungles of Costa Rica rather than the snowy Arctic Circle—although that would be a definite improvement too. No, I’m talking about food.

Dr. Seuss had it right. Green in a diet is the way to go. Although, I don't think green eggs is a very good idea. Salmonella comes to mind. But green vegetables rock! In fact, produce of any kind is enough to cause a stampede in these parts.

We got a phone call today saying that the local grocery store had just gotten in a shipment of fruit, vegetables, and eggs. Around these parts, that’s as good as yelling “Gold!” And you know what happens in Alaska when there’s a gold strike. But those early miners had nothing on a bunch of Alaska Bush teachers chasing after apples and carrots. It was most exciting.

In fact, I was so caught up in the thrill of it all, that my brain turned to mush. Not a thought was processing right. It was beautiful outside! It was promising spring! I half expected robins to start singing in the bare treetops—at which point they would instantly fall out of said treetops, frozen stiff. But still—it was beautiful outside!

So when Keri ran home and revved up the snow machine, Taco and I raced out and jumped on—in clothing fit for a day at the beach. Well, maybe not the beach—but certainly not for our terrain either. Knowing that we were going to be running full throttle over the frozen Yukon River amid unending fields of snow and ice—you’d think it would have occurred to me that maybe gloves and a hat would be a good idea. But NO! I was sucked in by the misleading image of a sun in the sky. By the time we got to the store, I was a popsicle. Frozen through.

Keri and Taco

But not to fear. Just the sight of that glorious produce was enough to warm me from head to toe. It was lovely! An entire portable tabletop holding nothing but boxes of big fat onions, withered potatoes, brown spotted bananas, beautiful red apples and bruised yellow ones, soft mushy oranges, pale green broccoli, hard green pears wrapped in paper, and a single kiwi.

Taco grabbed that kiwi up real fast. It was a steal at only $2.00. And we filled our little carry basket with some of everything. It was heavenly!

But that wasn’t all. In the back of the store, I discovered a stash of lettuce in the cooler next to the eggs. Of course, there was a bunch of slimy stuff on the outside leaves. But I did find one head that only had a slime spot about the size of a golf ball—so I snatched it up.
Taco pointed to the spot and said, “Uh…Mom?”
Keri said, “That’s OK. We can toss the outside leaves.”
I looked at him like he had suddenly grown two heads. “Are you nuts? We can just cut that spot off. The rest of the leaf will be fine!”
Yup, this place sure changes what you're willing to put up with.

And next to the lettuce were the last two zucchinis. I just ignored the price as we dropped them in our basket. During zucchini season down south, you can hardly give them away. But those two prolific squash cost almost $6 each!

Last summer, my mom had a newspaper article hanging on her fridge for quite some time, and it entertained whoever happened to wander into the kitchen. It was about a woman in Montana who chased a bear away by beating it over the head with a zucchini. That must have been some squash! Babe Ruth could have used a bat like that. Well, our two $6 wonders are definitely not in the club category. Any self-respecting bear would laugh out loud if we tried to chase it away with those things. In fact, forget hitting the bear over the head--those slivers of squash are so small, I am sure they would fit up the bear’s nose. But when I cook them up tomorrow, they are going to taste wonderful!

By the time we were finished at that little store, we had three-and-a-half plastic grocery bags of mostly produce. And the cost? A mere $95.70. But at least we get to eat green for a while!

picture of our little village store

Moose Hair

Moose hairs are long, thick, and stiff. But when you fry them, they turn to shrunken, curly, wiry things. How do I know this? Experience. You see, there is no Public Health Department that roams the tundra checking food preparation sites. They don’t evaluate the snow, the dirt, the bathtub, the kitchen floor, or any other surface that an animal might get butchered on. (See “Alaska’s Bounties” in the blog.)

That makes things interesting in the food-making department. We get all sorts of little goodies here that we missed out on in the lower 48. Things like hairs, pebbles, and some suspicious looking goop. Makes life interesting—or disgusting.

Even with a three-washing system, we can’t seem to catch all the foreign matter. (My three-wash system? The hunk of meat gets hosed off good after it’s cut up, again before it gets frozen, and I all but scrub it before I cook it.)

We have a friend who shot a moose near the river. Well, the animal promptly walked to the middle of the river, and fell over. Since the thing has the body mass of a small elephant, they had to butcher it right there—underwater. You’d think that would solve the problem of foreign matter in the meat—but it didn’t. They were still picking out “stuff.”

Apparently, when you cut up an animal outside and on kitchen floors, there’s just no way around it—you are going to get extra little tidbits in the meat.

So I have become a very “picky” eater—I pick foreign objects out of my food. But try as I might, I can’t seem to get them all. I still find myself chewing on the occasional moose-hair. If I stay here much longer, I’ll be to be coughing up hair balls.

A Genealogy Nightmare

The area we live in is a genealogy nightmare. By area, I mean the Yup’ik tribal lands, which are roughly the size of Texas. There are several reasons for these convoluted pedigree charts, and they are all deeply rooted in culture and tradition.

First of all, it is customary—and expected—that a girl will give her first child to her parents. This tradition began long ago when it made semi-sense. That child’s job in life was to be there to take care of the grandparents in their old age, so that when they were too old to gather wood or hunt and fish, there was someone to do it for them. Basically, the kid was doomed to a life of servitude. But the tradition continues today.

As for the girl who gave up her baby, the attitude seems to be a shrug of the shoulders, and “That’s just the way things are.” And girls are rarely married for their first couple of kids, so that usually isn’t an issue.

But this tradition has created an interesting kind of lifestyle. Now, you have some old lady with five or six teenage grandkids lounging around the house—or more likely exploding through the house—and the kids are in control. Although, the more kids the grandparent has in the house, the more money she gets from the government. So I guess they could claim that the kids still take care of their grandparents.

Keri dealt with one old lady here who has several teenage grandchildren living with her—and these kids don’t believe in attending school. Keri went to their house to talk to the grandmother. He went through the entire list of grandkids, and talked about each of their strengths and potential. Then he said, “They could all go on to college, but they need to graduate high school first. And in order to graduate, they have to attend.”

She looked at him like he was daft. “Why do I want them to go to college?” she said. “Then they will just leave and I will have no one to take care of me.” Interesting.

For the genealogists out there, here is part one of the nightmare. When a girl turns over her first baby, the adoption is rarely made legal. It is called a tribal adoption, meaning it is something that is just understood. The grandparent raises the child—unless the grandparent dies or decides they don’t want to any more—then the child gets passed onto someone else. The poor kid bounces around like a pinball. So if you wanted to know who the kid belongs to, you might get several different answers. There is the natural mother (who may not even know what town the child lives in), the “adoptive” mother (who has no actual legal claim and may or may not be caring for the child), and the person who happens to be taking care of the kid at the moment.

But for a REAL mind boggler, try following their tribal families. A friend who works for the state was telling me about a frustration she has to sort through. When an individual dies, especially a prominent person or a family member, then the next baby to be born is often named after that individual. That way, the person can live on. I know that is not an uncommon thing—but here is the kicker. That child then takes on the identity of the dead person. They step into their place in life. So the dead guy’s family has a claim on the baby, and vice versa. And the dead guy’s relatives become the baby’s relatives, in the same relationship as if the baby were the dead guy. Confused yet? Just wait.

There is a kid here in the village who was named after his dead uncle. So that means that all of his siblings and cousins are actually considered to be his nieces and nephews—including his own twin brother. Seriously. And that is how they introduce each other. It’s enough to give you a headache just trying to keep everyone straight. So this kid belongs to his own family (mother and father), but he also belongs to his extended family. He is considered to be his aunt’s brother. In fact, he would be his dad’s brother too. Talk about an identity crisis!

Yup, genealogy gets very convoluted here.

But I can think of one benefit to this mixed up existence. With so many people involved and families being so complicated, there would always be somebody else to point a finger at. As a mom, I was more than happy to lay claim on our kids when they were cute and adorable. But the day they did something stupid like egg a car out of the school bus window, or get hauled home by the cops for water ballooning, they suddenly became my husband’s responsibility. It was somehow his fault that our kids had done something dumb. Wouldn’t it be great to have an entire village to blame!

Moose Run Amuck

The other day, two of our new teachers went for a walk to enjoy the scenery of the bush. They are a married couple, and she happens to be pregnant. While they were meandering along, they bumped into a moose and her calf. They got a quick lesson in Bush Survival 101. AVOID MOTHERS AND THEIR CALVES/CUBS AT ALL COST!!! Actually, that is a pretty good idea for survival in general, and the same rule applies across species. Whether you are talking moose, bears, lions, wildebeest, wild pigs, pigeons, or humans—unless you have a death wish, you don’t get in the middle of a mother and her baby.

So these two hapless teachers were strolling along hand-in-hand, and out from behind a tree tromps a very irritated mama moose. They could tell she was annoyed because of all the snorting and bellowing she did. Well, the woman shrieked and took off running. Her husband was right behind her, trying to work his gun out of his pocket—in all the walks they’d taken, this was the first time he had brought along his pistol. And the moose was rapidly gaining ground. Finally, the guy got his gun worked loose, whirled around, and let off a couple of shots. Turns out he is the world’s worst aim. He missed the giant charging moose bearing down on them, and hit the calf way back in the bushes instead. But it worked. The moose stopped chasing them, and ran back to where her calf was.

Mr. Sharpshooter and his pregnant wife hardly broke stride. They ran full out, heading straight for the village.

Meanwhile, the mama moose became even more agitated—she was out for blood. She circled back around and charged out of the bushes in front of the teachers, cutting off their retreat. But this time, Mr. Sharpshooter was ready; he still had the gun in his hand. He let off a couple more shots, and the moose ran off again. The two of them finally made it back to the village, but were rather upset. In fact, the poor woman about went into labor.

Someone reported the incident to the VPOs—Village Police Officers. This is a group of guys posing as village cops, who are about as effective in handling crimes as a bunch of crossing guards. But apparently, they were fascinated with the whole “moose run amuck” idea. And besides, no self-respecting local would pass up a hunt—so they armed themselves and went in search of the crazed animal.

They realized they’d stumbled upon her when she charged at them from the bushes. She had the entire VPO squad on the run. But never fear. They just regrouped, and headed back in to do their “civic duty.” By the time the day was done, both the moose and her calf were dead. And the VPO squad returned to town, heads held high.

After all—you can’t have a mama protecting her baby. That just goes against the laws of nature.

On a personal note

On a personal note (no Alaska news):

I accidentally dropped off the Personal Note entry that I did, so here is an updated version—with pictures!

Our daughter, Katrina, recently received her mission call. She is going to Ireland/Scotland, and reports to the England MTC (Missionary Training Center) on June 24th.

So Jeff and Katie are going to be serving missions at the same time! Jeff is heading to Mexico City East mission. They will get back within a couple of weeks of each other—unless one of them manages to pull the same stunt Rachelle did, and get multiple extensions.

When Katrina opened her mission call, Keri and Taco and I watched via Skype from Alakanuk, Alaska. But my sister, Rachel, just sent me some pictures of the event, and I just have to share.

This is Katie and my mom holder her just-arrived mission call.

Here is Katrina reading her call. Keri and Taco and I are watching on Skype (the computer on Rachelle's lap) and listening via the phone (Chris is holding it up). Katie was so excited, she started to squeal, and it took a bit before we could actually hear where she is going.

My parents have a world map, and everyone in the family who has served a mission has their name pinned in where their mission is. Katie is about to pin her name up in Ireland/Scotland area. She is so excited, she can’t stand it!

It pains my heart that we weren't able to be there. There were about 15-20 people there when she opened it—grandma, aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings. A lot of family support. It seems like everyone was there but us. But at least we’ve got Skype and digital photography. Modern technology is amazing.

And yup--life is looking good. Even if we have to watch from a distance for now.

It's a Foggy Perspective

Last night, at about midnight, I opened my e-mail and found a note of desperation dashed off by my husband saying that he was stuck in London and needed $3,000. Since he was sitting across the table from me, I asked him how he was enjoying the sites of the city. He said the weather was better in Alaska. He never has enjoyed fog much.

The frustrating part of the whole “stuck in London” scam is that whatever got in and stole his address book also locked him out. Now he can’t get on his e-mail to send out a “DON’T SEND MONEY!” alert. It’s quite a scam they have going. So if some concerned citizen writes back and asks how to help, a real person will answer, pretending to be my husband. Meanwhile, he is sitting here just fine. He’s not stuck in London at all—he’s stuck in Alaska. Help! Send $3,000!

But there is one good thing that has come out of it all. It has made me realize that things could always get worse. For example: the weather.

In all fairness, fog can be beautiful—in short doses. It has an ethereal quality. It lets you fade into another world. One time, it pulled me into a fairy land. A few months ago, my sister Rachel and I ran into a store in Idaho—it was thick fog outside. When we emerged about 20 minutes later, the world had transformed. The moisture in the air had crystallized in the cold, and it made the world look like the inside of a diamond. Everything glittered—even the air. It was magic.

But the only fog we get up here resembles mud soup. And it saves itself for a time when there is a really pressing reason you need to fly in or out of the village. Then it will magically appear…and your flight will be grounded because no bush plane can fly blind. But for the most part, we don’t have to worry about fog. Our 60 mph winds wouldn’t stand for it.

So we may be stuck in the middle of the tundra somewhere around the Arctic Circle. We may have to boil our water, and hunt and trap our food. It may take two days of flying to reach civilization. But at least we aren’t stuck in London. You know—fog.

Alaska's Bounties

Alaska sure has its bounties. Of course, those come at a price.

For example—we decided that if we are going to survive this experience, we had better start eating better. So we placed a produce order with Full Circle Farms. They are a lovely business of green houses and artificial light that grows produce year round. And they ship out orders via the bush planes. Well, the other day, we had our first order delivered to our door. There is a village agent here—a guy who picks up the mail and any packages from the planes and takes them to the post office or the school. And he’s a nice guy. If he thinks a package might be really expensive or important, or might be damaged if it got frozen, he’ll drop it off right at your door. There are some people in life you will do almost anything to stay on their good side. He is at the top of that list.

So, we got our box of produce. In it was a head of lettuce, some Swiss chard, a small stalk of celery, a bunch of green onions, a very small head of broccoli, a nice sized orange pepper, three tiny purple onions, two smallish grapefruit, three apples, four tiny tangerines, a lime-green mango, about eight of the tiniest red potatoes I’d ever seen (with a combined weight of a single russet), and a small (lip gloss sized) jar of fennel & salt. And we were THRILLED! It’s not very often that a house breaks into dance over produce. The cost of that little treasure chest? A mere $67.50. Yup. In the lower 48 we would have had a very difficult time finding the same stuff, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen it sold that small. But if you just went by weight, we could have gotten the same thing for under five bucks. Three if you shopped the sales. But at least we get to eat fresh green stuff for a day or two.

But to make things even more exciting in a “declare it a public holiday” sort of way, Keri and Taco went moose hunting that afternoon—and GOT A MOOSE!!!!! Not only did they get a moose, but on the way back, they almost ran into another one with the snow machine. Moose were out in abundance that night!

A friend of Keri’s, a local by the name of George (though everyone calls him Boise for some unfathomable reason) took them hunting. Showed Keri where he goes to get his moose every year. Yup. This guy has the monopoly on meese—mooses—miisen—those really big things that look like a giant ugly donkey—and he was willing to share. That is one nice friend.

Judging by our past serious lack of success in the hunting department, I really didn’t expect much from the trip. (We are great at trapping rabbits, but had struck out with moose.) So I armed them with toe and hand warmers (those things you put in your boots and gloves so you can carry your own personal heater into the great outdoors while you pretend to rough it). And I humiliated Taco by screaming, “Hey—where’s your hat?!” at the top of my pneumonia-strained lungs. (I had a hard time being heard over the snow machine engine.) Apparently, they were just driving in a circle to make sure the sled was secure. He still had to come inside to finish getting decked out for the trip.

Anyway, when I heard the snow machine pull up front several hours later, I figured their toe and hand warmers had run out of steam or something. I was shocked to see a moose being drug behind in the sled! At first, I thought maybe they had just run into an ugly donkey—like road kill or something. But nope, it was an honest-to-goodness moose. And Keri and Taco were proud as punch!

Personally, I had a hard time looking. I remember being traumatized as a child the time my dad went deer hunting. For weeks, our bedtime story had been several pages out of the novel Bambi. We were convinced shooting animals was a sin.

When it comes to getting meat, I think I prefer picking up nameless and faceless packages of beef in the grocer's freezer. But it's a different world out here.

Keri and Taco brought in the guns and grabbed the knives so they could cut up the moose. (It’s kind of hard to fit the whole thing in a freezer.) About 15 minutes into the job, I heard a banging at the door. There, looking as pathetic as could be, stood my two fearless hunters, each carrying a hind quarter and pleading frostbite.

Before I knew it, I had lost my kitchen floor to the cause.

I threatened them with a night in the great outdoors if there was one drop of blood left anywhere in the house.

They’ve butchered rabbits in my bathtub. They have now butchered a moose on my kitchen floor. I shudder to think what will happen if they ever shoot a bear.