Last night I bundled up at 9:30pm to walk a half mile in a blizzard. Wind was blowing snow circles as I walked down the hill toward the river. The snow had made high banks in some places; I had to climb them over to continue walking down the road. It was -4 degrees with the wind chill at -33. But I knew that I'd be sweating soon.
For over a year, I've been thinking up ways to spend time with women in the village. Finally I'm beginning to become involved in the community, in a way I least excepted, by bathing with them. Most families here do not shower regularly. In fact, some don't have a working bath area in the house. They steam, from a small two-room shack next to their houses.
Steaming, or they call it maqi.
Vinnie Gust lights the steam every evening, giving the men two or three hours to wash. Then, it's the girl's turn. Vinnie's wife, Koodie will call me around 9pm.
"Maqi time," she'll say. No excuses allowed. Not even last night's blizzard.
The first few times were very awkward for me. I'd try to advert my eyes to the coats or corners of the room every time ladies would move around me. I'd stare at the floor during conversations, or try to cover myself with a facecloth. It only took a few more times for me to be comfortable with it all.
The maqi house is a low ceiling, low lighting hut. You enter into a small room first, a foggy sauna. Here you undress and sit and chat with everyone. Three or four times you'd get up and go into the darker, smaller, MUCH hotter room with a stove- an oil barrel tipped to the side, covered with wood and rocks. There are no benches in this room, so we either squat, sit or lay on towels - depending how many ladies go in at once. There are basins for washing, bird wings for slapping (this brings more heat, I guess), and a dipper for splashing. This room can get up to 300 degrees, so we don't spend too long here. Just enough to ease aching muscles, warm the bones, or feel sweat beads boil on our backs.
The smell is mix of burning wood and Herbal Essence bodywash- reminds me that this town is all about meeting tradition with modern day life.
Last night, Koodie hands me what looks like a clothe napkin with grapes and vines on it.
"I bought this for you in town. It's your new bum towel to sit on. Your other one is too big."
Thanks, Koodie. I feel like I'm sworn into this circle of women now.
The maqi is also for naked conversations. Some gossip, some share stories of their youth, others comment to make laughter. It's here that I listen and learn new things; things that would've never been undressed outside the bath house.
We ended at 11:30pm. The blizzard had gotten worse and walking back home was more like climbing back. But it wasn't cold. I was still warm.
In fact, I can guarantee I leave clean and emotionally refreshed every time.
Monday, February 13, 2017
Monday, November 28, 2016
Dancing Queen
Thanksgiving last year was much different than this year. Last year I witnessed a hungry hunter skin and slice up three caribou outside my back door.
This year we played charades and ate too much turkey. Life is getting a little easier for me (in some areas).
Friday night, Kylie, Nicole and I go to the Search and Rescue fund raiser dance. Dressed in sweatshirts and leggings, we arrived a little after 9pm and join the rest of the community. We sit around in a circle in the commons area of the school listening to the band and watching the dancers in the center. The lights were dim, but I saw faces I recognized. Little Gabriel with nothing on but saggy diaper smiles at me. Margie, in her kusbuq and long french braid, dances the two-step with her husband in the center. Tiny waves at me as a gust of cold air comes through the door with her, mixing with the popcorn smell from the concession booth. Wolfe's little friend, Hannah sits in front of me with bare feet, a soda, and peanut M&Ms.
Yep, everyone, old and young are here. And they will be here until midnight.
The band has a country style to it. Playing songs I know, like from Johnny Cash and Elvis. Then they play tunes I don't recognize and words I can't understand. Songs are played for birthdays, anniversaries, and for people who put an extra ten dollars in the the guitar case. I guess this is what a typical town dance would be like.
Then I get asked to dance. Kylie warned me the elders might. Ben said it was alright if they were older than 60. This guy was. His name was Randell Chuk. He was short. He nodded a lot, with a cap like the one Ben still has from his earlier tee ball games. His glasses are thick, and eye brows thicker. And I'm not sure what he is saying as I try to tell him I don't dance well. Well, I showed him. I bumped into, stepped on, and elbowed everybody else on the dance floor. He finally told me to loosen up and follow him. Then it was fun. I am pretty sure I had the steps down for the last twenty seconds of the song. That gave me enough confidence to go out and do a shuffle and twist on my own. And even enough confidence to say yes to the next elder who asked me to be their partner!
This time it was Mike. He was around 70 years, tall, no teeth, and a legend. He is known around town for competing in the Iditarod. Yes, he was a musher who led his dogs in a world famous, 1000 mile race.
He had been dancing all night and probably got the courage to finally ask me once he saw my skill with that other old guy. I thought I did well. I only bumped into a couple twice (It was really not my fault either. Both times it was into Mother and Father. They were going much too fast.) I had such a great time, that when the song ended, I clapped and said, "Oh that was fun!", to which he nodded and said, "good enough".
I didn't take offense. I'd choose a dance party over a blood bath Thanksgiving any day.
This year we played charades and ate too much turkey. Life is getting a little easier for me (in some areas).
Friday night, Kylie, Nicole and I go to the Search and Rescue fund raiser dance. Dressed in sweatshirts and leggings, we arrived a little after 9pm and join the rest of the community. We sit around in a circle in the commons area of the school listening to the band and watching the dancers in the center. The lights were dim, but I saw faces I recognized. Little Gabriel with nothing on but saggy diaper smiles at me. Margie, in her kusbuq and long french braid, dances the two-step with her husband in the center. Tiny waves at me as a gust of cold air comes through the door with her, mixing with the popcorn smell from the concession booth. Wolfe's little friend, Hannah sits in front of me with bare feet, a soda, and peanut M&Ms.
Yep, everyone, old and young are here. And they will be here until midnight.
The band has a country style to it. Playing songs I know, like from Johnny Cash and Elvis. Then they play tunes I don't recognize and words I can't understand. Songs are played for birthdays, anniversaries, and for people who put an extra ten dollars in the the guitar case. I guess this is what a typical town dance would be like.
Then I get asked to dance. Kylie warned me the elders might. Ben said it was alright if they were older than 60. This guy was. His name was Randell Chuk. He was short. He nodded a lot, with a cap like the one Ben still has from his earlier tee ball games. His glasses are thick, and eye brows thicker. And I'm not sure what he is saying as I try to tell him I don't dance well. Well, I showed him. I bumped into, stepped on, and elbowed everybody else on the dance floor. He finally told me to loosen up and follow him. Then it was fun. I am pretty sure I had the steps down for the last twenty seconds of the song. That gave me enough confidence to go out and do a shuffle and twist on my own. And even enough confidence to say yes to the next elder who asked me to be their partner!
This time it was Mike. He was around 70 years, tall, no teeth, and a legend. He is known around town for competing in the Iditarod. Yes, he was a musher who led his dogs in a world famous, 1000 mile race.
He had been dancing all night and probably got the courage to finally ask me once he saw my skill with that other old guy. I thought I did well. I only bumped into a couple twice (It was really not my fault either. Both times it was into Mother and Father. They were going much too fast.) I had such a great time, that when the song ended, I clapped and said, "Oh that was fun!", to which he nodded and said, "good enough".
I didn't take offense. I'd choose a dance party over a blood bath Thanksgiving any day.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Graces
I'm reading a devotional from a well known book, One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp. This daily read encourages you to find God's grace in everyday life. The writer challenges the reader to look at things with a grateful heart, realizing that we are blessed with simple things because of God's grace to us.
I'm sharing my top two from this week:
Blueberry runs - I have never lived in such a beautiful place to run. Sure, it's hilly; and the tundra can either prick your heals or make them sink in wet sponge-like moss... but the blueberries! Kara and I ran past a patch that blanketed the ground in dark blue. We quickly turned around and picked and ate until we couldn't eat anymore. Ben must think I'm an endurance runner when I'm out for an hour.
Little does he know that half that hour is sitting, eating wild berries.
Kylie - my other gift of grace. She became a good friend to me here last year. But now she's not just a friend. She's Wolfe's teacher, and baby lover, and an exercise enthusiast. So Sunday she's making Dagny giggle during house church, Tuesday she is sending me pictures of Wolfe on the playground, then that same
night she invites me to volleyball. She also loves Jesus; and I'm reminded of God's grace through that.
I'm sharing my top two from this week:
Blueberry runs - I have never lived in such a beautiful place to run. Sure, it's hilly; and the tundra can either prick your heals or make them sink in wet sponge-like moss... but the blueberries! Kara and I ran past a patch that blanketed the ground in dark blue. We quickly turned around and picked and ate until we couldn't eat anymore. Ben must think I'm an endurance runner when I'm out for an hour.
Little does he know that half that hour is sitting, eating wild berries.
Kylie - my other gift of grace. She became a good friend to me here last year. But now she's not just a friend. She's Wolfe's teacher, and baby lover, and an exercise enthusiast. So Sunday she's making Dagny giggle during house church, Tuesday she is sending me pictures of Wolfe on the playground, then that same
night she invites me to volleyball. She also loves Jesus; and I'm reminded of God's grace through that.
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| Wolfe showing his artwork to Kylie during our tiny church time |
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Silvers
Let's give Ben a couple more days to gather his thoughts on moose hunting.
Moving onto salmon...
We don't have a boat, or a net. Or even a fishing rod. But we DO have a chest freezer packed full with salmon fillets. (Apart from being so very grateful, sometimes I ask myself, do I like fish that much? Are we prepared to make every meal a salmon meal far into the winter?! Salmon loaf, salmon dip, salmon with pesto, salmon with potatoes, salmon cereal. That last one is just a threat I make to Wolfe.)
Last Wednesday, Wolfe and I joined the principal and her husband, the district superintendent, and Nicole for a little fishing trip. The boat ride was beautiful. Wolfe carries on conversation with everyone about what they wanted to be for Halloween while we rode. We go downstream a bit before we turn around to ride upstream on the other side of the sandbar, getting a great view of New Stuyahok from the river. We pass one or two nets before we get to Ben and Robin's. They drop us off at the opposite end of the shore to fish while they pick their net in the generous Nushagak River. Wolfe holds his little red net looking for fish as he jumps through the shallow water. My not-fishing boots fill with water while I wade with Nicole, casting and reeling. We catch nothing.
The net did. Twenty-eight silver salmon. That's not counting the pinkies they gave to Johnny as he passed by us in his boat. The pinkies go to the dog sled team, and the salmon go to the Garlets.
Moving onto salmon...
We don't have a boat, or a net. Or even a fishing rod. But we DO have a chest freezer packed full with salmon fillets. (Apart from being so very grateful, sometimes I ask myself, do I like fish that much? Are we prepared to make every meal a salmon meal far into the winter?! Salmon loaf, salmon dip, salmon with pesto, salmon with potatoes, salmon cereal. That last one is just a threat I make to Wolfe.)
Last Wednesday, Wolfe and I joined the principal and her husband, the district superintendent, and Nicole for a little fishing trip. The boat ride was beautiful. Wolfe carries on conversation with everyone about what they wanted to be for Halloween while we rode. We go downstream a bit before we turn around to ride upstream on the other side of the sandbar, getting a great view of New Stuyahok from the river. We pass one or two nets before we get to Ben and Robin's. They drop us off at the opposite end of the shore to fish while they pick their net in the generous Nushagak River. Wolfe holds his little red net looking for fish as he jumps through the shallow water. My not-fishing boots fill with water while I wade with Nicole, casting and reeling. We catch nothing.
The net did. Twenty-eight silver salmon. That's not counting the pinkies they gave to Johnny as he passed by us in his boat. The pinkies go to the dog sled team, and the salmon go to the Garlets.
And then there is the processing part. That goes hours into the night. Our kitchen begins to smell fishy and our hands begin to feel scaly. Cut, rinse, dry, wrap, seal, freeze. Repeat twenty-eight times. Now I can say I know how to cut, pack and freeze fresh fish.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
First Day of Moose Season
This post is more of an introduction, or prologue, of the next blog entry. This will be a special guest entry, as it will be written by Ben.
Thursday he begged to go on a hunting trip for the very first day of moose season. My only requirement was that he took pictures, and write about it on my blog. The trip is taking longer than anticipated and I'm beginning to wonder when my husband is coming home. He's out in the cold and rain now, sending me messages through a GPS texting device. No word of a bull moose as of yet...
But here is a picture of him with a silver salmon for now (which he caught two weeks ago). That should get us excited.
But these three days of single parenting have not been bad. The best part was yesterday, when we spent time with the principal and her husband, and another new teacher. We pick blueberries for a happy two hours in the drizzle rain (that's pretty good with three children). Wolfe ate most of his but Ruby and I managed to pick enough for blueberry muffins.
We will see who is the breadwinner this weekend- moose or muffin?
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| Ben let Wolfe drive! |
Monday, August 15, 2016
Our First Week Back
Hello again.
After four months of summer vacation we returned to our home in Alaska. This time as a family of five, and a family with (a little more) experience of living in the bush.
And this time around, no one got sick on the bush flight.
The cool, wet weather greeted us as our plane landed on the pebble and dirt runway. Clay was there to load us and our thousand dollar grocery order in the school van. We didn't get far down the road when I asked Clay to stop the truck. I quickly hopped out with Dagny. It was windy, so I wrapped her blanket around her, set her on the ground beside the road, and rocked her body back and forth in the damp dirt. She squinted and Ben snapped a picture; then we scooped her back up and rode two miles to the village of New Stuyahok.
It is a tradition of our village, and other tiny villages around us, that once the mama returns from the hospital with her baby, the baby is to be rolled in the soil of her hometown. Although New Stuyahok isn't my hometown, it felt appropriate at that moment. (Sorry, Webster, NY). It reminds me of "from dust we were formed to dust we return" concept. Genesis 3, right?!
We have now been here for over a week. Some days are really interesting- last Monday I canned 10 pounds of carrots and froze 171 bananas. And some days are less than exciting (yesterday all I did was help Wolfe tape monster pictures on my walls and was Anna to Ruby's Elsa game.) However, each day is met with more of an optimistic view than last year. We know a little more about bush flights, we know a little more about ordering bulk groceries, a little more about the village culture...I could go on. But I won't. Because I can write a little more about it later.
After four months of summer vacation we returned to our home in Alaska. This time as a family of five, and a family with (a little more) experience of living in the bush.
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| We found that some motion sickness can be avoided if we have headphones on. |
The cool, wet weather greeted us as our plane landed on the pebble and dirt runway. Clay was there to load us and our thousand dollar grocery order in the school van. We didn't get far down the road when I asked Clay to stop the truck. I quickly hopped out with Dagny. It was windy, so I wrapped her blanket around her, set her on the ground beside the road, and rocked her body back and forth in the damp dirt. She squinted and Ben snapped a picture; then we scooped her back up and rode two miles to the village of New Stuyahok.
It is a tradition of our village, and other tiny villages around us, that once the mama returns from the hospital with her baby, the baby is to be rolled in the soil of her hometown. Although New Stuyahok isn't my hometown, it felt appropriate at that moment. (Sorry, Webster, NY). It reminds me of "from dust we were formed to dust we return" concept. Genesis 3, right?!
 |
| This job is for the monkeys... |
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| Blueberry picking |
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| Clay had a family addition too. Harvey, the new puppy, is on his far right |
Friday, February 19, 2016
Hannah's Birthday
Last week Wolfe had a play date with his friend Hannah. Hannah's mom, Labovo Wonhola is really sweet, and their house is one of the closest to teacher housing, so I love it whenever they ask Wolfe over to play. As Lobova drops him off, she mentions that Hannah's birthday is Monday and that she will see me then. I nod and smile and wonder what this statement means. Should I stop over with a gift Monday? Bring over some cookies? Will there be a party? Come Monday, I've already forgotten until I'm about to head out the door for a run. Lobova calls me on the phone.
"You can come now. We are waiting on you and one other person."
Wait, what? I stammer, but try hard no to sound irritated:
"You're having a party now? I didn't know. Could we come in an hour?" I needed to get the kids ready, I didn't have a gift; and personally I dislike anything that cuts into my afternoon exercise routine. I could run and then go, right?
"Come now. Bring Wolfgang, Ben and Ruby. We will wait for you to eat," she replied.
All four of us arrived five minutes later, with Father right behind us (I was grateful it was the town's spiritual leader who was later that my family.)
There I was in my running tights with no gift, and the only one not excited to go to a birthday party. That quickly changed; I realized that the thirty or more guest squeezed into that tiny house were all related and we, although not family, were welcomed like family. I, being pregnant, was made to be one of the first in the food line. Adults gave Wolfe hugs and squeezes and offered more Kooaid his immune system could handle. The older crowd laughs when Ruby sticks her finger in the expensive cake to get a good frosting lick.
I enjoyed experiencing how they celebrate too. Right before Hannah blew out the candles, Father lead us in chanting the Lord's prayer, then another prayer and then the happy birthday song. People would then sit and eat a plate a food, wrap another plateful up in tinfoil and head home. The party was short, but with good conversation and lots of laughter. Babies were been held and passed so that I didn't know who belonged to who. Father blessed the little ones and others rejoiced over Hannah's fourth year by giving her verbal blessings rather than wrapped gifts.
We left wishing to have more experiences like that. And I promised myself to not let routine guide my life too much. What if I did run instead of going to the Wonhola's? We all would've missed out on a Alaska style party and I would've had the same run like I do almost every other day. I'm still learning, but at least I'm passing this lesson onto you:
If you come to bush Alaska, expect some Slavic spontaneity from the natives; at it's highest form of love.
"You can come now. We are waiting on you and one other person."
Wait, what? I stammer, but try hard no to sound irritated:
"You're having a party now? I didn't know. Could we come in an hour?" I needed to get the kids ready, I didn't have a gift; and personally I dislike anything that cuts into my afternoon exercise routine. I could run and then go, right?
"Come now. Bring Wolfgang, Ben and Ruby. We will wait for you to eat," she replied.
All four of us arrived five minutes later, with Father right behind us (I was grateful it was the town's spiritual leader who was later that my family.)
There I was in my running tights with no gift, and the only one not excited to go to a birthday party. That quickly changed; I realized that the thirty or more guest squeezed into that tiny house were all related and we, although not family, were welcomed like family. I, being pregnant, was made to be one of the first in the food line. Adults gave Wolfe hugs and squeezes and offered more Kooaid his immune system could handle. The older crowd laughs when Ruby sticks her finger in the expensive cake to get a good frosting lick.
I enjoyed experiencing how they celebrate too. Right before Hannah blew out the candles, Father lead us in chanting the Lord's prayer, then another prayer and then the happy birthday song. People would then sit and eat a plate a food, wrap another plateful up in tinfoil and head home. The party was short, but with good conversation and lots of laughter. Babies were been held and passed so that I didn't know who belonged to who. Father blessed the little ones and others rejoiced over Hannah's fourth year by giving her verbal blessings rather than wrapped gifts.
We left wishing to have more experiences like that. And I promised myself to not let routine guide my life too much. What if I did run instead of going to the Wonhola's? We all would've missed out on a Alaska style party and I would've had the same run like I do almost every other day. I'm still learning, but at least I'm passing this lesson onto you:
If you come to bush Alaska, expect some Slavic spontaneity from the natives; at it's highest form of love.
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