The Catholic Alaskan

Blue Ribbon Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Thu, 05 Sep 2013 12:00:00 +0000

This year, I decided to enter some of my writing into the state fair. And I'm proud to say that I not only won first place for 8 of the 10 (second place for the last two), but Class Champion in fiction and a whopping $42 in award money. You can read a few of my award-winning articles at the Catholic Sistas blog:

The Visitation--won for best biographical essay. Describes the joy of dealing with our oh-so-sensitive family members after the death of our son, Ben, in 2007. Written in short story form.

The Idiocy of Corporate Causes--won for best persuasive essay. This one details my disgust with companies that think their main job is social engineering, not selling their crap.

Five Myths about Miscarriage--won for best informative essay. Though I'm sure my readers know what NOT to say to someone who has lost a child before birth, this one is for those who don't.

Hamster Funeral in the Land of the Midnight Sun--from this site, won for best humorous real-life story.

I also won first place for my honey oatmeal bread. But don't get too excited--it was the only one submitted in the "oatmeal bread" category. I could have turned in dog food with some oatmeal and yeast thrown in and still won, which kinda takes the sparkle out of that blue ribbon. It was good enough for the judges to invite me to do the live bake-off, though, which was great fun.

I had no idea you win a few bucks for first, second, or third places, so next year I intend to submit several hundred items in every obscure writing and baking category. Given the prices of fair food and rides, winning might keep us from having to take out a second mortgage for the kids to enjoy more than half hour of fun.

My Kids' Favorite Activity

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Mon, 02 Sep 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Halfway through their favorite summer activity.

We're officially into fall here and that means the life and death scramble of getting firewood ready for winter. Thanks to researchers at the University of Fairbanks, Alaskans know just how little time and under what conditions our climate will sufficiently cure split wood for burning: six weeks minimum, with the stack covered on top, and good air circulation around the sides and bottom (we use pallets to elevate the stacks from the ground). If you have more drying time, the better, of course, but six weeks will get you there. You can't split too late in the year, though, because once the temps drop below freezing for good, moisture in the wood freezes, too. And trust me: trying to kindle (and rekindle and rekindle) unseasoned wood is a sysiphean task that will eventually unhinge even the most hardcore pyromaniac.

I think it's cool we live somewhere with bona fide woodcutters, who make their living a la Hansel and Gretel's dad. Some woodcutters specialize in dead, standing wood called "beetlekill" and "firekill," which is already dry when felled. Lower 48 states that have lost millions of acres of trees to pine beetle epidemics just recently began using the wood as part of "progressive green initiatives." For many Alaskans, however, there's no need for deliberate, planned use of recycled materials because our rather isolated location already makes even plague-ridden natural resources like beetlekill wood cheaper, easier to acquire, and more efficient to use.

But most firewood starts out as freshly cut logs that must be split and cured to get the longest, most efficient burn. Unfortunately, wood deliveries were delayed this summer because wildfires kept woodcutters out of the spruce- and birch-rich areas around Fairbanks. So the seven cords we anticipated rolling in a cord at a time over several months were all delivered in a single week. For two years, we've battled snow-covered tarps that do their part to make wood gathering in the bitter cold even more odious, so we finally invested in a vehicle tent to house the firewood, as you can see in the picture.

With mid-August giving us just enough time to cure the wood for winter, we spent every spare moment for a week transferring mountains of split firewood into neat stacks under the tent. For once, having so many kids paid off: we were able to form an assembly line and pass the wood from pile to tent with just seconds between each piece. For one week, I had the pleasure of sending the kids out for solo stacking ventures as punishment for bad behavior. They nearly broke down sobbing with relief when we placed the last piece on the stack.

Why firewood? Because despite the fact that Alaska is swimming in oil, it's obscenely expensive to heat with the stuff here. It cost us $800 per month to heat our 2,000 sq ft house with oil before we had the wood stove. With seven months of cold weather, we were spending nearly $6,000 per year on oil. We spent $4,000 to install the stove and it takes about seven cords of wood to get us through the winter. At $275 per cord, that's just $1,925. The first year, the cost of buying the stove and the wood was about the same as heating with oil. But now we save $4,000 per year by heating with a wood stove.

Not to mention the fact that having wood to heat the house means we have a way to stay alive if our boiler ever breaks or there's a power outage. When it's 50 below zero, you can't just bundle up for a few days until the repairs are made. You--and your kids--would probably die if you waited longer than a few hours in those conditions.

Our poor children have come to loathe the endless tasks associated with firewood with the intensity of a thousand sons. As our oldest said, "We split and stack all summer and then haul the wood into the house all winter. As soon as we run out of wood, it's time to split and stack it again. WILL WE EVER BE DONE WITH WOOD?"

It's Alaska, baby...probably not.

The Color Purple

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Thu, 08 Aug 2013 16:19:00 +0000

Years ago, I read Alice Walker's powerful book, The Color Purple. In it, one character says to another: "'I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it."

That's always stuck with me. Especially since natural beauty has always drawn me to God, even when I called myself an atheist. I once turned the corner of an office building in northern Virginia and was assaulted by a long row of cherry trees in bloom. Thousands of pastel petals danced on the wind, swirling along the ground in tiny eddies around my feet. It brought sharp, unbidden, and unwelcome tears to my eyes.

Today, I'm more consciously appreciative of God's work. And in Alaska, you're surrounded by the most spectacular reflection of His beauty. The color purple especially, because the fireweed blankets the landscape all summer.

So named for its propensity to spring up in fire-scorched areas, fireweed is a mixed blessing for Alaskans. On the one hand, its gorgeous stalk of purple flowers is ubiquitous, growing not just in our forests and meadows, but even along our most traveled highways.

Unlike some places in the lower 48, whose roads were built over old, winding cow or wagon paths, Alaskan roads were usually made much more deliberately. And when you have to cut a swath through a thick forest, you tend to make the road very long and very straight. It can be disorienting to drive these roads, because even though you know your friend's house is right off Plack Road, you feel like you've been driving that road for several weeks now. It can be monotonous, to tell the truth, and it always seems to take longer to get somewhere than you remembered it taking last time. In summer, though, the long stretches are beautifully broken up by God, who magnanimously paints lengthy bunches of blooming violet down the sides of the road for your viewing pleasure.

The downside to fireweed is that it acts as a barometer for summer: as the season progresses, the flowers bloom further and further up the stalk. By the time September hits, and the flowers crown the plant, you know the best is over. Which might be a fun way to mark the changing of the guard, unless you're neurotic like me. Then, each time you see the blooms advance you're seized with a sense of panic that your kids aren't spending enough time outside before the snow flies. My kids can always tell when I've seen fireweed because I suddenly insist we go to the lake. "You're vomiting? Who cares! Get in the car, we're going hiking!"

Yep, there's nothing that reminds me how blessed I am to live here like seeing an ocean of fireweed blowing across a field. As you can see, God, I noticed your work.

Hamster Funeral in the Land of the Midnight Sun

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Sat, 13 Jul 2013 19:52:00 +0000

As cool as it may sound to everyone else, sometimes living in a place with near 24-hour sunlight is a pain in the butt. Like that time when your 3-year-old comes into your bedroom and wakes you up as usual to get the day started. So you stumble around (wondering why you feel like you were hit by a truck) as you get her breakfast ready and make your morning coffee. You sit down on the couch and glance at the clock: 3:15 am. This is followed by some very loud wailing and gnashing of teeth as you herd the kid back to her bed. Of course, she's now tantruming, too, because Mom is making her take a "nap" right after she got up.

Then there are the times you get up to go to the bathroom at 4 am, only to discover the three-year-old sitting on the couch eating goldfish crackers while watching cartoons. With every light in the house on, fully dressed with her shoes on. Because "It's morning time, Mom!" She even has the audacity to ask why you aren't up yet.

This is what people tell me happens to Alaskan parents who don't know how to discipline their children properly. Not that I'd know...our children are perfect angels who sleep from 8 pm to 8 am out of sheer loving obedience to me.

Other times the midnight sun can be a blessing, however. Like the evening your daughter comes to you at 10 pm, freaking out because her hamster is acting all twitchy and leaning to one side. You reluctantly get up (you were trying to go to bed early), check on the hamster, and confirm she's got one foot in the grave. A quick Google check reveals she's probably had a stroke and may recover, but you have to feed her baby food and water through a syringe for that to happen.

So you send your daughter to the kitchen to suck up some of your infant's pureed pears for the critter. While she's in the next room, the hamster (which you're holding) gives three final twitches and then dies in your hands. You literally feel the thing's heart stop beating.

You use your thumbs to begin secret chest compressions and give mouth-to-mouth under the guise of kisses. But to no avail: little Mocha is now running on the Big Hamster Wheel in the Sky. You go into the kitchen and inform your daughter that you've killed her pet. You feel like Parent of the Year when she collapses on the floor in a sobbing puddle.

R.I.P. Mocha

You think she'll recover faster if you get rid of the ~~evidence~~ body, so you grab a small box out of the pantry to serve as a makeshift casket, only to have your daughter begin wailing even more loudly as you realize you've put the thing in an empty coffee pod box (Mocha--coffee...get it?). You convince her it's actually a sign from God and a fitting tribute to the hamster, who (like coffee) was warm, sweet, and brought much joy to your lives.

You decide it's best to just bury the thing post-haste. So you carry the hamster casket out to the yard, where you realize how convenient it is that the sun is still shining so you can do all this without it seeming like you're disposing of a mob hit under the cover of darkness. You bury the box and then conduct a brief but reverent memorial service where you thank God for the time you've been given with this esteemed rodent. Everyone cries as you cover the spot with a big stone and fashion a tiny cross out of two wooden sticks and some flower stems (Mocha was a Catholic hamster, after all).

Unfortunately, living in the land of the midnight sun means you're not the only one awake and outside at this hour, as evidenced by the screaming and laughing of your neighbor's teenage sons, who suddenly decide that midnight is the perfect time to begin a new football game just 20 feet away from you.

"Hey, do you mind?" I scream. "We're burying a hamster over here!" The teens, however, seem surprisingly unconcerned about preserving the dignity of your event and continue their game. You're not sure, but it seems even louder now.

You quickly wrap things up and shuffle your weeping daughter back into the house. And marvel that you live in a place where you can hold a pet funeral in the middle of the night without a flashlight.

Alaska: A Pyromaniac's Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 18:40:00 +0000

Yesterday I ventured outside at about noon to keep the 4-year-old busy. But no matter what I did, I couldn't get my glasses cleaned; they were covered with a thin white film of something that made it seem foggy outside. Then I smelled the air and realized it wasn't my glasses or fog, but smoke from the many forest fires.

This shows how the wildfires affect visibility at Denali
(a clear day on left to super smoky on right)

I'd heard about the fires affecting air quality in previous summers, but this is the first time I've seen the smoke cover such a large area for such a long time. There are currently more than 100 active wildfires going on right now, mostly in interior Alaska, with only enough staff to actively combat 10 of the most dangerous ones.Total, there have been more than 400 wildfires this summer--and it's only July 2! On top of that, we've had 15 "prescribed fires," which are tightly controlled, purposeful burns by the forestry service to promote ecological health in certain areas.

We have so many fires that the Division of Forestry recruits "emergency firefighters"--on-call individuals who are trained to join the full-time firefighters when the number or breadth of fires overwhelms the regulars. You can also be trained as an on-call support person, such as a driver or dispatcher, if you aren't quite up to the task of fighting the fires themselves. These are paid positions, not volunteer.

I'm a conflicted soul about the fires. I know the smoke floating through our neighborhood means our firefighters are risking their lives (for which I'm eternally grateful). But I can't help it: I think the ethereal paleness of the landscape is beautiful. And I love the spicy, pipe-tobacco-ish smokiness that lingers in the air. Know that wonderful smell of a smoking summer BBQ grill? Well, this is like walking around in that all the time. I appreciate the fires in the same way you might appreciate a tornado: you know it leaves a swath of devastation in its path, but you still marvel at its natural power and beauty.

We're not to the point where the smoke is so thick it burns your eyes, which I've heard can happen if the fires can't be controlled. Fortunately it rained last night, though, so I hope that quelled some of the blazes. Or at least made them easier to suppress. God knows I'd hate to see our hotshot crews suffer the fatalities recently seen in Arizona.

A Cop's Wife Counts Her Blessings

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Fri, 28 Jun 2013 16:35:00 +0000

In addition to this blog, I write for another one titled, Catholic Sistas. I rarely cross-post, but yesterday's article was just too good not to share with you all. Especially since it showcases my amazing husband, whose desire to live and work in this amazing state is what landed us in Alaska in the first place. Enjoy!

http://www.catholicsistas.com/2013/06/27/christ-in-my-beloved-a-cops-wife-counts-her-blessings/

Zee Plane! Zee Plane!

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Fri, 28 Jun 2013 13:00:00 +0000

One of the drawbacks of the super-hot days (other than my discomfort) is that it makes Alaska very vulnerable to wildfires. The hot, dry air, in addition to sucking all moisture from the landscape and turning the forests into tinderboxes, is resulting in thousands more lightening strikes than usual. And as we all know, dry timber + lightening = forest fires.

A few days ago, we were at the lake near our house (the ice finally melted, sadly), trying to cool off, when planes began repeatedly skimming the lake surface. It took me a while to realize they were scooping up water on these runs. They came by again and again, two at a time, grabbing water to dump on a fire about 30 miles away. We now have so many fires they're being named, as if they're celebrities. I don't know whether the fire our lake water went to that evening was the Moose Creek Fire or the Two Rivers Fire, but our kids were thrilled to see really cool, giant airplanes skimming the water just a few hundred feet from them as they swam:

Of course, the fact that large planes were smashing across the water every 15 minutes didn't stop two boatloads of geniuses from paddling out to the center of the lake in between the planes' visits. And sitting right in the path of the planes, of course. Fortunately, a nearby police officer ~~screamed at them~~ convinced them to quit being stupid and come back to the shoreline before they were all killed. So our kids were at least spared seeing the latest Darwin Award nominees die at Chena Lakes.

Lesson learned: Just because you're smart enough to live in Alaska, doesn't mean you're smart enough to survive it.

My Summer Compared to Yours

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Wed, 26 Jun 2013 19:04:00 +0000

Lest you think that living in Alaska is all flowers and lollipops, I'm here to tell you it's not. For example, for the past two weeks I've been dying. DYING. Why? Because we live 120 miles south of the Arctic Circle and it's 90 freakin' degrees. Day after day.

To people on the East Coast, and especially those in the southern part of the Lower 48, saying it's 90 degrees in June is apt to be met with a "Meh." Some weirdos I know even rejoice in that kind of weather (yes, I'm talking about you, J.C.).

But you need to put it in perspective to really appreciate how much I'm suffering here. Our lowest winter temperature is -60 degrees. Now, we're at 90. That's 150 degrees hotter, folks. Even if we take our average low temp, which is -25F, that's still 115 degrees hotter.

Now let's look at some of your states:

New Hampshire: average winter temp of 21F. Just 70 degrees more to get to 90.
Virginia: average winter temp of 37F. Just 53 more to get to 90.
Texas: average winter temp of 49F. Just 41 more to get to 90.

Now, let's do the math. If your state were to increase 115 degrees from your average winter temperature, this is what your summer would look like compared to ours:

Alaska: -25F+115=90 degrees.
New Hampshire: 21+115=136 degrees.
Virginia: 37+115=152 degrees.
Texas: 49+115=164.

Now, I know it probably feels like it's 160 degrees in Texas in the summers, but the jump isn't actually that steep. Right now, we Alaskans are DYING of the heat. Because while you can always put on enough clothes to stay warm, you can never take off enough to stay cool in weather like this. (And stay on the right side of the law...something I'm kinda bound to, being a cop's wife and all.)

Especially without air conditioning, which no one in Alaska has. Ah, AC...sometimes I lay in my bed at night and between wringing out my sweat towels, try to remember what it was like to walk out of Virginia's outdoor oven during summer and into the cool, crisp climate of an air conditioned house. We used to keep ours so frosty that visiting friends had to bring sweaters just to be comfortable in it. We've never liked the heat, which is why living in Alaska wasn't such a stretch. Now, though...what I wouldn't give for that all-house air conditioning I once took for granted!

What Do You Mean, There's No Cafeteria?

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Thu, 20 Jun 2013 14:00:00 +0000

Near white-out conditions from the ice fog, but school's
still on. The upside is the kids get out in May.

Last fall, we decided our son needed to better appreciate the benefits of homeschooling (i.e., Mom's sacrifices to educate him), so we enrolled him in the local elementary school for one year. And I learned a few things about going to school in Alaska.

For one, it has to be practically Armageddon before they're even willing to consider canceling school here. I remember just one day the entire year it was canceled and that was because we had an ice storm and the roads were completely impassable. There's none of this "2 hours late" crap, either, because it's not like there's going to be a big difference between 9 am and noon when the temperature is expected to rise from 38 below to 30 below. Snow, sleet, a blizzard...they just strap chains on the school bus tires and expect you to be at your pick-up spot.

In contrast, every time I called my sister down in Virginia this past winter, her kids were out of school. Flurries? School's canceled. Three minutes of hail? Canceled. Rain that might freeze at some point in the next six months? Canceled. So it wasn't a surprise when our kids got out of school in mid-May, while hers went up until about a week ago.

Alaskan kids, though, earn that longer summer, in my opinion. School policy is that as long as it's 20 below zero or above, the kids take recess outside. No exceptions. I want you adults to think about that the next time you complain that it's 40 degrees out and you have to go to work. These kids were not only shoved outside in the near-dark bitter cold for half an hour, but expected to play in it. And they did.

The other thing I found interesting is that many Alaskan schools don't have cafeterias; the kids eat in the classrooms. It's a financial decision: why have a huge space that's not used 80% of the time, that you have to heat all winter long? At lunchtime, the kids just eat at their desks. Each classroom has a sink, big trash can, a microwave, napkins, etc. If you want to buy lunch, you go to a small window beside the gym and buy your tray of food. There is no giant room with rows upon rows of tables that sit empty most of the time, with a large commercial kitchen behind it.

To compensate the kids for having to eat in their learning space, the school allows them an additional 30 minutes after lunch for recreation. On "warm" days (defined as 20 below or above), the kids play outside. When it's too cold for that, they can walk the halls, go to the library or computer lab, or play games in the gym. One month, local firefighters came in and read books to the boys while they were eating lunch. It's a rather ingenious way to save on heating costs and the kids seemed to enjoy the variety of lunchtime activities.

A year of doing homework, getting up at o'dark thirty, and dealing with bullies has firmly convinced our son that homeschooling is the way to go, so he's once again back home with us. I'm so glad, because I missed him...I adore that kid and truly hated sending him out all those mornings into the cold darkness to spend the day away from our family. But the experience was good for him. Not only does he do his schoolwork without the slightest complaint now, but he complains the least about our thrice-weekly firewood runs for the woodstove. I guess after spending almost an hour a day outside this past winter, spending 10 minutes hauling wood isn't such a trial after all.

Ice Swimming, Anyone?

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 16:32:00 +0000

I know I promised my first post would be on the cool street names here, but it turns out that the photos taken with my phone are just too dark and blurry to do the subject justice. So just be patient for a week or two until we run around town with our new camera getting some crisp, award-winning photos for you.

These days, we're getting outside every second we can, since our breakup lingered so long we nearly lost a full month of our "summer." Even I, who absolutely LOVE winter, was sick to death of the white stuff and almost cried when we saw snow flurries in the air the last week of May.

Ice swimming, anyone?

Alaskans are anything if not tough and resourceful, though, and as soon as the temps hit the 60s, people were dressing like it was mid-July and 90. On Memorial Day weekend, we went to Chena Lakes, a recreational area with man-made beaches, bike trails, and playgrounds about 10 minutes from our house. As you can see from the picture, residents were laying around on the beach in bathing suits, despite there being a rather thick sheen of ice still on the lake surface. A few were even getting in the water and swimming.

If this is what it takes to be considered a "real Alaskan," folks, I'm just not sure I'm going to make the cut.

The Catholic Alaskan Returns

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 20:46:00 +0000

If any of you are still around and reading this blog, I'm sure you've noticed the lengthy hiatus I took after our one-year anniversary. The truth was, we had no money and I'd pretty much exhausted all the subjects I could write about while living below the poverty level in a state that requires you to be a millionaire just to eat. But now we've sold our old house and gotten through the joyful but exhausting process of welcoming our first "homegrown" Alaskan baby. And I can't resist sharing some more about this great state with the handful of you loyal folks who are still secretly yearning to move here.

I'll be posting my first article on Monday, about the unique way Alaskans name their roads and streets, which has intrigued and entertained me since we arrived nearly three years ago. Coming up, too:

My new bear gun (it takes 2 adults just to carry the bullets),
Alaskans' love of a certain tattoo,
Why our school kids get out for the summer a full month sooner than yours,
What it's like to watch your husband on the show Alaska State Troopers,
Being pregnant and giving birth to our first "homegrown" Alaskan baby,
Why my 3-year-old is tougher than your teenager,
Why Walmart sells massive buckets of wheat kernels every summer,
Cleaning, laundry, and gardening at 3 am under the midnight sun, and
The joys of living under wood stove tyranny.

So yeah, I actually have some pretty good stuff coming your way. See you soon!

Our One-Year Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 22:18:00 +0000

This time one year ago, I was standing in an empty house recovering from a 16-hour flight with four kids and a cat. And marveling that we'd actually made it to Alaska. Hard to believe it's been a year since we boarded the plane in Virginia and set down in Fairbanks to begin our new lives in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

A friend I met soon after arriving reminded me that after having lived here for a year, I could no longer call myself a Cheechako, which is what Alaskans call someone who has just arrived. So to mark our one-year anniversary of surviving our first year in Alaska, I'm changing the blog name to "The Catholic Alaskan."

I've clearly changed a bit since we moved here last December. I'm tougher, for one; I go running errands in 40 below in Crocs sans socks and a light jacket. I never imagined I'd acclimate to that arctic feeling of being chased by biting wolves, but it's happened. And thank God for that...who wants to live in a place where you risk frostbite just to get the mail out of the box?

I'm going to steal a page from Jeff Foxworthy and post a list of "You Know You're an Alaskan if...." witticisms. Enjoy!

You know you're finally an Alaskan if...

...you consider 0 degrees to be "a warm day."

...you get excited when your grocery bill is less than $500 that week.

...you now refer to snowmobiles as snowmachines.

..."spring" is now "breakup."

...you've been asked how the island of Alaska can be so cold.

...you consider 60 degrees "a scorcher."

...you rate the northern lights like other people do vintage wines.

...you reflexively take off your shoes the second you enter someone's house.

...you don't blink when you see a schoolbus drop kids off under a full moon.

...you don't see stars from June through August.

...you've paid $15 for a watermelon the size of a shrunken head, that tastes like one, too.

...you store your Thanksgiving turkey on the porch.

...you have aluminum foil over your bedroom windows.

...you earn six figures a year, but still can't afford to shop at Walmart.

...you peruse the "Free" section of Craig's List twice a day.

...you've seen antifreeze freeze.

...you find it easier to drive in winter because snow fills the potholes.

...you keep a survival kit of granola bars and down comforters in the back of your car year-round.

...you have considered ingesting Deet.

....you can light a fire with two sticks, an icicle, and a piece of beef jerky.

...inclement weather doesn't register unless it's 2+ feet of new snow.

...you chuckle inwardly when people in the Lower 48 complain about inclement weather.

...you know how to pronounce ptarmigan.

...your heartbeat doesn't rise when the car spins 180 degrees on the icy roads.

...you've advised your children on how to respond if they see a wolf or bear in the yard.

...you have to wait 24 hours for your Halloween candy to thaw out before you can eat it.

...you take a shotgun to go berry picking.

...school kids in your neighborhood don't know what a "snow day" is.

...you leave your car running and unlocked when grocery shopping.

...you go out for ice cream when it's 40 below to "warm up from the inside."

...your post office has a specific slot for "Netflix movies."

Burnin' Down the House

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 10:25:00 +0000

If your house catches on fire, you call 911 and the fire department is dispatched. The big red engine races to your house and then a bunch of burly men jump out and start throwing water on stuff to save your belongings.

You pay for fire service through your taxes, the same as you pay for police services. Only in Alaska, a lot of folks live outside of the municipal areas that collect taxes. They don't pay taxes, so they don't get fire service. (Everyone gets police; you just might have to wait a few hours before the troopers can actually get there, though.)

In the remote areas of Alaska, if your home ends up with a fire that can't be put out with a hand-held extinguisher, you might as well just grab the bag of marshmallows on your way out. Because you're going to be watching your house and everything in it burn to the ground.

A few weeks after we moved here, a friend of mine who is a trooper was called out to a house fire just outside the city limits. The forestry department's fire fighters showed up--to make sure the blaze didn't threaten the woods surrounding the house. But they didn't fight the house fire at all. It was a total loss for the homeowner, who didn't have fire insurance, either.

Fire service is something most of us, even those of us who grew up in rural areas in the Lower 48, take for granted. But in Alaska, if you choose to live in an isolated area away from civilization, that's your prerogative. And your risk.

Bad Hair Day, Alaska Style

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 05:22:00 +0000

Every few weeks, we have to bite the bullet and take our trash bags to the local dump. Fortunately with it being winter, having your vehicle crammed full of trash isn't so bad, because the contents are frozen. My biggest problem is trying to figure out how to load four kids, me, and half a ton of refuse into one minivan.

Summer, on the other hand, is downright penitential. Anyone who's visited a landfill on a hot day knows what I mean. For us, trash runs in summer means loading plastic bags of rotting food, poopy diapers, and hunks of cat urine and feces into the back of our van...bags that have been fermenting for a week or more in the never-ending Alaskan sun. Your only hope is to roll down the windows and try to drive fast enough that the wind pushes the stench out the back window vents before it suffocates you.

We have to "take out the trash" every week to 10 days. We try to combine errands and usually end up returning library books and picking up some milk and eggs while out, too. But the dump is always your first destination, since you naturally want to unload the mountain of garbage threatening to crush the kids in the backseat before loading up groceries you actually plan to eat.

A few weeks ago, I was in a hurry to get started on our errands, so I didn't bother to let my hair dry after the shower before heading out to the dump. It had been a while since we'd made a dump run, so it took at least three or four full minutes for me to fling all the bags of trash into one of the dumpsters. It was cold, too: almost 40 below that day.

I quickly unloaded the van, slammed the back door, and hopped back into the driver's seat. I was reaching for my seatbelt when I noticed there was something wrong with my head: it felt like I had a hard shell surrounding it, that crackled when I pushed on it. I realized my hair had frozen stiff! In less than five minutes, my damp hair had frozen into a solid mass on my head. It was freaky. Of course, I showed all our kids and they were equally awed by Mom's literal "helmet head." I can only imagine what the other people thought of us, as all of my kids took turns crawling up to the front of the car and patting my head over and over.

It was over in a few minutes; the warmth of the car quickly melted my cool ice helmet. But it was one of those "only in Alaska" things that I just had to share. One of the coolest places we've visited here is a natural hot springs pool. I can't wait to get out there again this winter and try out the "instant frozen hair" thing again, like this guy:

Minus the beard and mustache, of course.

Winter, Where Is Thy Sting?

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 02:10:00 +0000

Another beautiful winter!

It's winter again. And I never thought I'd say this, but I think I actually prefer winter in Alaska to summer here. At the very least, the weather is consistent. And as cool as it was to live in a place with near 24-hour sunlight, I've always been a person who prefers a dimly-lit room in front of a blazing fire with a book to exercising and soaking up Vitamin D.

For anyone who may have joined the blog later this year, my inaugural description of living just 120 miles below the Arctic Circle was quite humorous, even if I do say so myself. I could only hope that with time, we'd adapt like the rest of the Alaskans, who don't don a coat unless the mercury dips below zero. And then that's just a light jacket. You don't see the parkas come out of the closet until it's -15 F or so. And it practically has to be a blizzard before you see things like scarves and gloves. A few folks do wear hats all winter, but it's understood those are the state weenies, who are probably just visiting the real Alaskans.

Well, two weeks ago we were out preemptively shopping for gloves and hats for the kids at Fred Meyer. As we walked into the store, I remember thinking it felt positively balmy. Moist and almost...warm. A few people were even wearing shorts, which just confirmed these thoughts. So you can imagine my surprise when I got back to the car and the temperature gauge read 25 degrees. That's 7 degrees below freezing for you science- and math-challenged folks.

This week, it's been hovering between 20 and 40 below zero, hearkening back to our first month here when the area experienced a six-week cold snap. I never thought it would happen, but it has: we've adapted. Instead of dressing up like a tick about to pop every time we leave the house, now we just throw on a coat. All those accessories that I was sure were keeping us alive last winter--hats, gloves, scarves, snowbibs, snowboots, wool socks--don't feel so important anymore. (We keep those things in the back of the van in case we ever break down in winter.)

The cold just is, if that makes any sense. You just set your face like flint into the wind and go, knowing you'll eventually come to another warm space. But that the short distance from the car to the store just isn't worth the trouble of layering up anymore. I'm glad it no longer feels like I'm being chased by wolves every time I leave the house, but on the spiritual side, I'm going to have to find another way to do penance for my habitual sins. (Like blogging when I'm supposed to be making dinner.) The upside is that I'll probably never be tempted to streak again.

Our miraculous adaptation to the cold couldn't come at a more convenient time, either: we installed a woodstove this past fall. Which means daily trips out to the woodpile beside the house.

For the kids, of course.

We've come full circle, weather-wise: we're back to the sun rising late morning and going down in the early afternoon. I've gotten the happy light out again and the Vitamin D supplements help. But it's still a little disorienting. It will feel like nine at night and you'll look at the clock to find it's just six.

The northern lights also are back in all their "green fire" glory, which almost makes the darkness bearable. I marvel at how many people tell me seeing the northern lights is on their "bucket list." I get the privilege of seeing them often and amazingly, I am in awe each and every time they show off. Believe me when I say, they're a worthy item to be on that list. It's like watching God painting the sky in realtime.

It's a gift to be able to say, "Winter, where is thy sting?" And mean it.

Halloween in Alaska

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 04:03:00 +0000

Yeah, I know...it's been ages since I've written for the blog. I'd like to promise this last dry spell will be my last, but I have four kids and a body that turns on me daily, so just be happy you hear from me as often as you do. That means you, Ross.

We just spent our first Halloween in Alaska and holy moly...it was an adventure. According to locals, this was an exceptionally warm Halloween: it was a balmy 5 degrees F when I took the kids out trick-or-treating at 6:30 pm. Our neighborhood is new, with about 30 large houses sitting on a short, closed loop of paved road. With few neighborhoods sporting paved roads, ours was a hotspot in summer for kids riding bikes. Half the kids roaming around like packs of dogs did not even live here.

Halloween: Get in Line

I thought the closeness of the houses might make it a similar draw for Halloween and I was right. The funny thing is, Alaskans don't trick-or-treat like everyone else, due to the extreme cold. You load up in the warm car and then drive to the end of each driveway. Your kids jump out, run like bats out of hell to the porch, the owner cracks the door a few inches and throws a bunch of candy at them, then they run back to the car like they just robbed a Piggly Wiggly and you're the getaway driver. Then you drive 20 feet and do it all over again. For another 90 minutes.

By the third house, our son sounded like he was having an asthma attack. "I think...I'm losing...most of my candy...on the way back...to the car," he managed to huff while looking into his still mostly-empty bag.

We went out a little after six and by then, the entire street was lit up with dozens of cars. Some folks, though, were pretty clever, as you can see from the video I took. They dress their kids up in arctic gear, strap a small trailer to an ATV, and pull the kids from house to house.

That would never have worked with my kids, however, who refused to sacrifice the "coolness" of their costumes by covering them with essentials like coats and gloves. Half an hour in, they were fighting each other for heating vents in between candy runs.

Most residents, though, were smart enough to wear costumes that were either large enough to be worn over winter gear or that required lots of layering to stay warm. Then there were the Darwin Award contenders (mostly teenage girls), who wore mini-skirts accented by fishnet hosiery and high heels. With no coats, gloves, or hats. I kept wondering who they were trying to impress, given that everyone was racing around so fast, usually with heads down against the wind, that they couldn't possibly have had any admirers.

We finished the neighborhood circuit and then went home, where I gave out candy for a while. I couldn't help but give huge handfuls to the kids that came to our door, as a reward for their hardiness. Trick-or-treating is one thing...trick-or-treating in Alaska is another: Those kids EARNED that candy.

My First Autumn in Alaska

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 06:21:00 +0000

One of our friends from the Lower 48, who follows this blog, has been staying with us for the past few days. And since he's been riding me like a used bicycle about putting up new content, I figured it's time to stop slacking and start sharing some of the experiences we've had during this fantastic Alaskan autumn.

My favorite season in Virginia was fall and that hasn't changed here in Alaska. The autumn really started in early August for us, as the rain finally cleared up and the days became cool, crisp, and sunny...in a word: perfect. Though it did startle me. One day my husband said something about the "autumn weather" and I freaked out. "What do you mean, 'autumn weather'??" I was stunned to realize that summer was actually over and it was only going to get colder from that point on.

I'll admit, though, it may be worth the long winter just to see the leaves change here. It started in August, which was startling in itself, because I'd usually had to wait until October to really enjoy fall foliage. And instead of a patchwork of red, orange, and yellow, the prevalence of birch trees here set the landscape aflame with vivid, banana-yellow leaves, punctuated by the strong greens of the spruces and balsam poplars. Yellow is my favorite color, so naturally my soul was soaring during the times I drove through whole valleys sporting the color of sunshine as far as the eye could see.

Chena Lakes in summer. Beautiful, but...

Only problem is...fall is just too damned short! The leaves turned to that buttery color and within just a few short weeks, they were gone. Most of the deciduous trees are now naked, awaiting their annual donning of winter white (which will happen any day now, I'm told). It's been especially fascinating to watch the lake system near our home, Chena Lakes, transition from winter to summer to fall.

...more beautiful in autumn, I think.

No doubt, fall is simply glorious in Alaska. Too bad you risk missing it if you blink!

Here are some great photos (some mine, some not) of autumn in the interior.

Satisfied, Ross?? ;)

Being Eaten Alive

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 17:23:00 +0000

A couple of folks who read my berry picking post have expressed surprise I would bother to take a gun during that "harmless" expedition. While some people had just sincerely never thought about the real dangers of competing with bears for food (on their turf), a few folks expressed their disbelief in that "Talk about overkill!" sort of tone. I almost wanted to ask if they wear seatbelts or if they just assume that's "overkill," too. And surprisingly, the people who said this were mostly homegrown Alaskans.

I submit for your reading horror this story, about a young woman who was eaten alive by a bear and her cubs. She and her companions had been fishing by a river and had left, but returned to retrieve a pole they'd left behind when they encountered the bears. The young woman's hour-long phone call to her mother about being eaten alive by a bear is one of the most harrowing things I've read in a long time. A British teenager was killed about a week ago, too, after encountering a polar bear. From the story:

The father of one of the injured boys previously told the BBC that some of the bear's teeth were embedded in his son's skull during the attack and had to be removed.

Does this look like something you want
to meet WITHOUT a gun??

People just assume that Timothy Treadwell got what he deserved for being stupid and pretending grizzlies are pets. But these people, like most people who are killed by bears, were simply enjoying a day in the great outdoors. Which is fine when the biggest thing you're likely to encounter is a timid deer, as is the case in much of the Lower 48. But when you live with predators three times your size with the teeth, claws, and strength to literally tear you to pieces, I don't think it's overkill to even the playing field with a gun.

Weird Stuff from the Interior

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 05:20:00 +0000

I’m a writer by trade, so naturally I tend to write in “themes” for my blog posts. But sometimes I see something so ridiculous, funny, or quirky that while it doesn’t merit a post on its own, it’s too priceless not to share. So with that in mind, here is my list of “Weirdest/Funniest/Most Alarming Things I’ve Seen in Alaska (So Far).” In no particular order of weirdness.

Exorbitantly-Priced Food

It’s definitely been sticker shock since we moved to Alaska. And sometimes, the difference between what we’d pay in Virginia for something and what we’re asked to pay in Alaska is so outrageous I just have to document it. Like the $15 watermelon. And the $13 taco from a roadside vendor. The $7 bag of potato chips. (And no, that isn't the family-sized bag.)

And this $6 cantaloupe. This was IN SEASON, folks. Needless to say, we eat a lot less fruit these days. Which is okay, ‘cause I hear scurvy is coming back in style.

Chitlins...available until now in Alaska.

Bag o’ Pig Guts

This is funny only because my pet name for my kids is “Chitlins.” It started a few years ago when one of them misspelled “children” with sidewalk chalk. They’re old enough now to get irritated when I call them what they know means “pig guts” (thank you Iron Chef for outing that secret), but I staunchly maintain the right to honor my Southern roots regardless of their embarrassment. Still…it’s ironic that the first time I see chitlins for sale, it’s in an Alaskan grocery store.

Three-Legged Sled Dog

"Moxy," the three-legged sled dog.

I saw this impressive creature and remarked—quite wittily, I thought—that his name must be “Moxy.” The humorless musher said, “Oh, no, his name is Jareth.”

And Jareth isn’t even the most impressive sled dog here. I just bought a book about Rivers, a blind sled dog from Palmer that’s run the Iditarod THREE times since losing his sight. Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too: “What the hell have I been doing with MY life?”

In-Your-Face Bumper Stickers

Alaskans definitely enjoy giving their opinion, even if you don’t want it. Here are two of the funnier bumper stickers we’ve seen.

Just in case your eyesight isn't what it used to be, that second one says: "Boycott Jane Fonda, American Traitor Bitch." The downside is that my kids have learned more curse words since moving here—just from the bumper stickers—than all of our years in Virginia combined.

Northernmost Traffic Light in the Nation

In case you were wondering, “Where is the last place Roald Amundsen stopped before traveling straight on to the North Pole?” Yep, right here.

Nation's northernmost traffic light. Next to
Wal-mart, for all your arctic exploration needs.

Randomly-Costumed People

One thing most people don’t know about me is that I have a strong sense of whimsy. I paid a friend to make a clown suit for me in college and I would choose one day of the year (not Halloween) to wear the suit plus facepaint around town. It was hysterical to see people’s faces when they saw a clown picking out a package of hamburger at the grocery store or pumping gas.

Our priest, when I told him I do this occasionally, agreed with its usefulness. “Because people need to see that clowns live regular lives, too,” he said.

Clown suit--check. Sumo suit--check.
Next: PacMan!

I indulged this most recently at our going-away party in Virginia when I fulfilled my dream of wearing a sumo-wrestling suit, which you can see to the right. That's me and my friend, Amanda. She's a lightweight so I naturally won our round. (If you call getting a concussion and ending up on the bottom "winning.")

Few people understand this part of me (especially my husband), so I’ve been thrilled to discover a significant number of Alaskans share my love of donning elaborate costumes. These are folks I’ve encountered in the grocery store…at the doctor’s office…standing in line for a hotdog. And we have yet to experience our first Halloween!

Funny Signs

This one was posted at the local cell phone store. Notice the glaring error and random capitalization. As a writer and editor, I almost had a seizure when I saw it. I was trying to get an account error fixed that day, and was terrified the woman helping me had made the sign. So I showed Herculean restraint and just took a picture instead of tearing it to pieces.

"I found there camera. Call me to Claim."
Life is just one editorial nightmare
after another for me.

I found this next sign beside the door of an elementary school classroom. I assume this is the teacher who heads up the "Purity" program.

This last sign was posted outside the bathrooms of the makeshift café at the World Ice Art Championships. The room, which was lined with several industrial-sized washing machines, was CLEARLY in danger of being mistaken for a pub.

Pig's Head in Toilet

Sometimes people leave large household appliances or architectural pieces such as doors or windows in the reuse area. There’s usually a toilet or two left there weekly from a bathroom renovation, so at first I didn’t think anything of the three bowls sitting off to the side. As I got closer, however, I noticed something in one of the toilets—and much to my horror, realized it was a pig’s head. A rancid, rotting pig's head.

Lord of the Flies, anyone?

Why is it that when we see or smell or taste something awful, we insist that our loved ones partake of it? I saw this and immediately called my 7-year-old to view it with me. What you don't get from the picture is the writhing maggots crawling out of every orifice. Of all the weird things I've seen in Alaska, this one takes the cake. It may seriously impact my addiction to bacon...for at least a week or two.

Our First (and Last?) Berry Hunting Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 07:22:00 +0000

Dipnetting on the Kenai River.
The salmon are so plentiful, you
can just pull them out of the
water in front of you.

One thing that’s always amazed me about living in Alaska is how much food you can get just by foraging, hunting, and fishing. Our friends just came back from fishing—or rather, “dipnetting”—in southern Alaska. They got more than 80 huge salmon. Tom spent an afternoon helping them clean the fish and slicing each one into two lengthy filets. In exchange for his labors, he got four delectable vacuum-packed filets for our family. And hands that smelled like fish for a week.

I was excited because we haven’t had salmon for a long time and won’t be able to catch our own until next summer. To ensure Alaska’s natural resources are reserved for residents and not glutted by out-of-state sportsmen, the state has two prices for hunting and fishing licenses: cheap prices for residents and bend-over-you’re-really-getting-it-now prices for all the visitors. You don’t qualify for the residential licenses until you’ve lived here a year.

I’m looking forward to being able to get our own salmon next year mostly because that appears to be the only way we’ll be able to afford to eat the state fish. I mistakenly thought that with salmon being so common in Alaska, it would be dirt cheap in the grocery store. Not so. Turns out, there’s very little demand for grocery-store salmon because residents just catch their own. I estimate that filets from one whole salmon cost $25 in the grocery store. Which means that our friend hauled home $2,000 worth of fish that is now filling their freezer. And though you can’t get moose meat in the regular grocery stores, those who hunt and get one of the animals basically bring home several hundred pounds of red meat. Again, saving what I estimate is thousands of dollars over buying steaks, hamburger, and pot roasts at Safeway.

Well, we don’t qualify for the resident fishing or hunting licenses yet, but you don’t need a license to pick berries. And Alaska is swarming with wild blueberries, raspberries, and high-bush cranberries. (Which are apparently not cranberries at all, but something that might as well be.)

So last week, I decided it was time for us to “live off the land.” We gathered some baskets and went berry hunting along the Chena River. I’d been warned several times to carry a gun by the Alaskans, because bears eat berries, too. And bears don’t tend to like it when you compete with them for food. You know this is serious because the newspapers are running "Be Berry, Beary Safe" articles this month reminding people not to get eaten while picking berries.

Tom gave me his shotgun, along with some gigantic bullets that would down a charging rhino. Our plan was to let the kids pick the berries while I stood guard with the gun and killed anything on four legs.

"These are MY berries.
Get your own, slacker!"

We got to the river and immediately put our plan into action. In addition to the shotgun, the kids had been instructed to shout, scream, and sing as loudly as possible to scare off any bears that might be lurking around corners. We sounded like a group of tone-deaf opera singers trying to compensate for dying hearing-aid batteries.

I tried to stand there with the shotgun, looking all tough and menacing should any bears cross our path. And I almost succeeded. But it is nearly impossible to hold a heavy shotgun safely in your arms while trying to keep a toddler from plunging to her death in the river that’s four feet away. I spent most of my time clutching the shotgun with one arm and half-dragging my suicidal toddler away from the river with the other.

I also found that despite being told we were foraging so we’d have raspberries in our freezer for winter, my children ate 90% of what they found. The toddler depleted the remaining 10% when she realized the baskets contained tiny red sugar bombs she could access by throwing increasingly irate tantrums.

As if keeping the toddler alive wasn’t challenging enough, the older kids kept running far down the path and out of my sight. And being a paranoid cop’s wife, every time they turned a corner and I couldn’t see them, I was sure they were being mauled to death by a grizzly mother protecting her cub. I had nearly screamed myself hoarse within 20 minutes. I’m pretty sure my kids came closer to be killed by me that afternoon than by any wild animals.

About an hour into the trip, my nine-year-old seemed to suddenly realize I was carrying a shotgun. When she asked me why, I said it was to keep us safe from any bears or moose we might encounter in the wild.

"Wow, I never knew berry picking was such a dangerous sport," she said with awe in her voice. I reminded her that in Alaska, EVERYTHING is dangerous. Which is why we moved here.

Our entire haul of raspberries.
Impressive, no?

We loaded up and went to a second spot and found a few more berries, but once again, most of them were consumed en route to the next bush. We made it home with approximately one meager cup of raspberries, which I cooked down into a sauce. We poured the tangy, hot sauce over orange sherbet ice cream and called it a day. It was definitely fun, in that “I don’t ever want to do that again” kind of way. But next time, I think I’ll just spend the damned $5 and buy a pint of berries at the store.

Summer in Alaska

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 17:35:00 +0000

Sorry it’s been a while since I posted. I took on another freelance writing job, this time a seemingly small one requiring me to write only 45 short articles. I didn’t know when I accepted it that the job required snaking through bureaucratic labyrinths of state education departments. But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, so here I am.

In a few of my previous posts, I’ve mentioned how it’s not all sunshine and roses living here. I didn’t know at the time that was going to be a literal statement, because apparently this summer Uncle Sun decided to take an extended vacation and only pop in from time to time just to let us know he’s still alive. He’s sent Cousins Rainy and Overcast to keep us company much of the time instead.

Psychologically, this has been very hard. The whole month of April when I was descending into a funky spiral of depression due to the difference between my expectations of spring and the three feet of snow on the ground, the Alaskans kept telling me just to hold on because soon the “fantastic summer” would arrive. So I held on, sustained by a promise of better days to come.

And for a lot of May, we got those better days. It was brilliantly, unrelentingly sunny. Hot even. (Though not that sticky, “I’m melting” hot.) We had plenty of warm days that drove us to the local lake system. The herbs and flowers I planted were shooting up seemingly overnight due to the 20 hours of sunlight they got. I got the pleasure of inaugurating the clothesline in our new backyard and enjoyed needing sunglasses to take the clothes off the line at 10 pm.

Then June arrived. And with it, the clouds, rain, and chilly weather. For nearly two weeks straight, it rained. As we traipsed into Mass through the downpour one Sunday morning, I mentioned being sick of the rain to our priest. He’s a volunteer firefighter, so naturally he admonished me to be grateful for it because rain meant we’d have fewer forest fires. Chastened, I stopped complaining and just focused on not killing someone during the next 10 days of being trapped inside my house with four stir-crazy children. By the time the sun came out again, most of us needed therapy and I’m pretty sure the cops could make an attempted murder charge stick on me. But really, it was a small price to pay to keep the Spotted Owl safe.

"Sssshhhhh..sure, Mom.
I'm having a gggrrreeaattt time!"

The rain eventually stopped, but a rather disappointing pattern set in; we got one sunny day for about every two to three days of cloudy gray skies. We got rain—and more rain. If the sun showed up, even briefly, we rushed out of the house immediately to enjoy it, regardless of how loudly school or domestic duties shouted for attention. It didn’t matter what the actual temperature was, either; if the sky was clear, we were outside trying to wring every last drop of pleasure out of the day. So what if it’s 50 degrees? It’s sunny! Get outside NOW before it’s gone again! I think the picture of my six-year-old daughter, shivering at the beach, epitomizes our desperation during this time.

The gray days do seem to be the “normal” summer weather this year, with the sunny ones the exception. I never imagined this would bother me, considering gray and overcast is my favorite kind of day. But I have not enjoyed spending half the summer in sweaters and jeans. It is as if May was summer and then June went into fall.

Proof I'm not the only person
sick of the weather.

I know it’s not just me, either, because even the hardcore “Stop your complaining, newbie!” Alaskans have been whining about the weather on their Facebook walls. And the local newspaper has run several articles lamenting the autumn-like weather (see the headline in the picture). In one article, the reporter quoted a man who summed up my feelings exactly: “This is frightening. I need a summer full of sunshine to get me through the long, dark winter. WHERE IS THE SUN?”

To be fair, it isn’t always like this. Some years, the air is warm but the forest fires cause blankets of smoke to roll over the valley so that it smells like you’re walking through a city-sized barbecue if you’re outdoors. Other years, you do truly get that spectacular summer, though there is a lot more variation in the summer weather than I imagined. You could tell that when people quoted in the newspaper articles kept referring to certain summers like a fine wine: “Ah...2007. Now that was a good year!”

I debated whether to even post this, lest I incur the wrath of the Alaskans who seem fiercely protective of all that is good about the interior. And how, in true Alaskan fashion, seem to have that, “If you don’t like it here, you can always leave” stoicism. I also have more than one Lower 48 friend I suspect of secretly gloating over my weather complaints. But maybe my expectations were just too high. Sort of like when everyone builds something up so that by the time you get to enjoy it, you expect it to solve world hunger. I think in cases like that, you can’t help but be let down. This has happened to me before: Star Wars...S’mores...feetie pajamas.

And now, summer in Alaska.

COMING NEXT: A more upbeat post about how I fought off bears to fill our freezer with wild blueberries, raspberries, and cranberries.

Another Item for the Wish List

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 00:09:00 +0000

Snap, crackle, pop--
best sounds in the world!

If you read my post on mosquitoes, you know they can be ridiculously plentiful in early summer here. Gun Totin' Mama (remember her?) recently introduced me to a very creative way to deal with these pests: the electrified tennis racket.

Those of you who are parents of school-aged children surely remember how annoying it is having them running in and out of the house when it's nice outside. Well, it's extra annoying in Alaska, where the mosquitoes seem to loiter near the doors, just waiting for the tiniest sliver of space to open up so they can jet inside. Then the little vampires hang around in the curtains for a while until you go to sleep, at which point they feast on your blood uninterrupted. And they don't even have the decency to sparkle like Edward while they're doing it.

One evening after having guests (which limited how loudly and how often we could scream at the kids for opening the doors constantly), the house was just full of them. Tom and I lay in bed for nearly an hour that night swatting at them as they landed on our arms and neck. It was quite annoying. I imagine we would have been able to sleep a lot sooner--and enjoyed our killing spree more--if we'd had that handy racket at our disposal.

Stuff We DON'T Have in Alaska

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 10:12:00 +0000

Several of my winter posts were about the incredible animals in Alaska, such as those car-sized bears and furry seals. Much to my surprise, there are some critters that this state does NOT have—and I could not be happier about our lack of them.

To begin, there are NO SNAKES in Alaska! That’s right, not one. It’s simply too cold here for the reptiles to survive in the wild. It is a little-known fact that St. Patrick visited Alaska, too, though he was obviously less successful in spreading Catholicism here than he was in Ireland. (Fireweed just didn't catch on the way the shamrock did, alas.)

In Virginia, we lived in constant fear of running into a snake, especially since our house was surrounded by virgin woods. And we did, several times. The worst was when I was perusing the construction brush to see if any berry bushes had sprung up. I leaned in and saw an interestingly curved stick—and almost wet myself when I fixed upon two beady eyes just inches from my face. I had one of those whole-body shudders and ran screaming away from the thing, which turned out to be nothing but a harmless black rat snake.

I come by my fear of snakes legitimately, from growing up in the backwoods of Virginia with relatives that make Jerry Springer guests look classy. It was a known fact among the hillbilly Scripture scholars that Satan was still roaming the earth in the form of an actual serpent. Which, of course, meant that any snake encountered by man must be killed immediately, lest that particular snake be Lucifer himself.

Rattlesnake...or SATAN??

When I was about 10, our family had its annual reunion at a local campground. I was traipsing through the place with two other little girls when a snake slithered across our path. We ran shrieking back to the pavilion and within five minutes, a mob of about 10 men with shovels, knives, and guns descended upon the poor snake, which had crossed the road for the clearly evil purpose of sunning itself on the riverbank. My grandfather triumphantly carried the snake’s headless and thoroughly slashed body back to the picnic tables for everyone to admire. Though there was quite the letdown when they realized the next day that yes, evil still abounded in the world and the dead garter snake was NOT in fact, the Prince of Darkness.

I could not make this up, folks; that is really what they poured into my impressionable little mind. You're keenly impressed with me now, I know, for surviving this insanity with only a modicum of brain damage.

No poisonous spiders here!

So there are no snakes here. Nor are there any poisonous spiders. There are rumors of Hobo spiders popping up from time to time, but this has never been confirmed. Other than a singular fondness for Charlotte A. Cavatica, spiders give me the willies and I was thrilled to discover I won't inadvertently run into a dangerous one in Alaska.

The genesis of this phobia isn't quite as silly as the one I have for snakes, though it's still rooted in family trauma (as are most of my childhood memories). My father, who had a habit of running around shirtless in the summers, worked in an old junkyard in southern Virginia for part of my childhood. One year, he leaned back against a black widow spider and was promptly bitten for it. Though he knew exactly what kind of spider it was, as was characteristic of my family, he only sought medical care after several days of constant vomiting. By then, the bite had swollen to the size of a softball and had shot fine, dark threads across half his back. Painful and repeated laser treatments to dig out the poison and necrosis left him with an enormous scar on his left shoulder blade. So naturally, I carry a deep loathing for spiders. Not as much as satanic snakes, mind you, but it's still up there.

My childhood friend, the roach.

We also do not have cockroaches, ticks, fleas, or termites. Finding out I'll never see a roach in Alaska was fantastic. Growing up poor meant we were evicted every few months and cockroaches were about the only constant in my life. They really are incredibly hardy insects, since no matter how thoroughly you think you've routed them out, they WILL show up again in the new place. Unless you're willing to burn everything you own, once a cockroach owner, always a cockroach owner.

Tom, I'm sure, welcomed the change, too. He’d been in houses on calls in Virginia where the roaches were so plentiful he could hear them crunching under his feet and dropping off the ceilings onto his uniform. And that was with the lights on; God only knows what epidemic swarms would have appeared if he'd flipped the switch. He’d spend the rest of the shift with the creepy crawlies.

It would be easy to think that God favored Alaskans by sparing us creatures like snakes, cockroaches, and termites, but he also gave us massive land predators like polar bears, grizzlies, and moose that can easily take you out if provoked…or hungry. I just know it gives me a profound sense of relief to know we left Satan behind in the Lower 48!

Providential Finds

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 00:01:00 +0000

The title of this blog is The CATHOLIC Cheechako, and for the one or two of you who don’t know me personally, let me assure you I take that designation quite seriously. I’m one of those crazy adult converts to Catholicism that actually buys into it all. And even scarier—tries to live it out. Mostly by staying married and popping out a lot of kids, of course.

I mentioned before that moving to Alaska was exorbitantly expensive and that we’re still recovering from it. It will be a while before my husband’s salary enables me to live in the lavish lifestyle to which I’d become accustomed to in Virginia, so in the meantime we’ve had to get creative about providing for our family while still keeping to a strict budget.

What is interesting is how God has used something that is so uniquely Alaskan to help us do that. All around Fairbanks are public refuse areas, which consist of about 30 giant green dumpsters, along with one covered platform. You can dump your trash at these areas for free instead of paying a company to pick it up. You leave any perfectly useable household goods under the covered area, otherwise known as the “reuse center.” You can stop by, rifle through the bags and boxes and take anything you want. Every few days, a state employee bulldozes what’s left and clears the area for the next drop.

People leave the most incredible things under these pavilions. Major appliances, clothing, exercise equipment, pianos…if you’re lucky and get there before the rest of the vultures, you can haul away some pretty sweet loot. People leave so much because Alaska is so far from the Lower 48 and it’s too expensive to ship or haul anything out of it except what’s absolutely necessary. This is not something I’ve seen much of in other states, but I think it’s a great idea. And certainly in line with most Alaskans’ desire to be good stewards of their pristine environment.

What has amazed me is how God has provided for us through the reuse centers. As we were preparing to leave Virginia, no one would tell me how you calculate 15,000 pounds of household goods; we were allowed that much by the moving company and anything over that weight would have to be paid for by us, not my husband’s employer. So naturally I got rid of everything but the toilets and that included all the closets full of children’s clothing that I’d hoarded for years. My children’s clothes were limited to what we could carry in suitcases with us on the plane, which meant they only had winter clothing.

Which was great in winter, but then as the earth is wont to do, it changed seasons. It got hot again and I had no idea how we were going to afford to outfit four kids on an Alaskan budget. But I didn’t need to worry, because within a few weeks, I had culled enough t-shirts and shorts from the reuse centers to cover all of our kids for the entire summer.

So what, you might say. People probably leave clothes all the time. That’s coincidence, not God.

The first sign that our finds were more than just lucky breaks was the bikes. Our Virginia house had a very steep driveway—I’d guess a 45 degree incline—that sloped straight down from a dangerous road to the garage. So there was really no point in our kids having bikes, because there was nowhere to ride them. Our new neighborhood, however, is paved, flat, and has only one exit, making it ideal for biking. As soon as breakup hit, our bikeless children had to mournfully watch other kids flying past the yard on mountain bikes and cruisers.

One day in mid-April, I called a friend on the way to the reuse area. I asked her to keep an eye out for used bikes for us at garage sales. If she found any cheap ones that would fit our kids, I’d reimburse her if she picked them up.

I got off the phone as we pulled up to the reuse platform…just as a man was unloading several bikes from the back of his truck. My kids flew screaming to the bikes. We were ecstatic to find two that would work for our daughters.

On the way home, I got a phone call. It was my friend, saying she had just found a bike for our son for $13. Within a space of five minutes, I had scored three bikes—two girls’ and a boy’s, exactly what we needed.

A few weeks later, I was lamenting that I’d lost one of my beloved black Crocs (my left shoe, to be exact) during the move. We had a few unexpected bills pop up, so buying new ones would have to wait. On my way to the reuse area one afternoon, I prayed, “God, I know it’s a tall order, but if you could have a pair of Crocs waiting for me there, I’d be so grateful.” I knew the chances were slim, not just because of the specificity of the request, but because I have ginormous feet and wear a size 11.

But God will never be outdone in generosity and sitting on the platform was a pair of Crocs in my size. And not even Mario Batali orange, which I would happily have worn, but a nice, conservative navy blue. In a black plastic bag next to them were three kids’ bike helmets—two for girls and one for a boy.

Still not convinced?

Another time, I mentioned how nice it would be to have a few extra ice cube trays. We no longer have our handy dandy icemaker fridge anymore and it was tedious constantly filling up the two we had with filtered water. Three days later, I found two ice trays sitting on the platform.

Last year, a friend gave me lesson plans for an interdisciplinary unit on inventions. I was drafting lesson plans for this coming fall, and had the unit slated to start the year. Imagine my delight when I found a box of kids’ encyclopedias—all about the history of various inventions.

My purse, which was cheap to begin with, had finally frayed so badly at the seams I wondered how much longer it was going to last. But I held onto it because I needed another backpack purse, the only kind that would leave me hands free and able to carry a squirming toddler. So naturally, God left a gorgeous leather backpack purse sitting on the platform for me about three weeks ago.

I have other examples, but you get the picture. One day two weeks ago, as we were on our way home from yet another lucrative trip to the reuse center, my oldest daughter said, “Mom, isn’t it amazing that God has provided not only what we need, but even some things we just want?” She’s just nine and she gets it.

I can’t help but wonder if Richard Dawkins (atheistic author of The God Delusion) wouldn’t have written a very different book if he’d moved to Alaska on a budget.

Backyard Campout

noreply@blogger.com (Judith) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 01:19:00 +0000

Over Memorial Day weekend, friends from church invited us to camp out with them in their backyard. Against my better judgment, we joined them and a handful of other families who carted tents, sleeping bags, and bug spray to their expansive yard. I figured camping a few feet away from a refrigerator and indoor plumbing was about as good as it gets.

I spent most of my childhood summers camping. For my family, it was less about enjoying the great outdoors than it was about dodging bill collectors. My parents craftily figured they couldn’t repo the car or TV if no one was home. They also practiced “new math,” where it was less expensive to spend a month at a $14/night campsite than pay $300 rent. I still have fond memories of the time we sneaked into the neighborhood under the cover of night to steal back our own TV (for the pawn shop, of course) because the landlord had padlocked our house. Ah, good times…good times.

My kids wanted to spend the night in the tents, of course, but I wasn't keen on that idea. You see, our 16-month-old daughter, Bella, has a superpower: even in a completely dark room that smells and sounds just like her own, she knows whether she’s in her own bedroom. And if she’s not, she refuses to sleep. It doesn’t matter how long she's been awake, either; she will refuse sleep until she’s so exhausted she’s stumbling around like a drunk. And then refuse to sleep some more. Nothing—and I mean nothing—will entice her to sleep if she’s not in her own room. Not a moving car, not the same noise machine we use at home, not even the same sheets and blankets and mattress. She somehow just knows it’s not home, so naturally she must remain vigilant lest some enemy come to kill her.

You can see, then, why I was reluctant to commit to camping overnight. I was happy to hang out around the campfire and roast marshmallows and all, but I wanted to crawl into my own bed when it was over. But my three older children were so excited about staying all night and made such sad faces when I talked about leaving that I eventually relented. I did try to limit the damage by insisting we stay over on Saturday night. I take the third commandment quite seriously and refuse to do any work at all on Sundays, so I figured I’d be okay if Bella turned me into a zombie by not sleeping the night before.

Our friends have an RV, so I scored that early on for our family. The dad was even kind enough to hook up the electricity. I had brought my son’s twin-sized memory foam mattress topper, so between the AC, noise machine, and lack of mosquitoes, we were pretty comfortable when we settled down to go to sleep at about 10 pm.

I pulled the curtains, said my prayers, and hoped for the best. But despite it being three hours past her normal bedtime, Bella’s superpower kicked in again. For four solid hours, I did everything humanly possible to get that kid to sleep. At one point, I just pinned her down with my arms and legs, praying she’d get so exhausted from fighting she’d just collapse. No such luck. She decided to play a game instead, in which she would repeatedly pretend to go to sleep, then pop her head up over and over just to let me know I hadn’t won. I think I called on every saint and angel in Catholicism that night. I even stretched it a bit when I asked St. Anthony to help Bella “find” some sleep. But no amount of heavenly assistance could overcome The Amazing Non-sleeping Baby.

At about 3 am, I conceded. I stealthily exited the camper so as not to wake the other three kids, and went into the house. I was starving, so I swiped a banana (still working on that "no stealing" commandment). I almost cried when I discovered that the giant coffee carafe was still half-full with its precious amber liquid still hot. I made myself a cup of coffee, plopped Bella in the sling, and just walked around the neighborhood for a while. It was incredible to be outside, in the middle of the night…in daylight. It really is, as Tom described it, like a zombie apocalypse. It looks like daytime but it’s eerily quiet.

Bella decided to start crowing, no doubt proclaiming her victory over Mom, so I walked out to the main road to keep from waking up the people in the tents. Several cars passed us and I can only imagine what they thought seeing me in PJs with unkempt hair, baby on hip, coffee in one hand, graham crackers in the other.

Mosquitoes, it seems, don’t sleep either, so I made my way back to our minivan. We sat in the car eating snacks and listening to books on tape for about half-hour before I finally came to my senses. I woke the other kids and told them we were going home so I could get a little sleep before attending Mass. I circumvented the wailing and gnashing of teeth by promising them we’d return for breakfast in a few hours. My kids are lucky; promises are sacred to me and we were back at the campsite eating pancakes by 8:30. I looked like hell, but I showed up. And isn't most of life just about showing up?

Chena Lakes

Between our "witness protection" camping as a kid and what Bella put me through, I wasn’t thrilled when Tom suggested we take the kids camping this week. But I have to admit, we came up with a brilliant plan. Chena Lakes, a beautiful lake system with beaches, trails, and camp sites, is just 10 minutes from our house. We will spend the day together at the camp, then I'm going to leave Tom with the older kids while I return home with Bella. S’mores and sleeping in my own bed? I'm so there.