thank You

The driver side door has never worked.
Since the sliding door has decided to freeze shut until spring,
your choice of entry is limited to the passenger side door and
crawling through the trunk.
 The heater is finicky now too, but the engine works!

Holidays have great potential to feel more like funerals when family is no longer within the accustomed driving distance. This Thanksgiving, I adopted myself into a dear family of three boys, just like having my three brothers except these boys are 2 feet higher. I don't think any of the 6 family members are shorter than 6ft and the median is about 6'7". We walked the neighborhood Turkey Trot together before prayers, lunch, and a cozy fire.
When family is no longer within the accustomed driving distance, holidays also have great potential for adventure.

Frozen lake

Thanksgiving weekend, the van faithfully carried
us, rattling and chilled, north to Talkeetna where negative temperatures ruled the weekend. Six of us 20 year olds rented a cabin, spending the brief afternoon daylight hours of saturday and sunday snowshoeing along lakes and rivers. Although the evening sky was so clear that the stars plunged eagerly into the tree line towards the roots of the snow-covered spruce, I have yet to discover the splendor of the northern lights. The sky was so cluttered with stars that night, I'm not sure the aurora borealis would have fit anyway, despite its agile dance.

Des amis

Meet Moose

Here in Anchorage, I have been living with 2 of 3 brothers. At first, I was reluctant about the whole "sharing a living space" thing. My college roommates can verify that at the beginning of every year, at the start of every move-in, I am a grumpy roomy. Having grown up with three brothers and 0 sisters, I always got my own space. I deserved my own space. But when Sam and JP both dropped the news within the same week that they were leaving our small, shared apartment in Anchorage for Dallas and for Colorado, I was suddenly overcome with a gentle sense of loss. I love my brothers after all and living with them has been a pleasure that not many siblings get to enjoy after college.

I fought off capricious tears and laughter (at the irony of the tears) as I shuffled through the three closest pet stores…

Meet "Moose", my new roommate and happy light:
(she, the little fluffy one)

SNOW.

I was working diligently at my computer by the window and texting with a friend. She is waiting for the garage to finish putting the snow tires on her car. I need to do that too. She told me it's supposed to snow tomorrow.
I looked out the window, thinking, trying to do math—finances are today's Saturday morning theme.
Suddenly I realized, the sentence slowly rolling through my head like a clearing fog over the bay:
I t ' s  s n o w i n g .
A big smile spread across my face as I sat up a little straighter and tried not to welcome the flakes with a high-pitched squeal. I looked for someone to smile with. Nothing. The café is full...does no one else see this?!
Oh, wait…I am remembering now, I live in Alaska.

A really nice couple took this photo for me just now. They were so confused when I asked them to take a picture, I had to explain to them this is my first snow in Alaska. After that, they were very nice and obliging. 

"Oh..." as they smiled and winked at my innocence.

vitamin D

The no-sunlight winter is already muffling and muzzling my spirit. The last few weeks have been some of the worst. For example, at Cosco, I not only bought a "Happy Light" which I diligently sit in front of every morning and evening, letting my retinas soak in manufactured optimism, but I also bought Vitamin D chewies...chewies! I probably wont spend the extra dollars for them again, but for now, the chewy fruity really perks me up in the dark cold lonely morning.

Ski Swap Attempt #1

The annual West High Ski Swap was scheduled for Saturday from 12:00-5:00. We had done our homework and grinned optimistically—innocently—as we strode through the parking lot and into the gym where the swap was taking place. We showed up an hour after the doors had opened yet, already, the cross country ski selection had been swarmed and picked to the bone leaving little more than a pair for $275 and a pair for $10. We wandered around dejectedly until the news of another ski swap floated into our ears and put hope back into our faces.

Although the skis had been wolfed over like a pack of hyaenas on a lame wildebeest,
I did find these cheerful little skates which obligingly comforted me all the way home. 

There is a little lake on the coast of Anchorage called Westchester Lagoon. It is a 30 min walk, 17 min run, or a 9 min bike ride from our apartment. Once it ices over, the city keeps the surface groomed for ice skating and in the evenings they light little bonfires all around. I look forward to taking my skates out in the evenings among the stars, the snow, and the bundled peoples.

Halloween Realization

I have been so busy lately, I haven't had time to write or do much more than work and attend my French class. When I found myself without a costume morning of halloween, I tried to wing it.
Everyone else at work was going to dress up for the day. I stared at my closet. No Texas clothes. Can't be my go-to cowgirl.
I can go as an Alaskan! I thought. Brilliant. 
I put on my most Alaskan clothing and stepped in front of the floor-length mirror.
Disappointing. Without extra toughs, carhartts and a flannel, my plaid sweater, jeans, and boots merely looked casual. I changed into slacks and a nice sweater and put my heels back on.

Guess I am not an Alaskan yet.

I argued with my coworkers that halloween loses all fun when you get older.
The next day I received this picture from my parents.
Coworkers, I apologize. You were right, adults still have fun with halloween.. 

Bearin' It

I said it was bear scat. Light piles of wrinkled and slightly processed berries don't appear on the path at regular intervals par hazard. Someone else likes to walk this path and has business here.
The mountains actually flatten out completely by the time you reach Kenai and Soldotna so we stopped just outside of them for our hike before setting up camp closer to the towns. The modest incline became a bit of a thriller when Ruth found the first bear print in the soft trail, proving my bear scat theory. Then there were more. Then the massive print, with claws. My excitement at the discovery began to grow—I didn't believe that we would actually see one so fear wasn't an issue. When we summited at the lake, the tracks led away so all the hopefully anxiety from the bear hunting party wandered off with the fresh prints further into the trees. A bit of anxiety returned when we reached our campsite later that afternoon.
Centennial Park near Soldotna offered 176 campsites, 175 after we showed up. We had our pick of the river front but settled for our 3rd favorite selection when we discovered a bag of raw meat slopped and intentionally forsaken in a fire pit. A bit of bear anxiety returned. I believed I would at least hear one move around in the night...but I fell asleep in 10 minutes and for the next 10hrs, I heard nothing.

bringing the fall

a walk

the hike

Even though we'd already seen a little snow, the four of us left a still green Anchorage last weekend on a dash south to Kenai for a final camping trip. The weather was warmer than expected, no rain, and only the white fluffy clouds competing with the sun. The splendor of the empty world around us that both flew by while seeming to stand motionless through the car windows was unfathomable.
There was the drive, the hike, a fire, a walk, smoky food, sleep, a book, coffee (black) glowing embers, another drive. Another shock of wonder at the vast beauty.

the drive

When we returned to Anchorage, fall had reached the city's trees and it fell, the dry leaves, around our ears and gathered on our things, vying for attention as we unloaded the car. Nevertheless, the trees in this city, dimmed by clouds, cannot compare to the way the sunlight struck the crowns and dripped thickly through the pride and the gold of the arms of the wild Aspen, the Poplar, and the Birch of wild.

berried

That's me way down there...

I couldn't believe it. Here we were, an hour and a half hike from civilization and above tree line to pick low bush cranberries. Yet, as far as my hands could see, flourished fields of untouched blueberries. Once I comprehended the expanse of the berry bushes, restraint became impossible. Ruth and Lyn pressed up towards the low bush cranberries. I sank to my knees in tundra and bright, popping berries. In their eagerness, the small, sweet fruit pierced itself on my greedy fingers, staining them with happiness.

We had set out on our expedition at 10:00 that morning. When my friends finally wrenched my seduced fingers from their assault on the mountain berries and we returned to the car, it was 3:45 in the afternoon.

When I am berry picking, I want nothing else. I feel like I am doing the work God made me to do, and I am radiantly content.

You know what heaven will be? An inexhaustible field of berries where my desire and energy to pluck them will be both insatiably endless yet constantly complete.

***Thank you Ruth Doctor for the photos.

Dry Run

This summer I was certified by Alaska CHARR to serve alcohol and received my official TAP card. They needed help serving champagne during an approaching wedding at the hotel. At the class, I met a women who owns a catering business in town. Actually, she gave me a ride home. 

"We always need people with their TAP card," she said as she handed me her bright pink email.

Several weeks later I emailed her. She emailed me back. They needed help with an event. Cautiously, I asked if I would be mixing drinks. As sheepish as I was about admitting my complete ignorance of preparing mixed drinks, I was more mortified by the possibility of not being able to meet that expectation. 

She assured me they only needed my help pouring beer and wine. 

Great.

That weekend, I timely strove into the golf chalet and was promptly shown the location of all the alcohol and glasses behind the bar area. In a moment of dismay, I realized that I was hired to be a bartender. With increasing panic, THE bartender. 

I had never been behind a bar before, but a great career must always begin somewhere and everything is completely new at some point….Nevertheless, I wished for a proper teacher. The entire night I felt the heat of the neon sign on my forehead flashing and blinking: "INEXPERIENCED!" No matter how scarce the wine's bubbles nor how easily I popped the caps from their frosted bottles, no one could have missed that sign.

Chester Tree

A squirrel lives outside our living room window. His name is Chester. I know his name is Chester because I have seen him. If you could seen him you too would know, that is what he prefers to be called. 

Rendezvous Peak - First hike with Ruth and Austin
(photo taken by Ruth. It has nothing to do with Chester)

Every morning before 7:00am he would run—as he had the morning before—across his tree, between the break in the branches, and away into the neighbor’s tree. Gone for the day. Abruptly, I no longer saw him dashing in his usual pattern through the trees. I noticed he traversed the accustomed route in the evenings instead...he must be doing night shifts.

Chester had a girlfriend recently. For at least three days, the two chattered and squeaked incessantly. I heard them as I brewed coffee in the morning, they fussed at me when I got home from work, and they carried on into the night as I fell asleep, praying they would resolve their differences soon.

Now, after several days of silence, I realize it was not a girlfriend but an arch-nemesis, seeking dominion over Chester’s tree. A tree is to squirrel, as a plain is to a lion, or a river bank is to a miner: they each have their claim and no arbitrary hoarder, loafer, or greenhorn is going to take his land from him, be it tree, plain, or bank. 

There is only one squirrel here now, as busy and calculated as ever. 

I know it is Chester and not the other. If you could see him you too would know, this is still Chester’s tree.

Replaced

I had to perform a full length examination of both shoes before concluding, yes, these are the same model.

The new shoes I foolishly ordered as an experiment a few weeks before the marathon aggravated my legs. Unfortunately, once I realized my mistake, it was too late. For the remaining two weeks of training, I continued to run in the browning shoe above instead of the unfamiliar one which I promptly returned. To the screams of my knees and various muscles, these tired shoes lead me to finish 26.2 mile race, also terminating their employment. Several days later, the same model but a brand new shoe finally arrived at my door. Too late to run but too excited to wait, I woke up unusually early the next morning for an initiation run before work.
Paul asked me, was it like running on clouds?

Fair?

On Friday after work, Aunt Lyn took Ruth and I to the Alaska State Fair. There was one barn. It housed the cattle, the poultry, the plants, the arena, and the world record holding vegetables. There was also a stable for horses and a building for arts and crafts.
We saw crazy flowers, enormous vegetables, beautiful quilts, hilarious racing pigs, renown lumberjacks, a BMX stunt show, and Celtic tap-dancing fiddlers.
Normally, when I go to the fair, I go for the Fletcher's corn dog. I didn't see that here but I found a vegetarian one at a hippie stand. Surprisingly, it was perfect.

Before going back into Anchorage, Lyn and Ruth dropped me at the Peony farm for the night to help finish their fall planting the next morning.
Rachel, Tracy and I planted the remaining 200 Peony roots in the soft mud and rain until early afternoon. After lunch, I spent the rest of the rainy day reading with hot chocolate and a blanket.

There was something so suddenly satisfying about this day; working in the ground, fellowship with loving women, challenges of a thoughtful book, comfort of a soft blanket, time for meditation.

the Doctors are arrived

Hiking Rendezvous Peak in the rain

In the Spring, they told me they were going to come. People have said that before. This time was different. This time, they came.

Just two days after fishing, I cooked my catch for me, for my brothers, and for Ruth and Austin Doctor. Yes, two of my best buds have moved to Anchorage and I can hardly control my excitement, for them. 
Their first day working at the hotel, Ruth bounced up to the office, spread her hands wide towards me and exclaimed "...And it's like we already have family here!" I know she's right. Already, the presence of their active and faithful characters have encouraged and comforted life in Alaska as the distance from other friends and family grows strained with mounting time and darkening days.
With the addition of these two adventurers and new friends on the way, this could possibly be the best winter of my 23 years.
Now to find some skis...

Fishing

We left the hockey rink in Anchorage after the sun had already set. Two hours later, the slowed car and the sound of gravel woke me to the scattered lights of the docks.
"We decided to sleep on the boat," Chantal told me.
My eyes drooped open and corners of my mouth slowly turned up in drowsy delight.

The next morning, I rolled from my nest of sleeping bags to the upper cabin where Chantal played banana grams and her husband Tom tinkered with the control panel wires. Chantal made cappuccinos as we left Seward's docks. Coffee in hand, we stared speechless at Paul Allen's yacht, Octopus, moored in the middle of Resurrection Bay. I was incapable of imagining what it would be like to vacation on the largest expedition yacht in the world.

All week, nothing but a constant, half-hearted rain. Then, Sunday, fishing, the clouds opened and the sun shot through, warm and soothing. We sat on the deck, fishing, grilling, for 12hrs as the sun bore down on my shoulders and the weight of everything else floated away on the current and the wind.
I didn't catch any salmon but I maxed out on Halibut and caught a Chinese Rock Fish.

This was by far one of my favorite days this summer. It was also the last.

The smallest two are mine.

Addicted?

Pre race dinner:
fresh picked blueberry pancakes

My legs ached the next day but my brain burned with the thrill as I read a simple article about trail running and ultra marathons. Someone on facebook encouraged me saying the long distance races are addicting. I believe him. I've just completed my first marathon. I feel addicted.

Maybe these resolutions will tire into fleeting impulses. It is after all, a fading summer, washed out with continuous rain fall and failing light. Soon the snow will cover everything and I will not run, I will ski. Perhaps when the snow lifts again, my spirit for running far will remain buried.

But maybe, instead, the recess and restoration of snow is the haven my mind needs to keep from burning out.

Thanks to my older brother for being there at the finish.
Time: 3:51:42

"They are raspberries"

I don't have pictures of the Raspberries but
here is a handful of strawberries I picked on
my way to the bus one morning.

I spotted the beautiful berries on Saturday as I began my first run since a cold overtook my body Tuesday night. I thought about them all afternoon at work. At 6:30 this morning, I dressed quickly, grabbed an ambitiously large Ziplock bag, my iPod, and hurried out the door to the raspberry patch that spilled over the sidewalk from a vacant lot. Thirty-five minutes into the prickly bushes and fireweed blossoms, a woman and her grown son walked by me as I untangled my headphones after an eager reach to an extra big berry. I could tell by the style of the woman's plump hair and their well shined garments that they were not from here. "Picking berries!" she exclaimed. "Yeah. blackberries," responded her son unintelligently. "Ooo blackberries!" she repeated.
"They are raspberries," I said pityingly as I emptied another handful of the bright red berries into my Ziplock. "Oh Raspberries!" she said, never changing from her brisk pace—though what they were doing on this empty side of town, I have no idea.

Forest Fair

Jerry and I drove the tank 40 minutes to Girdwood after work one day to experience Girdwood's annual forest fair. In the fashion of Girdwood, a certified rain forest, it rained a little. We ate food, watched the entertainers (both the paid and the unpaid), then drove back home. Uneventful.

A Few Fraudulent Days

An honest July afternoon

July launched an endless shower, as every true Alaskan July should, but this week deviously ushered in light clouds and blue sunshine. As my marathon training carried me through the Anchorage trails, my plodding feet surged in heat, even in the shade of the trees and soft ground. When I came upon a lake filled with splashing children and merry water, my feet decisively guided my steaming body to the edge of the pool. I must get new shoes, I thought, as—eager for the cool water—I hurriedly removed my shoes, shedding disintegrating stuffing with my left ankle and catching my right heel on a gaping hole where the lining had ripped.
I ran home briskly, unconcerned by the soaking, clinging shorts and the T-shirt which had stretched from an S to an XL.

Jumping pictures in Girdwood: fail

There is a fire-escape outside my room. I call it my balcony though it's hardly wide or comfortable enough to sit on. For the next half hour it gathered the afternoon sunshine around my drying, worked body. I wasn't the only one caught between an eagerness for sunshine and a desire for cool. Across the green, I lazily noticed a man in his third floor apartment. He stood confidently in the wide doorway. He would have appeared naked but that his belly wasn't quite large enough to completely hide his white Hanes which peeked sharply from beneath a slowed metabolism and a few too many beers. He suddenly noticed me but pretending not to, made a casual scramble to the cover of the window. I tried not to laugh and carried on with my quiet joy.

4 July 2013

The tip of Mount Marathon is near the hand
at the top left of this photo

Favorite meal of the year.

In January, I paid my dues and placed my name in the raffle for a chance to run the Mount Marathon 5K on July 4th in Seward, AK. It's where I have celebrated the last three Independence Days (read FunSunandSalmon for my first) and where I, perhaps unrealistically, hope to spend every July 4th henceforth.
It was a struggle, getting everything/everyone together for Seward. But it happened. Of course, it rained on our drive from Anchorage, it rained on our sleepy tents, it rained on our sputtering fire, and it rained on our steaming plates of halibut, carried delicately and proudly through the enthusiastic booths and crowd.
I did not win a place in the dangerously thrilling 5K 3,000 feet up Mount Marathon and 3,000 feet back to main street. As we watched the runners dash eagerly towards the base of the mountain and then labor with blood and dirt through the cheers crowding the finish, my desire and eagerness to try again for a chance to run with these…heros, these men and women who dare to exchange blood with rock and mountain, returned with an increasing heedless resolve.

Mom was here for a month. Our camping trip to Seward was the last thing we did together before she boarded her plane to Dallas.

6 Mile Creek

THWUNK. The hammerhead handle swung into my helmut as Carla's small yet uncontrolled body folded onto mine. Within moments, my mind had moved from wildly thrilled to readied dismay. The only thing keeping our two already chilled bodies from being overwhelmed by the glacial churning was my size 7 left foot, gripping with all its might to the foot cup at the bottom of the raft. But the bottom of the raft now lay completely vertical against the rock wall and the rapids licked eagerly at my straining, horizontal back. Knowing then that we were about to flip, I began to relax my secure foot and to prepare my alarmed body for the shock of the violent river. All at once—and inexplicably—the raft righted itself. Carla rested at my feet instead of my head. No one lost. We all went high on a rush of relief and delight at the narrow canyon and our narrow escape. I looked towards Archie who held the oars. He was not laughing yet.

Ridiculous & Marvelous

Three events marked the progression of Thursday, each incident simultaneously ridiculous and marvelous.

Para-sailers: we saw them
on our way to the trail.

My morning started as most mornings do: a brisk walk to the bus, a 15 minute illuminating ride; wave to Pandora at the front desk; glass of orange juice as I check my emails; Sales Team trickles in; my manager arrives toting her new Michael Kors (pink and exclusive to NYC). Is it your birthday? she asked as she handed me a green envelope from downstairs. "No" I said, drawing out the "o" with equal surprise and curiosity. The card had a cat, a fat cat, pictured on the front. "Just thinking of you," stated the bold font…"and pie, lot's of pie" it continued inside. Paul scrawled a couple of "CATastrophic"(e.g.) sentences. I laughed later when he asked me if I had shown this ridiculous card to my coworkers. Though I kept the card to myself, my unanticipated smile could not have been bigger. 

As the afternoon wore on and my morning glory lingered, the office printer, formerly deemed essential for all progress, quit. Calls were made to the service providers. Calls were made to Corporate. Calls were made to "Jim"—we don't have an IT department at the hotel but we have Jim. After an hour of plugging and unplugging, calling and holding, we began to discover new and clever ways to continue progress in the Sales Office. Suddenly, "Caleb" from the service providers appeared. His morning was slow so he’d decided to pop in. A savior! How kind! How marvelous. Well, by the end of the afternoon, he had disappeared, leaving things in slight disarray and although some of us were able to print, he may have accidentally deleted all printing capabilities from one of our manager's computers. Ridiculous.

From the honest peak near sunset.

That evening, Mom and JP picked me up 45 minutes late. We started towards Bird Ridge trailhead regardless, a 2.5 mile and 3400 foot climb looming in our near future. I lost track of the number of false summits and near submissions to the perpetual incline. Because of our tardiness, the hike started as a "we'll just hike this trail for a while" but as each false crest continued to break its promise and the next one seemed ever closer, the friendly romp became a resolute, hangry* stomp to reach the honest peak. The hike took several hours but the view and sense of accomplishment remain. Still, as I tenderly slid my quivering legs under the bed sheets at midnight I wondered at our ridiculous week night venture, a lesson supposedly learned on Wolverine (see previous post). But peaks are like a box of my favorite Triscuits: marvelously addicting, and once you start'em, it's so hard not to finish.

*hangry • han·gry • ⁄ h 'a NG gré ⁄ • adjective ( -gri·er , -gri·est )

Showing annoyance and hostility due the inability to quench an intensifying hunger.

Star

Five nights a week, Route 7 takes me from work to the transit center near the fourplex. Five nights a week, we roll past a large cage dominating a side yard on the edge of downtown. Even the top of the cage is enclosed by a fine yet strong mesh wire. What is in there?  But after work, my curiosity always lacks the energy required to answer this question.

Today, as we were picnicking at the Delany Park strip, I finally met the cage resident.

When I looked up from my chinese "chicken" and saw the movement in the cage, I immediately dashed barefooted across the street to relieve my recurring curiosity.
A reindeer. Is that it? As I laughed at my flattened expectation of some jungle beast, a couple walking by sourly remarked that the caribou probably dies every couple years but they replace it, keeping the name: "Star." Star? Sure enough. There was an official, weather proof name tag and facebook friending suggestion. That's probably why they keep the name.
"Star" was more thrilling as a mystery monster.

Woman Retreat

After work on Friday, Mom called the Talkeetna Roadhouse for availability. Nothing…well, we could buy a bed in the bunk room. Mom decided to buy all the beds in the bunk room to avoid spending the night with any random travelers. By 9 o'clock that night, we rolled into my arguably favorite Alaskan town, Talkeetna, where we spent the next 25 minutes yoked by the intention to eliminate the hord of mosquitos that threatened to poison our sleep in our private bunk room.

River at the end of the main street.
These guys know how to be.

The next morning, we sat at breakfast family style with a Belgian woman with a notebook, an elderly couple with strong opinions about f***ing Republicans, and an employee of Uncle Sam who longs to escape the prison of Fairbanks winters.
The rest of the day, Mom and I walked up and down the main street which is about three blocks long—and the only street in town. We paused only to sit on a bench in the delightful sun, legs extended and faces turned up to welcome the warmth of the day.

Becoming Alaskan

Three incidents exemplifying the bright beginning of successful assimilation into Alaskan society:

1. Can't take the "heat." I rolled my eyes at my younger brother as he complained of the heat to his phone. Oh please, you’re from Texas. It’s only 80 degrees. Not more than 10 minutes later I agreed that no, we could not eat at this patio restaurant because the tables available were in full, boiling, sun.
   
2. Voted worst-dressed state in the U.S.A.
   I wore my running gear and hiking boots to church on Sunday morning. Bemused by the glances of my family, I wondered why they would inconvenience themselves with church clothes for the next hour when our clear plan was to hike afterwards.
   I decided not to tell them I hadn’t washed my hair since Thursday morning.
   
3. Insanely active.
   Today, after a full day of work at the hotel, I ran for 8-10 miles out to Kincaid Park where I met the Church Ladies. Aunt Lyn brought a mountain bike for me. I tried to stretch among the mosquitos, swigged some water, jumped on the bike, and rode 8 miles of trails for the next hour. The crazy part? Some of them thought I was going to run back home too. 

Over the past few days, I have seen major progress in my move towards becoming an Alaskan. 

The true test will come with winter. 

The after church excursion in Girdwood, 50 minutes south of Anchorage.

Bunnies and Tow Trucks

Toulouse

After dinner with the Peonies, I followed a lead to a rabbit rescue just a few miles away. Since my Toulouse is stuck in Dallas, I am tentatively in the market for a furry bundle of unburdened joy to hold me up against the dark winter. The bunny lady had cats, sheep, ducks, dogs…and 100 rabbits. Among the 100 rabbits, only one stood out to me. He was older, had the coloring of a siamese cat, and had just escaped his pen.  If I get him, I would have to call him "Lord Alfred" or something similarly noble yet ridiculous.

We left the rabbit greenhouses and the over-committed bunny lady rabbit and turned to the road. As we accelerated onto the highway, I suddenly felt the car slowing down. When I looked over, I saw Mom rapidly glancing up and down from the road to the pedals. 

The engine turned off. 

We rolled into an abandoned parking lot. 

20 minutes later, I rediscovered myself on the Peony farm, this time at the kitchen table with a ukalele in my arms and the cluck of two other ukaleles in my ears, played by a witty uncle (dubbed "Camp Chef) and his nephew (an eighth grade baritone opera singer). My sunburned grump quickly turned to eager cheer as I learned to play what is often referred to as "just a toy."

But you know what toys do? said the uncle. They make you feel good. 

An hour or two later, Mom and I scrambled up into the tow truck to share a bench with "Jason" as he carried Car back to Anchorage. Jason used to work his dream job as commercial fisherman. He stopped  because he couldn't maintain relationships. Then he made good money working on the slope. He stopped that too because it wasn't healthy for his relationship. Now, for the sake of a wholesome relationship with his newly-wed, he drives a tow truck four days a week.
Happy anniversary, Jason and Wife. May God bless your marriage for the sacrifices you've made.

Sisters

Remember the peony farmer I met in May? Mom and I spent our Saturday with her and her sister  weeding the field of mounting peonies. I listened for several hours as the ex-Dallasite (the farmer), the Dallas-reluctant (her sister), and the Dallas crusader (my mother) chatted animatedly about common people and places, Dallas vs Alaska, worship, motherhood, and together—between squeals of discovering new Peony sprouts and the bashing of offensive worms—they solved the world's problems.

It's true, I heard them.

Left: Becca. Her family lives with her sister in Alaska in the summers.
Right: Rachel. She and her family live on their farm in the summer and in Anchorage the rest of the year.
These women are awesome. 

Wolverine Peak

Mom is in town. She came in Tuesday night. On Wednesday, my brothers and I went to the hotel in the tired and bright morning in order to clear our evening to hike Wolverine Peak. Mom rumbled with Car into the Millennium parking lot at 4:45 and we clambered up into the dusty, functional seats. Shortly after the moose delay, Sam kindly waited with Mom as her frequent pauses and satisfied air settled for turning around early. To the chagrin of my burning calves and JP's chaffed heels, the two of us rushed the remaining trail. 

Mom coated my bare arms and legs in bug dope—as the Alaskans call it—at the beginning of the trail. Even so, JP and I galloped in our boots for a large part of the descent, propelled by the surge of mosquitos that clung to anything moving at a trot or slower. Dont let the bugs in, instructed Mom as JP and I fumbled with our breathing and the car doors. 

Although we were out late, the tired legs, the dirt, the sun, and the conquest, left me wearied with satisfaction and happiness. Such days produce earnest sleep.

This is an Alaskan summer: long nights in the sun, heavy eyes in the morning, and a light smile through the afternoon.

#whatsupdocs

I flew to Asheville NC this weekend to attend a wedding. I took my camera but never a picture. So I will have to use words to describe it to you.

Austin and I met during the first days of college and he has pursued friendship with me ever since, despite the arguments I've sought with him.
Ruth was one of those beautifully confident, spirited girls, surrounded by an unclimbable wall of handsome smiles and spotlight. To my great delight, we became friends during my second year and have fought for our friendship ever since, even sharing a house with 4 other young women our senior year.
I did not tell them I was coming to their wedding. In fact, I told very few because I find great pleasure in great surprises and I shamelessly assumed that my presence would be just that. They were kind enough to confirm my expectation.
Someone whispered to me, they are coming up now. I walked outside and stood under the awning of the rehearsal dinner venue as Ruth and Austin came around the corner. They looked right through me. And then, the light went off in their eyes—as if it could have been any brighter at the dawning of their wedding day. How did I ever consider not coming? Even if it had meant spending every penny I had. 
The next day, I helped hand out programs for the ceremony. As I followed the last guest inside, I glanced back through the closing doors. Austin. He looked back at me. The tranquil exultation and resplendent assurance he wore in his brief smile and deep glance stunned me. In that trembling moment, the glory of heaven blast through every fiber of my being. God was explicit: this is good and I AM well pleased. 

Car

We finally gained a car. Actually, it's closer to a tank than a car. It is black, invasive, pimped—a gas devouring 1984 burb bearing a bottomless/all-consuming gas tank. I've issued an indisputable decree that we must continue to rely on the bus system during the week. The big guy is strictly for the two roads leading out of town.

Car got us out of town for an evening hike.
View of Anchorage and the Sleeping Lady across the inlet.

Moved

New window

Former favorite seat
(at Aunt Lyn's house)

I live with my brothers now in a fourplex downtown. Although an exact “horizontal” and “vertical” are a bit relative in this apartment, the location is marvelous. It's only a few minutes walk to the transit center. We started off using the former tenant’s leftover wireless connection but today, as Paul was in the midst of a flight demonstration on the other end of Skype, the internet froze—freezing Paul with his arms mid-flap—and finished. From now on, we will be relying on the local coffee shops for all emailing, blogging, facebooking, researching, skyping, and posting. I have already started a tab at the familiar Midnight Sun Cafe, home of the town’s purest breakfast sandwich and worthiest chocolate chip cookie.  

Plane taking off a runway just behind the hotel and Lake Hood. Paused my bike ride home to watch and marvel.

This window must be open, I said hopefully to myself as I lifted the yellowed blinds from the dusty glass. Shut tight. Light despair. I retreated carefully over the broadening pile of unpacked and unplaced items to my new bed where sleep alludes me, dismissed by the creaking feet overhead and the outer noises of city and train.

Night two in the new apartment: hopefully it will be filled with less half-awake dreams and more unconscious darkness.