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.