Musings on the mundane... (Wasilla, Palmer: house, rent, lease)

[tidelines]

New to this forum, I hope you don't mind if I share a cuppa once in a while. I find it necessary to put into writing what I yearn to return to as the last child heads into the world of independence, freeing this parent to return to what was once a blissful reality. A diary of sorts, I will add a thought or two occasionally and even double my efforts and post vigorously when the mood is right or, translated, the homesickness begs the cure of expose. It is, after all, things Alaskan and I invite your comraderie and like mind. For starters, a bit of reminiscing...

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I commented to a friend the other day that I was beginning to feel town closing in on me, especially my clutter of plug-in appliances, clotheslines strung around my laundry room, a ceramic-top stove that always seems to need scrubbing, and city garbage service. Where before, my meat came from hoof to sink to jar by my hand, my largest grocery bill was $150 one month when I had hotdogs and chips flown in for visiting relatives, and the big decision of my day was choosing between wringing out jeans or towels or lightweight clothing by hand: I now find no refuge from the mundane sameness of town. I recognize my discontent as turning away from what is really important to me, a lifelong goal of living on and with the land, the betrayal of having set that aside until 'later.' Successful at that once, I imagine a return date. At 50, I'm feeling more urgency to get away from city water pipes and electric furnaces and (my biggest dislike) wall-to-wall carpeting, returning deliberately to inner-tubing and baling wire, so to speak, to keep me busy and fulfilled.

One beautiful summer day, with sunlight glinting off the water of the bay, my old woodstave water pipe blew a geyser. Our state senator at the time was in port on his fishing/sail boat and gathered 2-3 other fishermen to come help me fix the problem. It was a real comedy to stand back and watch them work on what I had become used to fixing on my own. Amidst the cussing and laughing, and a good old-fashioned soaking, the lot of them managed to patch things up to where that particular section of pipe would NEVER leak again, and we all traipsed back down the boardwalk toward my general store, coffee pot waiting atop the barrel stove and a platter of cookies on the wooden barrel next to it.

Winters were spent trapping; me running the skiff and my husband trekking in for the fur. Summers were for fishing halibut, crab and shrimp, camping and sightseeing and 5-hour trips to town via Boston Whaler. Early of a morning, I would hear the bell tinkle when the door to the store would be pushed open - a fisherman in to grab a towel for one last soak before heading out to a day on the water, or some other crewmember dropping off a bag of king crab legs in exchange for a free tub or two the week before. Days were when an old salt would radio from hours away to see if I had cinnamon rolls baking and, if not, if I had the makings for a pie he could enjoy when he finally got tied up to the dock. Occasionally, summer passers-through would see what they termed a "cute little garden" and proceed to raid my strawberry patch or pick a flower or two.

These remembrances are what sustain me while living in town, the realization that my life is still waiting out there. It's not so difficult to attain if only you take that first step back - or forward. There is satisfaction in kneading my bread, making my clothes, and really appreciating visiting with those who cannot imagine doing without, but are envious, still, of the peace you enjoy. Hurry the day when my journey takes me full circle and I am back once again in my old wooden rocker, feet propped in front of the stove, and a nice book on my lap. I'll be looking at my dog laying across the threshold of the open door at twilight, and knowing the day was a good one…

[tidelines]

The House by the Side of the Road

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
....
Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Sam Walter Foss
1858 – 1911



How can one help but appreciate a first snowfall?! When I walk out and see everything dusted, it reminds me of the berries I didn't get around to picking, the waning summer days I neglected by tending to indoor matters. At the same time I look toward long evenings with friends, good books, and projects set aside for more time. My least favorite time of year isn't necessarily my least liked - it's just lower on the list of good things I look forward to. Spring seems to be about impatience. Always wondering which snowfall is the last one of the season, and why it's so hard to trust the warm weather. Rain is the one constant, the single most trusted element we deal with. So, let it snow. Make the most of it. In the end it's all rain again, anyway.

I remember the first day we got to the bay, my husband and I were met on the boardwalk by someone asking us to sign a petition. Dismayed, I frowned and said I wasn't interested in whatever politics were going on out there; part of the reason I wanted to live away from town was to not have to deal with that kind of thing. No brainer: No matter where you go, if you deal with people there is bound to be something you'll disagree with.

I used to say that when I was 99, I would look back and none of the "bad" stuff would matter; all I'd remember were the highlights. It hasn't been nearly that long and I can say I've had a pretty good half century. It hasn't been perfect, but it's been pretty darn interesting!

Look around you. This is a gorgeous place. The weather is what it is and you deal with that. People are what they are and you deal with them, too. Make the most of the good stuff because one of these days you're going to look back and wonder what all the fuss was about and why you wasted so much time...

[tidelines]

I'd like to return to a remote life in the bush, away from town, away from cement. I yearn to wake up in the mornings and rush to add kindling to embers, put the perk-pot on the woodstove and look out at the snow. Or open my door and hear the birds, the dog barking at a squirrel, and the thrum of a diesel out on the strait. I miss a fire at twilight with my front door open wide to watch the sun set by lantern light. I miss the quiet evenings of reading, no sirens, no cars or trucks, just quiet darkness and water lapping the shore.

Town is closing in. Town is the disease I'm seeking a cure for. Medicine is returning to a former life, renewing mind and body, and reclaiming a contentedness that has been lacking for years. I'm readying the gear and plotting the course. Come spring and the plan will be set, the goal in sight. Peace...

Stood looking over the water as the day was coming to a close. Smells from town wafted over and along the beach. Somebody barbequeing (in this weather! well, why not?!), diesel, the smell of an outdoor fire beyond the road. Subtle sounds of nature were painted on this canvas of quietude and fading light, a rather pleasant combination this evening. I stood there, the ocean climbing and sliding at my feet, and was grateful that no matter where you live here, there's still a little bit of silence to be found at dusk. As the cup in my hands cooled through my gloves, first one goosebump, then another framed this block of solitude for the day, and I headed back to the truck, satisfied that I could still claim a bit of the real thing when needed. Sanity...

Wet, drizzly, dark; smells good outside. Distinct difference between beach and forest scents. I like the smell of bark on trees, pitch, that pungent "green" smell. I also like the smell of salty wet rocks, smooth ones and those not so worn. It's earth and the elements we recognize in the heady aroma of a good storm, nothing like pavement bathed in hundreds of footprints and man-made materials, refuse of a day of stress and intrusion.

Take a walk next time you're burdened, go til it's quiet. Feel the difference. Breathe...

I made a trip to the Dakotas once, and drove out to where Dances with Wolves was filmed. The panorama of prairie and sky was striking. I heard those peepers you mention, too, and the aroma of wildflowers was intoxicating indeed. Back in the city where my friend lived it seemed hotter, probably because there was no breeze, and as the day wore on into late afternoon a sound unlike any I’d ever heard began to grow – cicadas, cicadas everywhere. The hum was like high-voltage power lines but louder. It was quite unsettling. Here I’d been expecting to be lulled by crickets as the evening approached and I felt like I was in a science fiction movie. Funny how we don’t know what we miss about places we’ve never been. Stranger still are the impressions we take away with us when we depart.

I imagine what the south would be like: magnolia trees and fireflies and porch swings, neighborhood sounds of kick-the-can and ice-cream cart tunes fading with the twilight. Another friend had recorded those warm night sounds for me - far-away thunder chasing lightning to silence, crickets and toads tuning up for their evening symphony. Growing up, we kids spent summers in the heat of eastern Oregon and winters here in Alaska. While my childhood memories are always of the outdoors in either place, I find as an adult I am drawn to spending my future in remote places far from anything I remember in my youth. Here is where I wanted to be when I was young and away, and here is where I want to be as I grow old. Nothing is worn out, hardly anything is used up, and I’m free to turn any corner, climb any hill that beckons. And it’s all about what’s around that corner, over the hill; not necessarily to put down roots, but just to put a foot on the ground and look back to see where I’ve been. Pure and simple, I would do without a lot as long as I could keep going.

People communicate, speak, write for different reasons. I learned from a wise woman that everyone needs a witness, someone to listen to their truth, their story, their fears and dreams. Writing is that witness for me, the statement of who I am without explanation or defense. It makes me feel whole, releases what good there is. A picture will do that, drawn with words, even if there’s no one to listen.

[Barkingowl]

You write beautifully tidelines. I saw in my mind visions of the islands of Maine, peace & harmony of a life that I yearn for as well. I am unfortunately stuck, for the moment, in a megapolis in the South, the new Atlanta some say. We used to have tree frogs that had the loudest croaks & would keep one awake far into the night. But they have disappeared. The cicadias land in the trees in the summertime & buzz loudly at one another. They remind me of locusts discussing where & when to initiate a plague. I like your vision of the south. I wish it was the way that things should be. Do you have any pictures perchance to accompany your words?

[rotorhead]

I like to sit and read, and watch the sea. I like the way the wind knocks the spray off the whitecaps when it piles up the waves against the jetty. I like to enjoy a quiet cup of tea with the dogs chin on my knee, ever mooching for another scratch behind the ears. Perhaps most of all I like to watch the peaceful expression of my little boy when he's sleeping, the only quiet part of the day.

[tidelines]

Dog and I are sitting in Wasilla, waiting for the warm season to begin. Abbeygirl is lounging on the back deck atop what's left of the snow, and I'm catching updates on the Masters golf tourney in Georgia, a place so foreign to the Alaskan mind I wonder what draws me to the channel over and over to watch something I've done once in my life. Golf. True, you can golf up here. Just catch one of the lowest low tides in Port Alexander and you'll have to time to hit a few around the back bay. The ball might acquire a saltwater sheen over time, and you'll get used to such hazards as mussel beds and the flotsam/jetsam of high tide lines, but you can still slice a few into the trees without too much trouble. In all honesty, the only golf course I've spent much time on is in Redmond, Oregon where relatives had built a house on some tee. I'd be on the deck at 7 a.m., enjoying a cup of coffee, watching folks dragging wheeled bags filled with clubs around the grass. I know how cold a high desert morning is because I'd be wrapped in a blanket with my feet tucked into the folds - it's downright chilly when lava rock is only a foot beneath the dirt and there's nothing to hold the heat of the previous 85-degree day. And yet folks who like to golf will pull on a vest, wear gloves and don sunglasses to get an early start whacking little white eagle heads across the greens before the heat begins to bake the day. It's not hard to figure that out; it's is like trying to explain why derby fishermen will suffer through weather foul enough to make an old salt heave. I suppose the anticipation of a hole-in-one or a 72-lb salmon makes it all worth the misery. I guess that's why a lot of the old sourdoughs stuck it out all winter and spring; the promise of summer glory is worth all the raw wind and rotting ice the changing seasons ravage on them. Yeah, I'd bet most Alaskans who wait it out know just exactly what the payoff is for their patience. As the saying goes, if I had to explain, you wouldn't understand...

(NC, Georgia? Well, there ya have it. I wouldn't know the difference. All I know is it's not southeast Alaska or Oregon I'm seeing on that television. Guess I'd better turn the sound on... )

[Barkingowl]

The last time I played golf was in Maine last century. I was plying with 2 friends & their father. We were on the 18th hole & I placed the ball on the tee. I was lining up my club & I asked my friend's Dad to move back behind the tee. He just looked at me & said, "Just hit the GD ball! We don't have all day." I looked at the ball & brought the club up behind my head & brought it down. It connected squarely with the ball. I hooked it into a tree about 20' to the right of the fairway. The ball bounced off the trunk & hit my friend's father in the right knee. It wasn't my best shot but it was satisfying.

[Takeo]

Never played golf in my life or "goff" (you pronounce it holding a hot potato in your mouth) as some of the english here in the southwest of France tend to pronounce it. The nearest golf place from where I live is some 60 miles away near Bordeaux and I think the annual membership fee is in excess of 1,000 Euro (USD 1,500). Nothing for me. Here, "goff" is for those who fart higher than their *ss.

In nice mornings, I like to hurt my back saddling up (old western saddle weighs some 50 lbs), hurt my left knee when mounting (I am old) and ride through the forest to the village (1 mile) to get some groceries, which is actually a pretext to get a pack of cigs.

Last week, a large boar (they are a pest here) blocked the trail. I slowly took my old Henry rifle from the saddle holster, loaded and locked one single 44-40 round and shot it into the gravel just behind the boar's behind, sending some pebbles towards his whatsits. He disappeared into the forest. I do not believe in killing animals for fun although I have a license to do so. Saddle on its trestle, horse in meadow, Takeo happy, thinking of his far away Yup'ik girlfriend. Simple life. I do not need more.

Takeo.

[Glitch]

I play golf regularly at Settler's Bay. I'll go fishing early, around 5:00 or 6:00 AM, and by 8:00 or 9:00 AM I am done fishing. I usually set my tee-time at around 11:00 AM or Noon, so I have time for a little brunch and some practice time on the driving range before my round begins.

[ASpilot2be]

Originally Posted by Glitch

I play golf regularly at Settler's Bay. I'll go fishing early, around 5:00 or 6:00 AM, and by 8:00 or 9:00 AM I am done fishing. I usually set my tee-time at around 11:00 AM or Noon, so I have time for a little brunch and some practice time on the driving range before my round begins.

Where is Settlers bay?

I know there is a golf course by the Palmer airport. In fact so close that I had to taxi around golf balls on the taxi way