Alaska – Page 7 – Lofty Minded in Alaska

The Closeness of the Moon

Yesterday morning, in the early hours, I made myself go out to take a look at the lunar eclipse. I couldn’t see it from any of the windows in my house so I bundled up and stepped outside to my front yard for a good view. The air was still and the stars were made more brilliant by the darkened moon. It was only a few minutes before I wanted to be back under my down comforter, but I’m glad I went through the trouble to go out there. In that moment I felt a hundred different ways, but mostly I was in awe of how it’s possible to feel so close to something so far away. Maybe the moon feels close because there is nothing impeding my view of it, not the curve of the earth or a mountain range. Visually it’s just a straight shot from my front yard, which makes the moon seem closer sometimes than the grocery store in town or my hometown in Colorado where most of my family resides.

Two days ago I drove back home from Anchorage after taking my mom and sisters to the airport. They were here for a week and they got to see Adella perform in the Nutcracker. This was her tenth year dancing in the production. The roads were not in great shape with all of the freezing and thawing that’s been going on, so I took my time. I drove slowly and stopped often. All along the way I listened to The Elegance of the Hedgehog by the French author Muriel Barbery. I was so enthralled with the book that when I got home after the five-hour drive I didn’t want to stop. When I reached the turnoff to my road I opted to keep going for just a while longer. I finally stopped with only a few chapters to go.

Yesterday morning after dropping Adella off at the high school for the Nutcracker and before it was my turn to take a volunteer shift in the greenroom, I parked at the beach and resumed listening to the final chapters of the book. As I watched the sea birds floating on the water I listened to one of the most beautiful and touching pieces of writing I’ve come across in a long time.

So yesterday my day started with a lunar eclipse and it ended with a windstorm. In the middle of it all I helped out with the last Nutcracker performance of the season. But because of the prose I’d listened to earlier in the day I experienced it all differently. While I stitched torn costumes, fluffed tulle and pinned hairpieces into place I was thinking of the closeness of the moon, about the small moments of beauty and friendship in an ordinary life. And today the wind is still raging. If any of the big beetle-killed trees on our property were still standing, this is the kind of storm that could blow them over. If our greenhouse were still intact, this is the kind of storm that would send the fiberglass panels flying across our five acres. And it occurs to me that art has that kind of power. It can rearrange the landscape of our perceptions. It can change an ordinary day into something entirely meaningful. If we let it, it can break down barriers and send the unsecured debris sailing. It can take us to the places we didn’t know we had a right to visit.

Onward

Last week on Wednesday my son announced that he was moving to Vermont. And today, nine days later, he called us from Boston. “I made it. My luggage made it. It’s warm here, and after flying first class I never want to fly coach again.” Then he said, “I miss you guys and I love you.” His decision to go came about quickly, but hastiness aside, I’m confident it was a good choice. He was ready to get out of Homer and see a bit of the world. He’s going to be with friends; people I trust. I’m excited for him. It’s all good. But dang, it was hard to say goodbye.

Skype and email and cellphones and Facebook; they make it so easy to stay in touch. Being across the country from your child is nothing compared to what it used to be. People used to venture out, move West, blaze new trails not knowing if they’d ever see their family members again. Their goodbyes really meant goodbye, not just see you later. Dillon moving to Vermont is not final or tragic in any way, but it’s going to take me a while to adjust to his absence.

You see, I’ve gotten used to seeing that boy nearly every day for the past eighteen and a half years. The energy he brings into the world has been a part of what makes our home our home. His stepping out into the unknown changes things for all of us.

I know it’s all a part of the plan with having children. You bring them into the world. You give them what they need. You love them and raise them the best you know how. There is nothing unique about a kid growing up and leaving home.

I know all of this, but still it was hard to say goodbye.

48 minutes

I timed myself. From the moment I entered until the moment my transaction ended it took 48 minutes, which seems like an awfully big chunk of time when you’re not used to waiting in line for much of anything. But it’s Christmastime and the holiday season wouldn’t be complete without at least one very long wait at the Homer Post Office.

There is something noble about saying that you waited in line at the Post Office for a long time. It insinuates that you are getting your gifts sent off to distant relatives in a timely fashion, but I have to confess, I haven’t purchased a single gift yet. Shopping is my least favorite aspect of Christmas. I prefer the baking, which is why I was willing to stand in line for the better part of my lunch break on Monday. I had no choice. If I wanted the organic Saigon Cinnamon and the organic cocoa powder that I’d ordered online then I had to take the plunge.

I do quite a few things around town to keep me feeling connected; I go to the contra dances, I volunteer for the Homer Nutcracker, and I work in the library, but I don’t think anything makes me feel more a part of the community than a nice, long wait at the Homer Post Office.

When I first walked in the door I was greeted by cheering and clapping. Well it wasn’t for me, but for the lady walking out. The crowd was congratulating her for making it through the line. After it was clear that I was not one of the people who bailed upon seeing the length of the line, a man three people in front of me informed me of the expected wait time. “It’s taking about thirty minutes,” he said.

Way up ahead of me in the line I could see one of my close friends who appeared to be conducting business from her cell phone. First someone came in to have her sign paperwork then a few minutes later she was delivered a batch of cupcakes. I weighed the option of running my pink slip up to her so she could pick up my package for me, but I didn’t want to be the one responsible for turning the mostly cheerful crowd hostile by cutting, besides, her hands were full.

A well known local conspiracy theorist happened to be there that day, and he decided to talk rather loudly and incessantly about how the postal service was going south because of the government’s war on drugs. According to him, all packages were being opened and inspected in the back and that’s why it was taking so long.

Another woman, someone I didn’t recognize, talked on her cell phone about some fairly private matters concerning the health of her friends and family. After hearing the words “colonoscopy” and “questionable pap results” I was thankful, for her family’s sake and my own, that I didn’t know her.

About twenty minutes in, my business conducting friend who had been near the beginning of the line finished sending her packages and came to chat with me. We made a date to sit in her new hot tub, exchanged stories about our teen-aged daughters and compared notes on how we were holding up during the coldest, darkest part of winter. Then as she was walking out she looked back at me and said, just so most everyone could hear, “I don’t wear a bathing suit in the hot tub, so don’t worry about bringing one.” – So glad she left me there with the townsfolk after giving them that image.

Then there was the lady that kept trying to get the group to sing Christmas carols, and the young woman who never looked up from her texting the entire time, and the guy who was reading his mail and swearing. It made for some good people-watching and I never got bored.

Overall it wasn’t a bad 48 minutes. It was better than shopping and it reminded me of why I love this quirky little town. And I had something to think about when I finally got my box of spices and it had been opened. Maybe the conspiracy theorist guy was right after all.

An Ode to Fiddle Camp

Jam (photo courtesy of Nicole Christianson)

All through September I kept having the feeling that summer couldn’t possibly be over yet. There were a few things that didn’t happen; things that make summer feel complete. This was the first time in the fourteen years that we’ve owned our skiff that we never launched it, which if you live in Homer just seems crazy. We also never hosted a salmon/halibut barbeque with a campfire. Incomplete as it may seem without those aspects of summer, the even bigger hole in the season comes from the fact that this year there was no Fiddle Camp. And I really, really missed it.

In 2005 when I first attended Fiddle Camp I had taken a few Suzuki lessons and had picked out a few Irish tunes on my violin. I knew I loved playing, but didn’t really have much direction, so on my first day of camp I signed up for an Irish fiddle class, a very basic bluegrass workshop and a “how to play in a band” workshop. At the end of the day I was happy enough, I had been challenged and had plenty to work on, but then something happened that night. I witnessed an old-time fiddle jam that changed everything.

It was music different than anything I’d ever witnessed. Someone would call a tune and the whole group started to play. Nobody soloed, nobody tried to outdo the next person; everyone just played the same tune together, for a long time. I noticed that after the first five or so times through a tune there was a shift in energy, it became almost meditative for the players, and the music seemed to take on a life of its own. The melody of each tune stayed true throughout, but the driving force was the rhythm. It’s difficult to for me to describe an old time jam, but the word “tribal” comes to mind whenever I try.

The next morning I rearranged my schedule to old-time fiddle 1, old-time fiddle 2, clawhammer banjo (even though I’d never held a banjo in my life) and Appalachian singing. My teachers were Kirk Sutphin and Riley Baugus, so it’s safe to say I had a pretty amazing introduction to the genre.

I’ve been hooked on old-time music ever since. I play whenever I can; at home, with friends in town, and at festivals. But it’s not quite the same as being at camp. Where else can I immerse myself in music for an entire week, share meals and stay up until all hours of the night with friends who share my passion?

And really it’s as much about the friends as it is about the music. I’ve gotten used to seeing certain people every August and I missed them this year. I missed singing hits from the eighties with Travis. I missed hearing Eamon sing Irish ballads (and the Bee Gees) at two in the morning. I missed Jay and Brian’s witty banter. I missed everyone and the whole scene, especially the poignancy of Saturday night when nobody wants to go to bed because we all know it will be a whole year before we’re all together again.

Here’s hoping that Alaska Traditional Music Camp (Fiddle camp for short) will come together again someday. My summer just wasn’t quite the same without it. But even if it’s over, even if I have to get my music fix some other way in summers to come, I’m thankful to have been a part of it for the past five years.

Saturated (part 2 of the Anderson Bluegrass Festival experience)

(See previous post for Part 1)

On Friday morning Jay sent us on our way armed with some amazing smoked salmon and a warning to watch out for the “knuckle draggers.” It turns out he had taken his family to the Anderson Bluegrass Festival several years before and had almost been run over in his tent by someone who went for a middle-of-the night motorized excursion, after consuming much alcohol no doubt. Jay and his family ended up leaving the festival early. Sherry had also warned us about the festival, saying it was a wild one. Maybe it was the alluring weather forecast that called for clear skies and temperatures in the 80’s, but after taking heed of the warnings of our friends we decided to give Anderson a shot anyhow. We could handle knuckle draggers, or duck out early if we felt so inclined.

We stocked up on more groceries than three women could possibly consume over the span of three days and in order to have optimal awareness before the long drive north we stopped at the Modern Dwellers Chocolate Lounge for some drinking chocolate, (like we needed an excuse.) I was looking forward to the drive with two of my favorite ladies, to listening to all the old-time music I liked (something my family doesn’t really appreciate) and getting north of the Alaska Range to where the summertime temperatures get well above what us coastal folks are accustomed to.

Honestly, our first impressions of the festival had us a little worried. We didn’t feel like we fit in very well. Not a one of us sports a tattoo or has piercings in unusual places. We didn’t bring a keg or a hula hoop or a dog. We drove around the grounds looking for a place to camp, feeling discouraged by our options until we spotted a group of people who looked a little like us. They were about our age, clothed, and most importantly they were playing stringed instruments rather than a boom box. We found out they were a bluegrass band from Anchorage called Bootleg Brown and they turned out to be great neighbors. I think they appreciated us as well. The group that camped beside them on the other side brought a pig, not the little pet pot-bellied sort, but more of a hog; the kind that would be in a 4-H display at a county fair. We were the neighbors without the pig, which automatically made us more favorable I think.

After getting our camp put together we headed over to the main stage. Peter, the birthday boy from the night before, was playing with the old-time string band Lost Dog from Fairbanks. It was a stroke of luck to get there when we did because out of the hundreds of people at the festival they were the only other old-time musicians we ran across all weekend. We took a close look to see who they were so we would know who to track down when we wanted to play tunes later in the evening. Kate is a great friend and a ton of fun to travel with, but I also discovered an added bonus of going to music events with Kate; she knows and remembers the names of musicians from all around the state. It turns out she recognized the band members of Lost Dog; fiddler Thomas Hart, banjo player Pete Bowers, Kim Blair on the mandolin and Ryan Bowers on the bass.

While watching Lost Dog on the main stage it hit me that I was as warm as I’d been all summer. It was already late in the day, around 8:00 pm, and the sun was still high in the sky and beating down on my skin. I haven’t spent much time in the interior of Alaska but at that moment I was a convinced there was no place on earth I’d rather be. There were a few people in the crowd I could imagine slipping into “knuckle-dragger” mode later in the evening, but I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. For a while we were just a bunch of people reveling in the sunshine, happy to be away from the real world for a little while.

Saturated (part 1)

Sometimes a person reaches a saturation point. The dampness of this coastal Alaskan summer was beginning to take its toll on my mood. My imagination was stuck on replaying a scene that involved waking up in the morning and seeing blue sky and a yard that could be navigated without getting soaked. I needed some sun and I wasn’t going to get it in Homer. A field trip was in order, so my sister Marla and my friend Kate and I headed north, to the Anderson Bluegrass Festival.

There were no guarantees that the weather would be nice in Anderson, but whenever people gather to play music there is different kind of warmth that is created, a kind of heat that is a close second to that which comes from the sun, and I needed some of that as well. Lucky for me the weekend did not disappoint on either front.

We left on Thursday afternoon and headed toward Anchorage to stay one night with our friends Jay and Sigrid, host and hostess extraordinaire. They have an enviable way of making people feel right at home the moment you enter their presence (not just their home.) Sigrid attended the play of one of her nieces that evening so we didn’t get to see much of her, but Jay whisked us away to a birthday party of a fellow musician and fiddle player, Peter.

Several friends that I’ve made over the past five years of attending Alaska Fiddle Camp were there, and it was great to get to see them, especially since there will be no camp this year. After visiting for a while we found our way to the dining room that had been cleared out to make room for the purpose of playing music. My brain was dull after the drive, and I could feel the beginnings of a headache (I should have known better than to substitute dinner with a mocha,) but thankfully my friend Sherry, another fiddle player, was there with her plethora of tunes, and between her and Peter and George, I enjoyed the luxury of just playing along without having to think too hard. We played until just after midnight (in order to usher Peter into his 40’s) and ended the evening by passing around a gallon of raspberries that George had picked from his yard and given to Peter as a birthday gift.

It was raining again as we left the party but it didn’t really matter. I felt content, and warm, and glad to be in Alaska among my friends.

Halfway through summer

Somewhere in the early days of this blog I think I wrote something about trying to post something at least twice a week. In retrospect it may have been a little too lofty a goal. I seem to be doing well to get something out twice a month at this point.

There is always the hope that somewhere in my future I will find more time for writing and reading. Realistically the six to seven months of winter we get here could work to my advantage. During the long season I go to bed early and therefore find it relatively easy to get up at 5:30am and take advantage of a quiet house. Summer in Alaska is a different story. There is this climate-imposed pressure to fit as much into three months as others in a more southern locale could spread out over as many as six to eight months. The garden needs tending, firewood needs stacking. There are fish to catch, berries to pick and recreation to be had, all in addition to the regular household chores and my job. I’ve heard people talk about “lazy summer days” but honestly I haven’t experienced many of them in the 18 years I’ve lived here. Perhaps we’re programmed to keep moving until darkness settles in, which this time of year is around midnight. It’s a rather manic existence and I can sustain it for a while, but just lately I’ve reached the part of the summer where my concentration is low and my attention span is short.

Lately I’ve been craving some serious couch time. The other day I found myself fantasizing about catching a summer cold that would force (allow?) me to sit still for a while with my books and my laptop. When my reading and writing habits become mucked up in the long daylight portion of summer, I feel a little out of balance. A sort of literary mania comes over me. The problem is compounded by the fact that I work in a library.

It starts with me checking out more books and magazines than I could ever possibly find the time to read. Then, when I start feeling bad about taking so many items out of circulation for the public use I begin digging through the book donation boxes in the back room. My stack keeps getting higher and in my attempt to make up for all the years I spent reading Glamour magazine and listening to 80’s pop music when I should have been reading the classics I start having thoughts like, “How can I possibly be a good writer if I’ve never read Moby Dick, or anything by Steinbeck? I must remedy this situation right now.” The guilt I inflict upon myself is emotionally exhausting and by the time I actually have time to sit down on my couch with my oversized stack, (usually around 11:30 pm) I’m overwhelmed by the choices. I do a lot of page flipping and a little reading (remember the short attention span I mentioned earlier) before I find myself too tired to think straight. Then I fall into a hard sleep for about six hours.

Coherence returns, for a while at least, after a good sleep, so that’s when I try to write, even if it only amounts to a page or two in my notebook. Some would say that journaling is a waste of time but I find that it’s a valuable tool for helping me keep my wits intact. A while back it led me to a most obvious solution to my reading and writing problem of late: short stories. I’m working on a short story of my own, and what better way to learn the workings of the genre than to read a bunch of them? And beautifully, I can manage complete works of fiction that are only 5-12 pages long, even during this crazy time of year when daylight lasts much longer than my brain’s ability to stay fully engaged.

And as for this blog, I still aspire to post more often, and maybe even liven it up with pictures once in a while. In the meantime I’ll do what I can, and continue to enjoy the process. I think I’ll also try to slow down a little and savor some of what summer has to offer.

Thanks everyone for reading. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support!

Lunch Break Pilgrimage

To outsiders 39 degrees doesn’t sound very warm, but in Homer, in the middle of March, when there is no wind and the sun is shining, it feels downright toasty, especially if you’re wearing your favorite wool sweater. Yesterday, St. Patrick’s Day, was one of those days. Unfortunately I had to work, but I did manage to get outside over my lunch break.

First, I left the library and waded through several inches of slush in the parking lot to find my way to the walking trail that leads through the woods. The trail hasn’t been cleared since last week’s storm, but a narrow path of packed down snow made it passable. I could have followed the road, but I would have been sprayed and subsequently soaked if a car had driven past. On the trail I met a young guy whose mother is a friend of mine. When he stepped aside to let me pass he sunk about two feet into the soft, melting snow. It was very chivalrous of him considering the fact that he was wearing sneakers and I had my snow boots.

At the end of the trail I turned south on Poopdeck Street. At this point I had to shade my eyes with my hands. The sun, the snow, the water; well it was all a little overwhelming for my pupils. The sidewalk was also icy which made for some interesting maneuvering. I walked and slid my way downhill to the highway, without crashing I might add, with one hand above my eyes and the other out in front of me for balance.

I crossed the highway at the crosswalk and cut through the Islands and Ocean Visitors Center parking lot to meet the next trail. It cuts down through the spruce and alder forest and leads to one of my favorite destinations in Homer; Two Sisters Bakery. But yesterday it was too nice outside, and I needed the sun more than I needed a chocolate bread roll, so I walked past the bakery and headed toward Bishop’s Beach.

The parking area was crowded. Dogs and children were milling about. A black lab and a German shepherd, free from their owners, ran up to greet me. It turns out that I knew both of the dogs and when I called out their names, Osa and Caspian, they were beside themselves. They proceeded to swarm around me in a flurry of leaping and hopping and wagging tails. When the boys who belonged to the dogs caught up they seemed equally as excited as the dogs at having found someone they know at the beach. Sometimes there’s nothing like a good greeting.

After a short chat in the parking lot I walked through the soft sand at the top of the beach and over the rocky stretch about half way down before I reached the final stretch of my journey. Still wet from the receding tide and littered with clumps of seaweed, driftwood and clam shells, the expanse of dark sand just before the water is one of my favorite places. Sometimes I walk long distances along the water’s edge, taking advantage of the firm surface, but yesterday my time was limited so instead of walking parallel to the water I went straight toward it.

I knew I didn’t have long, that I’d have to turn back in order to get back to work on time, but I stood for a while with the water inching in and out around the soles of my boots. I listened to the waves. I turned my head toward the sun and soaked in its heat for a few moments. Then I did something that I hadn’t planned on doing; I took off my gloves and plunged my hands in the ocean. For some reason it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Extremes

Today, the day after the official winter solstice, we have five hours and fifty-eight minutes between sunrise and sunset. We’re on the gaining side of the pendulum now and by March it will be light until 9:00 pm.

Solstice doesn’t go unnoticed in Alaska. Some people have big parties in celebration of the shift toward summer. Others acknowledge the day in a more introspective fashion. Either way, it feels very Pagan, living in a state where no matter how far removed you might be from nature you can’t ignore the extremes in the seasons.

I’ve had a hard time with winter the last few years. For me, and others I’ve spoken to about the subject, there seems to be a cumulative effect going on. Coping with winter didn’t seem to be so much of a problem for the first decade of my living here, but now I have to actively work on my sanity throughout the winter months.

This winter I’m taking 3000 IU of Vitamin D every day. I haven’t read any scientific studies about its effectiveness in fending off the winter blues, but I figure it can’t hurt.

A few years ago I bought a light box. The idea is that if you start using it daily in the fall when each day loses a few minutes of light, then you will feel the benefits of it in late winter when the days are getting longer. And that brings up another interesting and strange dilemma. Most people who have a hard time with winter feel it the most around the spring equinox, when the days are long again, and the hope of summer is just around the corner.

For me I’ve found that my ability to make it through the winter without feeling despair hinges on the previous summer. In 2008 Alaska had a very cool summer. In Homer the temperature only got to 70 degrees twice. Most days the thermometer hovered around 55 degrees. In July we went camping in McCarthy and had to cancel our hiking plans due to snow. Winter rolled around and I never felt like I had had a summer. It was tough.

I can endure pretty long winters, but if I don’t feel like I have a summer I get cranky, and desperate. Last year we planned a trip to New Mexico in June, the hottest time of the year there, because I was determined to get some sun. I didn’t want to rely on Alaska for a summer. After 2008 I didn’t have much faith.

As it turned out we had an unseasonably warm and sunny summer last year. So between that stroke of luck, or El Nino, and the New Mexico trip, I should be in good shape for this winter. But certain things about myself, in relation to the long, Alaskan winters are still predictable. By late February, even on a good year, I’ll start dreaming about that feeling of the sun’s rays on my skin and I’ll wake up under my down comforter and feel like crying. By that point in the winter I know I’ll have to rely on some inner strength to get me through those last few weeks of winter. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.

It helps if I remind myself of the opposite extreme that Alaska brings out in me. Every summer I experience moments of euphoria, usually while I’m out on our skiff on Kachemak Bay, or when I’m looking down on the meadow in front of our house and a black bear lumbers by. At those moments, when Alaska’s bounty is all around me and the days linger into the early hours of the morning, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

Naming a road

Bear with me please, because I know I mentioned in an earlier post that I was going to steer clear of politics for this blog. But there is a local issue that I feel warrants the breaking of my self-imposed rule. It has to do with a neighborhood squabble over the name of our street.

When we decided to venture out of town and live a more rural lifestyle, we started looking for a house nestled on a few acres. At the time there weren’t many options. We found either a house with no acreage, or acreage with a rustic shack. One day though, we noticed a new ad in the newspaper that sounded appealing. “For sale by owner: Two bedroom house, good view, five acres.” Immediately we made the call.

The man selling the house was about to turn ninety. He wanted to move to Oregon to be closer to his family and in his words, “start a new life.” He was eager to go, and we were eager to buy. The house was less than perfect, although it was sound. And the view, well to say it has a good view is the understatement of the century. The five acres were carved out of the middle of a large homestead, so a lot of wild space surrounded the house. We drove away that day knowing that we had to move fast. We called the seller back that same night, and asked him if we could come take another look. That’s when he said, “I should probably tell you about the neighbors.”

Most people who live in or around Homer, Alaska can claim that they have interesting neighbors, but I’m going to go ahead and make the bold claim that ours may be more interesting than most. An entire book could be written about them, and should be for that matter. Now they are in their mid 80’s, but as a young couple they homesteaded in this area with a baby on the way and a toddler; before there was a road. They are tough. They still haul their drinking water from town, use an outhouse, and keep their home warm with a wood stove.

The old man has quite a reputation. He’s known around town for growing potatoes and toting a gun. We’ve heard stories about him shooting at low-flying airplanes, and real-estate agents. Sharing a driveway with him has been a challenge at times, but overall it’s worked out well. Soon after we moved in I discovered that he and I come from the same town in Colorado, and I credit that little bit of serendipity with making all the difference.

The woman is someone I consider a friend. She works harder than most people I know and still drives into town before church every Saturday morning to play piano for “the seniors” at the long-term care center. She grows, without a doubt, the best strawberries on the Kenai Peninsula. Her stories about homesteading this neighborhood are filled with bears, months of isolation, fires and a whole host of other amazing things.

Just last week I gave her a ride to town when her car was in the shop. I noticed that her breathing was more labored than usual, and she had a hard time getting in and out of the car. “I’ve really gone downhill these past couple of months,” she said after I helped her with her seatbelt. She then proceeded to tell me about how her family moved to a village near Dillingham when she was six years old, and how her father and older brother died in a boating accident during their first year in Alaska. One of the jobs she had to take on in order to help her family survive was feeding the dog team. At first I didn’t think much of that, but then she mentioned that she had to trap animals for them in the winter and harvest and dry fish for them in the summer. No wonder she’s slowing down now, at age 85.

And this brings me back to the name of our road. When we first moved out here the name of our road was Olday Road. The borough felt the need to change it at some point, so they asked for suggestions. Since our neighbors homesteaded the area, someone suggested that the road be named after them. So it became James Road for a few years. Someone was unhappy with that name, perhaps it was someone who had suffered the wrath of the old man when he was feistier than he is now, and they made an issue out of it. I wasn’t a part of the discussion, but had I been asked I would have said, “Absolutely. The Jameses deserve to have the road named after them.” But sadly, the sign at the top of the street now says Maria Road.

I have plenty of stories I could tell about living next to the old homesteaders. A few of them are bad, like the time our dogs got caught in the traps the old guy set to keep the coyotes out of his pile of moose hide. Some of them are funny, like the time they added an entire trailer’s worth of old household items we were getting rid of to their already huge collection of stuff. But most of the stories just have to do with being neighborly; sharing gardening experience, giving rides to town, figuring out where to park our cars when there is too much snow.

I don’t know who Maria is, or was, and maybe her story warrants the naming of a road after her. But this one should be named after the James. They deserve a tribute to their lives as Alaskan homesteaders. It wouldn’t be much but I think it would mean something to them, to see their name on the street sign each time they drive past.