Bye Bye Running Water

On the last day of 2011, our water froze. It's to be expected in -40 degree temperatures. But nevertheless, it's a certain something no one really wants to deal with. In such an area, getting anything fixed is tough- getting a professional is impossible. So we have three or four residents who know how to fix frozen water pipes underground- all of which do not work on New Years. So now our pipes freeze over even worse. There is of course some main things one cannot do without running water. Laundry in a washer- not exactly terrible for me. Living homeless in Illinois prepared me for handwashing clothes (which used to occur in a gas station sink). No showers- once again not completely terrible although I do much enjoy my warm baths. A basin will work, I really don't mind- once again at least it's not a gas station sink. And then there are dishes. I've always done those by hand with water heated on the woodstove anyways. So I suppose, as long as I have internet to document my experience- there isn't much to worry about.

Native Tales

I'm a collector of odds and ends- the lost forgotten peices of other's broken collections. I like fur scraps, lost feathers, old buttons, and keys without their locks. Lately I've delved into stories with unnamed authors. Some of my favorite are the native stories told around here. They're odd in many ways. Some are almost terrifying, others are just ridiculous, most have a hidden ethic too insane to see, and all of them are inspired by the most fascinating notions anyone could have. They teach lessons most people wouldn't even think to learn. They tell stories, some hearts are too weak to hear. And I find my mind expanded a little further by each and everyone.

Harsh Cold

I've felt the coldest bits of wind touch my cheek. -40 F degree weather has overtaken my western Alaska home. My interior and northern neighbors have faced such extremes before, but I, a lonesome sea dweller, have felt barely colder than -20. It's a sharp nip against my pale pale cheeks. The dark tone of the Eskimo's skin doesn't redden as much as mine. My cheeks are completely blushed by the time I arrive at any destination. They notice, but are too kind to point out the change in my tones. I know it strikes many of them as odd. Even I find it unbelievable at times. Who knew Jack Frost could be so harsh?

Smoke In The Sunrise

The way smoke from my neighbor's chimney bellows into the pink and purple sunrise is one of my favorite things. It's sillhoutte is a shade of purplish blue as it rises and disappears. There's something almost Alice In Wonderland about the way it slowly trails its way into the colors behind it. Like the puffs from the caterpillar as he sits atop his mushroom smoking away. It's alot like that. The colors are even unreal. The perfect lines of clouds in the distance look more like a painting than a reality. And the ideal shades of light pink, yellow, orange, and purplish blue are ones that would be carefully picked and created by a picky artist. But the smoke is my favorite part. It doesn't ruin the landscape, but rather enlightens it. The way it dances into the reflections of the early dawn is almost peaceful in a way.

Corn and Peanuts

Chipper got a hardy serving of corn and peanuts and sunflower seeds today. He's been absent for a while. But now that I've scattered a large harvest on the ground he's made his appearance once again. He's getting fat- but that's a good thing. In the -20 degree temperatures all of that extra fur and weight will keep him nestled in his own heat. I couldn't imagine a better way to stay warm. At the moment he's jumping up and down from his little squirrel house. He carefully stores the food away in his cheeks and then arranges it in his wooden home. Up and down and up and down all day long. Quite a character he is. Isn't afraid of anything. Even the village dogs know that they wait their turn. I haven't seen a squirrel so confident or so greedy in my entire life. But I suppose corn is a treat too valuable to resist.

Heartbroken For Them

Well, of course Santa came. It was a bittersweet experience. To watch two children open gifts from a character whom they had always assumed ignored them was... kind of unexpectedly heartbreaking. They were shaking from excitement. They were silent, speechless I suppose. They didn't know what to do or what to say. For the longest time they had always thought Santa was just a cartoon on television around Christmas time. And now, all of the sudden those doubts they had are a reality. They're always so comfortable at my house, but today it seemed foriegn to them. They were unsure, skeptical, almost in a way frightened. I don't know why I feel bad- I know they loved the gifts. But... I suppose I can't help but pity them for having never experienced the joy of a Santa Claus gift before. In a way it tears me up in side. How could it not? One of my dearest childhood memories was nonexistant to them for eight years. It wouldn't be right of me to not feel wrong about that.

Santa's Arrival

Sometimes magick happens. And last night it did. Santa came to my home, ate my cookies, drank my milk, took the letters, and left a letter... and some gifts. The letter explained to the girls how he had been very busy giving gifts to children who don't get presents from their parents and it thanked them for believing in him nevertheless. He said as long as they believe, he will be real. And I know, in the logical part of my mind (which is a very small percent by the way) that it was me who wrote the letters, ate the cookies, burnt the notes, drank the milk, and left the gifts. But I just... well, on the other 99 % of the my brain I just don't believe it. It wasn't me. I don't have enough coins to spend on toys- I can barely afford my water bill. I'm not Santa. Santa is Santa, and his spirit did all of those things. Santa is a magnificant idea that so few people choose to think about. Perhaps he wears a red suit and has a white beard. But it's his heart, his charity, his ability to make dreams come true and tears fade away for a day, that really matters. Santa may be a person, but he's also the entire reason- the thought- the feeling- the inspiration one recieves when doing something kind simply to do something kind. No thank-you needed. No awknowledgement wanted. No name, no face, no identification to the good deed. Santa is that overwhelming sensation that merely doing something wonderful is reward enough. I'm not a Christmas person, but I have a Christmas spirit. I enjoy the holiday because it creates that bit of... care... that so many people seem to lack all other times of the year. And that care is what left the gifts. Santa left those gifts. I hope they understand that someday. I hope they remember it. And I hope they realize what exactly it means to do something good and who exactly Santa Claus is.

My Longest Post

As luck would have it, I locked myself out of my house a few days ago and within an hour froze to the point I decided I would have to swallow my pride and walk down to my neighbors. The ones who own Riley- who I have come to learn is a girl and also is in the hands of a very responsible ten-year-old. I feel much better about that. I have also accumulated two more very dear friends. They are ten  and eight years old, and are the sweetest girls you have ever met. They spent a majority of the week visiting me- making crafts, baking cookies, adventuring through the many treasures of my caravan.

And last night, on Christmas Eve, fate stepped in, in a way I least expected. Now first, you must know, I am an elf- one of Santa's helpers. There is no one more loyal to the ole' Mr. Claus than I- even though I am neither Christian nor a Christmas Celebrator myself. You see, Santa Claus is merely the act of doing good things anonymously. The jolly fellow means that one can and should do things not for recognition or pride, but simply because they want to do so. And that- my dears- is something I undeniably believe in. And even so, amongst all of the giving Spirit that Santa has blessed me with- I have always dearly wanted to watch a child open one of the gifts. Doing good things anonymously doesn't give much room for watching- unless of course I peered through the window in a very creepy manner.

But yesterday the two little girls whispered to me a secret. They believed in Santa even though he had never left them gifts. And well, of course, I am an avid believer as well and I just couldn't fathem the idea of them not getting gifts. So we baked cookies, left milk, wrote notes to tell him we believed, even made crafts for Mrs. Claus and the elves (their idea). And tonight I wait... on a very special Christmas Eve, with the very special belief that Mr. Santa Claus himself will bring his jingle bells and reindeer to my home tonight. For the girls will be checking in the day after Christmas and I sincerely hope they find their cookies replaced with something special.

Fostering Children

Children stop by my caravan from time to time. There's a special place in my heart for native children. They're beautiful young souls. Just like every other race I suppose, but the mother within me has made a sincere appearance only since I moved to the village. The child in me has collected a large array of craft supplies. And the children outside come in to adventure through it all and inspire their own imaginations. I love them, each and every one. Ever since I was thirteen, I knew that a part of my greater plan was to be a foster mother and to ultimately adopt. Sometimes fate works in odd ways, and I have known for quite some time now that the reason I was brought to this village was to have my eyes opened to the orphaned native kids. For, the few that are taken away, typically come from drunken broken homes and will be moved away from their culture to a bigger city. The families are usually large and the siblings will be handed out amongst different households. Tears fill my eyes each time the thought arises in my heart. I would give anything to make a small impact- be a mother to as many as possible. House them on their native land. Teach them the love of a sober home. If, by some odd twist of financial goodness, I am stable at the age of twenty-one (when one can begin the fostering process), I will undoubtedly take up the responsibility that I have been waiting half of my life to have.

Happy Whimper

Riley happy whimpered today. For those of you who own a dog- you know what a happy whimper is. It's when your pup is so overjoyed to see you he literally cries with excitement. He heard me close my front door from two houses away and came running up the road. I was outside to pick up some wood for the fire when his cute little paws pounced on my back. The way he runs up is disheartening. He's low to the ground, skeptical, and a bit scared- as though he's been kicked in the past. He's extra cautious now. But he knows that I am merely a friendly human heart who wouldn't dare do such a thing, so once he reaches my side he straightens out and wags his tail. Today he happy whimpered and dug his big ears into me. My heart skipped a beat when I heard that sweet little gleeful cry. I've heard that earning a sleddog's respect is one of the hardest things to accomplish- and that they choose who they listen to and who they ignore. Riley would listen to me. He already does. His ears are attuned to my light-hearted footsteps on the snow. His eyes only speak love to my heart. Ugh, it kills me yet fulfills me all at once. How can a tragedy in the waiting feel so blessed before it happens? Why am I letting my arms reach out to hug the one thing that is inevitably going to break my heart?

Running With A Sled Dog

Riley came again today. Typically I will play with him for a few minutes and then throw him a chunk of frozen fish. He'll grab the fish and run off to eat. But today he simply smelled the fish and then came running back to me. He didn't care about the food, he only wanted attention. It was a sweet moment. I know his true owners watch from their window and growl that I'm stealing their dog. Perhaps if they fed him and played with him he wouldn't care for me so much. But they don't, so he does. I usually just rub down his tummy, but today we played. I ran through the deep snow into our backyard. It's above my knees, so I fell the whole way. But like the true sled dog that he is he broke trail through the snow and easily hustled beside me. He'd stop and wait when I fell, and nip my hood to pull me back up. We ran back in forth for a while. Then we'd stop and wrestle and he'd give me kisses. As poetic as I wish this would all sound, I can't truly write this in my stereotypical creative way. For this dog, to me, has become a part of my life. He's not just a little tidbit, but rather a thought that crosses my mind on an hourly basis. I know his owners will probably chain him up soon so he won't come play with me. Their lazy ways will keep him starved without food. He'll be in the back- a place I can't secretly walk to visit him. And my heart will break. I've said it before- I would give anything to let him be my own. But life doesn't always work that way. I understand that. My landlord is to strict, my coins are too few, and his true owners too stubborn. I hope I can give him a bit of happiness before we're taken from one another. For he's given me so much.

Like An Old Yup'ik Soul

The older Yup'ik women, I adore. Whenever they come around they bring their children or an 'English speaking helper'. Their company always whispers to me 'She's old, she can't speak English.' or 'She only speaks Yup'ik'. I just smile sweetly. And as soon as their company disappears into the crowd the sweet little old ladies come to me. They speak English flawlessly- or perhaps I'm just accustom to their native tongue and the way the pronounce familiar words. Nevertheless we understand eachother just fine. And they tell me stories and give me tips on sewing fur. They show me things I wouldn't usually see. They give me secrets that I often times wonder if other's know. They smile to me in a way they don't smile to other's in town. It's like they see something within me that's different from the rest. Perhaps it's my Eskimo heartbeat or my constant yearning of their ancient culture. Perhaps it's that certain something that their kind of my generation have lost- yet I, a lonesome outsider, somehow have found. Perhaps through my white skin, blond hair, and blue eyes, they see a soul that finds home admist this land. And through some unspoken likeness we know eachother in a way that even their grandchildren couldn't understand.

Parka Ruff

Sewing fur has become a habit, a tradition, a part of my newfound culture. So, as fate would have it, my darling in a nonchalant tone requested himself a parka ruff. A parka ruff? you ask. Yes, a parka ruff. A strip of sewn furs that line the hood of a parka in order to shade the face from the cold arctic wind. And then he chose himself a few thick strips of fur from the neck of a white wolf and a wolverine. Living where we do, the only supplies available are limited and sometimes nonexistant. So I was stuck using snapping needles, cheap thread, and an old arrow head as a thimble. Twelve hours later and the tuffs of white and brown have blended together flawlessly. My darling walks around in triumph, as if he himself is the proud bearer and creator. If only he knew the work that such a thing actually entails.

Walking Porcupine Quills

I told my darling it just wasn't possible. There is no way that porcupine quills can just up and walk around. But according to an old lady (says my darling) you have to put a lid on the quills when they are in your house or they will walk around. I didn't believe it. I've done nothing to hurt porcupines, why would their spirit want to hurt me? I should have known better. There's a reason to the Eskimo superstitions. And, right when I sat on the couch after carefully gathering and storing away the quills in a container without a lid... I sat my foot right upon one. How did it happen? The only logical answer is that it walked there. That darn little quill hopped out of my container and walked its way right over to the couch even though I had been absolutely careful with each and every one. I will never doubt another superstition again, the Yup'ik spirit has given me a lesson in belief that neither my mind nor foot will ever forget.

Swimming Majestically

The blackfish have begun their spoiled treatment. Bloodworms and bottemfeeder tablets are the only things that have been delivered thus far. But, they seem quite happy nibbling away on those two options. It's very neat to watch them shivver their way to the edge of the water and gobble up a nice big slosh of bugs. They really do have a beautiful aura. The way their fins literally wave through the water is gorgeous. And yet amongst their majestic movements they're humble and kind- not confidently stubborn fish. I find them utterly intrigueing. How could I not? They enchant me for hours on end from their home in the corner of my livingroom.

Riley

His name is Riley. I know I shouldn't name the stray village dogs. They're more likely to be shot than they are to be loved. Puppies are the only reason for pest control out here. I understand it- it's more ethical to kill a dog than it is to watch it starve and wander aimlessly around the village. But Riley... well he's different. He's a big dumb puppy. Too big for the children to be infatuated with anymore- so he doesn't get much attention. Except from me of course. Every time I walk out of the house he pops out of no where to greet me with lots of kisses and playful jumps. I wish I had a place to keep him, or the nerve to pawn him off of the kids that have carelessly claimed him as their own (for they don't much take care of him). I sneak him dry fish and frozen leftovers. He rewards me with sweet little eyes and an innocently darling smile. The two minutes of the day that I secretly spend in his company are the most sincerely bittersweet of them all. I've fallen in love. It's a disheartening thought. Someday I'll witness the police target him down simply because I have no way to persuade his actual owners to take better care of him. I wish fate would step in. I promise I would never take for granted his beloved goofy actions. He's too big and he hasn't grown into his long legs. He's awkward and adorable and the most kind-eyed being you ever did see. I would do anything to claim him as my own...

Animal Actions

Big snowflakes are falling majestically, but the winds getting stronger. I love a slow whimsical fall. The strong winds make a white blanket in the air- I like a light dance. There's something eerie about this weather right now. Typically I like a blizzard. But the blackfish in my livingroom are stirring anxiously. Chipper, the squirrel has burrowed his way into the side of our wall- a place he only goes when something bad is going to happen. All other times he is not allowed to hide away there. The voles are scurrying under our floors. And the rabbits, whom usually come to nibble on the squirrel food that has been knocked to the ground, have all but disappeared into the willow. My darling is trapping today. The actions of the animals make me nervous. The snow is quickly gaining speed. I hope he finds his way home before long...

Recognizing Ravens

Black feathered ravens find happiness in the salmon scraps I leave for the stray dogs in my backyard. Their little squabbles cause havoc amongst the scenery. Supposedly they’re a bad omen. I like to think they're unaware of that fact. Their cruel little faces seem friendly to me. The way they play and communicate is human-like to say the least. They’re all little children just chasing over each other for the chance at a treat. People say a raven can recognize a face. I wonder if they know me as the young girl who leaves them scraps? I wonder if that recognition will come to my superstitious aid someday…

Blackfish Biologist

I think I shall be a blackfish biologist... or marinologist? Simplified: blackfish scientist. Because, these fish my dears, are extrodinary creatures. Gold fish are stereotypical hardy fish. A self-proclaimed children's fish because they can withstand the most extreme of situations as a pet. And I laugh at that- because obviously gold fish have never met a blackfish. Perhaps they are not a bright orange, but they are spotted with beautiful bits of tan and brown. And these fish are talented little ones. Like gold fish, they can breathe air. Except these fish can breathe air in the midst of -20 degrees. They eat fish, larva, anything really. And they're friendly little things. They come right up to my finger in the water and meet it with a gentle little nip. And they're much cuter than gold fish. Much hardier as well. A kid could take it out of water and play with it for a few minutes- set it back in the tank- and let it live another two years. How do I know? Well, I'm that kid of course. An adult child with a near future in blackfish expertise.

Spotted Fish Children

My darling has a lot of patience with me. For although I have the maturity and hobbies of a fifty year old woman, I often tend to drift into childish acts of spontaneity. Included of which- is buying an aquarium in the hopes of collecting a few little blackfish friends. Alaskan blackfish. Lovable little creatures with supernatural abilities. My darling got me six tiny ones and two big ones. And then I ventured out with him to the trap to collect some water plants. And we put them all in my aquarium along with some large river rocks I had collected from the Yukon during the summer. But I couldn't stop there, upon recieving my early Christmas gifts I ordered lots of food. All kinds. Bloodworms and fly larva and bottomfeeder food and mosquitos. Spoiled little fishies. My childish actions have the hint of motherhood within. For a teenage girl, I suppose it's best I pass on my parenting abilities to a something that requires a bit less responsibility than a child. Blackfish will suffice for now. They're cute and loveable just the same.

Lady Moose

Today as my darling and I took a ride through the willows across the river we met three friendly faces. Women, of course, for they tend to be drawn to me. When I'm... having that womanly time of the month, other womanly creatures tend to drift to me. So as we weaved in and out of the thick tree paths we caught sight of the first pretty lady. She stood about five yards away hidden into the taller trees. Oh, and she was a moose. Quite a lovely little animal, if you ask me. Not so little- but yet amongst her large size- still timid and of a kind aura. And then as we exited the trees and hit ourselves into a frozen slough we noticed two more lovely little faces. Also moose. A mother and a daughter. The mother frolicked away. The daughter stumbled along into the deep snow. She fell once. I wanted to run up and hug her and comfort her. 'I'm not a wolf'- I wanted to say. But they wouldn't understand my human words. I hope they felt my human heart. For I truly adore them, all three. My magnificant little ladies, running through the trees with me.

Happiness Again

Happiness is escaping my soul once more! I had a bit of a downfall, a pitiful time of lonesome unanswered questions. It was one of those moments when the darkness of winter is all consuming. The weather either too cold or too wet to wonder around. My heart ached so badly to wonder the land. And then it drifted into a place of secret. It was no longerer an adventurer, but rather a hider- hiding away like the one who knows no adventure at all. I was sad, yes. I go through the phases sometimes. Don't we all? A few weeks of unknown morning and self-pity. I was most certainly enveloped in myself. A place no good heart should ever be. Such a location causes greed and lost dreams. So here I am again- hoping for others the same light I found at the end of my tunnel. I love the snow, the dark days, and the blizzard winds. How could I ever let them draw me to a place of silent selfish residence? Never again. This is my favorite season. I shant let it bring me down.

Unmotivated Times

I am in a quiet mode, not motivated for much at all. I've spent a lot of time doing nothing lately. It's not so much a terrible time, but quite uneventful. I like silence- alone time- thinking time. In the cold darkness of winter I often find myself consumed with my own thoughts. The hardest part amongst the absence of sunlight is keeping a good emotion. I tend to fall into cabin fever. So at this point in time much motivation has left me. I'm trying hard to keep my head high. Winter is my favorite time, I hate to think it's causing my littlest bits of sadness.