An Extra Day

Leap day! What is leap day? I'm not quite sure if it has any significance what-so-ever. But it does just so happen to be an extra day for me to accomplish extra things this year. I don't know what I've accomplished... In fact I've been rather lazy. I've accomplished feeding my stray sleddogs peices of bacon. I've admired the way the sun is glistening so brightly on the snow. I've moved my lovely tropical plants to the windowsill where they are absolutely infatuated with the natural light. But then again, all of those things have become my daily ruitine. I live quite an uninteresting life when it's thought out deeply. Almost unfortunate. Perhaps someday I'll have more opportunities to spend my extra day of the year a little more wisely. As of now though, I'm quite content with my sewing needles and blackfish.

Paralyzing Nightmares

There's a devil in the walls of my mind. When I was fourteen years old I had a terrible dream that left me fearful of sleep for weeks. I was lieing in my bed, paralyzed. My mind new I was sleeping, but I couldn't wake. Finally I strained to open my eyes, but my body couldn't move. Something was inside of me, overtaking me. And it rose me up from my bed and curled my body into this horrible position and I sat there whispering as loud as I could for my mother. A part of me hoped she would come in; I needed her help. The other part of me dearly hoped she wouldn't. I feared the demon inside of me would kill her with my own body. She never came in. Finally I regained strength of my body and laid down. Then I woke up... or perhaps just won over my concious strength.

Last night another dream happened. Similar. I was paralyzed, but awake. My mind knows I am dreaming, but it won't wake me up. It won't let me open my eyes. I try to, but can't. It won't let me speak or cry out. It takes all of my strength just to murmur. I try to dig my fingers into the sheets. I try to just wake myself up. And last night as I layed in bed paralyzed this thing grabbed my leg and pulled me to the side of the bed. I tried to yell and scream and at least open my eyes to see what it was. But I couldn't. I cried as hard as I could. My darling heard me, but couldn't awake me. He shook me but I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't wake up. I was paralyzed. And that's when I realized it wasn't a dream. I knew I was dreaming, but I was awake. It's the most terrifying feeling in the world, and I don't know how to stop it...

Black Beaver Mittens

Fur mittens have one reason to exist. Keep hands warm. And in this enviornment absolutely everything else fails. My darling has a pair of bear fur mittens an elderly Eskimo woman made him before she passed away. They are beautiful, but are growing old. The sun, wind, and snow has put wear on their leather. So I set forth in the attempt to make him another pair. These would be black beaver with wolverine trim. The black beaver would match his hat. The wolverine would match his ruff. And so all three would become a set. But as always my measurements and patterns take many tries before perfection. A month later I have finally finished after many days of complete frustration. They're warm and new. The fur is shiny. The leather is white. They're perfect. I feel the elderly woman who made his first pair smiling down on me. It's the best reward of my accomplishment.

Ten Hours of Sunlight

The daylight is growing quite quickly now. We must be to around ten hours of sunshine a day. Which means soon we will have twelve hours a day. Which means my green thumb is beginning to itch. You didn't have the chance to know my story last spring, but it was quite an entertaining one. I think the newfound sunshine makes me go clinically insane with love of green things. I plant everything. Every summer I dot my tundra landscape with plants that probably shouldn't be planted in a national park. Trees that have never existed here before. Flowers that draw in all sorts of hidden away insects. Vegetables, berries, weeds, and herbs. I alter the face of my land with little seeds that have never known such soil before. Weeping willow. Sugar maple. Bleeding hearts. Carrots and stevia. This summer I have doubled my collection of seeds. I always get in over my head. But the act of growing things is just too wonderful to resist.

Cabin Fever

I came down with cabin fever. The crying, sobbing, tear-jerking, depressingly dark emotion that happens to people this time of year. It was devestating. Even a happy soul gets sad sometimes I suppose. It hit me hard. My poor darling. He's so kind and gentle, but I know this last week wore him down. By the end of this spell we were both miserable. I must have been practically insane. Every day I would get mad and then turn sad and then scream myself with crying sobs to sleep. And it was endless. It's the time of year when for some odd reason you just can't help but feel sad. And it happens to me each and every year, never fails. Usually it lasts much longer. This year it came quick and wore me down to a starved ghostly physique. I don't eat or sleep or do anything but cry. I probably wear my heart on my sleeve more than others. My emotions are always in a fragile state. But this was terrible. Fortunately, I feel happier now. I called my mother. She has a way of lightening the darkness. And now I'm trekking a new path, that will hopefully keep me from falling into such a place anymore. If my soul stays bright then I suppose the sunshine can always find me. But the second my light shuts off the night takes over all too easily. So from now on my inner wildflower is going to bloom. Goal of this year: Be happy. Every. Single. Day. Because my life is worth beaming over.

Adults Wasting Time

I like to waste my time thinking of philisophical ideals. It seems ridiculously unimportant. There's no way to change the world by merely being consumed in your own mind. But aren't our minds truly magnificant things? They can take us beyond anywhere we've ever known. Imagination in and of itself is one of the most remarkable things I have ever known. Mine is beautiful. I adore my land of pretend. Too many adults lose that sense of creativity. It's all but gone into math and science. And I think it's quite a shame. Because within that certain part of our mind lies the ability to love and believe. Without a certain childish sense within us we lose a very large percent of our compassion and faith. For a child can truly, with all of their heart, love a toy doll. And an adult looks at that doll and merely sees a painted face lacking any true meaning at all. I find that sad. I love dolls. I love trains and miniature farms and teddy bears. And I will never really be able to understand why other 'grown ups' don't. People waste their time hating their boss, when they could be wasting that same time believing that there's still an undiscovered island where dragons exist...

Fallen Cottonwood

Way out on a river lies a small grove of cottonwoods. You must cross three frozen lakes, twist through countless willow paths, and slide along many sloughs before you find it. And once you do you have to walk in a good quarter mile to find the exact tree I am speaking of. It's dead. A big ole' dead tree. Just a log I suppose. The branches are all twisted and broken. The bark is dehydrated. The tree itself is a mangled mess. But it calls to me. So each and every time my darling and I venture to this place- where his lynx trap is set, I climb atop it. I follow one log out into the snow and then meet the base of my cottonwood jungle gym. It's a handsome tree. So first I admire it. Then I grab onto one branch, sit to my hands and knees, and begin to crawl my way up it's side. It's leaning at a steep angle. Just level enough to crawl up, but too steep to walk up. So I crawl. All the way to the top. And once at the top I sit for a few seconds. The tree congradulates me. I feel as though he recognizes my pride. He knows that my childish mind thinks I have truly accomplished a large feat. And so his branches hug me tight. And then I make my way back down, through his old branches, and to the log I use to cross the snow.

Eggs In Fireweed

Fireweed is pregnant. Perhaps you think I am ridiculous. She most likely has a full stomache. Ah- but that is not the case. I know her. And she, my dears, is pregnant. I am terrified. Never once in my life have I even owned a dog that gave birth. I've handfed chicks from time to time. My hands have a special way with baby birds. Puppies hoard to my front door, hence my collection of abandon sled dogs. I used to take in kittens from the barns we resided near in Illinois. But I have never once been in the company of a freshly born anything. So obviously fish seem like an odd thing to start with. I am absent of any knowledge on the freshly hatched fry of blackfish. And I, at the precious age of nineteen, am not prepared to be a grandmother! I am merely a virgin myself and my child fish expects me to know the ways of her young ones? But, with shaky hands and a nervous breath I will try my best to ever so carefully learn the ways of young mother nature. And perhaps within the birth of Fireweed's children I will find a new sense of something within myself. Perhaps I'll find my way to care for something so precious with a level head and a calm being. Perhaps I'll find my inner mother of a newborn. How exciting would that be!

A Mountain Mother

There is a mountain named Kuselvak who's appearance is made in the distancce when fog is absent of the landscape. Her and I have gained an inner knowledge of one another. The long rides I take beside her allow us to speak for a while. She has many secrets. She's beautiful, old, kind. You would find the comfort of a mother in her appearance. Somedays she's swooned over by clouds. Other days she stands brightly white in the sun. Somedays she appears close enough to touch. Other days she's just a distant illusion daring your eyes to doubt her existance. She reminds me of the lost soul within me. Somedays dancing in the sunlight like a free-spirit bohemian. Other days hidden away in the shadows like a broken heart. And the days that she shows her emotions, they are almost always identical to mine. She knows my soul better than my own brother whom ran beside me through my whole childhood. She knew me not then. Yet somehow she cherishes the memories the same way I do. She feels my heartbeat with the land, and her low hum is singing the same song as my dancing feet.

Searching 1961 Archives

I have discovered the modern home of the Tuscaloosa News Paper. If only I could travel to the south and drift through their archives for myself. But alas, my coins are of few and my ice fishing adventures do not await me down there. So instead I sit here and wait for the contact whom can help me explore the mystery of the 1961 medal further. I am hoping I can find it's owner by searching through the winners of the races during the year 1961. My first choice was to contact the new Tuscaloosa News and see if they have record of it. I have yet to hear any reply. So if they cannot find the such thing I am searching for then perhaps a local library in the area could answer my questions. It's quite an entertaining search. You know, my father's side of the family is from that area. Perhaps this medal found its way through the hands of many people, just to come home to the heir of it's original owner...

My Perfect World

My inspiration lies in the bottom of a dwindling stream. I find solitude in places that no one else has found. If I could create a world to my own it would be filled with log cabins and gardens. Everyone would have a collection of old coins and skeleton keys to drift through at their leisure. There would be philisophical discussion amongst every being. Each person with an open mind yet deep opinions. If I could create a little place so far removed from any society anyone ever knew, I would. Not as a cult or a cultural phenomenon. But just as a place were lost wondering souls like myself could find a home. I know there must be others who search like I do for a place that has yet to exist.

My Sweetheart Sleddog

Riley will always be my sweetheart. She adores me as much as I adore her. She's practically my daughter. Tonight I walked outside after not venturing out for a while. She heard my footsteps and ran out from under my house where she sleeps. Her squeels of delight were heard up and down the neighborhood. She cried and cried. Most people around here look at dogs for work- driving sleds. Very few give them the love and attention of a pet. So most of them assumed I was kicking her- that's usually the only time puppies cry around here. A few neigbors even peered out their curtains. But she was not being beaten. Oh no, she was leaping into my arms with cries of joy. It put a lump in my throat. I kneeled down and kissed her and hugged her. She's my sleddog. You'd know by looking at her. She's smart and beautiful. The perfect mixture of independant and loyal. I've earned her heart. And she most certainly has made herself a permanent part of mine.

The 1961 Medal

Of course, my gypsy soul collects a bit too many trinkets. But today I came across a wonder. A "Dixie Prep Relays" high school gold medal for 120 High Hurdles. Dated: 1961. For me being born in 1992, thirty one years prior is literally a lifetime. So my mind wondered and I drifted through old news articles looking for any sort of hint as to where in the world this small trinket came from. Tuscaloosa News covered a story in 1957 regarding the Dixie Prep Relays. And so that lead me to search for a modern day Tuscaloosa News. At some point in time they were bought over by the New York Times, and since then have been passed on to yet another major company. Today I contacted the current Tuscaloosa News with one question. "Do you happen to be the same Tuscaloosa News that was published in the 1950s". And if they are, then the story of the 1961 Dixie Prep Relays Gold Medal begins. For I'm in search of it's original owner. And my gypsy soul will lead me wherever it's story does.

Children's Poetry Book

The book is entitled "100 Best Poems for Children". I find it utterly fascinating. It's cover is worn. The pages are stained, stiff, and old. It smells of many years passed. And in the front cover is the signature of a reader dated in 1934. It captured my attention the immidiate second I peered at the words. And so I grabbed a pen. Wrote my name in best clarity. Wrote the year. And set the book carefully atop a stack of others on my bottom bookshelf. It's small and tired. But yet it holds a collection of tales some past wroter put to paper. It may seem worthless to many. But such things mean the world to me.

Slipping On Unshoveled Snow

As I drifted into sleep last night I could hear the pounding of frozen rain hitting my window pane. The curtain was closed and the breeze was ever so slightly tickling the walls of my cabin. Such a thing makes the eyes quickly close. But I awoke this morning to a slip and slide on my front porch. We don't bother to shovel the snow. There's no need without a car or any sort of actual 'transportation'. Even the village doesn't shovel the roads. So why in the world would we care to remove the snow from our 'walk space'? Lesson learned. For my bottom is quite sore. The ice gets hard overnight. And the pouncing of Riley and Rascal most certainly didn't help my already terrible balance.

Camp Robber

The Eskimos call them “Camp Robbers” because the instant after an animal is brought down for a subsistence hunt these darling birds flock to the food before even the humans get a bite. In all reality they are gray jays. Much like blue jays- a Midwestern bird my grandmother adores. They are such friendly little darlings. And today one came across Chipper’s food. I was so surprised by his company. For he’s the largest feathered friend I’ve seen around in a while. My darling has persuaded me to befriend the critter. As if my backyard has room for any more permanent residents. But I shall make room! There are plenty of willow and alder to nestle into. And this cheerful mischief-maker is more than welcome to stay a while.

Friendly Chickadees

What a darling surprise it was to drop bits of seeds on the bird feeder in my backyard and immediately have the chickadees fly over and snatch a bite. They’re growing more daring- or perhaps more aware of my harmless aura. Either way my heart fluttered as their tiny feathered wings landed right beside me. I catch my breath whenever I’m in the presence of wildlife. And when a bird comes forth it’s something I never take for granted. In the cold winter few birds make their home on this arctic tundra. Most head south or east or west or anywhere but this barren land. Aside from ravens, chickadees are the only feathered dancers you’ll find frolicking about. And when such a tiny little soul frolicks so close to me, it makes my entire day a special one.

Evolutionary Marvel

Fireweed has taught the other blackfish how to trust. Now whenever I pass by their aquarium they must sense the vibrations of my bare feet. They all line up and stare out of the glass waiting for me to open the top and drop in the bits of fly larva they’ve grown accustom to. It’s quite flattering actually. The way their friendly little faces just appear to greet you as you enter their presence. I suppose living the arctic has lead them to evolve as a species. And I must say, what they’ve become is an evolutionary marvel to be reckoned with. Their intelligence is unheard for a fish. And trust me, I’ve had countless of aquarium darlings come into my company. Fireweed and her friends are by far the most interesting and beautiful of swimmers I have ever accumulated. My heart grows fonder of them each and every day.

Cold Gone Away

Warm weather has fought the cold away. My cheeks no longer sting when I step out my front door. I’m greeted by the soft warm touch of 22 degree weather. It’s the kind of warmth we all needed after freezing for so terribly long. Typically February doesn’t offer up such nice temperatures. But alas I welcome such air with open arms. The wind is always kind to me. I speak to the spirits of the breeze in a way two very dear friends would whisper secrets back and forth. Yet even so, when it’s battered with the ice-creating cold our conversations turn to arguments. The warmth has made up for the heartache. I enjoy anything above -10 degrees. So 22 above feels like summertime to my winter-dwelling soul.

Growing Into Wolves

Rascal and Riley are such beautiful souls. You’ve never met more precious dogs in your life. Riley is big and black. They say he’s half wolf, and he has the playful nip of one. He’s kind of become the big dumb one of the two. He grew into his body too fast to know how to use it; so more often times than not he ends up falling into the snow. Riley is beautiful. She’s the girl that’s calm, collected, and powerful. She would be the head sled dog. She’s strong and independent. And together they’ve become my light every single day. If I dare step a toe outside my front door I’m being trampled by their big paws with kissing bites and squeals of delight. I take rope out into the backyard and run around- letting them chase behind. And then they tackle me. I scratch their tummies or the sensitive skin behind their ears. You wouldn’t imagine how happy it makes me. My isolated being doesn’t communicate with the world too often. And the social contact these tiny wolves give me is enough to prevent the heartbreak that comes from being lonely.

A Land Sea

The snow is so hard. The cold has frozen it all solid- and not let it remain in it's traditional fluffy state. It makes for easy walking, slipperly walking at times, but easy and flat. The ground is shaped like a frozen ocean. The wind creates waves on the tundra the same way it does on the sea. When we travel by snowmachine it's a constant riding of up and down. When we venture by plane it looks as though the entire ground below us is white water, frozen in time. In all reality, it is white water frozen in time. But the fact it was captured in a way so identical to it's open ocean counterpart, just makes it seem even more awe-inspiring. How unique is the scene of snow, shaped in the form of a neverending land-sea?

Avoiding The Blizzard

The wind picked up. The clouds came further inward to cover our tundra landscape. We were ravaged by gusts of harsh arctic air. But now that everything is settled- neither warmth nor snow has made its presence known in our area. The cold is too bitter now. I'm tired of being locked in doors. The bright shining sun is decieving- for it warms the landscape none at all. I was so dearly hoping for a blizzard, but it only went east and south of us. I watch as every other part of Alaska warms itself and here I am- still stuck in the ice and Siberian cold. Even my wool blanket can't warm me. And these wood floors are getting too chilled for my barefeet. A layer of snow would bring with it warmer weather. But these harsh temperatures have fought off many storms- they're not ready to give up yet.

Backyard Neighbors

I love to spread snacks out for the wildlife in the backyard. Of course, Chipper is among the first faces to pop up. He's made a habit of regularly checking in. I think he snaps out of hibernation the second he hears corn kernals hit the hard snow. But it's not just him. The chickadees flutter down and fill their cheeks. The voles pop up for an evening snack (of which I like to think Skipper is a part of). Wol visits sometimes to munch on the voles. Showshoe hares come around from time to time. And then there's the few stray fox who come for the rabbits. I'm just awaiting a lynx or better yet a wolverine. How much of a surprise would their arrival be?