This weekend my friend BB and I flew down to Seattle for the Annual Company Party. The bash has been held at various venues over the years, and this year, it was a place called The Palace Ballroom, a facility under the direction of chef Tom Douglas (a big whig in Seattle but utterly unknown to the likes of me).
Before the party, some locals had clued us into the crab cake. Apparently Tom's crab cakes were to die for and should be horded. BB and I arrived at the party, in search of the infamous crab cakes.
If there had been any doubt whether the Company had been having a rough year fiscally, the food at the Annual Party pretty much confirmed the state of the union. Although the party began at 6pm, there was no "sit-down" dinner, only appetizer stations with very tiny tiny plates. There was not enough real sitting for everyone attending, so one was forced to consume appetizers standing at high tables or worse, while balancing a drink.
But there was still an open bar, of course. You know things are really bad if the open bar is missing from The Company Holiday Party!
My opinion of the food aside, this year's bash was a decent affair. The venue was nicely decorated and inviting and there was also a respectably sized dance floor. Before the party really got rolling, I told BB that every year, it is the staff, not the attorneys, who monopolize the dance floor. Unlike the attorneys, who, for the most part, seem to prefer toting around cocktails, the staff really likes to cut loose on the floor.
At some point in the evening, it was clear that I had eaten enough food that it was only proper that I try to work it off. I descended upon the dance floor for what I thought would be a dance or two for the evening. But after two glasses of Cabernet and two glasses of whiskey, something happened. And thank goodness I wasn't sitting on the couch.
What happened was the Groove Came and Finally Set Me Free.
Coincidentally, I had spent the past week dutifully dancing every morning in my basement in Anchorage - all five days of the week, perhaps breaking my record. It was as if somewhere deep inside I knew that I needed to stay in motion and be ready for whatever might be out there. And sure enough, on the Sixth Day, an odd intersection of circumstances - the need to burn off the overconsumption of crab cakes, a little bit of alcohol, and a willing partner - made for the best three and a half hour block of dancing in my life.
There's something nice about being from a tiny satellite office and thus enjoying a certain degree of anonymity. My presence at the party was so unexplained that the bartender actually carded me, as if I had stumbled in off the street to crash the Annual Company Party. In similar manner, my presence on the dance floor was not questioned. Or at least no one directly questioned me.
The DJs played many of the same songs you hear at every company holiday party, but for whatever reason, I danced to many of them as if hearing them for the first time. My limbs seemed unhinged at the joints, and apparently no move was too daring to try. At some point in the evening, the only people left on the dance floor were BB and I. He took that moment to lean over and whisper,
"Madwoman, you're staff."
There was no escaping the truth. But I had long passed the point of no return. I felt free as a happy bird, an unusual feeling to have at The Annual Company Party.
Or maybe not.
The next morning, I had a few flashbacks to dancing at the party, and each caused me to hold my forehead. I recalled specifically that sometime in the last hour, I may have danced an entire song standing on one foot. Remarkably, notwithstanding the four drinks in my system, the high heels, and the severe dehydration going on, I did not stumble once at The Company Party.
On the Seventh Day, we rested amd did not dance. Instead, we hit the city to do some last-minute site-seeing before our flight. BB and I took a quick walk through Pike Market to scout a good place for breakfast for our group, which turned out to be an adventure in it of itself. (He and I ended up making two visits to the bakery within twenty minutes, and split seven pastries as part of an ill-advised Eat-To-The-Death Contest.)
We ended the day at the Experience Music Project (EMP) and Science Fiction Museum. There was a great interactive exhibit at the EMP which was a series of stations with instruments and programs teaching you how to play them. I learned the Root 6 power chords to Smells Like Teen Spirit and jammed with the computer. BB learned to play Louie Louie on the bass and also how to do reggae drumbeats. Like a couple of kids, we ran into the soundproof practice rooms to work on our "vocals" (when we left the room, BB said, "I'm really glad nobody heard that) and also to play with effects pedals and mixing boards in the Guitar Room. We tried our hand at DJing - mixing beats (giving me newfound apprecation for the DJ "bozos from the night before") and even scratching (but unfortunately the scratching part of the exhibit was broken).
After a couple of hours of banging on instruments, we headed to the adjoining Science Fiction Museum. I was disappointed that there was not even a single automated door - not even the normal kind you'd find at the airport! Everybody knows that any proper Science Fiction Museum needs at least one super cool self-opening door. The Science Fiction Museum was not interactive at all and at times, a bit boring, except that the first thing I saw upon entering was a set of tunics - a goldish green one worn by James T. Kirk (William Shatner) and a blue one worn by Mr. Spock himself (Leonard Nimoy)! I ran up to the glass and clasped my hands like a little kid. BB was less impressed.
Other highlights included a fine collection of science fiction weapons and armor, including a Klingon bat'leth, various disruptors and phasers. Like a true Trekker nerd, I laughed at the unwieldy size of the tricorders on display until I realized I was laughing at tricorders. Star Trek was not the only thing in the museum, of course. There were various Star Wars knick knacks, but they all looked like recent reproductions (I noted that Yoda looked much smaller in person). No doubt the really good Star Wars stuff has already been acquired by nerdy collectors.
Before exiting, I was treated to two more finds:
- Twiki, Buck Rogers' diminutive but shiny sidekick and
- Muffit, the robot-dog-like creature belonging to the son of Apollo on the original Battlestar Galactica!
I apologize that there are no photos of these treasures, but after all, I was in a museum and certainly didn't want my flash photography to degrade the archival quality of these one-of-a-kind items.
For $15 for both facilities, it was a decent Seattle afternoon. I'd recommend it to all those nerdy types who like making music and spacy stuff.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Have You Seen This Meat Platter??
LOST:
One shiny meat platter, about two feet long. Meat not included. Sentimental value. Please call if found.
Like people, sometimes food needs an accessory or two. This morning, when I reached for my trusty shiny meat platter to serve as the presentation dish for an office birthday cake, it was not in its normal storage spot in the cabinet. I then proceeded to turn the kitchen upside down looking for my shiny friend.
If I concentrate really hard, I realize that I have no idea whatsoever when was the last time I saw my meat platter. It was often used this summer at barbecues, and occasionally gets trotted out for receptions, but no recent memory of its being comes to mind. At the same time, at two feet, it is hard to misplace.
So my theory is that Mrs. Chao has taken my meat platter. The story of Mrs. Chao started over fifteen years ago, when my mom was running a steamed bun business out of our kitchen. Word got around that she was commercializing and soon, the orders started pouring in. My dad and I did our best to help out, mostly by eating Red Bean Buns that had failed to rise properly. But it soon became clear that my mom needed extra help - real help.
Perhaps tapping her Amway experience, my mom decided to get a friend involved, Mrs. Chao. Mrs. Chao was apparently a horrible cook, but sometimes those who are clueless in the kitchen can be good assistants as they will do exactly as you say. Looking back on this, perhaps my mom enlisted Mrs. Chao because she was less of an espionage risk. Whatever she learned in my mom's kitchen, it seemed doubtful Mrs. Chao could replicate it herself elsewhere.
One day, my mom was doing inventory (which was stored crammed into our family freezer) and noticed that she was short one hundred dumplings. How my mom could so precisely account for her dumplings, I don't know. She turned the kitchen inside and out looking for dumplings. I mean, a bag of one hundred dumplings does not just get up and walk out of the kitchen.
Or does it?
As they day wore on and dumplings remained MIA, my mom settled on a suspect - Mrs. Chao. Mrs. Chao had stolen her dumplings! One hundred of them! An inside embezzlement job -- a shrewdly calculated crime.
I personally wondered why Mrs. Chao would steal one hundred dumplings. I can't remember how my mom paid her for her help but certainly an arrangement could have been struck using dumplings as currency. (They are, after all, modeled after Chinese currency from the old days.) But my mom was sure - Mrs. Chao had stolen the dumplings, betraying her in a way she never thought a friend could. This was not the Amway way.
The next day, my mom found the dumplings. She had miscounted. Mrs. Chao was exonerated, but there must have been some kind of confrontation because I never saw Mrs. Chao after that. Shortly thereafter, the steamed bun business folded, and the kitchen was thankfully returned to ordinary family use.
To this day, the family often jokes about Mrs. Chao when we can't seem to find something.
"Where's the vacuum cleaner?"
"Maybe Mrs. Chao took it."
"Have you seen my favorite jacket?"
"I think Mrs. Chao is wearing it."
"Mrs. Chao has been stealing the socks out of the dryer again!"
Mrs. Chao was and still is everywhere. In fact, she followed me from LA when I moved to Alaska. My first year in the Little Yellow House, when our snow shovel disappeared, I cursed Mrs. Chao, waving my empty hands at the piles of snow.
"MRS. CHAAAOOO!"
I know that Mrs. Chao has my meat platter. Who can blame her given its wonderful size and shiny, mirror-like surface? If there is a platter to be coveted, it would be My Beloved Meat Platter. That Mrs. Chao is no fool.
Regardless, Mrs. Chao, if you're reading this, please give my meat platter back! I'll trade you a bag of dumplings.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Confessions of a Madwoman
I got a call from my mother the other night, concerned that I've been going around the Internet referring to myself as "the Madwoman."
"You're not really mad, are you?" she asked anxiously. "Won't people think you're crazy?"
Something about the tone in her voice made me think what she really meant was, will eligible bachelors in cyberspace think that you are crazy?
Let's hope so.
When I first started blogging months ago, I told my parents about it, never thinking they'd ever take the time to read any of my blog. Sure, I figured they'd be interested in a couple of the photos (the shot of the reindeer against the fence was actually taken my mom who has a gift for capturing animals at their most absurd), but why would they take the time to wade through all of that English, all of those long tortuous sentences?
I imagine that she has been reading my blog slowly, looking up every other word on her little computerized English-Chinese dictionary, typing in the word, "madwoman," her eyes growing big... she picks up the phone....
So for my mother's sake, I'll say it right now. I'm not crazy. Not really crazy. Not crazy enough for anyone to chase me around my house with a net. Not crazy enough to need rubber walls. At least not nowadays. On occasion, I may carry salsa in my purse, imitate moose by chewing on my apple trees, and sprinkle sugar on my lawn to get rid of dandelions, but let's be honest: I'm not crazy!
Regardless, it appears that my mother is intent on continuing to read my blog. I got yet another call asking me what is up with the photo of myself I posted on my food blog. I recently used Microsoft Paint to draw in a mask over my face, so as to protect my identity. After all, this is the Internet, you know.
"Why did you do that? What are you trying to do - Batman?"
Every once in a while, my English-Chinese-dictionary-toting mom surprises me with her knowledge of pop culture. Personally, I was going more for a Zorro look.
She lamented the loss of the undoctored image - which, if I understood her Chinese correctly - depicted some degree of "gentleness" and "naivete" that my Batman photo lacked and that, I might add, my real self probably lacks.
It was then I understood that perhaps my mother has been directing would-be suitors to my blogs, an ill-advised attempt to get to know her only daughter living in The Great Frigid North. Foolish indeed!
So once again, for my mother's sake, I am not crazy. I am not Batman. Anybody who knows the Madwoman understands that I would much prefer the shimmery purple vinyl of Catwoman.
"You're not really mad, are you?" she asked anxiously. "Won't people think you're crazy?"
Something about the tone in her voice made me think what she really meant was, will eligible bachelors in cyberspace think that you are crazy?
Let's hope so.
When I first started blogging months ago, I told my parents about it, never thinking they'd ever take the time to read any of my blog. Sure, I figured they'd be interested in a couple of the photos (the shot of the reindeer against the fence was actually taken my mom who has a gift for capturing animals at their most absurd), but why would they take the time to wade through all of that English, all of those long tortuous sentences?
I imagine that she has been reading my blog slowly, looking up every other word on her little computerized English-Chinese dictionary, typing in the word, "madwoman," her eyes growing big... she picks up the phone....
So for my mother's sake, I'll say it right now. I'm not crazy. Not really crazy. Not crazy enough for anyone to chase me around my house with a net. Not crazy enough to need rubber walls. At least not nowadays. On occasion, I may carry salsa in my purse, imitate moose by chewing on my apple trees, and sprinkle sugar on my lawn to get rid of dandelions, but let's be honest: I'm not crazy!
Regardless, it appears that my mother is intent on continuing to read my blog. I got yet another call asking me what is up with the photo of myself I posted on my food blog. I recently used Microsoft Paint to draw in a mask over my face, so as to protect my identity. After all, this is the Internet, you know.
"Why did you do that? What are you trying to do - Batman?"
Every once in a while, my English-Chinese-dictionary-toting mom surprises me with her knowledge of pop culture. Personally, I was going more for a Zorro look.
She lamented the loss of the undoctored image - which, if I understood her Chinese correctly - depicted some degree of "gentleness" and "naivete" that my Batman photo lacked and that, I might add, my real self probably lacks.
It was then I understood that perhaps my mother has been directing would-be suitors to my blogs, an ill-advised attempt to get to know her only daughter living in The Great Frigid North. Foolish indeed!
So once again, for my mother's sake, I am not crazy. I am not Batman. Anybody who knows the Madwoman understands that I would much prefer the shimmery purple vinyl of Catwoman.
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Groove Shall Set You Free!
Whoever made up the phrase, "cut a rug," apparently has never taken her flamenco shoes to a painted concrete floor.
Gordon and I have been dancing in the basement now, off and on, for quite a few months. We've chipped a fair amount of paint off the basement floor. Not every session is remarkable, but sometimes together we find a groove in the music that turns me inside out. Today was one of these days.
Just before Thanksgiving, I decided that I was hitting a creative and kinetic wall and frankly, tired of banging my head on it. It seemed to me the solution would be to add a new stimulus - a wooden floor that would provide a more rewarding percussive sound than my painted concrete basement floor (wholly inappropriate for flamenco dancing). I made a trip to Home Depot with high hopes, but after perusing the infinite number of wood-like products you can use as flooring, decided I did not possess the know-how to decide which would be best. The project would have to be deferred. (Stay tuned.)
So I packed my dancing shoes and flew down south for Thanksgiving. Sadly I did not pull them out of my bag even once. I did, however, eat steadily for six days.
After plumping myself up over the holidays, it was time to get back into the basement in Anchorage. On a whim today, I decided on a costume change during practice.
It turns out that a loud flowery red shirt and black nylons can be the components of an amazing creative defribillation. The slight change in costuming was like a sledgehammer to the wall. As Gordon and I twirled about the basement, finding The Groove That Wasn't Here Yesterday, Dancing Like We've Never Danced Before, I realized that sometimes life is about just going through the motions. The bland dance sessions can be discouraging, but getting into the basement is the key. Every motion we make in our day has a ripple effect - it leads to unexpected delights and curious turns and spins we could not have deliberately designed. I learn something new about myself in those moments simply by keeping myself in motion. And When The Groove Has Finally Arrived, I am poised and ready for it to set me free.
Who wants to be sitting on the couch When The Groove Is Finally Here?
So here's to walls coming down and to cutting up the basement!
Gordon and I have been dancing in the basement now, off and on, for quite a few months. We've chipped a fair amount of paint off the basement floor. Not every session is remarkable, but sometimes together we find a groove in the music that turns me inside out. Today was one of these days.
Just before Thanksgiving, I decided that I was hitting a creative and kinetic wall and frankly, tired of banging my head on it. It seemed to me the solution would be to add a new stimulus - a wooden floor that would provide a more rewarding percussive sound than my painted concrete basement floor (wholly inappropriate for flamenco dancing). I made a trip to Home Depot with high hopes, but after perusing the infinite number of wood-like products you can use as flooring, decided I did not possess the know-how to decide which would be best. The project would have to be deferred. (Stay tuned.)
So I packed my dancing shoes and flew down south for Thanksgiving. Sadly I did not pull them out of my bag even once. I did, however, eat steadily for six days.
After plumping myself up over the holidays, it was time to get back into the basement in Anchorage. On a whim today, I decided on a costume change during practice.
It turns out that a loud flowery red shirt and black nylons can be the components of an amazing creative defribillation. The slight change in costuming was like a sledgehammer to the wall. As Gordon and I twirled about the basement, finding The Groove That Wasn't Here Yesterday, Dancing Like We've Never Danced Before, I realized that sometimes life is about just going through the motions. The bland dance sessions can be discouraging, but getting into the basement is the key. Every motion we make in our day has a ripple effect - it leads to unexpected delights and curious turns and spins we could not have deliberately designed. I learn something new about myself in those moments simply by keeping myself in motion. And When The Groove Has Finally Arrived, I am poised and ready for it to set me free.
Who wants to be sitting on the couch When The Groove Is Finally Here?
So here's to walls coming down and to cutting up the basement!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sometimes The Animals See Things We Can't.
Canine Portraiture By The Madwoman
Email me for a quote. Very furry dogs extra.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Fifty Dollars Worth of Dog
Sometimes you see something you really want, but you know you have no business buying it. Like a giant over-sized stuffed English sheep dog, now available at Costco for only $49.99.
(To show just how big this big fluffy dog is, I inserted a nickel into the dog's mouth.)
Here is detail from one of the dogs squished in the bin:
If I were about 25 years younger, I'd most definitely ask Santa to bring me a giant shaggy dog for Christmas.
(To show just how big this big fluffy dog is, I inserted a nickel into the dog's mouth.)
Here is detail from one of the dogs squished in the bin:
If I were about 25 years younger, I'd most definitely ask Santa to bring me a giant shaggy dog for Christmas.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Start Running....
When the Going gets Tough, the Unemployed go to the Anchorage Job Fair.
Today at the Egan Center, the Anchorage Daily News put on its annual Job Fair for people like myself, those looking for a new way of making a living. It has been years since I've gone to a job fair, but I dutifully brushed my hair, put on my suit, and was then off to the job fair, with a couple copies of my resume tucked under my arm.
There were several booths set up in the convention center, each boasting the promise of a new career. Construction companies were looking for maintenance managers, the municipality was looking for police officers, and even the military was looking for a few good men, as they always do. At a couple of booths, I tried to explain my plight using euphemistic phrases, but what I really wanted to use as my pick-up line was, "Do you have any jobs for a washed-out attorney?"
I tried to appear upbeat and competent, hard to do when you're coming down with a cold. I flirted with the idea of many new career directions - "Why not?" was the operative theme of the day. But it turned out that out of all the booths in that large convention center, only one had a post for which I was qualified.
Meet Special Agent Madwoman of Anchorage.
It's hard to pass by law enforcement booths without being at least slightly intrigued. I took notice of Anchorage's finest standing in the municipality's booth and even lingered in front of the National Guard table, but they didn't bite. The FBI wouldn't have bitten either if I hadn't walked up to the table, spotted a flyer with the following statement in clear type:
THE FBI IS LOOKING FOR SPECIAL AGENTS WITH THE FOLLOWING BACKGROUNDS
Among the laundry list were the magical words that I seldom see for any job posting that is not seeking an attorney:
LAW SCHOOL GRADUATE.
I was overjoyed. I'm one of those! I picked up that pink flyer and pointed out this line to the man behind the table and asked, "What does the FBI need with special agents who are law school graduates?"
After the Special Agent Behind The Table determined that I had graduated from a legit law school and was not just some high schooler looking for a new career, he asked another screening question, "How old are you?"
I smiled, never before happier to be older than I looked. "Thirty-one. I know I don't look it."
He smiled. "Yeah, most people who try out for special agent are 29, 30."
For a minute, I faltered as my normal anxieties about my age came to surface. "Does that mean I'm too old?"
"No, it means you're just right. Do you speak a second language?"
Once again, I had been racially profiled, but if it was going to make me look attractive to the FBI, I could deal with it. "Yes. Mandarin Chinese."
Special Agent Behind The Table then proceeded to encourage me to apply online, telling me that I would be "very competitive" with my language skills and such. I tried to explain that my Mandarin could be described as proficient at best, since my areas of expertise included only basic bodily functions and all things related to food, but he seemed hell-bent on my candidacy.
"What I would suggest is that you start running."
"Beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You look like you're in shape, but we lose a lot of people to the physical fitness tests."
All of the sudden I became somewhat self-conscious of the rather form-fitting top I had chosen for the job fair. And I saw my hopes and dreams for a life as an FBI special agent go quickly down the toilet because if there's one thing I really hate in this world, it's running.
Here I had found the one job that considered the last ten years of my life remotely relevant to the position, but it would mean that I'd have to run. Why? I suppose running is essential to chasing down criminals, and that's the business of the FBI, isn't it? To chase down criminals?
I guess I had been hoping for more of a desk job where I would use my brain and where my runty athletic abilities could remain hidden. It is conceivable that with months of training harder than I have ever trained in my life, I could scrape by as the absolute bottom of the barrel of FBI trainees. The last time I thought about such sacrifice was when I briefly contemplated applying to West Point. And of course, if I should decide to become a bodybuilder.
A closer look at the pink flyer revealed that my dream job was not really all that dreamy. Here, I now noticed the requirement, "Be in excellent physical condition." I have enough flexibility to bend steel, but I bet they are referring to more conventional attributes such as strength and speed. "Able to pass a polygraph regarding truthfulness in all aspects of the application process including FBI's drug policy." Some of my friends have had to take polygraphs as part of gaining security clearance, and the feeling I get from their tight-lipped experiences is that it's a miserable thing to do. "Be willing to be transferred anywhere in the United States." Oddly this is truly non-negotiable. I was at the Anchorage Job Fair, for goodness sake. The point is that I'm trying to find a job in Anchorage. And besides, the only chance I could have being a Big FBI Special Agent Fish was if I was in the Small Pond known as Anchorage.
There was also a bit of interesting fine print at the bottom of the pink flyer:
"Cannot have used marijuana more than 15 times. Cannot have used any other illegal drugs more than 5 times OR during the last 10 years. Cannot have used any illegal drug while in a law enforcement or prosecutorial position."
On Point 1, marijuana: Well, it's good to know that you get 15 freebies. I haven't availed myself of any, but it's nice to know that my potential FBI career is still safe if I should choose to lightly experiment.
On Point 2: I read this as if you used crack, cocaine, meth, heroin no more than 5 times or you gave up that stuff a long time ago, you're now qualified to chase down your fellow users and bring them to justice.
On Point 3, drug use and positions of authority: Let's hope not! That this word of caution was even included begs a sad question.
I bet there are a lot of people out there whose FBI careers have been precluded because of one of these points. In fact, I bet these are the most common reasons why many FBI-hopefuls don't make it.
The rest of my time at the job fair was cut short by my cold, as it had progressed into some kind of liquid nasal drip that would release itself suddenly without warning. Not exactly the kind of first impression I wanted to make.
So I left the booths and hopeful job-seekers, not exactly less confused about the Direction of My Life, but knowing at least, that it was not time to start running, not even for the FBI.
Today at the Egan Center, the Anchorage Daily News put on its annual Job Fair for people like myself, those looking for a new way of making a living. It has been years since I've gone to a job fair, but I dutifully brushed my hair, put on my suit, and was then off to the job fair, with a couple copies of my resume tucked under my arm.
There were several booths set up in the convention center, each boasting the promise of a new career. Construction companies were looking for maintenance managers, the municipality was looking for police officers, and even the military was looking for a few good men, as they always do. At a couple of booths, I tried to explain my plight using euphemistic phrases, but what I really wanted to use as my pick-up line was, "Do you have any jobs for a washed-out attorney?"
I tried to appear upbeat and competent, hard to do when you're coming down with a cold. I flirted with the idea of many new career directions - "Why not?" was the operative theme of the day. But it turned out that out of all the booths in that large convention center, only one had a post for which I was qualified.
Meet Special Agent Madwoman of Anchorage.
It's hard to pass by law enforcement booths without being at least slightly intrigued. I took notice of Anchorage's finest standing in the municipality's booth and even lingered in front of the National Guard table, but they didn't bite. The FBI wouldn't have bitten either if I hadn't walked up to the table, spotted a flyer with the following statement in clear type:
THE FBI IS LOOKING FOR SPECIAL AGENTS WITH THE FOLLOWING BACKGROUNDS
Among the laundry list were the magical words that I seldom see for any job posting that is not seeking an attorney:
LAW SCHOOL GRADUATE.
I was overjoyed. I'm one of those! I picked up that pink flyer and pointed out this line to the man behind the table and asked, "What does the FBI need with special agents who are law school graduates?"
After the Special Agent Behind The Table determined that I had graduated from a legit law school and was not just some high schooler looking for a new career, he asked another screening question, "How old are you?"
I smiled, never before happier to be older than I looked. "Thirty-one. I know I don't look it."
He smiled. "Yeah, most people who try out for special agent are 29, 30."
For a minute, I faltered as my normal anxieties about my age came to surface. "Does that mean I'm too old?"
"No, it means you're just right. Do you speak a second language?"
Once again, I had been racially profiled, but if it was going to make me look attractive to the FBI, I could deal with it. "Yes. Mandarin Chinese."
Special Agent Behind The Table then proceeded to encourage me to apply online, telling me that I would be "very competitive" with my language skills and such. I tried to explain that my Mandarin could be described as proficient at best, since my areas of expertise included only basic bodily functions and all things related to food, but he seemed hell-bent on my candidacy.
"What I would suggest is that you start running."
"Beg your pardon?" I asked.
"You look like you're in shape, but we lose a lot of people to the physical fitness tests."
All of the sudden I became somewhat self-conscious of the rather form-fitting top I had chosen for the job fair. And I saw my hopes and dreams for a life as an FBI special agent go quickly down the toilet because if there's one thing I really hate in this world, it's running.
Here I had found the one job that considered the last ten years of my life remotely relevant to the position, but it would mean that I'd have to run. Why? I suppose running is essential to chasing down criminals, and that's the business of the FBI, isn't it? To chase down criminals?
I guess I had been hoping for more of a desk job where I would use my brain and where my runty athletic abilities could remain hidden. It is conceivable that with months of training harder than I have ever trained in my life, I could scrape by as the absolute bottom of the barrel of FBI trainees. The last time I thought about such sacrifice was when I briefly contemplated applying to West Point. And of course, if I should decide to become a bodybuilder.
A closer look at the pink flyer revealed that my dream job was not really all that dreamy. Here, I now noticed the requirement, "Be in excellent physical condition." I have enough flexibility to bend steel, but I bet they are referring to more conventional attributes such as strength and speed. "Able to pass a polygraph regarding truthfulness in all aspects of the application process including FBI's drug policy." Some of my friends have had to take polygraphs as part of gaining security clearance, and the feeling I get from their tight-lipped experiences is that it's a miserable thing to do. "Be willing to be transferred anywhere in the United States." Oddly this is truly non-negotiable. I was at the Anchorage Job Fair, for goodness sake. The point is that I'm trying to find a job in Anchorage. And besides, the only chance I could have being a Big FBI Special Agent Fish was if I was in the Small Pond known as Anchorage.
There was also a bit of interesting fine print at the bottom of the pink flyer:
"Cannot have used marijuana more than 15 times. Cannot have used any other illegal drugs more than 5 times OR during the last 10 years. Cannot have used any illegal drug while in a law enforcement or prosecutorial position."
On Point 1, marijuana: Well, it's good to know that you get 15 freebies. I haven't availed myself of any, but it's nice to know that my potential FBI career is still safe if I should choose to lightly experiment.
On Point 2: I read this as if you used crack, cocaine, meth, heroin no more than 5 times or you gave up that stuff a long time ago, you're now qualified to chase down your fellow users and bring them to justice.
On Point 3, drug use and positions of authority: Let's hope not! That this word of caution was even included begs a sad question.
I bet there are a lot of people out there whose FBI careers have been precluded because of one of these points. In fact, I bet these are the most common reasons why many FBI-hopefuls don't make it.
The rest of my time at the job fair was cut short by my cold, as it had progressed into some kind of liquid nasal drip that would release itself suddenly without warning. Not exactly the kind of first impression I wanted to make.
So I left the booths and hopeful job-seekers, not exactly less confused about the Direction of My Life, but knowing at least, that it was not time to start running, not even for the FBI.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Flush Away!
Returning home as a thirty-one year old adult is like visiting the insane asylum from which I escaped many years ago, except that all the current residents are clearly related by blood. During my latest recent stay at my parents' home, I was housed in a different ward; my erstwhile bedroom, while still nominally containing a bed, had become a storage facility so crammed of things unrelated to me that I could not have lain horizontally anywhere. So I was asked to sleep instead in the living room and to not complain (which I have not to any significant degree, except for noting these facts in this blog).
It had been months since I had last visited southern California, and it is good, bad, and ugly that things have not changed much. I happened to be there on what turned out to be the hottest days of the year (the local news repeatedly referred to "life-threatening heat"), and heat never agrees with me, particularly since I have learned to adapt to Alaska's chillier clime. In addition to reacquainting myself with lower 48 weather, a visit down South always promises to be a history lesson of some sort - a reminder of where I left my life before coming to Alaska.
Often when I go home, I have in mind that I'd like to bring something back, a memento of my youth that now seems dear enough to keep close, a useful tool I do not wish to purchase new up here, or something I simply can get only in California and not Alaska. Among the list during this trip was a green stuffed toy parrot that used to belong to my little brother. (The need for this item may or may not be disclosed in a later entry.) I had in my mind what I thought was a clear vision of this green parrot sitting on a shelf above my bed in what had become the Public Storage that was once my bedroom, but a quick glance revealed that it was full of books, empty computer boxes, a ukele, a stuffed bear, but alas, no stuffed green little parrot!
I am genetically incapable of really throwing things away, although I do throw away more things than my fellow asylum residents. Certainly, none of the permanent residents would have been able to throw away my green parrot. So I proceeded on a mission to find this parrot, despite the stockpiling that had overtaken my bedroom and despite the sweltering heat.
I began with Under-The-Bed where I had, on a previous visit, stowed away the Most Undesirable Childhood Toys. These included the freakish dolls made of plastic that had since lost their clothes or had lost the ability to fully close their eyes - the stuff horror movies are made of. Why didn't I just throw this junk away, one might ask? Well, frankly, these toys were so scary that I was afraid to throw them away, in fear of what retribution might lie ahead for me by their plasticky arms.
For whatever reason, accidentally stowed away with the Freakish Undesirable Dolls was a stuffed parrot - but it was a small bright orange parrot, not the green parrot I was looking for. For reasons that I may or may not disclose in a future blog entry, I decided to push on in pursuit of my green parrot. I moved boxes, thrust my hand into shelves, opened sealed up bags, opened drawers, but nowhere was the green parrot to be found. In one drawer, however, I did make a remarkable discovery: a set of puffy Star Wars stickers, still in original plastic, no doubt now worth a fortune!
Perhaps it was delirium caused by the heat or perhaps it was because I was back at the insane asylum, but the discovery of a Star Wars treasure did not satisfy my curiosity or make me abandon my ultimate mission: I remained determined to find that green parrot. The sliding doors of my closet, however, were completely blocked off by a table covered with boxes. I managed to slide the boxes over a few millimeters in the necessary direction to pry open the door just enough to let my body in. Once inside, I turned on my flashlight and squeezed past old dresses worn once at piano recitals and now very unfashionable suits worn many times at Model United Nations debates in high school. In this Narnia, I found a large brown Samsonite tucked behind the dresses and thought maybe I had stowed away something important in the suitcase.
With flashlight in my mouth and body flush against the walls of my tiny closet, I snapped the Samonsite open. I found, crammed wall to wall in that brown Samsonite, 20-30 of my Most Desirable Stuffed Animals, namely the ones with white fur which my young self had always tried to keep clean. Opening the suitcase was like opening a Pandora's box of stuffed animal names - Dandee, Brownberry, Shaggy ... names I thought I had forgotten but whose huddled bodies were now staring up at me. Sadly, among these treasures I did not find the holy grail, my little green parrot.
What proved to be a real challenge was getting that Samsonite to close again after 20-30 stuffed animals had been given the opportunity to refluff themselves. The closet was getting claustrophobic, the interior temperature was climbing, my jaw muscles were tired of holding that flashlight in my mouth, and I was quickly depleting what little oxygen was available in that small space.
But the Samsonite in the closet was not the only time capsule I uncovered while home. In the guest bathroom, I noticed several magazines available for perusal (yes, we're that kind of asylum), and on one particular visit, noticed a copy of Newsweek was opened to its entertainment section. What gave me pause were photos of a very pubescent Lee Ann Rimes and a sexy Toni Braxton winning a Grammy. (Braxton has since declared bankruptcy.) Confused, I flipped to the front cover, and lo and behold, I was reading a copy of a 1997 Newsweek in the bathroom.
Others might find it unusual to come across such dated material under such circumstances, but those people have never been in the bathroom of an asylum, of course. Against all common sense, I did not throw away this relic, nor did I even put it down.
I actually read it cover to cover and found it somewhat fascinating.
Cloned sheep Dolly had just made the headlines, with the ethical question, Are Humans Next? The answer ten years later, no. And not much hullaballoo has happened in the genetic world since aside from gene mapping. One article spoke of the likely disappearance of conventional used car dealerships; a chain of dealerships called AutoNation was supposed to revolutionize car buying through computer kiosks, thereby sidestepping haggling with the dealer.
I have never heard of AutoNation.
In 1997, the Internet was just gaining speed. The first online degree programs were being offered. Fundraising by the Democratic Party was under microscopic scrutiny. Toni Braxton was flush with fame and cash. As for Lee Ann Rimes, I think that girl was still wearing braces.
As much as I plead with my parents to throw away old junk, I can't say that finding the 1997 Newsweek time capsule in the bathroom wasn't a unique and worthwhile experience. I suppose there might be both pros and cons to not letting go. My father recently gave a lecture full of philosophical truisms about enjoying life, and among the concepts he tried to impart to his audience was the importance of letting go. His penchant for toilet humor, however, translated this idea into a particularly catchy phrase:
Flush away.
How the brain chooses what to flush away and what to write permanently onto the hard drive, I don't know. The names of my stuffed animals get stored for eternity, but all of physical chemistry from my freshman year of college? Most definitely flushed away. But who is to say that today's junk might not be tomorrow's interesting bathroom read?
Fortunately for my little green parrot, he was a bit too big to flush away. I know that somewhere in the cluttered asylum, he's waiting for me to find him.
It had been months since I had last visited southern California, and it is good, bad, and ugly that things have not changed much. I happened to be there on what turned out to be the hottest days of the year (the local news repeatedly referred to "life-threatening heat"), and heat never agrees with me, particularly since I have learned to adapt to Alaska's chillier clime. In addition to reacquainting myself with lower 48 weather, a visit down South always promises to be a history lesson of some sort - a reminder of where I left my life before coming to Alaska.
Often when I go home, I have in mind that I'd like to bring something back, a memento of my youth that now seems dear enough to keep close, a useful tool I do not wish to purchase new up here, or something I simply can get only in California and not Alaska. Among the list during this trip was a green stuffed toy parrot that used to belong to my little brother. (The need for this item may or may not be disclosed in a later entry.) I had in my mind what I thought was a clear vision of this green parrot sitting on a shelf above my bed in what had become the Public Storage that was once my bedroom, but a quick glance revealed that it was full of books, empty computer boxes, a ukele, a stuffed bear, but alas, no stuffed green little parrot!
I am genetically incapable of really throwing things away, although I do throw away more things than my fellow asylum residents. Certainly, none of the permanent residents would have been able to throw away my green parrot. So I proceeded on a mission to find this parrot, despite the stockpiling that had overtaken my bedroom and despite the sweltering heat.
I began with Under-The-Bed where I had, on a previous visit, stowed away the Most Undesirable Childhood Toys. These included the freakish dolls made of plastic that had since lost their clothes or had lost the ability to fully close their eyes - the stuff horror movies are made of. Why didn't I just throw this junk away, one might ask? Well, frankly, these toys were so scary that I was afraid to throw them away, in fear of what retribution might lie ahead for me by their plasticky arms.
For whatever reason, accidentally stowed away with the Freakish Undesirable Dolls was a stuffed parrot - but it was a small bright orange parrot, not the green parrot I was looking for. For reasons that I may or may not disclose in a future blog entry, I decided to push on in pursuit of my green parrot. I moved boxes, thrust my hand into shelves, opened sealed up bags, opened drawers, but nowhere was the green parrot to be found. In one drawer, however, I did make a remarkable discovery: a set of puffy Star Wars stickers, still in original plastic, no doubt now worth a fortune!
Perhaps it was delirium caused by the heat or perhaps it was because I was back at the insane asylum, but the discovery of a Star Wars treasure did not satisfy my curiosity or make me abandon my ultimate mission: I remained determined to find that green parrot. The sliding doors of my closet, however, were completely blocked off by a table covered with boxes. I managed to slide the boxes over a few millimeters in the necessary direction to pry open the door just enough to let my body in. Once inside, I turned on my flashlight and squeezed past old dresses worn once at piano recitals and now very unfashionable suits worn many times at Model United Nations debates in high school. In this Narnia, I found a large brown Samsonite tucked behind the dresses and thought maybe I had stowed away something important in the suitcase.
With flashlight in my mouth and body flush against the walls of my tiny closet, I snapped the Samonsite open. I found, crammed wall to wall in that brown Samsonite, 20-30 of my Most Desirable Stuffed Animals, namely the ones with white fur which my young self had always tried to keep clean. Opening the suitcase was like opening a Pandora's box of stuffed animal names - Dandee, Brownberry, Shaggy ... names I thought I had forgotten but whose huddled bodies were now staring up at me. Sadly, among these treasures I did not find the holy grail, my little green parrot.
What proved to be a real challenge was getting that Samsonite to close again after 20-30 stuffed animals had been given the opportunity to refluff themselves. The closet was getting claustrophobic, the interior temperature was climbing, my jaw muscles were tired of holding that flashlight in my mouth, and I was quickly depleting what little oxygen was available in that small space.
But the Samsonite in the closet was not the only time capsule I uncovered while home. In the guest bathroom, I noticed several magazines available for perusal (yes, we're that kind of asylum), and on one particular visit, noticed a copy of Newsweek was opened to its entertainment section. What gave me pause were photos of a very pubescent Lee Ann Rimes and a sexy Toni Braxton winning a Grammy. (Braxton has since declared bankruptcy.) Confused, I flipped to the front cover, and lo and behold, I was reading a copy of a 1997 Newsweek in the bathroom.
Others might find it unusual to come across such dated material under such circumstances, but those people have never been in the bathroom of an asylum, of course. Against all common sense, I did not throw away this relic, nor did I even put it down.
I actually read it cover to cover and found it somewhat fascinating.
Cloned sheep Dolly had just made the headlines, with the ethical question, Are Humans Next? The answer ten years later, no. And not much hullaballoo has happened in the genetic world since aside from gene mapping. One article spoke of the likely disappearance of conventional used car dealerships; a chain of dealerships called AutoNation was supposed to revolutionize car buying through computer kiosks, thereby sidestepping haggling with the dealer.
I have never heard of AutoNation.
In 1997, the Internet was just gaining speed. The first online degree programs were being offered. Fundraising by the Democratic Party was under microscopic scrutiny. Toni Braxton was flush with fame and cash. As for Lee Ann Rimes, I think that girl was still wearing braces.
As much as I plead with my parents to throw away old junk, I can't say that finding the 1997 Newsweek time capsule in the bathroom wasn't a unique and worthwhile experience. I suppose there might be both pros and cons to not letting go. My father recently gave a lecture full of philosophical truisms about enjoying life, and among the concepts he tried to impart to his audience was the importance of letting go. His penchant for toilet humor, however, translated this idea into a particularly catchy phrase:
Flush away.
How the brain chooses what to flush away and what to write permanently onto the hard drive, I don't know. The names of my stuffed animals get stored for eternity, but all of physical chemistry from my freshman year of college? Most definitely flushed away. But who is to say that today's junk might not be tomorrow's interesting bathroom read?
Fortunately for my little green parrot, he was a bit too big to flush away. I know that somewhere in the cluttered asylum, he's waiting for me to find him.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Year of the Klingon
In today's modern world, there's not a whole lot you can get for a mere five dollars. For example, Arby's Five-For-Five is really five dollars and ninety-five cents in Alaska and rumored to have gone up to a whopping six ninety-five. Even a shrewdly bargained-for Easy Rider at a garage sale goes for no less than six dollars. And so it is a real delight when you can get something quality in exchange for an Abraham Lincoln.
This morning, I took my Abraham Lincoln to my former gym, Pete's City Gym, also known by old-timers as "10th and E," its cross streets. For five dollars, I can get a day pass to use the gym or I can pay $25 for the month. There is no start-up fee, no year membership, no strings, nothing complicated. In fact, if there were anything complicated about the gym, Pete's is not the kind of place that would know what to do with it.
A lot of people, members of Alaska Club or Powerhouse Gym, the so-called normal gyms in town, like to talk smack about Pete's, but much of it is undeserved. There is a cardio room with 2-3 treadmills, 2-3 elliptical machines, maybe a bike or two, and a whole bunch of nautilus machines for the lower body. The other main room is mirrored, well-lit, and clean and has free weights as well as nautilus machines for the upper body. You don't have to travel very far to find a can of Lysol, and there are saunas (albeit small and rather drawer-like) in the locker rooms. In other words, Pete's offers many of the amenities you'd expect from a normal gym.
A while back, there was a lot of talk about "The Fungus" at Pete's. The Fungus was apparently some kind of mold, probably a variant of athlete's foot, that was rumored to be lurking in the showers at Pete's, ready to strike. Those who went barefoot reported contracting The Fungus. But anyone who goes into a public gym without proper flip flops is asking for trouble, and if you ask me, just begging for The Fungus. The management can't be held accountable for individual poor judgment.
Equipment and Fungus aside, it is the people and the attitude that make Pete's my preferred gym. When you walk into Pete's, you are greeted first by a scantily clad Governor Arnold Schwarzenagger. This poster in the front hallway is an homage to hard bodies like his and reminds you why you are there. In fact, throughout the gym, the walls are plastered with posters of bodybuilders, past and present.
There are a few men who seem to run the gym, but the main guy in charge, as far as I can tell, is Pete's Pete Number One. His name isn't actually Pete (and in fact I can't remember what his real name is) but for ease of memory, we've always called him Pete Number One. Pete Number One is timeless; in the four years I've known him, I don't think he has changed a bit. His look is quite literally frozen in time - around the 1950s I'd say. Pete Number One has a handlebar mustache and a head of puffy helmet hair. He wears all black, everyday, and wears his weight belt twenty-four seven, whether he's behind the front desk, lifting weights in the upper body room, or sitting in his truck reading the paper with the engine running (which he often does). If I had to sum it up, Peter Number One looks a bit like a Hulk Hogan wannabe of yesteryear who maybe never gave the dream up.
Peter Number One takes the early morning shift, and hence, he is the Pete I see the most often. There is also Peter Number Two and Peter Junior (the younger man who takes the evening shift), but neither is as crazy nor as interesting as Peter Number One who easily is my favorite Pete by far.
I've had a wide range of exquisite experiences as Pete's, which include having an older Eastern European woman instruct me on how to use free weights to "make my butt hard," getting asked out by Pete Junior (whose suave pick-up line was, "So, you gotta a man?"), and having some of the best workouts ever. But last week, for a mere five dollars, I heard the words that I thought I'd never hear in my life:
"Have you ever thought of entering a bodybuilding contest? I think you should do it."
Let me explain. I am thirty-one years old, five two and three quarters inches tall, and the closest I've ever been to doing a pull-up was that one time I was sleeping and actually had a dream in which I did a pull-up. I play racquetball like Woody Allen, and when I run, people smile out of pity. In middle school, I was a straight A student... except for P.E.. I failed each and every Presidential Fitness test except for flexibility and was always the last to be chosen when it was time to pick teams. So I am not what I'd say a natural candidate for body-building.
Suffice it to say, in fact I am not an athlete of any sort. I play a decent ping pong game, but otherwise lack any sport-like agility. I am, however, strangely agile in other ways. I guess a few years of childhood ballet can really pay off in your thirties. To this day, I remain very flexible and have a good sense of balance ... and secretly think that I was destined to be a kung fu master. But that is another blog entry....
Ironically, I had actually thought about bodybuilding before because I always suspected it would be really neat to go to one of my high school reunions as a bodybuilder. It is the predictable fantasy of someone who has always considered herself always a bit too small and too weak. More than anything, it would surely freak out my former classmates.
I mean, wouldn't it be a riot to be five two and three quarters inches of PURE ROCK-HARD STEEL? I thought so.
But I never got beyond entertaining this idea in the abstract, so when the two hundred fifty pound black man lifting weights told me I should join a bodybuilding contest, my interest was piqued.
One might suspect that his comment was simply a pick-up line, but the man who uttered these words, Chris, is a gentle giant who doesn't seem like the womanizing type. He suffered a stroke a few years ago and while still massive, he has a slow and deliberate way about him that made me think he wasn't just being a jerk or joking around. So either he is a really nice guy, or it's just the stroke talking.
In response to Chris' suggestion, I pointed to places where my muscles should be and said, "Oh I don't think so. I don't have any muscles, and I'm plenty fat."
"Where you fat? On the bottom of your feet? Show me the bottom of your feet."
I patted my belly and thighs. "Here's the fat, really!" Chris seemed unaware of all the clever places I was hiding my fat. My less than perfectly taut back. My stomach rolls. My fatty cutlets right next to where my pecs should be.
Despite these shortcomings, I have to admit I was still intrigued and curious by the prospect of becoming a bona fide bodybuilder. I asked questions about how long it might take to train and how my diet would change. Chris said he thought I could do it, that he knew exactly what I'd need to do to get there, and that he could even train me if it weren't for his frequent medical appointments. According to him, the key was wanting It.
"That thick steak? That milkshake? You've got to WANT IT. You've got to WANT that trophy like you want that steak."
Well, that sounded pretty straightforward. I regularly WANT a thick steak or WANT a milkshake. This bodybuilding was going to be no problem at all.
"You have the look, the right facial features."
What facial features was he seeing? The clenched teeth during my workouts? The biting of my lip when I pushed myself harder? Or was this yet another unfortunate case of the "exotic Asian features?" It is undeniable that being Chinese, I have Asian facial features and for some reason, some people have tagged this as "exotic." Or was Chris saying that I already had man-like facial features, the seemingly inevitable destiny of most female bodybuilders?
Strangely, while chatting about what it would take to become a bodybuilder, what was flying through my mind was not whether or not I could do this (become a bodybuilder at age 31 having failed every physical fitness test ever put to me) but whether or not my bodybuilding would mess up my body in some kind of permanent way. In my youth, I was a bottomless pit and could eat almost anything with little negative effect on my body. It was not until college when I started sporadically working out that my metabolism started slowing down. I've often rued the day I started to exercise as the beginning of the end, the moment I messed with my body's natural balance. Would bodybuilding give my body a confused metabolic message and cause more harm? Did I really want to turn into a short, rippling man-like creature? For example, it would undoubtedly rob me of what little boobs I currently have. Would it all be worth the sacrifice?
Chris would say yes. He later came over and further explained, wholly unsolicited of course, "There's nothing like the sound of the applause. All of those people -- clapping, cheering, appreciating you."
He repeated rather dreamily, with a faraway look, "There's nothing like it."
For a moment, I stood in his dream. I tried to imagine hordes of people cheering me on, clapping wildly for the absence of my boobs, the fakeness of my tan, the grossness of my veins popping out of my muscles. Was it so unheard of? After all, wasn't this what I've always wanted, simply to be appreciated? Perhaps bodybuilding was the path to the Holy Grail I've been looking for all my life.
The truth is I may have attracted attention at Pete's by doing what will likely become my signature moves in future bodybuilding contests. As I mentioned before, the Presidential Fitness test for flexibility was the only one I passed, and boy, did I pass with flying colors. Sometimes in between sets, I like to stretch my legs or do yoga-like squats to loosen up and relax. I like to plug in my headphones, grab my leg until my ankle is close to my ears, and then hold that pose, sometimes striking a flamenco flourish. Perhaps it was this "posing" that caught Chris' attention.
It also caught Al's attention. Al is a trainer who uses Pete's as his facility. More relevantly, he is a former bodybuilder, as I soon found out in listening to his rather long self-introduction. Apparently he has won, as he put it, "Everything," including contests in New York, California, the names of which made my eyes gloss over. He was dressed somewhat fashionably for the gym and was a bit blinged out. He was wearing sunglasses indoors even though it was grey and rainy outside. Al also had very fancy and shiny black and white velcro shoes. (It takes a lot for a grown man to pull off that look.)
Al motioned for me to unplug my headphones and then noted he had not seen me around before. He marveled at my flexibility and guessed that I must be some kind of athlete. He also instantly gave me a new, perhaps unfortunate, nickname.
"Human Rubberband. This here's the Human Rubberband, Tio!"
Tio was his large friend or perhaps client trainee. Standing next to Tio, helping spot him, was Glen, a white-haired man between sixty or seventy or eighty who had skinny pink bird legs. I often see Glen in various positions curling tiny 10-pound weights clutched tightly in his blue-veined hands. The three of them made a rather odd workout group, the only thing weirder would be if I had joined them.
But there is some inexplicable appeal in joining these men in shaping our bodies. I have to admit that when I'm plugged into music and sweating at Pete's, I do feel kind of wonderfully macho. I swagger and strut on the way to the water cooler. I wipe sweat from my brow like a tough guy, and if I have a runny nose, I swear that I even snort a little. Sadly, this is the image I have of what boys do.
And deep down inside, Little People like me have always wanted to be tough more than anything else. We want people to be scared of us, not to treat us like butterflies. I am the person that Big People like to pick up off the ground first. I am the first person who has to sit on someone else's lap when too many people try to cram into the car. Friends who have heard me discuss the prospect of bodybuilding are almost all universally disgusted by the idea of my transformation into a muscled monster. But these friends are Normal-Sized and don't quite understand that it would give me great joy to freak people out finally.
Suffice it to say, if I were a bodybuilder, nobody would put this butterfly on someone else's lap.
Still, becoming a bodybuilder would mean entering a world of fake tans, body oils, and string bikinis, three things that are wholly absent in my current life. As for wanting that trophy as much as wanting that steak, I find it hard to imagine that a Presidential Fitness Test flunkie could win such a contest, unless there are special categories for Most Outstanding Flexibility, Best Runt, or Most Improved.
But one thing is for sure: if this is the year for bodybuilding, this is definitely also the year to finally go to the Las Vegas Star Trek Convention as the don't-fuck-with-me Klingon I've always wanted to be.
This morning, I took my Abraham Lincoln to my former gym, Pete's City Gym, also known by old-timers as "10th and E," its cross streets. For five dollars, I can get a day pass to use the gym or I can pay $25 for the month. There is no start-up fee, no year membership, no strings, nothing complicated. In fact, if there were anything complicated about the gym, Pete's is not the kind of place that would know what to do with it.
A lot of people, members of Alaska Club or Powerhouse Gym, the so-called normal gyms in town, like to talk smack about Pete's, but much of it is undeserved. There is a cardio room with 2-3 treadmills, 2-3 elliptical machines, maybe a bike or two, and a whole bunch of nautilus machines for the lower body. The other main room is mirrored, well-lit, and clean and has free weights as well as nautilus machines for the upper body. You don't have to travel very far to find a can of Lysol, and there are saunas (albeit small and rather drawer-like) in the locker rooms. In other words, Pete's offers many of the amenities you'd expect from a normal gym.
A while back, there was a lot of talk about "The Fungus" at Pete's. The Fungus was apparently some kind of mold, probably a variant of athlete's foot, that was rumored to be lurking in the showers at Pete's, ready to strike. Those who went barefoot reported contracting The Fungus. But anyone who goes into a public gym without proper flip flops is asking for trouble, and if you ask me, just begging for The Fungus. The management can't be held accountable for individual poor judgment.
Equipment and Fungus aside, it is the people and the attitude that make Pete's my preferred gym. When you walk into Pete's, you are greeted first by a scantily clad Governor Arnold Schwarzenagger. This poster in the front hallway is an homage to hard bodies like his and reminds you why you are there. In fact, throughout the gym, the walls are plastered with posters of bodybuilders, past and present.
There are a few men who seem to run the gym, but the main guy in charge, as far as I can tell, is Pete's Pete Number One. His name isn't actually Pete (and in fact I can't remember what his real name is) but for ease of memory, we've always called him Pete Number One. Pete Number One is timeless; in the four years I've known him, I don't think he has changed a bit. His look is quite literally frozen in time - around the 1950s I'd say. Pete Number One has a handlebar mustache and a head of puffy helmet hair. He wears all black, everyday, and wears his weight belt twenty-four seven, whether he's behind the front desk, lifting weights in the upper body room, or sitting in his truck reading the paper with the engine running (which he often does). If I had to sum it up, Peter Number One looks a bit like a Hulk Hogan wannabe of yesteryear who maybe never gave the dream up.
Peter Number One takes the early morning shift, and hence, he is the Pete I see the most often. There is also Peter Number Two and Peter Junior (the younger man who takes the evening shift), but neither is as crazy nor as interesting as Peter Number One who easily is my favorite Pete by far.
I've had a wide range of exquisite experiences as Pete's, which include having an older Eastern European woman instruct me on how to use free weights to "make my butt hard," getting asked out by Pete Junior (whose suave pick-up line was, "So, you gotta a man?"), and having some of the best workouts ever. But last week, for a mere five dollars, I heard the words that I thought I'd never hear in my life:
"Have you ever thought of entering a bodybuilding contest? I think you should do it."
Let me explain. I am thirty-one years old, five two and three quarters inches tall, and the closest I've ever been to doing a pull-up was that one time I was sleeping and actually had a dream in which I did a pull-up. I play racquetball like Woody Allen, and when I run, people smile out of pity. In middle school, I was a straight A student... except for P.E.. I failed each and every Presidential Fitness test except for flexibility and was always the last to be chosen when it was time to pick teams. So I am not what I'd say a natural candidate for body-building.
Suffice it to say, in fact I am not an athlete of any sort. I play a decent ping pong game, but otherwise lack any sport-like agility. I am, however, strangely agile in other ways. I guess a few years of childhood ballet can really pay off in your thirties. To this day, I remain very flexible and have a good sense of balance ... and secretly think that I was destined to be a kung fu master. But that is another blog entry....
Ironically, I had actually thought about bodybuilding before because I always suspected it would be really neat to go to one of my high school reunions as a bodybuilder. It is the predictable fantasy of someone who has always considered herself always a bit too small and too weak. More than anything, it would surely freak out my former classmates.
I mean, wouldn't it be a riot to be five two and three quarters inches of PURE ROCK-HARD STEEL? I thought so.
But I never got beyond entertaining this idea in the abstract, so when the two hundred fifty pound black man lifting weights told me I should join a bodybuilding contest, my interest was piqued.
One might suspect that his comment was simply a pick-up line, but the man who uttered these words, Chris, is a gentle giant who doesn't seem like the womanizing type. He suffered a stroke a few years ago and while still massive, he has a slow and deliberate way about him that made me think he wasn't just being a jerk or joking around. So either he is a really nice guy, or it's just the stroke talking.
In response to Chris' suggestion, I pointed to places where my muscles should be and said, "Oh I don't think so. I don't have any muscles, and I'm plenty fat."
"Where you fat? On the bottom of your feet? Show me the bottom of your feet."
I patted my belly and thighs. "Here's the fat, really!" Chris seemed unaware of all the clever places I was hiding my fat. My less than perfectly taut back. My stomach rolls. My fatty cutlets right next to where my pecs should be.
Despite these shortcomings, I have to admit I was still intrigued and curious by the prospect of becoming a bona fide bodybuilder. I asked questions about how long it might take to train and how my diet would change. Chris said he thought I could do it, that he knew exactly what I'd need to do to get there, and that he could even train me if it weren't for his frequent medical appointments. According to him, the key was wanting It.
"That thick steak? That milkshake? You've got to WANT IT. You've got to WANT that trophy like you want that steak."
Well, that sounded pretty straightforward. I regularly WANT a thick steak or WANT a milkshake. This bodybuilding was going to be no problem at all.
"You have the look, the right facial features."
What facial features was he seeing? The clenched teeth during my workouts? The biting of my lip when I pushed myself harder? Or was this yet another unfortunate case of the "exotic Asian features?" It is undeniable that being Chinese, I have Asian facial features and for some reason, some people have tagged this as "exotic." Or was Chris saying that I already had man-like facial features, the seemingly inevitable destiny of most female bodybuilders?
Strangely, while chatting about what it would take to become a bodybuilder, what was flying through my mind was not whether or not I could do this (become a bodybuilder at age 31 having failed every physical fitness test ever put to me) but whether or not my bodybuilding would mess up my body in some kind of permanent way. In my youth, I was a bottomless pit and could eat almost anything with little negative effect on my body. It was not until college when I started sporadically working out that my metabolism started slowing down. I've often rued the day I started to exercise as the beginning of the end, the moment I messed with my body's natural balance. Would bodybuilding give my body a confused metabolic message and cause more harm? Did I really want to turn into a short, rippling man-like creature? For example, it would undoubtedly rob me of what little boobs I currently have. Would it all be worth the sacrifice?
Chris would say yes. He later came over and further explained, wholly unsolicited of course, "There's nothing like the sound of the applause. All of those people -- clapping, cheering, appreciating you."
He repeated rather dreamily, with a faraway look, "There's nothing like it."
For a moment, I stood in his dream. I tried to imagine hordes of people cheering me on, clapping wildly for the absence of my boobs, the fakeness of my tan, the grossness of my veins popping out of my muscles. Was it so unheard of? After all, wasn't this what I've always wanted, simply to be appreciated? Perhaps bodybuilding was the path to the Holy Grail I've been looking for all my life.
The truth is I may have attracted attention at Pete's by doing what will likely become my signature moves in future bodybuilding contests. As I mentioned before, the Presidential Fitness test for flexibility was the only one I passed, and boy, did I pass with flying colors. Sometimes in between sets, I like to stretch my legs or do yoga-like squats to loosen up and relax. I like to plug in my headphones, grab my leg until my ankle is close to my ears, and then hold that pose, sometimes striking a flamenco flourish. Perhaps it was this "posing" that caught Chris' attention.
It also caught Al's attention. Al is a trainer who uses Pete's as his facility. More relevantly, he is a former bodybuilder, as I soon found out in listening to his rather long self-introduction. Apparently he has won, as he put it, "Everything," including contests in New York, California, the names of which made my eyes gloss over. He was dressed somewhat fashionably for the gym and was a bit blinged out. He was wearing sunglasses indoors even though it was grey and rainy outside. Al also had very fancy and shiny black and white velcro shoes. (It takes a lot for a grown man to pull off that look.)
Al motioned for me to unplug my headphones and then noted he had not seen me around before. He marveled at my flexibility and guessed that I must be some kind of athlete. He also instantly gave me a new, perhaps unfortunate, nickname.
"Human Rubberband. This here's the Human Rubberband, Tio!"
Tio was his large friend or perhaps client trainee. Standing next to Tio, helping spot him, was Glen, a white-haired man between sixty or seventy or eighty who had skinny pink bird legs. I often see Glen in various positions curling tiny 10-pound weights clutched tightly in his blue-veined hands. The three of them made a rather odd workout group, the only thing weirder would be if I had joined them.
But there is some inexplicable appeal in joining these men in shaping our bodies. I have to admit that when I'm plugged into music and sweating at Pete's, I do feel kind of wonderfully macho. I swagger and strut on the way to the water cooler. I wipe sweat from my brow like a tough guy, and if I have a runny nose, I swear that I even snort a little. Sadly, this is the image I have of what boys do.
And deep down inside, Little People like me have always wanted to be tough more than anything else. We want people to be scared of us, not to treat us like butterflies. I am the person that Big People like to pick up off the ground first. I am the first person who has to sit on someone else's lap when too many people try to cram into the car. Friends who have heard me discuss the prospect of bodybuilding are almost all universally disgusted by the idea of my transformation into a muscled monster. But these friends are Normal-Sized and don't quite understand that it would give me great joy to freak people out finally.
Suffice it to say, if I were a bodybuilder, nobody would put this butterfly on someone else's lap.
Still, becoming a bodybuilder would mean entering a world of fake tans, body oils, and string bikinis, three things that are wholly absent in my current life. As for wanting that trophy as much as wanting that steak, I find it hard to imagine that a Presidential Fitness Test flunkie could win such a contest, unless there are special categories for Most Outstanding Flexibility, Best Runt, or Most Improved.
But one thing is for sure: if this is the year for bodybuilding, this is definitely also the year to finally go to the Las Vegas Star Trek Convention as the don't-fuck-with-me Klingon I've always wanted to be.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Pink Octopus Gets The Blues
Dear Tito,
I am writing a letter to you to thank you for your readership. As far as I know, you are my sole official reader, so this entry is expressly for you.
Today starts week six of Retirement, and because it is questionable what other readership exists, I am not ashamed to admit to you (because I'm sure you understand) that Retirement, predictably, is not a mere Walk In The Park.
Week Six of Retirement in Anchorage has brought something new in the air. Whether it be the early morning squawkings of birds planning the logistics of a long journey soon to come or the silvery look of the morning dew foreshadowing next month's frost, things here are different. It is now well past the middle of August, and hence, the inevitable studio fade of summer has finally begun. I should not begrudge Anchorage for our current rain or for turning down the volume of our summertime fun; the downpour held off for longer than I could have hoped, and certainly Mother Nature has gifted us a better summer than she allowed last year.
But I awoke this morning to the sound and look of rain and darkness which come hand in hand with bad weather in Anchorage. It is no longer so easy to borrow the sun and jubliance of the skies for my own purposes, and so the time has come (long overdue) to look deeply inward for my own inspiration. Today's Retirement started with the uncomfortable weight of this early morning thought.
But I took one more cue from the skies and decided that today would be a good day to watch a movie I had borrowed from the library last week, a German film called Schultze Gets The Blues. As the back cover describes:
Schultze Gets The Blues is a funny, touching peek into the world of a recently retired miner, who, like his father before him, entertains polka audiences with his accordion. When he discovers the fiery energy of Zydeco music on his radio, the rigid monotony of his daily routine takes a spicy turn.... His newfound fascination ultimately leads him on a life-changing, liberating journey to the Louisiana delta.
I suppose it is not so strange that this description compelled me to pick up this movie a week earlier, given my own recent "retirement," my own "journey," and my own discovery of the joy that lies in the strings of a banjo. The movie is a quaint little narrative, almost more like a short story, accented by carefully chosen visual stills (beautiful still lifes really) which serve as quiet pauses in the telling of the story. The import of the music is more symbolic than anything else. In the film, Schultze plays over and over again really only one Zydeco piece -- something he hears on the radio -- but it is the undeniable change in his face and body every time he squeezes his marvelous accordion to make Louisiana music that moves the film. When you see how Schultze unfolds his awkward accordion as easy as he exhales his own breath, it is clear that in playing Zydeco, he discovers a new emotion previously not known to be possible. I recognized this feeling immediately because it reminds me a bit of the flush of my own internal landscape when I really get going on the banjo.
In the end, in broad strokes, the film is about the power of music as a vehicle in sorting out matters of life. I have experienced no pure Eurekas! since Retirement began five weeks ago, nor did I expect them to happen. What I have actually experienced is far more vague and mysteriously encoded - a strange fleeting feeling of doing the right thing at that particular moment. I have not solved the combination for making this feeling persist, but it is the only thing I've been able to sink my teeth into in these last five hazy weeks. I feel it rise to my skin in the middle of playing the banjo.
Schultze Gets The Blues, like life, is also about sharing. In one scene in a small dirt town in the South, Schultze appeals to a brass band playing outside on a deck of an old house and in a heavy German accent asks for, "Petroleum." The American bandplayers do not fully understand him but guess that he is asking for beer. For a moment, the non-German speaking viewer believes that perhaps "petroleum" is how you say "alcohol" in German. Schultze downs the beer and then repeats, "petroleum," again, this time waving his two empty gas gans. It now becomes clear that he is looking for gasoline for the boat he is taking through the Louisiana bayou country. They finally point him in the direction of the station and before he leaves, wave him into the back of their band van to give him a ride to where he has left his boat. At the end of the scene, they push a case of beer into his arms as libation during his solitary journey, pat him on the shoulder like the good friends they've become and bid him farewell with the English word they've come to share as hello, thank you, and goodbye -- Petroleum.
In another scene, he pulls up with his boat up to a deck of a floating house where a black woman is cooking crabs, and he asks for a glass of water to quench his thirst. She gives him the water and asks him if he likes crabs. In one of the best scenes of the movie, the marshmallowy 300-pound non-English-speaking German man tips his hat and mimes as best as he can that he, indeed, thinks crabs are tasty, and yes, he would like to eat them. The woman invites him in to have dinner with her and her daughter, and later on in the night, takes him to a bar full of Zydeco music, full of old couples with awkward angles who somehow beautifully dance cheek to cheek while shuffling across the dance floor. She shares with Schultze the gift of crab, beer, and whiskey, and also of music, good times, and incredible indelible memories.
This quiet blog started with one principle: sharing is caring. As I watched Schultze share his music, the band share its petroleum, the woman share crab and a way of life, I was reminded of how thankful I am that you shared music during your short time in Anchorage. Thank you, Tito, not only for your readership, but for bringing music to Anchor-town, music to the Little Yellow House, and most of all, bringing it back to a very dusty and crusty music lover.
Make sure to come back and visit, and bring your banjo.
Sincerely,
The Madwoman of Anchorage
I am writing a letter to you to thank you for your readership. As far as I know, you are my sole official reader, so this entry is expressly for you.
Today starts week six of Retirement, and because it is questionable what other readership exists, I am not ashamed to admit to you (because I'm sure you understand) that Retirement, predictably, is not a mere Walk In The Park.
Week Six of Retirement in Anchorage has brought something new in the air. Whether it be the early morning squawkings of birds planning the logistics of a long journey soon to come or the silvery look of the morning dew foreshadowing next month's frost, things here are different. It is now well past the middle of August, and hence, the inevitable studio fade of summer has finally begun. I should not begrudge Anchorage for our current rain or for turning down the volume of our summertime fun; the downpour held off for longer than I could have hoped, and certainly Mother Nature has gifted us a better summer than she allowed last year.
But I awoke this morning to the sound and look of rain and darkness which come hand in hand with bad weather in Anchorage. It is no longer so easy to borrow the sun and jubliance of the skies for my own purposes, and so the time has come (long overdue) to look deeply inward for my own inspiration. Today's Retirement started with the uncomfortable weight of this early morning thought.
But I took one more cue from the skies and decided that today would be a good day to watch a movie I had borrowed from the library last week, a German film called Schultze Gets The Blues. As the back cover describes:
Schultze Gets The Blues is a funny, touching peek into the world of a recently retired miner, who, like his father before him, entertains polka audiences with his accordion. When he discovers the fiery energy of Zydeco music on his radio, the rigid monotony of his daily routine takes a spicy turn.... His newfound fascination ultimately leads him on a life-changing, liberating journey to the Louisiana delta.
I suppose it is not so strange that this description compelled me to pick up this movie a week earlier, given my own recent "retirement," my own "journey," and my own discovery of the joy that lies in the strings of a banjo. The movie is a quaint little narrative, almost more like a short story, accented by carefully chosen visual stills (beautiful still lifes really) which serve as quiet pauses in the telling of the story. The import of the music is more symbolic than anything else. In the film, Schultze plays over and over again really only one Zydeco piece -- something he hears on the radio -- but it is the undeniable change in his face and body every time he squeezes his marvelous accordion to make Louisiana music that moves the film. When you see how Schultze unfolds his awkward accordion as easy as he exhales his own breath, it is clear that in playing Zydeco, he discovers a new emotion previously not known to be possible. I recognized this feeling immediately because it reminds me a bit of the flush of my own internal landscape when I really get going on the banjo.
In the end, in broad strokes, the film is about the power of music as a vehicle in sorting out matters of life. I have experienced no pure Eurekas! since Retirement began five weeks ago, nor did I expect them to happen. What I have actually experienced is far more vague and mysteriously encoded - a strange fleeting feeling of doing the right thing at that particular moment. I have not solved the combination for making this feeling persist, but it is the only thing I've been able to sink my teeth into in these last five hazy weeks. I feel it rise to my skin in the middle of playing the banjo.
Schultze Gets The Blues, like life, is also about sharing. In one scene in a small dirt town in the South, Schultze appeals to a brass band playing outside on a deck of an old house and in a heavy German accent asks for, "Petroleum." The American bandplayers do not fully understand him but guess that he is asking for beer. For a moment, the non-German speaking viewer believes that perhaps "petroleum" is how you say "alcohol" in German. Schultze downs the beer and then repeats, "petroleum," again, this time waving his two empty gas gans. It now becomes clear that he is looking for gasoline for the boat he is taking through the Louisiana bayou country. They finally point him in the direction of the station and before he leaves, wave him into the back of their band van to give him a ride to where he has left his boat. At the end of the scene, they push a case of beer into his arms as libation during his solitary journey, pat him on the shoulder like the good friends they've become and bid him farewell with the English word they've come to share as hello, thank you, and goodbye -- Petroleum.
In another scene, he pulls up with his boat up to a deck of a floating house where a black woman is cooking crabs, and he asks for a glass of water to quench his thirst. She gives him the water and asks him if he likes crabs. In one of the best scenes of the movie, the marshmallowy 300-pound non-English-speaking German man tips his hat and mimes as best as he can that he, indeed, thinks crabs are tasty, and yes, he would like to eat them. The woman invites him in to have dinner with her and her daughter, and later on in the night, takes him to a bar full of Zydeco music, full of old couples with awkward angles who somehow beautifully dance cheek to cheek while shuffling across the dance floor. She shares with Schultze the gift of crab, beer, and whiskey, and also of music, good times, and incredible indelible memories.
This quiet blog started with one principle: sharing is caring. As I watched Schultze share his music, the band share its petroleum, the woman share crab and a way of life, I was reminded of how thankful I am that you shared music during your short time in Anchorage. Thank you, Tito, not only for your readership, but for bringing music to Anchor-town, music to the Little Yellow House, and most of all, bringing it back to a very dusty and crusty music lover.
Make sure to come back and visit, and bring your banjo.
Sincerely,
The Madwoman of Anchorage
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Good Day For A Garage Sale
Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.
Easy Rider Exercise Machine at Garage Sale: $6.
Strapping it to the roof of a Chevy Blazer and having consequent good times: PRICELESS.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Simplify, Simplify, Simplify.
Back home?
I am seated at my kitchen table in Anchorage. If I listen very carefully, I can hear the hum of my computer and the chirp-chirp of the carbon monoxide detector downstairs in the basement. (Does it want new batteries?) So different from the sounds of Port Alsworth.
The morning was crisp in Port Alsworth with dew on the windows, foreshadowing the coming of the fall. I ferried my things to the shop where the planes are parked, ate a little breakfast, and took a little stroll while I waited for Lee to show up. It was hard to leave on such a beautiful day, perhaps the most glorious bout of weather since my arrival more than a week ago. I consoled myself with the thought of the gorgeous flight that was sure to come.
The flight, like most things in Lake Clark, did not disappoint. I scarcely recognized Lake Clark Pass without all the cloud cover and silvery greyness that greeted me and Leon over a week ago. My ride with Lee was very different. By now, it was my third tiny prop plane ride, and aside from initially putting my safety vest on upside down, I was a real pro. (Thank goodness the zipper gave it away.) I had more time to stare at the instruments in the plane, especially the GPS, and to ask Lee questions. We took the Cessna 206 out (the same one that brought me in). It turns out it was built in the 70s (the font on the instrument panel betrayed its age) but had a new engine with only 100 hours on it. The pilots always think I’m nervous and afraid of flying when I ask them questions.
Lee and I talked about his work for the park and the difficulty of policing such a vast land. Lake Clark has three rangers for an area roughly the size of Connecticut. That the rangers can even figure when a moose has been illegally killed in the Park amazes me. I asked Lee more questions about his history – how he got to Alaska in the first place, how he ended up in Port Alsworth, when he learned to fly, etc., etc. This was how I learned that he, too, used to fly supplies out to Dick Proenekke. Lee did an impersonation of Dick, and although I have nothing on which to judge it, I hope that it’s dead on.
He said that you could tell if Dick was around if the flag was up at his cabin. (Dick was among many other things, a patriot.) When Dick saw the plane, he’d grab his green duffel bag of tools, and Lee would pick him up to fix whatever was ailing Port Alsworth. Dick was able to fix just about anything but was always muttering, “Simplify, simplify, simplify.” I only wish I could have met Dick Proenekke. I am at least very lucky to have met his old friends.
We somehow got to talking about Lee’s commute to and from Anchorage, where he also keeps a place, and he mentioned that his wife no longer likes to fly, having lost too many friends to the skies. He mentioned one friend, a fiery redheaded pilot with killer piano-playing skills, who died right at the opening of the Pass on a beautiful day just like today. His engine had caught on fire, and Lee was the one who found the wreck with the lone survivor inside, a teenage boy in the back who had been traveling with his father.
Lee said he still thinks of this friend every time he flies by there, and I felt our little cockpit fill up with something heavier than air – an old kind of sadness. I thought this ranger might just start tearing up, but soon we were out of the Pass and the bright skies with the sun blinding our eyes seemed to encourage us to look ahead.
As a modern traveler who regards planes as mostly inconvenient long hours spent on business trips, I have little fear for air travel. The big bellies and big engines on those planes make it easy. But it is ignorance, the kind that you get when you don’t spend hours in a tiny plane that sometimes feels like a second skin rattling in whatever Mother Nature has in store for you that day. In Lake Clark, flying is serious business. Legend has it that Leon is in a family feud with his uncle because the man insisted that Leon’s brother fly in bad weather once, and his brother perished in that flight. It is hard to imagine kind and gentle Leon, a man so fond of butter, bearing any kind of grudge, but apparently, he has not forgiven his uncle. I’m not sure if I would either.
As the flight went on, I found myself taking fewer and fewer photos, not for lack of views but due to a desire to fully appreciate Mother Nature’s work. I don’t know if anyone who has flown over these precious parts of Alaska and has gotten a glimpse of these aerial views could possibly ever create anything that would rival Mother Nature’s art. There are so many details she has thought of that would escape even the wildest imagination. On a sunny day like this, Lake Clark Pass is a studded showcase of glaciers with chiseled ice blue features. The mudflats in the Inlet are smooth and glistening, like the surface of a whale’s back or the puckered skin of an elephant wet from rain. The land glows as if pregnant with rich, unthinkable surprises.
And this is why I felt a little drop in my heart when I saw Anchorage in the distance. My, how sophisticated and urban Anchorage looks when you’re flying from Port Alsworth! I don’t know how many times I’ve made the approach to Anchorage and never ever thought it looked like the “big city” it was today. For a moment, I had a pang of regret. I had left today’s quiet cloudless skies of Port Alsworth for this?
Port Alsworth, founded by Leon “Babe” Alsworth (Leon’s grandfather), is a Fundamentalist, born-again Christian town. It is impossible to spend a week there without spotting the church camp in the bay, that unmistakable cross reminding the earth that man, too, lives here. There are numerous references in Dick’s journal entries to Babe’s Bible-thumping ways. Babe hardly ever dropped off supplies to Dick without also dropping a few words from God. Sweeping his hand over the skies and land ahead of us, Lee told me that Babe used to say, “All this here is a dung pile compared to Heaven.”
It’s not surprise that Babe Alsworth chose Lake Clark to be the setting for his missionary work. Flying in these skies, standing before the lakes in the region – it is hard not to feel the presence of something extraordinary, and if you have no particular words for it, you might just think it is God.
Lee told me that at the time he moved to Port Alsworth, he had a dream of living in the bush for a year. (He ended up spending seven years in a cabin that didn’t have running water – until it burned down.) It’s true that it’s hard to spend time out there, whether it be on Babe’s dung pile or in God’s heaven on earth, without wanting to do the same.
In the meantime, far away from the bush, I’m trying to make the transition home. My first stop after dumping my bags at the front door was my garden. Gone for nine nights and I scarcely recognize my children! The nasturtiums are still blooming but are finishing up their work. To my surprise, the gladiolas are already budding. Seeds I snuck into the ground just before leaving have offered up their first tender leaves. And the fava beans, as I predicted, a few of them have toppled over; I arrived not a moment too soon for staking. The late-planted snow peas also turned into gangly teenagers while I was gone; soon I will see the fruits of their growth spurt.
The few fireweed I had accidentally blooming in the yard last year have multiplied into a mini-meadow. The fireweed makes me nostalgic after observing all the lone fireweed in Lake Clark. I cannot help but think of my time there when I see one. I am growing a soft spot.
The compost pile looked almost compacted so before going inside, I gave the leviathan a good turning. It’s hard to say what the weather is like here in town apart from noting it is not what it’s like in Port Alsworth today. Regardless of the weather, my part of Alaska is still beautiful nonetheless. Billowy clouds are hugging the Chugach Mountains at various altitudes today, and perhaps they will part to make my first day home a good one. In the meantime, I am sitting at the kitchen table with my jar of historic starter, a little bit of Lake Clark that I’ve taken home with me.
I am seated at my kitchen table in Anchorage. If I listen very carefully, I can hear the hum of my computer and the chirp-chirp of the carbon monoxide detector downstairs in the basement. (Does it want new batteries?) So different from the sounds of Port Alsworth.
The morning was crisp in Port Alsworth with dew on the windows, foreshadowing the coming of the fall. I ferried my things to the shop where the planes are parked, ate a little breakfast, and took a little stroll while I waited for Lee to show up. It was hard to leave on such a beautiful day, perhaps the most glorious bout of weather since my arrival more than a week ago. I consoled myself with the thought of the gorgeous flight that was sure to come.
The flight, like most things in Lake Clark, did not disappoint. I scarcely recognized Lake Clark Pass without all the cloud cover and silvery greyness that greeted me and Leon over a week ago. My ride with Lee was very different. By now, it was my third tiny prop plane ride, and aside from initially putting my safety vest on upside down, I was a real pro. (Thank goodness the zipper gave it away.) I had more time to stare at the instruments in the plane, especially the GPS, and to ask Lee questions. We took the Cessna 206 out (the same one that brought me in). It turns out it was built in the 70s (the font on the instrument panel betrayed its age) but had a new engine with only 100 hours on it. The pilots always think I’m nervous and afraid of flying when I ask them questions.
Lee and I talked about his work for the park and the difficulty of policing such a vast land. Lake Clark has three rangers for an area roughly the size of Connecticut. That the rangers can even figure when a moose has been illegally killed in the Park amazes me. I asked Lee more questions about his history – how he got to Alaska in the first place, how he ended up in Port Alsworth, when he learned to fly, etc., etc. This was how I learned that he, too, used to fly supplies out to Dick Proenekke. Lee did an impersonation of Dick, and although I have nothing on which to judge it, I hope that it’s dead on.
He said that you could tell if Dick was around if the flag was up at his cabin. (Dick was among many other things, a patriot.) When Dick saw the plane, he’d grab his green duffel bag of tools, and Lee would pick him up to fix whatever was ailing Port Alsworth. Dick was able to fix just about anything but was always muttering, “Simplify, simplify, simplify.” I only wish I could have met Dick Proenekke. I am at least very lucky to have met his old friends.
We somehow got to talking about Lee’s commute to and from Anchorage, where he also keeps a place, and he mentioned that his wife no longer likes to fly, having lost too many friends to the skies. He mentioned one friend, a fiery redheaded pilot with killer piano-playing skills, who died right at the opening of the Pass on a beautiful day just like today. His engine had caught on fire, and Lee was the one who found the wreck with the lone survivor inside, a teenage boy in the back who had been traveling with his father.
Lee said he still thinks of this friend every time he flies by there, and I felt our little cockpit fill up with something heavier than air – an old kind of sadness. I thought this ranger might just start tearing up, but soon we were out of the Pass and the bright skies with the sun blinding our eyes seemed to encourage us to look ahead.
As a modern traveler who regards planes as mostly inconvenient long hours spent on business trips, I have little fear for air travel. The big bellies and big engines on those planes make it easy. But it is ignorance, the kind that you get when you don’t spend hours in a tiny plane that sometimes feels like a second skin rattling in whatever Mother Nature has in store for you that day. In Lake Clark, flying is serious business. Legend has it that Leon is in a family feud with his uncle because the man insisted that Leon’s brother fly in bad weather once, and his brother perished in that flight. It is hard to imagine kind and gentle Leon, a man so fond of butter, bearing any kind of grudge, but apparently, he has not forgiven his uncle. I’m not sure if I would either.
As the flight went on, I found myself taking fewer and fewer photos, not for lack of views but due to a desire to fully appreciate Mother Nature’s work. I don’t know if anyone who has flown over these precious parts of Alaska and has gotten a glimpse of these aerial views could possibly ever create anything that would rival Mother Nature’s art. There are so many details she has thought of that would escape even the wildest imagination. On a sunny day like this, Lake Clark Pass is a studded showcase of glaciers with chiseled ice blue features. The mudflats in the Inlet are smooth and glistening, like the surface of a whale’s back or the puckered skin of an elephant wet from rain. The land glows as if pregnant with rich, unthinkable surprises.
And this is why I felt a little drop in my heart when I saw Anchorage in the distance. My, how sophisticated and urban Anchorage looks when you’re flying from Port Alsworth! I don’t know how many times I’ve made the approach to Anchorage and never ever thought it looked like the “big city” it was today. For a moment, I had a pang of regret. I had left today’s quiet cloudless skies of Port Alsworth for this?
Port Alsworth, founded by Leon “Babe” Alsworth (Leon’s grandfather), is a Fundamentalist, born-again Christian town. It is impossible to spend a week there without spotting the church camp in the bay, that unmistakable cross reminding the earth that man, too, lives here. There are numerous references in Dick’s journal entries to Babe’s Bible-thumping ways. Babe hardly ever dropped off supplies to Dick without also dropping a few words from God. Sweeping his hand over the skies and land ahead of us, Lee told me that Babe used to say, “All this here is a dung pile compared to Heaven.”
It’s not surprise that Babe Alsworth chose Lake Clark to be the setting for his missionary work. Flying in these skies, standing before the lakes in the region – it is hard not to feel the presence of something extraordinary, and if you have no particular words for it, you might just think it is God.
Lee told me that at the time he moved to Port Alsworth, he had a dream of living in the bush for a year. (He ended up spending seven years in a cabin that didn’t have running water – until it burned down.) It’s true that it’s hard to spend time out there, whether it be on Babe’s dung pile or in God’s heaven on earth, without wanting to do the same.
In the meantime, far away from the bush, I’m trying to make the transition home. My first stop after dumping my bags at the front door was my garden. Gone for nine nights and I scarcely recognize my children! The nasturtiums are still blooming but are finishing up their work. To my surprise, the gladiolas are already budding. Seeds I snuck into the ground just before leaving have offered up their first tender leaves. And the fava beans, as I predicted, a few of them have toppled over; I arrived not a moment too soon for staking. The late-planted snow peas also turned into gangly teenagers while I was gone; soon I will see the fruits of their growth spurt.
The few fireweed I had accidentally blooming in the yard last year have multiplied into a mini-meadow. The fireweed makes me nostalgic after observing all the lone fireweed in Lake Clark. I cannot help but think of my time there when I see one. I am growing a soft spot.
The compost pile looked almost compacted so before going inside, I gave the leviathan a good turning. It’s hard to say what the weather is like here in town apart from noting it is not what it’s like in Port Alsworth today. Regardless of the weather, my part of Alaska is still beautiful nonetheless. Billowy clouds are hugging the Chugach Mountains at various altitudes today, and perhaps they will part to make my first day home a good one. In the meantime, I am sitting at the kitchen table with my jar of historic starter, a little bit of Lake Clark that I’ve taken home with me.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
A Penultimate Day
Last day at Lake Clark, first solo hike. Better late than never. Finally I have a chance to see things up close, on my own.
Clean new birch bark revealing itself.
Emerging from the trees and getting the first peek at Holy Mountain.
Lower Tanalian Falls. The sound of the falls, while not quiet, is comforting somehow, like a mother’s shush.
Upper Tanalian Falls. Sometimes one begs to be distracted. I am now at the top of the falls. Moments like these, I wonder if there is any color more beautiful than that made by waterfall foam rushing downward.
Patience and fortune. The sun has broken into the sky, now highlighting the mist flying off the falls which rises from the water like breath on a cold day. Is it my imagination or have the falls begun to roar with greater force? Perhaps they are clamoring noisily for the sun. A nice way to end my last day here in the Park.
Distance is so much greater without the Historian’s pace. Dinner seems very very far away, but the lake did not disappoint. It does not have the black and white mystique of the other day but instead has dressed in summer colors – warm greens, blues, and tans. If I sit here and listen carefully, I hear only the falls breathing nearby and the distorted buzz of insects nose-diving for a bite – and the sound of tiny leaves falling from above. Something stirs in the lake! Against the silence, it sounds like a thrashing but disappears as quickly as it came. I must watch more carefully.
9:00pm. The thought of dinner has been a homing beacon. Dinner will be Lake Clark style – what did I pick today and what do I have leftover? The highlights: bolete mushrooms picked during my hike, radishes from my garden, udon noodles from Anchorage, half an onion and a tomato leftover from J. In half an hour, I am eating Lake Clark Minestrone straight out of the pot. I deem it a delicious meal but after the hike, probably would have eaten my own hand.
11:20pm. Accidentally hiked around six miles today. How does such an accident happen? Poor sense of direction and bad math. I had miscalculated the hike to the Lake that I took with the Historian, and on the way back, must have missed the trail that leads directly back to the house. The hike seemed twice as long without the Historian’s pace and conversation. I did stop frequently to inspect mushrooms and take the photos I missed this weekend, such as shots of lone fireweed – fireweed where no other fireweed companion stands. It all reminds me that summer is ending, as usual, a bit too soon.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
A Good Day
It started out as a seemingly ordinary day. Our backhoe soap opera continues: the company that makes the hose had the order sitting on the desk and promised to overnight it. In the meantime, some members of the maintenance crew have temporarily plugged the hole which has apparently made the backhoe marginally functional.
Today was honestly sunny, and so the Chief deemed it a paint day. So once again, I donned on the noisy yellow suit and spent the morning masking and painting green trim on the headquarters building.
It took a long time for the crew to get mobilized. I find in general, time passes twice as slowly in Port Alsworth as in Anchorage, not in a bad way but in a way that has left me feeling as though I’ve lived in this “neighborhood” and known these people for two weeks, not the mere one week I’ve been here.
Around lunchtime, word was out that I’d likely get to join the Park Ranger Lee in dropping someone off at the ranger cabin at Twin Lakes. I tried to keep my expectations low so that if all I ended up doing for the day was getting green paint on me, it wouldn’t matter. But Lee arrived in town and gave me a green light and soon, I was running to the shop to get my backpack and go.
To land at Twin Lakes, you land on the lake, literally, so Lee flew us out in a float plane. Before taking off, I helped pump water out of the skids (floats). We circled in the bay a few times and then started to take off. Sprays of water flew out from underneath the floats. Because of the good weather, everything was blue, turquoise, and green. I could not ask for a better day for my first float plane flight.
It is undeniable when flying from Lake Clark to Twin Lakes that anyone looking out of the plane would declare this is beautiful country. Magnificent country really. That it still exists and has been seen by my eyes makes me feel unbelievably fortunate. Even during the short thirty-minute flight from Lake Clark to Twin Lakes, the landscape is varied. Lush woods. Open tundra. Our great Alaskan mountains. Swampy bogs. Turquoise lakes. Any vista someone might desire can be found along the way.
I was not prepared, however, for how stunning the Twin Lakes would be. Sure, I’d been reading Dick Proenekke’s journal entries these last few nights but thought a lake is a lake is a lake. But the Twin Lakes are truly something else.
I haven’t had a full chance to explore Lake Clark which is so large and stretches so far that sometimes I forget it is a lake. The Twin Lakes are such that you can see where the lakes begin and end. Perhaps it is because you can grasp the full context that it feels so isolated and remote, even deeper into the wilderness.
The flight to Lower Twin (where the ranger cabin is) and seeing the inside of the cabin were real treats, but I did not realize that my day was only going to get better. We took off from Lower Twin and flew toward Upper Twin. On the radio, a friendly woman’s voice crackled, inviting us in. As we landed, a woman and a man in boots were standing in the lake to greet us. I suppose this is what happens when you live at a stunning lake – you greet your visitors by standing at your water “door.”
Kay and Monroe must both be in the 50s or 60s, but I cannot describe them as old. There is a vitality, a steady unbreakable energy in both of them that defies their physical age. Kay quickly ushered me into Spike’s Cabin which is where Dick Proenekke stayed while he build his own, now famous, cabin.
Spike’s Cabin, which has been Kay and Monroe’s abode for the last eight summers, is actually more like Spike’s Room. I would estimate that it is less than 10 X 10. It has bunks, a stove, shelves, and a cold box (a hole dug into the permafrost which serves as storage space for Kay’s eggs and yogurt). What I found most remarkable was the floor of nice cool gravel. Kay did note that she had just “cleaned” the gravel, meaning they had just changed it out for fresh gravel from the shore.
I wasn’t sure how long we had before taking off, but Kay asked Lee if we had time to show me Dick’s cabin (!), and so leaving the men to catch up with news and headed off on a path that passes by Hope’s Cabin (a larger cabin built by Dick and Spike and named after Spike’s wife), and then finally, leads to Dick’s place.
The first thing you see on the path is a chair, Dick’s chair, where he spent his days observing the infinite faces and views at Twin lakes. It is the chair of a solitary soul and in one piece of furniture, sums up the ethos of this man.
Only a few days ago, I had picked up One Man’s Wilderness at the visitor’s center as additional reading during my time at Lake Clark. It was thus a fortuitous happening that no sooner had I finished reading the entries detailing his completion of his cabin by his own two hands that I got to see with my own eyes what Dick was talking about. I’ll admit that one of my first gut responses to Dick’s entries was that he was so self-aware, so self-satisfied … almost smug. But when I saw the cabin, I instantly understood.
Dick’s work, still standing, like the country between Lake Clark and the Twin Lakes and the surrounding area, is undeniably beautiful. I have never seen a log cabin constructed with such detail and grace – it seems to be a home created out of deep affection for its surroundings. Alaska has its fare share of cabins, and they truly run the gamut. Dick’s cabin is nothing short of a work of art at the far end of that spectrum.
I suppose the cabin is what you’d expect from a craftsman trying to build a home of a lifetime, or a home for a lifetime. My single favorite thing about the cabin is Dick’s Dutch door with a top half that swings open independently of the bottom half. Kay pointed out where the porcupines had worn down the door. But the most beautiful feature on the door is its hinge – something out of a Swiss clock! Dick seemed so pleased with himself when he finished this door, and now it makes perfect sense.
There are endless other marvelous details. The wonderful sod roof (watering of which is part of Kay’s official job description, in addition to raking beach). Right now you can even see the purple flowers of monkshood growing on the roof. Even the outhouse, with its crescent-shaped peephole, has a great view. Inside the cabin, you can see the ingenious way this man lived, finding new uses for everything. I was experiencing nothing short of schoolgirl delight in making all of the discoveries.
I signed the visitor’s log, and recognized other items in the cabin from the book. The driftwood sculpture in the window. The hinge made from old gas cans. A birch spoon he made that perfectly measured enough batter for exactly one sourdough hotcake. Kay showed me a map that had pin points for every place Dick had explored (to tell people where to look for the body, as Dick explained). He also scrawled notes onto a calendar with meteorological data, animal sightings, and even records of his daily meals.
Speaking of meals, Kay showed me where she suspects Dick put his sourdough biscuits for rising. This got us onto the subject of sourdough starters, and I got to asking Kay if she and Monroe used one (seeing as how they are out here by themselves). She said in fact they use starter, and in fact, it’s Dick’s starter! There was a long story I didn’t quite catch which explained the chain of custody over the starter, but basically, when Kay and Monroe got it, it had been dormant or virtually dead for several years. Monroe “scraped off the black” as he described it, added some flour to see what would happen, and voila!
The starter was resurrected.
News of the historic starter was quite exciting, and I asked Kay if I could see it. When we got back to Spike’s Cabin, Kay told Monroe that this young lady would like a photo of him holding the starter. Monroe shyly said, well, maybe she’d like some starter. I froze with joy, and in moments, I had a little jar of historic starter, Dick Proenekke’s starter!
Kay also mentioned they picked their first quart of blueberries today, and I sampled a few along the path, the best blueberries of this season so far. All of the talk of starter and blueberries got Lee to thinking about a feast of sourdough blueberry hotcakes he had with Kay and Monroe several years ago. Our hosts, upon revisiting this memory, quickly got up and started making “sourdoughs,” as Monroe calls them.
Monroe’s Sourdoughs:
- bowl of sourdough batter/starter
- some salt
- 1 egg
- some oil
- handpicked blueberries
- maple syrup
Monroe makes a paste of baking soda and water and adds a spoonful to a small bowl that holds enough batter for two hotcakes. He says if he added the baking soda all at once, the last cakes wouldn’t have any rise left in them.
I think Lee ate six, and I ate at least four. We also talked about Bella Hammond’s blueberry pie. A slight revision to the description given by John – Bella used a secret ingredient – fresh blueberries in addition to the cooked ones.
The day had been full of history and memories. Dick’s most frequent visitor during the first year was Leon “Babe” Alsworth who flew in his supplies. In recent years before Dick's death, it had been Babe’s grandson, my pilot Leon, who brought supplies to Dick. My decision to pick up the book the day before magically turned into a visit to Dick’s cabin. And happy memories of a good hike and hotcakes afterwards brought us happy bellies today. After the sourdoughs, I fell into sleepy contentment in the midday warmness of Spike’s Cabin. Lee and I finally said our goodbyes and returned to Lake Clark an hour and half later than expected.
A good day.
It has been one week since my first night at Lake Clark. What has changed? More mosquito bites. Hands and fingers dry and chapped from maintenance work. Fingertips of my fretting hand hardened into callouses thanks to one week of dedicated banjo practice. A lower body stiff and full of lactic acid from trying to keep up with a sixty-year-old man. How did the little Chinese girl whose dad never let her camp outside ever get here anyway?
Today was honestly sunny, and so the Chief deemed it a paint day. So once again, I donned on the noisy yellow suit and spent the morning masking and painting green trim on the headquarters building.
It took a long time for the crew to get mobilized. I find in general, time passes twice as slowly in Port Alsworth as in Anchorage, not in a bad way but in a way that has left me feeling as though I’ve lived in this “neighborhood” and known these people for two weeks, not the mere one week I’ve been here.
Around lunchtime, word was out that I’d likely get to join the Park Ranger Lee in dropping someone off at the ranger cabin at Twin Lakes. I tried to keep my expectations low so that if all I ended up doing for the day was getting green paint on me, it wouldn’t matter. But Lee arrived in town and gave me a green light and soon, I was running to the shop to get my backpack and go.
To land at Twin Lakes, you land on the lake, literally, so Lee flew us out in a float plane. Before taking off, I helped pump water out of the skids (floats). We circled in the bay a few times and then started to take off. Sprays of water flew out from underneath the floats. Because of the good weather, everything was blue, turquoise, and green. I could not ask for a better day for my first float plane flight. It is undeniable when flying from Lake Clark to Twin Lakes that anyone looking out of the plane would declare this is beautiful country. Magnificent country really. That it still exists and has been seen by my eyes makes me feel unbelievably fortunate. Even during the short thirty-minute flight from Lake Clark to Twin Lakes, the landscape is varied. Lush woods. Open tundra. Our great Alaskan mountains. Swampy bogs. Turquoise lakes. Any vista someone might desire can be found along the way.
I was not prepared, however, for how stunning the Twin Lakes would be. Sure, I’d been reading Dick Proenekke’s journal entries these last few nights but thought a lake is a lake is a lake. But the Twin Lakes are truly something else.I haven’t had a full chance to explore Lake Clark which is so large and stretches so far that sometimes I forget it is a lake. The Twin Lakes are such that you can see where the lakes begin and end. Perhaps it is because you can grasp the full context that it feels so isolated and remote, even deeper into the wilderness.
The flight to Lower Twin (where the ranger cabin is) and seeing the inside of the cabin were real treats, but I did not realize that my day was only going to get better. We took off from Lower Twin and flew toward Upper Twin. On the radio, a friendly woman’s voice crackled, inviting us in. As we landed, a woman and a man in boots were standing in the lake to greet us. I suppose this is what happens when you live at a stunning lake – you greet your visitors by standing at your water “door.”
Kay and Monroe must both be in the 50s or 60s, but I cannot describe them as old. There is a vitality, a steady unbreakable energy in both of them that defies their physical age. Kay quickly ushered me into Spike’s Cabin which is where Dick Proenekke stayed while he build his own, now famous, cabin.
Spike’s Cabin, which has been Kay and Monroe’s abode for the last eight summers, is actually more like Spike’s Room. I would estimate that it is less than 10 X 10. It has bunks, a stove, shelves, and a cold box (a hole dug into the permafrost which serves as storage space for Kay’s eggs and yogurt). What I found most remarkable was the floor of nice cool gravel. Kay did note that she had just “cleaned” the gravel, meaning they had just changed it out for fresh gravel from the shore.
I wasn’t sure how long we had before taking off, but Kay asked Lee if we had time to show me Dick’s cabin (!), and so leaving the men to catch up with news and headed off on a path that passes by Hope’s Cabin (a larger cabin built by Dick and Spike and named after Spike’s wife), and then finally, leads to Dick’s place.
The first thing you see on the path is a chair, Dick’s chair, where he spent his days observing the infinite faces and views at Twin lakes. It is the chair of a solitary soul and in one piece of furniture, sums up the ethos of this man.
Only a few days ago, I had picked up One Man’s Wilderness at the visitor’s center as additional reading during my time at Lake Clark. It was thus a fortuitous happening that no sooner had I finished reading the entries detailing his completion of his cabin by his own two hands that I got to see with my own eyes what Dick was talking about. I’ll admit that one of my first gut responses to Dick’s entries was that he was so self-aware, so self-satisfied … almost smug. But when I saw the cabin, I instantly understood.
Dick’s work, still standing, like the country between Lake Clark and the Twin Lakes and the surrounding area, is undeniably beautiful. I have never seen a log cabin constructed with such detail and grace – it seems to be a home created out of deep affection for its surroundings. Alaska has its fare share of cabins, and they truly run the gamut. Dick’s cabin is nothing short of a work of art at the far end of that spectrum.
I suppose the cabin is what you’d expect from a craftsman trying to build a home of a lifetime, or a home for a lifetime. My single favorite thing about the cabin is Dick’s Dutch door with a top half that swings open independently of the bottom half. Kay pointed out where the porcupines had worn down the door. But the most beautiful feature on the door is its hinge – something out of a Swiss clock! Dick seemed so pleased with himself when he finished this door, and now it makes perfect sense. 
There are endless other marvelous details. The wonderful sod roof (watering of which is part of Kay’s official job description, in addition to raking beach). Right now you can even see the purple flowers of monkshood growing on the roof. Even the outhouse, with its crescent-shaped peephole, has a great view. Inside the cabin, you can see the ingenious way this man lived, finding new uses for everything. I was experiencing nothing short of schoolgirl delight in making all of the discoveries.
I signed the visitor’s log, and recognized other items in the cabin from the book. The driftwood sculpture in the window. The hinge made from old gas cans. A birch spoon he made that perfectly measured enough batter for exactly one sourdough hotcake. Kay showed me a map that had pin points for every place Dick had explored (to tell people where to look for the body, as Dick explained). He also scrawled notes onto a calendar with meteorological data, animal sightings, and even records of his daily meals.
Speaking of meals, Kay showed me where she suspects Dick put his sourdough biscuits for rising. This got us onto the subject of sourdough starters, and I got to asking Kay if she and Monroe used one (seeing as how they are out here by themselves). She said in fact they use starter, and in fact, it’s Dick’s starter! There was a long story I didn’t quite catch which explained the chain of custody over the starter, but basically, when Kay and Monroe got it, it had been dormant or virtually dead for several years. Monroe “scraped off the black” as he described it, added some flour to see what would happen, and voila!
The starter was resurrected.
News of the historic starter was quite exciting, and I asked Kay if I could see it. When we got back to Spike’s Cabin, Kay told Monroe that this young lady would like a photo of him holding the starter. Monroe shyly said, well, maybe she’d like some starter. I froze with joy, and in moments, I had a little jar of historic starter, Dick Proenekke’s starter!
Kay also mentioned they picked their first quart of blueberries today, and I sampled a few along the path, the best blueberries of this season so far. All of the talk of starter and blueberries got Lee to thinking about a feast of sourdough blueberry hotcakes he had with Kay and Monroe several years ago. Our hosts, upon revisiting this memory, quickly got up and started making “sourdoughs,” as Monroe calls them.
Monroe’s Sourdoughs:
- bowl of sourdough batter/starter
- some salt
- 1 egg
- some oil
- handpicked blueberries
- maple syrup
Monroe makes a paste of baking soda and water and adds a spoonful to a small bowl that holds enough batter for two hotcakes. He says if he added the baking soda all at once, the last cakes wouldn’t have any rise left in them.
I think Lee ate six, and I ate at least four. We also talked about Bella Hammond’s blueberry pie. A slight revision to the description given by John – Bella used a secret ingredient – fresh blueberries in addition to the cooked ones.
The day had been full of history and memories. Dick’s most frequent visitor during the first year was Leon “Babe” Alsworth who flew in his supplies. In recent years before Dick's death, it had been Babe’s grandson, my pilot Leon, who brought supplies to Dick. My decision to pick up the book the day before magically turned into a visit to Dick’s cabin. And happy memories of a good hike and hotcakes afterwards brought us happy bellies today. After the sourdoughs, I fell into sleepy contentment in the midday warmness of Spike’s Cabin. Lee and I finally said our goodbyes and returned to Lake Clark an hour and half later than expected.
A good day.
It has been one week since my first night at Lake Clark. What has changed? More mosquito bites. Hands and fingers dry and chapped from maintenance work. Fingertips of my fretting hand hardened into callouses thanks to one week of dedicated banjo practice. A lower body stiff and full of lactic acid from trying to keep up with a sixty-year-old man. How did the little Chinese girl whose dad never let her camp outside ever get here anyway?
Monday, August 6, 2007
Smells Like Dirty Diaper
Update on the backhoe situation: The hose has still not arrived. A new theory is that maybe it was never ordered. Purchasing has no clue what we’re talking about.
I spent most of the day doing some tent inventory. Tents of various shapes, poles of various lengths, all different colors and fabrics. And smells. Part of my task today was to determine whether a tent is Too Smelly To Use Again. I found quite a few Slightly Funky tents, which I dutifully so tagged. But the worst was the one I tagged “Smells Like A Dirty Diaper.” I am assuming (hoping) that I will be eventually asked to dispose of the Dirty Diaper.
Today was my first full day at work without J, my second week on maintenance. It seems that I have settled into the margins. A little less than two weeks is not ideal for integrating oneself into a small community. And so I find my mind drifting to thoughts of departure. I felt the first pang of loneliness – alone in my clean garage, setting up tents I do not know and will never use. Like an arbitrary wind, unexpected and unexplained, I thought about whether I could really live in Alaska forever.
Later in the day, the Historian and I took another hike. We again talked of many things such as China, global warming, blueberry pies, baked beans, and cholesterol.
Bella Hammond's Blueberry Pie:
- graham cracker crust
- boil blueberries, cornstarch to thicken
- pour into crust, refrigerate
- add fresh blueberries, top with 2" layer of whipped cream.
The Historian's Boston Baked Beans:
- 1 ceramic bean pot
- 1 bag of beans from Maine (red or pinto will also do)
- dried ginger
- dried mustard
- molasses
- 1 onion
- Canadian bacon
Soak beans overnight. Boil in soaking water. Take spoonful of beans, blow on them, and if peels move, take off heat. Drain liquid. Put whole onion at bottom of pot. Mix other ingredients into paste. Add paste to beans, add water. Bake for 12 hours at 350F.
In order to keep pace with him, my mind was mostly focused on the roots and mud underfoot, with an occasional pause to admire something unusual or out of place, like a lone fireweed at the top of Beaver Loop or a patch of fiery red moss where all other moss was green. The Historian pointed out a ripe salmonberry and explained that these are different from the ones growing on the other side of the Inlet. Indeed. The berries back home are watery and don’t taste much like anything. These Lake Clark salmonberries are more fragrant, a little pungent. I cannot recall it perfectly as they were tiny jewels that disappeared in a quick swallow.
The end (or return leg) of Beaver Loop was really quite lovely. The dogwood is no longer blooming with its perfect star-like white flowers, but in their place were tight cluster of perfect red berries. I saw some lupine on the hike (first I’ve seen since Anchorage) and wondered what my own lupine looks like right now. But what I think what is quickly becoming my favorite is the forest of birch. With their gentle, leaning order to the landscape, birch glens leave me feeling very calm.
At home, I decided I had fully earned my frozen enchiladas packed from Anchorage and could not resist making some Lazy Man Lake Clark Bread Pudding:
- Sauté chopped white peaches in a pat of butter.
- Add half can of mango juice to thicken into syrup.
- Add chopped bread and vanilla yogurt.
- Dust with cinnamon.
After dessert, it was looking rather beautiful out, so I decided to sneak in an evening stroll in my pajamas since all of my other clothes were in the wash. I had no clear idea of where I was heading, feeling only an urge to see more sky and a little more of the day. I found myself going to my stomping grounds – past the shop – and then to the runway, gravel and sky with trees as minor characters. I walked down the length of the runway to where it meets the bay. The bay was eerily lit by dusk – I wished I had a boat to take on further explorations of the Lake.
But I had no way of getting back onto the water, so I decided to turn back toward the shop. The side garage door was open and the light was on. Two members of the maintenance crew were working on an outboard. Leon (my pilot) was also there, just shooting the breeze in the maintenance shop at 10:45pm.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the late night attendance; after all, I was out on my own evening stroll in my PJs. While I was there, I watched the mechanic refasten the drip pan and also learned what a torque wrench looks like. The men allowed me to hover like a mosquito and thankfully did not swat me away.
Watching the men chat and turn wrenches with their greasy hands, I suddenly became very thirsty, maybe hungry, when I remembered that I had a luscious slice of cantaloupe in the shop refrigerator. So I snacked on cantaloupe as the guys finished up and then walked home with fork in one hand, fruit in the other.
As I trudged along the path to the house, I thought about what an odd picture I made, with my evening-stroll fork and cantaloupe. To make matters worse, my evening outfit consisted of:
- my chartreuse slip-on garden clogs
- white socks
- baggy blue sweatpants
- my fuchsia rain jacket
- and my light brown Hike Alaska! cap.
Just as I was thinking about how weird I must look, I bumped into one of my neighbors, clearly dressed for bed, hair still wet from a shower. She was carrying several baking pans and cookie sheets full of frozen blueberries. Apparently her husband had picked them earlier, and she was retrieving them from their auxiliary freezer. Perhaps I'd fit right into Port Alsworth more than I think.
I spent most of the day doing some tent inventory. Tents of various shapes, poles of various lengths, all different colors and fabrics. And smells. Part of my task today was to determine whether a tent is Too Smelly To Use Again. I found quite a few Slightly Funky tents, which I dutifully so tagged. But the worst was the one I tagged “Smells Like A Dirty Diaper.” I am assuming (hoping) that I will be eventually asked to dispose of the Dirty Diaper.
Today was my first full day at work without J, my second week on maintenance. It seems that I have settled into the margins. A little less than two weeks is not ideal for integrating oneself into a small community. And so I find my mind drifting to thoughts of departure. I felt the first pang of loneliness – alone in my clean garage, setting up tents I do not know and will never use. Like an arbitrary wind, unexpected and unexplained, I thought about whether I could really live in Alaska forever.
Later in the day, the Historian and I took another hike. We again talked of many things such as China, global warming, blueberry pies, baked beans, and cholesterol.
Bella Hammond's Blueberry Pie:
- graham cracker crust
- boil blueberries, cornstarch to thicken
- pour into crust, refrigerate
- add fresh blueberries, top with 2" layer of whipped cream.
The Historian's Boston Baked Beans:
- 1 ceramic bean pot
- 1 bag of beans from Maine (red or pinto will also do)
- dried ginger
- dried mustard
- molasses
- 1 onion
- Canadian bacon
Soak beans overnight. Boil in soaking water. Take spoonful of beans, blow on them, and if peels move, take off heat. Drain liquid. Put whole onion at bottom of pot. Mix other ingredients into paste. Add paste to beans, add water. Bake for 12 hours at 350F.
In order to keep pace with him, my mind was mostly focused on the roots and mud underfoot, with an occasional pause to admire something unusual or out of place, like a lone fireweed at the top of Beaver Loop or a patch of fiery red moss where all other moss was green. The Historian pointed out a ripe salmonberry and explained that these are different from the ones growing on the other side of the Inlet. Indeed. The berries back home are watery and don’t taste much like anything. These Lake Clark salmonberries are more fragrant, a little pungent. I cannot recall it perfectly as they were tiny jewels that disappeared in a quick swallow.
The end (or return leg) of Beaver Loop was really quite lovely. The dogwood is no longer blooming with its perfect star-like white flowers, but in their place were tight cluster of perfect red berries. I saw some lupine on the hike (first I’ve seen since Anchorage) and wondered what my own lupine looks like right now. But what I think what is quickly becoming my favorite is the forest of birch. With their gentle, leaning order to the landscape, birch glens leave me feeling very calm.
At home, I decided I had fully earned my frozen enchiladas packed from Anchorage and could not resist making some Lazy Man Lake Clark Bread Pudding:
- Sauté chopped white peaches in a pat of butter.
- Add half can of mango juice to thicken into syrup.
- Add chopped bread and vanilla yogurt.
- Dust with cinnamon.
After dessert, it was looking rather beautiful out, so I decided to sneak in an evening stroll in my pajamas since all of my other clothes were in the wash. I had no clear idea of where I was heading, feeling only an urge to see more sky and a little more of the day. I found myself going to my stomping grounds – past the shop – and then to the runway, gravel and sky with trees as minor characters. I walked down the length of the runway to where it meets the bay. The bay was eerily lit by dusk – I wished I had a boat to take on further explorations of the Lake.But I had no way of getting back onto the water, so I decided to turn back toward the shop. The side garage door was open and the light was on. Two members of the maintenance crew were working on an outboard. Leon (my pilot) was also there, just shooting the breeze in the maintenance shop at 10:45pm.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the late night attendance; after all, I was out on my own evening stroll in my PJs. While I was there, I watched the mechanic refasten the drip pan and also learned what a torque wrench looks like. The men allowed me to hover like a mosquito and thankfully did not swat me away.
Watching the men chat and turn wrenches with their greasy hands, I suddenly became very thirsty, maybe hungry, when I remembered that I had a luscious slice of cantaloupe in the shop refrigerator. So I snacked on cantaloupe as the guys finished up and then walked home with fork in one hand, fruit in the other.
As I trudged along the path to the house, I thought about what an odd picture I made, with my evening-stroll fork and cantaloupe. To make matters worse, my evening outfit consisted of:
- my chartreuse slip-on garden clogs
- white socks
- baggy blue sweatpants
- my fuchsia rain jacket
- and my light brown Hike Alaska! cap.
Just as I was thinking about how weird I must look, I bumped into one of my neighbors, clearly dressed for bed, hair still wet from a shower. She was carrying several baking pans and cookie sheets full of frozen blueberries. Apparently her husband had picked them earlier, and she was retrieving them from their auxiliary freezer. Perhaps I'd fit right into Port Alsworth more than I think.
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