As concern over the Coronavirus escalated, I called in a prescription refill on lotion for my daughter’s acne-prone skin. If the world were about to implode, might as well go out with clear skin.
“Did you have any other prescriptions to pick up?” the store pharmacist asked me hours later, as she set down the bag with the lotion.
“Yes, I also have a prescription for toilet paper.”
“We don’t have that here or anywhere in the store.”
“I know, I was just joking.”
I had been so proud of how deadpan I had played this, because I’m not good at keeping a straight face. But clearly I had been too deadpan.
“I know you were kidding, sweetie.”
Oh. I hadn’t been too deadpan. I had been too not funny.
Still, the pharmacist smiles because she understands what I was going for.
“I know,” she says, “aren’t people just acting so crazy?”
Yes!
But, in my opinion, any hysteria-driven hoarding here on the Kenai Peninsula has been mild compared to what I saw on the news. Or heard from family and friends in other states.
It was only around the time Trump announced that Covid-19 was an official Pandemic that the buying out of toilet paper hit our state. Two big reasons are Alaska’s isolation, and it is the most sparsely populated state. But a third reason might be that there is a different mentality here.
The Last Frontier; Voted “Least Likely to Panic Over Toilet Paper.”
March 7, 2020 in Anchorage. I ask you, do these guys look like they’d fall apart if they ran out of Charmin?
“Panic” just isn’t a popular look on the Last Frontier. There is too much macho pride. Also, and especially here in rural Alaska, most are trained to protect themselves from things like bear attacks, so running out of tissue likely ranks low on their list of “Crisis Situations.” On that note, if there were any item that could possibly cause “panic buying” here my guess is it wouldn’t be toilet paper, but guns.
Now, of course no one wants to be without toilet paper. That would suck. But out of all things needed for survival, why was toilet paper the first thing across the world to be hoarded? Or to come to blows over? At least in the stores that I went into that had no TP left, there were still napkins and kleenex. And if you’re stuck at home in quarantine you have a shower if it gets that bad.
Unless you live in a “dry cabin.” Which is a cabin without plumbing. And again, if that’s your lifestyle you’re a badass and resourceful enough to figure out something else to use in the outhouse.
Are Dry Cabins the Next Big Thing?
Tangent time: A “dry cabin” is a cabin without plumbing. People live in them year-round. We seem to have a fair amount of these here in Soldotna. I figured this out only after asking a local why there were so many combo shower/laundry businesses in town. I knew they were useful to the campers who came through in the summer, but I didn’t know they were also for people who were living out in the woods year round.
Work in Alaska is unpredictable and often seasonal, so dry cabins are a way for many to afford to living here. Or if it’s not a money thing, it is just a preference for living away from society and off the grid thing. Nobody tells you what to do out in the woods.
These cabins are affordable, and surrounded by nature…no “shared air.” I wouldn’t be surprised if they gained a bit more popularity in the aftermath of Covid-19 and its economic and emotional fall-out.
Fighting over it isn’t. But perhaps there is a psychological and not just physical need for toilet paper.
I love to listen to the podcast, TBTL. In this episode the two hosts, Luke Burbank and Andrew Walsh, discuss the curious nature of toilet paper hysteria.
Luke throws out the idea that perhaps toilet paper is the one thing separates us from the animals. He is joking, but I think he might be on to something.
In “The Lord of the Flies,” the conch shell is what represents civility and order. Ultimately, a struggle between the boys over the conch shell leads to its destruction, and that moment of destruction marked the end of any civilized behavior and order left on the island. I know this because in my school-girl past a Cliff Notes version of the book spelled it all out for me.
Perhaps on some level people feel that toilet tissue represents some sort of security during an epidemic that is out of their control? And that without it we will all just become animals. Overuled by our inherently barbaric nature (probably got this from the same cliff note’s book)
When Covid-19 outbreak was officially declared a pandemic, we were nearing the end of our Spring Break in Hawaii. People in Alaska vacation in Hawaii. It’s a thing. It was a beautiful week on the Big Island, and it was business as usual in the town of Kona where we had rented an Airbnb. In the few days after the Pandemic announcement, people continued to fill the cafes, to head out on buffet cruises, and to sign up for the popular Manta Ray night dive. I believe that for Hawaii (like Alaska) being so isolated results in a delay in alarm. That being said, everyone was definitely aware something big was about to hit the fan.
Looking out to sea, I was just glad I wouldn’t be on a cruise ship when that happened (Now more than a week after Covid-19’s Pandemic status and there are still multiple cruise ships out at sea carrying thousands of passengers. They are being turned away from port after port. I just talked to a friend who has a sister on one of them. Due to a passenger testing positive everyone is confined to their cabin, and she and her husband have little kids. There are no words…)
This was the view from our airbnb in Kona. I couldn’t help but think that this could be this ship’s last voyage for a very long time. Not sure when (or even if) that industry can recover.
In route home, I wondered what we had in stock at the house. And yes, the worry extended to toilet paper. I texted friends and they confirmed that stores were completely out of toilet paper. Before we left Alaska for our trip, I bought a modest six-pack. I hoped now that the cashier had appreciated my restraint, because after all, I did it all for her approval.
The other day, five days post Pandemic declaration, I was again at our store pharmacy when a man got in line behind me carrying a pack of…toilet paper. What!! It was like spotting a unicorn.
The man looked embarrassed to be caught clutching the one item that might one day become the icon for the shopping hysteria caused by the Coronavirus epidemic.
He looked at the pharmacist and me, and then he said almost defensively “there is still one other pack of toilet paper left.”
I wasn’t going to get there in time. And we all knew it.
The last time I attempted humor at this pharmacy it fell flat, but seeing the toilet paper had made me hopeful, and put me in a good mood. So, I tried again. I made an animated motion as if I were about to throw down my bag and make a run for the toilet paper aisle.
Maybe just because it broke some weird tension, but the man laughed, relieved. Even the pharmacist lady chuckled, a little. Still, success!
After I checked out at the pharmacy, and I actually did head over to the toilet paper aisle. I didn’t run though, or even hurry in a way that could draw attention (I’m more Alaskan than I realized). I was curious to see if perhaps that last pack of toilet paper was still there. It wasn’t.
I’m watching kids get off the school bus from the heated seat of my 5-star crash & rollover safety rated SUV when another parent pulls up next to me. He’s on an all-terrain-vehicle (ATV).
As my son climbs into the back seat of my car, I can’t help but stare as one kid hops on behind the dad on the ATV, while two other boys sit down on the plastic sled tied to a rope behind it. The kids hold onto their backpacks as the dad revs the engine then takes off.
If this is Alaska dad 2020, I would love to have seen Alaska dad 1980.
I have to be admit, a rebel part of me envies cool ATV dad, and for sure both Anders and I envy the kids. Watching them made me nostalgic for my 80’s childhood when “helicopter parenting” or “safety first” wasn’t a thing. I often see kids here operating ATVs alongside the highway or on snow machines. And then there was my gun instructor, who was 12 years-old, https://pokingthebear.org/teaching-kids-about-guns-familys-first-lesson-in-firearms/
It’s no wonder my husband received that recruitment postcard with a headline that screamed, “Work and Live in Alaska’s Playground! Orthopedic Surgeon needed!”
Back in Boulder, Colorado the site of someone flying down the road with helmet-less kids bouncing behind it in a $12 sled would have had every mom dialing child services, hands shaking with purpose and outrage. Here though, there is a definitive “mind your own business” understanding. It’s more than an understanding, it is the culture, and people choose to live in a place called the Last Frontier for this reason.
The School Dress Code Debate:
Alaska’s don’t-tell-me-what-to-do way of life explains why pot is legal, kids are taken out of school all the time for hunting trips or similar reasons (“mom, I swear no one goes to school here why cant I just skip this one day!”) and actually, why so many families homeschool their children. This last subject came up the other day when I called a cab to take me home from the airport (I didn’t check to see if Harry was available, https://pokingthebear.org/they-have-uber-here-his-name-is-harry/)
I asked the cab driver why he home schooled his kids, and why his now grown son who is a public school teacher has his own kids home schooled. The driver was quick with an answer, “we don’t like having the government dictate what our kids need to learn. They have so many rules, it’s ridiculous!”
But, there is a line when it comes to Alaska’s don’t-tell-me-what-to-do ways. And one thing that marks that line is a yoga shirt.
My daughter’s favorite shirt used to be a yoga top that had a hole cut out in the back (see end post example). Paired with leggings, it was the kind of top that every girl wore back in Boulder, CO from grade school all the way through the students at CU, and beyond. But then, in Boulder everyone looks like they are headed to a Crossfit or yoga class and that’s because they probably are. It explains why the town regularly makes it to the top of any list highlighting the country’s fittest cities.
When I saw Tatum’s favorite shirt in the donation pile, I was surprised. I asked Tatum why she didn’t want it anymore she explained that she had been “dress coded” at school.
“Mom, it was so embarrassing!” she whined, “a teacher pulled me aside during passing period and everyone was looking at us!”
Apparently, my daughter hadn’t been informed of the ol’ 4B rule.
The “Rules of the Four Bs”
Females Can Not Expose:
Butt
Boob
Belly button
Back
There is definitely a more conservative religious undercurrent here compared to Boulder. I was expecting that. Its just that out of all the people to be busted for dressing inappropriately, the least likely candidate would be Tatum. She’s a high school sophomore and still won’t wear a bikini because it shows too much skin. Last time I let her pick out a swimsuit it was one designed for a pregnant woman; a billowing tank style top attached to swim bottoms. She’d be happy if full swim bloomers from the 1900s came back in style.
My daughter is tall and a size 2. The last time I was a size 2, I was two. When she bought this particular open back top I had actually been excited by her daring. “It’s time she started wearing something more fun, edgy, and form fitting,” I thought, “She should do it while she can!”
And with those thoughts, it was official. I had turned into my mother.
“Oh Xenia, another baggy sweatshirt? Booooring! If I were you I’d wear tight dresses like Sophia Loren!” this is was what my mom would say every day except on the days she swapped out Sophia Loren’s name for Marilyn Monroe’s.
“Bye Bye Saai Susie!” She’d often call out as I left the house for school.
My mother is Dutch-Indonesian and she speaks both languages. “Saai” (Sigh-ya) is the dutch word for “boring.” I had a friend named Susie who only wore blue jeans and t-shirts. My mom started referring to her as Saai Susie, and then she started referring to me as Saai Susie. And now I look at the way my daughter dresses and all I can think is, Saai Susie.
Apparently the only one in this generation line-up who was never a “Saai Susie” is my mom.
My mom in a “candid” shot of her playing with chewing gum.
For one season in 1981, my mom threw me into the talent show and beauty pageant circuit. My “talent” was hula dancing naked. Well, almost.
I remember begging my mom to let me perform any other kind of dance but hula. I had a dance school choreographed number to Micheal Jackson’s “Billie Jean” why couldn’t I do that? For me, at that age, I just felt hula was not cool. But, I had no choice. My mom claimed hula would help me stand out, “because all the other girls would be doing ballet, jazz, or tap routines, but no one would being doing a hula dance!” And she was right, no one else was, and that’s because hula was not cool.
My costume also helped me stand out. I remember my instructor assuring my mom that I could wear a leotard or tank top instead of a bikini top. And that doubling up on hula skirts would give me more coverage. She clearly didn’t know my mom, who dismissed the teacher’s suggestions as absurd. “You have to look like a real island girl,” my mom said as she colored my underwear with flesh-colored face make-up. “And real island girls don’t wear anything underneath.”
My mom also picked out the song I danced to, it was called “Princess Pupule.” Lyrics tell a story of a girl who loved giving her papaya away. “Oh me-ahh, oh my-ahh, you really should try a little piece of Princess Pupule’s papaya!” At that age, I didn’t recognize the song as being provocative in any way, and I’m so glad I didn’t.
Princess Pupule getting ready to give her papaya away (before getting herself some Karmelkorn)
If there was anyone who had a chance of being outraged that Tatum had been dress coded, it would be my mom. I couldn’t wait to tell her, and bask in her rant.
“I know the shirt your talking about,” my mom said over the phone, “yes, it did show a lot of her back.”
I had never felt so alone.
“Mom!”
“No, I thought the top was very cute,” my mom explains, “but, you knew people there would be more conservative.”
Of course, I knew that.
In general, I’m not opposed to school dress codes. I secretly always wanted to go to a school with uniforms so I didn’t have to think about it.
“Wedgie-Gate”
The bigger issue is dress codes tend to have a gender bias. They just do. My kids are on the swim team and while 17-year old boys wear suits that look like they’re meant for a toddler, the only one disqualified this year for lack of coverage was a girl in Anchorage wearing a school issued uniform. The disqualification was overturned after some backlash, but “Wedgie-gate” raised a lot of questions, and made national news.
Of course, I am glad that my daughter doesn’t wear skimpy crop tops, barely there skirts, and that she isn’t handing out even sample sized portions of papaya. I just think that in her particular case, being reprimanded for wearing the singular “edgy” clothing item she owned tested her confidence. Being publicly embarrassed by being cited for a dress code violation, on the first week as a new student no less, was just something of a set back. Not devastating. But, wrong person. Bad timing.
On the flip side, we are probably more conservative than most of our neighbors when it comes to what our kids can do, and participate in. I’ve been at my laptop this past hour, sitting on my lumbar support, memory foam, no-slip seat cushion, occasionally looking up to watch a couple of teens (maybe a bit older, hard to tell) flying across the lake on snowmobiles. It looks like they are going 90 MPH. I don’t know if it is the same riders, but I see a pair of snowmobiles daily, and sometimes I see their headlights at night. They are having a blast. And I can only live vicariously as snowmobiles are not in the cards for us, for now, but I’m working on it. Being an orthopedic surgeon who covers trauma call, Mark has seen the aftermath of snowmobile accidents. “No way are we going to go snowmobiling,” he has said, “but, we can go nordic skiing across the lake!” As if the two activities are interchangeable.
Well, we do share the same beautiful view with our snowmobiling neighbors. And, although a lot slower, we literally follow in their tracks (I’m a newbie to nordic ski, following trails makes it easier.)
Winter on the lake, getting used to this whole, no-heel-attached-to-ski craziness.
The kids often complain that their dad is too cautious, whining when he won’t let them roll down the car windows. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen someone lose a foot or hand from sticking it out a window?!” he’ll shout as he almost crashes the car while fumbling for the windows power lock button. At this point the kids and I always ask, because we genuinely want to know, “no, how many times?” But, my husband is vague on the numbers.
Mark makes it sound like he regularly has a trash bin filled with arms, legs, and heads in the corner of his OR but I suspect it doesn’t really happen that often. It does happen though:
Snowmobiles are out, at least for now, but every day here is turning my husband into Alaska dad bit by bit. It won’t be long till he decides he needs an ATV for shoveling snow and hauling wood to his bbq smoker.
So, who knows, maybe someday I’ll be cool ATV mom, loading up my helmet-less, seatbelt-free kids behind me before peeling out from the school bus stop. I could do that. And, as long as I don’t show any boob, butt, belly button, or back, it’s not like anyone is going to stop me.
My 13-year old son Anders had just started at his new middle school. I was there to pick him up on that first Friday of the school year, anxious to hear how week 1 went.
“Mom, I made a ton of cool friends today!” my son exclaimed as he hopped in the car and gave me a hug, “thank you for moving us to Alaska!”
“I told you being new could be fun!” I said, prying his arms off me so we could give each other high fives.
Wait, that didn’t happen.
This did though:
“Mom, I hate this school! And I hate Alaska!” my son said as he got in the car and threw his backpack onto the floor. “Why did we have to move here?! This is so stupid! I just want to go back home!”
Sensing he wasn’t happy, I asked Anders if something in particular had happened. That’s when he told me that one of the “bad boys” at school told my son that he looks like a lizard.
“And what did you say?” I asked.
“I said, “Thank you, I get that a lot.”
“Good one.”
“But mom, now those boys are calling me “Lizard Boy” and I hate it!”
“Maybe they’re just trying to joke around with you?”
“Trust me, they’re not.”
I wasn’t expecting this. Unless the name “Lizard Boy” came with a set of superpowers I could see why he’d be upset, especially given that he’s the new kid just trying to make friends and fit in. My heart broke as I looked over at my son who had tears welling in his large, reptile-like eyes.
Anders is not used to being picked on, in part because at home he was always flanked by cousins and friends he’d known his whole childhood. Now he was bottom of the social food chain, and he was on his own.
“It’ll get better,” I promised.
“What if it doesn’t?” he asked.
“It always does. You’ve seen this movie.”
My son is big into making “movies,” or at least he is big into filming himself making Jim Carey-esque faces.
Prior to our move we began watching all the films that start with a new kid starting at a new school, and there are many: Karate Kid, Mean Girls, Twilight, Goosebumps, Back to the Future, Bring it On, Grease, Inside Out…this last one Anders watched over and over, it hit home.
(If you have any more “new kid” movies let me know!)
It made Anders feel better watching these movies because they always end well. Kid forced to go to a new school where he/she encounters obstacles before eventually finding greater wisdom, confidence, and friends. Its a classic storyline.
The one movie I didn’t show him was, “Carrie.”
I forgot John Travolta was one of the bullies in the movie!
Ultimately, week 1 wasn’t the school start I had envisioned for Anders, but I knew he would survive being the new kid and ultimately have a greater capacity to empathize, which I told him would be useful as a movie-maker, or whatever industry he eventually chooses. Of course a 13-year-old boy doesn’t really care about having greater empathy, so my teachable moment was a big fail.
I did a search on the effects of switching schools as a teen. Many authors warn that being uprooted, especially in your teen years, could cause lasting trauma, increased anxiety, and destroy confidence. Especially if switching schools happens more than once. But I went to 3 different high schools and look at me, I’m totally well adjusted and sane if you don’t include the times I’m not.
I actually found changing schools made my high school years more fun and interesting. And new perspectives certainly makes you realize that what is right in front of you isn’t that important. Too many kids don’t realize there is a whole world beyond the hallways of their hometown schools.
Of course when it comes to switching schools, no child, or circumstance, or experience is ever the same. I got lucky. And, at least in the case of the first high school I went to, which was a boarding school, the friends I still talk from that school say it was one of the best experiences of their lives.
Like my son, the start of my new school year there was a little, or a lot, awkward.
The Boarding School Abroad
When I was 14, I stopped wearing baby pink. For my mother, my evolution into wearing jeans and darker clothes was a particular hallmark of juvenile delinquency. She was so concerned she felt she had no choice but to send me to a boarding school in Switzerland.
Or, perhaps I sent myself. One day my mom suggested we fly to San Francisco for a shopping spree and to visit one of her dear old friends. I should have known something was up when she didn’t argue as I selected an array of black sweaters to try on, or when later that afternoon her dear old friend opened the front door and asked, “Are you Mrs. Rutherford?’
We entered this woman’s living room and splayed out on a large coffee table were all kinds of boarding school brochures. By the time we had to leave for the airport, I was signed up for one.
That night we returned home and my dad, who was always out of the loop (and I suspect he preferred it that way), was surprised to hear we had spent the day in San Francisco. He was even more surprised to hear I was going to a school in Europe. When he dared ask one too many questions, which was probably 3 total, my mom’s impatient response was for him to mind his own business, after first signing a check.
My mom was certain that at my “finishing school” as she optimistically called it, I would be trained in all matters of refinement, and that within a year I would evolve into a young lady whose poise and worldly charm could one day land her a doctor.
Success!
Apparently, other school attendees went on to marry princes, oh and the French president. I just looked up “Finishing School” on wikipedia and the one I attended, Chateau Mont-Choisi, was listed as one of the most famous ones (it closed in 1995). Two Chateau Mont-Choisi Alums include Princess Elena of Romania and Carla Bruni-Zarcozy.
Alum Carla Bruni-Zarcozy was a supermodel, dated Mick, married the French President, and is a professional singer.
Certainly, as you’d expect, there was a lot of money at the school. I suspect my parent’s home, where they still live today, looked very different than any other student’s parent’s house. My parents have always been funny with how and where they spend money, the general rule was money was spent on experiences, not stuff. My dad had a used car he bought for $500. Except for a Laz-y-Boy chair, their furniture is at least 40-years-old. When two of the four burners stopped working on the kitchen stove my mom didn’t care. “I don’t need four burners anyway,” she would say as if she got lucky. It was only a decade later that the stove was replaced and after a third burner broke. And I remember for almost a year my dad routinely replaced a big bowl in the basement to catch a trickle of water from a cracked pipe in the ceiling because he didn’t want to pay for repairs. Paying a plumber a few hundred dollars to keep the house from collapsing into the basement was a unneeded extravagance. A girls “finishing school” in Switzerland was not.
The day I arrived at Chateau Mont-Choisi, I was the first in my room to arrive. I selected a bed by the window and immediately set up framed photos of friends and my cat, and I put my clothes in the adjacent closet. Then my dad and I went to lunch.
When we returned, my second of three roommates had arrived. And, she had moved all my stuff to another bed. She had also moved my clothes out of the closet, and hung hers inside. Bold move.
She was Swiss-German, I’ll call her Ann. Ann was tall, had shorn red hair except for a long thin braided tail. She often kept a pack of cigarettes in her white tee like James Dean. And on that first day she wore a yellow and black polka-dot poodle skirt. She wore this skirt every day afterwards as well. I can’t think of Ann without thinking of that skirt.
Ann didn’t speak english, and she pretended not to understand when we mimed the situation, that being that she had switched out my things. I was intimidated, I just wanted to make friends, and so I was about to just let it go. But my dad wasn’t having it, and he got the headmistress involved. And yes, she was called the “headmistress.”
I got the window bed back and, as a result, launched a war. Our third roommate eventually arrived, and to my relief she spoke english. She was Canadian. Because she seemed to get along with me, she was included on Ann’s, “sweet-revenge-for-not-giving-me-the-window-bed” list. Ann would “accidentally” throw away our stuff, or just flat out steal our things, including our underwear. In return, we would accidentally drop her new bottles of nail polish off the balcony, which made a colorful splash.
The dynamic at our school was one made up of cliques defined by nationality.
There were just a handful of us in the U.S. gang, and we were referred to as, “Les Americans.” Included was my Canadian roommate. She campaigned to have the other girls at least say, “Les nordamericans.” It didn’t stick.
Not that we didn’t all mix it up, we did live together after all.
Left to right: Friends from Iran, Barbados, Canada, and Switzerland.
At some point during the first semester, Ann had been ostracized by the Swiss-German gang. And the Germans wouldn’t take her (Swiss-German and German social circles were separate). So, in the end, Ann’s roommates turned out to be her only friends. We had long ago called a truce realizing our “war” wasn’t sustainable, or fun. The truth was we were all away from our families. It was lonely enough without having to go to bed at night feeling like you had an enemy 4 feet away, sleeping in the better bed by the window.
One day, only a few months into the school year, Ann begged me and another girl to help run away in the middle of the night. I don’t want to incriminate the other helper so I will just say she was one of, “Les Nordamericans.”
We helped her pack, kept watch, and I locked the front door behind Ann when she left. There wasn’t exactly high security. I remember looking through the old stained glass in the door as Ann’s poodle skirt scurried up the steep driveway, and disappeared into the night.
On reflection, helping her run away wasn’t the loyal or wise thing to let her do. I didn’t have the experience or maturity to recognize it then, but I’m certain Ann had several issues that needed professional attention, but sending your kid to therapy just wasn’t the thing to do then.
Fortunately, Ann survived, and made one last appearance. She returned for the rest of her stuff about a week later with someone who was family friend, I think. I don’t know, we were still mostly miming to each other. I stuck around to give her one final, smokey hug (I swear that’s all it took for the cigarette smoke to transfer permanently onto my clothes). I also stuck around to keep an eye on my stuff. Fool me once…
I do remember, in a sentimental moment, giving her one of my favorite music tapes. One she had always asked to borrow. It was my A-ha cassette tape and giving it away hurt. “Take on Me” was the number one song and the coolest video in 1985. When the sun was out and we all laid out on the deck, not quite frying in the alpine air, “Take On Me” practically played on a loop.
There couldn’t possibly be anyone on the planet who doesn’t remember, but this is for old times sake, and for my Chateau Mont-Choisi friends who actually read my blog sometimes:
So, what loose point was I making in all this? I have no idea, sorry let me look back. Ah, okay, so, bad first impressions and bad school starts don’t determine how things will eventually play out.
Week 20 at a New School – Are Things Any Better?
So, is my son’s real life movie of being the new kid going to conclude in a positive way?
That’s what I wanted to know, but stopped asking. My kids would get annoyed by my desperate inquiries.
“Are those boy still calling you “Lizard Boy?” I asked for the last time.
“What? No! That was so long ago. How do you even remember that?”
Oh, a mom never forgets!
“I was just wondering.”
“Mom, you’re so random.”
I had been hearing names of friends, and Anders has been playing videos on-line with a handful of them. I guess that counts as out of school socializing. But still wanted to see how he was integrating for myself. We had made him sign up for his middle school’s nordic ski team as we had heard that was a popular sport, and a great way to make friends.
My Son’s First Nordic Ski Race:
A huge eagle soared overhead as I hurried down the hill to my son’s first race against Seward. I had brought my big camera to mark the event. Despite being in a hurry, I stopped and tried to take an action shot of the eagle. Will I ever get used to seeing Alaska’s amazing wildlife?
I made it to the starting line just in time, Anders saw me and waved. My presence had been noted, phew. He was in one of the multiple long lines of skiers in team jackets. The race was about to start, so no one was socializing. This made it hard to tell how well Anders was getting along with his school peers, and I was dying to know.
Another eagle soared overhead and landed in a tree as the buzzer sounded.
They kids were off. Anders was somewhere in the middle as the skiers poled it uphill towards the woods. Inside those woods are the town’s well known Tsalteshi Trails. It is a pretty cool set of trails that thread throughout the wood, and most trails have overhead lights so you can ski day or night, or on days that look like night.
I stopped thinking about Anders and whether or not he getting along with other kids when my eyes wandered up towards the tree tops.
What’s up with all the eagles?
It was a little startling looking up to see all these eagles. Spooky even.
It made me wonder…what would it have been like if the birds Alfred Hitchcock went with in “The Birds” weren’t crows, but eagles? Because I’m all about tangents…
An American crow weighs 0.7-1.4 lbs and is about 17 inches long.
An American eagle weighs 6.6- 15lbs and has a wing span of up to 8ft.
The greatest weight on record for what an eagle can carry in flight was a 14lb mule deer. A bird like that could do more than muss Tippi Hedrin’s bouffant.
I start to take a lot of photos, none of which do the birds any justice, when I spot a dad standing near me. He looks curious as to why I’m taking a bunch of photos.
“That’s like, a lot of eagles, right?” I ask him.
He look up and nods, but clearly he isn’t as impressed.
I feel the need to further explain.
“I just moved here from Colorado,” I tell him, “and we spot eagles there every once in awhile, but definitely not like this.”
“Wait,” the man says, suddenly excited to talk to me, “are you the wife of the new doctor?”
In keeping with my apparent need to reference movies in this post, remember that movie “Doc Hollywood?”
We chat a bit and then I see the skiers starting to come out of the woods. I eventually excuse myself and make my way to the finish line, Anders will want to see me there.
But Anders doesn’t even look for me. Just past the finish line a bunch of boys have gathered to compare times. A couple of them look in Anders’s direction as he get his number, “dude, what did you place!?”
At first I think they are probably calling out to someone past Anders, but then I realize they aren’t. They are talking to my son who heads their way, and is subsequently pulled into the fold. I hear a lot of laughter and joking around. And it was just a lot of joking around, like friends do.
“I was 37,” Anders says.
“Dude, I beat you, by a lot!” says one.
“Dude, 37?! I got 28!” says another, “you suck!”
And they all start “duding” each other, and Anders says something and they all laugh. His teammates seem to really like him, like, really like him. Nearby, I stand and watch with what must surely be a creepy Joker grin on my face.
One of them grabs Anders’s arm, and points to a table being set up by some parents. Bags of chips and cookies are being opened, and Anders and his friends look like they’re trying to qualify for the olympics as they ski past me to the table of rewards.
A 14-month-old child stumbles around a coffee table clinging to it as he focuses on the exciting objects on top; brightly colored blocks, soft squeaky toys, and a Smith and Wesson hand gun.
The toddler picks up and plays/chews on each item with little reaction from his dad, unless it is the gun. And then the dad’s reaction is swift and startling, dad slaps his hand and reprimands the child, “No!”
My family and I are at a shooting range on a cold September day on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska. I had just asked our gun instructor and father of six how old his kids were when he started teaching them about guns, and he explained that this is how he did it. And, he started as soon as his baby could roll over.
My initial instinct was to be horrified, but I checked myself. I had to ponder this one.
At What Age Should You Teach Your Children About Guns?
The answer to this question can be very different if you happen to be a gun owner, and then, what kind of gun owner. Avid shooter and hunter, or someone who keeps one small gun locked away in a safe.
I had thought signing up my 13-year-old-son and 15-year-old daughter for a lesson at a shooting range was pushing it, but here we were being instructed by a father and his 12-year-old son, a boy who says he learned to shoot by age four.
I wasn’t raised around guns, and neither were my kids. All they know about guns is that guns are behind school shootings and lock down drills. In Boulder we lived just miles from Columbine High School. Recently, while driving around Denver, my son asked if we were near Columbine. When I asked him why he wanted to know, he responded, “I don’t know, I just can’t stop thinking about it.”
My son’s outward response to it all is fear. My daughter’s is fear, and anger. I have only supported her action when it comes to campaigning for more gun legislation so signing us up for this lesson was met with confusion and resistance from her. I get it. It wasn’t long ago that we participated in a march after 17 teens lost their lives in a high school shooting in Florida. Tatum’s homemade signs made #14 in this Denver newspaper’s list of “Most Inspiring Signs at the March for our Lives.”
But I feel my decision to have this family lesson at a shooting range wasn’t a “if you can’t beat them, join them” one, but a, “if you can’t beat them, learn as much as you can about them.” This feels especially important when you live in a community where the majority of the residents have guns in the home. Also, there is the bear attack nightmare I keep having. https://pokingthebear.org/4-tips-on-how-to…id-a-bear-attack/
I had been asking people I was starting to meet in town whether they “carried” when hiking, etc. Most did. Of course our gun instructor did. I asked him if he ever had to use a gun to protect himself in the wild. “Of course,” he answered, “I had to shoot a brown bear, a black bear, and a moose.” Once again, my initial instinct was to be horrified.
So far we have only had this one introductory course which quickly dissolved into a scene of chaos that has become our family’s signature. Given that we were handling firearms, we decided to cut the lesson short. I have a couple of important takeaways for a more successful lesson next time. If there is a next time.
1. A Good Shooting Range Rule; Avoid Distractions
Unfortunately, that’s hard to do when you’re married to a big one.
Can you say “ho-ser!” Mark’s hat sat perched on his head exactly as pictured…the entire four-hour lesson. It was simultaneously absurd and impressive.
Turns out it is harder to lecture your kids on the seriousness of guns when you look like one of the McKenzie Brothers from the 80’s movie, “Strange Brew.”
“This is serious, eh? You gotta be payin’ attention, eh?”
Tatum doing Tatum, Anders dancing as usual, the kids were not taking this hoser seriously.
My Little “Billy Elliot”
Distraction two; as I opened box one out of our 12 boxes of ammunition it was hard not to notice Anders out of the corner of my eye who was busy dancing, as he does all the time, and often unaware. Anders has been popping and locking since he was in the womb. When he was eight we rented an airbnb in Paris for a week. Night one and we already had a downstairs neighbor pounding on our door. Despite four years of high school French, I had no idea what he was saying, and so the frustrated man tried to explain by flapping his hands, then pointing at the floor, and saying “ba ba ba.” I turned and looked around at our quiet apartment and so did he, momentarily confused. Then as if on cue, Anders appeared in the arched doorway moonwalking backwards across the hall from one end, stopping to do an a MJ spin and a couple of stomps, then moonwalked out the other end. The neighbor pointed excitedly, “C’est le garcon!” Finally, the French lessons paid off as I knew what he was saying, “it’s the boy!”
And really, of course it’s the boy. It always is.
The rest of the week was a something of a stressful vigil; always at the ready to quickly stop my son’s feet from breaking into dance on top of the wood floors in a building that was 100 years old. Since then we only rent ground floor apartments.
Anders finding a more appreciative audience at my sister’s wedding this summer.
The Projectile Tooth
A third big distraction during our lesson was the fact that every time my daughter laughed or sneezed her fake tooth flew out of her mouth. Long story short, one of her canines never grew in. When she stops growing she will get a tooth implant. Until then, trying to keep a fake tooth in with various retainers has become a full time hobby. A few times we had to stop what we were doing and look for the tooth while trying to keep Anders from dancing on top of it.
Turns out spotting a $200 off-white fake tooth among light colored gravel isn’t as easy as it sounds.
There is a chance a projectile tooth, a breakdancing son, and a husband unintentionally dressed like an SNL character might just be distractions that are specific to my family. But this next one applies to everyone.
Check the Weather!
Had we checked the weather, we would have dressed more appropriately, or better yet rescheduled. The day of our lesson had finally arrived, but so had the first hint of winter. It was freezing, and when you can’t feel your toes due to the cold, it could turn into a situation where your don’t feel them ever again.
Distracted by the cold, I was about to re-holster my gun with my finger still on the trigger when my 12-year-old instructor stopped me. “That’s a good way to shoot yourself in the foot.”
Or worse.
“I don’t like how your holster is twisted like that,” Mark says looking over at us. “It’s aimed at your groin.”
I re-adjusted the holster, and considered myself lucky.
Any day I don’t accidentally shoot off my vagina is a good day, I say.
I looked it up and leaving your finger on the trigger when re-holstering is actually the number one cause of accidental discharge when handling a gun. My husband has seen the aftermath of such a mistake multiple times as he has spent most of his career as an orthopedic trauma surgeon working at level 1 trauma hospitals. Below is a link to an article devoted to this safety tip. Do not open this article on the subject unless you have a strong stomach.
2. The First Rule of Gun Safety? “Assume EVERY Gun is Loaded!”
At one point during the lesson Anders forgot this golden rule. Instead, he stops dancing, pulls his unloaded gun out, and aims it at his sister.
It was at this point that my husband’s head did a 360-exorcist spin, detached from its shoulders, and flew into Anders’s face.
“Never, ever, ever, ever, point a gun at Tatum!” the red-faced floating head screamed.
“But,” Anders sputters, “it’s not loaded!”
The red-faced floating head spins again and turns dark crimson, “EVERY gun is loaded! Always handle a gun as if it is loaded!!”
“Yeah Anders, you stupid,” a shivering Tatum manages to get out through her chattering teeth. I suspect if these happened to be her last words before freezing to death she’d be good with it.
Anders looks at our 12-year old instructor who gives a shrug as if to say, “that is the rule, but yeah, your gun isn’t loaded.”
The red-faced head eventually returns to its shoulders and looks at me.
“What Anders just did is exactly the reason why we wanted this lesson,” Mark tells me.
I nod.
“I’m not kidding,” Mark says.
My nod wasn’t kidding either. That was pretty bad.
After this incident and combined with the fact that all of our hands were shaking from the cold, Mark made the appropriate call to call off the lesson. If we have a second lesson will just do a dry one, and inside. “Dry” meaning no ammunition.
Clearly we aren’t ready to be gun owners, and I don’t necessarily want to be one. But if that ever changes, we happen to have a gun safe which was left in the basement of our new house. I think the house was actually built around it.
At first glance, these antlers seemed like the perfect stocking stuffers to take back to my family in Boulder this Christmas. But then I saw the obvious problem; I have a big family and we were multiple sets of antlers short here.
I figured I’d go ahead and look inside the shop for other Alaskan Gift options. I actually had been curious about this place every since we moved to Soldotna. I drive past it multiple times each day.
In the past we had always insisted on living within walking distance to restaurants or at least good coffee, but this place was the only commercial enterprise within a 30 minute walking distance of our new neighborhood.
I guess some people want their morning cup of coffee, while other people want their morning box of bighorn sheep head.
Lots of taxidermy in the place. I decided to look elsewhere for Alaskan inspired presents, as for sure my family was expecting them. Here is where I’m netting out. I’m not worried about my family finding out what they’re getting as they don’t read my blog. Only my husband does, at knife point.
3 Alaskan Gift Ideas:
1. Russian Nesting Dolls
There is a lot of Russian influence in Alaska and of course we can all see Russia from our house.
Our town, “Soldotna,” means soldier in Russian.
So, I say that the Russian nesting doll counts as an Alaskan themed gift, and I was quickly drawn to this one of Russian politicians.
Can you name each president? Answer at the end of post.
Second to the smallest is one no one can remember.
As is often the case, I think I might have to keep this gift for myself. I could start a collection as I already have one other Russian President nesting doll that I bought traveling in St. Petersburg in 1990. The Soviet Union had just collapsed and Gorbachev was about week out from “firing himself” (his words) as its last leader. The country was struggling with change, the only ones making the best of it were the street vendors who were prepared for the influx of Western tourists with all kinds of USSR merchandise. I bought the Gorbachev doll from one of them.
Back when I was young enough to convince stoic Russian soldiers to pose with me, and even smile just a little tiny bit.
Here’s what might be my only pic from that trip to St Petersburg. It is a photo my friend sent me because I had lost my camera when I was mugged, but that’s another story. At least I have this photo and the Gorbachev doll.
2. Qivuit – luxury wool from the Musk Ox
An arctic animal from the Ice Age.
Over Thanksgiving weekend we went to a Musk Ox Farm in Palmer, Alaska. You have to admire any animal who has survived this long and musk ox have been around since the time of the wooly mammoth and saber-tooth tiger.
I had heard about Qivuit, material made from the animal’s under-wool. Softer than cashmere, and even warmer than sheep wool as musk ox don’t migrate in the winter. I planned to scoop up armfuls of qiviut mittens and scarfs for everyone at the gift shop. But when I learned that qiviut mittens are $200, my plan was quickly revised.
I was hesitant to go with an Ulu knife as a gift because it is sold everywhere tourists go. There is an entire wall of them in the gift shop at the Anchorage airport. Past security. Which is curious.
Anyway, buying up something so touristy for xmas presents just seemed too easy, and if I wanted my life to be easy I wouldn’t have married my husband. Also, it seemed like something that no one would ever use. Was it in any way a useful kitchen tool? I looked at several how-to-use-an-ulu videos before I came across this one from, “Girl in the woods.”
She’s a stud. My favorite part was when she said that she, “skinned out a squirrel and cooked it in a dutch over just to show how practical these knives are.” That right there made me a subscriber and I went on to watch her next video, “Ladies – how to pee and poo in the woods.” My favorite quote from that one was, “pooping logs are awesome.” I actually looked to order a custom made ulu from her husband as she advertised but they were no longer on eBay. But I’ll find some somewhere because a hand forged blade of any kind is never touristy, only admired.
Answers to the Russian Nesting Doll: Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev, Yeltsin, Medvedev, and Putin. People forget about Medvedev as he was a president sandwiched between Putin’s terms.
We were in the middle of watching “Jexi” (we see every movie that comes to town) when my husband got a call from the ER. Someone shot a nail through his hand with a nail gun.
We had made the rooky mistake of driving only one car while Mark was on call. Usually not a problem as back in Boulder it is as simple as Uber or Lyft, but after Mark hurried out of the theater I started to wonder if this town had either.
There were “No Cars Available” when I first checked the app after the movie let out.
I decided to wait a bit and try again. The kids were still hungry even after consuming a vat of popcorn each, so we headed out to find a place to eat.
“Mom, tell Anders to stop stepping on my heels!” my daughter screeched as I once again checked the UBER app. And again, not seeing what I wanted.
“Anders, stop stepping on your sister’s heels,” I said with the authority of a mother whose disciplinary backbone was snapped in two, tossed into a fire pit, and went up in flames a long time ago.
“Mom, he’s still doing it!”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“Mom! He’s lying!”
“No, I’m not”
“Yes you are! Mom!”
“No Cars Available, Sucka!” read the app.
A patrol car suddenly pulls up to the curb and stops. An officer leans across the passenger seat to talk to me.
“Are you three okay?” he asks.
“We’re fine, thank you!” I say cheerfully. And he drives on.
I don’t know if he pulled over because we were the only pedestrians anywhere, and that seemed strange to him, or if he could tell my kids were about to come to blows.
After crossing two big empty parking lots we came to a place called Paradisios which is just one of several restaurants in the area that specialize solely in American, Mexican, Greek, Chinese, and Italian cuisine. Because there was a wall mural featuring the Acropolis I figured my best bet was to order off the Greek menu page.
I ordered the Gyros Platter as the waitress nodded (approvingly?)
I then asked, “do you have Uber here?”
She nodded again, “Harry.”
“Harry?”
“Yeah, there is only one Uber driver, Harry.”
She peers at my phone which is open to the app. Still, “No Cars Available.”
“Harry’s busy,” I say. She looks like she expected as much.
So, it was a retro moment as I looked up the number called a cab company. The dispatcher told me a taxi would be there eventually but warned me I was way down on the wait list, that they were very busy, and that he had no idea when his driver could get to me. I’m old enough to remember this routine well. I have an anxiety provoking flashback of being at a friend’s apartment in San Francisco and waiting for a cab I had called hours in advance, only to eventually miss my international flight.
“Mom, tell Anders to stop stealing my fries!” my daughter whines.
“So, like what time….?” I ask the dispatcher.
“I have no idea, just letting you know it’ll be awhile.”
“Stop taking my fries! Mom!?”
“If you had to guess is awhile 15-minutes? Or more like 3 hours?” I ask because I am capable of being that bitchy city-slicker from the lower 48.
“I have no idea.”
“Mom! He’s still doing it!”
The cavalry arrived much sooner than expected, seven minutes maybe. I don’t even think Harry could have made it to us so fast.
Pleasant enough Alaska Cab driver, but on the way home my mind was occupied thinking about Harry.
What was he so busy doing that he couldn’t come get us?
Was he out having fun?
Will he always be “unavailable” when I need him the most?
I don’t like to be ignored, Harry.
The idea that I might never meet Harry is unacceptable somehow and I decided I can’t just leave it up to fate. I’m going to keep checking my Uber app regardless of whether I actually need a ride because one day a little car will appear on that little map and I’ll know exactly who is driving it. Then I’ll watch as Harry goes from being 10 minutes away, to five minutes away, to one minute away…
Only a couple of months living in our new home on the Kenai Peninsula and already I had accumulated a total of one friend. Her name is Allison, and she is teaching me squash. The first time we met it was for lunch at a cute bookstore and deli. My husband’s birthday was coming up and as I waited for her I found the perfect book for him, it was the very last copy of “Birds of Alaska.” My husband happens to be a proud “birder.” Perhaps too proud.
As the store clerk was gift wrapping the book, Allison and I had lunch and discussed birds which naturally led to the topic of bears. Okay, I may have forced the conversation. At the risk of sounding like a tourist I had been asking almost every local I came across about the probability of being attacked by a bear while hiking. So far no one has rolled their eyes at the question making me even more concerned.
“I was attacked by a bear while hiking with my dogs,” Allison says casually.
“You were?!”
She nods, “a mama bear with her two cubs. And it was in the springtime when bears are hungry.”
“Black or brown bear?”
“Black. I surprised her, I just didn’t see her until I was right in front of her, and she stood up and looked at me.
“What did you do?”
“Well, you’re not supposed to run.”
“That’s what I read! No matter what kind of bear, you’re never ever supposed to run. So what did you do?”
“I ran.”
“You ran?”
“yeah.”
“But you’re not supposed to.”
“No, you’re not supposed to. Everyone knows that.”
Allison takes a big bite of her grilled tomato and gruyere cheese sandwich. I had ordered the same sandwich because some decisions in life are just that easy. But, at the moment I was too focused on her tale to think about all that oozing expensive cheese. Allison ran when she saw a bear?! I was fascinated, because deep down I knew that in the same situation, against all expert advice, I’d probably run too.
“Didn’t you have bear spray?”
“Yes, but I was downwind, I figured that it would just blow back in my face.”
I imagined her stumbling around screaming and blinded as a bear reared up to attack.
“So, I ran,” explains Allison, “I wasn’t going to stick around.”
Now in my middle-of-the-night exploration of bear videos which were endless (but, I found an edited compilation of them right here) I tried to remember the rules.
“With a black bear you’re supposed to act small and timid, right?” I venture.
“No, you do that when you encounter a brown bear.”
Of all the things I keep getting wrong…
“With a black bear you need to look intimidating, and so I put my arms up like this,” Allison sets down her sandwich and puts her arms up above her head and makes “jazz hands.” It was intimidating, in a Broadway musical kind of way.
“But then I thought, this is stupid, and I turned and ran.”
“Did the dogs try to protect you?”
Allison laughs at this.
“No I kept telling them to run and they thought it was just a fun game, they kept stopping in front of me.”
I had been thinking of getting a dog to help alert me to bears, but clearly they don’t always do so. And, in fact, sometimes a dog can make a situation worse especially if they bark at a brown bear. Again, it all depends on the bear.
“The bear chased me until I got to the trailhead, “Allison continues, “then it stopped and turned around. I was lucky.”
She was lucky. Speaking of lucky, during my research I found a few other lucky people. I’m looking forward to our bear viewing trip out of Brooks Lodge next summer. I both want and at the same time definitely don’t want to see a bear this close.
