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A blog by Bill Hess

Running Dog Publications

P.O. Box 872383 Wasilla, Alaska 99687

 

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Wasilla

Wasilla is the place where I have lived for the past 29 years - sort of. The house in which my wife and I raised our family sits here, but I have made my rather odd career as a different sort of photojournalist by continually wandering off to other places to photograph people and gather information, which I have then put together in various publications that have served the Alaska Native Eskimo, Indian and Aleut communities.

Although I did not have a great of free time to devote to this rather strange community, named after a Tanaina Athabascan Indian chief who knew Wasilla in the way that I so impossibly long to, I have still documented it regularly over the past quarter-century plus. In the early days, my Wasilla photographs focused mostly upon my children and the events they participated in - baseball, football, figure skating, hockey, frog catching, fire cracker detonation, Fourth of July parade - that sort of thing. 

In 2002, I purchased my first digital camera and then, whenever I was home, I began to photograph Wasilla upon a daily basis, but not in a conventional way. These were grab shots - whatever caught my eye as I took my many long walks or drove through the town, shooting through the car window at people and scenes that appeared and disappeared before I could even focus and compose in the traditional photographic way.

Thus, the Wasilla portion of this blog will be devoted both to the images that I take as I wander about and those that I have taken in the past. Despite the odd, random, nature of the images, I believe they communicate something powerful about this town that I have never seen expressed anywhere else. 

Wasilla is a sprawling community that has been slapped down hodge-podge upon what was so recently wilderness of the most exquisite beauty. In its design, it is deliberately anti-zoned, anti-planned. In the building of Wasilla, the desire to make a buck has trumped aesthetics and all other considerations. This town, built in the midst of exquisite beauty, has largely become an unsightly, unattractive, mess of urban sprawl. Largely because of this, it often seems to me that Wasilla is a community with no sense of community, a town devoid of town soul.

Yet - Wasilla is my home and if I am lucky it will be until I grow old and die. Despite its horrific failings, it is still made of the stuff of any small city: people; moms and dads, grammas and grampas, teens, children, churches, bars, professionals, laborers, soldiers, missionaries, artists, athletes, geniuses, do-gooders, hoodlums, the wealthy, the homeless, the rational and logical, the slightly insane and the wholly insane - and, yes, as is now obvious to the whole world, politicians, too.

So perhaps, if one were to search hard enough, it might just be possible to find a sense of community here, and a town soul. So, using my skills as a photojournalist and a writer, I hope to do just that. If this place has a sense of community, I will find it. If there is a town soul to Wasilla, I will document it. I won't compete with the newspapers. Hell no! But as time and income allow, it will be fun to wander into the places where the folks described above gather, and then put what I find on this blog.

 

by 300...

Anywhere within a 300 mile radius of Wasilla. This encompasses perhaps the most wild, dramatic, gorgeous, beautiful section of land and sea to be found in any comparable space anywhere on Earth. I can never explore it all, but I will do the best that I can, and will here share what I find and experience with you.  

and then some...

Anywhere else in the world that I happen to get to, such as Point Lay, Alaska; Missoula, Montana; Serenki, Chukotka, Russia; or Bangalore, India. Perhaps even Lagos, Nigeria. I have both a desire and scheme to get me there. It is a long shot. We shall see if I succeed.

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Sunday
Oct052008

Breakfast at Family Restaurant

DateSunday, October 5, 2008 at 1:05AM

Lavina felt silly about the color mismatch between her and Kalib. Of course, it did not bother me at all. Margie goes to work at 7:00 Saturday and Sunday mornings and then I take off walking to meet her for her lunch break. I will have breakfast.

Jacob, Lavina, Kalib and Muzzy have already eaten, but they decide to walk with me, for just a little ways. Then they turn around and go back home.

It snowed last night. Just a little bit.

It seems this Greg Koskela guy wants to be mayor of Wasilla. Why? Seems like a sure ticket to obscurity.

That's Margie in the Taurus. She drove the other way to pick me up and got me before I could make two miles. 

We pull into a parking space at Family Restaurant. Inside, people are already eating.

The place is full. We must wait for just a few minutes.

Waitress Jolene takes our order. I will have a Denver Omelette with hashbrowns and whole-wheat pancakes; Margie a chicken sandwich.

 

Another diner reads the Frontiersman, a bi-weekly. That's why, even though the story is two days old, the Biden-Palin debate is the front page story. I was going to photograph Margie and I eating, but my omelette was so damn good that the only thing that I could think about was to take the next bite.

 

This is the owner of Family Restaurant. She comes from Russia. She is preparing herself to be photographed.

She calls me, "my dear," in a most endearing Russian accent. She makes the best breakfast in Wasilla, in my opinion - although the hash browns could be better. When I have time, I will have her tell me her story, and I will share it here. She told me her name so I could put it in here, but I forgot.

Next time.

I drive Margie back to Wal-Mart, then head towards home. Along the way I spot a calico cat in a yard with a woman who is raking her leaves. I stop. The calico is named "Callie."

I will put this and a couple other pictures of her on Grahamn Kracker's No Cat's Allowed Blog, and write just a little more about her, should anyone be curious. But not tonight. Tomorrow.

Later, I head back to Wal-Mart to pick Margie up. Someone who does not want Koskela to be mayor is campaigning for Metiva.

On the way to Wal-Mart. You can see the faces better if you click on the image.

So Verne also wants to be mayor. Maybe he wants to be president, too. President Rupright. Right.

As darkness grows, I again walk with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. This time, Lavina is happy with the color coordination between her and Kalib.

As we walk, we suddenly hear a whistle, then a boom, and colored fire appears in the sky. Someone is shooting fireworks off from their yard - someone who lives right next door to a State Trooper. The Trooper's car is in the driveway. The trooper doesn't care. No one around here cares about such things.

Someone is always shooting fireworks off.

Muzzy marks the corner.

And then we head home.

AuthorWasilla, Alaska, by 300 | Comments Off |

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