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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Monday
Aug172009

Kalib blasts me out of the bedroom when he makes an annoying discovery

I was in the bedroom, when all of a sudden the horn in the Escape began to honk repeatedly. "Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!..."

I blasted out of the bedroom and charged toward the living room to see if I could put a stop to this racket, as I knew the neighbors were hearing it, too.

There, standing in the front room was Kalib, who had gotten ahold of the electronic key. Kalib likes to push buttons and had just done so, setting off the horn. But the horn was quiet now, because Kalib's Dad had just turned it off. 

Kalib still had possession of the keys, however, and was most excited about it, for he suddenly realized that he held a magical power within his hands.

Kalib presses the button again.

Kalib jumps up with excitement and looks out the window towards the car as the horn blasts away again. He knows that, somehow, when he pushed that button, he caused this to happen.

 

 

 

Kalib points toward the honking car, as if to say, "listen to what I just did!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Kalib pushes the button again. The horn stops.

 

Again he pushes the button.

He looks toward the window in amazement as the car begins to honk again.

Dad tries to get Kalib to give him the keys. Kalib does not want to yield them. 

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Reader Comments (1)

He is a born genius! Kids do such amazing things leaving us feel so small in front of them... This reminds me of my nephew when he was just two & half years old. His mom took him to the terrace with her to put the washed clothes to dry (as it always happens in India - the solar energy). When she was busy arranging the clothes in a row, my nephew 'Rajeev' looked on anxiously... Later in the afternoon, it was time to get the dry clothes back & he followed her...To her amusement, he toched one of them & questioned, 'Mom, how does the water disappear from this..?' :)

August 18, 2009 | Unregistered CommenterSandy

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