A blog by Bill Hess

Running Dog Publications

P.O. Box 872383 Wasilla, Alaska 99687

 

All photos and text © Bill Hess, unless otherwise noted 
All support is appreciated
Bill Hess's other sites
Search
Navigation
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.

Blog archive
Blog arhive - page view

Entries in death (34)

Tuesday
May252010

The funeral of Vincent Craig, Part 3: Visitation at Fort Apache - mourners weep, but they also laugh

I begin my coverage of the day of Vincent's visitation in the backyard of the home where he and Mariddie raised their three sons and where their grandchildren still come to play. People had gathered here to lend comfort to each other and to the family as they waited for the hearse to bring the body of Vincent down from the mortuary in Lakeside for the viewing at Fort Apache.

Among those present was baby Naaneeya, held in the arms of her Aunt Torri Benaly DuQuesnay. In the English language, Naaneeya would be a second niece to Vincent. By Navajo reckoning, she is a granddaughter.

As they waited, women cooked break and other items over the coals of an open fire. The coals would not be discarded, but in the Apache way would be gathered and put to use the following day just before the funeral would come to its end.

After the hearse arrived, those present lined up along the driveway as the driver backed in, military representatives to the one side, pall-bearers and other civilians to the other. Other veterans, including a special honor guard of former Marines, many who had fought in Vietnam, had already gathered at the Fort Apache LDS chapel to prepare to greet Vincent there.

I rode to the chapel in the vehicle of Vincent's brother, Emerson Craig and two other pall bearers, Norman Pete and Ryan Pete, who sat in the back seat. As he drove slowly along the procession route, Emerson told us of a series of dreams that he had after his father, Bob Craig, Navajo Code Talker who fought at Iwo Jima, died.

In the earlier dreams, his father could not talk, but only gesture. In the later dreams, he let his son know that everything was good with him, he was in a good place and had bears to watch over. Among them was a special bear that he would pat on the head. He believed this to be the same bear whose life he had saved during the days of his youth.

The tear that came down his cheek was for at least two people, his father and his brother.

As the hearse drew near to the driveway to the Fort Apache chapel, an honor guard marched in front, Apache cowboys behind and to the side. A long procession of pickup trucks and cars followed.

As the hearse backed toward the chapel doors, the cowboys formed a line and removed their hats.

Vincent's second oldest son, Nephi, stood with his hand on the chest of his six-year old son, Ari, as Vincent was carried into the chapel.

We carried Vincent past his cartoons.

There were military honors, a prayer and then silence followed. Then, softly came the sound of Navajo flute, followed by harmonica and fingers plucking an acoustic guitar in a minor key. Then came the voice of Vincent Craig, singing these words, "My grandfather used to take me to the mountains in my youth and there he would tell me the stories of long ago. Between the four sacred mountains we lived in harmony but now you tell me that we've got to go, because someone drew a line..."

It was his song, Someone Drew A Line, about the forced removal of the Navajo people from their homeland to the Basque Redondo, where so many died before they were allowed to return.

As all others stepped backed to wait, Vincent's family, including wife Mariddie in the dark-patterned camp dress, his sons and a grandson, gathered beside the casket to look upon this man who had given them life and had then filled their lives with something extraordinary and special.

From that point until the closing prayer, the room would be filled with the sound of Vincent's voice, singing to his own accompaniment on guitar, flute, harmonica, mandolin, keyboard - whatever this artist of multiple talent had felt necessary to convey his message.

Comfort was brought to his wife, Mariddie, who he always called by her middle name, Ann.

Comfort was also gladly accepted by Dustinn, the eldest son of Vincent and Mariddie, and by Mariddie's sister, Charlotte.

An old friend of the family shares some good memories of Vincent with Mariddie.

In her pain, Mariddie also extended comfort - here to her son, Nephi.

Mariddie's cousin, Gretchen Ethelbah sheds some tears as she turns away from the casket. Grief was not limited to family members. As I hope I have made clear in earlier posts, those who loved Vincent for the great gifts that he had brought to them through his music, songwriting, poetry and cartoons number in the legions.

Vincent Craig was one of the most beloved individuals in all of Indian Country.

Despite the solemnity of the event, those who had shed tears for Vincent when they stood beside his open casket smiled as they filed past his cartoons.

And sometimes, they laughed out loud. Of all the pictures I have taken since I left Alaska, if I could somehow show but one to Vincent Craig, this would be it. And I know what he would do. He would laugh - loud and hard.

I grew up hearing that a comic should never laugh at his own jokes. This did not apply to Vincent. He laughed. He always laughed.

Mariddie and her sons Nephi, Shiloh and Dustinn. They continue to share the love they had with husband and father with each other.

During the lunch, Phoebe Nez, a good friend of the family, served acorn stew.

As I was eating my acorn stew, a little head suddenly popped up between me and the table. It was this girl, whose name I do not know, but she stayed close to me throughout lunch, sometimes darting laughingly off, but only to quickly return in surprise fashion. 

Members of the Bylas Marine Veterans Honor Guard from the San Carlos Apache Reservation took their turns standing guard at the head of the casket.

Emerson wraps his arms around his weeping niece, Haily Mae Perry.

One Marine Veteran who could not be present in the flesh to pay his honor and respect was the late Bob Craig, Vincent's father. Yet, if you look closely at the Pendleton blanket draped over the edge of Vincent's coffin, or, better yet, click on this image to see a large version, you will see the words, Codetalker. 

This was a special issue Pendleton blanket, done just for the Navajo Codetalkers. Before his coffin would be closed for burial, this blanket, created for his father, would be wrapped around Vincent, so that it encased him and all that he wore.

In this way, Vincent Craig would go to the grave wrapped in the love of his father.

A Boy Scout who came to pay his respects. As I earlier noted, back in our days together, Vincent organized a boy scout troop and I accompanied them camping and hiking.

I took this image about five-and-a-half hours into the viewing. The room had been packed at the beginning and would be packed at the end. The only time the crowd gathered inside thinned out much at all was during the late afternoon meal.

Nephi and Ari.

In the late evening, just before we returned the body of Vincent to the hearse.

 

Sunday
May232010

The funeral of Vincent Craig, Part 2: A few of the physical things he left behind

 

This has become a bit more difficult for me than I anticipated. After the funeral, burial and lunch Friday, I returned to Hon-Dah intending to get everything posted before I went to bed. I reached LeeAnn's house at about 6:00 PM. She had gone to Phoenix to pick Margie up at the airport and they planned to overnight and spend most of Saturday there, so LeeAnn left me a note on when and how much to feed the dogs and noted that she usually does so at 7:00.

I felt extremely tired, temporarily incapable of doing anything. So I lay down and dozed in and out of a nap for an hour during which time the songs of Vincent Craig, interwoven with the Mormon hymns from my past that had been performed at his funeral, played in my head.

I then got up, fed the dogs, rummaged through LeeAnn's fridge and found the leftovers from a turkey-potato casserole that she had fed me two nights before, along with a salad and some zucchini stuffed with cream cheese. I warmed these in the microwave and fed myself.

Afterwards, I took the dogs on a walk and it was a bit chaotic. Maybe I will tell you about walking those dogs in another post.

I had completely run out of space both in my computer and the external harddrive that I had brought with me and had no place to download the days photos, nor did I have any money, not in cash, not in available credit, to go to Wal-Mart to pick up another harddrive.

So I spent some time in the external hardrive seeking out photo folders that I knew I had copies of back in Wasilla and then, when they added up to enough space to allow me to move the day's take in, I deleted them.

My plan then was to download my photos onto the external drive and work off it, but it is a USB drive, my card reader is USB and I had only one USB cable with me, so I could not. So I selected a number of photo files from within my laptop and then set them to copying into the drive. This took about half-an-hour, during which I did some channel surfing on LeeAnn's TV, but never stayed on any one show for more than a minute or two.

Then I erased the folders that I had copied from my computer, unplugged the external hard drive, plugged in the card reader and started the downloading process.

In time, everything was in my computer, so I drove over to the Hon-Dah Casino, where they have a good, strong, wireless connection. I sat down about 10:15 PM but before I began to edit my pictures, I checked and responded to email and paid a couple of quick visits to a few places on the web.

Finally, at about 11:00 PM, I turned my attention to the editing, thinking that maybe I could get everything done in 4 hours, 3:00 AM, which, as regular readers know, is not an uncommon schedule for me.

But I could not do it. I could not pull up a single photograph on my editor and look at it. I had "hit the wall."

I called Margie in Tempe, where she and LeeAnn had checked into a motel. "Go to bed," she said.

So I did. I slept reasonably well for about four hours, but could not sleep a wink after that.

Why am I telling you this? I don't know. Sometimes, I just put my fingers on the keyboard, not knowing where they are going to go and they just take off and do things like this to me.

I will stop now. Suffice it to say that Saturday was a busy and broken-up day, but I did do an initial photo edit of both days, the visitation and the funeral, and at 2:00 AM this morning, I was organizing the photos that I intended to put in this post - those from the visitation. I was trying to decide what sample image of a Vincent Craig cartoon I should use, what sample image of the photos that were on display and what sample of a Vincent Craig artifact - should it be his saddle? His guitar? His climbing gear? The display of his cowboy hats?

And then it struck me: this is a blog. Why do I need to have just one of each up? I could put a bunch in, and that would give readers familiar with Vincent Craig a reminder of the man they loved and those unfamiliar with him a glimpse that they would not otherwise have.

So I decided that I would go to bed, get up and do just that.. So here is Vincent Craig, as seen through the physical items that he left behind, starting above, on the stage in the LDS church house in Fort Apache, where part of the display of his life had been placed.

A number of his cartoons had been placed on the back wall. This is one that he did when he was working with me at the Fort Apache Scout.

Vincent's rock climbing gear, with a portrait of Vincent and his wife Mariddie, who he always called Ann.

A few of the cartoons hung on the wall.

One of his guitars, and keyboard.

Self-explanatory.

His friend Rich, who played guitar with him just about every week, says this black guitar was his favorite. Vincent's Mandolin.

Vincent Craig's Navajo Superhero, Mutton Man. The sheep herder gained his super powers after he and his herd waded into water contaminated by a uranium mine on the Navajo reservation; a sheep drank the water and the herder ate the sheep. Thus he became, Mutton Man.

Scenes from Vincent's life.

This is another cartoon that he did when he was working with me, well over 30 years ago. Keep in mind that not only legal residents of Hispanic origin could find themselves grilled and harassed under Arizona's controversial new immigration law, but so could Navajos, Apaches and any Native American.

More scenes from the life of Vincent Craig.

Again - self explanatory.

Vincent's saddle and rope.

More scenes from Vincent's life.

His take on the argument about who "discovered" America, Christopher Columbus or the Vikings.

Vincent's cowboy hats.

Several times, during the course of the visitation and then the funeral the next day, I would catch of glimpse of someone off to the side, someone with broad shoulders with the brim of his cowboy hat curled a certain way and, for just a moment I would think...

I need to eat some breakfast now and then I want to take a long walk.

Then I will come back and try to finish parts 3 and 4, to stand as a record for those who loved Vincent but did not get to attend his funeral, for those who did and might want to remember and for those who never knew of him, so that they might wonder and learn.

Friday
May212010

The Veterans and Apache cowboys who escorted Vincent Craig to his viewing

Early Thursday morning, Vincent Craig was driven by hearse to his home in Whiteriver, where many family and friends had gathered to follow the funeral procession to Fort Apache. I had driven down from Hon-Dah in my rental car, but the protocol was to keep the pallbearers together so when it came time to move out toward Fort Apache, I joined my brother-in-law, Emerson Craig and two others and rode with them. A police escort separated us from the hearse and there were many vehicles in that escort.

As we drew within what I estimate to be about one mile from the Fort Apache Mormon church house, I saw a group of cowboys sitting on horseback ahead in the distance. When the procession reached them, the cowboys fell in behind the hearse. Shortly afterward, an honor guard took their place in front of the hearse and we proceeded on at walking speed.

As we drew near to the chapel, I got out of Emerson's truck and hurried ahead, so that I could capture this moment of honor as Vincent's fellow veterans and these Apache cowboys escorted him to the chapel.

Afterward, we carried him inside for the visitation and viewing. Then, like a river that just kept flowing for seven hours straight, people came by the score, by the hundreds, by the thousands to file past his flag draped coffin to look in and pay honor and tribute to this Navajo-Marine-cowboy-policeman-artist-musician-humorist who now lay dressed in his white Mormon temple clothing, a green apron at the waist.

They then moved on to embrace and sometimes cry with his wife Mariddie, his sons Dustinn, Nephi and Shiloh and other family members. As they passed by a wall hung with many of his cartoons, they laughed, too.

I took many more pictures of course, most of which I have yet to download, let alone to look at. But it has been a long day, I am very tired and weary and must get an early start in the morning, to prepare for his funeral and burial.

So this is it for now.

Wednesday
May192010

I drive north to White Mountain Apache country, where I pass by the spaceship that brought Vincent Craig to earth and am greeted by Wild Woman 

I knew that it was going to be a challenge to get a post up yesterday, but I had a plan and I thought it would work. I would take a few pictures with my iPhone from the car as I drove between Phoenix and Globe. I would get lunch in Globe and afterward would take a little time to make a post from my iPhone that would include some of those images. 

So here I am, following that plan, taking a picture of a Saguaro cactus as I cross the desert a bit beyond Phoenix.

And here I am, about to exit the tunnel that goes through a low mountain just north of Superior.

Now I am in Miami, a mining town just a few miles from Globe.

Miami, Arizona, as seen from my iPhone while I waited at a stoplight.

It had been years since I had eaten at a Jack-in-the-Box, possibly even a decade, although I doubt it. When we lived down here and had to travel often between Whiteriver and Phoenix, Margie and I would often stop here with the kids, so I decided that Jack-in-the Box would be where I would buy my lunch. Then I would put my blog together in my iPhone.

Now I am in Globe, passing by churches.

This is the last picture that I took in Globe. I then bought my Jack-in-the-Box hamburger. After, I opened up the Squarespace ap in my iPhone and set about to post my entry. I had used the iPhone to make a post once before, just a few days ago, but that post had no pictures in it.

But Squarespace has a horrible ap, and, after great struggle that resulted in not single picture being visible in my post, despite having been loaded, I gave up and drove north. From here on, I shoot with my pocket camera.

Here I am, going down the highway that winds its way through Salt River Canyon. Everything that you see to the left of the river is the San Carlos Apache Reservation, to the right - the north, is the Fort Apache Indian Reservation, home to Margie's White Mountain Apace Tribe.

In an earlier post that I made about Vincent, I recounted, among other things, the story of how I accompanied him on a rescue of a woman who had fallen on a cliff in this canyon and had broken her leg. That event took place up around a couple of the bends that you see before you.

Now I am on the White Mountain side, drawing near to Margie's home village of Carrizo. I will stop in Carrizo to see her mom, but she will not be home.

Now I am entering Whiteriver, passing by the old airport. When Dustinn was small, his dad would sometimes drive him past the airport and would show him the windsock extended in the wind. That was the spaceship that had brought him to earth, he would tell Dustinn.

One day, it would take him back again.*

This is the Whiteriver house where Margie and I lived. Jacob was a baby when we first moved in. Caleb soon followed and then Rex. Melanie came a bit later. Lisa was born in Alaska.

As I leave Whiteriver, this horse crosses the road in front of me. I drive on up the hill toward Hon-Dah.

Here I am in Hon-Dah, pulling into the driveway of Margie's sister, LeeAnn, where I am first greeted by her dog, originally named, "Wild Woman." When LeeAnn would step outside to call her in, she would shout, "Wild Woman! Wild Woman!"

She began to fear that someone might misinterpret the meaning of her shout, so she gave Wild Woman the nickname Wylie and that is the name she now shouts to call her in.

Next, Famous comes to greet me.

Wylie Wild Woman and Famous.

LeeAnn and Chewy. LeeAnn has rescued many, many, dogs over the years, several on the edge of death. She now has six dogs living with her.

Regular readers are familiar with the cradleboard that Jobe sleeps in and before that, the one that Kalib used. LeeAnn is the artist who made them, a talent passed on to her from her mother, Rose.

As you can see, I am way behind on my blogging. It has not been easy conditions to blog under and I have had unexpected tasks to deal with long-distance back in Alaska that have eaten up the time that I could have blogged.

And I have spent a lot of time just visiting.

I still fully intend to make a good tribute to Vincent. This will begin with my next post.

 

*I should note that this is stand-in windsock. Back then, there was a large, triangular, one that did, indeed, bear a strong resemblance to a spaceship.

Sunday
May162010

Vincent Craig - his was a challenging, beautiful, rich, life, well-lived: 1950 - 2010

I woke up this morning to the tragic-comic tune of a song being performed only in my head, sung in an intentionally exaggerated Navajo accent to the accompaniment of acoustic guitar chords rapidly struck. These were the first words that I heard: “I told her that I wanted to marry her but she said ‘you’ve got to steal the candy bar…’”

My friend, Vincent Craig, is gone. The words that I heard in his voice come from his famous ballad about a young man who loved Rita so passionately that he did steal the candy bar and so wound up in the Window Rock jail.

It was my heartbreak and privilege to be in the room with Vincent and his family just minutes after he exhaled his final, peaceful, breath. All present were related to him either by blood or marriage and that includes me, as his brother, Emerson, is my brother-in-law. It is Emerson who holds his brother’s hand earlier in the day in the photo above. For the past 35 years, this family has shared the great, wonderful, talented, funny-yet-deeply probing man that was Vincent Crair with his legions of fans all across Indian Country, USA, but now they wanted him for themselves.

So I took no pictures and I will not now describe what I saw except to say that, yes, it was mournful, bitterly sad and I was struck by that feeling one gets at such moments, that feeling about how there is no fairness in this life. It hurt deeply, even more to see the pain felt by his wife Mariddie, his children, grandchildren, brothers, sister and other relatives. 

Yet...

I also saw great beauty in that room, and felt a strong sense of awe and power.

The beauty was that of love, for Vincent Craig was a man of love and all present were bound by love - love for him, love for each other, love that will carry them through the sorrow that his departure leaves behind. There was awe and power, because although the silent beauty of his presence still lingered over his still and quiet body, he had passed through this stage of his journey; he had moved from a challenging life lived well and full into that which waits beyond.

Those left behind expressed faith that they would one day again resume that journey with him.

As for me, in death Vincent left me with the feeling that I wanted to live a better life than that I have been living, that I wanted to be a better man than I have yet been, that I wanted to spend more time with my wife and to hold her in my arms and to let her know that despite my perpetually erring and wayward ways I love and cherish her ever so dearly.

I wanted to do better with my children than I ever have done, and to bring the same kind of love, joy and devotion to my grandchildren that I could see Vincent brought to his.

Perhaps on this final count, I can yet succeed - although Vincent Craig left a very high standard to match.

The bed upon which I awoke was a cot inside the house of Vincent’s oldest son, Dustinn, the filmmaker whose works you may have seen on PBS. The cot was placed in his office, surrounded by computer, video and still photography equipment, and a library filled with books on Apache and Navajo history and culture, gathered as research both for his past and future projects.

Along with Vincent’s song, I could also hear the muted sounds of jets, approaching and departing Sky Harbor Airport, of air being driven by the fan that hangs suspended from the ceiling above me and of traffic, barely heard, passing by on nearby University Avenue.

Otherwise, it was quiet in the house. I immediately opened up my laptop and began to write this, because I knew it would not be long until people began to appear and gather and my attention would then be taken elsewhere.

As I neared the end of this write up, I heard the small sound of chords being rapidly struck on an unplugged electric guitar. Although very different, the sound strongly reminded of that of Vincent playing “Rita.”

I stepped away from this computer and passed through the door of this office into the dining room and this is what I found, Vincent’s grandson, Kraig, playing his guitar.

“What are you playing?” 

“Nothing, really,” he answered. “Just a random progression of chords.”

Since I arrived here about 24 hours ago, I have heard many great stories about Vincent from his family members. It may take me a few days or I may do it in pieces over days, but I will post a tribute to Vincent based on such memories.