I turn the clock back to right side up and fall into wedding preparations; etc - and three Young Writer studies

I decided that it was time to turn the clock back to rightside up. I wasn't certain that I could do it if I didn't absolutely have to - and I didn't have to. But I wanted to see what daylight looked again - even if it was just the muted daylight of Wasilla in December. "If I get up before 11:00, I'm going to go to Abby's for breakfast," I told Margie, just before she went to bed at 1:00 AM.

I stayed up for three more hours. There was no point in trying to go to bed early - I would just lie awake if I did. So, at 4:00 AM, I set my iPhone alarm for 10:00 AM - and then I just lay in bed awake, until close to 6:00 AM. After that, I slept sporadically until a few minutes before 9:00 AM, then I got up, auto-started the car and then, right about 9:00 AM, climbed in and headed over. 

As I drove down Seldon toward Abby's, I got the thrill of my life: I saw a school bus coming.

As I parked, I could see Heather through the window. I could not see Abby. I could not see her truck, either. That's because she was home, visiting grandkids.

When the cafe first opened up on the Fourth of July, Abby tried opening up at 7:00 AM, but that didn't work out too good and it gave her a very long work day, as the restaurant does not close until 8:00 PM. So she tried opening up at 8:00, but that didn't work that great, either. She said that I was about the only one who came at those hours, and since I usually only come once a week, she moved opening time to 9:00 AM.

I was the first customer of the day. I took a seat at the table that I always do if no one beats me to it - the little round one, right by the window adjacent to the door.

There was a card lying on the window sill, so I picked it up to see what it was. I would tell you, but you can see for yourself.

I turned it over to see what was on the backside and found out that the guy on the front was St. Michael. And here was a prayer to him, beseeching him to use his sword against evil on behalf of the supplicant.

A pickup pulled up and a woman got out. I recognized her immediately, so I pointed my camera at her to see what she might look like viewed through the reflections upon the window.

Again, you can see for yourself.

It was Arlene Warrior, who I had first met over 25 years ago when she was Arlene Lord, a student at the University of Alaska, Anchorage. I was working for the Tundra Times then, and was doing a story on Alaska Native students at UAA. 

I don't remember all the details about the interview and the story that I wrote way back then, but I do remember that she hoped that once she got out of college whatever she learned might help her to earn lots of money.

Now she told me that her daughter was getting married December 16, and she wanted me to be the photographer.

Oh, that is always a tough one! 

I am not a wedding photographer.

But how could I say, "no?" I told her to give me a little time to think about it. I told her that if I did it, I would not shoot it like a wedding photographer does, but like a photojournalist.

She said that was good.

I asked if she would mind if I put it on this blog and said that would be fine.

She wondered how much she would pay me.

I didn't know.

When I was in New York in late September/early October, I met a photojournalist who also shoots weddings. He charges $15,000 a wedding and will only shoot on the condition that he will do the editing and pick the pictures, which he then makes a Blurb type book out of. 

He limits himself to six weddings a year. With the income from those weddings, he is then free to go about and shoot the photojournalism projects that he wants. If he doesn't make a lot of money, fine. His wedding work will carry him through.

But there is no way I can charge $15,000 - not even close.

The wedding will be at the Alyeska ski resort. Her daughter will wear a dress that Arlene described as beautiful, white, buckskin. If I remember right, Arlene made it - but maybe it was her daughter or perhaps they sewed on it together.

Arlene went back to the truck and then came back with this piece of moose skin that her mother, who lives in Kaktovik, gave her. Arlene is making it into a wedding shirt for her son, Roland Warrior, who was named after her father, the late Roland Lord.

Arlene and her husband are spending a lot of money on this wedding, but there are two things they are not going to spend money on - liquor and the bar, and the Alyeska Starbucks coffee shop. "I'm not going to get anybody drunk," she explained to me. If any of the guests want to go to the bar and buy drinks for themselves, then that will be fine.

As for the coffee, Arlene says she will not patronize Starbucks. This, she said, is because on 9/11, there was a Starbucks not far from Ground Zero that stayed open. When thirsty firemen, risking their lives in the hope that they might save others, Starbucks made them pay for water, she told me.

So she does not patronize Starbucks, and Starbucks is the coffee shop at Alyeska.

"If people want to go into Starbucks and buy their own coffee, okay," she told me.

Pretty soon, Heather came with my omelette and hashbrowns, cooked by Shelly. Boy, that omelette was good! Abby's Home Cooking produces the best omelettes I have bought in this valley.

As I drove home the moderately long way, this snowplow came charging past.

It was about this same time that my iPhone alarm went off in my pocket.

Back home, Pistol-Yero was chillin' in the warmth of the fireplace.

Before I started to work, I took a walk. This raven came flying by, a feather missing. Did you see the raven, Sandy?

Soundarya? Soundu? 

At 4:00 PM, I headed out on the usual excursion to Metro Cafe, where I shot three Young Writer studies. Here is the first:

Study of the Young Writer, Shoshana, #3222: The young writer smiles as she prepares an order for whomever is inside the truck in front of me.

Study of the Young Writer, Shoshana, #42: The young writer prepares to deliver that order.

Study of the Young Writer, Shoshana, #10,029: Shoshona with her beau, Justin. As you can see they are very happy together. May they long remain so.

I took the long way home. Not as long as some long ways. I didn't drive through Texas. That would have been the long way home. But it was longer than it could have been if I had taken the most direct route, which is very boring and it gets me home too fast.

Along the way, I crossed paths with a school bus.

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Tikigaq: back out on the ice with two WEIO Olympic champions, I see my final whale for this Point Hope visit, but no polar bear

On my final full day in Point Hope this trip, I found Krystle tying braids into the hair of David Thomas. David has roots here, lives in Palmer, but comes back as often as he can to reconnect with his traditional way of life.

David is also a star at the World Eskimo-Indian Olympics, held each summer in Fairbanks. Last year, he won first place in the knuckle hop, the toe-kick, the one hand reach, the Alaska high kick, the blanket toss and also received the sportsmanship award.

Many readers probably do not know what those events are. It has been a long time since I have covered WEIO. In her comments to this blog, Annette Donaldson has been urging me to come up for WEIO and has pointed out that this summer will be the 50th anniversary of the games and so will be extra special.

If I can go to WEIO next month, I will show you those events. I have much going on this summer and a huge amount of work that I must complete and so cannot say for certain that I will be able to attend, but if it is feasible, then I will.

I will look forward to it with both excitement and dread.

Excitement to witness the games, the dances, the traditional clothing fashion displays, all the events and the protocol of strong sportsmanship, but dread at the thought of having to join in the media scrum and being forced to jostle about with all the other photographers and videographers who will be covering the event.

Even back in the 80's, when I used to attend WEIO regularly, before there was a camera in every phone, it could be a real battle and I remember some hard and sharp elbows. So I fear it will really be a media scrum this year.

Even if it is, a photographer at WEIO should be polite, calm and good tempered at all times - just like the athletes. Being polite and a good sport and even giving assistance and encouragement to those you compete against is part of WEIO tradition and protocol.

Later that afternoon, I followed Jesse Frankson Sr. and David back out to the lead. Jesse is also a WEIO star and holds the world record in the one-foot high kick (Canadian style) - 9'10". the one-hand reach - 8'10" and the kneel jump - 63 1/4 inches.

So here I was, on the ice, with two of Alaska's most famous Native Olympic stars - right here on the ice of Tikigaq - where many of the games were born.

Jesse and David had come out earlier in the day and had happened upon a huge polar bear. David had watched in amazement as Jesse and the bear had spent some time studying each other while being separated only by about 15 feet.

We hoped that we might find that bear this trip as well.

The lead had still been open when Jesse and David had been out earlier, and so they also had hoped they might catch a beluga.

When we got there, the lead was closing fast. This bowhead swam through a mix of newly freezing slush ice and ice that was traveling in on the southwest wind.

Soon, the lead was completely closed. Yes, this is the very same stretch of sea pictured in past posts with belugas and bowheads swimming through it, with an umiak traveling through wide-open seas.

That is how fast it can change.

And when it gets like this, the hunt shuts down and the hunters must wait for the water to open again.

We meandered a bit on the return to the village, hoping to find the big bear. We did not find it, but we did find this raven perched atop a peak of pressure-ridge ice.

Jesse and Krystle, preparing meal-sized portions of their share of this spring's maktak for freezing.

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Kivgiq 2011, part 9: Chie Sakakibara of Japan, beloved in the Arctic, and Ernest Nageak become ravens in Barrow

I am continually amazed at the coincidences that occur in my life. Early this morning, a bit after midnight, I was still working on my first edit of my Kivgiq pictures. Finally, I reached the first frames of the Grand Finale and I thought, "it is time to take a break."

So I decided that I would go into the house, get a glass of water and then come back to my desk. I also decided that before I began to edit more pictures, I would take a couple of minutes and send a message to my friend, Dr. Chie Sakakibara, because I hadn't sent one for awhile and I wanted to be sure she knew that she continued to occupy a place in that portion of my brain that is devoted to kind thoughts.

When I stepped into the house, I found Margie watching the TV in horror and amazement. So I looked at the TV, too. There, I saw what probably all readers have repeatedly seen by now - a horrible tsunami, rushing across the Japanese countryside - smashing, destroying, killing, sweeping cars, houses, buildings, animals and presumably people away as though they were tiny toys.

My mind, of course, immediately focused on Chie. I knew she would be safe - she was in Oklahoma. I reasoned that her family and her dog, Poochie, in Japan would also be safe but I had no way to know for certain.*

So I got my water, watched the TV for awhile, then came back here to my office and computer, pulled up her Facebook page, dropped in a public comment of hope, and then sent her a private message.

As anyone who knows Chie would suspect, many people were sending her comments of encouragement and prayer - and most of those messages were coming from Arctic Alaska.

This is because Chie is well loved in the Arctic.

I think just about everybody who knows Chie loves Chie - and that includes me. And I do not use the word "love" lightly, as it is so often used.

I mean "love," in that people care about and cherish her. Especially Iñupiat people, whom she has embraced and with whom, working with Dr. Aaron Fox of Columbia University, she has helped to repatriate many Iñupiaq songs that had been recorded in the 1940's but then lost.

Chie was at Kivgiq, where I caught her in this photo just as she reached the end of a invitational "fun dance" with the Nuvugmiut Dancers of Point Barrow.

After Doctors Fox and Sakakibara repatriated the songs to Barrow, the dance groups there all took great interest in them - and some performers were so inspired that they formed a new group, the Taġiuġmiut Dancers.

The singers, drummers and dancers of Suurimaaŋitchuat also incorporated many of the repatriated songs into their performances.  Suurimaaŋitchuat also loves to put on the Raven Dance, which originated in Alaska, migrated to Russia, and then faded away here.

After the ice curtain melted in the late 1980's, there was a great reunion of the Inuit peoples of Alaska and Russia and the Russians returned the Raven Dance to Alaska, where it has been enthusiastically performed ever since.

On the final night of Kivgiq, as Suurimaaŋitchuat prepared to again perform the Raven Dance, Ernest Nageak was looking for his dance partner but could not find her. 

Someone shouted, "Get Chie!"

So he did. And Chie, who had not expected nor prepared for such a responsibility, put her camera  down on the floor and joined Ernest. Chie, btw, is an excellent photographer - I would not say it if it were not so.

Here they are, Chie and Ernest, about to become ravens. Chie studies Ernest's movements even as she dances with him.

Ernest flaps his raven wings. Chie flaps her raven wings.

Ernest takes a charming little raven hop...

Chie takes a charming little raven hop...

Oh, how these ravens danced!

...and danced...

...and danced...

...they flapped their wings... they strutted...

...they checked each other out...

...it was not the first time Chie had ever danced as a raven...

...it was the second...

"The day before, Mattie Jo Ahgeak danced the same raven dance with me, so I knew the movements and development a little better when I danced with Ernest," she explained to me on Facebook this morning.

"When I danced, the joy and excitement overrode my shyness and Japanese politeness. I was simply happy to have become part of the circle of music, friendship, and generous sharing of bounty - including the strong tradition of Inupiaq expressive culture - based on beautiful subsistence and human relations."

Chie saw someone sitting at the front of the crowd, smiling big at her, taking her picture repeatedly. She decided to go tease him.

It was Roy Nageak, Ernest's father.

"He's my favorite Inupiaq man and whaling captain. Also, he's my godfather. He gave me my first Eskimo name, Kuninga. He was also smiling so happily as he kept shooting our photos as we danced ... I could not leave him alone on the floor! I was hoping he would dance with us, but oh well, the time was too short."

"In Inupiaq culture, I particularly love their strong belief in sharing based on traditional human-animal relations," Chie Facebook messaged me

"I am fascinated with various ways in which reverence towards people, animals, and places is woven into the acts of singing, dancing, and drumming. Drumming unifies the minds and bodies of the people and the whales (sometimes caribous and other creatures), and singing and dancing enhance interpersonal/intertribal relations. I see that music is a basis of Inupiaq cultural resilience and sustainability."

Dr. Chie Sakakibara - the Raven - whose homeland has today been hit hard by an 8.9 earthquake and a devastating tsunami.

"Invitations to join the dancers by Ernest and Mattie Jo almost made me cry with joy," Chie told me. "This is my 7th year for my arctic research, and it feels like I literally grew up with them as a person (although I am 10 years older than Ernest).

"I love the Inupiat, and they love me so dearly. I can never thank my adopted families enough for how generously they have incorporated me (and my friend, Aaron) into their whaling cycle and cultural fabric. Barrow is definitely my home now, and my heart will always be there no matter where I may move during the rest of my life.

"As the Inupiaq call themselves "People of the Whales," I now feel that I am also made of the bowhead (I still eat muktuk everyday that Julia Kaleak gave me last month). This is truly happy feeling. I am proud to be an adopted Inupiaq."

I had hoped to get some comments from Ernest as well, but I have been unable to reach him.

So, when it comes to his regard for Chie, I will let this closing picture speak for him.

WAIT!!!

I just heard that Mac ping that tells me a new email has come in. Let me go check...

...it's from Ernest! This is what he has to say:

"We always bring people out to dance the Raven dance with us - it's a crowd favorite. So I went out, asked a few people to join me dance and they said no. So I seen Chie so I went straight to her cause I knew she wouldn't say no!

"It was fun dancing with her - even if she didnt know the song. She went along with it and did great! She means a lot to me cause the family of PK13 (whaling crew) took her in on 2005 when she went to our whale and helped butcher and cooked until we were done!

"She is like my Aunty - that's what all us young people call her! Everyone loves her on the North Slope 'cause she's so nice and caring and has no negative thoughts towards people! I was thinking more about Japan just cause I know Chie and her family is there. She is like my family!"

*Chie posted this message about her family on Facebook:

"Thanks for your thoughts & prayers, my friends. It is certainly a very sad and difficult time for Japan, but thankfully my family is safe. My brother who lives in Tokyo described that the experience was "simply beyond words."

View images as slide show

Margie and I drop in to Metro Cafe - she drives on to Anchorage, I walk home; boy takes precarious seat overlooking the temple and the sea

Jacob and Lavina had something to do Monday night, so they called and asked if Margie could come in to babysit and stay for the night.

This meant that I would be without a car. So we agreed that Margie and I would leave together at coffee break time, we would stop at Metro Cafe, go inside, enjoy a cup and cinnamon roll together and then she would drive on to Anchorage and I would walk back home.

So here is Elizabeth, seen not through the window from the outside, but from the inside, preparing our coffees.

And here is Elizabeth serving one of those coffees. As you can tell by the punch card lying on the counter, the coffees this day still came courtesy of the generous reader in North Carolina. Even with a card, I still lay down cash for the tip.

In past posts, I have lamented about the ironic fact that when we were young and she possessed all of her exceptionally exquisite youthful, beauty, Margie would almost always refuse to let me photograph her. Most of the exceptions involved the kids also being in the picture. 

As I have pointed out, Now that we have grandkids, she has somewhat relaxed about it - especially if the grandkids are in the pictures. No grandkids were with us at Metro, but she did tolerate a photo. As you can see, "tolerate" is the exact right word.

And then my eye got distracted and my lens pulled away from her beautiful face by this four-wheeling guy and his dog, as they whizzed by. The dog is kind of hard to see, but if you look close, maybe you can find it. If you can't see it here and it is important enough to you, you can try again in slide show view.

It's really not all that important and I won't feel bad if you don't.

Inside the Metro Cafe, Carmen study, #13,496: Carmen poses with Margie and me

Were I to take the most direct route home, I would need to walk about two-and-half miles. That route follows two busy roads - Lucille and Seldon streets. I did not want to walk along busy roads al the way home. I wanted solitude. So I chose a route that would add about one mile, but in which I could find more solitude.

Even that route started out on a busy road, Spruce Street, which is where I walk right here.

Two ravens flew over as I walked down Spruce Street.

In 2002 or 2003, not long after I had made the leap from film to digital cameras, I managed to purchase a bulky, professional, Canon 1D camera body that shot an 11 mp image - the highest resolution available at the time - for just under $8,000. Funny - that I could manage such a purchase then, but now that I am more established and better known than ever, it would be impossible.

One morning, as I waited for my next flight during a stopover in Boise, Idaho, a gentleman who was then about the age I am now took note of my camera. He was impressed, his face full of smiles.

"I'll bet that digital photography is great for you," he gushed. "You can make your pictures better than ever - like, if you take a picture and there are powerlines in it, you can take them out."

"I wouldn't do that," I answered. "If there are powerlines there, they are there. They are part of the scene. I won't take them out. That would be a violation of my journalistic ethics."

This really angered and offended him. He became so indignant that his face turned red and his nose damn near popped off. His voice turned sharp, rasp and sputtery.

I tried to tell him that it did not matter to me what he did with his, that I did not apply my ethics to him, but that I was a photojournalist and a documentarian and that it would undermine my credibility if I started removing powerlines, just because I could. If I were doing ads or a different kind of art that is not documentary, an art in which the literal does not matter, then what the hell, it would be okay.

He did not buy this. He felt personally insulted and let me know it.

I imagine that he probably has a digital camera now - assuming that he still lives and is healthy enough to take pictures.

Perhaps he now takes the powerlines out of his pictures. If so, I'll bet that each time he does, he thinks of me and gets to feeling all indignant all over again.

But really, I do not care what he or anyone else does. I will not judge them for it.

As for me, the powerlines are simply just part of the picture.

Life has powerlines.

I continued on. A jet passed in the distance. I got a call from a friend, in tears, to tell me that her aunt had just died. I spoke what words of comfort to her that I could.

I walked on in solitude. As darkness slowly deepened, I passed beneath a street lamp and it cast my shadow before me. If it appears that there is a spirit accompanying me, then I must note that it is only a scuff on the trail left by someone who gunned their snowmachine right here and spun the track as they drove over this spot.

Yet, this does not mean that a spirit could not have been walking with me, or perhaps gliding along beside me. If the thought should frighten anyone, let me assure you, that spirit would have been a good one. Troubled, perhaps, but good. Simply, fundamentally, purely - good.

I don't know about spirits - if they truly exist or if they are just a creation of the human mind, a fiction, a survival mechanism to help us bear that which does not seem to be bearable. Yet, if spirits do not exist, then why do I so often seem to feel a spiritual presence? In something so simple, perhaps, as a sudden, unexpected, solitary, gust of wind in my face, at just the right moment?

And this one from India

A youth took a somewhat precarious seat overlooking the Mamallapuram temple grounds and the Bay of Bengal and then asked me to take his picture.

So I did.

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We get our Christmas shopping done early; Todd - met at Carr's; Melanie gets the blessing of an elephant

We had no milk for oatmeal, so I didn't cook any. Instead, I sat down right here at my computer and started to work on pictures. Then Margie came in and wondered what we should do about Christmas shopping. "Well," I answered, "we're out of milk so we might as well go to breakfast and then see if we can get some shopping done."

She agreed. I remote started the car, let it warm up for about 15 minutes. It was still very chilly inside and the seats were like solid blocks of ice, but we climbed into the car and headed for Mat-Su Valley Family Restaurant. As we neared, this raven passed over the car.

"This guy is really annoying," Margie told Connie, our waitress, as I took this picture. Connie did not agree, but she laughed politely so that Margie would think she did.

I believe that I may have ranted about this before, and I probably will again, but this is one of the great ironies of my life as a photographer. It is only in recent years - pretty much since grandkids began to enter our lives - that Margie has tolerated me taking photographs of her at all.

True, I did manage to get a few in here and there, mostly when the children were somehow involved, but fundamentally, I, who am possessed with genuine passion to photograph anything and everything, found myself with this exceptionally gorgeous and beautiful wife and everyday that we were together I would look upon her and I would want to photograph her and everyday she would refuse to be photographed.

Be assured, I still find her beautiful - sometimes so much so that it makes me ache just to look at her. She now has the beauty of an aging woman who has weathered much in life, suffered many hurts and disappointments but has created a family that loves and adores her.

Each one of us loves and adores her.

Back when we were first married, she possessed a different kind of beauty - exquisite physical beauty of the most desirous kind - her hair so deep black, long and wavy against her lovely brown skin, her eyes radiant, dancing with fun and mischief - and I, the artist, who looked upon her every day, was not allowed to document this beauty - except on rare occassions, almost always involving children.

The only exception that I can think of is this one, which I posted on Mother's Day last.

I cannot remember how I persuaded her to pose that day, but, even though she relented, if you click the link and look at the picture, you will see that she was not happy about it.

And now, as the years and decades push those days of youthful beauty ever farther back, I sometimes long to look at the photos of my beautiful, young, wife. I long to show the photos to her children, her grandchildren and say to them, "see how beautiful she was? She had a host of would be suitors and yet she chose, short, awkward, shy, socially inept, me and together we made you."

But those pictures do not exist. I cannot look at them; I cannot show them to anybody.

If all the people who I have photographed over the years would have reacted to my camera the way she did, I would have utterly failed as a photographer. I would probably be selling newspapers on the street somewhere, because there's nothing else I could have done.

Our first stop was at Meta Rose Square, home of All I Saw Cookware. Get it. "All I Saw?" "Wasilla" backwards? Was-i-lla?

We parked right next to this car. I am not quite certain why some guys feel compelled to emblazon their vehicles in this manner. To attract attention, I guess.

In my case, it didn't work. I didn't even notice. I didn't notice at all. I walked away without even giving it a sideways glance.

I am not quite sure why, but, as we walked through Meta Rose, I found myself wondering why I had to grow up Mormon; I was sort of a cowboy, once, briefly, but a Mormon sort of cowboy and it wasn't like this.

Inside the store, we came upon this piggy bank. As piggy banks always do, this one transported my mind back to Pendleton, Oregon, when I was five years old. My mom had taken me downtown to go shopping and when we came to JC Penney's, there was a red, plastic, piggy bank in the window. Or maybe it was the window of a bank. Or perhaps Woolworth's. Whatever window it was, the pig on the other side was wearing a little hat.

I wanted that piggy bank. I wanted it badly.

Mom had grown up very hard in the Depression and was against all spending that was in any way frivolous. And a piggy bank was frivolous. One could make a very fine bank from an empty Morton's salt box, or a band-aid can.

She did not understand that it was not that I wanted a bank - I wanted the little red pig with the hat on its head, but in the name of frugality I was denied this item that maybe cost 25 cents. I never did get a piggy bank. I kept my coins in Morton salt boxes and bandaid cans. And every time I would go into a store and see a piggy bank, I longed to have it.

Then, when I became a young man, a curious thing happened. I would go into a store, see a piggy bank and feel the same longing. So I would buy the piggy bank.

I bought all kinds of piggy banks. It became a waste of money. There was no place to put all these piggy banks. At the Alaska State Fair, I even found a little red plastic one, wearing a hat - made from the very same mold as the one that I had been denied in the first place.

Finally, I had to get rid of most of those piggy banks.

As for the ones I kept - I don't even know where they are now - not even the little red plastic one.

When I saw this one yesterday, I wanted to buy it - not as a gift but for me.

But I didn't. I resisted temptation and moved on.

I am not going to show you what Margie is holding in her hand, because it might be a gift for someone. It might not be, but if it is, I would not want to spoil the surprise.

Out in the hall, a little boy took a ride on giant duckling.

We left the store with two days to go. This is the earliest we have ever done our shopping. Especially me. I am usually in a store at closing time on Christmas Eve, buying ceramic roosters, things like that.

Next we went to Fred Meyer's, where a raven sat upon a pole. You can't tell it in this tiny window, but that raven has its head cocked to one side. It looks very "Chooo 'weet."

Margie checks out some socks as gifts for grandkids. When I was small, it was such a great disappointment to open up a gift only to find socks. I wanted toys!

Now, this looks like a gift that a little boy could like! At least if his name is Kalib Hess. But then Kalib already has a spatula. What would he do with another?

I suppose this must be adorable, but personally, I found it to be just a little bit eery and frightening, somewhat macabre.

Then we happened upon a very cute scene - the two month old puppy, Brisa, held in the warm embrace of her human, Sierra.

Although we had eaten breakfast out, we found ourselves feeling hungry again. So we drove past the little cove at the west end of Wasilla lake, looking for hotdogs.

We found two hotdogs - both at Dairy Queen.

Dairy Queen has good hot dogs - especially the foot-longs. To all those from out of town who wonder whether or not they should come and visit Wasilla - come. If nothing else, for the Dairy Queen hot dogs.

They will taste just the same as the Dairy Queen hot dogs in your town, if you are an American.

So you will feel right at home - even if our little city is a bit more odd than yours. Which, trust me, it will be.

The view from Dairy Queen as I eat my hot dog. How come these guys are still up here in the north?

Late in the evening, Margie and I headed to Carr's, to buy turkeys and other food for Christmas dinner. Just as we reached the turkeys, this fellow stopped me. "Are you the guy who does the Wasilla 300 blog?" he asked.

Indeed, I am.

He told me that we disagree politically, but that he loves the blog - especially some of the stories that I do in Rural Alaska. He said that he has been looking out for me as he moves around town.

"Wasilla is a small town," he said. "I knew we would cross paths some day."

And there she is, my Margie, checking out the turkeys. We bought two 16 pounders.

And this one from India:

Remember the scorpion from yesterday? Photographed at, as Cawitha refreshed my memory with the name that just always flees my brain, Hampi?

I took this picture approximately 100 yards away from the place where I took that one.

It is Melanie, about to be blessed by an elephant. A "chooo 'weet" elephant.

For those who did not read the comments left on yesterday's post, one was left by Cawitha, Soundarya's cousin.

Yesterday, I speculated how Sandy might have reacted if I could have showed her the photo of the scorpion, and that was with the word, "Chooo'weet! I added that there was one element in the photo that would likely have disturbed her - namely, that the string had been tied to the scorpion's stinger.

Cawitha agreed, and took it one step further. She imagined Sandy not looking at the picture but being there at Hampi with us:

"Am sure Soundarya (Sandy) would have said "Chooo 'weet" and if she were to see this she would have ensured the arthropod was set free. She was the most compassionate person."

Thank you, Cawitha. I am certain that is exactly what Sandy would have done. And no matter how tough a guy the individual walking the scorpion might have imagined himself to be, he would have had to back down to her, just as did the vet who at first refused to treat the raven that she saved with Anil's help.

Cawitha, btw, has been my friend since the day that Sandy wed Anil. Like Margie, Cawitha does not like to be photographed and so that day asked me to please not take her picture. I didn't, unless maybe as part of the crowd, so I cannot show you what she looks likes. 

However, we are committed to one day going "trekking" together, perhaps in the Himalayas, perhaps in Alaska, maybe both. I expect that then, I will get her picture.

I can't be postive, but I think so.

Now, contrast this picture to yesterday's. Everything is turned around. It is the animal who is huge and powerful, the person who is small and relatively weak - especially because this person does not have the protection of a poisonous stinger.

But the elephant is gentle. The elephant blesses my daughter with its strength. The elephant does not harm her. And when the elephant laid the end of its heavy and powerful trunk upon my daughter's head, so powerful that it could easily have wrapped it around her neck and broken it, it felt like a blessing to her. 

As it did to me, when the elephant blessed me.

This was the second elephant in India to bless me.

No, I do not worship elephants. But this does not mean that I cannot appreciate being blessed by one.

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