Kalib moves out, part 4: he blows his nose, then flushes the tissue down the toilet; Wasilla today: At high noon, a short man casts a tall shadow

You will recall that Lisa used the big, red, inflatable ball to take away Kalib's tears. A bit later, he switched his attention to a small, Spiderman basketball. But the little fellow was very tired, had missed his nap and was more than a bit cranky. Soon, he was crying again.

Grandma invites him into the bathroom to help her place the no-slip bath matt in the tub. This pleases him. 

After the matt is placed, Kalib blows his nose into a Kleenix. Grandma instructs him to toss it into the toilet. Then Grandma tries to stop him as he thrusts it in instead. She is too late. His hand goes all the way down to the water.

Oh well. Soap and water will kill any germs he might have picked up.

Kalib flushes the toilet and sends the snotty Kleenix swirling.

"Bye, bye!" Kalib says, as he waves to the tissue just before it gets sucked under.

Today in Wasilla, I took my usual walk. Very quickly, I came upon this sign that marks our street as Sarah's Way.

When I was in India, come high noon, my shadow would completely hide beneath my feet. Here in Wasilla, in late fall, my shadow falls very long. You would think I was tall, instead of short.

As I walk down Tamar, a school bus passes by on Seldon.

Car passing by on Seldon. Hey! That face looks familiar! I can't be sure, so I won't identify or misidentify the person, but maybe.

I do not know this guy at all. I am certain of it - the guy driving, that is. I do know the shadow. That is me. I am The Shadow.

Having fun on a snowmachine.

I pedal into the graveyard and am surprised to happen on Wasilla's former mayor - this individual who put us into our house on Sarah's Way

I have pedaled by the Wasilla graveyard on Aspen many times, but, until today, never into it. Today I did and was surprised to come upon this grave first thing: Charles Howard Bumpus - Charlie Bumpus. Mayor Charlie Bumpus. Were it not for this man, perhaps my family and I would never have lived in Wasilla at all.

Lisa would probably not even exist, because where else but inside this house could circumstance have brought Margie and I together at just the right moment to conceive her? 

We met Charlie Bumpus a little more than a year after we had rolled into Alaska, homeless and jobless. By then, I had a marginal income, plus the first Alaska Permanent Fund Dividend and the state had a low-interest, guaranteed, loan program to help first time home buyers on the struggling side to purchase a house. Charlie Bumpus had come up with a brilliant scheme on how to bring these home buyers to him.

Even with the state program, a house like the one we are in would have been out of reach, but Bumpus figured out that if he created a subdivision, then took orders for five houses at a time, he could build at package prices, lower the cost and make them affordable to more people and thus make a good profit himself.

So we drove out from Anchorage and met him in a downtown Wasilla devoid of fast food joints and chain stores. He was tall, slender and freckled; he had blond, curly, hair and was highly animated and energized. Soon, as we followed, both desperate and fearful to keep up, he sped at an insane speed down Lucille Street, which in those days was a narrow, windy, gravel, road, kicking up gravel, dust, and stones. Each time he rounded a curve, it looked like we was about to slide off the road. I could feel the tires slip a bit as we rounded those same curves behind him. It was easy to imagine that we might soon fly right off the road.

Finally, we reached Ravenview Subdivision, # 1, where we transferred to his car. Charlie drove us through the gravel streets past empty lots of birch, spruce and cottonwood that stood over a spongy, mossy forest floor and then gave us an inside tour of the few model homes he had already built.

"I'm not doing this for the money," he insisted. "I'm doing it so that one day I can drive through here with my daughter, show her a thriving neighborhood and tell her, 'your dad built this!'"

We chose a lot on Sarah's Way, picked the cheapest of the three-bedroom home models, looked at linoleum samples, cabinets, sinks, refrigerators, showers, toilets, ovens, woodstoves and such and chose what we wanted.

We then signed the papers, knowing full well that we had just wasted his time and ours. We knew the state was not going to approve us for the program.

But the state did. And here we are. 

Bumpus quickly rose to become one of Wasilla's most important residents, famous not only for his business skills, but his talent as a saxophone player. He ran in races and participated in other sports. 

He was fit and prosperous. Life looked good for him. In 1985, he was elected Mayor of the City of Wasilla. Less than a year later, at the age of 45, Mayor Bumpus suffered a sudden heart attack and died - right on the 15th birthday of his daughter, Sarah.

I wonder how many times he had driven her down the street that he named for her? Our street? Did he swell with fatherly pride as he drove her past our house? Did she feel daughterly adoration toward him? 

And what would he have thought of Sarah Palin, who, in 1996, became the third mayor to succeed him? If he had finished his term and had then been relected, the whole political landscape of Wasilla would have played out differently than it did. Would Sarah Palin have even become Mayor? Would anybody, outside of a few locals, even know her name?

So today I pedaled into the Wasilla graveyard and came immediately upon his headstone. It was a modest headstone, for one of such wealth and prestige.

A little further, I happened upon a cherub.

Just beyond that, I found a married couple waiting for three of their four children to join them. The other already has.

What did this mean? Was it a child's grave? Or an adult, who was loved by some who imagined this to be the way he had lived as a child? Or was he, perhaps, a fan of Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer?

I saw some graves that were definitely children and, just as I did these, I photographed them as I pedaled past. But I didn't post the pictures.

Out in the trees, I saw the Virgin Mary looking at me.

A cherub, bathing nude in the sun.

In the upper graveyard, the new part, devoid of trees, I again saw Mary.

They seemed to rise from the ground as ghosts, and I could not even read their names. I wondered about their origins and how it was that they came to live in Wasilla, and if some of the many people of the old Russian faith that I see around here - the women in their long skirts and head scarfs, the men in their plain clothes - descend directly from them?

Since this was a bicycle shoot, I had resolved not to get off my bike or the trail, but I compromised, because I wanted to see this couple closer up, as individuals. I laid my bike down at the edge of the grass and walked over. 

This is he.

And this is she.

Can you see how much work I have ahead of me, if I am to meet my goal of finding the soul of Wasilla? 

So far, I have done very little. Given Margie and my needs to survive, coupled with all the work I still want to do outside of Wasilla, it seems so impossible, but I believe that I am going to do it.

That means that one day fairly soon, before I join them, I must get to know these two, at least a little bit.

I then picked up my bike and pedaled home.

Easter Sunday, part C: We eat and hang out

Remember those strawberries that I photographed in Carr's yesterday? Here they are again - desert, on Easter Sunday, 2009 at the Hess home in Wasilla, Alaska.

The main course was ham, mashed potatoes, potato salad and green beans. Even before dinner, we could not stop ourselves from eating eggs. When it came time for the strawberry shortcake, Kalib wandered about, mooching off of whomever he saw eating in front of him - in this case, Mom.

Charlie borrowed my guitar for awhile and filled the house with wild music. As for the guitar, it is a martin and I first saw it in the display window of a music store in Globe, Arizona, in 1976. I went inside, the salesman got it down for me, I took a seat, and played a bit of Bach on it.

Never had a guitar sounded so good in my hands. I had to have it. It cost $1800 and my annual income was $10,000. I didn't care. I put some money down on lay-away and kept paying until that day came when I could finally pick it up and bring it home.

I did love that guitar and I even played it in a master class with Christopher Parkening. Many people used to think that I was really good, but that was only because they did not know better. I knew better.

There is only one way to be really good on the classic guitar, and that is to play and play and play and play. Practice, practice, practice. I'm a photographer, I'm a writer. I hardly have time for both. How could I be a classical guitarist, too?

So I put the guitar aside, because the only thing that I could do with it was to play works that other people had composed, that other guitarists could interpret much better than I could - but I can create originals with a camera, and keyboard.

Once, during one of those times that I have mentioned when I was broke and in dire need of money, I took this guitar to a pawnshop right here in Wasilla. The fool behind the counter asked me how much it was worth. I told him.

He laughed loud and scornful, asked me what kind of fool I thought he was. At most, he said, it was worth about $150 - he had seen a lot of guitars and he knew - so he would loan me maybe $50 for it.

So I walked out of his store with no money but my guitar in its case, leaving the fool to think that he was very clever, with no idea of the profit he could have made had he given me a loan that reflected its true value, if I had then defaulted.

I often imagine that the day will come when I am able to do nothing but sit at home and write my books, and that I might then find myself with a little time to play the damn thing again.

But really, I don't think so.

As Lisa looks on in bemusement, Melanie reads a few lines from the Anchorage Daily News, concerning Wasilla's most famous resident. These are the words that she read, ""April 6, 2009, Juneau, Alaska -- Responding to the missile test by North Korea, Governor Sarah Palin today reaffirmed Alaska's commitment to protecting America from rogue nation missile attacks." 

Both of my daughters were most amused. 

Juniper came out with Lisa. We were all happy to see her, but she was unhappy the entire time that she was here.

As for the blue golf-ball, Kalib got to hunt Easter eggs twice this year. The first time in Shonto, Arizona, down in his ancestral Navajo home. There, he found an egg that designated him as a prize winner - he won a toy golf set, with a minature plastic golf cart and minature clubs, but large, blue, plastic golf balls, including this one.

Uncle "Tiger" Caleb was greatly pleased.

Melanie and Lisa continue to engage in little verbal battles, which they smile and chuckle through. Many such duels arose today, and I was at the center of at least one.

Melanie asked, "Dad, is there any way to play music in the house?"

"Dad's not anti-music!" Lisa retorted.

"I didn't say he was!" Melanie shot back.

Then everybody chuckled.

Later, their bellies full, Melanie and Charlie walked out to Melanie's car so that they could drive to Eagle River and eat a second Easter dinner with Charlie's parents.

Remember what I said when Melanie left after her last visit? It always comes to this. Every time she visits, she leaves. Every single time.

Lisa stayed longer, but, then, just before 10:00 PM, she carried Juniper to the car, came back in, passed hugs around and then she, too, drove away.

Yes, it always comes to this.

Sarah's Way turns sloppy and mucky but I face up to it; memories of the Lone Ranger; a DC-3 flies above me; yesterday's crime scene marked a shooting incident

This is what I faced this morning when I stepped out of my house and onto Sarah's Way to begin my walk. As sloppy and messy as it looked, I did not let it stop me. I walked right through it.

Seldon was dry when I reached it. I had not walked far before a pink truck came from behind. In all my decades here, this is the first pink truck that I have ever seen on Seldon.

On the other hand, I have seen this orange truck many times. I've never seen it move, though.

As you can see, we here in Wasilla are in constant touch with all the world. Some people think that we are all hillbillies, but they are wrong. Not that there is anything wrong with being a hillbilly. I think I could enjoy being a hillbilly, if I did not love Alaska so much.

As I have explained before, there are no hillbillies in Alaska, but rather, Mountain Billies.

I was pleased to see a Douglas DC 3 fly by overhead. I just wished that I were in it, in the left-hand seat, doing barrel rolls and figure eights. Maybe this very airplane helped us win World War II.

At three in the afternoon, Margie and I ventured over to Well's Fargo Financial Services to talk finance with this man, Chris. Alongside the desk where he sits is a huge photograph of a stagecoach and I liked it, even though it was canned. 

It reminded me of my own stint with the Lone Ranger. I wanted to take a photo, there in Chris's office, with the stagecoach mural in the background. But photography inside the bank is prohibited, since someone who is both exceptionally bright and in a position to lay down mandates and rules believes that a bad guy might look at such a photograph of a man sitting at a desk in front of a photo of a stagecoach and suddenly figure out how to rob that bank.

So I had to photograph Chris outside with the calendar as a stand-in for the mural.

As any American of my generation knows (and even Chris, who is of a different generation, knew), the Lone Ranger, with help from Tonto, did, in fact, break up many stagecoach robberies.

As for my stint with the masked man, it happened when I was very small and lived in Pendleton, Oregon. At that time, the Pendleton Roundup billed itself as the biggest rodeo in the world and when I was four or five, we learned that the Lone Ranger was coming to town to participate and that he would ride a stagecoach in the parade.

Then came the disturbing news, relayed to me by my big brothers, who could read the newspaper. According to news accounts, my brothers told me, when the Lone Ranger got off the plane, no one was there to greet him. Later, someone found him crying at the airport, because his feelings had been hurt.

I refused to believe this, because the Lone Ranger I admired would never cry. No. You could shoot him in the shoulder, and still he would not cry. He would get up, punch and fight and shoot the gun that you had shot him with right out of your hand.

Yet, even my Dad claimed to have read such an article.

It pained me to think that Dad would lie like that. I wished that I could read the paper for myself. I would prove them all wrong.

Come parade day, the Lone Ranger did ride through town on a stagecoach.

Guess who got to climb up on that stage coach, sit beside him, and ride a tiny ways with him, before being replaced by another little kid?

Yes. Me.

It was thrilling. And it was terrifying. To a tiny boy, it was a long way down from that stagecoat seat to the road. I feared that I would fall and shatter my shoulder - or at least my skull. So I sat beside the Lone Ranger and bawled. Part of the time. But then I got brave and smiled. Until it was time to get down. Then I bawled again.

"You're just a damn bawl-baby," my brothers told me later.

And later in life, when I was in college, I not only got to meet Tonto, but to photograph him. Jay Silverheels, the actor who played Tonto, came to BYU with Chief Dan George and I met them both, talked to them both and photographed them both.

I wonder where those photos are?

After we finished at the bank, we went across the street and joined these two ravens in the Taco Bell Drive through.

As to yesterday's crime scene, it turns out that was a shooting there. Fortunately, nobody got hit. You would be hard put to find anyone in Alaska who favors gun control, and I certainly do not. Guns are too important to life here; too many people depend on guns to live, and the idea of taking them away is irrational and stupid.

But what do you do about people like the man who shot up Tailgaters yesterday? It could have turned out much worse. Or how about all the mass murders lately, elsewhere in the US? At least two carried out by men who, in part, justified their actions through their irrational - yes, Glenn Beck, IRRATIONAL - fear that President Barack Obama was going to take their guns away.

The question is a vexing one. That man, and those who committed these murders, should not have guns. But don't even think about taking my gun away.

Oh, wait! I sold most of my guns during times when I needed money more than guns, and then lost my last rifle - a very fine lever-action 30-30 - after I crashed my plane and someone stole it from the fuselage before I did my recovery.

But I still have my shotgun. You can't take it.

And I will get another rifle. Maybe this fall. One with a fast bullet - maybe a .270. Or perhaps one to replace that good, old, reliable, powerful, hard-hitting 30-06 that I loved.

Don't even try to stop me.