Five veterans: Gilbert sees bodies pile up in Korea, Iñupiat mother Irene stands with pistol on hip and baby on back to face Japanese, Strong Man returns from Iraq to walk again; two more

Once in awhile, I still dream about the war* Gilbert Lincoln of Anaktuvuk Pass says of his experience in Korea. “I always be tired when I wake up. I don’t tell my wife about it. I don’t tell my children. I don’t want to worry them.”

Lincoln turned 21 in 1952, was drafted into the Army and sent to Fort Richardson, where a rifle was placed in his hands. Born in Noatak, he had grown up with guns. As a boy, he had followed his grandmother out reindeer herding. He attended school in Noatak, and spent much time, rifle in hand, roaming about the countryside, hunting.

This rifle had a different purpose.

After basic training, Lincoln was sent to San Diego. “They were calling for volunteers, so I volunteered. I guess I volunteered for the wrong job. The next thing I heard, they were shipping a bunch of us guys out. There was a lot of people on that boat. We landed on Parallel 46, not too far from Peking and right by Seoul someplace.

“We go into the front, every third week. It is pretty rough. No place to stay. Some people call it a one way ticket.”

In Korea, Gilbert Lincoln discovered the horror of leaving on patrol with eight or nine men and returning with only half. One time, he set out on patrol with 10 men, only to come home alone. Lincoln, who was the lone Iñupiat in his company, became a good buddy with a soldier from California and another from Texas, then lost both in combat.

“After I lost those two, I didn't have no more interest,” Lincoln remembers. “The only strength I got is from my Lieutenant. He said, ‘If you don't shoot, I will kill you.’ I think he was trying to give me courage. It worked real good.”  

In Anaktuvuk Pass, Gilbert Lincoln is known as a storyteller, but he keeps his stories of the war pretty much to himself. “The only thing that keeps you up is the Good Lord, watching down. Like they say, he is right there by you, all the time. I had a pocket sized Bible the chaplain give me. I always read it.”

After the war, Lincoln returned home to Noatak. “I was glad to come home, but it was pretty rough, not too good.” Friends and family did not understand what he had been through and he had no way to tell them. “I would get flashbacks. Sometimes, when you get it, you get real jumpy, kind of nervous. It is hard to get rid of. I was afraid if I stayed in Noatak, I would kill somebody.”

Lincoln moved to Kotzebue, where he worked as a power plant operator for the White Alice Project, a radar program designed to detect incoming Soviet missiles. There he met Ada Rulland from Anaktuvuk Pass. They were married in 1962. Gilbert joined the Alaska National Guard and served as an Eskimo Scout for 12 years.

Ada brought him home to Anaktuvuk in 1972 and he has been there ever since. He and Ada raised six children including two adopted. “It’s a good place,” Lincoln says of Anaktuvuk. “Real good country.”

In Anaktuvuk Pass, Lincoln is known to have the gift of the storyteller.  When he goes hunting, friends and family eagerly await his return, for they know he will have some good stories to tell. He shares these stories over the CB radio. Even before he begins to speak, other villagers sit by their radios and grin, for they know that whatever accounting Lincoln gives them of his adventures with caribou, wolves, wolverines or whatever he encountered will be well worth hearing.

But he tells no stories of his combat in Korea. These he keeps to himself.

“I’m proud of my military service. I’m proud of my country, in fact. My pride comes from serving my country as a US citizen,” Lincoln says, adding that he gets very hurt and angry when he sees news reports of any Americans burning or desecrating the US flag.

“A lot of people die for that flag. I’ve seen a lot of them piled up.”

Something else bothers Lincoln.

“You never hear about Korea,” he explains. “People hardly know about Korea. I would like to see the Korean vets get a little attention.”

In the spring of 1942, the people of Barrow heard that the Japanese were coming to bomb the village.

"We hear seven Japanese planes are coming to bomb Barrow, but they freeze and have to turn back," Irene Itta* remembers. A total blackout was imposed upon the community. All windows had to be sealed off so that no light escaped outside. The famous Major "Muktuk" Marston came to town to help organize the Territorial Guard. A tower the height of a house was built from empty steel drums just outside of town. There, Guard members stood sentry, scanning the skies for Japanese planes. 

Whaling season arrived. The men had no time to stand on a tower of barrels to watch for incoming Japanese airplanes.

They turned to the Barrow Mothers’ Club for help. Irene’s own husband, Miles, was stationed in Nome with the U.S. Army. Still, she did not hesitate when she was asked to volunteer for guard duty.

Irene had a tiny baby girl, Martina, who depended on her. Still, someone had to go watch for the Japanese, and that someone was Irene Itta. Early in the morning, she reported for duty. She wore her parka, and in it, tucked snugly onto her back, was baby Martina. A guardsman issued her a pistol, fully loaded and with extra bullets, and strapped it to her waist.

"He didn’t even show me how to use it," Itta muses. 

At 8:00 AM, Itta took her post atop the barrels. She had been instructed to bang upon the barrels at the first sight of anything in the sky.

So she stood there, a baby on her back and a pistol on her hip, atop a tower of steel drums, for 12 hours straight, in the cold, scanning the sky for incoming Japanese airplanes. Fortunately, baby Martina slept a lot. When she would awake, Irene would breast-feed her, there on the tower.

At 8:00 PM, Itta was off duty. She had spotted no Japanese.

"Today, they wouldn’t do that," she states. "They’d probably want to get paid. I did it so the people can have a safe place to go. No one knows about it. It was never in the papers, not on the radio. I always tell my son, when I die, I want a special ceremony. I want a flag, I want a salute, with the guns, because I served my country in the territorial guard."

My post of November 3 included a picture of Latseen Benson who had come to the post election party for Ethan Berkowitz and Diane Benson, Latseen's mother, following their unsuccessful run for Governor and Lt. Governor. Latseen was standing in that picture and I mentioned that it was good to see him standing.

This is why. 

This is Latseen, at Ted Stevens International Airport just before the Fourth of July, 2006. He has just rolled back home into Alaska for the very first time after losing his legs to an IED in Iraq. His wife Jessica stands behind him, his mother, Diane, in blue to his side.

He is greeted by a welcoming group of his people, the Tlingit and Haida.

Williard Jackson of Ketchikan drums and sings for him.

Latseen means "Strong Man" in Tlingit. A few days later, Latseen races his way to one of several gold medals that he won in the 2006 National Veterans Wheelchair Games - held that year in Anchorage.

This morning, Veterans Day, I went to breakfast at Mat-Su Valley Family Restaurant, because almost always I see a number of veterans there, identified by the words and symbols on their caps and jackets that tell their branch of service and what war they fought in.

So I thought I would spot such a veteran, or maybe a couple, and photograph them for this blog.

But when I arrived, I could see no obvious veterans at all.

"There were several here, earlier," my waitress told me.

This young man and little girl sat at the table next to mine.

As I ate, I kept waiting for an obvious veteran to appear, but none did.

Then my food was eaten. I wondered - could this gentleman be a veteran?

He looked like he could - but then veterans come from all of us, so anyone old enough to have served could look like a veteran.

"Excuse me, sir," I asked. "Are you by any chance a veteran?"

"Yes," he said. "But I served stateside."

Perhaps. But at any moment, had the need arisen, he could have been sent into harm's way.

This is him, Ray, U.S. Army, who served in the early and mid-90's, all of it stateside. He is with his niece, Amber, better known as Pickles. They were about to head out to see a movie together and were excited to get going, so I asked no further questions.

I was embarrassed to discover that I had forgotten to put a card in my camera. I had to resort to my iPhone. 

And on the Parks, Pioneer Peak in the background, this Marine passed me. I know nothing about him - when he served, where he served. All I know is that he goes by "Semper fi," as noted in his rear window. 

*The stories of Gilbert and Irene are a from a series on Native Veterans, with initial funding from the Alaska Federation of Natives,  that I did over a decade ago. Gilbert, Irene and Miles have all since passed on. Irene got her flag and her burial with military honors.

Sadly for me, I did not learn about her death until after her burial, or I would surely have been there to photograph this honor that she had earned.

I had planned to run a dozen or so such stories in this post, but I just don't have the time for now.

While I took the series as far as the available funding would allow, I never finished it. There were a number of folks who expressed an eagerness to help me find funding, but none succeeded. Still, as the opportunity presents itself, I continue to work on this. 

I will photograph veterans, Native and otherwise, anywhere and anytime that they become available to me. To the degree that they wish, I will tell their stories as well.

I am sad, though, that I was unable to get the funding that would have allowed me to continue seeking veterans out in small villages across the state, because so many, especially from World War II and Korea are gone now. And those from Vietnam are going at an increasing rate.

As the opportunity presents itself, I will continue to work on this project - for as I long as I am able, funding or no funding.

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The funeral of Vincent Craig, Part 4: A helicopter passes overhead, procession moves down the hill, military honors, Mormon honors, Apache honors

After the funeral service, the flag-draped coffin that held the body of my friend, Vincent Craig, was wheeled outside the doors of the big Mormon chapel and church house in Lakeside. Those gathered around paused, stood very silent and listened. Soon, the distant beating of whirling helicopter rotors could be heard, growing steadily louder as the chopper that they propelled through the air steadily approached.

Then the helicopter appeared, first as a tiny dot rising above the distant trees. Then it hovered directly overhead, beating the air loudly. All eyes looked up. This chopper had come from Overseas Aircraft Support, a company that rebuilds military helicopters. Vincent had showed up there a few years back, told them he had been a helicopter mechanic in the Marine Corps, had asked for a job and had got it. He had helped to rebuild this very helicopter, which, I was told by his coworker and pallbearer Richard Johnson, will soon be in service in Afghanistan.

After the helicopter disappeared, Vincent's wife, Mariddie, was surrounded by those who sought to comfort her. Before the service began, a small group of relatives and close friends had gathered in the Relief Society room, where Mariddie delivered the family prayer. She expressed her gratitude for the strength and love of her children, grandchildren, family and friends.

As I discovered when we buried my own parents, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints does not allow photography inside their chapels. I wish that I could have at least taken a picture of the congregation that had gathered in this building to say goodbye to Vincent.

This place was chosen for his funeral services because it is not just any ordinary chapel, but rather a Mormon Stake Center. While the chapel itself is large, behind it is a full-sized basketball gymnasium. A sliding partition separates the gym from the chapel. Twice each year, members of all the wards and branches within the LDS Pinetop-Lakeside Stake, a large area which includes the reservation as well as Pinetop-Lakeside and other non-Indian border areas, gather here for Stake Conference. The partition is then drawn and the chapel and the gymnasium become one huge meeting hall. Just like in Utah, white settlement in Arizona Apache country was pioneered by Mormons and their numbers remain strong. It takes a huge churchhouse to accommodate the people of all the wards when they meet. Even so, Dustinn recalled going to Stake Conference with his parents as he grew. Never once did he see this building filled to capacity the way it was for his father.

For his father, the chapel and the gym were packed to capacity.

As the many mourners had entered, Organist Ann Flake played "Oh My Father," a Mormon funeral standard that was also sung by the congregation as the opening hymn, led by music director and close family friend, Phoebe Nez. Jacob Zuniga offered the opening prayer.

Of the excellent speeches that were delivered in this building on this day, I was moved most by the memories and love expressed by Vincent's three sons, Dustinn, Nephi and Shiloh and by his older brother, Harrison. I will not try to recount any of their words here, but I might include some of what they said in the tribute that I will begin to put together after I post this entry. 

Vincent's close friend, Ronnie Peaches, told how the Apache people had adopted this famous Navajo as one of their own. The closing remarks, a summary of Mormon belief in the resurrection, was delivered by President Shumway of the Pinetop-Lakeside Stake.

One day, very near to the end of his life when his physical strength was fading but not gone, Vincent Craig asked for his guitar and then, from his hospital bed, spontaneously composed a goodbye song to his family. Dustinn recorded this final performance and that recording was played here, on this day, inside this chapel.

His voice was weak, but the beauty and love that came from it was strong. The congregation listened. Many wept.

Vincent's sister, Vivian Craig Begay, offered the benediction. Then, as the organist played, "God Be With You 'til we meet again," a representative of Owens Livingston Mortuaries wheeled the casket through a walkway too narrow to accommodate we pall bearers. We, and all the congregation of mourners, followed him into the sun.

Those of us who were pall bearers then wheeled the casket to the hearse. After we rolled it inside, members of the honor guard saluted as Vincent's brother, Harrison Craig, held the Marine colors.

I had to wait a long time before I could pull out of my parking space and enter the line of mourners for the 25 mile processional down the White Mountains to the Whiteriver cemetery. As a pall bearer, this worried me a bit because I did not want to arrive late at the graveside - although I was quite certain they would not start without me.

After I finally worked my way into a line that seemed to have no end in either direction, I saw this bumper sticker directly in front of me and I laughed.

No, not for the mistaken reason that readers unfamiliar with life in this part of the country can be forgiven for thinking. "Shi" is the Navajo word for "my." In one of his songs about the rituals of modern day Navajo romance, Vincent shouts out, "oh, shi heart!"

Hence the bumper sticker, made and marketed by the little company created by Vincent and Dustinn.

As the procession worked its way through Pinetop-Lakeside, some who could not be in it found a way to express their sentiment.

The highway that descends the White Mountains down to Whiteriver is a winding one. Sometimes, when the curves and slants were just right, I would catch a glimpse of the procession behind me in my rearview mirror. I could not see the end of it.

And off to the side, many vehicles traveling in the opposite direction pulled over to show their respect.

As we neared Whiteriver, I finally got a long view of the procession ahead. Even so, the hearse was beyond the reach of my eyesight.

I parked and followed this young family up into the Cemetery. Through Margie, I have many relatives buried here, including my father-in-law, Randy Roosevelt. His was the first funeral that I ever attended on the land of the White Mountain Apache.

A few of those gathered.

I don't know what the temperature was, but it was hot. Not searing, the way Arizona can be, but hot. Even so, a breeze ebbed and surged. It lifted the tie of Harrison Craig.

The pall bearers, minus myself. Vincent planned his funeral himself, with help from his wife. No one knew that I would be attending then and I was not on the list of pall bearers. The night before I was needed, Mariddie told me that one of those selected was not going to be able to make it and asked if I would take his place.

I must have gotten a dismayed look on my face, because she quickly added, "or would you rather take pictures?" 

"Yes," I answered. "I would prefer to take pictures." Then I thought about it a little more. How could I better honor my friend than to set my cameras aside long enough to carry him to his grave?

The day before, at the visitation, I had shot a couple of frames from the vantage point of a pall bearer. On this day, as we carried Vincent to his grave, my eyes saw many powerful images in front of them. I let them pass. I carried my friend with my full measure of solemnity and respect.

The family of Vincent Craig.

An Marine honor contingent fired their salute in three parts.

Vincent's fellow veterans saluted as Taps was played.

Two Marines fold Vincent's flag.

In a display of what struck me as pure and sincere humility, a Marine kneeled before Mariddie and presented Vincent's flag to her. Afterward, he stood up, saluted her and then marched respectfully out of the scene - as did the gunners and bugler. 

Ernie Crocker played two Mormon hymns on his harmonica, then finished with a love song dedicated from Vincent to Mariddie: "You Are My Sunshine."

Harrison asked all those not in military uniform who wore hats to remove them, then, as a family member and Mormon Priesthood holder, offered a special prayer of dedication.

Those who wore flowers pinned them to the Navajo blanket that had replaced the flag and would now go into the grave with Vincent.

All four of Vincent's grandsons: Kraig, Chance, Tristan and Ari. All three of Vincent's sons: Shiloh, Nephi and Dustinn.

At Mariddie's request, the funeral director noted that he was about to open the casket one last time and asked that no pictures be taken until it was closed up again. Then, in the Apache way, Mariddie and family placed items of food and drink in the casket, including a canteen filled with water and corn chips.

Then the coffin was closed again, sealed into the vault and lowered into the earth. In the Apache way, Mariddie and Nephi then brought an armload of Vincent's clothing to the grave and dropped them in with him. 

 

Family members and pall bearers then brought more of Vincent's clothing and personal items and, in the Apache way, left them with him. Now the grave was ready to be covered.

Please take note of the emblem on the top article of clothing. That is the logo for a skateboard competition that Vincent MC'd in Whiteriver in 2000 - just as he MC'd all the Whiteriver competitions. I have not forgotten that day in the late 1970's when Vincent organized and mc'd the first skateboard event ever held on this reservation.

I photographed it all. Somewhere, unseen now for over 30 years, the negatives lie in one of my filing cabinets - along with so many other invisible images.

Take note, too, of all the white shirts and black ties, worn at Vincent's request. A few days ago, I mentioned how, these days, I just basically will not wear white shirts and ties.

Yet on this day, in the midst of this Apache funeral for my Navajo friend, when I looked out and saw all these Mormon-evocative white shirts, black ties, and black slacks, I felt extremely proud to be dressed this way myself. 

As we all will be, my friend Vincent has now returned to the earth.

A moment of certainty and awe.

Mormon leader Ernie Crocker then prayed in Apache and dedicated the grave.

The ash that had been gathered from the cooking fires was then brought to the foot of the grave. First, the men scooped up handfuls, then circled the grave in the Apache way, sprinking ash along the edges as they did. Above is Ari, Nephi, and Emerson.

After the men, the women followed. The last one to circle was Vincent's sister, Elvira.

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.

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.

The Vietnam veteran and the returned Mormon missionary; the bicycle and the wrecked airplane

Doubtless, regular readers are wondering what a man in my financial situation is doing dining out at Mat-Su Valley Restaurant for breakfast? Four nights have now passed since Margie went into Anchorage to stay and take care of baby Jobe and one more will pass until she returns to spend just two nights here before she goes back again.

As much as I love this house and the cats who wake with me, it feels awfully chilly and damn bleak in here in the mornings. Whereas, it will be warm at Family Restaurant. There will be smiling people there, waitresses who will serve me coffee and laugh even if I make an unfunny joke.

This is Jobina, doing just that.

I like the name, "Jobina." It's like a feminine version of Jobe. 

If I can, I always like to get this spot, because from here I have a good view not only of all the people sitting and moving around inside this busy, warm diner, scented with the aroma of breakfast cooking, but of those wandering to and fro outside.

My observations tell me that a very broad array of Wasilla life passes in and out of this diner, particularly at breakfast time.

Also, if I am very lucky and the train comes bye, I can often get a pretty good look at it from this window seat.

So I would rather be here in the midst of all this than all alone inside my chilly house. The melting snows did expose a fair amount of firewood that had been hidden in our yard, so I can always heat the house up, but, by the time it gets comfortable, I will be done with breakfast. 

And even if I have no cash, I do have a credit card. So its off to Family I go.

Plus, to eat here is a sign of optimism, that things will soon get better and I will be able to pay all my bills.

I took this picture for future reference and it had not been my intent to post it just yet. Many veterans come into Mat-Su Family, and I have a desire to know their stories to the extent that they would be willing to share - just as I would like to know the stories of so many who I see gathering at Family. 

I have this idea in my head that as time progresses and I figure out how to fund this blog so that I can have the time to more effectively pursue my goal of finding the soul of Wasilla and to tell such stories, I will do just that. Seeing the hat, I thought this veteran might have a good story to tell, so I took the picture to remind me to look for him in the future, when that time comes.

As it happened, we wound up in line together at the cash register, so I asked if he had been a POW. No, he said, he had friends that had been and the experience had been hell for them. However bad combat might get, he said he had always kept a bullet in reserve for himself, just to make certain that he would never become a POW.

He served in Vietnam in the very early '70s, in what he described as the clean-up stages of the war, as the US was deciding to quit and pull out.

When I talk to such men, I am always self-conscious of the fact that they risked their lives in Vietnam and I did not. It had been my intent to go. When I was a senior at El Camino High School in a suburb of Sacramento, I decided that I would break with what had become the tradition in my family and what all of us males were expected to do. I would not go to Brigham Young University and I would not serve a two-year Mormon mission. I would enlist in the Army, and go for the Green Beret.

But I was in love with a red-headed girl who did decide to go to BYU. I knew that if I did not follow her there to protect my interests, she would marry a returned Mormon Missionary, as any good Mormon girl would.

So, at the last possible moment, I surrendered my plan to enlist, applied to BYU and was accepted. I followed the red-headed girl there and lived in misery as a returned Mormon missionary courted her. We would still get together to share an occasional lunch or movie or a concert and I took her motorcycle riding a couple of times. The the RM who courted her ordered her not to ride with me anymore, as it was just too damn dangerous.

I might crash and break her neck.

She did marry him, but by then I was in love with her best friend and was not troubled.

Vietnam was a very unpopular war and many people felt that the draft was being most unfairly applied. If you were wealthy, a college student, a Mormon missionary or fell into a number of other categories, you could get a deferment and most likely never be drafted to serve.

But if you did not fall into such a category and you were in good health, then you could pretty much count on being drafted.

This unfairness created such an uproar that a lottery system was instated in which each date of the year was drawn at random. If one's birthday came up number one, then, in theory, whether he was rich, a genious in college, a Mormon missionary or whatever, he was going to be drafted.

If one's birthday came up at #365, there was no chance in the world that he would be drafted.

My number came up 321. After that, the draft was not an issue for me anymore.

In the meantime, I found myself the object of a horrendous amount of social pressure, filled with exhortations that I repent, make my life right with God, yield to The Spirit, accept the call and go serve a mission. Worse yet, I looked into the eyes of my sweet mother and saw that if I did not go, I was going to break her heart. And there was no chance that the best friend would ever marry me if I didn't.

So I told everyone that The Spirit had come to me and so I had repented and was ready to go on a mission. No more weed for me. I had toked my last joint, taken my final hit off the hookah.

That's how I wound up not going to Vietnam. Instead I went to South Dakota, to teach the Lakota that they must never drink coffee. It was my mission to remake them, but they remade me. After two years, I returned to BYU - but found that I could not really return. 

As to this gentleman, he remarked that Vietnam was an unpopular war and that when he returned, he found out what it felt like to feel the wrath of the people for whom he had served. He said that people sometimes ask him why served, did he believe in the war?

It was not a matter of whether or not he believed in the war, he told me, but rather that the fact that he had a duty to serve his country and so he did.

This is what passed between us as we paid our bills at Family Restaurant. It was a very brief visit, and I thought that I would wait until another time and then have him tell me more of his story. I would take a portrait to go along with the interview, and would then include this picture as well.

But what if that time never comes? What if I do not see him again at Family?

What if I forget I ever took this picture and it just slips away unseen into my archives, as do the vast majority of the pictures that I take, never to be seen by anyone?

So here it is, with this tiny fragment of the man's story along with one from my own.

I got lucky! The train came rumbling by!

Yes, many veterans come to eat at Mat-Su Valley Family Restaurant.

When I came out, I saw this dog in the back of a truck. When I see such a dog, I find the urge to reach out and touch it to be...

...irresistible!

Inside the Metro Cafe, Study #8881: Carmen and Tyler, who is ten and loves to play football - and me, too.

After I completed the study, Carmen caught the unmistakable scent of cologne wafting off Tyler. She teased him a little bit for that, as she now knew that he had interests even beyond football.

After driving away from Metro Cafe, I saw a man riding a motorcycle.

And another sweeping the place where his driveway meets Church Road.

Some days I see Caleb and some days I don't. As he works all night and sleeps in the day, our waking paths seldom cross.

They crossed here, though - with me going one direction down our street and he the other. They also crossed when he stepped into my office to pay me a surprise visit.

"Dad," he said. "I patched your back tire. Your front tire was low, so I put air in that, too."

So I took my first bike ride of 2010. I am badly out of shape now and did not know far I should go. I decided to pedal the 1.5 miles to Church Road and see how I felt when I got there. If I felt good, I would turn right, go to the Little Susistna River and put my front wheel in the water.

If it felt like that might be overdoing it, that the return trip, largely uphill, would overstress my flaccid muscles and tear apart my weak lungs, then I would turn left and follow a shorter, flatter, more easy route.

The final approach to Church Road is all uphill, and I was a bit upset when I realized how it was taxing me. I deemed myself unfit to make the return from the Little Su and so concluded that I must turn left.

I turned right, anyway, and headed for the Little Su.

I did not put my front wheel in the water, though, because I felt that if I did, the under-cut ice might break beneath me and I would get my shoes, socks and pants wet. I wanted to keep them dry.

After I left the Little Su and neared the curve that leads to the biggest and steepest hill, I saw this guy ahead of me, cutting down the vegetation alongside the road before it can begin to grow.

No more snow plows for awhile.

After I topped the first big hill, I pedaled along on a flat stretch toward the corner where I would turn back onto Church Road and then face the next set of up and down hills. At some point, I glanced behind me and saw another biker, who had just topped that hill. I pedaled a little further and then looked back again. It seemed he was gaining on me.

I did not want him to pass me, but I realized that he was almost certainly younger and stronger and in better shape, that he was going to pass me whether I wanted him to or not.

I reached Church Road, turned right, climbed up the first big hill, then began my descent towards the next upward grade.

As I coasted down, I glanced back and there he was - closer yet, I was certain.

Damn. He was going to pass me.

Oh well. I would take a picture of him as he pedaled by me.

I decided that I would take a series of pictures of him closing the gap, passing me, and then moving on. I began with this one.

I then climbed the next hill and then again coasted toward the bottom of the third. Again I looked back. I was surprised to see that my competitor was now further back than he had been.

I figured maybe it was because I was going downhill now and he had been going up. Now he would be going downhill and I would soon be going up. I was certain he would yet close the gap and pass.

But no, he never did - even though he turned left on Seldon just like I did and followed me all the way to my street. In fact, each time I looked back I found him to be a little further behind. It became pointless to take any more pictures, for he had become such a small dot, readers could not have even picked him out.

That's what he gets for deciding that he, being so young and strong was going to humiliate a much older man who hadn't pedaled a bike since early October.

Of course, he never came close enough for me to actually confirm age or sex for certain.

I supposed it is possible that he was actually an 87 year-old woman who was pretty damn pleased that, though she never caught him, she kept that young guy worried every pedal of the way that an old lady was going to smoke him.

Or maybe it could even have been Patty, out keeping her cancer at bay.

When I got home, I parked my bike by the wreckage of my airplane, The Running Dog. I thought about the good days, when this dog and I flew together all over the main body of Alaska, up and down the Yukon and Kuskokwim rivers, through the valleys of the Alaska and Brooks Ranges, across Canada's Yukon Territory and into The Northwest Territories.

Why did I ever have to get cocky and crash the damn thing?

I can't stand it, being grounded like this. As I have said before, I dream about airplanes - usually this one, every night.

I have a friend in Cordova who says that if I really wanted another plane, I would have one by now. He cites himself as an example, pointing out how he wanted a big crab boat once, didn't have the money for it but got one anyway.

I'm glad for him, but he's 100 percent wrong about me. He is a bachelor and lives in a house that he inherited from his father and he simply has no idea what I face.

But he's right, too. To accomplish what I want to accomplish, I must get another airplane. Somehow, there is a way.

On this day, when I have no money to pay the simplest bill, when I owe the IRS, when I go to Family Restaurant only because I have a credit card and then I bring the leftovers and derive a second meal from them later and to Metro for coffee only because Margie has given me access to the bottles full or quarters that she has saved up over years, it seems utterly impossible.

But it's not impossible. It can be done. I must yet find the way.

A Pay Pal donation button to help with this blog isn't going to do it, but still, you who have urged me to put on on here have convinced me that I am not begging if I do, so I will.

Soon.