Two views of the cats on Charlie's t-shirts: full front and rear, too; Ketchup in an empty restaurant; big mid-winter meltdown; Ramz - the girl who defended the tiny goat

Charlie showed up wearing this t-shirt. This is the front view.

This is the rear view. Charlie suggested that we all go to Anchorage and stroll through the Fifth Avenue Mall together, drinking coffee from cat mugs, but none of the rest of us wanted to join him there.

It seems that I have lost the ability to sleep - except for those blessed moments when I just crash. I find myself typically going to bed between midnight and 2:00 AM. It takes me too long to go to sleep and after I do, I might sleep for close to an hour and then I wake up and just keep waking up, multiple times each hour until finally I just give up and get up.

So far this week, I have not felt like cooking and besides, the steel-cut oatmeal was gone and so were the frozen berries that I put in it.

Family Restaurant opens at 6:00 AM, so for the last two days in a row I have headed over there at that time.

Both days, I have found the restaurant eerily empty.

Just me and the ketchup.

And a waitress or two.

Cooks in the back, cooking just for me, waiting for the crowd to start coming in.

I get in the car and leave to drive home. The fringe edge of the crowd has finally begun to arrive.

Corner of Seldon and Church Roads, on my way home from breakfast.

Despite the fact that I am peripatetic by nature, I have not had much energy for walking lately. Still, I must walk - especially since I have begun to lay the plans for a big Brooks Range hike this summer.

So I go walk, and this dog comes barking. Back in the trees, I hear a man shouting at the dog. He orders the dog to come back. The dog does not. The dog keeps following me, barking and barking.

The man keeps shouting orders, all of which the dog ignores.

In time, the man's voice fades into the trees.

The dog is still following, but barking less now.

The dog seems unsure of itself, now.

Maybe this is the farthest the dog has ever been away from home on its own.

The dog is probably wondering what it got itself into.

Soon, I will be home in my office with the cats, Jimmy and Pistol-Yero. 

They do not bark and they do not chase people down the road.

They just hang out in my office, knock things off my desk, counters and work table, spill my coffee, break my cups, prance across my keyboard when I am typing, interrupt my work and sit down on my lap every time I get on a roll. Sometimes, they even delete pictures!

So far (I think) I have always discovered each deletion in time to undo it.

They drink water from my fish tanks and throw up on the rug.

I sure do love these damn cats.

I see the tail of one them right now. It hangs down from the window sill beneath the cat, who is covered up the drape. He is looking outside at some creature that he would like to hunt - a raven, maybe. A moose, perhaps.

If so, that creature is damn lucky there is a pane of glass between it and the cat.

This is about as bad as a mid-winter warm-up can get. Well, not quite as bad. It hasn't rained all that much. The problem is, even through all the cold weather, we have had a dearth of snow and much of that had already been scoured away by the wind, even when the temperature was still cold, where it ought to be.

I read the part in the Anchorage Daily News that said this warmup was the result of Chinook winds. The Daily News is wrong. These winds have blown in off the Pacific. Chinook winds are caused when air flows down off mountains, warms up and spreads across a valley or plain.

My dad was a meteorologist, so I know these kind of things.

The Daily News is wrong.

This blog is right.

Here I am, on my 4:00 PM coffee break, which I got started on just a bit late. I have been to Metro. where Shoshana served me my Americano and cinnamon roll and told me that she and her boyfriend greatly enjoyed their New Year's jaunt to Chena Hot Springs, even if the temperature was 40 above instead of 40 below, where one would want it to be.

And here is one from India: Ramz my niece and Facebook friend

Recently, Ramz invited me to become one of her friends on Facebook. Ramz Iyer is Soundarya's cousin, but sisters is also a word they use.

I accepted the invitation, of course, and was very touched when I looked at all her profile pictures and saw one where she was hugging a small goat close to her chin and was smiling big. I have pictures like that of Soundarya, too.

Another of her Facebook friends, one closer to her own age, responded with this comment:

"dont u feel eeew!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Ramz retorted:

"i feel more eew wen ppl eat it ! rader dan carrying it ! i luve animals ! nd nyways .....it was neat nd tidy !"

The friend eventually replied:

"i was just kidding,"

Ramz stood her ground:

"but I was not !"

I was pleased and proud.

I just went and took another look at her page. Her new profile pic depicts her as a platinum blond with blue green tint in her hair, dark blue eyes and a tattoo on her pale face!

I remain: pleased and proud!

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Zero degree baby; Kalib and his spatula, part 2; Larry Aiken paints a dream of belugas; a walk through the valley of the shadow

As I walked yesterday in the zero degree* cold, I happened upon a one-year old baby, who had also gone out for a walk - only she had traveled by stroller, not foot.

This is she - baby Lily. Her mother, Christie, told me that she and baby Lily go out regularly, whatever the weather, and baby Lily enjoys it all. It does not distress her to be out in the cold - unless a fierce wind is blowing and strikes her right in the face. Her mother protects her, so that she does not feel that wind for more than seconds.

Sometimes, they walk for hours, Mom says. Baby Lily loves it.

How pleasing to know that this is a little girl being brought up not to fear the elements, not to shrink away and retreat only to the comfort of the indoors but to get out and enjoy.

Baby Lily may be well on her way to be coming a true Alaska girl.

As usual, at 4:00 PM I headed to Metro Cafe to get my coffee. After Shoshauna prepared it for me, I did not go home or take my usual drive, but continued on, with Anchorage as my destination. My friend, Larry Aiken, had experienced a couple of very hard days in his cancer treatment and I knew it was time to visit him again.

When I reached the Junction of the Parks and Palmer-Wasilla Highways, I was pleased to be stopped by a red light, so that I could pause, compose, and shoot.

As I crossed the Hay Flats, I heard a text message come in on my phone. I pulled off the highway at the next exit - the Native Village of Eklutna - to read it. It was from Lavina. She was out with Kalib and Jobe and they were going to pick up a pizza.

She invited me to stop by to have some.

Only Jacob was home when I arrived, but soon we heard Lavina, Kalib and Jobe pull into the driveway.

Remember how, at Thanksgiving, I told you that Kalib had become attached to a spatula, that he kept it with him almost at all times and that it had become his favorite toy?

He entered the living room carrying that spatula. Even as his mother removed his sweater, he kept hold of that spatula. 

When it was time to eat the pizzas, Kalib proved that the spatula was more than a toy to him, but a tool as well.

He wielded that tool well.

Jobe's not really into pizza yet, but he does love his dehydrated fruity yogurt treats - as do I. Knowing full well the danger, his dad handed me the bag so that I could feed him.

I gave him one. I would have given him more, but he ate too damn slow. What is one to do when he is holding the yogurt treats and the baby is eating too slow but to eat yogurt treats himself?

Then I went to see Larry and we had a good visit. It is one of those terrible ironies of life, but to kill cancer, one must undergo treatment that will make him very sick and so the past few days had been hard for Larry.

To help get him through, Larry has continued on his art work. He showed me this little beluga painting that is nearing completion. It is of the belugas as they appear under water. Larry has never been under the water with the belugas, but they came to him in a dream and showed him how they look under there.

So he is painting that dream.

Readers who were with me then will recall how shortly after Larry arrived in Anchorage to begin his treatment, he began a self-portrait of himself harpooning a bowhead whale. His whaling captain, George Adams, was right behind, ready to follow up with the shoulder gun. Last night, Larry told me the story of that whale.

He is not quite done with the self-portrait, yet, but as you can see, it is moving along. Once the portrait is done, I will take another photo and will pass on the story as Larry told it to me.

His art is his therapy.

He also finds therapy in the support, prayers and love of friends and family.

These are the things that get him through each day. 

And I found therapy in Larry's company - and in the hug that he gave me just before we parted company. There was fear in that hug, but hope and strength even more so.

Now I will take you back to India, for just a flash:

Regarding my ongoing process of grief for Soundarya - grief that seems not to ease but only to intensify - this is how I have decided to handle it in this blog. From now until however long it takes me to sort through, edit and create some sort of picture package from the images that I took of her, Anil and of India, I am going to keep that take at the forerfront of my Lightroom editor. I will work on it when I can.

Now and then, at times with more frequency than others, I will drop random pictures from India into this blog. Until I finish, these will not be pictures of Soundarya, but of other people and things in India, the place that made her.

When you see those pictures, even if I do not mention her name, you will be reminded of her, and you will know that I am thinking of her.

I start with this set of three only because they were the ones visible on the front page of my editor at the moment I decided to do this.

I took these during an interim moment. Sandy and Anil were off being newlyweds, Melanie and I had made a big trip with Vasanthi and Vijay and were about to take another with Vasanthi, Murthy and Buddy. In the meantime, Melanie and I took a walk from the Murthy home and soon got caught in a sudden downpour.

Some fruit vendors invited us to take shelter with them.

We did. The rain was furious, but brief.

When it ended, we said goodbye as best we could to these vendors, who spoke little English, and then moved on.

Very soon, we came across this young boy.

And then this one. I would have taken more pictures of people that we encountered after the rain, but after I shot this one, my Canon 5D Mark II, which I had protected from all but a few drops of rain, shut down on me and would not shoot again until I sent it into Canon for a $350 repair job.

As I do not like to carry it, I had almost left my Canon 1Ds Mark III at home, but at the last moment had decided to bring it. This proved to be a very good thing because otherwise, I would have been out of action from this moment forward.

Well... probably not... I would have acquired some kind of camera in India.

The Valley of the Shadow...

As readers know, despite my own, very intense, and at least from my mother very sincere, religious upbringing, despite the fact that I associate closely with many people of deep religious faith, I am not a person of faith myself. Yet, from the time I woke up this morning until right now, a certain scripture has kept repeating itself in my head.

It is a most important scripture to me personally and I also think the King James version of it to be among the most beautiful words ever put together in the English language.

It speaks of a valley, a valley that we all must walk through for each and every second that we live. At times, we are acutely aware that we walk in this valley, other times, our minds push all thoughts and fears of it to the side and we just laugh, enjoy, make merry and do what we feel like doing.

But sooner or later, that valley always manifests itself about us and makes certain we know we walk there.

Yet, somehow, this scripture makes that valley appear less frightening:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 

I will fear no evil, for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil;

my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 

These words come from the Judeo-Christian Bible, but I have felt the feeling behind them in the contexts of many different faiths - yes, even in the Mormon faith that I grew up with but can no longer be shackled by. I feel it in the churches whenever I gather with my Iñupiat and other Native friends and they sing so beautifully, with such strong heart and deep spirit.

I have felt it in a tipi, with a fire burning hot in the center, surrounded by drums and singing on the rim of the circle. I have felt it in a sweat lodge where spiritual beliefs that predate the United States but not the original people of this land have made themselves manifest.

And yes, I have felt it in a Hindu temple when a holy man has spoken words that I do not understand and has reached out and touched me on the forehead and left a red mark there - and among Muslims, who have invited me to come in off the Bangalore street and into their butcher shop, with carcasses suspended from the ceiling, there to share their coffee and spirit with me.

I have felt it among those sincere in many faiths when they have reached out with that faith to soothe and support others.

I do not necessarily feel it from those - again in any and all faiths - who would use their religion as a club to smash down and subdue others.

But among the sincere, hurt and caring, I have felt such comfort across the gamut. I gratefully accept all of their prayers and blessings.

*That's zero degrees F; - 18 C.

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A snowball for Soundarya; Margie and I drive off to Anchorage and stop at Metro Cafe; a feeling of peace and serenity; raven stories

Margie started the car with the remote at about 1:00 PM. Maybe five minutes later, I went out to clean the snow off of it as she gathered up the things that we would need to take to the Thanksgiving feast. I scraped the snow off the windshield with my hand. Our snow here, at least in the past, is most often cold, dry and powdery, but this snow was warm and wet, so I packed it into a snowball.

I was trying to decide what to do with the snowball when suddenly I thought about an email that Sandy sent to me just over two weeks ago. She had dreamed that she had been sitting in the living room of our house here in Wasilla with Margie, Kalib and me drinking coffee and then she and I had decided to go on a bike ride.

It was snowing, and she was exhilarated, because snow was new to her. She was enthralled by the view of the mountains around her. We pedaled for awhile and then stopped, so she could play in the snow for the first time in her life. "I behaved like a five-year old," she wrote. She dreamed she made a snowball, smashed it on me and then we got into a snowball fight. 

The dream ended when the sound of Anil's snoring awakened her and she found herself not in Alaska, but back in India.

So, Soundarya, this snowball is for you.

Margie came out, carrying the dough that still needed to spend time in a warm place and to rise before she could bake it into rolls.

She looked so pretty to me, standing in the weak light of a dim winter afternoon, the headlights of the car striking her knees.

I thought about throwing Sandy's snowball at her, but I knew that she would not appreciate getting struck by something cold, wet and hard when she was carrying bread dough. I tossed the snowball into the yard, to join the other snowflakes that were piling up there.

Metro Cafe was closed, but Carmen was having a family and friends Thanksgiving get-together there and had asked me to swing by with Margie on our way to Anchorage.

We swung by. Scott was in the driveway, so we stopped and said "hi" to him first.

Then we pulled up to the window, where Carmen gave us each a coffee and a biscotti and wished us a happy Thanksgiving. Then she was joined by her sister, Teresa, Carmen's son Branson and Teresa's son Evan and together they posed for:

Through the Metro Window, study 242,996.88: Thanksgiving Day, 2010

After we shared our few minutes of smiles and laughter, they returned to their gathering and we drove away. As has been the case for every conscious moment since I learned the news, Soundarya's image was in my mind and grief in my heart.

I felt determined to move forward and to have a wonderful holiday with my family, yet I still felt absolutely, hopelessly, bitterly, crushed. There would be no snowball fight - never. Sandy would never sit in our living room and drink coffee with Margie and me while Kalib performed his antics. We would share no bike rides. She would not look upon Alaska's mountains.

The business of her heart and dreams that she had been laboring to launch in Bangalore would never blossom to fruition.

As we drove through the snow on towards Anchorage, I felt a completely unexpected feeling of peace come upon me. In many ways, I did not want to feel it, because it did not seem right, given that Sandy's many and passionate dreams had all been taken from her, but that feeling of peace was there and it just kept growing stronger.

It felt to me like Sandy was there, right there, in the car with us, here in Alaska, and that this feeling of serenity was coming directly to me from her.

As I have said many times, notwithstanding my religious upbringing, the preaching and testifying that I myself have done in the past and the fact that I constantly intermingle with people of faith, many faiths, so many of them firm and sincere believers striving to make their way through this hard life into the sweet beyond, I know nothing of God or of the hereafter. It is all a mystery to me and will be for as long as I reside on mortal earth.

Yet that's how it felt to me - that this feeling of peace and comfort was coming to me directly from her - that she was there, in a form that I could feel but not see.

She was giving me the feeling that somehow, in the eternal ethereal, it is all okay.

We drove on. Here and there, drivers had slipped on the ice and left the road, this one to tip over.

This one just got stuck.

They have ravens in India too, but they are different than ours - smaller, and while the black of our ravens tends to also reflect a slight, iridescent blue hue, in southern India that reflection seems to lean more toward a burgundy-brown. Sandy loved ravens. Before she got together with Anil, she once brought an injured one into her apartment to care for it. 

When her landlord discovered what she had done, he was outraged, as it is believed by many in India that a raven in the house will bring many years of bad luck and ordered her to get the raven out. She didn't care. She had compassion for the raven and was willing to be booted out of her apartment, if that's what it took to help it.

Later, she found another injured raven when she was out with Anil during their time of engagement. She cradled the raven in her arms and took a seat on the back of her motor bike, behind Anil. As he drove in search of a vet, she sang to the raven.

"What song did you sing to it?" I asked, via internet chat.

I expected her to name a Hindu song, or perhaps an Indian lullaby - something that I would not even know.

"Safe in the Arms of Jesus," she answered.

They found a vet, but the vet wanted nothing to do with the raven. He scolded her for bringing it to him. She scolded him right back with such intimidating force that he relented and treated the raven.

The raven healed, and when it came time to let it loose, a crowd gathered. The raven looked around, flapped its wings and rose above the packed streets of Bangalore. The crowd applauded.

Such was Soundarya!

Well.

I said that I would not let this blog dwell upon the memory of Soundarya, but would move on, just as life always moves on. 

I meant it, too.

But this blog will never forget her, either.

As we drew near to Jacob and Lavina's house in Anchorage, we passed this guy, blowing the snow out of his driveway.

Then we were there - and there was Lavina and Jobe, in the window above, waiting for us to come in and join them - to join the entire family in Alaska, Charlie and his parents included, for Thanksgiving dinner.

That dinner will be the subject of my next post.

Maybe I will get it up today. Maybe not until tomorrow. 

It will be history by then, but so what?

Each action that we take becomes history at the very moment we become aware of having taken it.

I kind of feel like I have blogged enough for today.

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Transitions: Wasilla to Barrow

Not so long ago, I was in Wasilla. And on the last Sunday that I spent there, Margie and I took an afternoon drive. We past by this church on Shrock Road, which apparently was having its grand opening. It has been under construction for a long time.

Not long after that, I was sitting in a middle seat in a jet airplane between two big guys, flying north, Denali to the west.

And now I am in Barrow, where the temperatures are very mild for this time of year, but it has been windy, blizzardy. This morning, the effort to keep the roads clear was constant.

Even so, I heard several reports on the VHF radio about cars being stuck in drifts here and there. All flights in and out of Barrow had been canceled.

For people driving snowmachines, the drifting snow didn't matter much.

Too Bright - the glare of the sun on Lucille, and on other things, too

Margie and I were motoring down Lucille Street yesterday, directly towards the high-noon sun. Due to the way it reflected off the ice and moisture on the street, it was kind of like driving toward two suns. It was too bright - altogether too bright - far crueler to the eye than even this picture implies.

I could hardly see anything. It hurt my eyes. All I could do was to drive very slowly and direct my vision back and forth to either side of the road. I could not look straight ahead, because when I did, I would see only painful glare - I would be blind to the traffic ahead.

It was too bright.

It reminded me of a story that I was fortunate enough not to witness first-hand, but to hear second-hand from one who was present to witness it. It happened in a small community somewhere in the American West. I will not identify the community, because it is small enough that every single person who lives there knows every other person and some of them just might get a little embarrassed to have their community caught in the glare of such a light.

Anyway, a number of the young men of the community had gathered to socialize at a place alongside a river which flowed nearby. They were drinking beer, shooting the bull, and just enjoying the sunny afternoon.

"Hey, take a look at what I got," one of them suddenly said. Then he unbuckled his pants, pulled down the zipper, yanked out his pride and joy and let the sun shine down upon it.

There was a moment of silence.

"Too bright!" One of his companions finally said. He turned his gaze away - the glare must have hurt his eyes.

Margie and I continued on to the Parks Highway, where we would be able to turn left, so that the sun would no longer be glaring in duplicate right into my eyes.

It's just pure coincidence that the next image that I would take after "too bright" would be this one.

I do not know such things happen, but they do. I didn't even realize it had happened, until I placed the image in this blog post.

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