Baby Kalib's first snow / the death of one of the great whaling captains of Barrow

 

It's not really his first snow, as he was born the day after Christmas, last year, but it would seem to be the first snow that he took conscious note of.

Do you remember feeling this kind of wonder?

And it makes him smile. He's an Alaska boy, all right!

As for Muzzy, when it comes to snow, he's an old paw at it.

Muzzy in the snow.

Kalib observes falling flakes.

He touches his first snowball. 

Martigny. I took other pictures out and about in the snow today, and I intended to put some here, but I think I will wait and share them tomorrow, maybe. This was Kalib's day.

The death of the great whaling captain, Arnold Brower Sr., Barrow

Iñupiat Eskimo Whaling Captain Arnold Brower Sr. was found dead this morning, not far from his camp on a river near Barrow. Apparently, from what little information I have so far, his snowmachine fell through the ice. I am told that he was able to get out, but even so he did not make it.

He was the father of 17 children and I have no idea how many grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren. One thing that could almost always be counted on was, come whaling season, his crew, the ABC crew, would bring home a bowhead whale to feed the community.

I took this picture inside his home three summers ago, as he fed me caribou soup. Just by the taste of it, Arnold could tell you where a caribou had been shot and in what season.

His crew will be featured in an upcoming National Geographic TV special, so keep your eye out for it.

Arnold was 85. There is no one more knowledgeable about Arctic survival then was he. I found him to be a kind and generous man; exceptionally observant and intelligent. He served as a paratrooper in World War II and since that time had been at the forefront of anything having to do with Native rights and land claims. He did all that he could to make certain that the development which had to come to the Arctic would be done with protection of land and water, mammal, fish, and bird, and the Iñupiat culture at the forefront.

I am greatly saddened by the news of his death, but find comfort in the fact that he never had to face a nursing home and that, to the very end, he lived his life the way he loved it.

This time, we did breakfast at IHOP

  

Jacob loves IHOP corn pancakes and so it has become a Sunday tradition that we meet there for breakfast. As usual, I stepped out the door to start walking, even though the Wasilla IHOP is over five miles from our house. I saw this new snow embedded in the frost that settled down on Caleb's old car - the car that doesn't run anymore.

The plan was for Jacob and Lavina to come and pick me up after I had walked a couple of miles. Then we would go wait at IHOP for a table. Hopefully, we would have one by the time Margie took her lunch break and came to meet us. This is not Jacob and Lavina in the mini-van. I don't know who it is.

These two kids came walking in the opposite direction. I told them what I was doing and they proved to be very friendly. "Have a nice day," they smiled as they continued on in their direction and I, mine. In one of her bright and witty columns, humorist Maureen Dowd of the New York Times, disparaged Wasilla, for among other things, being a place without sidewalks. She forgot to mention our great bike trails.

 

Her dog died of cancer. After I walked for somewhat less than two miles, I turned around and was surprised to see Jacob and Muzzy, jogging toward me. Shortly afterward, we crossed the street and came upon this woman. She, too, had kept a giant dog, but it had come down with cancer. It grew so miserable and pathetic that she had it have it euthanized. She felt pretty badly about that.

I still feel bad about Willow and that was what, four years ago?

Lavina picked us up in the Tahoe. We had to wait for about five minutes for a table.

Kalib charms people, wherever we go.

Jake was dismayed. "Corn pancakes have been removed from our menu," the waitress told him after he ordered some. Perhaps the tradition will change now.

Breakfast at IHOP in contemporary times.

Muzzy gets his share.

The dog that tried to kill the bunny. Remember the rooster? The one that got shot at the place where the chicken crossed the road? This dog lives there as well, as does a bunny. Last June, shortly after my second surgery, the one where I got the new shoulder, I had barely begun my walk when I saw this dog break into the bunny pen, drag the bunny out, take it across the street and then begin to kill it.

In my condition, I was helpless to rescue the bunny. The children of the dog and bunny's people were bouncing on a trampoline in sight of everything, laughing and having a great time, completely unaware.

"Your dog is killing your rabbit!" I shouted. They did not hear. I shouted again and again and again as I drew closer. Finally, they heard. By the time they rescued the rabbit, it was very still and looked dead, but one of the boys told me later that it had survived and was doing fine.

I step into the house and find Martigny on the couch.

At 4:00 PM, I drive back to Wal-Mart to pick Margie up from work. Lavina is in the car with me. She wants to get coffee.

When we get to Wal-Mart, I am surprised to see Lisa there with Margie. She has driven up from Anchorage. She leaves her car in the parking lot and gets into ours. She wants to get coffee, too.

Tony the baristo. He is new. I have never seen him before. I wish him well, and tell him how to find this blog, so that he can see his picture.

Lisa and Jim. (Lisa wants it to be clear that the face poking out from her shirt is Joe Biden's - not John McCains.)

Our backyard. As dusk settled in, it began to snow.

In the woodstove, birch logs become heat. We used to cut all our own wood, but then I no longer had time for it. Now we buy. Just two winters ago, $100 a cord. Now, $200 - and, I tell you, those cords looked to me to be less than a cord used to be.

I am quite certain of it.

As she watches Desperate Housewives, Lavina gets herself some sherbert. Kalib wants some.

Kalib got some. I wanted some, too. I didn't get any. That bowl was the last of the sherbert.

Jacob tosses Kalib around.

Too late, too tired, got to go to bed, so I will post these pix tomorrow...

I have just prepared 23 photos from today, but I need to go to bed. So I will wait, and post them early tomorrow - early if you are in Alaska. It might be late if you are somewhere else, depending on where that somewhere is.

Breakfast at Family Restaurant

Lavina felt silly about the color mismatch between her and Kalib. Of course, it did not bother me at all. Margie goes to work at 7:00 Saturday and Sunday mornings and then I take off walking to meet her for her lunch break. I will have breakfast.

Jacob, Lavina, Kalib and Muzzy have already eaten, but they decide to walk with me, for just a little ways. Then they turn around and go back home.

It snowed last night. Just a little bit.

It seems this Greg Koskela guy wants to be mayor of Wasilla. Why? Seems like a sure ticket to obscurity.

That's Margie in the Taurus. She drove the other way to pick me up and got me before I could make two miles. 

We pull into a parking space at Family Restaurant. Inside, people are already eating.

The place is full. We must wait for just a few minutes.

Waitress Jolene takes our order. I will have a Denver Omelette with hashbrowns and whole-wheat pancakes; Margie a chicken sandwich.

Another diner reads the Frontiersman, a bi-weekly. That's why, even though the story is two days old, the Biden-Palin debate is the front page story. I was going to photograph Margie and I eating, but my omelette was so damn good that the only thing that I could think about was to take the next bite.

This is the owner of Family Restaurant. She comes from Russia. She is preparing herself to be photographed.

She calls me, "my dear," in a most endearing Russian accent. She makes the best breakfast in Wasilla, in my opinion - although the hash browns could be better. When I have time, I will have her tell me her story, and I will share it here. She told me her name so I could put it in here, but I forgot.

Next time.

I drive Margie back to Wal-Mart, then head towards home. Along the way I spot a calico cat in a yard with a woman who is raking her leaves. I stop. The calico is named "Callie."

I will put this and a couple other pictures of her on Grahamn Kracker's No Cat's Allowed Blog, and write just a little more about her, should anyone be curious. But not tonight. Tomorrow.

Later, I head back to Wal-Mart to pick Margie up. Someone who does not want Koskela to be mayor is campaigning for Metiva.

On the way to Wal-Mart. You can see the faces better if you click on the image.

So Verne also wants to be mayor. Maybe he wants to be president, too. President Rupright. Right.

As darkness grows, I again walk with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. This time, Lavina is happy with the color coordination between her and Kalib.

As we walk, we suddenly hear a whistle, then a boom, and colored fire appears in the sky. Someone is shooting fireworks off from their yard - someone who lives right next door to a State Trooper. The Trooper's car is in the driveway. The trooper doesn't care. No one around here cares about such things.

Someone is always shooting fireworks off.

Muzzy marks the corner.

And then we head home.

In Wasilla, fall is wonderful, but it rushes by

Driving to a coffee kiosk.

Fishhook Road.

From the car, while driving down Bogard Road.

Looking towards Hatcher.

Fishhook Road.

I consider the damn things to be a blight upon the land. Maybe one day, if I ever get rich, I'll have one. So many places yet to go. 

While standing in my driveway.

Driver's seat, parking lot, India Palace.

Rain comes. A dog checks me out as I walk on Sands.

Church Road.

Corner Study: Church Road and Shrock.

The rain begins to turn to snow. If you click on the picture, it will get bigger and then you can see the snow a little better.

Ahead is the place where some folks stop to pray. 

Maybe another day.

I would pray for my son, and for his dog, too. I would pray for all those I love. Don't know who I would be praying to, but I would pray for them all. Pray for America, and all the people in America; pray for the world, and all its inhabitants, that each might have some good experience before death takes them.

But what if that inhabitant is a mosquito, and her good experience is that she pricks my skin and sucks my blood? What if she injects me with even tinier inhabitants, who make me sick, give me malaria?

That's not likely to happen in Alaska, but it might in India. 

I must go back to India, you know.