Jobe deceives his grandmother and causes things to get hot around here; Christmas Tree; the cold, empty streets of Bangalore

Just in case anyone might doubt that Jobe was actually a willing and not an innocent accomplice to the deception that was played upon his grandmother, I would note this about him:

Of all the babies that I have ever known in this world, it is Jobe who is the most pleasant. He is the happiest, most good-natured baby that I have ever spent time with. Seldom does he ever fuss, cry or scream and if he does at all, it is only because something is truly wrong and the moment that wrong is righted, he is cheerful again.

And... might I add before I continue... Jobe loves his grandpa! In fact, he adores his grandpa! If you do not believe me, just look at this picture.

This is Jobe, and how he feels about me... how I feel about him...

Anyway - the deception: While I was still in Barrow, I got a call from Margie. Jobe had fallen ill, she said. He had an upset tummy, apparently caused by a bug of some kind. He was crying and pooping, doing all the things that babies with upset tummies do. He could not go to daycare, so she was going to go into town in the morning to take care of him while his parents went to work.

I called her the next day while she was at Jobe's house with him.

"How is he?" I asked.

"He is doing better," she said. "But he was pretty fussy this morning."

Fussy?

For Jobe to have been fussy, he had to have been feeling downright uncomfortable.

But here's the thing - Jobe had not been sick at all. And Lavina and Jacob skipped work that day when Margie thought she was caring for a sick baby just so that they could go to work.

Melanie had been concerned about our woodstove, getting close to 30 years old now, and had persuaded her siblings to join her in buying us a new one as a Christmas present.

So, while Margie was babysitting a Jobe who was not at all sick and I was hanging out in Barrow, our children had come out to the house to oversee the installation.

Margie stayed in town one more night and then the next day picked me up at the airport. I then drove us home. When we entered the house, we were both surprised to see this new woodstove, glimmering with heat atop the rock slabs in the living room.

It even had a glass door, so that we could look through to see the fire burning and the coals glowing.

So here is Jobe, in the arms of Charlie, as seen in a reflection off the window of the stove brought into this house through his deception.

Thank you, Jobe! Thank you, children and grandchildren!

Even before she had been deceived, Margie had picked this tiny tree that was growing right beside the house and would have to come down at some point anyway. She waited until I was home, until most everybody was present, to begin decorating it.

Decorating the tree. Remember what I told you about Jobe adoring his grandpa?

Jobe observes as his mom hangs a birch-bark canoe ornament. Perhaps next year he will hang it himself.

Jobe scoots toward a tiny helicopter.

Jobe and the helicopter.

Charlie and Kalib look at a picture Charlie just took.

Kalib admires the tree. "It's a real Charlie Brown tree," Margie said when she looked at this picture. Yes, it is kind of tiny and scraggly, but when you see it in real life, it is very pretty and somehow seems just right.

When children and grandchildren visit, they soon must leave. Remember the Volvo that Jacob bought Lavina for her birthday? It has lost its front bumper already. They must get it repaired now.

And this one from India:

In the middle of the winter close to two years ago, I woke up and came to this computer to find an email from Sandy waiting for me. She was still engaged then and she told me how late the previous night or rather in the very wee hours of the morning, she and Anil had been wandering about on foot through "the cold, empty, streets of Bangalore."

I laughed at the very thought. Bangalore streets - cold, empty? The steamy, overflowing with the constant surge of humanity streets of Bangalore? Cold? Empty? Still, I put the image in my mind of the two of them out there alone on dimly lit streets in weather that might have plunged down to maybe 60 or even 55 degrees walking, talking, sometimes serious, sometimes smiling, enjoying, happy to enjoy solitude in a city with scant idea of the meaning of solitude... and it was a pleasant image.

I then went to Barrow and when I arrived the temperature was in the -40's... -47 or -48 if I recall correctly. So I took a picture late at night, with not a soul on the road and sent it back.

"The cold, empty, streets of Barrow," I typed.

As to the above picture, I took it the day after Sandy and Anil married. Several of us were in an auto-rickshaw with a smoky, two-stroke engine and she was sitting right beside me. We would all eat pizza shortly.

View images as slide show

Flying in the general direction of the sun

When my scheduled time to depart Barrow approached, I did not want to go. I wanted to stay put. There were two reasons for this - one, because in the midst of all this darkness, cold and sorrow, I had felt the warmth, the light and the love that Barrow is capable of producing. Never misunderstand me - Barrow bears more than its fair share of turmoil and hurt - as do all Native American communities that I have ever spent time in - but at its core, its base, wrapped in the heart and soul of the people who have lived here for so long and borne so much there is something strong, loving, giving and spiritual. This warmth and strength can truly manifest itself in the time of no sun, in a time when beloved ones have been lost and people have come together to nurture and support each other.

And so it was on this trip.

Two, in the darkness itself I found a degree of solace that I could not have had I been in a place where the sun rises each day. The darkness of the day itself was like a blanket of warmth and comfort draped upon me.

I am a person who likes to walk, regardless the weather or the presence of polar bears, of which daily sightings were reported in town. If I walk on the roads, people always stop to give me a ride, so, as much as I could, I stayed off the roads and walked across the lagoon - two, three, maybe even four times a day. I would walk, under that dark or dim sky, all alone and it felt good to me. Depending on the direction that I walked, the wind might bite into my face with the sting and threat of frostbite but even so it felt good to me.

And there, alone, walking under a sky free from sunlight, I would talk aloud to Soundarya. It wasn't always a pleasant conversation. When someone that you love so dearly dies at their own hand, even though you know she was suffering such bitter, painful, grief herself, it leaves you with many questions and additional hurts.

But it was always a good conversation, a loving conversation, one that I needed to have. Even though the rational side of my brain knew she was not really there, somehow, it always felt to me that in some way, she was present and that she wanted to communicate with me as badly as I wanted to communicate with her.

So I spoke out loud and then in silent pauses listened for words I could not hear, but could only feel, or imagine that I felt.

I did not wish to leave this environment, where I could walk upon the lagoon in the dim and dark and converse with Soundarya and then go sit amidst the warmth of friends who would feed me caribou, whale and fish -people not related by blood to me but who are my family, none-the-less.

Perhaps this sounds crazy and perhaps it would be best if I were to just keep all this to myself, but this is how it was and I did not want to leave Barrow.

I knew my loving family awaited me at home but still I did not want to go. 

I took this picture as I walked off the lagoon, about 8:30 or 9:00 AM, enroute to Pepe's for breakfast.

And here I am at Pepe's - taking a portrait of Joe The Water Man, son of Fran Tate, owner of Pepe's. Joe became famous in Barrow in the days when no one had running water piped into their homes and he drove a water truck, to fill their tanks and barrels.

He never wore a parka or even a jacket or sweat shirt, but always just a t-shirt, no matter what the weather. Twenty below, 30 below, - 40, - 50... there was one day that the official weather bureau thermometer is said to have broken after the mercury plunged right through the bottom of it, but a number of thermometers around town, including one that I myself laid eyes upon, registered - 63.

And there was Joe The Water Man, delivering water in his t-shirt.

On days with wind chills of - 90, - 100: there was Joe, in his t-shirt, delivering water.

Joe does not drive the water truck anymore. He keeps my coffee hot and makes certain that I get two packets of raspberry jam with my wheat toast - unless there is no wheat bread to be had, and no raspberry jam either.

This happens sometimes. 

He does not really wear this hat to work. A fellow from Anchorage who calls himself The Mad Hatter and who likes to frolic in Cuba and Thailand had come to Barrow to sell hats and had let Joe try this one on.

I thought he looked pretty good in it.

Up the street from Pepe's is a water tank, with a Nativity scene in front of it and the guiding star of the east above.

Now here I am, at just a bit after 11:00 AM, sitting in the Alaska Airlines flight that will fly me to Anchorage. What you see beyond blowing a mini-blizzard into the air is a snowplow, clearing the runway. I had checked to see if I could postpone my departure and leave on another day, but every single seat out of Barrow had been booked into January.

I did not want to miss Christmas with my family, so I decided that I had better leave as scheduled.

And here we are, lifting off, departing Barrow.

We wing our way south, toward the sun, toward the glow of dawn/twilight. I was raised to believe that the sun always rises in the east and sets in the west.

In Alaska, this is not always true. The sun can rise in the south and set in the south. It can rise in the north and set in the north.

It can rise and set not at all.

See that little stream down below? Before I crashed it, I would sometimes fly my airplane, the Running Dog, right over that stream, between those low mountains.

It looked very different down there than it does from up here, but even so, I recognize it.

You can see that although we are still a couple of hundred miles from the sight of the sun, the amount of light is on the increase.

Now we pass over the northern flanks of the Brooks Range...

...now the southern.

We reach a point where the sun still fails to shine directly upon the ground, but it does shine on a couple of clouds below us at an altitude that I can only guess at. I won't even try.

As we near the Yukon River, very near to the place where the Tanana flows into it, the sun manages to strike the ridge tops, but not the valleys.

The White Mountains.

At one point I turned around and saw that there was a sunbeam, traveling with me, right there in the plane. It was the little son of Olemaun and Thelma Rexford, owners of Aarigaa Java and Aarigaa Tours, in the arms of his dad.

Oh, I have forgotten the name of this little one!

But someone can remind me, I'm certain.

And in front of me - another sunbeam, fast asleep.

By the time we reached the Alaska Range, the sun was up, but it was overcast and we could not see it. Soon, we were descending, and then were flying low over Cook Inlet - on final to landing in Anchorage.

Margie picked me up at the airport and then we drove to Taco King for lunch. Except for Rex, who had just driven from California to Anchorage with Ama and had then caught an airplane to New York or Newark and from there on to New England, all of the Anchorage family met us there.

Kalib came with his spatula and blanket.

Next, we were driving home to Wasilla.

I am now days behind. I will try to catch up tomorrow, when I will bring you back to Wasilla with me.

View images as slides

The Brooks Range; Mysore elephant

I am back in Wasilla now. For today's post, I had prepared a series of images of the transition between Barrow and here, of my departing a place where the sun shines not at all this time of year to one where it shines but a few hours, weakly.

I had planned to create a narrative to go with these pictures that would explain why I did not want to leave Barrow, why I had no desire to see the sun but instead felt as though I wanted to remain wrapped in the comforting cloak of winter's darkness.

But I have encountered some technical glitches and my time for blogging today has been eaten up. I have things I must do. So I will save those pictures and that narrative for tomorrow.

In the meantime, this is what it looked like as we flew over the Brooks Range a bit before noon. No sun would rise here, either, although the light filtering in from below the southern horizon was much brighter on the Brooks than in the city of Barrow.

And here is one from India:

Mysore Zoo.

She is not forgotten. Not for one minute. Not for one second.

Little genius Mariah Ahgeak captures me

During the singspiration, two-year old Mariah Ahgeak, one of Warren Matumeak's great-granddaughters, walked up to me during a moment when I had taken a seat in a pew, had set my camera down and had pulled out my silenced iPhone to check the time.

Mariah was very interested in the phone and she knew that it was also a camera. I thought that she wanted me to take a picture of her and show it to her - as so many children do. So I activated the camera, took a picture of her and showed it to her - but that was not what she wanted. She wanted to take the camera and take a picture of me. 

I was reluctant to let her take my iPhone, because I feared she might not want to give it back - and it can be hard to explain to a two-year old why she must, but she was so determined and enthusiastic that I relented. I let her take a picture of me with the iPhone.

A bit later, she popped up in front of me again, this time holding a tiny red camera, which she also used to take my picture. She looked so cute and determined with that little red camera, but I could not photograph her because I had a big lens on my camera and it would not focus that close and my iPhone was  buried in my pocket.

Two nights later, the family invited me to dinner and she was there.

Again, she wanted to take my picture.

I gave her my iPhone. Here she is, studying her subject before she shoots.

Here she is, photographing her subject.

Now she studies her work.

And here is her subject - me - in the picture that she took during the singspiration for her great-grandfather at the Utqiagvik Presbyterian Church.

I almost want to proclaim her a natural-born photographic genius, because in this simple snap, I can see everything that I was feeling - the deep, unrelenting sadness coupled with my joy and delight at seeing her determination and enthusiasm.

Soon, there will be no need for people like me because people like her are going to cover everything from the inside to a depth that has never been achieved before. Even so, I am glad that I arrived upon the scene in time to be of some use with my camera.

I think Mariah is a genius. I really do. Go back to the top, look into her eyes and tell me otherwise.

Jacob Kagak with his little niece, Theresa Cola Luafulu, Warren's granddaughter.

Darlene Kagak with her little niece, Theresa Cola Luafulu. Dorene took note of the fact that little Annie begun her life's journey at the same time that her grandfather's came to an end.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," Darlene said.

And here are the iPhone images that I took of Mariah during the singspiration:

Mariah!

View images as slide show

Goodbye, Warren Matumeak - part 5: Singspiration slide show; when Tommy saved his aapa's life

I am going to do things a little differently with this, my final post in this series. Anyone who has followed this blog for the past month or so will probably understand when I state that, at the moment, I am drained. I am exhausted.

So, instead of presenting my 14 image singerspiration post in the usual way - with images that alternate with narrative, I am inserting this one photo into the post and I present the rest entirely as a slide show. This means there will not be captions or any kind of explanation, but I think you will get the idea.

I do want to say a little more about two images, however. Very near to the end of slide show, you will see an image of Warren's daughters Alice Akpik and Darlene Matumeak standing just behind the pulpit. As they were bringing the singspiration for the their father to an end, they were suddenly struck with such emotion that they had to step back from the pulpit to fight off the tears.

As they stood there, the congregation spontaneously began to sing - softly, tenderly and lovingly, "Praying for You." So in that photo, Alice and Darlene are wrapped in that song of prayer offered by those gathered with them in the Utqiagvik Presbyterian Chapel.

While all the people of Barrow and just about anywhere on the Arctic Slope will recognize the gentleman standing with his guitar in the final two shots as Peter Matumeak, Warren's son, I want to be certain that readers who do not know him understand this as well.

Click here for full, 14-image Singspiration for Warren Matumeak slide show.

Before I went to Barrow, I mentioned that I had rounded up a number of pictures that I had taken of Warren in life, but that there were many more that I could not find - including my very favorite. I have found that photo, of Warren with his grandson, Tommy Akpik, which I present below, along with the story. I believe that I took it in the fall of 1986, not long after I had begun Uiñiq magazine:

Beneath a full, October moon that hung in a pale blue sky, Warren Matumeak and his nine-year old grandson Tommy came upon three caribou. Warren shot the first, and Tommy the other two. As they dragged the dead caribou onto the sled, Warren felt a pain in his chest. He began to sweat. His muscles grew weak, his breath short.

He realized he was suffering a heart attack. “Tommy,” he said, “I am going to go to heaven now. You take me to your grandmother. Now, drive toward the moon. Going that direction, you will see your aaka."  Warren did not expect to be alive to see her himself. Tommy was frightened, but he helped situate his grandfather on the sled. Then he started up the snowmachine, turned it toward the moon and began to drive.

He cried as he pulled the sled upon which he expected to deliver the body of his aapa to his aaka.

Aapa Warren had taught Tommy how to shoot, to hunt and how to live on the land and sea. Tommy would not let Aapa down in the moment of his death. Tommy drove slowly over the bumpy tundra, until the snowmachine became stuck in a drifted-over ravine. Tommy tried with all of his strength, but could not push it out.

“Let’s pray" Warren suggested. They did. Warren then found the strength to help Tommy push the snowmachine out.  An hour later, Tommy pulled up to the tent. He and his grandmother lay Warren down upon some caribou skins, then snowmachined to a nearby camp with a radio which they used to call Search and Rescue.

When the helicopter arrived, Martha joined her husband on board, but there was no room for Tommy. He went to the camp of his aapa's sister and brother-in-law, Thomas and Myrtle Akootchook, but lingered outside. Finally, Myrtle went looking and found him sitting outside, crying. Myrtle brought Tommy in, and gave him a can of soda pop.

That seemed to cheer Tommy up a bit.