Probably no animal says Alaska like the moose. I always think of the old tv show, Northern Exposure, where the moose is wandering through the town in the opening scenes. You knew immediately that you were seeing a town in Alaska. Where else would you see a moose in town? So consequently, we spent a lot of time intently hoping to see a moose.
In truth, you really don't want to see one, especially up close. The locals will tell you that few animals are more dangerous or more unpredictable in their behavior. They will charge on the drop of a hat and can kick in all four directions. They are enormously tall and have a tremendous range in their kicks. They also tend to show up anywhere they think they will find a tasty shrub, which often includes cabin clearings. Moose meat tastes great and for that reason they are eagerly sought during the hunting season. At all other times they are strictly left alone and avoided. All this being said we still looked as hard as we could to see one.
Our efforts had been unrewarded until we took the train from Talkeetna to Seward where we would board our ship for the last leg of our journey. The train took us through some of the beautiful wilderness that is so much a part of Alaska. We had been rewarded on the trip with sights of beavers and their marvelous dams, eagles and their nests, but no moose. We were entering one part that was actually part of the airforce base outside of Palmer, when our guide told us to keep a sharp look out because there were lots of moose in this area. She said that during the winter they became real pests for the locals because they tended to walk in the road because it was easier. These animals are really big, so in an argument with a car, the car is going to lose. So about all you could do is wait until they moved on.
Naturally, we were glued to the windows from then on. Suddenly the cry went up from the front of the car, "MOOSE". Immediately everyone lunged to the side of the train. Sure enough there beside the railroad tracks was a huge moose, standing and looking away from the train and into the woods. In a blink we were past it and everyone was excitedly chattering about their "moose sighting". The guide said she was very surprised to see one that close to the train since they were usually seen running away. She said we were very lucky.
About that time one of the couples returned from the lounge car. They immediately started ridiculing us for being such suckers. It seems that the car attendant told them that it was a fake moose. A grand discussion (dare I say argument) arose between those who glimpsed the moose and those who thought it must be a trick. To this day, part of our group insists it was a fake while the rest (me included) believe we saw what we saw. It was quick, but honestly it looked incredibly real. After all who would go to the expense of putting a stuffed moose out in the weather just to fool some tourists? Alas, we didn't get a picture.
I'm going to believe I saw my moose.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Sled Dogs
One of the highlights of our trip to Alaska for me was the opportunity to see the famous sled dogs in action. During the winter that I was more or less housebound following my chemo treatments, I spent a lot of time playing on the computer. During one of my spells of surfing, I discovered the Cabella website and the Iditarod. Cabella's provided day to day and often moment to moment coverage of the famous dog race that takes place in early March.
The Iditarod is a 1100 to 1150 mile race from Anchorage to Nome. The miles vary because the route alternates every other year. It is a grueling race that is accomplished in an amazing 10-17 days. It follows approximately the route taken in 1925 when a diphtheria epidemic struck Nome. The planes that would have normally been used to fly in desperately needed medicine were grounded due to the weather. Someone came up with the idea of using a dog team to rush the medicine to the doctors in Nome. Todays race is not a desperate race to deliver hope but remains none the less an unbelievable triumph of man and dog over elements.
Day after day I found myself glued to the computer as I followed the dog teams and their mushers as they passed through their check points. Over fifty teams started the race but not all would finish it. Each day I learned about the care and feeding of these marvelous dogs and the mushers who love them and the race. Soon the names became people and I was immersed in their lives and what made them choose this dangerous and thrilling sport. I followed them as they battled frigid weather, blowing snow, dangerous ice, dark nights, and the threat of a moose attack. (Yes, a moose is the most dangerous animal they can face on the trail. It is for this reason they are required by the race to carry a firearm.) I began to see the strategy that would help them overcome their opponents to gain a few hours or minutes.
Now that we were going to Alaska I was determined to visit a sled dog kennel and see these marvelous animals. To my delight one of the stops in Fairbanks was to visit the kennel of Susan Butcher. Susan died a few years ago of leukemia but she was a famous Iditarod racer who was a four time winner of the race. Her husband now runs the kennel and still trains the dogs. We were treated to an exhibition of a team in action. Since there was no snow for them to pull a sled over they use a four wheeler to train during the summer. With the appearance of the four wheeler and the handlers the entire yard of dogs went crazy. With tails wagging like wild, they jumped on and off of their houses, each enthusiastically barking "take me!! Take Me!! TAKE ME!!" The ones chosen eagerly drug their handler to the sled to take their places. Their excitement was absolutely palatable.
Once in their harness they became all business. Each was eager to get started and run, but obedient to the signals of the musher. These dogs are controlled by voice not reins or whips. They respond to commands of "gee", "haw", "whoa", and "get up" just like teams of horses did. At the command of "get up" they lunged to the end of their harness and began to run. I am still amazed at the speed and agility of these dogs. These are the thoroughbreds of the dog world, bred for speed and endurance. They aren't the hulking, heavy dogs of the movies but smaller, slighter and quicker. Think draft horses versus race horses. They aren't purebred but all show some husky influence but may be crossed with about any other breed. All I can say about the demonstration is WOW! The dogs returned to the starting point barely out of breath and looking immensely pleased with themselves.
What a wonderful experience to see these dogs in their element, running like the wind.
The Iditarod is a 1100 to 1150 mile race from Anchorage to Nome. The miles vary because the route alternates every other year. It is a grueling race that is accomplished in an amazing 10-17 days. It follows approximately the route taken in 1925 when a diphtheria epidemic struck Nome. The planes that would have normally been used to fly in desperately needed medicine were grounded due to the weather. Someone came up with the idea of using a dog team to rush the medicine to the doctors in Nome. Todays race is not a desperate race to deliver hope but remains none the less an unbelievable triumph of man and dog over elements.
Day after day I found myself glued to the computer as I followed the dog teams and their mushers as they passed through their check points. Over fifty teams started the race but not all would finish it. Each day I learned about the care and feeding of these marvelous dogs and the mushers who love them and the race. Soon the names became people and I was immersed in their lives and what made them choose this dangerous and thrilling sport. I followed them as they battled frigid weather, blowing snow, dangerous ice, dark nights, and the threat of a moose attack. (Yes, a moose is the most dangerous animal they can face on the trail. It is for this reason they are required by the race to carry a firearm.) I began to see the strategy that would help them overcome their opponents to gain a few hours or minutes.
Now that we were going to Alaska I was determined to visit a sled dog kennel and see these marvelous animals. To my delight one of the stops in Fairbanks was to visit the kennel of Susan Butcher. Susan died a few years ago of leukemia but she was a famous Iditarod racer who was a four time winner of the race. Her husband now runs the kennel and still trains the dogs. We were treated to an exhibition of a team in action. Since there was no snow for them to pull a sled over they use a four wheeler to train during the summer. With the appearance of the four wheeler and the handlers the entire yard of dogs went crazy. With tails wagging like wild, they jumped on and off of their houses, each enthusiastically barking "take me!! Take Me!! TAKE ME!!" The ones chosen eagerly drug their handler to the sled to take their places. Their excitement was absolutely palatable.
Once in their harness they became all business. Each was eager to get started and run, but obedient to the signals of the musher. These dogs are controlled by voice not reins or whips. They respond to commands of "gee", "haw", "whoa", and "get up" just like teams of horses did. At the command of "get up" they lunged to the end of their harness and began to run. I am still amazed at the speed and agility of these dogs. These are the thoroughbreds of the dog world, bred for speed and endurance. They aren't the hulking, heavy dogs of the movies but smaller, slighter and quicker. Think draft horses versus race horses. They aren't purebred but all show some husky influence but may be crossed with about any other breed. All I can say about the demonstration is WOW! The dogs returned to the starting point barely out of breath and looking immensely pleased with themselves.
What a wonderful experience to see these dogs in their element, running like the wind.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Catching the Train
Visiting Alaska has really made me realize just how soft our living is. We view ourselves as hardy farmers making a living on our land, but in reality we make our real living from my husband's insurance and real estate business. We farm but not with real hardship as we do most of it with the help of a multitude of machines, from tractors to riding lawn mowers. When I need something for supper, I hop in the car and run to the grocery and get it all fancied up in a box.
What we saw in Alaska were people who really were self-sufficient and loved it. As we traveled by train across the vast midland of Alaska we were treated to occasional glimpses of isolated cabins in snug little clearings in the woodlands. Some were elegant and clearly professionally created, some were rough and clearly built with the hard work of the families themselves. Some were neat with well cared for yards and some of the gloriously, profuse flowers I keep talking about. Some were cluttered with all the paraphernalia of wilderness living piled on porch, yard, and walls. Yet, all held a strong impression of competence and self-sufficiency. These were people that relied on no one to do the work for them. They obviously took care of their own needs in their own way.
One of the most fascinating stretches of railroad ran for 60 miles through an area that was unreachable by road. The people that lived in this area relied on the train for transportation when they needed to reach the outside and the benefits of civilization. A signal was given and the train stopped at certain mile markers to pick up anyone who wanted to ride. To reach the train tracks they arrived on their four-wheelers. Up and down the tracks would run paths, which would follow the train tracks for a ways then shoot off into the forest and disappear. Occasionally, we would see bright blue showing through the bush and trees beside the train. Finally we realized that these were the four-wheelers and carts, covered with blue tarps, waiting for the return from town of their owners, ready to be loaded with supplies and taken to cabins off in the woods.
I envisioned lonely hunters living far from civilization and relishing their privacy, until our guide pointed out a neat homestead coming up ahead. Soon we were treated to a idyllic view of a snug home in a manicured clearing surrounded by flower beds and bird houses. Tricycles and bikes leaned against the railing of the neat deck, while clothes dried on the lines in the back yard. The guide told us that they must be off somewhere because usually they greeted the train with waves from the yard. It seems that this was a couple who had decided to move to Alaska from "outside", meaning the lower states. They had arrived several years earlier and built their home and settled in. The mother home schooled the children when they became old enough and the father did various jobs and worked at keeping them fed. I never really figured out what he did but obviously it provided for his family.
I looked at that neat homestead and thought of the little family it protected. I thought about the long winter days when the sun barely shown and the snow was deep around the cabin. I thought of all the illnesses and injuries that could happen and how far they were from medical help. I thought about all the crises that arise that you need neighbors for help. I wondered who the mother shared her worries with and who the father had to bolster him up. Then I realized that these people didn't need all the things that we think are so necessary. Medical help was available, by train, in an emergency, but for all else they had each other. I'm sure there were others that were in the area, even if they weren't close. There were too many four-wheeler paths for the area to be totally uninhabited, but still these people had reached down inside themselves and found a strength and fortitude that I found awe inspiring. These were the types of people who settled our lands, "outside", many years ago.
I guess I thought all the heroes and pioneers were long gone. No they still live and thrive in Alaska.
What we saw in Alaska were people who really were self-sufficient and loved it. As we traveled by train across the vast midland of Alaska we were treated to occasional glimpses of isolated cabins in snug little clearings in the woodlands. Some were elegant and clearly professionally created, some were rough and clearly built with the hard work of the families themselves. Some were neat with well cared for yards and some of the gloriously, profuse flowers I keep talking about. Some were cluttered with all the paraphernalia of wilderness living piled on porch, yard, and walls. Yet, all held a strong impression of competence and self-sufficiency. These were people that relied on no one to do the work for them. They obviously took care of their own needs in their own way.
One of the most fascinating stretches of railroad ran for 60 miles through an area that was unreachable by road. The people that lived in this area relied on the train for transportation when they needed to reach the outside and the benefits of civilization. A signal was given and the train stopped at certain mile markers to pick up anyone who wanted to ride. To reach the train tracks they arrived on their four-wheelers. Up and down the tracks would run paths, which would follow the train tracks for a ways then shoot off into the forest and disappear. Occasionally, we would see bright blue showing through the bush and trees beside the train. Finally we realized that these were the four-wheelers and carts, covered with blue tarps, waiting for the return from town of their owners, ready to be loaded with supplies and taken to cabins off in the woods.
I envisioned lonely hunters living far from civilization and relishing their privacy, until our guide pointed out a neat homestead coming up ahead. Soon we were treated to a idyllic view of a snug home in a manicured clearing surrounded by flower beds and bird houses. Tricycles and bikes leaned against the railing of the neat deck, while clothes dried on the lines in the back yard. The guide told us that they must be off somewhere because usually they greeted the train with waves from the yard. It seems that this was a couple who had decided to move to Alaska from "outside", meaning the lower states. They had arrived several years earlier and built their home and settled in. The mother home schooled the children when they became old enough and the father did various jobs and worked at keeping them fed. I never really figured out what he did but obviously it provided for his family.
I looked at that neat homestead and thought of the little family it protected. I thought about the long winter days when the sun barely shown and the snow was deep around the cabin. I thought of all the illnesses and injuries that could happen and how far they were from medical help. I thought about all the crises that arise that you need neighbors for help. I wondered who the mother shared her worries with and who the father had to bolster him up. Then I realized that these people didn't need all the things that we think are so necessary. Medical help was available, by train, in an emergency, but for all else they had each other. I'm sure there were others that were in the area, even if they weren't close. There were too many four-wheeler paths for the area to be totally uninhabited, but still these people had reached down inside themselves and found a strength and fortitude that I found awe inspiring. These were the types of people who settled our lands, "outside", many years ago.
I guess I thought all the heroes and pioneers were long gone. No they still live and thrive in Alaska.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Plug it UP
This was our first time to visit Fairbanks, Alaska. We flew in in the late afternoon, about 7:00, and were treated to the sight of Fairbanks spread out over the undulating tundra. As far as you could see was a green rolling countryside, occasionally broken by streams, with this small city sitting in the middle of it. There is one road that goes in and out, which connects eventually to Anchorage and the coast. The airport consists of the standard runways and several lakes, which have been created to accommodate the small float planes. Air travel is the most common method of travel in this part of the state. In fact, we saw several homes with airplanes parked in the drive, much like we would motor homes.
Fairbanks is a city of extremes. The climate is extremely dry and extremely cold. Their average snowfall is 8 inches, but remember, it won't be melting off. Their temperatures dip down to 30 to 40 degrees below zero. Which is what you would expect from a city located just 200 miles from the artic circle. We arrived the last of August to beautiful fall weather. The temperature was a mild 62 degrees with lots of sunshine. We were assured that it doesn't last. Mid-September is when they start to experience the beginning of winter. From August on the days grow shorter quickly until eventually the sun just doesn't ever really come up. They will have months of dusk, near dark, and dark.
As usual we took off the next morning to explore the city. We were dropped off at the park running along the Chena river. It was a beautiful walk from there to the main part of town. The park, like all the places we saw in Alaska, was overflowing with flowers. Giant flowers! Sunflowers, nasturtiums, pansies, cone flowers, daisy's, sultanas, and lots I didn't know the names of. The flowers seem to grow especially beautiful as though to make up for the dark days of winter.
We were sitting in a coffee shop later that morning enjoying a latte when I looked out the window and noticed something that intrigued me. Hanging from the parking meter in front of the shop was a plug, like the end of an extension cord. I started looking and noticed that all the cars pulled up to the meters had a cord hanging out from the grill on the front. We found out that there were plugs all over the town so people could plug up the engine heaters in their cars. Without the heaters the cars would quickly get so cold that they wouldn't start up again when the owners returned. All winter when the temperatures plummeted people would pull in, plug up and do their shopping. One girl confessed that when plugs weren't available she just left her car running. She laughed and said, that she even left it running when she went to the movies.. Better than no transportation at the end of the movie, I guess.
Somehow the fact that you could plug your engine heater in while you shopped just fascinated me. If cars require such extreme care to function in that climate, how do the people keep going. I live in a state where if it gets to 5 below zero we practically close down the state. The ability of people to thrive and live in conditions that seem unbelievable to me is wonderful. Of course, they probably think our summer temperatures of 100 degrees (which it was at home while we were there) are totally beyond bearing.
Amazing.
Fairbanks is a city of extremes. The climate is extremely dry and extremely cold. Their average snowfall is 8 inches, but remember, it won't be melting off. Their temperatures dip down to 30 to 40 degrees below zero. Which is what you would expect from a city located just 200 miles from the artic circle. We arrived the last of August to beautiful fall weather. The temperature was a mild 62 degrees with lots of sunshine. We were assured that it doesn't last. Mid-September is when they start to experience the beginning of winter. From August on the days grow shorter quickly until eventually the sun just doesn't ever really come up. They will have months of dusk, near dark, and dark.
As usual we took off the next morning to explore the city. We were dropped off at the park running along the Chena river. It was a beautiful walk from there to the main part of town. The park, like all the places we saw in Alaska, was overflowing with flowers. Giant flowers! Sunflowers, nasturtiums, pansies, cone flowers, daisy's, sultanas, and lots I didn't know the names of. The flowers seem to grow especially beautiful as though to make up for the dark days of winter.
We were sitting in a coffee shop later that morning enjoying a latte when I looked out the window and noticed something that intrigued me. Hanging from the parking meter in front of the shop was a plug, like the end of an extension cord. I started looking and noticed that all the cars pulled up to the meters had a cord hanging out from the grill on the front. We found out that there were plugs all over the town so people could plug up the engine heaters in their cars. Without the heaters the cars would quickly get so cold that they wouldn't start up again when the owners returned. All winter when the temperatures plummeted people would pull in, plug up and do their shopping. One girl confessed that when plugs weren't available she just left her car running. She laughed and said, that she even left it running when she went to the movies.. Better than no transportation at the end of the movie, I guess.
Somehow the fact that you could plug your engine heater in while you shopped just fascinated me. If cars require such extreme care to function in that climate, how do the people keep going. I live in a state where if it gets to 5 below zero we practically close down the state. The ability of people to thrive and live in conditions that seem unbelievable to me is wonderful. Of course, they probably think our summer temperatures of 100 degrees (which it was at home while we were there) are totally beyond bearing.
Amazing.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Cabbage Contest
The first time we visited Alaska I wasn't prepared for what we would experience. After all I grew up on the edge of the Appalachian Mountains in a rural area, I thought I knew what to expect. What I didn't expect was a vast wilderness, mostly unpopulated, settled by true pioneers of hardy stock. The land itself is breathtaking and those that live there are worthy of it's rugged splendor.
As is usually the case when we travel, we are interested in the land and what it produces. I hesitate to call it agriculture, since they have very few "farms" as such. However, many can and do survive on what they can grow, catch or kill. They have a very short growing season, in southern Alaska about 105 days, less further north. That means that many of our slow maturing vegetables and crops just won't have enough time to grow. Although they do have one advantage we don't have. During the summer they may have as much as 20 hours of sunlight a day. It's rather like growing plants under a grow-light in a greenhouse.
The crops that do well there are our cool weather crops that respond to the mild temperatures and the wet climate. We saw rhubarb in an abundance, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce of all types, strawberries (in beautiful hanging baskets), and lots and lots of flowers. It is as though the plants themselves know that they have only a short period to produce so they do it as dramatically as they can. Everything is super big due to the extra sunlight, I guess.
Alaskans make a big thing out of everything being bigger. They proudly tell you that they are the biggest state (2 1/2 times as big as Texas), they have the biggest bears (polar and grizzly), the biggest beavers (100 lbs.), the biggest mountain (Mt. McKinley) and the most airplanes and pilots. Which brings us to the state fair.
The delightful girl who was our tour guide on the train ride to Anchorage, proudly pointed out that Palmer, AK, was hosting the annual State Fair. She told us that her sister was carrying on a tradition started by her grandfather, carried on by her father and now it was her turn. She was trying to win the biggest cabbage contest. This is roughly equivalent to us wanting to win the State Fair Steer competition.
This is serious business. She had raised three cabbage plants in her back yard. She started by building a frame and putting metal cross bars in it. She then filled it with soil and planted her cabbages. Then followed days of precise feeding with fertilizers and growth stimulants. She harvested the first one a few weeks earlier to enter in another competition to feel out the opponents. It weighted in at 73 pounds. It was her smallest one. To harvest it they used a sawsall to cut the stem and hooked an engine hoist to the frame to pick it up and put it in the pickup truck. She has great hopes for the biggest one, which measures over 8 feet across, and will be her State Fair entry. She is carrying the hopes of her father and grandfather on her massive head of cabbage, that she will be the third generation to win "biggest cabbage".
All I could think of is what a mountain of slaw that would make and how many people it would take to eat it all up.
As is usually the case when we travel, we are interested in the land and what it produces. I hesitate to call it agriculture, since they have very few "farms" as such. However, many can and do survive on what they can grow, catch or kill. They have a very short growing season, in southern Alaska about 105 days, less further north. That means that many of our slow maturing vegetables and crops just won't have enough time to grow. Although they do have one advantage we don't have. During the summer they may have as much as 20 hours of sunlight a day. It's rather like growing plants under a grow-light in a greenhouse.
The crops that do well there are our cool weather crops that respond to the mild temperatures and the wet climate. We saw rhubarb in an abundance, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce of all types, strawberries (in beautiful hanging baskets), and lots and lots of flowers. It is as though the plants themselves know that they have only a short period to produce so they do it as dramatically as they can. Everything is super big due to the extra sunlight, I guess.
Alaskans make a big thing out of everything being bigger. They proudly tell you that they are the biggest state (2 1/2 times as big as Texas), they have the biggest bears (polar and grizzly), the biggest beavers (100 lbs.), the biggest mountain (Mt. McKinley) and the most airplanes and pilots. Which brings us to the state fair.
The delightful girl who was our tour guide on the train ride to Anchorage, proudly pointed out that Palmer, AK, was hosting the annual State Fair. She told us that her sister was carrying on a tradition started by her grandfather, carried on by her father and now it was her turn. She was trying to win the biggest cabbage contest. This is roughly equivalent to us wanting to win the State Fair Steer competition.
This is serious business. She had raised three cabbage plants in her back yard. She started by building a frame and putting metal cross bars in it. She then filled it with soil and planted her cabbages. Then followed days of precise feeding with fertilizers and growth stimulants. She harvested the first one a few weeks earlier to enter in another competition to feel out the opponents. It weighted in at 73 pounds. It was her smallest one. To harvest it they used a sawsall to cut the stem and hooked an engine hoist to the frame to pick it up and put it in the pickup truck. She has great hopes for the biggest one, which measures over 8 feet across, and will be her State Fair entry. She is carrying the hopes of her father and grandfather on her massive head of cabbage, that she will be the third generation to win "biggest cabbage".
All I could think of is what a mountain of slaw that would make and how many people it would take to eat it all up.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Hugs Across the Border
We have just returned from a two week trip to Alaska. We ended our tour by arriving in Vancouver, Canada by boat. The arrival brought back many memories of the last time we made this trip. September 11, 2001.
Ten years ago we ended a wonderful cruise with six friends on the day the towers came down. We arrived in Vancouver, scared, grieved, and unsure of what to do next. Four of us were allowed to leave the ship since we had made previous reservations to stay in Vancouver and therefore had accommodations. The other four stayed on the ship as guests of the cruise line until arrangements could be made for them. We carried our luggage off the ship amid bomb sniffing dogs, police officers armed with assault rifles, and custom officials, feeling much like refugees.
We arrived at our hotel to be greeted by warmth and expressions of sympathy and consolation by the staff. Across the street was a beautiful, small church with a small churchyard around it. On the board in front of the church was an announcement for a memorial service the next day for the victims of the terrorist attack on the United States. We arose the next morning with the intention of attending the service and a hope of making some sense of the horrific events. Heart sore and still scared we got ready for the service. My husband opened the curtains to look out and called that I could probably quit rushing to get ready. I joined him at the window to look down on the little church across the street.
An hour before the service was to begin the Canadians had crowded the church, filled the church yard and were congregating in the street. Traffic had slowed as more and more people arrived to remember, grieve and show their concern for the victims and their families across the border. We watched as people hugged, cried and held hands as they offered up their support and concern for their neighboring country. This outpouring of concern and support washed over us as we watched the crowd. We realized that although we were in a foreign country with the borders closed we were not alone. Others shared our outrage and grief and offered us the comfort of their joined concern.
Throughout our stay until the borders were opened and we were able to fly home, the Canadians continuously offered us comfort and understanding. From a shop lady offering a comforting squeeze to our shoulders to outright hugs from a waitress with family in Chicago, we were treated with warmth and love. The people of Canada and particularly Vancouver left an impression on our hearts that will never be forgotten. In a time a stress and fear they offered comfort without any thought of country borders or cultural differences. Thank you for showing us that there is hope for a troubled world as long as we can hug and comfort one another in times of need.
Ten years ago we ended a wonderful cruise with six friends on the day the towers came down. We arrived in Vancouver, scared, grieved, and unsure of what to do next. Four of us were allowed to leave the ship since we had made previous reservations to stay in Vancouver and therefore had accommodations. The other four stayed on the ship as guests of the cruise line until arrangements could be made for them. We carried our luggage off the ship amid bomb sniffing dogs, police officers armed with assault rifles, and custom officials, feeling much like refugees.
We arrived at our hotel to be greeted by warmth and expressions of sympathy and consolation by the staff. Across the street was a beautiful, small church with a small churchyard around it. On the board in front of the church was an announcement for a memorial service the next day for the victims of the terrorist attack on the United States. We arose the next morning with the intention of attending the service and a hope of making some sense of the horrific events. Heart sore and still scared we got ready for the service. My husband opened the curtains to look out and called that I could probably quit rushing to get ready. I joined him at the window to look down on the little church across the street.
An hour before the service was to begin the Canadians had crowded the church, filled the church yard and were congregating in the street. Traffic had slowed as more and more people arrived to remember, grieve and show their concern for the victims and their families across the border. We watched as people hugged, cried and held hands as they offered up their support and concern for their neighboring country. This outpouring of concern and support washed over us as we watched the crowd. We realized that although we were in a foreign country with the borders closed we were not alone. Others shared our outrage and grief and offered us the comfort of their joined concern.
Throughout our stay until the borders were opened and we were able to fly home, the Canadians continuously offered us comfort and understanding. From a shop lady offering a comforting squeeze to our shoulders to outright hugs from a waitress with family in Chicago, we were treated with warmth and love. The people of Canada and particularly Vancouver left an impression on our hearts that will never be forgotten. In a time a stress and fear they offered comfort without any thought of country borders or cultural differences. Thank you for showing us that there is hope for a troubled world as long as we can hug and comfort one another in times of need.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Pizza in the Patch
This has been a hard year for the tobacco patch. For some reason we live in an area that is ignored by storm clouds during dry spells. We used to sit on the porch and watch the rain fall just north of us or just east of us or on occasion in our neighbor's field but not ours. Now we sit glued to the smart phones watching the radar and seeing the clouds open up and detour around us. On one occasion actually parting and pouring rain to the south and north of us but leaving us dry. Hubby says he doesn't know why he didn't just move years ago, but instead we just keep trying. Fortunately, it isn't like that every year!
However, we have had enough rain for the tobacco to grow and it's now ready to top. Tobacco grows on a stalk that produces leaves up the stalk ending with a single cluster bloom in the very top. It actually is beautiful but few farmers have much to say good about it. When it blooms, it is time to "top" it. That means each bloom is broken out by hand to encourage the plant to grow and mature. That's hours of reaching over your head and snapping out the tops of the plants. It tiring, aching work done in the hottest weather. Not for the weak willed.
My son, grandson, his neighbor and anyone else he could corral have been topping for the last few days. With most everyone having a "real" job during the day they rush home, change clothes and go immediately to the patch. Supper is sometimes eaten at ten at night just before falling into bed. On this night everyone got hungry and decided they really wanted a pizza. Now in a rural area that isn't always as simple as calling for delivery. The best choice was to call the neighboring town, who have a Papa John's that delivers. They in turn will take it to the Rite-Aid in our town for you to meet them and pick it up. Some time ago, I managed to convince them that they could save time and money by delivering to me since they drove right by my house to get to Rite-Aid. I guess I am one of the few people in our county who have real delivery pizza.
So the call goes like this:
"We want to order a pizza."
"Ok we'll deliver it to Rite-Aid"
"You deliver to the Campbell's don't you?"
"You want it delivered to the Campbell's?"
"Well, not exactly. When you get to the Campbell's drive, don't go up the drive, but follow the old road to the right. Cross over the old bridge and look for the cars and trucks. We'll be in the tobacco patch just across the creek."
I must really over-tip these kids driving because after a quick check of the information in his computer he agrees to this arrangement.
"uhh...OK. It'll be about 30 minutes"
Sure enough in about 30 minutes they look up to see a little red car bouncing into the field. Rarely, has his delivery been greeting with such enthusiasm. He grinned proudly, "I've delivered to a lot of places but this is the first time in a tobacco patch!"
You've just got to love rural communities.
However, we have had enough rain for the tobacco to grow and it's now ready to top. Tobacco grows on a stalk that produces leaves up the stalk ending with a single cluster bloom in the very top. It actually is beautiful but few farmers have much to say good about it. When it blooms, it is time to "top" it. That means each bloom is broken out by hand to encourage the plant to grow and mature. That's hours of reaching over your head and snapping out the tops of the plants. It tiring, aching work done in the hottest weather. Not for the weak willed.
My son, grandson, his neighbor and anyone else he could corral have been topping for the last few days. With most everyone having a "real" job during the day they rush home, change clothes and go immediately to the patch. Supper is sometimes eaten at ten at night just before falling into bed. On this night everyone got hungry and decided they really wanted a pizza. Now in a rural area that isn't always as simple as calling for delivery. The best choice was to call the neighboring town, who have a Papa John's that delivers. They in turn will take it to the Rite-Aid in our town for you to meet them and pick it up. Some time ago, I managed to convince them that they could save time and money by delivering to me since they drove right by my house to get to Rite-Aid. I guess I am one of the few people in our county who have real delivery pizza.
So the call goes like this:
"We want to order a pizza."
"Ok we'll deliver it to Rite-Aid"
"You deliver to the Campbell's don't you?"
"You want it delivered to the Campbell's?"
"Well, not exactly. When you get to the Campbell's drive, don't go up the drive, but follow the old road to the right. Cross over the old bridge and look for the cars and trucks. We'll be in the tobacco patch just across the creek."
I must really over-tip these kids driving because after a quick check of the information in his computer he agrees to this arrangement.
"uhh...OK. It'll be about 30 minutes"
Sure enough in about 30 minutes they look up to see a little red car bouncing into the field. Rarely, has his delivery been greeting with such enthusiasm. He grinned proudly, "I've delivered to a lot of places but this is the first time in a tobacco patch!"
You've just got to love rural communities.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
The Bull War
Life on a farm is rarely simple and never dull. On Thursday the neighbor moved a new herd of cows into the field next to us. Included in with the herd was a big, black bull. Actually, it was a bull we had raised and sold to him a couple of years ago, now all grown up and ornery. Immediately, he started pacing up and down the boundary fence and announcing his presense with loud bellows. This receive a quick response from our bull who was with his herd two fields over. All afternoon this posturing and name calling went on. It wasn't long before a poorly latched gate yielded to our bull and now they were closer. A few more insults were exchanged with the result being that our bull found another weak place and moved one field closer. Now they were face to face across the boundary fence.
In no time they had progressed from insults to head butting. Bulls being bulls it never occurred to either one of them that they had a whole herd of cows each and didn't have a thing to fight about. They both had all they could take care of in their own pastures but both wanted what they other had. Sound familiar? Then they had to prove to the world which one was the biggest, strongest, baddest bull on the farm. I guess it's just a guy thing. I noticed that none of the cows felt the slightest urge to switch pastures, snipe across the fence or start a fight. In fact, they mostly just went about their own business and left the two bulls to make fools of themselves on their own.
The two bulls spent a happy afternoon pushing and shoving each other through the fence until finally the fence gave it up and they were together. The ensuing fight included a pond dunking, lots of dirt thrown, major bellowing, and lots of pushing and shoving. Sometime during the fun our young bull ( a teenager) decided it looked too good to pass up and he managed to join in the melee. About that time the two older bulls, deciding that they weren't having too much success with each other, joined to gang up on the youngster. It wasn't long before he changed his mind and went back to his own field.
By the time the men arrived they found the war over. All the participants were tired, dirty and ready to call it a day. They meekly allowed themselves to be sorted into their respective fields, face saved and battles won (or lost). All that was left was securing the battlefield. Inspection showed one gate to be un-bent, one fence to be repaired and restretched, and one section of boundary fence to be replaced. Like most wars, not much was solved and the clean-up took longer than the battle.
In no time they had progressed from insults to head butting. Bulls being bulls it never occurred to either one of them that they had a whole herd of cows each and didn't have a thing to fight about. They both had all they could take care of in their own pastures but both wanted what they other had. Sound familiar? Then they had to prove to the world which one was the biggest, strongest, baddest bull on the farm. I guess it's just a guy thing. I noticed that none of the cows felt the slightest urge to switch pastures, snipe across the fence or start a fight. In fact, they mostly just went about their own business and left the two bulls to make fools of themselves on their own.
The two bulls spent a happy afternoon pushing and shoving each other through the fence until finally the fence gave it up and they were together. The ensuing fight included a pond dunking, lots of dirt thrown, major bellowing, and lots of pushing and shoving. Sometime during the fun our young bull ( a teenager) decided it looked too good to pass up and he managed to join in the melee. About that time the two older bulls, deciding that they weren't having too much success with each other, joined to gang up on the youngster. It wasn't long before he changed his mind and went back to his own field.
By the time the men arrived they found the war over. All the participants were tired, dirty and ready to call it a day. They meekly allowed themselves to be sorted into their respective fields, face saved and battles won (or lost). All that was left was securing the battlefield. Inspection showed one gate to be un-bent, one fence to be repaired and restretched, and one section of boundary fence to be replaced. Like most wars, not much was solved and the clean-up took longer than the battle.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Summer's End
School started today for the grandsons. That always means the end of summer even if the event does come earlier and earlier. The oldest grandson had been moping around for days moaning about how we hadn't gotten to do anything. (I guess the church trip to Tennessee and the family trip to the gulf didn't register) However, he was right we hadn't really gotten to do much together except one trip to the zoo. I mentioned this to hubby over lunch and he responded with "Well, do something!". Thus encouraged I decided to use the couple of days left and plan a trip for all three boys.
This would be the first time I had attempted taking the two little boys with us and I wasn't really sure how I would manage. However, you can't take one of the little ones without the other, so I took the plunge. A quick Internet check located a room at a State Park that wasn't too far away. (2 hours is about my limit with the little ones in a car.) For years, the State Parks were our vacation sources when ours were little. They are generally inexpensive, clean and well maintained. They were designed years ago to give townspeople a chance to enjoy the natural beauty of Kentucky and they are still doing their job. They have nature trails, swimming pools,playgrounds, beaches, golf, fishing, boating, horseback riding, cabins and lodges. Perfect for our group of mixed ages of 3, 5, and nearly 14, plus grandma.
We arrived at the beautiful Barren River Lake State Resort about four hours early for our 3 pm check-in time. I stopped by the lodge first to let them know we were there and let them know we would be at the beach. First problem. The very nice young lady told me that due to the extremely high waters in the spring their beach was closed for the season to rebuild it. However, we could use the pool or any of the other lodge facilities. I mentioned that although I knew we were early, I wondered if we could possibly check in early after lunch since I had two that would need naps. She quickly checked and said I could go on and check in now since they had a room that was already cleaned and ready. Try doing that anywhere else!!
Before long we were unloaded and spreading our quilt under a huge shade tree by the lake and having a picnic lunch. The older grandson immediately grabbed his fishing pole and headed for the lake to feed the fish. I decided to take the two younger boys to the pool for a little splash time. I frankly was surprised at how much fun I had playing with the little ones in the pool. When we were worn down we headed for the room for a nap. About the same time the older grandson showed up with a downcast expression. He had already broken his fishing pole. Upon questioning he revealed that he hadn't done anything....it just fell apart! O K, sure. I remembered seeing a stand full of poles behind the desk in the lodge, so I sent him to check. They cheerfully supplied him with a fishing pole for his use at no charge. I decided trying to get two excited, squirming boys to sleep was an exercise in futility, so we all accompanied him back to the lake to fish.
Thus we spent a happy 36 hours of freedom. Finding goose feathers, following tracks in the mud, throwing rocks in the water, watching sticks float to shore, digging in the dirt, watching clouds and trying not to bother our fisherman too much. We swam a little, visited the marina to see the boats (and buy more night crawlers), ate in the lodge dining room with indulgent fellow guests, who didn't mind our lack of public manners, and visited repeatedly with the park naturalists who answered thousands of questions and even let them feed the collection of turtles, frogs, lizards and toads. In short we had a great time on our short trip. I did discover quickly why when we had little ones we were all a lot skinnier. Grandma didn't stop moving much or have much time for leisurely meals!
The perfect end to the trip came when they each gave me a big hug and begged to do this again next year, but longer! Maybe I'll be rested up by then.
This would be the first time I had attempted taking the two little boys with us and I wasn't really sure how I would manage. However, you can't take one of the little ones without the other, so I took the plunge. A quick Internet check located a room at a State Park that wasn't too far away. (2 hours is about my limit with the little ones in a car.) For years, the State Parks were our vacation sources when ours were little. They are generally inexpensive, clean and well maintained. They were designed years ago to give townspeople a chance to enjoy the natural beauty of Kentucky and they are still doing their job. They have nature trails, swimming pools,playgrounds, beaches, golf, fishing, boating, horseback riding, cabins and lodges. Perfect for our group of mixed ages of 3, 5, and nearly 14, plus grandma.
We arrived at the beautiful Barren River Lake State Resort about four hours early for our 3 pm check-in time. I stopped by the lodge first to let them know we were there and let them know we would be at the beach. First problem. The very nice young lady told me that due to the extremely high waters in the spring their beach was closed for the season to rebuild it. However, we could use the pool or any of the other lodge facilities. I mentioned that although I knew we were early, I wondered if we could possibly check in early after lunch since I had two that would need naps. She quickly checked and said I could go on and check in now since they had a room that was already cleaned and ready. Try doing that anywhere else!!
Before long we were unloaded and spreading our quilt under a huge shade tree by the lake and having a picnic lunch. The older grandson immediately grabbed his fishing pole and headed for the lake to feed the fish. I decided to take the two younger boys to the pool for a little splash time. I frankly was surprised at how much fun I had playing with the little ones in the pool. When we were worn down we headed for the room for a nap. About the same time the older grandson showed up with a downcast expression. He had already broken his fishing pole. Upon questioning he revealed that he hadn't done anything....it just fell apart! O K, sure. I remembered seeing a stand full of poles behind the desk in the lodge, so I sent him to check. They cheerfully supplied him with a fishing pole for his use at no charge. I decided trying to get two excited, squirming boys to sleep was an exercise in futility, so we all accompanied him back to the lake to fish.
Thus we spent a happy 36 hours of freedom. Finding goose feathers, following tracks in the mud, throwing rocks in the water, watching sticks float to shore, digging in the dirt, watching clouds and trying not to bother our fisherman too much. We swam a little, visited the marina to see the boats (and buy more night crawlers), ate in the lodge dining room with indulgent fellow guests, who didn't mind our lack of public manners, and visited repeatedly with the park naturalists who answered thousands of questions and even let them feed the collection of turtles, frogs, lizards and toads. In short we had a great time on our short trip. I did discover quickly why when we had little ones we were all a lot skinnier. Grandma didn't stop moving much or have much time for leisurely meals!
The perfect end to the trip came when they each gave me a big hug and begged to do this again next year, but longer! Maybe I'll be rested up by then.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Waffle House
In a conversation the other day my daughter-in-law admitted that she had never been in a Waffle House restaurant. My son looked at her with astonishment. I'm not sure if the look was amazement that anyone hadn't been in one or wonder that anyone had escaped being in one. You see this is one of those insider, family stories.
From the time the kids were around 9 years old until they were out of high school our summer vacations tended to involve going to and from cattle shows. Since we were usually pulling a trailer that meant that we were all crowded into the front seat of the truck. Now that is family togetherness, especially after a long day of close communication with a bunch of cows. We spent a lot of hours traveling and getting on each others nerves.
Hubby always drove and so he usually got to make the decision of when we stopped. When we would finally prevail on him to stop for food, he would always demand to know where we wanted to eat. Of course, that meant a long discussion because two kids cannot agree on anything immediately, it's against the rules. At the next exit after hubby had endured maximum whining and arguing he would pull off. The first thing he would inevitably see would be the big, yellow Waffle House sign and in we would go. Hubby loves them because you can get a good hot meal, fast, any time day or night. We have eaten at Waffle Houses all across the US and I can tell you they are all the same.
If you are like my daughter-in-law and haven't eaten in one (I guess there are some of you out there), they are tiny little grills that remind me a lot of old fashioned diners. They feature a long bar with stools that overlooks the grill where all the cooking is done. There are a few booths arranged around the walls but little else. They serve a pretty full menu of items that can be prepared on a grill, but the specialty is, of course, waffles. They also serve a full breakfast 24 hours a day. Sitting at the bar and watching the waitresses and the grill cook perform is a fascinating education. (Don't look to closely at the area, being open 24 hrs. a day doesn't leave a lot of time for frivolities, like cleaning.)
The waitresses take your order and shout it to the grill master in a short-order shorthand that I haven't figured out yet. The grill master will juggle up to fifteen orders for eggs (any style), toast (white, whole wheat or cinnamon raisin), hash browns ( with various toppings), waffles, plain or with pecans, bacon, sausage, and the occasional pork chop without missing a beat. He moves continuously with no wasted motion. It's a ballet of poetry in motion. Of course, this ballet is accompanied with dishes being smacked down, orders being yelled, chatter with the customers, and all the hustle and bustle of a busy kitchen about two feet in front of you.
The people who you eat with are as varied as the travelers on any highway. We have munched with truckers, cops, families, young teens, retirees, workers, and street people. Everyone rubs elbows at the counter with the same purpose in mind, a hot meal. There is the usual chit-chat between the waitress and the customers but mostly everyone just minds their food. Except one time when we almost got thrown out.
We had been at a cattle show when our son was around fourteen. He and some of the other kids had acquired key chains that played various messages when a button was pushed. Naturally the messages were mostly the things they would like to say but knew their parents would have a fit if they did. The mildest being "shit" the worst usually containing the "f-word". Hubby had finally tired of hearing it and confiscated it and put it in his pocket, where he promptly forgot about it. We were on our way home and lined up on the bar stools at a Waffle House enjoying waffles and eggs, when hubby shifted on his stool. Clearly the words "fuck you" floated out. A large, burly guy sitting next to hubby turned and looked at him questioningly. Hubby quickly grabbed his pocket in an attempt to remove the offending key chain and pushed the button again. Again, it clearly repeated its message, this time proclaiming, "fuck off asshole". The big guy started to swell up, "Hey buddy. If you got something to say, just say it." He blustered. Hubby started apologizing while I started laughing. In confusion the big guy looked from one to the other, obviously unsure whether hubby was to be taught a lesson or given pity for such a crazy wife. Finally, muttering under his breath, he heaved himself off the stool and left. He probably still thinks we were nuts.
From the time the kids were around 9 years old until they were out of high school our summer vacations tended to involve going to and from cattle shows. Since we were usually pulling a trailer that meant that we were all crowded into the front seat of the truck. Now that is family togetherness, especially after a long day of close communication with a bunch of cows. We spent a lot of hours traveling and getting on each others nerves.
Hubby always drove and so he usually got to make the decision of when we stopped. When we would finally prevail on him to stop for food, he would always demand to know where we wanted to eat. Of course, that meant a long discussion because two kids cannot agree on anything immediately, it's against the rules. At the next exit after hubby had endured maximum whining and arguing he would pull off. The first thing he would inevitably see would be the big, yellow Waffle House sign and in we would go. Hubby loves them because you can get a good hot meal, fast, any time day or night. We have eaten at Waffle Houses all across the US and I can tell you they are all the same.
If you are like my daughter-in-law and haven't eaten in one (I guess there are some of you out there), they are tiny little grills that remind me a lot of old fashioned diners. They feature a long bar with stools that overlooks the grill where all the cooking is done. There are a few booths arranged around the walls but little else. They serve a pretty full menu of items that can be prepared on a grill, but the specialty is, of course, waffles. They also serve a full breakfast 24 hours a day. Sitting at the bar and watching the waitresses and the grill cook perform is a fascinating education. (Don't look to closely at the area, being open 24 hrs. a day doesn't leave a lot of time for frivolities, like cleaning.)
The waitresses take your order and shout it to the grill master in a short-order shorthand that I haven't figured out yet. The grill master will juggle up to fifteen orders for eggs (any style), toast (white, whole wheat or cinnamon raisin), hash browns ( with various toppings), waffles, plain or with pecans, bacon, sausage, and the occasional pork chop without missing a beat. He moves continuously with no wasted motion. It's a ballet of poetry in motion. Of course, this ballet is accompanied with dishes being smacked down, orders being yelled, chatter with the customers, and all the hustle and bustle of a busy kitchen about two feet in front of you.
The people who you eat with are as varied as the travelers on any highway. We have munched with truckers, cops, families, young teens, retirees, workers, and street people. Everyone rubs elbows at the counter with the same purpose in mind, a hot meal. There is the usual chit-chat between the waitress and the customers but mostly everyone just minds their food. Except one time when we almost got thrown out.
We had been at a cattle show when our son was around fourteen. He and some of the other kids had acquired key chains that played various messages when a button was pushed. Naturally the messages were mostly the things they would like to say but knew their parents would have a fit if they did. The mildest being "shit" the worst usually containing the "f-word". Hubby had finally tired of hearing it and confiscated it and put it in his pocket, where he promptly forgot about it. We were on our way home and lined up on the bar stools at a Waffle House enjoying waffles and eggs, when hubby shifted on his stool. Clearly the words "fuck you" floated out. A large, burly guy sitting next to hubby turned and looked at him questioningly. Hubby quickly grabbed his pocket in an attempt to remove the offending key chain and pushed the button again. Again, it clearly repeated its message, this time proclaiming, "fuck off asshole". The big guy started to swell up, "Hey buddy. If you got something to say, just say it." He blustered. Hubby started apologizing while I started laughing. In confusion the big guy looked from one to the other, obviously unsure whether hubby was to be taught a lesson or given pity for such a crazy wife. Finally, muttering under his breath, he heaved himself off the stool and left. He probably still thinks we were nuts.
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