Day 100: A New Year

Well, OK, it’s not the beginning of the Church Year here in Alaska, but it will be in thirteen days. And in thirteen days, I’m scheduled to ship out. I can only wonder what two months or three spent in Marshall might be like. Don’t think it’s not tempting.

Each walk I take, it’s as though I hear three or four “confessions” or make three or four “pastoral visits”. Just a wave or a simple hello is a virtual invitation to sit on a log, or a doorstep and talk. No great formality. No worries. No one cares being seen talking to the priest.

I hear a verbal fracas by the store, a half-block from the church. I putter around, not knowing whether to keep walking or pause or what. ATV’s rev-up and gravel flies. One of the participants rounds the corner in front of the old building, pulls the Four-Wheeler to a halt, and just as quickly dismounts: “Bless me, Father.” It’s a new face.

So, on the steps of the old church, about all that remains of the building now, we sit. We talk. There are tears. I attempt to console. It is all out there in the open. Others walk by. We wave. We keep talking. There is an earthy realism, a simplicity about life here. No pretense; no pretext. I was glad I was walking by. Well, initially, I didn’t know that, but I’m glad that I puttered when I did.

I returned to my perch at the school freezer where I can get 3-bars of Internet. Before I know it, Buddy is loping by from behind me. He had been missing when I left the house. I didn’t know whether he had broken his bonds or had been set free. It turns out to be the former.

Hey, I know you! He seems to say. In mid-run, he turns around, bounds up, and paws and nuzzles. I was the food wagon last night. Yep, that was me, Buddy. I try to teach him doggy-manners: Down. Sit. But he is so excited by freedom, he tolerates me only a short while.

The bell rings. Wednesday is early dismissal day. A number of the kids spy me and come over. They always yell before they get there: “Hi, Father!”

We go through the routine: How was school? Fine. What are you doing? I’m sending email. Let me see. OK. Hey, get his blessing.

Buddy runs back by and they start to scatter. Of course, he thinks they are playing. I try to tell them that: “Pretend he is a bear.” It is cardinal rule never to run from a bear. Break it and you will find out that he can run faster than you; and he will think that you are his food.

Bears also speak Yup’ik, according to the elders. Maybe Buddy speaks Yup’ik. They try to teach me Yup’ik for “Sit down.” They laugh. And they try again. More laughter. There are simply sounds, guttural sounds and others, in Yup’ik, which we do not make in English. I can’t even visualize a way to say them. Written Yup’ik uses different marks, rather than letters, when these are called for.

Finally, while some of the girls are still giggling that I haven’t mastered it just right, one of the boys pronounces me accomplished: “You’ve got it.” I might have had it, but I lost it very quickly. I can only remember the gagging sound in the back of the throat.

The kids start to scatter. Buddy is off on another romp. I don’t know what language Buddy speaks. Neither their Yup’ik nor mine works. And they never bought into the idea that Buddy was like a bear. They did tell me his real name is “Puppydog”. Well, that’s a help.

I walk over to inspect Steven’s moose. His dad is priest on Kenai. But he likes to come home to Marshall to hunt. In town less than a day, he had bagged what one of his uncles called a “mid-sized moose.” I had already been honored with a plate of Mr. Moose’s liver for lunch. Now, I got to see what was left of the original container.

The temperature here does not allow much time for the butchers to dawdle. The beast has to be cut up today. Of course, to port a moose out of wherever he was shot means he has to be quartered up, at least.

I step inside to see Steven’s grandparents. His grandmother is the one who worries about my empty belly: “Father, I’ll send you liver.”

“I’ve already had some. It was very good!”

“Did he send it to you cooked? Or, did you have to cook it?”

“No, it was cooked, not raw.”

“Really, how about fish pie and fresh bread for supper, then?”

That’s a deal!

I go back and finish my emailing, happy to hear that the bibles will arrive before I leave. UPS needed a physical address, which is a challenge in Marshall. There aren’t any. Steven and Willie help me. The streets that the church fronts and sides on don’t have any legal existence. They exist in fact but aren’t on any maps. Don’t ask me about what 9-1-1 does here. (There are no house numbers, either.)

“Put Yukon Avenue.”

“That’s the street behind the church, right?”

“Yep. Make up a number if you want. It’ll get here anyway.”

OK. I’ll keep you posted once we get delivery.

Rounding in front of the church, I hear a call from across the way: “Hi, Father.” It is another pastoral call. We step over to a log and sit. We then walk over to the foundation of the old church and I point out the foundation cross, still sitting unmarred all these years. I try to make a point about burdens in life. Remove them, like the old building: there is still a foundation, in the cross of Christ. A nod affirmed in response.

Then, I’m headed for the store. It really does sit on Yukon Avenue. A new schoolteacher in town, from Brooklyn, NY, introduces herself.

Hey, I’ve got a son in East Meadow. Really? Glen Cove, East Meadow, I know it all!

She talks about an issue with a homeless boy in town as we sit on the church’s front steps. I had made 50 feet from my last appointment. Anyone driving around town this afternoon, saw me sitting on steps or logs, here, there and yon, talking.

She then heads to the Post Office and I go to the store. Just in case the kids come back by, I want to have cookies. And until they do, I won’t open the bag.

I buy three items: cookies, one 12-oz. Pepsi, and a bottle of V-8. $19.00! Two-thirds of the cost was the juice. Village prices are astronomical; and Alaska prices are high to start with. I had been forewarned, but I still blanche a bit.

I returned to write and begin to get my supper ready. It was the second meal I received last night. I couldn’t eat it for lunch today as planned because the late-moose’s liver was brought to me hot on the plate, a bit past noon. I hear the ATV: it is fish pie and fresh bread. I still have two or more meals a-waiting, at least.

By the way, I don’t have a fridge. I do have an enclosed front porch. All the homes have them. They serve as air locks in the winter, plus a place to hang coats, jackets, snowshoes, boots, regular shoes, animal skins, fishing tackle, an axe or two, whatever, year round. Mine serves for my cool storage. There is where the remainder of the eggs and bacon Andrew brought me plus part of my fish pie wait for another day to grace my table.

Tonight we had a Memorial for a fellow down river who passed away, another one of the elders. A bit of village tradition and local history passes with each one. Afterwards, we had another open forum for the adults as we did when the OCMC team was here.

The hospitality shown continues to overwhelm me. I am gifted with a collection of a considerable sum of money tonight “for my food.” At present, I would have to eat double-time and still wouldn’t be able to clean out my cupboard. It certainly is not bare. There is a great thing about my food, except for what I bought today. Most of it grew up around here!

By the way, should I ever meet a bear, I hope to remember not to run, but the only thing I can say in Yup’ik, besides “hello” and “goodbye” is “Quyana“, Yup’ik for “thank you”. Hopefully, I will stand still and thank him, for not eating me.

And if you are wondering, in case you a meet a moose, without a specific intention to kill him and the weapon to do it with, it is permitted then, even advisable, to run. You’d better bet your life!

Still on the Yukon!