In the Footsteps of St. Herman

There is nothing unique about a 40-day Memorial service in Orthodoxy. It is a continuation of the ultimate rite of passage, the funeral. It is a time for the family’s life to begin to exhibit some initial closure that is mending a bit, after the acute nature and numbness of everything that accompanies death and burial. Daughter Sofie had been busy all day long in preparation.

A bowl of sweetened grain (here, rice) is set on the table, with a lit candle standing in the center. Raisins form a pattern of the cross across its surface. Called koliva, it is a reminder of the Scriptural image of the Resurrection, “Except a grain of wheat die…” This is common throughout world Orthodoxy, either with wheat or rice. (The cross might be formed of almonds, or cake decors, instead, depending upon custom and availability.) A’ma Nastasia searched among all the foodstuffs on the tables until she spied it. “Ah!” she nodded approvingly, as if to say, “There it is!”

In that, Theresa’s 40-Day service yesterday was not atypical from what I’ve witnessed many times. Yet, here on the Yukon, a 40-Day Memorial is more. It is a time to thank everyone who helped with the funeral, as well as a time to remember the deceased. Her life will be celebrated but the reality of her death will not be avoided.

However, a Yup’ik tradition, predating “Contact” is to take tiny bits of each dish prepared and bury them at the head of the deceased’s grave. (It is sometimes burned, instead.) This is done before anyone eats.

After the Trisagion service, sung in English, but with local melodies, those to be served first are those who dug the grave and those who built the coffin. Second in order of serving will be the women who washed her body and prepared her for burial.

These individuals are not forgotten; and today, they are honored. Funerals homes are not involved. People hope to die at home, as many elsewhere wish, too. Here they have the advantage of a village that will prepare their bodies to await the Resurrection. The cemetery is only a short walk at the edge of town.

Everyone is thanked with a gift. In fact, everyone attending receives a present, from oldest to youngest. My gift is a pen, plus a pair of lined deerskin gloves: To keep warm, I’m told. (Does this presage further surprises for me?) Village life is one of sharing, in life and in death.

If I thought that the table was about to break at Sunday’s celebration of young Art’s first moose, it was a fast in comparison to this repast: moose ribs, salmon, goose, fried fish, baked fish, blubber, spaghetti, potato salad, macaroni salad, agudaq, blueberry pies, cherry pies, apple pies, cakes, cookies, sweet rolls, Jell-O, fried-bread: “good measure, pressed down, and overflowing” covering tables, the entire kitchen — counter tops and stove — and spilling out to the porch. I’m sure that I’ve left out much, nevertheless. Quantities were immense.

Included at this meal were “stooks“, tender shoots of spring ferns before they unroll, a favorite of Theresa’s. There was her favorite dessert, too: wafer cookies. Stooks remind me of asparagus, a fern after all. I can see why Theresa liked them. So I stand corrected about berries being the only produce naturally available here. Stooks have to be picked in early spring and frozen to keep them this long.

It still makes me uncomfortable to see the older women sitting on the benches around the edge around the room, waiting for their turn to eat. They are non-plussed: “Our turn is coming, Father.” A’ma Nastasia reassures me. I understand intellectually, but only to a point. I stifle my raising but uncomfortably. After all, they are my elders and they are ladies.

Theresa’s One-year Memorial will be next summer. She passed away on July 29. Items will be collected throughout the year to be given as gifts then, once more.

A side benefit to the feast is that I am able to bring Buddy some scraps home for his supper: “Oh, you have a dog?” “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

He came with the house, I explain. And they chuckle.

I walked home. It was still early for Marshall. For a one-rooster town, they never roll up the sidewalks early here; not that there are any sidewalks. But they wouldn’t roll them up, anyway. Supper began a little after 16:30 (4:30 p.m.), so night was a long way off.

Buddy comes on the first call to eat, answering to his new name. He was under the house, where a good dog should be.

Memory Eternal, Theresa!

I chuckled during the sermon yesterday. It’s not typical to get an “Amen” during one in an Orthodox church (it’s not totally unheard of, especially from some converts to Orthodoxy, but not typical). If one does come, it’s usually at the conclusion and hushed.

I was preaching on the traps that the scribes and Pharisees attempted to set for Jesus, and how hunters don’t set traps for friends but for prey. Using the example of setting snares for rabbits, I asked rhetorically whether the hunter was the rabbit’s friend. “No!” responded the “Amen Corner” quite audibly.

At least one of the altar boys was paying attention. I smiled broadly and kept preaching after a brief glance and pause. That one, all of ten years perhaps, was engaged was simply delightful.

It’s another rainy day here in “Gray Skies, Alaska”. The local descendants of White Fang have started their village moan. It seems that every dog in town will pick it up before they’ve finished. Then as quickly as it begins, it will be over. We don’t have sirens, but the dogs do their best to send out oscillating frequencies annoyingly enough to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck, not with alarm but mere vexation.

At least a siren comes into range and then moves on. Not so, the dogs: they stand and wail, baying and yelping at whatever suits them, until suddenly, as if by mutual consent, it’s all over until next time. Had it been stranger or danger, they would have barked or growled more deliberately. I realize that this is merely bonding, of some sort.

Through the din, Rudy the Lone Rooster of Marshall can be heard crowing, reminding the world that he really is in charge.

I get a call on my local cell phone from Augusta, who had provided me a ride home the other night. She was the mystery donor of the fresh fry bread, plus a loaf of home-baked white bread. It was waiting on my table yesterday afternoon. Today, a couple of the little girls who came to visit last week returned with more fresh bread that another mother had made this morning.

Homemade bread is a staple here. Getting fresh bread from the Co-op in town is not always possible. And this is so much better. It is an irony I ponder. Until “Contact”, there was no bread in Alaskan culture. There were no naturally growing grains to gather. It was a European introduction to diet over time. I’m told that an old translation of the Our Father contained this petition: “Give us this day our daily fish.”

The village makes sure that I have more than my daily bread, (as well as fish and moose and whatever). But I can’t keep a-pace of their generosity. I’ve dried bread in the oven so it won’t go bad. But it tastes so much better fresh.

Already, my focus is gradually shifting. There is much left for me to do this week, yet next Monday I will head down river to catch my plane at St. Mary’s for a flight back to Anchorage. My three-plus weeks on the Yukon and my eight-weeks in Alaska will have drawn to a close more quickly than I could have imagined.

The Study Bible shipment is anticipated on Tuesday. Three cases have been shipped here and I hope to distribute them on Wednesday at our weekly study meeting. This should take care of Marshall’s immediate Bible needs, but other communities on the Yukon need Study Bibles as well.

If any would like to contribute to shipments for the other villages, contributions may be made c/o Holy Trinity Orthodox Church, 119 S. Sparks St, State College, PA 16801. A case of 12-hardcover Orthodox Study Bibles, including shipping, runs a little under $200.

Any amount would be appreciated, and tax-deductible. My goal is to get one copy to every Orthodox family along the Yukon, and then to start with the churches on the Kuskokwim.

I stepped down from the house this morning. Buddy came bounding to greet me. I suspect that he wanted breakfast. No such fare, today, Buddy. It’s Sunday; I’m going to church. He walks with me, acting ever the part of regular, faithful dog. Not in a straight line, though. He wanders here, zigs there.

But when we get there, he bounds right up the steps, and whoops, right into the narthex! OK, Buddy, you can wait outside, not inside. Buddy is a bit confused and it takes some doing to get him outside. He certainly thinks that he belongs inside with me. He finally accepts a role as greeter, sitting on the front steps and barking loudly at other dogs whose presence he detects.

After church, he hears me and appears from up the street. I’m off to brunch. Buddy goes with me, but again, I won’t let him join in the festivities. Sure enough, afterwards, he hears my voice and walks back home with me where at last I rustle him some grub. He doesn’t know if he wants it, but decides to eat it anyway.

I muse a bit upon the challenge of Christianizing Buddy. It is daunting but as I think about, I’ve had sorer challenges in my life with two legged critters. Dogs can be very faithful. It is something to ponder. The Holy Fathers remind us that there was a time when man and animal were not at odds with one another. In the Kingdom, the lion and the lamb shall lay down together and a little Child shall lead them. Sometimes, we have Buddy-moments, giving us a glimpse of how things were and how they will be, again.

I head back for the teen meeting alone. Buddy must have other things to do. We pick up a couple of new faces this week. I really hope this holds together once I leave. I ask them to select some adult sponsors to help coordinate after my departure.

Then, I head for another feast, this one to commemorate a young man’s first moose. He’s ten. He took seven shots. I bless the food and give him a blessing. The elders and others sing for him in Slavonic, Yup’ik and English: “God Grant You Many Years!” It is the “fancy” setting which we normally only manage to get done for weddings, and then on request, “back home”. Not here: it was the order of the day.

I told little Art that someday he should remember this day for his own grandson’s first moose. One of the elders present is a Roman Catholic deacon who is also his A’pa: “And remember, tell him you had a Father here to bless you!”

More and more people pour in, from young to old. Soon, the honoré leaves to go goose hunting but the elders stay and eat. Moose soup is all I’m up for. I’ve learned the hard way that eating some of everything will simply wear one out. One of the older ladies laughs: “Just think, here you are up in Alaska for your first time eating Eskimo food.”

“Well, I didn’t come to Alaska to eat hamburgers.”

Everyone at the table laughs.

I head out again and find another parishioner taking a stroll around the village. She apologizes for not receiving Holy Communion today. We talk a bit. Then, I go back to the Pandelis’s to get Internet. I get Greek coffee offered me, too, which I don’t refuse.

One of the other teachers saw me on the steps and calls up: “Invite Father John over to our supper tonight.” The teachers are getting together at 19:00 (7 p.m.). Sounds like a great opportunity to visit with the faculty. On the menu: Moose stew. Can’t wait. It will be good. Glad I left room from the 16:00 (4 p.m.) meal for this one.

I wish all the hunters in the village good hunting. Tomorrow is Labor Day and school is out. But, there will be a 40-Day Memorial Feast for a family’s mother who just passed away at the end of July. From what I can tell, it will be basically a number of the same people who were there at today’s feast.

As I keep waddling down the banks of the Yukon, I’m not going hungry.

The village is quiet this morning. No one is at work on the new houses across the way. Usually, the air is filled with the noise of nail guns, shooting their rounds into plywood, and power saws, whirring boards into proper lengths. Today, nothing.

Even the children seem to have gone. I suspect folks are hunting.

I traipse to the store, then head to the Pandelis’s. There is no Starbucks in Marshall. No “Coffee Shacks“, like in Anchorage. No public eatery or cafe, period. But there is always the Pandelis’s, where coffee is proffered me: good, strong, Greek coffee. Mέτριο παρακαλώ! Eυχαριστώ πάρα πολυ! (Metrio, parakalo! Eucharisto, para poli!)

I appreciate the jolt while catching up on email. A little cup keeps you going for a long time.

Jennifer and I talk about life in the village and the Sunday School. She is the Sunday School teacher. Before arriving last year, there had been none. Now, upwards of thirty kids attend. It begins next Sunday, before I leave.

Peter and son Gregory are next door in the school kitchen, using the commercial grinder to render their moose leg ready for the freezer.

I head back, to see the elder Andrew family. I hear the approach of an ATV from behind. It is A’pa Andrew with a hunting buddy, but no evidence of a kill.

“Did you get one?” I asked.

“Not yet. Saw one though.” A’pa always smiles.

I ask about his arthritic knees. They’ve been giving him fits in the damp weather. “I’m still good enough to drive this.” He grins. “Are you hungry?”

“No sir, I’m not, but thank you.”

A waif sitting on one of my counseling logs calls, “Hello, Father.”

“Did you have homework?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“OK, then. That’s good. See you at church.”

“OK.”

I stop by to see another family. There’s no answer. But the pelts on stretcher boards on the porch are a sight to see. A wolf, a lynx, maybe another lynx that was still turned inside out. I want to return for pictures.

Still there is virtually no movement in town. No other ATVs. I head home. It’s past noon.

Before I get to the steps, there is Buddy. “Hey, Buddy? You hungry?” He tells me that he is, in his own way of course: He paws my cassock with muddy paw.

I give him something to eat. He smells more on my porch, and indeed, there is more. But I’m not willing to part with it. After some convincing to get him outside, he poses for some pictures, drinks from a large puddle, and decides to see what the dogs are doing the next lane over.

Later, I look out and he’s back, in front of the door, not so much a sentry as exercising his sense of entitlement.

Fr. Stan calls: “I hear you’ve had a birthday.” Well, you’ve heard right. “May we all live to that age,” he congratulates me. Gee, I guess he is a bit younger than I am, but aren’t a lot of folks? But I know for a fact, he and I were ordained the same year, 1981.

He remembered how bad my voice had been earlier and wanted to check on me. He gives me an update on news along his part of the river, and from further on. If the weather gets better, he wants to try and come see me before I leave on the 13th.

I’m the first at church tonight. Just as I enter the front door, I see Zachary coming up the side street. He’s all of seven. “Do you need an altar boy?” He calls out.

“Altar boy? Of course!” He’s never served before but I had asked him last week if he would like to learn. I guess the most important lesson is “don’t set yourself on fire.” But I can tell Zachary has lit things before. So, he helps me light the candles. His A’pa Paul will be in the altar tonight as usual and oversee his training. A second, more seasoned hand, another Gregory, shows, too. He is glad to teach Zachary the ropes.

Before the service, one of the littlest ones there reaches up for me when she sees me. I stoop down and she fearlessly approaches to touch my beard. It is as much a fascination here as it has been anywhere. She looks at me and in a wink of mischief reaches up to touch my nose: “Beep!” she says. I “beep” her back.

In fact, when some of the kids came by earlier in the week, one of them said to the others, “Maybe, he is Santa Claus.” So, I’ve developed a reputation here, too, it seems.

It’s still quiet in Marshall and few men are at Vespers this evening. I’ll wait and see if I hear any tall moose stories after church tomorrow. Of course, I’ll know just by inspecting porches and seeing how many more moose legs appear around the village. Then, I’ll divide by four.

Andrew is second chief of the village. He pays me a visit before leaving for moose hunting. He explains it is a courtesy to the priest to do so. There is something about him that reminds me a bit of my maternal grandfather: his build, the plaid jacket that he wears, the fact that his hair is still mainly black. I have to listen closely to hear him, too.

He tells me of his selection as second chief, as a young man, and the blessing given him by the priest: the Gospel book laying atop his head and then being anointed with oil for his task. It was his duty to visit all the villages and speak to them in Yup’ik and in English of our faith, supporting the priest’s work.

“A chief has to walk behind his people,” he says. “If they are in trouble, he stands in front of them.” He iterates a key concept of leadership, learned only with great difficulty by most.

There were things Andrew said he could no longer do once a chief, such as no basketball games and no dancing. He was allowed to go to the Eskimo dances — a key feature of winter life — but he could not take part.

“Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit! You can’t do anything which would defile it!”

His godfather was Archpriest in Bethel. Andrew credits him for much of the wisdom training given him for his role. “If the priest needs you, you go!” he had been told.

He also spoke of hunting customs. If men were gone for a while, it was never proper to hunt on Sundays. Prayers would be said in the wilderness camps instead. His father would always make the sign of the cross after a kill, in thanksgiving to God, before touching the animal.

As he was leaving I gave him a blessing for the hunt with a prayer for the moose he hoped to bag. Native Alaskans believe that animals will sacrifice themselves to the hunter if the hunter is worthy.

William brought me lunch: fried moose steaks and eggs. So good! He insisted I eat it immediately before it got cold. It didn’t. I ate it quickly.

“Is it your birthday, today?”

“Yes, but how in the world did you find out?”

Come to find out, he had tried to send me birthday greetings on the VHF in hopes I would pick up and the whole village could wish me their best. I hadn’t heard it, though. He checks the volume on my set. It is on loud enough.

I found Marvin cleaning out the chickens’ coop. I had heard them cackling. “They want to lay as soon as I get the house cleaning done,” he chuckles. “Happy Birthday, by the way.”

I thank him and smiling, head to the store. I feel self-indulgent: I buy two “Grandma’s Homestyle Fudge Chocolate Chip” soft cookies, and a Dr. Pepper to wash them down with. (There weren’t any Pepsis today. Besides, Dr. Pepper reminds me of home and childhood. Grandmother Reeves always had Dr. Peppers for us to drink on special occasions on Turtle Creek. In those days, I don’t remember anyone having sodas at home unless it was a special occasion.)

Charlie was back in town. We had given him a ride from his camp near Russian Mission last week. “You still in town?”

“Yes, I will be for a while longer.”

After some more pastoral encounters while passing through the store and down the street, I get home. I am greeted by Buddy. I had seen him running to beat the wind earlier from my window, with no limp noticeable today. He looked a bit like Rin-Tin-Tin, but I didn’t expect his motives to be so stellar or heroic.

He crawls under the house and waits for me. I return with a plate of scraps I had been saving for him, including half-inch thick strips of fat that I had cut off from my birthday moose-meal.

I try to call home but get a recorded message. I try later and am successful. Matushka tells me that Chris and she went out to dinner for my birthday. I am so appreciative. I ask what she ordered for me.

Around 18:00 (6 p.m.), Willie is back. Sophie has invited me for dinner and he will give me a ride. Off we go; I’m riding sidesaddle as usual.

There is a moose leg on Sophie’s porch. (Chief) Paul is there. Sophie is busy finishing dinner. This time it is steak, moose soup, baked potatoes and broccoli. “Happy Birthday,” she cries. “I tried greeting you on the VHF.”

I thank her and tell her that I have missed several greetings, according to Willie.

For dessert there is chocolate cake with chocolate ice cream.

I finally get to meet Sophie’s husband. He is from Peru. So there for a little while, the two of speak Spanish. I miss speaking Spanish regularly as I could and did living on the Texas-Mexico border for most of 20 years. I tell him of my desire to visit Machu Picchu before too much longer.

He asks of my opinion of the sectarian venture in Marshall and is also quick to express his disapproval. He notes its close proximity to the new school. We find ready agreement. I truly believe the re-posting of a priest permanently to this village will be the most effective antidote.

I walk home. There is no rain for a while. I decide to get some willows for more medicine. Some of the girls come by on an ATV. They pause and assure me that I am getting the right ones. So, if this message gets through, they were correct.

By the way, for some of the Orthodox reading the blog, you might have started comparing my daily menus with the fasting calendar of the Church and found no correspondence. You would be correct.

Because of the hunter-gatherer diet that the missionaries encountered in Alaska, fasting was not strictly adhered to, if at all. In fact, word got back to church headquarters, at that time in St. Petersburg, that the natives were not being taught to fast. The missionaries replied that Alaskans would die if they had to fast, since their diet depended not merely upon fish, but whales, seals, moose, and other game. Fortunately, HQ saw the wisdom in the dispensation.

To this day, the only naturally available vegetarian offerings available are berries. Anything else we associate with Lent, grains, legumes, and garden vegetables, are the products of settled, agrarian lifestyles. Now, in the cities of Alaska, fasting rules are more or less kept as we would know them, but not here.

Just remember that Marshall is a one-rooster, three-hen town. And that, itself, is an innovation.

Today is the 3rd anniversary of my mother Juanita’s falling asleep. May her memory be eternal.

I wrote most of the morning. Around 16:00 (4 p.m.) I received an invitation to have dinner with the elders at a family’s home. The grandbaby of the family had picked her first bucket of blueberries over the weekend, and everyone seemed genuinely excited for her. She is three.

Berry picking is a part of traditional life and still practiced over the summer months as berries ripen, in season. In the past, berries were essential nutritionally for vitamin C, preventing scurvy.

I read how Jack London actually suffered from scurvy during his sojourn in the Klondike. I can guess why. He didn’t pick any berries. Had he done so, he might have maintained his health better.

At 18:00 (6 p.m.) there was the weekly Akathist to St. Herman, after which Peter tells me there is Open House at 19:00 (7 p.m.) at the school. I decide to walk over.

On the way, Puppydog, aka Buddy, comes limping up to me in the street. He is injured under one shoulder and had bled a bit. I don’t know what kind of fix he got himself into. I had heard he had been tied up on the other end of town. He obviously got lose. And he seems glad to see me again. I tell him to wait for me until after the meeting. Perhaps, he forgot.

I know half of the parents and grandparents at the meeting from church. Not that it was that good a showing, I’m told; but respectable. Most of the others, I’ve already met in town, too.

The superintendent is there, as well as the mayor. I get to meet them, the faculty, and the principal. The school district comprises eleven villages over a region that looks larger than most New England states, put together. Of all the villages in the district only, only two are connected to one another by road.

As I introduce myself to the principal, he asks if I will be the one he should ask to bless the new school, or should that be Fr. Stan. (Note, he didn’t ask whether I would give a non-sectarian-offend-no-one “prayer” to something in the great unknown.) The opening of the school will be after my departure: Fr. Stan’s the man for this job!

There is discussion about the new system for graduation which is more accomplishment based than before. As they pointed out, graduating with 21 credits of straight-D work does not prove that you have really mastered the material. It will now take 21 units of mastery.

Also, new policies are now in effect regarding iPods, cell phones, and electronic games. They are banned! First offense: confiscation for the day. A second infraction results in a week’s impounding of the device, in the principal’s office. Third time: one month in the principal’s safe and parental retrieval. (For the cell phone, not the kids!) It reminds me when transistor radios were state of the art in 1962 and possession meant it went to the principal’s office until the end of the year. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

The policy was determined by the teachers, not the school board. There is nothing like decision making by those most involved in the day to day running of the school.

I wanted to applaud on this one, but thought it would be out of place for the obvious Outsider to be so bold. [Of course, I wouldn't mind public possession of cell phones being illegal anywhere. Be that inconsiderate of others only from the privacy of your own homes. But I'm not sure I could get that referendum on the ballot. (PA doesn't have a provision for referenda anyway.)]

Mastery levels have improved by 12-13% in both LA and Math over last year, but still have not broken 40%. 48% overall mastery is the goal for next year.

I visit Peter and Jennifer afterwards and we get to chat for a while, before I head home. They had been offered some of yesterday’s moose kill and thought that meant enough for a meal. It turned out to be a whole leg of moose. They suspect it will last them all winter.

Augusta sees me walking in front of the old church narthex about the time she approaches the intersection. So help me, she has a station wagon, the only station wagon in the village. “Do you want a ride home?”

Sure do. Thanks!

She had been out pulling boats up out of the water because the river is very choppy tonight. It rained again all day. She drops me off, so I can write some more.

Miss you, Mom!

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!

Today, my throat is better, undoubtedly thanks to Willie’s Wonderful Willow Juice. Yesterday, my voice virtually vanished. Though, its absence didn’t deter a number of villagers who came by to visit or to seek guidance. I had called Fr. Stan in Pilot, too, hoping he recognized me before thinking he was getting a prank call. He understood and cautioned me not to hesitate to go to the clinic, were I not better. But I am. Again, thanks to this elixir, this potion, this cure.

We had a bit more rain, but finally it stopped before noon. I headed “midtown” towards the church and school and inspected the progress of the demolition crew. The old foundation is now exposed. Rough hewn logs, 12″ x 12″, trace the extremes of the original square nave. Two short logs and a long one outline the dimensions of the old altar, a rectangle the same width as the rest of the church. In its center sits the foundation cross.

The foundation cross was the first object placed in the ground when the church was erected here fifty years ago: “No other foundation can any man lay than that which is laid, Jesus Christ.” The church was built around and over it, with the altar table having stood directly above it until only last week. Fr. Gregory and I were tasked to move the altar table into the new church. As laity never touch one — even though this one had never been consecrated — demolition had virtually stopped until our arrival.

The cross is in remarkable condition and will not be removed. A small cover with another cross on its top will house the foundation cross, a silent witness to all who pass by of all the prayers prayed for and in this village for half a century. Lumber from the old church will be used to construct the mini-church.

In addition to the original foundation’s logs, the later extensions of milled lumber beams, both fore and aft, are visible, too. We talk about whether the narthex, now the only part still standing can be moved to the back of the property to serve as a much needed storage building. Hopefully, it can.

I took my laundry to Willie’s and ran a load there. I also found a spot behind the school building, in front of the outdoor freezer, where I can sit, watch what’s going on, and get three bars of Internet connectivity bleeding over from the school.

Having finished Call of the Wild, I am now far into White Fang. The periodic howls of Buck and White Fang’s not-so-distant cousins here provide a realistic, audible background for my reading. Buddy, the dog in the front yard — I’ve named him that — needed to be fed. I found that the bacon Andrew brought me the other day was a slab, with plenty of rind on it to cut off and give Buddy his lunch.

Before heading off for an evening of goose hunting, William stops by to check on me and deliver supper: baked beef ribs! Within an hour or so, another full meal appears from his brother’s family: King salmon! I can’t wait for my cholesterol to be checked by Dr. P. when I get home. I’ve hardly missed a day eating salmon, sometimes thrice daily, since Helsinki.

Between my food deliveries from Marshall’s version of Meals on Wheels, Meals on ATVs, three of the children came by. They are always asking for blessings in the street, just as Fr. Gregory had instructed. A few days ago, they asked if they could visit. In trooped Tatiana, Mary, and Aidan! They are in third, second, and first grades, cousins if I can make it out correctly.

Curious as little cats — or wolf pups, à la Jack London — they inspect the premises, remembering when Uncle Jason lived here before relocating to Kodiak for seminary. “I want to watch TV,” one called, headed for what I suspect was its former location.

“There’s no TV here, now.”

Not dissauded until she finds that there is no TV to watch here as she did with cousin Isabel, she emerges, only incredulous. “Don’t you guys watch TV?”

Well, yes, when I have one. And I’m so glad that I don’t! But she would not have understood my elation over this seeming privation.

Questioning and prowling continue until the Tostitos are spied: “You have chips!”

“Why, yes! Would you like some?” There is no objection.

“Make sure you share,” as I place down a bowl.

When they finish, which doesn’t take long, I ask if they would like lemonade. Again, affirmative. The girls think I made it too sweet and water theirs down a bit. Aidan, not daunted, to finishes his in only a few gulps. [Gee, I made it just like I make mine.]

“Well, time to go,” I suggest.

Not a whimper or a whine is emitted. They head for their boots and their coats.

“OK. May we come back?”

“Hey, Aidan, get your blessing!” One of the girls commands. They all line up for the formality before heading off into the long Alaska evening. From school’s last bell until dark lasts as long as the school day itself.

I’ll have to go to the store and make sure that I’ve got something for the next visit. And if word travels, I suspect that I’ll need to prepare for more than three.

Today is my eldest grandson’s name’s day. St. Aidan was a Celtic missionary to northern Britain in the 6th century. One of the little boys in the village is named Aidan, too. Many Years to all the Aidans!

Except for making sure that the dog tied near my house had more moose leg to chew on, I haven’t ventured forth. It is a bit warmer though, without noticeable drizzle. And I am regularly dosing myself with the willow bark potion William gave me yesterday. My voice is raspy, but I think that I’m not getting worse.

Villagers have stopped by to visit and check on me. Willie tells me that his brother John and he went goose hunting yesterday, but got to thinking about whether I had anything to eat. They tried to rouse me by cell phone from the hunt, but I am notorious for keeping a cell phone in the “OFF” position.

He had lunch in tow for me today. I showed him my larder, which I can hardly put any dent in: soup, bread, eggs, bacon, Spam. He had to tell me about the progress being made demolishing the old church that has stood off the right front side of the current church. The manufactured home given the parish will take its place there in due time.

I use the opportunity to tell him about my idea for using a portion of the house for a teen center and to apologize as a preemptive measure for possibly having caused any trouble in the village by suggesting this to the teens before approaching the elders and the parish council. He doesn’t seem worried. And he is excited to learn about the teens wanting to meet next Sunday again.

He also admits that John plays the fiddle. So, I will be ready for him for play for me.

There was a time when most people still made their own entertainment. It really wasn’t that long ago. People would play instruments or sing hymns, gathering young and old together. At times dances would break out. Of course, that didn’t happen during the hymn singing, at least not where I lived.

In my family, I had fiddle-players on one side and hymn-singers on the other. (And there were some relatives who did a little of both.) It was a time of bonding before radio, much less television, had dominance over people’s lives, their schedules and their rhythms. People connected and passed down their traditions this way to their children and their grandchildren.

Now, even in Marshall, the iPod, hand-held computer game, and personal cellphone have all made their intrusion. Modern life is so fragmented, at times, with houses only being used to provide overnight shelter and food at sporadic intervals for members of the same gene pool, rather than molding a new generation with common values from a shared history.

I first thought of this the other night in Pilot Station as I watched the Welcome Dances performed by so many of the village, while others held babies, and chatted, and watched.

How do we pass down our traditions, our family stories now? How do we bond our families together with so many of us living at distances from our birthplaces? When the annual peregrination is made at Thanksgiving or Christmas, the issue at hand is more likely timing dinner not to interfere with the football schedule than re-integrating with family, or re-telling the family’s own story, through custom and activity, once again.

For all the many privations an Outsider might first see — yes, Outsider is what we are all called — there is the flipside of being native-born here. Three and four generations might live within that many houses of one another. The land, the place, the house develops a sacral character, defining who one is, and how one is to be. There is an overwhelming advantage in that, it seems to me.

(Postcard image: Fr. John, right, meets at St. Michael’s Church in Marshall with the mission team from the Orthodox Christian Mission Center.)

It is Sunday in Marshall. There is a slight break in the cloudy, wet weather. Things are quiet. I must be the only one on the street as I make my way to the church today. I wonder if anyone else is awake. One after another, the people begin to arrive. The first is Paul, the chief of the community. He also assists me in the altar. He rings the bell and more come. It is like that. The church is relatively full by the dismissal. I get to meet more people at each service.

Last night after Vespers, Paul asked to speak to the people. He preached the most wonderful impromptu sermon, exhorting the people to respect the elders and to keep the faith. There was a quiet passion in his voice. He spoke softly, as everyone does here, and in Yup’ik. One of the assistant chiefs translated his remarks. I thanked him profusely. This morning, I told him that he had my blessing to address the people anytime, not that he had need of it. He is a quiet, gentle man.

Brunch this morning is at Subdeacon Nick Isaac’s home. He is one of the village elders and long time church leader. He and his wife Nastasia are a jolly couple. Reader John and William are two of their sons. He wheels me over to his house on the ATV with one of his grandsons on the front, a live hood ornament.

Nastasia tells me that she worries about my belly getting empty. I assure her that my belly has not been empty since I got to this village, or any of the other villages on the Yukon!

One of the littlest at brunch asks me where I’m from. It is a typical question in these parts since it’s obvious I’m not from around here. I tell him, “Pennsylvania.”

“That over by Pilot [Station]?” he wonders.

“A bit further than Pilot,” I assure him.

Another son, Fr. Thomas, serves on Kenai. All told, this village has produced three priests, all currently serving in the diocese. Another village son just left for seminary this month. I’m staying at his house, in fact.

Before leaving, son William brings me a liquid made from willow bark for my scratchy throat, the first of these ailments I’ve had since last spring. Of course, aspirin was discovered in the bark of willow trees. This is made from boiling the bark. This remedy is sworn by around here for all sorts of ailments. I’ll let you know how things work out.

At 2 p.m. (14:00), I met with the teens and young adults. They are ready to meet again next Sunday. “There’s nothing else to do,” they all agree. That is the sad picture for youth in the villages. The result is alcohol and drug related problems, combined with teen pregnancy.

What would you like to do as an activity? “A fiddle-dance!”

“We could charge money.” “We could give it to the church for new covers for the icon stands.”

What kind of music?

“Achy Breaky Heart!” OK. Old standards never fall out of favor. But I can remember when Achy Breaky was new. In fact, I can remember a time before Achy Breaky ever broke on the CW scene.

Come to find out, they claim that Reader John is a fiddle player and another man in the parish plays guitar. Well, yee-haw!

The parish has been given a doublewide modular home from one of the parish’s elders. It will be moved to church property to be rehabbed for a priest to live in. In the meantime, I want to sell the parish council and the elders on letting the kids use it for a teen center until then.

(By the way, when I use the word “elder”, I’m referring to the older members of the community. In traditional culture, the “elders” male or female are revered for the wisdom they have gained. Their role is to pass it down from one generation to another. )

This has been a busy Sunday. Before meeting with one couple about their upcoming wedding, I’m invited in to visit a Catholic family whose grandfather had been Orthodox.

The poultry coop in the village. They have the distinction of being the only chickens in Marshall.

Afterwards, I stop by to meet the owner of the rooster and hens. I discovered that the chicken-pen has rollers at the back of the coop. This allows him to move them to greener pastures very quickly. The pen is a tent of chicken wire with the coop over the axles. His chickens are safe from air-based and land-based critters this way. There are no snakes!

He invites me to have moose ribs for supper but I’m already headed to another house for supper. I do get to see the inside of the log cabin he lives in, one room with a wood stove for heat and a really high-tech computer and monitor.

On my way to eat, some one else I haven’t met before drives up: “Are you the Father?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Here’s your supper, spaghetti from Sophie.”

“OK. Tell her thanks!”

Yet another call my way comes from another cabin: “Are you the Catholic priest?”

“Nope. The Orthodox priest. What’s your name?”

We chat. He’s a senior. I ask for a weather report: clear most of the week. I can hardly wait.

I reached the Pandelis’s for dinner. Their oldest son went duck hunting yesterday and brought home four. He is taxidermy-ing one on the porch in a bucket, having already skinned it out. Really cool. He’s learning it all from a book.

Right now, I’m sitting in his father’s classroom where the Wi-Fi gives me five bars. What a luxury!

So, I will close. I have received word that my parish has shipped more than 30 New Testament Orthodox Study Bibles. I’ll report back in on their distribution when they arrive.

By your prayers.