Maven of Propagation

In which our Heroine desires to become the Maven of all Growing Things. 

                The people in my family tend to be natural green thumbs.  I am used to back yard havens filled with a million kinds and colors of green, domestic places that are an oasis for both human and animal.  Of course, my apartment lifestyle has steeply hindered my progress at becoming the maven of all growing things (an ambition held close to my heart), but nevertheless I have tried my utmost to continue this legacy with houseplants, at least.  With the exception of my nemesis-plant the geranium (a plant with an innately pretty-princess attitude that apparently clashes somehow with my green persona), I have had considerable success with other objects of leaf and petal.

                Perhaps due to my farming childhood, I often take it for granted that everyone would naturally feel this compulsion to lay down roots, so to speak.  Oddly, this is not the case, even in an age of successful urban gardening.  Gardens are few and far between in the South Anchorage suburb—and by the way, Alaska has a fantastic growing season because of the impossibly long daylight hours in the spring.  Strangely, I lack all empathy toward this deficiency of gardening zeal.  I know it’s a lot of hard work, but how can all these people resist?  Can they not feel the pull of the earth beneath them?  Do they not wish to lay their fingers at the base of a swiftly growing plant?  Do they not get sucked into standing aimlessly in front of seed displays at the grocery store?  Have they not seen the green shoots of grass fighting their way through thick thatches of brown?  Why?  How?

Alaska gardening is not that hard.  You just have to start seeds indoors and choose plants that prefer cooler rather than warmer weather.  Berries, pumpkins, cabbage, broccoli, carrots, lettuce—these make a successful gardening plan.  I am doing a container garden this year, because I am easily overwhelmed by the state of my decrepit yard.  Basically, I think the chickweed is stronger than I am.  Except for when I decide to harvest it because it is highly edible.  (I can’t help it—I have a gardening gene somewhere deep within). 

Last night I used 50 or so Dixie cups and some dirt to start some seeds in my kitchen.  I chose all Alaska growing plants, and then added a few tomatoes into the mix.  These do not grow well in Alaska without a green house.  But I am convinced that my last three summers here were but half-shadows of the season partly due to the lack of fresh tomato—they just smell so green—and without them, it is just not summer.  I would really like these tomatoes to work more than any other plant.  In fact, back in January, I specially ordered a Siberian tomato named Sasha’s Altai .  This, with Yellow Pear and Oregon Spring, will be my great experiment this summer.  Also, I plan on doubling the number of my houseplants (3 so far—they’re expensive, okay?) Yep, its spring, and I feel the need to propagate—you know, with green stuff.

Alaska or Bust Continued

In which Our Heroine continues her Alaskan Epic

I am only half-way done with my Alaskan travelogue.  The drive was something, but settling into this strangely remote place was another thing entirely.  Jon settled right in with ease, but in the beginning I still felt prickly about being moved up here against, perhaps, not my wishes, but my finest and brightest dreams. I didn’t know anyone, had no real occupation, and knew nothing about this place. My sense of location was gone: north always seemed east, and where was my familiar Western history of cowboys, pioneers, and Route 66 when I needed it?  I had entered a history not my own, but of dog-sledding and gold-panning.  Also, I missed really good Mexican food.  Besides, winters were too long, and summers too short. I do not enjoy feelings of up-rootedness in the least. I am neither a world traveler or, alas, a salmon fisherman.  Oh, like most people, I imagine myself liking to see new places, but to be honest, hotel rooms always smell geriatric to me (like the solvents used to clean hospital rooms and old-folk’s homes) and I heartily dislike being treated like a tourist, even though I obviously am one at those times.  Well, now you know how small my travel-soul is.  Take it or leave it, or rather, take me or leave me.

At any rate, I found life here difficult.  I was only just willing to continue here for my husband’s happiness and because he really wanted his job with the Municipality to work out well.  I consoled myself with picturing a growing paycheck, a car that didn’t squeak heartily when you brushed against its rust-colored exterior, a lovely house with a backyard (and perhaps abstract art on the walls—the only visual evidence of my rebellion), and beautiful suburban children.  The American dream is not that bad of a dream, you know.  It’s just not usually the one you start out with back when you feel younger, hipper, and more adventurous.  

But Jon and I knew very clearly by now that this was the place for us.  We had prayed, and felt directed at every turn along the way. There was no going back.  This is why it was so hard when Jon was transferred out of his dream job and into a less dream-like job with the Municipality.  Alaska was no longer “the promised land.”  We questioned why we had come all this way only to fail (as we thought then).  Over the past two years, we’ve come up with some possible answers: maybe we were supposed to be here for family reasons, church callings, or even just to meet and be around certain people.  I’m feel the premonition that we won’t be here forever, even though I’m sure I’ll dig my heels in when its time to leave.  So the question at the time was, why here and why just now?  What was this all leading to? 

Well, I can with hindsight say this: I think nowhere else would we have had the incredible familial and community/church support that we found here. As evidence, I go to church on Sunday and I can’t get out of the building because of all my well-wishers. I even had the nurse from my OBGYN’s office call one day and say she’d heard the news at dinner the night before.  Also, where else would our insurance be so amazing?  Or the medical facilities, paid for by oil money. Also the very capable doctors, one of which is here apparently for the fishing?  Where else in the US is the economy still going so strongly?  Specifically, what about my brilliant neuro-surgeon, who is only here so he can spend more time with his family?  Where else could a small-town girl have gotten to know so many people all over the city?  Let this be a lesson to us all, when God tells you to go somewhere, then do it.  You’ll probably come out ahead in the end. And you just might end up calling the place home and loving it—but it might take 2 or 3 years if you have a sour traveling spirit. 

Alaska or Bust: the Allegory of the Alcan

In which our Caffeinated Lady Drives to Alaska

In the late spring of 2007, my husband and I were living in Provo, Utah about to graduate, and wondering what of all things to do with our lives.  I was graduating with an MA in Art History and Curatorial Studies, and had a student job at the university museum that promised to turn into something permanent.  My husband was finishing a BA in Anthropology and Archaeology but had decided to go a different direction into the work force.  I was not excited about his career switch, but felt that supporting him was important.  But it would mean a move to another state for sure. 

He grew up in Anchorage, Alaska.  I knew early on in our relationship that he would love to go back there someday, but I had told him very clearly after we got engaged that I would never move there.  Ever.  It was too far away from family, friends, and shall I say it, was not a cultural center. Now, some of us in this world are the farmer type: please-don’t-make-me-leave-my-land, and some are wanderers.  I am the former type, and am also accustomed to getting my own way.  However, this was not the Lord’s plan for us. 

One Thursday night, my mom called and said, “I really don’t want to tell you this, but I feel like I should.  They are opening up positions in Anchorage that Jon could apply for.”  After hearing more about it, I took a deep breath.  I did not want to tell my husband either.  I was already feeling the familiar pressing feeling that the Spirit sometimes gives you when you’ve finally encountered the right idea.  Sometimes we wayward souls just need a good warning.  A few hours later, Jon came home.  I think I actually waited an hour or two before I told him.  There are times when a person just has to pretend not to know something like that to keep their sense of continuity with their current lives, I suppose.  As I finally opened my mouth, I saw a strange light in my husband’s eyes.  I had small feelings of hope and excitement, soon eclipsed by a feeling of sinking.  Before noon the next day, Jon’s application was in the mail.  I was stunned to discover how badly he wanted to move to Alaska.  He passed all the phone, etc, interviews with flying colors.  The summer passed quickly, and before I knew it we were packing our cars for what would be the longest trip of my life. It would be fifty hours of driving time on bad roads, and once we got there, no turning back.  

The trip itself is quite a story, an allegory even.  We each had our own vehicle stuffed to the brim to drive up.  I do remember that when we started it was late summer, and when we arrived, it was almost the end of autumn.  A whole season passed in six days as we drove along the “Alcan”.  There is a similarity here to the “summer of my life” turning into a kind of “fall of the cancer cells.” (not winter though—winter indicates death). At one point my car broke down, and spending much of our remaining money on the repair, spent the next couple nights sleeping in our separate cars on the side of the road.  It rained the whole time we were in Canada, and my windshield wipers refused to work until just after entering Anchorage.  Honestly, it’s like my car was in rebellion too.  Maybe I was sending it bad vibes through the steering wheel.  The last two days were awful for me.  I got carsick for the first time in my life. I used to be an extraordinarily hearty/healthy person.  I blame the carsickness on a combination of the twisty, washboard-like roads and a pack of Pepsi I’d bought to keep myself awake since sleeping in the car was…well, it wasn’t.  As one who rarely imbibes carbonation, let alone caffeine, I felt a strange kind of awareness or energy without actually feeling healthy or very awake.  This is somewhat akin to taking anti-seizure medicine: pure delirium.   

After three years in Anchorage, I can finally call it home.  The first year was rough.  The second a little better, though still a stretch.  During the third I finally felt a sense of settling in—like when you wiggle down into a good recliner.  We’ve had our struggles, but on the whole Alaska has been very good to us.  Even when going through the tough and twisty times.  We knew, and still know that we were and are supposed to be here.