If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name Page 14
Free range doesn’t mean homeless. It means they walk freely in and out of their sturdy coop into a fenced pen and on nice days get to peck around in the woods, yard, and driveway before you shut them back securely in the coop for bed. Which for chickens is clinging to a roosting pole four feet off the ground.
You need to feed and water your hens, keep their house clean, and make sure they are warm and dry. Every day you check on them, and shovel out the soiled sawdust and sprinkle new shavings on the ground. To get the chickens out of the coop when you are cleaning it, you dump a pile of kitchen scraps in the pen, and they eat them all. You also make sure their feed container is full and that they have clean water. In the winter, when the water freezes, you use two watering tins. The frozen one thaws in your mudroom while the fresh one freezes in the coop. You care for them like this for six or seven months before they lay the first light brown, surprisingly big egg. When you find it in the straw-lined box that you have made just for this purpose, it is as exciting as if you laid the egg yourself. It is a minor miracle. Soon poached eggs for breakfast and egg sandwiches for lunch are regular fare. But the perfect egg salad sandwich can’t be made until the end of August, because that’s when you have fresh lettuce and red tomatoes in your garden. The timing is good, because you need an egg salad sandwich most right then. August can be a melancholy month. August is the end of summer in Alaska, a time of beginnings and endings, regrets and thanksgivings. School starts and it rains a lot.
You have plenty of time today. You get dressed in running clothes; it’s raining, but a wet run out to the cannery and back will make you appreciate that sandwich even more. Before you can leave the phone rings. It’s Christian, who’s forgotten his trumpet and needs it for band class. You find it and drive over to the school. On your way out of the building, a teacher calls your name. Sandy is concerned about the budget cuts the school board has to make. She knows you care about school issues. She asks if you have a minute. You say sure, and sit on the bench in the hall with her. She tells you about the lack of support she perceives the new superintendent is showing for her department, special education. Twenty minutes later you say you really have to go, you have a lunch date, and remind her that the new superintendent used to be a special ed teacher and is probably more sympathetic than she thinks. “I hope so,” she says.
Driving back home, you swing by the lumberyard to say hi to Chip. He reminds you to keep the culvert that channels a creek down to the beach clear of debris so the excess water can run off, rather than overflow and fill the cellar. When you get home you put on rubber boots and go check. Spruce needles have clogged the wire mesh in front of the big pipe. A puddle is growing into a pond in the woods. You get a shovel from the chicken coop and keep the culvert clear for an hour, until most of the water is drained. Before going back inside you step into the coop and grab a pocketful of warm eggs. You check your watch and decide to postpone the run until after lunch.
So you walk over to the garden and pick the lettuce, then across the beach to see how well the culvert is working (great—the muddy water is running out) and back up the path to the greenhouse for a ripe tomato. Inside it’s musty and warm. The waves from the beach are muffled; all you hear is the weak tap of the last raindrops as the tail end of the storm blows through. In Alaska, tomatoes are much harder to grow than lettuce. You can plant them in five-gallon buckets and put them in a sunny window in early spring. If you don’t like the way the vines block the view, build a greenhouse. That is what Chip did after he got tired of the tangle of vines. Now the tomatoes grow in a trough two by two by twelve feet filled with dirt and chicken manure. Even young chickens make plenty of it.
Back inside you pull off your boots and pad into the kitchen with your harvest. You get out the half-and-half, an essential ingredient for the perfect egg salad sandwich. The house is clean and quiet. For the first time in a long time, you are home alone. The geraniums have been moved from the porch to the windowsills; the dogs are sleeping in a pile by the woodstove. You are a little behind schedule, but should still have time for a run before the kids get home from school.
The phone rings. It is your editor at the newspaper. “Black Mariah,” he jokes, “you’ve got a cold one.” An older woman who had been dying for a while passed away, he tells you, not kidding anymore. The family is ready to talk about her obituary. Right now. He told them you were on the way. You put everything for the perfect egg salad sandwich in the refrigerator and change from running pants to khakis, throw on a nice shirt, comb your hair, and brush your teeth. You grab a steno pad and pen and stuff them in your coat pocket. The rain has stopped, and the sun is starting to break through fast-moving clouds. It looks like the run is off, so you ride your bike. On the way up the hill, the chain falls off. You swear and try to put it back on without getting too greasy. Up at the house you apologize for being a little late and ask if there’s a place to scrub your black hands. Turns out it’s a good introduction. They are surprised, and happy to help. They offer you coffee, but you say no thanks, unless they are having some. They are, so you take a mug, too, and drink it black, even though you always have milk, because the last thing they need to do right now is get you anything.
You listen and write as they talk about their mother and wife. “The way she saw it, the Lord was going to heal her or take her, and either way she won.” She was born in Norway and her early years were hard. When she was eight years old, she traveled alone on a steamship from Vancouver to Juneau to live with her father, a gold miner. She spent the rest of her life in Juneau and Haines. She raised six children, and when her husband and son-in-laws bought an albacore fishing boat she sailed on it through the Panama Canal. When they took it to the South Pacific, she met them in places like Fiji and the Cook Islands. Recently, she took a trip back to Norway. But her daughters don’t say their mother was a world traveler. They say their mother loved her family, husband, home, and garden. They offer you some spicy Japanese dried peas, but you decline. You are late for a lunch date. You don’t say it’s with yourself.
As you skid into the gravel in your driveway, you think how great that sandwich is going to taste. You are just stepping in the door when a car pulls in. It’s Jan, the priest. What day is it? Oh God, how could you forget you promised to go over the rental agreement for the Chilkat Center with her? You pretend not to be surprised and ask her in. She says she’d like some coffee, so you make a pot. A half hour later you’ve cleared up the few sentences in the lease you were uncomfortable with. You both agree that since the borough, not the church, plows the parking lot, the church can’t be held responsible financially if someone slips and falls in it. You promise you’ll present the church’s concerns at the next Chilkat Center board meeting and ask her to remind you the day before, in case you forget.
As Jan is leaving, J.J.’s little dog, Phoebe, jumps into the priest’s car. Jan reaches in the back seat, but Phoebe jumps into the front seat. You tell Jan you can get the dog, and say, “Stay,” firmly. Phoebe leaps away from your hands. Then you say, “Good girl, come here,” gently, and the damn dog does the same thing. Each time you think you have her, she escapes over or under the seat. You open the doors and both you and Jan reach for the dog from opposite sides. She jumps off your shoulders up onto the back of the seat. You dive toward her and she flies to the ledge below the rear window. Jan takes her soft briefcase and pins Phoebe like a bee against the glass while you grip the dog’s back leg and softly tug her out. Jan quips, “All creatures great and small, the good Lord made them all” and says she’ll see you Sunday morning.
It’s two-thirty. The kids will be home from school in an hour.
This, finally, is how you make the perfect egg salad sandwich: boil two eggs, rinse them in cold water, and peel them. Add some half-and-half, a pinch of salt, and ground pepper. Mash it all up with a fork and spread it on toasted sourdough bread. (Buy it from the bakery; it’s better than you can make, and you’ve spent way too much time on this sandwich already.) Lay
on lettuce leaves, then a thick slice of tomato. Spread some mayonnaise on the other piece of toast and place it on top. Cut it diagonally; put it on a china plate, next to a cloth napkin and a cup of hot tea. Take a deep breath and say a little private grace.
DULY NOTED
On Sunday a group of volunteers cleaned up the Mount Riley trail, cutting fallen trees that were blocking the route, adding plank bridges, and filling in eroded areas of the popular hiking path. Dan Egolf says they carried spruce timbers all the way up to the meadow near the summit and plan to rebuild the boardwalk through the swamp there. “We need to do a better job of protecting the fragile alpine muskeg,” he said, adding that hikers should “please stay on the trail and use the new bridges.”
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Members of the American Bald Eagle Foundation enjoyed halibut fish and chips from the Bamboo Room Saturday afternoon. Foundation director Dan Hart says the catered event at the natural history museum will be held annually. Teenage trapper Stuart DeWitt was recognized for his donations of specimens for the wildlife display, especially a rare fox with half its winter (white) coat and half its summer (brown) one.
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An account has been set up at the First National Bank of Anchorage to help defray medical expenses for store owner Dave Shackford, who is recovering from injuries received in a goat-hunting accident. Dave is back home after an extended stay in Anchorage. His wife, Dot, said that although he still suffers double vision as a result of his fall, he’s happy to have visitors.
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Alaska Division of Fish and Wildlife Trooper Ike Lorentz received the Southeast Trooper of the Year award from the Department of Public Safety. Ike, a twenty-two-year law enforcement veteran, said the award was a surprise. He noted that his presence here helps keep a lid on poaching and other wildlife-related crimes in the Chilkat Valley. Ike said he’s also proud of his involvement in hunter and wildlife safety programs.
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Leaning into the Light
I AM NOT A HUNTER. I am not a big gun person either. But on the first anniversary of the sinking of the Becca Dawn I agreed to let Don, Chip, and their friend Craig take ten-year-old Christian on his first deer hunt. Chip had a lot of work to do before they left, so I ended up at Craig’s house helping Christian find the right gun for the task. The guns in Craig’s cabinet are jammed in every which way, some spilling out onto the floor, like the books in my bookcases. Craig helped Christian try several. One rifle had even been his mother’s. When I asked if she had used it much, Craig said that she’d taught him everything he knows.
Craig is witty and handsome, in a rogue kind of way, with gray hair and blue eyes. He’s a sportfishing guide. “Why work when you can fish?” he says. Over dinner one night he told us he’d joined the navy right out of Haines High School. Craig is not a follow-orders-and-salute kind of guy. “Was the other choice jail?” Chip asked. “Heck no,” Craig said. “I was already in jail.” He may have been telling the truth.
It was snowing lightly on the dock the next morning when I kissed Chip good-bye and hugged Christian, who ducked out of my arms. It will take them all day to cruise down Lynn Canal and across Icy Strait to Elfin Cove and Don’s lodge, where they’ll hunt. I try not to worry, but between the winter boat ride and the hunt, there seem to be so many possibilities for disaster—and that’s not even counting the date. Don says Olen’s death is not an anniversary to be marked, but everyone is thinking about it, and I have a feeling the hunt was scheduled for that reason. It was the guys’ way to be with their friend when he would need them, without coming right out and saying so.
I was relieved a few days later when Chip finally called to report that everything was fine. Then he put Christian on the phone. He told me he’d shot his first deer. I could hear him smiling. I knew just how he looked. Christian said he hadn’t killed it with the first shot, so he’d had to shoot it again, up close. “You would have cried, Mom,” he said. I hoped Christian had had a moment’s pause before taking the life. At the same time, I was glad that he was hunting with Chip, Don, and Craig, and happy for him that he’d shot his own deer. I want my son to hunt for the same reason I encouraged my daughters to deckhand on a fishing boat. I want my children to really be part of this place.
It was dark and raining at the harbor when they returned a week later. Christian spit off the dock. I asked Craig if he’d taught him that. “No way,” Craig said. “I taught him to do it like this,” and he made an awful sound in his throat and spit a gucky glob in a high arc into the water. Christian copied him and they laughed.
The tide was out and it was hard pushing the loaded carts up the ramp. I offered to help Christian, but he said he could do it himself. Chip gave me a proud “that’s my boy” look and I knew the hunt had been successful. In a week, it seemed, Christian had grown years. Craig and Chip heaved five Sitka black-tailed deer into the back of the truck, holding them by the legs and swinging them with a “one, two, and three.” The carcasses hung in our garage until the hunters came back a week later to skin and butcher them. I couldn’t bear to watch, so I left with my dog, Carl, for a trail run in the woods.
When I got home, they had a pile of legs, ribs, and dark red meat two feet high on the butcher-papered kitchen table. Craig and Chip trimmed roasts and back straps at the counter, tossing sinewy scraps in a bucket for a trapper to use as bait. Christian wrapped the meat in plastic and then white butcher paper and labeled each package for the freezer.
Don stood at the stove in one of my aprons, frying up the tenderest medallions of venison, with hash browns and eggs. The whole house smelled of meat, raw and cooked. Walking in from the clear outdoors made me dizzy. Craig was already eating, with both elbows on the table. He chewed slowly and groaned, “Man that’s good.” Before I could take off my wind jacket, Don handed me a big greasy plate, saying, “Isn’t this great?”
I wasn’t sure I could eat in full view of the dead deer—or what was left of them. I would have preferred a private meal, just Chip and me and perhaps a glass of wine or two. But I didn’t want to let down Christian and, especially, Don. In the year since Olen’s death, his boyish face has aged. There were new lines around his eyes, and a kind of wisdom just behind them. The steak was so tender I cut it with a fork. It really was good, and I said so. The men laughed. Christian smiled at me, then looked down, just like Chip does when he’s pleased. Don got the camera and asked me to take a picture of him and Christian in front of the meaty table.
Focusing the lens on Don and Christian, my heart tilted toward them. I hoped the hunt had helped take Don’s mind off last November’s tragedy. At the same time, though, being with a little boy, and teaching him about life, death, and the great wide world, has got to remind him of other times spent on those wet beaches and mossy hills when his own sons were young. The picture I was taking reminded me so much of the photos on display at Olen’s memorial service that I had to shut my eyes. I realized that this same scene has been repeated over and over again since our ancestors scratched images of a bison hunt on the walls of a cave. Maybe killing animals is as fundamentally human as telling stories or breaking bread and sipping wine. Maybe it’s as instinctual as conceiving children.
CHRISTIAN IS THE REASON Chip took up hunting. Our son was spending more time with his friend Wayne, who’s called Wayner (it’s a family thing, his uncle is Jimmer), than with us and we missed him. Since their mother left them, Wayner, his brother, Daniel, and their dad have maintained an all-male household. Christian loves hanging out over there. They take him hunting for ducks, grouse, and even squirrels. So Chip taught himself how to hunt with books from the library, videos, and hours at the shooting range. He likes to hunt now more than he used to enjoy hiking or rock climbing. I think it is because he has a purpose. Hunting is not play, although it’s not work either. The November deer hunt has now become an annual event.
Christian and Chip have also been hunting closer to home for mountain goats. Chip watch
es the goats all summer with his spotting scope from the sunroom window, studying their habits and browsing patterns on the mountains across the way. In the winter, he brings binoculars when skating on Chilkoot Lake and scouts the ridges above it for goats. His first goat hunt was with our friends Roger and Steve and Roger’s son Payson and Christian. They came back two days later with a muddy billy goat that they had dragged whole down a mountain. They skinned and quartered the animal in our garage. I did some inquiring among hunter’s wives—even though the guys swore it would be great, I don’t always trust their judgment—and was told that goat meat was either inedible or so tough you couldn’t digest it. One woman said I could can it like salmon, in pint jars in the pressure cooker, and that would make it soft enough to chew, “if you can stand the smell.” She also said that if I sniffed the carcass I’d get a hint of the odor. I went out to where the men were cutting up the meat and took a whiff. It smelled like steak. I sniffed again, thinking there must be a mistake, but it still smelled fine, and the deep maroon meat was virtually fat free.
I asked Chip to cut me off two rump roasts and I put them in a pail and carried them to the kitchen. I rinsed them off and dredged them in flour and salt and pepper, then browned them in a cast-iron pot with onions, poured a whole bottle of good red wine over them, chopped up garlic, tossed in a handful of rosemary from the greenhouse, and put the lid on and let it simmer all day. I invited the hunters and their families over for dinner, making a vat of mashed potatoes, as well as steamed carrots, popovers, and a big salad just in case the goat meat lived up to its awful reputation. It didn’t. It was so good that not one bit was left over. Since then, goat has become my favorite “company” meal.