We visited the Anchorage Museum, which is partly sponsored by the Smithsonian: the place was gorgeous (those long vertical strips of wood around the stairwell–so, so pretty) and a lot bigger than I expected.
There were native artifacts and history. There was a piece of oil pipeline. There were representations of native and settler homes and boats from various times. There was the obligatory taxidermied musk ox, “lovingly donated” by the family of the late hunter who had taken the trophy.
I read that and quietly guffawed at the mental image of his family dividing his estate, everyone groaning at all the living room space it would take up, the fact that shooting one was for a time highly illegal (relative to theirs I do not know, I saw no date), and trying to foist the thing on each other with someone finally going, I know! The museum!
Maybe that’s not fair of me, but it amused me.
Almost white, almost plastic-looking waterproof traditional jackets made from tanned Arctic animal intestines for easier weather days out fishing. Coats with fur turned inwards for colder ones, and sometimes, they said, a second coat would be placed over the first. Brrr.
I had resisted pulling out the iPhone, not having seen any pronouncement on cameras being used but knowing they’re usually frowned on, while feeling that my quilter mom just absolutely had to see this gorgeous quilt: it was done in the tiniest pieces of the thinnest hides–I knew she would know just how much work went into that thing. (And Bev, I thought of you, too.) It showed the influence of the Russians who had come for sealskins and converts, mixed with the natives’ own patterns.
I let a certain taller one talk me into their going back upstairs and snapping a photo of it for me.
Then there was the woolly mammoth tusk. We are talking some serious ivory here.
And there was Donna Druchunas‘s Arctic Lace book in the gift shop. I bet it flies off the shelves there, too.
The Musk Ox Farm in Palmer, Alaska
Sam, a knitter herself these days, asked us if we wanted to see the musk ox while we were there? She’d never been.
Hey, couldn’t keep her from having that experience, right? And so Saturday we went to the Musk Ox Farm in Palmer and took their walking tour of the grounds.
Domesticating a species takes 250 years, they told us, and we’ve had 50 so we’re on our way but we’re not there yet–so please don’t put your hands past the fences.
(A few days later at a different farm we would be told, as reindeer walked freely among us and looked us in the eye while licking alfalfa from our hands, that the difference between caribou and reindeer was that the reindeer had been domesticated for about 250 years. Alright, I see where that number maybe came from.)
Parents were asked to keep small children close so as not to spook the animals into thinking small creature=wolf. On the flip side, when the man who set up the farm with its first set of animals 50 years ago was approached by a small dog, the musk ox had taken their human’s small size relative to their own as meaning he was defenseless and they closed ranks in a circle around him as they do to protect their young, horns pointing outwards and ready to charge the threat on his behalf.
The white along the tops of the spines of many of them: the guide said they weren’t sure but they think that’s to reflect the sun away during the summers so they don’t overheat.
The curves in their horns? Those tell you about how old the animal is. Short and stubby, you’ve got a young’un; the next year they start to turn forward, and at I think she said four you get those iconic half loops in front. Most of theirs have their horns trimmed to protect the humans but she pointed out this one old guy over there that had the full set.
Back in the museum/gift shop, my sweet husband was the one who picked up the musk ox-topped knitting needles and asked me if I didn’t need these? Then the grampa in him wanted me to take a soft little stuffed one home. And we couldn’t come all this way without some qiviut. We just couldn’t.
We’d just been told about the musk ox playing with a fifty-pound ball given to the farm after the oil pipeline had been built, y’know, something for the animals to play with or rub their backs on or something.
They’d managed to get it rolling down the hill, and bam! Right through the fence! Oops.
So for now, mine is playing with a ball. It’s a deep red. It’s a mere ounce, because I just could not bring myself to spend that much more money on yarn when a single ounce would make me just as ecstatic.
The book? While we were out in the fields (yay sunblock and hats and I’ve been holding my breath but no major flare yet) I’d asked them if they had it and explained that Donna Druchunas, the author, had been the text editor for my own knitted lace book.
They were delighted at the connection and told me enthusiastically, Oh yes! It flies off our shelves!
I had previously wondered what on earth was holding me up that I hadn’t already bought it. Now I know. It was waiting for me to support the husbandry of the very animals Donna had written about as well as Donna herself with that purchase. It was worth the wait.
The first weekend in April is the Mormon Church’s semi-annual conference time, two two-hour sessions Saturday and Sunday each, streamed live.
Started the second this morning and was very nearly done with my ball of yarn when I looked down and realized at long last why it had been acting so odd in my hands: I had knitted it in a mobius strip. And not noticed. Which is fine if that’s what you’re going for, and fine even if it’s not, but to not even register that that’s what was going on–well, a, they were good talks, and b, yeah, the head smack thing. There is a little bit of concussion relapse going on after all.
But the talks! One man with a British accent, Patrick Kearon, spoke this afternoon of talking to Syrian refugees who had made that horrendous trip in those rubber boats, of what it was like to try to meet their needs and be physically present as a witness to their suffering. He declared he wasn’t speaking to the politics of what was going on, he simply wanted to speak of the individuals he’d met. He spoke of the children. He said some of these people might someday be our doctors, teachers, nurses, engineers–as some of them already were.
Re their plight, “This experience will not define them. But our response will define us.”
President Uchtdorf, who was conducting the meeting, was fighting tears as he stood afterwards and his voice choked and we knew his family had been refugees too. They had escaped East Germany with their lives, barely, his parents at separate times so as to try to avoid suspicion immediately before the wall had been built.
In an earlier session, he had described watching the lightning that came from the sky during the war that had fascinated him as a small child. A picture of Dresden flashed on the screen: a thousand years it had taken to make what it had been–and then it was gone (crumbled stones at the foot of what had once been. Breathtaking, heartbreaking.)
That beautiful old church had stood for so long.
Another photo. They decided to reclaim all its old stones that could be and now there are dark gray polka-dotting squares scattered in the lighter new stone walls as a memorial to what had been and a declaration of renewal. A new landmark church. An Easter setting in its own right.
Today’s refugees are between the rocks and the new place.
On Good Friday
The Tangy Green Columnar from two angles. Most apples don’t need a pollinator but it does, and so the Yellow Transparent gave up a twig with the same stages of blooming this evening.
Meantime, in politics…
Time Magazine did a photo shoot with the Republican candidate (his unmentionable name deleted) with a Bald Eagle for their cover–it was only later that they released the footage of the eagle starting to attack him as he rears back and away. (Scroll down slightly to the GIF to skip the ad in the video.)
A video that’s a lot more fun: in the middle of a large campaign rally today, a Pine Siskin flies to Bernie Sanders’ “A future to believe in” sign and, resting on that perch, turns its head to get a good look at the candidate. At 56 seconds in, it flies towards Bernie himself before veering upwards in no particular hurry, not having minded the sounds of the crowd in any of this. (And I have seen how they zoom away when a hawk arrives. That one was not afraid.)
I love Bernie’s delight as he stops right there to take in and appreciate what life has suddenly brought him, his laugh for the sheer joy of it.
I was pulling weeds tonight just a few feet from the patio when an Oregon junco flew in beside me. A Bewick’s wren came from the other direction and joined in.
Wild things know.
Those leaves at upper center aren’t in front of the fence: they’re under it. That’s a skunk-size hole. I can stop feeling guilty now for cinnamoning the root-eaters over to the neighbors’ garden. Gophers beware. (Besides, how often do you get to cheer on a skunk?)
Meantime, wow, what a news day. My condolences to Justice Scalia’s family and friends.
I can talk about money being the megaphone rather than the actual speech another day.
So. About that Republican debate tonight where Rafael Eduardo Cruz was talking about his dad’s humble underwear and Trump was yelling LIAR! at Jeb when he wasn’t yelling it louder at Cruz and he almost, almost threw in the pants on fire part and you just knew he wanted to and Rubio got into a shouting match with Ted and Jeb and back to Trump… Cruz accusing Rubio of saying things in Spanish on Univision and Rubio shooting back, “You don’t speak Spanish!”
Dig a little deeper, guys, keep going–as Glenn Greenwald of The Guardian put it, Some Jerry Springer guests have more decorum, this is great fun to watch!
1. Something serious: an article on how the whole Bundy standoff thing has been affecting the fish populations at Malheur Refuge.
2. Something not serious, except that it is in that it’s trying to address a common source of landfilling: a thanks to LynnH for pointing out a (fun!) reusable replacement for the ubiquitous to-go coffee cup. Design your own colorways.
3. Something really not serious: I guess the thoroughly-overripe, starting-to-rot grapes I’d tossed in that tall plastic garden waste bin outside the kitchen smelled really good because when I got up later to see what on earth that noise was, there was a squirrel straddling the edge of the screen door and squeezed in against the glass slider while holding tight to either side of the metal mesh as it carefully climbed, clinging and releasing step by unsure step. That screen was the only thing it could get its claws into to try to reach into that utopia that its nose just knew was right there waiting to be claimed. It owned this! (Never mind that the lid was shut. He’d figure that part out later.)
It took the little animal a panicked moment to figure out how to disengage and flee from it and me.
Actually, the Bundys and that squirrel have a lot in common.
Well there you go
Saturday January 23rd 2016, 12:00 am
Filed under: History
I imagine there must be, oh, say, an Emergency Directive for Federal employees when mega storms like the one hitting the mid-Atlantic area are coming in: stay home. Don’t drive in this. (The Washington Post is counting 989 weather-related car crashes just in Virginia as of 1:00 am Saturday so far for this blizzard.)
Looking at the reports, sounds like the NSA’s employees today must have gone ED-ward, snowed-in.
(Warning: this is a topical pun. Apply externally. Do not swallow whole.)
Thank you, Harry Shoup
Sunday December 20th 2015, 11:46 pm
Filed under: History
Over with the politics, on to the military…
You’ve probably heard the story before but it’s one I’d forgotten: the typo in the 1955 Sears ad that had small children thinking they were calling Santa when what they were getting was the red hotline phone at the Continental Air Defense Command at the height of the Cold War.
That phone was not expected to ring. You did not want that phone to ring.
It wasn’t the Pentagon nor the President, it was a small child. “Is this Santa Claus?”
The tension and surprise showed in the officer’s voice and the little one started crying. The colonel stopped himself and reached out like the daddy that he was.
And that is why (there’s an interview with the colonel’s kids in this link) we have NORAD tracking Santa every Christmas Eve, giving updates as the famous sleigh and reindeer travel around the world. For the magic of it.
I wonder if the person who typed up that ad ever knew what they inadvertently made happen for every child of every year since. I like to think that surely they did.
Some mistakes are just plain meant to be.
Close to homes
I know, I know, you need a break from all this. But two of the perpetrators of today’s massacre–well, of one of today’s two massacres, the bigger one that got more publicity–were found hiding in the city where we will be attending a wedding next month. We are all within six degrees of connection. Every time.
Here is Neil DeGrasse Tyson presenting the numbers we know but we don’t want to know. One. million. four. hundred. thousand. since Mr. Kitto’s fifth grade class at Seven Locks.
Here, at Slate, is an essay asking us what kind of a country do we want to live in. We do have a choice. Second Amendment and all, daily mass slaughter is just not how it was when I was growing up: our Congressmen have made decision after decision, persisting in spite of increasing consequences, that have brought us to where we are now.
Is this what we want more of?
(Edited to add this link.)
We have to wait a year before we can express ourselves with our ballots but we can sure speak up now and be heard just the same.
By my calculations, assuming there’s no increase in the rate–which there relentlessly has been every single year since 2001–that means 32,640 more Americans will be dead of gunshot wounds from household-owned firearms by Election Day next year, plus however many more while the lame-duck moldy-leftover politicians continue to offer prayers for the victims while actively doing everything they can to prevent God from helping us get ourselves out of our man-made mess.
Write and call your Congressperson (find them here) as if your very life depended on it. For 32,640 people whom you may know, it does.
Friday November 13th 2015, 10:28 pm
Filed under: History
These were the types of people so many Syrians have been fleeing from.
I am grateful beyond words for those who put their home addresses on Twitter under the porteouvert hashtag: my door is open to you. Come. Safety and comfort and a real place to go for any stranded after stumbling away from the horror as the authorities demanded that all seek shelter inside.
Thus they take in the whole world. We are all Parisians today.
Wednesday November 04th 2015, 11:33 pm
Filed under: History
I’ve been wondering why it hasn’t made national screaming headlines: the Ridiculously Resilient Ridge is gone! No more R3! After two or four years there depending on whom you ask, it’s finally gone, do you hear me, GONE! Throw in an El Nino and boom, drought over, right?
Hey, where is everybody?
So I spent some time trying to find out why, since it’s such huge news, and the answer seems to be that nobody really knows why we had this bulletproof wall of air parked off the coast in the first place.
Which means they don’t know if it might come back at any moment, and that would tamp down the rejoicing, yes.
That really hard winter the East Coast had last year? R3 was bouncing all the tropical moisture that was supposed to come to us straight on up towards the Arctic, where it went on vacation and took in the sights and visited Denali National Park and combed the musk oxen at an Eskimo town and toured uppermost Canada and then came back down on the other side of the country and took off its new polar bear coat.
‘They got our water and Alaska’s cold and we got nuthin’.
Rain is predicted again in a few days. We’re off to a decent start.
Well that’s the way I’ve always heard it should be
Wednesday October 28th 2015, 10:26 pm
Filed under: History
As an antidote for a moment to all the bad cop stories that have been out there: this one. Two groups of teens fighting, and the Washington, DC officer offers a dance-off. If she wins, they have to disperse, if they win, they get to stay.
She’s dancing with 40 pounds of equipment on her but look at her go.
Everybody has a good time, everybody laughs, and both women declare themselves the winner with a hug.
Tuesday October 13th 2015, 11:01 pm
Filed under: History
Watching the debate…
Jim Webb’s smile as he thought back on the North Vietnamese soldier who had shot at him who, he said, of course, wasn’t here now.
And the smile got bigger.
Was anyone else creeped out by that? I thought, that war is still damaging you, isn’t it.
And then there’s this man’s story.
We explored a little
If you ever wanted to see where the Oz books were written, this was L. Frank Baum’s home.
And the children’s section of the library near it, with Dorothy, the Tin Woodman, Munchkins, the Scarecrow and I think the Cowardly Lion is in there somewhere.
There was a tot-sized area to rest in. Genius. The one who was the most tired is a climber like his daddy was and couldn’t resist. (He was helped down immediately–no matter how enticing it was, let’s not, kiddo.)
There was a huge killer whale of a stuffed animal atop one of the children’s shelves; Hudson asked about it, I found one of the librarians, and she thought out loud a moment with, Well, we don’t normally let children play with them–and then she brought it down and held it out and he petted it on the nose in awe. That was all he’d needed.
We ran into a young family who, when I found out who the dad was, I exclaimed, I used to babysit you!
But no–it had been his older sisters, he’d been born just after they’d moved away from Maryland. That’s right. But same idea: I knew his folks and his sisters as little kids, I’d run into the whole family at a wedding fifteen years earlier and that’s where I remembered the son from, who was now neighbors and friends with our son’s family, and it was all quite the small-world moment.
Hudson had been up late the night before but had been so excited that we were coming that he’d bounced out of bed early. It finally hit him when it was time to leave that glorious library: he clung to the railing. He didn’t want to GOooooOOO!
I scooped him up after a minute and asked, You really like this library?
Uh HUH! And as I said soothing and understanding things he let me carry him almost to the car, then his daddy the last few steps. Conked out as soon as the motor turned on and was still fast asleep when it was time for us to leave for the airport. We opened his door and I silently blew a kiss and hoped he wouldn’t be too upset to wake up to find us gone.
It is amazing how tiny little bundles of energy become when they’re run out of all their awake.
On an entirely different note–but in a way kind of not–back here at home tonight, we watched the eclipse, and I have a question: why did both the photos my iPhone took show twice as much moon as my eyes saw? There was just a corner of red, then at 8:32 half of the moon was lit up brightly, no more.
And yet, the camera saw past the shadows cast by the earth to let the moon shine brightly and whole.
I can’t wait to see them again.