July 6 - The New Year Up North

Dear friends,

After a full day of post-New Year's travel sharing planes with exhausted and impatient infants and toddlers and their devoted if frazzled parents, I arrived in Kotzebue Alaska without my bags. I was too tired to have a care although it occurred to me as I drifted off to sleep that in the unlikely event that my belongings were not found, I really couldn't live up here for the month of January with one set of clothes that didn't include my snow pants, goggles, and boots good to 40 below. Purchasing new duds at the local Alaska Commercial Company would cost me my first week's salary. If I could even find what I needed.

As the Eskimo taxi driver took me back to the airport the following morning to retrieve my found bags, he commented that things were warming up - 22 below up from 40 below the day before. And you know it felt like 0! All that expectation of mindnumbing cold and this really wasn't bad at all.

It was strange to wake up after 10 hours sleep and it still be so dark outside. My whole life I have avoided getting out of bed before sunup. But that doesn't work so well wintertime in the Arctic unless you can afford to hibernate.

I had decided before I left the Twin Cities that I would make an effort to integrate more into the community this time. The only way to do that other than crashing someone's alcoholic bash is to go to church. There are no bars, clubs, or bowling alleys, and finding friends on the internet seemed preposterous in a town of 3500. I had called my only Eskimo friend, Wendall Stalker, before I left the Twin Cities and asked him where he went to church and what time did it start on Sunday. He is a marvelous guitarist and ivory carver who caught me a big she fish in the ocean last summer, and I was hoping to see him and his wife Mary there and maybe make some new friends.

The light was tourquise blue to the south as I walked the four blocks to the church at 10:45 AM. I looked into the windows as I drew near the door of the simple A frame wood stucture and saw no one despite the bright inviting lights. The minister, an elderly Eskimo man dressed in a caribou skin coat with wolf ruff, greeted me saying that it was cold out so people were coming a little late. NPR was on (the only local radio station) - first the news and then C and W Christmas music songs and still no one came. Fifteen minutes after eleven, the Caucasian church organist and an older Native man came in followed by one more woman at 11:30. Hymns were sung and readings recited with a weak congregational response. Unfortunately I was right at the front and it took me awhile to figure out when to stand up and sit down. When the one Inupiak song was sung, the older man in the back sang out for the only time during the service.

The minister wore a beautiful white gown with beaded sash. He gave a short sermon about a man (later revealed as the bishop of the church) who went to live away from his family in isolation in the wilderness out of alienation. He only had faith in the trees, and clouds, and wild animals. But then he came back and joined the community and became a Christian and changed his life. And then Wilford, the minister, made the point that New Years is a time to make a change in your life, to take a step forward - and then he made a step like you do in the children's game "mother may I?" - a long stride with his right foot and then his left foot joined his right one. And I was touched by the sweetness and sincerity of what he said.

A few minutes into the service, I remembered with some trepidation that Episcopalians take communion. Which means I could either take the wafer and wine, commiting an act of hypocrisy and disrespect that might get me bolted if Christians are actually right about what they believe. Or sit tight in my seat among that tiny congregation of 4 including me, in which case, they would know me for just what I am - a heathen interloper. I took a chance on their coming up with some alternate explanation of my behavior and stayed in my seat while everyone kneeled in front of me except the older man whose knees were shot so he kind of leaned over to get the body and the blood.

I did get to meet everyone when we did the Episcopalian hand shake and peace greetings. We tromped over to the tin building next door where there was a tiny potluck - made smaller by my noncontribution. There the older Eskimo congregant named Willie pointed out the pictures of his mother and father on the wall. They were among the long deceased founding members of the church. He gently complained about the three parties in the immediate vicinity of his house the night before that had kept him awake. The organist, a white school teacher who's lived here 30 years raising 3 biological and then 2 adopted children, sheepishly explained that her brood was sleeping in but she'd get them there next week.

Like most church gatherings, people spoke about uncontroversial things and listened attentively to each other. The organist drove me home and said "see you next week." Uh maybe. I was looking for something a bit livlier with more opportunities for social engagement. But I hate to hurt their feelings by not coming back. And where the heck was Wendall?

Tomorrow I fly to Noatak, a village about 150 miles away that hasn't seen a medical provider for 5 months. I'll be busy morning until night and I'm sure it will be interesting.

Happy New Years and enjoy that balmy lower 48 weather.