When I was age 15, my parents sent me from our Alaska homestead to a Mennonite boarding school in Corn, Oklahoma. Needless to say, this was a cultue shock – red dirt, thick humidity, bobby socks, girls playing softball in dresses, discussions about class rings and if they were sinful, curfew, boys in tight wheat-colored jeans and buttoned shirts, and girls with short hair with a curl on the side of their cheeks taped down at night. I cut my hair and at night rolled it on huge plastic curlers. For the first time in my life, I ordered off a menu, at Tina’s café. I experienced chocolate Dr. Pepper and cherry Cokes. 

I was not allowed to make phone calls home because my father said they were too expensive. Likewise, I was not allowed to go home at Christmas. My mother wrote me two to three times a week, and sent me care packages of cinnamon rolls and canned moose. 

I made friends who invited me to their homes for weekends and holidays, and I was given my last name was Gaede (GAY-dee), I was nick-named “Gator.”  thrived in the Mennonite environment and savored puffy zwieback with melting butter, listened to the people speak Plautdietsch, including the older classmates, and I rode on motorcycles and in ’57 Chevys down dirt roads between wheat fields. 

After the first year, I returned. Two years, I graduated in a class of 16.  Unlike any other class, our class has had a reunion every five years, and we are always eager for the next. 

One of my friends was Judi Harms, who married another classmate, Dave Harms. Our families skied together and our children became friends. 

Thus, when I had the opportunity to bid on a quilt made by Judi and her daughter, Jenni, I knew I had to take it to the top! Here is the story: 

In 2009, Judi Harms and her daughter, Jenni, used the “Kansas Troubles” pattern of “Pinwheels in my Garden” for their Hutchinson, Kansas, Mennonite Central Committee Relief Sale quilt. They picked that pattern because Jenni likes pinwheels, and they wanted to try appliqué for the first time. The quilt sold for $7,100. 

Ten years later, they chose that pattern again for their 2020 quilt. They shopped for the fabric on Mother’s Day weekend of 2019. Judi started piecing and sewing the appliqué flowers for the quilt in July, and finished the end of August. In January 2020, she started hand quilting and was finished February 24, 2020.  Whenever Jenni drove home from Wichita, to visit her parents she helped with the appliqué and quilting.  

In March 2020, they took the quilt to the MCC office in Newton, Kansas, for the MCC sale. Unfortunately, the MCC sale was canceled because of COVID.

That was not the end of the story. The Hutchinson committee decided to have an online quilt auction. Naomi Gaede Penner learned that her classmate, Judi, and Judi’s daughter, had a quilt in the sale. She knew she had to bid on the quilt, which she did. In the end, Naomi acquired the quilt for $1,900; much less than the first, similar quilt went for in 2009; yet, it took the highest dollar of all quilts sold in the 2020 auction. 

The president of the KS MCC Quilt Auction, Charlene Jost Driggers, made arrangements for the quilt to be shipped to Naomi. Charlene had been a classmate of Naomi’s at Tabor College. 

Now the quilt is happily in Naomi’s guestroom and makes her smile every time she walks past the bedroom!

Naomi loves these kinds of stories, and she looks forward to seeing Dave and Judi’s family at Fun Valley in Colorado in June; and sitting with Judi and Jenni at the in-person Kansas MCC sale in July. 

(Chapter excerpt from “’A’ is for Anaktuvuk: Teacher to the Nunamiut Eskimos.
 Anna Bortel, schoolteacher, is the speaker.)

Anaktuvuk Pass is above the Arctic Circle. There is no access by roads, railroad, river, or seacoast. Transportation by dogsled is only possible in winter when there is snow. In 1960, there was no formal airstrip. The population at that time included 104 Native men/women/children and 140 sled dogs. Anna was the only white woman in the transitory village. She was also the only schoolteacher with the rigor, determination, passion, and qualifications to be the first permanent teacher for the approximately 28 children, some of whom that did not speak English. Here is a glimpse into her mission. 

I’d marveled at the mid-August palette of reds, rust, and wine, and savored their ever-deepening colors. Then one morning I’d awaken to find the rich radiance had been snow-scrubbed to gray half-tones. After six winters in Alaska villages I was no longer a Cheechako; even so, with each step northward I’d felt the increased confinement of a condensed summer and expanded winter. Alaska was an enormous state and daylight hours varied considerably. Here, above the Arctic Circle, there were weeks each summer, between mid-May and August, when the sun did not set at all. Playing by the same rules, there were weeks in winter when the sun did not show its face, much less the top of its head; only a rosy halo reflected above the horizon.

---

The Native people thought little of the winter box, and further north, in Barrow, there were actual celebrations when the sun shut the door and hibernated from November 18 through January 24. Not me. I found myself hungry for light. I’d look at my calendar and calculate when the shiny globe would pull itself out of its dark grave, rise again, and then in full glory fill the sky with life-giving brightness.  

My running waterwas no longer relatively convenient, but a mile-walk to the lake. I staggered against the wind and walked on top of wind-crusted snow until I unexpectedly broke through and found myself with one foot floundering in soft fluff. At home, I measured out water for each task and made as few trips as possible to the lake. I didn’t dare forget an ax to chop the ice.                 

The ruggedness manifested itself in beauty, as well as unforgiving reminders that survival required everyday vigilance. Snow draped the fortresses of mountains on either side of the valley, and their pristine whiteness stood out against the glacier-blue sky. Lazy pink sunrises and blushing sunsets added the remaining third color to the winter hues. The pass didn’t get the snow accumulation that some other parts of Alaska acquired, but the wind packed down what did fall, making a firm foundation for dog-sled travel.

Already, in mid-October, I’d stuck my toes deep into the caribou socks Susie Paneak had made especially for me. The fur against my ankle socks kept my toes toasty and the additional padding inside my mukluks cushioned the walk on the frozen tundra. It seemed that if one’s feet were comfortable, the rest of the body warmed more easily.  

Icy fingers of cold reached into my sod hut and chapel classroom. A huddle of multiple bodies helped. On any given night teenagers and children migrated into my cabin. Sometimes I felt like I was in possession of a very large family. Many times my home functioned as a study hall. The students gathered near the glow of my gasoline lantern to do their homework, rather than struggling at home with dim candlelight. When the Eskimos didn’t have a candle, they would dip a piece of cloth in caribou fat, and strike a match to it; that small, flickering flame would be the only light in their house. My lantern could not chase shadows out of the corners, but it was faithful in providing a liberal circle for reading and writing. 

 I worked on lesson plans or wrote letters at my table. Scholars sat on the floor or an extra kitchen chair. The older students read quietly or helped with dishwashing, but the younger ones hovered at my elbow or begged to play Cootie. After they’d leave, I’d find Cootie legs or eyes beneath my bed or under Already, in mid-October, I’d stuck my toes deep into the caribou socks Susie Paneak had made especially for me. The fur against my ankle socks kept my toes toasty and the additional padding inside my mukluks cushioned the walk on the frozen tundra. It seemed that if one’s feet were comfortable, the rest of the body warmed more easily.  

Icy fingers of cold reached into my sod hut and chapel classroom. A huddle of multiple bodies helped. On any given night teenagers and children migrated into my cabin. Sometimes I felt like I was in possession of a very large family. Many times my home functioned as a study hall. The students gathered near the glow of my gasoline lantern to do their homework, rather than struggling at home with dim candlelight. When the Eskimos didn’t have a candle, they would dip a piece of cloth in caribou fat, and strike a match to it; that small, flickering flame would be the only light in their house. My lantern could not chase shadows out of the corners, but it was faithful in providing a liberal circle for reading and writing. 

 I worked on lesson plans or wrote letters at my table. Scholars sat on the floor or an extra kitchen chair. The older students read quietly or helped with dishwashing, but the younger ones hovered at my elbow or begged to play Cootie. After they’d leave, I’d find Cootie legs or eyes beneath my bed or under my feet when in the middle of the night when I used my honey pot behind the privacy curtain.  

---

With the constant entourage, I wrote my sister Millie, “I am never lonely.” I was fortunate. The companionship and interactions were a remedy for winter depression. 

I thought I’d made progress in adapting to the no-knock policy of my village visitors. I was wrong. One afternoon, I returned home from an intense day of teaching. My flashlight led me through the arctic entry and into the dark house. Usually, as soon as I entered, I’d pump up and light my lantern, but on this day that seemed like too much effort. I didn’t have the energy to even take off my parka and collapsed flat on my back, on my bed, and then drifted in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep. 

Somewhere in my drowsy state, I sensed a presence in the unlit room. I strained my eyes.        A bright light shone suddenly in my face. I bolted upright!  

“There you are!” It was Jack, a schoolboy. I felt relieved, but my heart still thumped. He moved the light from my face and I stood up withmy flashlight, and shown it at him.  He sprang back. “Miss Bortel, what is wrong?”

He explained that the kids hadn’t seen a light at the classroom orin my house, which they expected after school let out in the afternoons. He’d volunteered to investigate. “You okay now.” He was genuinely relieved that nothing was amiss, and ran out to spread the glad tidings that I’d been found.  

                  At my wit’s end, on Friday I stretched a rope across the two entry posts as a sign of “no visiting” hours. I didn’t want anyone disturbing my lazy sleep-in on Saturday. 

*****                 

 I’d expected new experiences in Anaktuvuk, but I never knew exactly what those experiences would be. Not all were met with laughter or satisfaction. One night, I awoke to a weird, high-pitched vibrating sound. It reverberated like the string section of an orchestra warming up before a concert. I’d become accustomed to the howl of the constant wind as it chased around my sod house, but this reverberation made sleeping impossible. I lay 

awake trying to discern its exact whereabouts. I visualized the outdoor thermometer and groaned as I mentally saw the mercury sunk well below zero. I did not relish leaving my cocoon of comforters. The cacophony continued. I tossed and turned, trying to muffle the racket by pressing my pillow around my ears. Finally, in exasperation, I relinquished all hopes of sleep and crawled out of bed to find my caribou parka and boots.

 The bitter wind smacked me in the face and pinched my lungs. Now I was fully awake. I stopped to orient myself in the darkness. Moonlight slipped through the ice fog and cast an eerie glow on the clump of sod houses and skeletal caches. The view intrigued me, but my warm bed enticed me more. I had a job to do. After digging around in the snow, I found my stepladder and leaned it against the sod. Up I crawled to the top of my house.                   In the fall, when Gladys Main and Ida Mae Merrill, my Fairbanks friends, had spent a week with me, they had attached wires to secure my stovepipe and steady it against the wind. Gladys, also a schoolteacher, was tall and could ably stretch to connect the wires. Ida Mae, a cook at the University of Alaska, 

and fittingly round, could find something funny in any situation. For one second I contemplated what she’d be joking about now. 

          The original concept was worthy, but at this time of the year, with the frigid temperatures, hoarfrost encased the wires. The combination of frost and wind set up vibrations that caused the high-pitched screeching sound. I rubbed on the wires with my mittens. The nerve-jangling racket subsided. The quiet was momentary. Howling huskies, signaled to one another that something was amiss in the middle of the night, which perhaps they should all know about. That was music compared to the untuned orchestra on my roof. I edged back down and hoped for some rest. Eventually, the dogs’ sad wails were replaced by the familiar sound of wind.  

ked at me without understanding what I was talking about. 

*****

         After school one day, a student announced, “John Hugo and other men go down to Kivik (area – not village) and Ihyanituk (area – not village) to hunt. They get cabins fixed for winter. 

         When Anna Hugo dropped in, she stirred my desire further. 

         “My parents are going to Kivik at school break.”

---

The entire village was preparing for Timber Time. 

         “Would there be a possibility that I could go, too?” I inquired boldly. I realized sled space was limited and that everyone who went along must make some contribution. I’d accept a “no,” but hoped for a “yes.” 

         “I’ll ask,” replied Anna.

         “I can take food and help with the cooking,” I offered.  

         In awhile, she returned with a message of acceptance from her parents.

         “When do we leave?” I asked excitedly.  

         “Maybe Tuesday, maybe not,” she shrugged her shoulders.   

 This conversation repeated itself for another week. I’d managed to schedule flying connections to Ohio for the winter break, a series of five segments, but dogsled travel defied such precision. After several more days, I told myself, You must learn to go on Eskimo Standard Time.From what I’d learned about these people, weather and family health were the determining requisites. Who knew when these factors would come together? Regardless, I prepared to leave at a moment’s notice and in one corner of my home I stashed supplies I would need for the sled trip. Among the items were tomato paste and seasonings for a spaghetti supper, along with chocolate Quick for cocoa, and peanut butter for sandwiches. Then I waited.

         At 8:45 AM on November 4, Anna Hugo came over and announced our imminent departure.

         In the gray of morning, John Hugo placed a large canvas over the entire dogsled and steadily arranged our supplies. I watched in horror as the sled filled up.    

         “But, Anna, where will we sit?” I whispered nervously.

         “We will sit on top of everything,” she said casually.

          The heap grew. “But how will we hang on?” I asked. I couldn’t believe my eyes as John lashed down the huge mound. How would I stay on for the ride? My prospects looked grim. 

         John positioned his team in their harnesses. Ten dogs leaped forward, eager to pull, and yelping in anticipation. 

         Then it was my turn. 

         “Come Anna,” Anna Hugo motioned me to sit in front of her as she climbed toward the back of the sled. John took his position behind the sled on the runners, ready to release the brake and yell “Go!” I looked around for some anchor and finally dug my caribou-skin-mittened thumb under a rope. The dogs lunged forward before I could brace my legs around the supplies, and I lurched against the Anna behind me. The wild ride began.

In my dreams I’d imagined an idyllic sled-dog ride with a comfortable “seat” on caribou skins. I’d brought along two cameras and had planned to alternately take still slide photos and 8mm movie sequences. But now, I wondered if I’d miss all the scenery as we traveled down the John River. Hanging on – by my thumb and thighs – demanded all my attention, much less any chances of filming.

The omnipresent wind made our ruffs flap around our faces. I mentally thanked Susie Paneak for outfitting me for this arctic quest. We’d only just begun and already I was grateful for the caribou socks, mittens, and the mukluks. I’d overheard the village mothers tell their children, “White people don’t know how to dress for cold.” Probably true. Susie didn’t want the schoolteacher to freeze to death. 

Mile after mile the super-charged dogs raced over the frozen Anaktuvuk River without any indication of tiring. Meanwhile, I clung to the raring bareback until I thought my tense legs would break. No wonder that when I returned home and undressed, I found my thighs and calves were black and purple.  I just need to rest my legs for a few minutesplayed like a broken record in my mind. After awhile, a new message was add: I just need to wipe my nose.  

Then, I took the chance. I let go of the rope to find a tissue in my parka pocket. At that same instant a strong gust overpowered the sled, pushing it sideways on the glare ice. It skidded out-of-control until we slammed into a pressure ridge. I sailed off the sled. John yelled at the dogs to stop. Anna clung to my parka and managed not to topple off after me – as she dragged me alongside the sled until her father was able to stop the raring dogs. We looked at each other and in comic relief burst out laughing at the unexpected derailment. At least I’d managed to stretch my legs and blow my nose. 

         “We’ll soon be there,” Anna encouraged me.  

 Even with that hope, I reluctantly crawled back on the sled, stuck my thumb under the lashing, and braced my numb legs for the remainder of the trip. Three hours after leaving Anaktuvuk Pass, and none too soon for me, we arrived at our first day’s destination: Ihyanituk, 25 miles south of Anaktuvuk, and where the Anaktuvuk River joined the John River.

David, one of students, stood beaming at the door of the sod hunting cabin. His hair was tugged in all directions and looked as though he’d just pulled off his parka hood. “I see you coming,” he said.

I was happy to see him, elated to get off a whale of a ride, and in Seventh Heaven to go inside a shelter.  

I shivered and shook as we sipped his welcoming feast of hot tea and coffee, and chewed on caribou meat. 

 Mabel Paneak and her brother, Raymond, arrived after us, followed by the Rulland siblings – Tommy, Roseanna, Johnnie; Danny, who had been so sick with tuberculosis, and his father, Clyde Hugo, joined our indoor camp-out, too. We sat on the willow-bough floor and peals of laughter filled the air as we recounted the near catastrophes enroute. Just like me, Mabel had flown off her perch and landed in a rock pile. Johnnie’s dogs had careened about and dislodged him from his sled runners. Roseanna had given up trying to balance on top the sled over the bumpy terrain and attempted to run alongside. She’d tripped and fallen in a mound with the sled passing her by. The hilarity prodded the chill away. Tea steeped, tuttu (caribou) simmered, and tales grew.                 

“Maybe we take out stove,” Tommy remarked later when conversation lulled and the kerosene lamp dimmed. 

         I looked at him incredulously. How would we stay warm?

         “Too many people,” he said. 

 He had assessed the sleeping situation. If 11 people crawled into sleeping bags and stretched out, there might not be room for the stove in these tight quarters. We scrambled about and like a puzzle, we arranged our sleeping accommodations. We succeeded to squeeze ourselves together. The stove remained.

 The next morning, someone tossed more grounds into the coffee pot, and I prepared breakfast with my offerings of homemade bread, butter, and peanut butter. When I gingerly climbed atop the sled for our next segment of travel, I felt warm and satisfied; but the twinges in my stomach reminded me of yesterday’s sled-riding anxiety.  

We had traveled southwesterly to Ihyanituk. Now the mushers turned the dogs northwesterly up the Ihyanituk Creek. The trek grew increasingly difficult. Mushers struggled to guide the sleds over the frozen waterfalls. Dog’s feet, cracked by running through the ice overflows, left red prints in the snow. Empty wolf traps left disappointment on faces. Swampland frozen with knobby hummocks increased the bumpy starts and stops of the sled as the dogs labored on the uneven surface. 

At one point, the postcard view of spruce trees and snow-covered mountains drew my attention away from the hazards. Untouched snow and trees! I hadn’t realized how visually starved I was for trees. Snow on trees.The color of evergreen trees. Vegetation that was taller than willows. I hadn’t seen trees since I’d arrived in Anaktuvuk – five months ago. I’d missed them so much in the barren pass.

A moment later, a tree branch ran up my leg, shredding the heavy wool pants. I felt a numbing scratch, but couldn’t risk checking out the damage. After straining to go up a long steep hill, the dogs quickened their pace as they started down the other side. We descended the hill, hitting every bump with gigantic force. 

Just when I thought I could notsurvive another jounce, Anna suggested, “Let’s walk.” 

Finally, I could forget merely surviving and attend to the inspiring environment. I couldn’t take my eyes off the trees. We continued the arduous journey on foot. About 1:30 PM, a Christmas-card log cabin nestled in spruce trees appeared. The dogs veered toward it. I’d made it. 

Except for a small wood stove and one wide board, the cabin was completely empty. John built a lively fire in the stove withrealwood, not puny twigs like we used in Anaktuvuk. Raymond chopped additional wood. Water heated up quickly and we took the edge off our hunger with Pilot Boy crackers and tea. Mabel cut up meat and I found the noodles I’d brought along. Our one-course meal, cooked in a clean five-gallon aviation gasoline can, consisted of one-third can of water and plenty of caribou with noodles. We placed cups and plates on the board on the floor.

Following our afternoon meal, John left to check on traps before the early winter darkness reined in outdoor activities. The girls attended to mending. Mabel patched Raymond’s torn mukluk and shared some sinew with me so I could mend my wool pants. I asked that they teach me to sing “Jesus Loves Me” in Eskimo. Mabel showed me how to use the sinew and we passed the time singing and sewing. 

The day ended with only mukluks removed; otherwise, our nightclothes and day clothes remained the same. Conversation had slowed and the fire crackled less. A lone wolf howled in the distance. A wolf pack answered back.  

         “A good sign,” remarked Danny.  “Maybe there is wolf in trap.” 

Tomorrow we would know. Tonight the dying embers fizzled and went out. I snuggled deep into my sleeping bag – the night would be cold.  

 The next morning, Raymond and David left their comfy nests and made a roaring fire in the subzero-cabin. Ice covered the water pail. The rest of us emerged tentatively from our nighttime insulation. Mabel started coffee and I searched for pancake ingredients.                  

  “Coffee-tugok’pick? (Do you want coffee?),” asked David.“

“I coffee-tugok’tunga (Yes, I want coffee),” I answered.

“Tomorrow you will go back to Anaktuvuk,” said Anna Hugo. “Roseanna, Mabel, and I will not go back, until later.” 

         My eyes teared up at the thought of riding atop the sled for that distance. That would be a long haul, longer than when we’d come out here since the 40 miles had been divided into two days. Anna read my mind. 

         “You will sit in the sled and even in a sleeping bag.”

        Sure enough, John put the wolf and fox skins he’d trapped below my seating section. 

        In comparison to the trip to Kivik, the jostling sled ride back to Anaktuvuk felt like a cradle. A big disappointment was to find the sod house we had stayed our first night, had burned to the ground. We stood in disbelief.  But, in Nunamiut tradition, no one complained or expressed any futility about the situation. They dug away snow, gathered wood, and started a fire for tea. I shivered and waited for the water to boil. After I pressed the cup to my lips and the hot liquid ran down my throat, I still shook. How could anyone really get warm in thirty or more degrees below zero? Someone on another sled hauled out a hindquarter of caribou and cut slices of the frozen raw meat. I pulled out peanut butter sandwiches I’d made before leaving that morning. I’d kept them near me for body warmth, but they were still stiff as a piece of crusted snow – although they did have more flavor. 

As we continued up the John River, the hint of daylight diminished and the cold intensified. John was riding the sled runners and I turned to look up at his face in the last glimmers of light. The raw polar wind and cold had transformed his breath, moist from exertion, into an artist’s brush. His parka ruff was covered with frost, as were strands of his hair, which hung down on his forehead. Even his eyebrows, eyelashes, and whiskers were silvered. I wanted to remember it forever. I reached for my movie camera, but couldn’t get it to snap a picture. I turned back to John’s face and etched it in my memory. 

We arrived in Anaktuvuk at 4 PM.Dora, John’s wife, had coffee and tuttu waiting for the weary travelers. After the six-day absence, my outlook had changed and I saw Anaktuvuk like a city in comparison to the wilderness where I’d traveled. The trip forever altered my perception of the nomadic pattern of the Eskimos.  

         It seemed the trip altered their perspective as well; they’d embraced me before, but now I felt they’d flung open their hearts to me. This journey had been a sort of initiation; now I truly belonged to them. 

         When I left for the winter break, several men carried my bags to the plane.  

         “We’ll miss your organ playing,” said one man.

        “Thank you. You teach our children,” chimed in others. 

         “I’ll only be gone until school starts in March,” I assured them. 

         “You come back?” they kept asking, even when I assured them that except for what I needed for my trip back to Ohio, I’d left all my belongings right there in my cabin. 

         “You take care of yourselves,” I urged, blinkiing tears from my eyes.  

          I didn’t want anyone missing when I returned. 

(Chapter Excerpt from “‘A’ is for Alaska: Teacher to the Territory.” Voice of schoolteacher, Anna Bortel.)

Snow swirled over our tent city until it resembled an igloo encampment.  In fact, by November, the snowfall equaled the previous year’s total and visions of Valdez leaped around in my head. Piles of snow provided excellent insulation around the huts, but plummeting temperatures meant an ongoing battle to keep our fickle oil stoves working.

One evening, Herman Romer, Harriet Amundson, and I welcomed the invitation to see nature films at the hospital. The other two teachers rowdily gathered their outdoor gear for the short walk in the minus 43º F dark night and begged me to hurry with my preparations. They’d completely forgotten our stove vigil. 

Inadequately designed narrow ¾-inch copper tubing carried the oil from the outdoor tanks into the huts and to the stoves. With these polar temperatures, the oil thickened and would eventually freeze. We’d be doomed. 

“We can’t leave or the stoves will freeze up,” I exclaimed in frustration. 

My colleagues stared at me incredulously.

“We’ll have to tap the lines to keep the oil flowing,” I told them. “Let’s work on all five lines before we leave, and then one of us can run back in a few hours to go through the same procedure all over again.” 

We ventured out into the powdery deep freeze to tackle the oil lines. The tapping rang out loudly in the crisp air. When we’d completed our task, we took our chilled bones to the embracing warmth of the dependable coal heated building.  For a short spell, we escaped our ever-consuming battle against winter.  

The contrast between this environment and ours was jarring:  bright lights, no drafts, a floor that didn’t sag or bounce, water coming out of a faucet rather than a water bucket, and indoor toilets. In light of this fact, I couldn’t help but wonder why a steady stream of guests seemed attracted to our crude one-room habitat. Was it the popcorn or the Salmon Belly Chowder? 

The hospital staff was always together. Where else could they go? Attending one of the churches presented new faces, as did mingling with CAA (later changed to FAA) families; nevertheless the steady stream of guests attested that the compass bearing for socializing and entertainment pointed to the straggly snowbound school compound.

 “It just feels so good to come here,” Ethel had told me as she curled up on my bed with a wholesale magazine, which was our version of window-shopping. Ethel Jenkins, the Head Nurse, was from Arizona and of Indian descent; this made for interesting conversations about the comparisons to the Alaska Natives. She frequented my Quonset to distance herself from her work-staff, which she either supervised at the hospital, or lived within the nurses’ quarters. We hit it off right away and I enjoyed her sense of humor and friendship. 

Oftentimes, the nurses stopped in after Sunday night chapel services and joined us in listening to Unshackled. In those days, and especially in Alaska, we clung to any radio program available. This program told dramatic true conversion stories of men on skid row. Other times, a group gathered for a catalog party where we pored over Sears & Roebuck and mail-order magazines, and placed orders. Questions of “What are you getting”? and “What color do think would look best”? were strewn into our shopping forays; which culminated in writing in item numbers and colors, then calculating postage. 

My get-away was to eat steaks, coconut pie and other out-of-my-ordinary cooking at the hospital dining hall, or sip tea with Ruby Gaede, the Tanana Hospital physician’s wife.

I hated to admit it, but as much as I enjoyed people, I’d started to cringe whenever I heard a sound at the door and a cheery “Hello – anyone home?”  I knew this greeting would signal to Herman that there would be socializing in our hut, and that on cue he’d be over in a jiffy. 

On this particular night, it was a relief not playing hostess, but just sitting back in the large space of the meeting area. After we’d learned about crawly creatures in the Arizona desert, Ethel invited us for tea; simultaneously, Ruby asked us to stop in for cocoa. All three of us were night owls and we readily accepted both offers. Before going to Ethel’s I returned to our encampment, made the rounds, and beat on the oil lines. When we progressed to Ruby’s, I once again followed the same procedure. 

 “Kids,” I said to Harriet and Herman upon our return home, “I hate to suggest this, but it appears we’re going to have to babysit the stoves tonight.” This exercise had not been included in our Fundamentals of Teaching book, either.

Harriet feigned a yawn, but when I volunteered for the 2 AM shift, she volunteered for 4 AM, and Herman agreed to 6 AM. After completing my duty, I snuggled down beneath my covers, grateful that the next alarm I’d hear, and the ensuing banging, would be made by my loyal coworkers. 

*****

We weren’t alone in our midnight madness. Usually the Natives showed movies at the Community Hall only on weekends, but for some reason, they started showing them on weeknights as well. Naturally, the children accompanied the adults and as a result, the children would fall asleep at their desks or stare into space. 

“Boys and girls, it is very important for you to get enough sleep so your minds will work when you come to school,” I exhorted, as did the other teachers. 

The students looked at me with glazed expressions. I wasn’t sure I’d conveyed the seriousness of the situation until one day after school when a mother stopped in my hut. “I thought my boy was joking. He says he don’t want to go to show last night. He wants to spend show money at the store.” 

 “Rest” may have been our Fourth ‘R,’ but in addition, we emphasized the importance of cleanliness. As time progressed, little Freddy, who looked like a street urchin, would have won the prize for the most improved. He loved school and took my admonitions to heart. Soap and water, impetigo treatments, and a good night’s rest transformed him into a dapper young man. 

A girl in the community related to me, “Freddy is such a changed person. He is clean and has more manners. Can you believe he makes his mother let him go to bed early? Then he wakes up at 4:30 and wants to go to school!” 

Freddy’s grades improved, too, and his misbehavior diminished. I needed this encouragement, but it had its drawbacks. On Saturdays, the one morning I could sleep in, he’d come knocking on my hut door at 7 AM, in winter darkness. 

“Who’s there?” I’d call out.  

“It’s me, Freddy,” he’d answer in a cheerful little voice, “I came to see you.”

“Freddy, I’m not up yet.” I’d say in an annoyed and amused chuckle. “Please come back at 9 o’clock, okay?”

With a meek “yes,” he’d leave, only to return in 15 minutes when the conversation would be replayed. After several Saturdays of attempting to arouse his teacher, he quit coming.

Health education continued with a visit from the Public Health dentist, Dr. Tom McQueen, and his assistant, Ada Jakes, who flew into the village to examine and treat the Native children. Much to my surprise, the children were raring to go for their appointments. Whenever a student returned and I referred to my schedule, I looked up to see every eye glued to me and every pencil laid down. As soon as I announced a name, that boy or girl would dart out the door as if going to a fire. At recess, children circled around the ones who had been treated, and listened to their stories and stared at their gauze-packed mouths and holes from pulled teeth. When the Novocain wore off, the quiet classroom would be interrupted with a shout, “It’s waking up!  It’s waking up!” I’d never before witnessed children who took so much pleasure in dental visits.

Meanwhile, the minus 40º F continued with occasional bouts of only minus 20º F. On these “warm” nights, we welcomed undisturbed sleep without night duty. Each time temperatures dipped to minus 35º F, Harriet or I would put our potatoes, onions, and eggs on the opened oven door and keep the oven on low heat. Even then, there were times when this precious commodity succumbed to frostbite. To obtain fresh produce was tough enough, but to preserve it was even tougher. We’d sent an order with one of the nurses flying to Fairbanks, but at some point, the celery and lettuce froze. Earlier in the fall, a care package from Harriet’s mom fared better. She’d filled a box marked “Fragile, Eggs, Special Handling,” with fresh produce from her farm. We were ecstatic to find potatoes, turnips, cabbage, and eggs all in good, not-frozen, condition. We’d been using potato flakes and now we savored every mouthful of real mashed potatoes. 

Understandably, food played an important role in our lives. “Where did you get this, Anna?” someone would ask, and in the same breath want to know, “Can I get it, too”? Over the summer, in Ohio, I’d discovered boxed whipped topping. At a chapel party, I’d put dollops of the imitation whipped cream on pumpkin pie. “Mmmmmm” was the consensus.  Women made requests for packages and I wrote Mother to send me two big boxes. 

 Culinary skills were not limited to women. “Grandpa’s cooking a pork chop dinner for us tonight,” announced Harriet, using her after-school nickname for Herman. Unlike us, Herman splurged at the Northern Commercial store. How could we chide him for this luxury when he presented us with delicacies such as non-wild meat cooked on the one-burner and a salad of canned shrimp added to a can of mixed vegetables. From time to time, he’d show up on our doorstep with spice cake batter and the request to bake it in our oven. Of course we helped him eat the finished product.

---

*****

The interminable cold interrupted our sleep and our school schedule, but not our social life. “How would you teachers like to come to the hospital wiener roast and skating party on Friday night?” asked Ethel. In these temperatures our noses would drip, eyes water, and fingers tingle. I didn’t know about the others, but I was a clumsy skater. We accepted. The temperatures chilled neither our enthusiasm nor a romantic attraction. Harriet shared matter-of-factly that a hospital employee had asked her to the party. No other details. As one would expect, she assumed he would come to the hut and they’d walk together to the skating site on the river. This being the case, Herman and I bundled up and left her in her fluttering anticipation. 

Much to my surprise, one of the first people I spotted was the would-be-Romeo. “Herman, isn’t that the guy Harriet told us about?” I pointed to a fellow in an olive-green army surplus parka who was zig-zagging through the expanding crowd. Every now and then his parka hood flew back exposing thick black hair. He greeted other skaters and appeared to be having a very good time. 

The hospital maintenance man had rumbled out on the ice with his CAT to clear the snow and the frost heaves to make a smooth skating surface. Large bonfires lit up the night beneath the starry sky, and reflected off the glare ice. Metal skate blades flashed. Small flares leaped about in the blackness as people’s flashlights showed them the way to the party. Shouting, teasing, and laughter filled the evening.

“Why is he so nonchalantly skating about on his own?” I said. “Poor Harriet.” 

After awhile, he skated toward me.

“Where’s Harriet?” he asked, puffing.

“Waiting for you!” I answered perturbed.

He gasped. Stumbling about he unlaced his skates, and in stocking feet, fled up the bank and down the road. Soon he returned with Harriet beside him. I wasn’t sure if her face was rosy from the exertion, the icy air, or the attention of suitor. Throughout the evening, Harriet never strayed far from her escort’s side, although she and Herman played “crack the whip” with the children. The two of them were excellent skaters and acted like kids themselves. Lines of exuberant children linked themselves together with hands on the parka waists of the person in front of them. The first in each line grabbed either Harriet’s or Herman’s waist and off they went in two swinging circles. At some point, the tail-ends would go so fast around a corner that the caboose would lose hold individually, or drag with them the coupling in front of them. Away they slid on their knees or behinds. Everyone hollered in boisterous terror and glee. 

Eventually Harriet wore down and caught her breath beside a bonfire, where she ate browned hot dogs, cast furtive glances at her suitor, and overall appeared quite smug. The night held its magic; however, the would-be romance began and ended all within that succinct span.  

*****

Ongoing battles between the brutal cold and the stoves continued. On December 13, the school construction crew left Tanana. A Native man was hired to keep watch over the old and new school, and I attempted to help him. When the furnace in the old school gave up the ghost, I sought help from the CAA mechanic who serviced it. But then that night, it went out again, and before we knew it, the water pipes froze and burst! We turned off the water, but the damage was done. As if the mess wasn’t discouraging enough, it meant that we would have to carry water over from the hospital for our use in the huts – bathing, dishwashing, and cooking. Ironically, the damage left a display of glorious shimmering stalactites and stalagmites.  Fortunately, Herman had moved into his own Quonset. 

During this time the electricity switched off sporadically in our school compound. One midnight, the stack blower on our stove chimney stopped whirring, indicating a power outage. I knew this silence meant the furnaces had ceased functioning in the new school. Overcome with weariness, I sat in my bed with tears streaming down my face. I was tough, but these circumstances seemed tougher. How could I fight so many uphill battles? If it wasn’t the huts, it was the old school; if it wasn’t either of these, it was the new school. I sobbed until I could hardly catch my breath, and then wiped the moisture off my face before braving the icy blast between my hut and the school. I dragged myself through the drifting snow to reset the starter on the furnace.  

Amidst the constant frustrations, the joyous season of Christmas pressed closer. After my children left in the afternoon, I assisted Herman in teaching his upper grades two-part harmony for “Christmas Night” and “Angels We Have Heard on High.”  Each rendition sounded like the winter wind whistling around the corners of the dilapidated schoolhouse, but I reconciled myself that their lack of precision didn’t matter. Their enthusiasm would make this a joyful experience for their parents. 

I’d ordered Christmas candy from the Sears catalog. To my disappointment, I received word that it would be back-ordered and unavailable for Christmas. As usual, we were called upon to adapt. Homemade fudge and popcorn balls were substituted for red and green ribbon candy and chocolate-covered peanut clusters. Creating holiday happiness didn’t rest solely on me, though. Someone else had caught the spirit of the season. 

“Do any of you know why Donald isn’t here this morning?” I asked my students.

The looked quizzically at each other, but said nothing.  After I dismissed the class for lunch, along came Donald, peering out from under his parka hood, pulling a bedraggled Christmas tree. He had spent the morning hunting for it, chopping it down, and pulling it to school. How could I reprimand this exhausted little boy, when with hopeful eyes, he looked up at me and said, “How do you like it, Miss Bortel?”  

Our dark schoolroom brightened with this and other artistic touches.  We put up Donald’s tree at one end of our hut.  Besides decorating the tree, the children cut and pasted colorful bells and Santas which they strung from the hut framework. Holiday music on the record player added to the atmosphere and the children vibrated with pleasure.    

Finally the day of the Christmas program arrived. The children filed into the classroom and as usual, detoured to the Christmas tree before taking their seats. All at once, they rushed over to me. With terrified eyes and trembling bodies they blurted out, “Come here, teacher! There is someone in our room.. . . . Are you scared?” They clutched my arms and leaned against me.

I couldn’t imagine what had frightened them. There beneath the Christmas tree was a young Native man, curled up, and sleeping off his night of alcohol. I’d wondered about a strange odor when I’d entered the room, and now I saw the pool of urine. Nudging him, I called his name. No response. The children turned their faces up to me with confidence that I could handle this situation. Again I called his name. Nothing. Now what? I wondered. By this time, word had spread through the other classes and Herman poked his head through the door. “Mr. Romer, could you please stay here while I go to the hospital for help?” The hospital served as an emergency source for any village crisis. 

Jerking open the hospital door, I hurried to Alice in the reception area and explained the situation. Recovering from my shock, I joked, “He doesn’t have a tag or a ribbon, so I don’t want to keep the gift under the tree!” 

 Alice assured me someone would arrive to care for this unusual gift. I returned to my students with much relief, and checked on the young man, who was still inert; then I proceeded to restart the day with attendance-taking. Shortly, the all-purpose ambulance arrived and hauled away the Christmas boy. 

That evening at the Christmas program, the children sang their best. I sighed with relief and with hope that the next year we would be in our wonderful, spacious school, rather than the crowded Community Hall. 

*****

The New Year did not start with a celebration, but with body-shaking tears. Following a New Years Eve party, I’d worked endlessly on our oil lines. Then, at 3 AM, I collapsed in bed, chilled to the bone, and utterly worn out. I had reached the end of my rope and had no reserve to cope with one more minute of this pioneer life. Harriet, the hardy Minnesota girl, numbly struggled with the lines at 4 AM. Temperatures were freezing outdoors and now sunk lower inside our Quonset. She desperately fought to restore some heat. Herman quietly carried our potatoes and onions to his place to keep them from freezing. Our fortitude was freezing to a standstill in the winter battle. 

On January 6, 1959 I wrote to Mr. Isaac:

Mr. Krazinzki, from the Anchorage office, told me to have  larger tubing put in from the tanks to the stove, but I have to have someone who is willing to do it, and even then there is no assurance that the freezing problem would be solved.  There is a large tube and heating cable on the one at the old school and it still freezes.

Dr. Gaede suggested that I just not have school when it gets 40 degrees  or more below, since it is wearing us teachers out to fight to keep the fires going, and even then we can’t get the temperatures up so the children can take off their coats. 

One plunge of the thermometer to minus 50 caused us to send all the children home. Two days later, my chimney sooted up and would not produce heat. Again, I sent my class home. Doc and Ruby came over and together we cleaned it out. We were completely covered with soot, but the stove was back in working order.

 In the January Northern Lights, the upper grades wrote, “It’s a little cold in the huts now.” I questioned their choice of words and accuracy of reporting!  

January 1959. Fifty degrees below zero. Four hours of daylight. No running water. No heat. Construction on the school halted due to the unavailability of windows.  I’d left the model school in Pekin, Illinois for this?  The going was indeed very tough. 

SALMON CHOWDER

1 lb.       Fresh salmon poached, (or 1 14 ½ oz can salmon)

2 T.        butter or margarine

1            med. onion

½ C.      celery, diced

1 T.        flour plus 1-2 T. water

2            chicken bouillon cubes

2 C.       water

2 C.       diced potatoes

1            13 oz. can evaporated milk

1 tsp.     dill weed

¼ tsp.    basil leaves, crushed

1            15 ½ oz. can cream-style corn

Salt and pepper to taste

Drain salmon, reserve liquid.  Sauté celery and onions in margarine.  Add bouillon cubes, water, and potatoes.  Cook slowly until potatoes are cooked.  Mix flour with water to make thickening, add to potatoes, celery, onion mixture.  Add salmon, reserved liquid, milk, dill weed, basil, corn, salt, and pepper.  Heat thoroughly, but do not boil.  Serve with cornbread or fresh rolls, and a salad.  Invite your neighbors in—if you want to share.

“‘A’ is for Alaska: Teacher to the Territory” is perfect for “Teacher’s Week”! And, that’s not all. It’s on sale at http://www.prescriptionforadventure.com.

---

 

---