Mom’s Moose – on the Loose and Returning Home

23 Monday Mar 2015

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Alaska, Alaska - Tanana, Gaede-80 Homestead

Mom the Huntress

(Elmer E. Gaede, September, 1958, near Tanana, Alaska)

I suspected the bull was around the bend of heavy brush, about 100 yards ahead. We edged forward, hugging the brush along a large cornhusk-colored meadow. I could smell him. Standing up and leaning forward, I broke cover. There he was, looking right at us. Without delay, he tossed his antlers and lowered his huge head. He was going to charge! The ground shook as he pounded toward us. I backed up and nearly knocked my wife, Ruby, off her feet.

“Get ready!”

The moose picked up speed. Ruby froze.

“Shoot, Ruby! Shoot!” I yelled.

She stood paralyzed in his path. By now he was only 50 yards away. Too close for comfort. Frantically, I focused my gun on the monster. Just as I pulled the trigger, I heard another shot ring out. Only 37 yards away from us, the moose crashed to the earth. I didn’t know what was trembling more, the ground from the impact, or Ruby as she turned to me with terrified eyes.

We both stood gasping for breath.

“You did great,” I encouraged her. “Now finish him off.”

She managed to lift the rifle and with two shots stilled the quivering animal. My heart pounded and I could nearly hear Ruby’s. She had every reason to be panicked.

I immediately went to work gutting the 900‑pound hunk of meat. Ruby had never seen this stage of moose‑hunting, although she had cut up and packaged pounds of meat after they had been hauled home. She appeared to have recovered her sense of speech, along with some curiosity, and commented about the innards of the moose.

“He’s like a camel,” she said in amazement. “Just look at all that blood and liquid. And look at his heart – the size of my head.”

I knew she was comparing him to the cows and pigs she’d seen butchered on her family’s farm in Kansas.

The evening darkness and gnawing mosquitoes hurried us; and I decided we couldn’t complete our task at that time.

“We can let him cool down overnight, and then tomorrow morning Roy and I will skin him and pack out the meat.”

I hated to leave her trophy so abruptly, but she didn’t want to spend the night in the wilds.

Within five minutes of a sandbar takeoff in my PA-14 tail-dragger, we were back in Tanana. I was jubilant and raring to re-talk the hunt, but Ruby walked home silently, wearily. We put the children to bed and she crawled into a hot bath. She needed some time alone – and to warm up. If I ever wanted her to hunt with me again, I knew I’d better grant her that opportunity.

The next morning, my friend, Roy, and I flew to the hunting site. Seven hours later, all four quarters of Ruby’s moose were back in Tanana. This part of the hunt was familiar to her. She and I would be busy for many a night picking hair off the meat, cutting it into various cuts and sizes, and wrapping it for the freezer.

I was mighty proud of Ruby’s hunting adventure. Since I hadn’t taken my movie camera along to document her story, I decided we should mount the head.

Mom’s Moose

This was Ruby’s first, but not last moose hunt. She had proven she could bring home the moose and cook it, too. After this, she never really took to hunting with the airplane, but later, when we relocated, she was more than willing to get up early or drive at dusk, with two guns between us.

The head mount was sent to Ruby’s parents, in Kansas. Later, it was transferred to Elmer’s parents in Reedley, California. In a third move, it resided at Elmer’s brother’s, in Fresno, California.

(Naomi Gaede Penner, March 2015)

Several years after Dad’s brother died, his wife, Marianna, decided to move to a retirement community. The moose would not be moving with her. She and her family decided it should be returned to the Elmer and Ruby Gaede family. We siblings agreed – it needed to migrate “home,” to the Gaede-80 Homestead, outside Soldotna, Alaska.

California Acclimatized Moose

All four generations of the Harold and Marianna Gaede family were distraught. The moose had been a part of their lives – for decades – and every Christmas it was decorated with ornaments. Knowing their pal would no longer be a part of their celebrations; they each had their picture taken in front of the moose at their annual Christmas get-together in December 2014.

The re-transplantation could not happen with a quick trip to UPS, a Large Priority mailing box, or Fed Ex at the front door. In fact, nothing about this process would be easy – but it would be a story-maker.

Here’s how it went:

Step #1: Remove the moose from the wall.

Tackling a Moose

The head mount weighed approximately 100 to pounds and was bolted into the wall. Don, Ken, and Paul Gaede, along with friends, tackled the project with ladders and humor. After 15 minutes of unscrewing the bolts and holding onto the antlers, the moose landed – on the floor.

The Moose has landed

Step #2: Figure out how to crate the moose.

Don contacted a packaging company and got a bid for just over $500.00.

Steps #3: Haul the moose to the packaging store.

Don’s son had an F-150.

Justin’s truck

Step #4: Crate up the moose.

How to crate a moose

Not only did the moose get crated up, but during the packing process for Aunt Marianna, the cousins found a briefcase monogrammed with EEG (Elmer E. Gaede), which we siblings readily accept for our archives. This got packaged with the moose head.

EEG Briefcase

Step #5: Haul the moose to temporary storage.

“FYI, I’m having trouble transporting the moose head to the packing company and thence to my garage; Justin’s pickup bed is too small. Will keep you apprised.” Text from Don to Naomi.

This project kept growing…

Don rented a U-Haul truck for $95.00.

During the loading process, a community security guard stopped by. He’d never seen a moose before, much less one that large.

Step #5: Replace Mom’s Moose with a companion moose for Aunt Marianna.

I did a search on amazon for “toy moose” and found a furry-faced smiling moose head.

Mini Moose

Step #6: Transport the moose from California to Alaska

(To be continued)

Who’s Trailing You?

19 Monday Jan 2015

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Personal Growth

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Father and Son

When I asked what he thought of his father’s job as a handler of bomb-sniffing dogs, the 12 year old said proudly, “I want to be just like him.” That was my take-away after I’d interviewed the man. The 8 year olds’ brown eyes were enthusiastically determined. He took a gulp of air as he ran past me after his dad, a muscled ex-Marine. “I do this every night. I’m going to be strong like him.” I kept walking as the sun settled over the Rocky Mountains – and I kept smiling.

“My dad and I fixed that.” “We’re going to the shooting range.” “Everyone else is leaving for the weekend, but I’m staying home with dad.” These weren’t unusual comments from the teenager. He thought his father was the best.

“We have to interview someone for speech class,” said the middle-school student. “I want to do it on you.” She was a social and inquisitive child with a warm heart. She’d accompanied me on visits to a rehabilitation with my therapy-dog-in-training, flipped and sugared deep-fried spicy pumpkin doughnut drops in my kitchen, and divulged things that were “only for our family, but you’re part of our family.” For some reason, she liked hanging around me.

Good therapy — for everyone!

“Send me to Grandma Leppke,” I pleaded. Our family had just moved from the Kansas wheat fields to Alaska tundra, and I wasn’t happy about it. The small living room was crowded with boxes; one of which my five-year-old body fit nicely inside. I longed to return to the Peabody farm and follow Grandma with the tin can bucket she’d made me for gathering eggs. I wanted to sit beside her on the bench seat when she drove the bulky-fendered truck to the wheat co-op – and we’d share a tall glass bottle of Nesbitt’s orange pop. I imagined watching her milk cows and then squirt milk across the room to a loud meowing cat crouched in the barn corner. I yearned to shadow her.

Following Grandma

In a Career Guidance class I taught, I asked the students, “Who is your role model for growing older? The students looked at me blankly. Most of them were in their 20s. What would older have to do with them now? I prodded them to reflect on whom they wanted to follow, emulate, and learn from – and why. Grading those papers was like reading mini-stories – some funny, some sad.

My Aunt Marianna is someone I follow

Looking ahead, whom are you following? What is it about them that holds your attention and compels you to trail after them when they disappear over a hill? Looking behind, who is following you? What kinds of ripples are in your wake?

Following Papa

(This was first printed in “The Country Register” (Kansas), Dec-14/Jan-15)

Tasting a Memory

24 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Memories & Meals — Cookbook, History, Stories

“My mother made potatoes that were boiled and then fried. They were so crisp!” He describes the food, and then shares the memory of his mom whistling hymns while she bustled about the kitchen.

My daughter tells me, “Mom, I made Flat Pancakes for supper.” I can hear her smile through the email. We’re both thinking the same thing: my mom/her grandma, brightening our kitchen during her visits each January; flour-dusted hands, wispy hair, and a flowery apron.

Food memories journey across oceans and generations. In 1996, I toured the Molotchna Colonies, in the Ukraine, where our Mennonite, Gaede family had lived until the late 1880s. We were served Rollkuake with watermelon. The fried fritters tasted as flat, and familiar, as those I’d eaten during my childhood in Kansas and Alaska. In 2014, I still enjoy them, with watermelon juice squishing out my mouth, and flashbacks to my young daughter in her apron, wanting to flip the sizzling dough strips.

How does one separate food from memories? It’s as slippery as separating egg yolks and whites. And why try? Not unscrambling these elements, adds to the flavor.

I have three books that make me salivate – and reminisce.

• My Grandma Agnes Gaede’s cookbook, from Reedley, California. Grandma collected recipes in a brown spiral Golden West theme book with narrow rule, purchased for 49 cents. Pasted and taped inside are recipes cut from magazines or handwritten. I find icebox cookies, sponge cakes, coffeecakes, chiffon pies, meatloaves, and casseroles. Nothing is gluten-free, salt-free, fat-free, lactose-free, or sugar-free.

• Memories & Meals, which I edited, is the history of Deer Creek Christian Camp near Bailey, Colorado. The history is mixed generously with recipes. There’s Hot Chicken Salad served at Ladies’ Retreats, Sloppy Joes at Kids’ Camps, and Norwegian Coconut Cookies for Ski Camps. When Deer Creek recipes are served at gatherings of previous camp attenders, laughter and reminiscing burst out between mouthfuls.

• The Three Boys. This book was drafted during a family Pheasant Festival. For decades, Penner men and boys (now young women) have flocked to the Penner farms in Western Kansas for November pheasant hunting. Within the Colorado Penner group, no one has wanted to prepare the birds. Since I grew up with wild meat in Alaska, all fingers have pointed at me.

Saving and re-telling the stories

During one such event, I recorded stories repeated by my late husband and his two brothers about their childhood in Kansas and Colorado. We didn’t want to lose the comical recollections of the three boys in a stock tank looking at cow’s faces under the water, rolling their over-sized Dachshund down the stairs – to see if he’d land on his feet, and bicycle crashes with trombones. The final chapter featured the last meal my children had with their Grandpa Penner – when he ordered pie – first.

As dessert to the main course of stories, at the end, I added The Three Boy’s mother’s recipes for German Chocolate Cake, New Year’s Fritters, Cream Cheese Brownies, and so on. Some of her handwritten recipe cards were copied directly.

What can you do with food memories and recipes? You can use them for amusing holiday conversations or for collecting into your own memory-and-meals family or friends book.

Questions to ask around your holiday table. (Include all the generations for a spicier blend.)
– What is your favorite friends/family homemade food? Why?
– Who makes it? Only grandma? A group of the women? The men at the grill? _______who always experiments?
– Where did the recipe come from?
– Have ingredients changed over the years? Or due to availability? Or because of preference?
– What’s the story around the recipe? Where were you when you first tasted it? Who else was there? What was the occasion?
– When is it typically made? Holidays? Camp-outs? Ski trips? When _____comes to visit?

More suggestions for gathering memories.
The Three Boys http://www.prescriptionforadventure.com/threeboys.html

(This was first printed in “The Country Register” (Kansas), Oct/Nov. 2014)

Adventures of a Barn Quilt Tour

17 Sunday Aug 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Inspiring Adventures

≈ 1 Comment

Naomi by one of her favorite barn quilts.

Barn Quilts. I’d never heard of them. I knew I about fabric quilts and had an assortment from two grandmothers, one mother, and many Mennonite Relief Sales. Grandma Leppke preferred appliqued, embroidered, and hand-painted quilt blocks. Grandma Gaede chose pieced blocks. I would love to know the story behind the friendship quilt with a middle block that says, “God Is Love 1937.” The women who stitched embroidered their names: Minnie Cornelsen, Mrs. Ben B. Funk Mrs. Barthel Reiswig, Mrs. Henry Seibel. I wondered why Minnie used her first name and not her husband’s. Even if she were a widow, most likely she’d still carry his.

In June 2014, four of us Colorado women packed up an ice chest, homemade cinnamon rolls, print-outs from http://barnquiltinfo.com/map-CO.html and headed to northeast Colorado. Morgan County has a reputation for hail and tornadoes. We watched the skies. We were excited. It was like a treasure hunt.

Oops – are we lost? Cattle Feed lot —-and buffalo.

Okay…found our first one.

Our barn quilt adventure took us down dirt roads. We got lost. We didn’t know barn quilts could be found on silos. We reveled in nostalgic old barns against broad blue skies. We accidentally ended up at a buffalo feedlot. We saw cornfields shredded by recent hail. We stumbled upon cute ranchettes and bet that the next-generation saw dollars in grandpa’s farm, so sub-divided. We experienced local dining where we were the obvious non-locals. And, we ended up at a deteriorated house with paint-peeled outbuildings, old cars on cinder blocks, and something shroud-like on the clothesline. Curtains fluttered in open windows. Was anyone home? No quilts anywhere, even though the tour map indicted so. We figured it was part of the Bates Motel Chain. We locked out doors, rolled up the windows, and got outta there!

This was a surprise!

….as was this!

This is more like it.

What we learned:

The Barn Quilt tour offered an up-close view of a part of Colorado we knew little about.
Weather reports of tornadoes at Ft. Morgan and Wiggins have more meaning now.
We all want a Quilt Block hanging on our house or garage!

Suggestions;

Take a map. Your GPS might not work in off-grid areas where Barn Quilts may be found.
Don’t expect absolute directions and destinations. Wandering around happens.
Don’t be afraid to get dirty.
Take along binoculars for barns that may not be accessible on very private property.
At least one person in the group needs to be familiar with quilt block patterns. I was not. I was familiar with driving on dirt roads, identifying what was growing in the fields, and I had a sense of direction.

Resources:

– Website we Ft. Morgan, CO: http://barnquiltinfo.com/map-CO.htm.

– Every Barn Tells a Story by Ann Zemke and Diane Entrikin

We left Ft. Morgan and drove home to black skies and rain. That evening1 to 2-inch diameter hail pounded Morgan County. The farms were no longer a vague space on the map. We visualized smashed cornfields and remembered the farm folks we’d talked to.

Check out barn quilt tours in your state. Gather friends or like-minded quilt enthusiasts and take a field trip. Anticipate adventures.

(This was printed in “The Country Register” (Kansas), Aug./Sept. 2014)

Masculine Kindness, Respect, and Chivalry

12 Thursday Jun 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Holidays and Special Occasions

≈ 1 Comment

Mt. Sherman – 14,036 ft.

I raced him across the campus in my high heels and suit. My teaching colleague was determined to open the door for me. I didn’t need a man’s help. “My mother taught me to open the door for a lady,” he said as my nose met the extra-heavy door.

Some women stop and take notice.

Some women think discussions about chivalry are silly.

Others claim it is an insult to their strength, personhood, and equality.

I’ve softened a bit over the years. I no longer race in high heels (too dangerous.)

I now recognize and appreciate simple and grand gestures of male chivalry, attitudes of respect, and masculine kindness:

Men at the post office and the recreation center who hold open the door – and not because they view me as incapable.

Male classmates from years past who pick up the lunch tab when they’re in town. “I’ve got it,” they say – even when I argue.

The auto service repairmen who do not laugh when I want to show them an issue – but can’t feel where the release lever is beneath the hood. “If you don’t do this every day, it’s easy to forget,” they say matter-of-factly.

The men at the gas station at a crossroad of “Nowhere,” Oklahoma who pulled out a map, assured me I was only slightly off-course, and directed me onward to my destination. “Have a great trip!” They waved.

Men who remove their cap in church – no matter if it’s a casual Friday night, “come as you are” venue.

Men who remove their cap when the National Anthem is sung.

Men who invest time and affection in their grandchildren.

Men who enjoy baking cookies.

Men at the Gun & Ammo store who never laugh when I bring in a shotgun for them to examine, or I ask questions about a handgun with an easier trigger-pull or slide.

The neighbor, who after inviting a group of us to his house for dinner, walked me home – across a small park. I’ve driven cross-country by myself and climbed two mountains over 14,000 feet. I wasn’t helpfulness, but his mother taught him that’s what men are suppose to do.

Men who honor their mothers by practical helps, fix-its, lunch-out, flowers, or a phone call. “I miss you Mom,” touches a mother’s heart.

The neighbor man who tosses my newspaper onto my porch when he walks his dog.

Men who lift my carry-on into the overhead airplane bin. Texas men are particularly good at this.

Men who extend a hand when I’m balancing on rocks to cross a stream on a canyon hike.

My Alaska bush pilot doctor father who saw life as an adventure – and beget my curiosity.

My brother who lets me tag behind him on Alaska mountain hikes, knowing he can reach the summit three times faster without me.

SkyLine Trail, Kenai Peninsula, Alaska

My son who fully engages in parenting his two preschool boys.

Cookie Bakers

I appreciate:

Mothers who taught these values to their sons,

fathers who modeled them,

grandparents who insisted on them,

and other significant people who made an impact.

Thank you….men, fathers, brothers, friends, and neighbors. You’ve put a smile on my face – and I trust you’re doing so for other women in your life or who cross your path.

(First printed in “The Country Register” (Kansas), June 2014)

I Carry my Mother In me: I am Strong

03 Saturday May 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Personal Growth, Womens' Safety and Protection

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Ruby Leppke Gaede driving a snow machine on the Gaede-80 Homestead, Soldotna, Alaska

I carry my mother in me. I am strong.

She carried her mother in her, she was strong.

My grandmother carried her mother in her, she was strong.

My foremothers who migrated from Holland, to Poland, to the Ukraine, to America were strong.

I am strong.

The air was unusually warm and the Alaska sky was blue as the June lupines. Two generations of us sat on a quilt at Memorial Hill where my parents were buried. Four of us were grown women; one a young woman; two were girls. We grieved the loss of a mother and grandmother. We were angry. We were bewildered. We were orphaned. We needed to heal and move forward. “How do we carry Mom/ Grandma’s character in us? How do we emulate her?” I posed a question that led to a slow conversation.

Mom was a Mennonite girl who had been uprooted from Kansas wheat fields to Alaska tundra; then to an Indian reservation in Montana; then to California – and back to Alaska. She knew about packing and unpacking with four kids. And, she knew about raising children with a bush pilot doctor who was often on-call for days and nights – and years.

She fashioned home along the Yukon River where she baked bread daily, made homemade ice cream from river ice, and thought a hot dog roast at minus 20 degrees would be “fun.” Later, on our 80-acre homestead, she used a chainsaw, shoveled feet of snow, and carried a ladder – that dwarfed her 5-foot 2-inches – so she could repair the back porch and the chicken coop. Alongside Dad, she shot a moose, field dressed it, packaged it on the ping-pong table, and cooked it for supper. On an artic Christmas night, she took her cassette player and a holiday treat, and went on a solo outdoor caroling ministry.

I emulate her by baking and taking. Most often it’s cinnamon yeast bread, baked in a round can –like Mom baked her molasses brown bread. I’ve taken to neighbors, friends, and shut-ins. Not only do I imitate her in the things I do, but when I am in difficult situations I wear either her black diamond (hematite) ring or a garnet ring I bought with money she gave me at her last Christmas.

I carry her in me when I shovel snow and chop ice on my sidewalk and driveway. I carry her in me when I relocate (23 times) –and I pull out my rolling pin and pastry cloth and bake round bread. I carry her in me when I drive cross-country and the roads are slushy, it’s dark, I’m alone, and I have hours to go. I am strong when I lug my 10-foot ladder to check a clogged gutter. I am strong when I fly in a small plane into an isolated Alaskan village – and know no one. I was strong when at age 40 I was widowed.

I carry my mother in me. I am strong.

She carried her mother in her, she was strong.

My grandmother carried her mother in her, she was strong.

My foremothers were strong.

I am strong.

How do you carry your mother, or another family member, inside you?

Who are the people before you that were strong?

How are you strong?

(First published in “The Country Register” (Kansas), April/May 2014.)

Where were you When….?

27 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Alaska Earthquake

≈ 1 Comment

Devastation of the Great Alaska Earthquake at Seward

At 5:36 p.m. on March 27, 1964, the Good Friday Earthquake changed Alaska’s landscape. Its magnitude, 9.2, made it the second most powerful earthquake ever recorded. I was there.

What history-making event did you live through? Where were you when it happen?

We heard a loud thud and then felt a strong jolt, as though something large had run into the house. My mom, three siblings, and I were sitting at the supper table. Dad was at the clinic delivering a baby. We’d had earthquakes before, but when the shaking and noise increased we were scared.

“Let’s get out of here!” Mom screamed. “The house might crumble!

Ruth and I were barely teenagers; Mark and Mishal were grade-schoolers.

We made our way drunkenly toward the front door. Mishal fell down the steps. Mom pulled her up. The driveway was covered with hard-packed snow. Unable to maintain our balance, we collapsed onto the cold ground, without shoes or coats. Trees swayed as if they were feathers. The ground rumbled and split open, emitting swamp gas from the shallow fields beneath our homestead.

“Oh Jesus, help us!” Mom cried out.

Crouched on all fours and several even prone, we clung together.

After over four hour-long minutes, the noise stopped and the ground stood still. Slowly, we staggered to our feet and returned to the house.

“I feel sick,” said Mom. “Like I’ve been on a boat in rough water.”

The only damage we found was water sloshing out of the suds-saver tub in the laundry room and a fallen flowerpot. None of the china or fragile keepsakes had tumbled out of the shelves, nor had sugar bowls or syrup bottles.

Mom tried to call Dad, but when she picked up the phone all she heard was a woman screaming hysterically. “I’m scared, too,” said Mom. The woman remained out-of-control. Then the phone line went dead

The sun slipped away, edging the pink wisps of clouds with gold against the darkening sky. Darkness closed around us. Aftershocks added to our trepidation.

Mom found candles. None of us went to our separate bedrooms, but crowded together in the basement rumpus room. Remarkably, after several hours, electricity was restored. We turned on the radio – to the shocking news from a Seattle station that no one knew what had had happened to Anchorage, Alaska. The nightmare was not over. The number of people killed would eventually be over 100, with an additional 2,000 homeless.

The Easter church service took on a new meaning. Attendees could identify with the fear and confusion of the guards attending the entrance of Jesus’ tomb. Everyone could certainly understand why.

(adapted from Alaska Bush Pilot Doctor, “The Day the Earth Fell Apart.”)

Seward, Alaska after the earthquake

I will never forget that experience. I will never forget that fear. Several weeks later, a vinyl record was made recording some of the sounds and narrating the events of that Good Friday. When it was played at school, many of my classmates laughed and thought it was funny. I didn’t laugh. Every time they played it, I relived the terror and felt again the earth rumbling and rolling beneath me. Even today I can the black spruce around our driveway bending until the tops touched the ground as the earth moved like a stormy sea.

When I’ve returned to Alaska since that time, I’ve found myself subconsciously “holding my breath” until I leave. Then, I sigh with relief that I made it out of Alaska without being in an earthquake. Certainly there have been tremors that have come with a slam, but nothing like the Big One.

My brother, Mark, has tried to comfort me, “Naomi, if the homestead house made it through the Big One, surely it can make it through any other one again.”

I hope not to every experience a Big One again.

Epicenter of the earthquake:

“Fifty years ago, as the steamship Chena was unloading its cargo in the bustling Valdez harbor, the entire town shuddered, the ground at the waterfront fell away, and waterfront structures collapsed, pulling down the people on them. North America’s most powerful recorded earthquake was underway, its epicenter just 45 miles to the west. Tsunamis finished off much of what was left. Thirty-three people in Valdez died, including children on the collapsed dock who had come to welcome the Chena and its deliveries of fresh fruit and Easter flowers…” (read more)

http://www.alaskadispatch.com/article/20140322/condemned-no-more-50-years-after-great-alaska-earthquake-building-moritorium

I have been back to visit Valdez and walked in what is left of the old village. That old village is described in ‘A’ is for Alaska: Teacher to the Territory where Anna Bortel taught for three years.

“There have been instances throughout recent history that generations can point to and say ‘I remember exactly what I was doing at that moment.’.. For some 125,000 Alaskans, it is ar memory they vividly recall on March 27, 1964: the 9.2 Magnitude earthquake that struck Alaska on Good Friday.” Read about the lasting impacts on America’s 49th state and the military and civilian engineering and construction communities, and the people of Alaska…”

http://themilitaryengineer.com/index.php/tme-articles/tme-online-exclusive-articles/item/307-good-friday-1964-the-great-alaskan-earthquake

Resources

Earthquake Museum in Anchorage, Alaska: http://www.alaskaexperiencetheatre.com

The Day Trees Bent to the Ground: Stories from the ’64 Earthquake, compiled by Janet Boylan.

The Great Alaska Earthquake: Pictorial Histories, by Stan Cohen.

Where were you? Alaska 64 Earthquake, compiled by Joy Griffin. (Mini-stories by Kenai Peninsula residents)

Good Therapy

19 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Personal Growth

≈ 3 Comments

She was just a black Pekingese runt who got lost on the black tiles of the linoleum squares in our kitchen. I was just a nine-year-old girl living on the hospital compound where my father was a Public Health physician on an Indian reservation.

10 years old at the Napi Elementary School in Montana

10 years old at the Napi Elementary School in Browning, Montana

Each day on my way to school I walked anxiously past two liquor bars with open doors, looked behind me for skinny stray dogs, bent my head into the ubiquitous wind, and braced myself for a day with no friends – and a gym teacher who yelled at me. My mother worried because I had no appetite and only ate cheese crackers and cranberry nutbread. “Tiny” was my therapy. I dressed her in doll clothes and held her tightly.

Copperfield was my husband’s hunting dog. The butterscotch Golden Retriever crashed through ice to retrieve ducks and dove through invisible electric fences to runaway.

Copperfield loved water!

My husband died when the pup was 10 months old. For over 16 years, Copperfield was my solace and companion. Stroking his fur and nestling my nose next to his face got me through plenty of tough times. Putting down that dog was one of the saddest things I’d ever done. I couldn’t bear to put down another; and so I planned to enjoy my independence. For six-and-a-half years, I had that freedom.

“Mom, you do better with a dog,” said my daughter last January. I knew that. I missed going for walks along the creek and hikes in the mountains. I missed the feel of a warm furry dog beneath my feet at the kitchen table when I ate my meals or read the newspaper. I missed the interruptions in my writing of articles, curriculum, newsletters, and books — when a dog wanted to play or go for a walk. Getting out of the office into moist springtime rainy air or eye-watering cold winter snowy air — cleared my mind, relaxed my drawn up shoulders, and eased my squinted eyes.

Four months ago, I brought home a creamy Golden Retriever with long eyelashes, and black eyes and nose.

I’m a doggie-mama again!

I’m greeted when I enter the house. I’m entertained by the frolicking fur ball that romps in the snow and dives into the tall grass. Sometimes I just sit and run my fingers through her thick curly fur. “Taffy” is good therapy for me.

I want to share good therapy. Taffy has already shown the innate qualities of a Therapy Dog. Together, we will visit people and children who need encouragement, a laugh, entertainment, or a quiet moment stroking a warm, loving dog.

Learning about wheelchairs.

Having a puppy is an adventure. Training her is an adventure. Sharing therapy will be an adventure.

Completing Puppy School.

What is good therapy for you?

(This article appeared first in “The Country Register – Kansas” in the February/March 2014 issue.)

We are all Storytellers

27 Monday Jan 2014

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Telling Our Stories, Writing Workshops

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Mural in Anaktuvuk Pass School

(for a larger view go to http://www.prescriptionforadventure.com/aisforanaktuvuk.html#mural)

Stories. We all have them. Some are our own, some are passed down through generations, some are other people’s.

Stories. Told in writing. Told in art. Told in drama. Told in videos, photo albums, websites, blogs, facebook, quilts, songs, recipe books, rock collections, bulletin boards, and more.

We are all storytellers and we all have our preferred and/or innate medium for telling stories. Kevin Smith is an artist in Anchorage, Alaska who tells other people’s stories in mural form. He states, “My goal is to tell a story about a place and its people, blending cultural, historic and natural imagery to create a one of a kind piece of art.”

He has produced fine art installations/murals with Alaskan themes in the village schools of Akiak, Akiachak, Tuluksak, Noatak, Deering, Ruby, Kalskag and Shungnak; as well as at the Anchorage Fire Station # 4, the Harry McDonald Sports Center in Eagle River and  the Machetanz Elementary School in Palmer.

Most recently, he crafted and installed a mural for the Anaktuvuk Pass School (Alaska) which includes Anna Bortel’s photos used in the book of her stories, ‘A’ is for Anaktuvuk: Teacher to the Nunamiut Eskimos. http://www.prescriptionforadventure.com/aisforanaktuvuk.html

‘A’ is for Alaska: Teacher to the Nunamiut Eskimos — Anna Bortel’s story.

His next projects are an arts package for a hotel in Barrow and a mural for the school in Kobuk – both in Alaska.

View Kevin’s storytelling at www.KGSAlaskaphoto.com. Be sure to check out his Portfolio page of Alaska subjects: http://kgsalaskaphoto.com/alaska.html

How do you tell your stories?

What medium do you prefer to enjoy other people’s stories?

A Christmas Program Like no Other

06 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by Naomi Gaede Penner in Alaska - Tanana, Holidays and Special Occasions

≈ 2 Comments

Excerpt from ‘A’ is for Alaska: Teacher to the Territory

Reprint of excerpt used in “The Country Register – Kansas” – 2013 Dec./Jan.

Setting: 1957 – Tanana, Alaska, an Athabascan village of 300 along the Yukon River

Main Character and Voice: Anna Bortel, my grade-school teacher

Tanana Day School

A festive Christmas spirit greeted me when I walked into the Community Hall where the Tanana Day School program was to be held. Suspended bare light bulbs illuminated the handmade decorations including red and green crepe paper streamers that swooped across the room. A heavy wire across the front of the elevated make-do stage held white sheet curtains. The children straighten their red bows and white capes, and glowed with expectancy.

People entered in puffs of frosty air and the background din increased with the growing hubbub. Some parents sat on the wood benches that lined the perimeter of the room; others found places on semi-rusted metal folding chairs. The odor of smoked dried fish, stale cigarette smoke, and warm bodies became more noticeable as the fur-clad villagers packed themselves into the room.

Florence Feldkirchner, my co-teacher, welcomed the audience and the voices quieted. I’d asked Willard, who had a good sense of rhythm, to direct the Christmas rhythm band. He’d replied with a twinkle in his eye, “Sure, Miss Bortel.”

With all the gusto he could muster and with his little baton, he beat out the rhythm to Jingle Bells and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. His tall red hat bounced.. First the children sang; then they played their triangles, sticks, and clackers. Willard bowed proudly after each round of applause – and tipped his hat.

Next, the upper grades presented their play of the Christmas story. Everything was going as planned and the students basked in the applause. Then it happened. On the grand finale the curtain fell. I looked up from playing the portable pump organ to see what had caused the commotion. There, on his head, with his feet in the air was little Freddie. He had slipped, grabbed the curtain, and toppled head first off the stage. The curtain followed him and only two flailing legs remained visible. The wire, which had supported the curtain, had been pulled down and was strung at nose level with the students remaining on stage. A row of eyes stared above it.

I forced myself to keep a straight face. Cameras clicked. The audience snickered. Preschoolers unreservedly laughed out-loud.

Miss Feldkirchner did not see any humor in the interruption of a nearly perfect performance. She stood with jaw set firmly, eyes glaring. Her staid personality did not equip her to deal with this comedy. She stood on the stage glowering at the students. The children put their hands over their mouths and tried to avoid her glare. I hid behind my sheet music and attempted to fill in the awkwardness with Joy to the World. In the background, suppressed chuckles broke into hearty laughter. My co-teacher pulled out a hanky and dabbed at her forehead, while forcing a closed lip smile at the audience. Brightly and vigorously I pumped out the initial chords to our final number. The children sang. Miss Feldkirchner thanked everyone for coming. The audience clapped heartily.

On Christmas Day, I woke up with a silly grin, recalling the not-so-silent night of the Christmas program. I hadn’t known what to expect for my first Christmas in Tanana, but so far it had been truly jolly and joyous.

Not in Tanana, but an amusing Christmas program a year earlier in Anchorage. Notice my sister, Ruth, with slacks under her dress. That’s what she and I wore under our dresses in Alaska. That was before leggings!

1. What was your most amusing school Christmas program as a student, teacher, or parent?

2. How would you have handled the mishaps if you’d been Miss Feldkirchner?

3. What Christmas program do you anticipate each year? School? Church? Performing Arts?

Prescription for Adventure

~ by Naomi Gaede Penner

Author Archives: Naomi Gaede Penner

Mom’s Moose – on the Loose and Returning Home

Who’s Trailing You?

Tasting a Memory

Adventures of a Barn Quilt Tour

Masculine Kindness, Respect, and Chivalry

I Carry my Mother In me: I am Strong

Where were you When….?

Good Therapy

We are all Storytellers

A Christmas Program Like no Other

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