Author Archives: Naomi Gaede Penner

A Short Story Behind the YouTube of Alaska Bush Pilot Doctor

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Mark

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Everything has a story — or so it seems to me. No mere incidences. The process of developing the YouTube for Alaska Bush Pilot Doctor is one of these stories.

The YouTube publisher allowed only 15 sec. I negotiated for 30.

The YouTube publisher used a female voice. I negotiated for a male voice.

The YouTube publisher put in a stock image of a de Haviland Beaver for the voiced “flew a J-3.” This book is about flying. Any pilot can spot the difference between a Beaver and a J-3.  I negotiated for a change to a J-3.

The YouTube publisher put in generic/stock background music. I negotiated for my   brother, Mark’s, music.

Mark was born a musician. He practiced rhythm as soon as he could crawl – with mom’s pots and pans that he pulled out of the cupboards and beat with a wooden spoon. Mom didn’t think this was cute. She saw no future in this.

When he could toddle about, he played a tiny piano.

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He told me recently, “I first recognized pitches that were related when we lived in Tulare, California — I was around four-and-a-half. I was enthralled by the vinyl record we had of the Nut-Cracker Suite. That’s when I started to use the little pump organ, too.” Short as he was, and his legs were, that is hard for me to imagine. Mom played the pump organ and we had a piano. I don’t remember him playing either. He was sooo much younger than me (I was 10) and I didn’t pay much attention to him. I was busy roller-skating, dressing our black Pekingese dog in doll clothes, and learning how to make pancakes from scratch.

Our father played the accordion. Ruth and I followed suit, as did Mark – age five. In our family, it was not unusual to play a musical instrument — and to be good at it. Ruth and Mark were good at it. I just did it. We didn’t know we were living with a highly gifted child

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At age ten, he was church organist– even though his feet barely touched the pedals. In grade school, his piano teacher was sorely vexed that he could play the music without reading the music — if he’d hear it once. She refused to play it for him. She was not keen on learning or playing music by ear, or allowing a musician to play what he or she hears in their head, and whose fingers play without conscious knowledge of how their fingers meet the keys.

He played trombone in junior high. In high school, the girls clustered around him in the music room where he played piano.  He was short, but he was popular. The wild curly hair didn’t hurt.

He picked Mom’s mandolin and plucked a bass.

In his bedroom, with doors closed, he  composed sound tracks on an old reel-to-reel. He borrowed a friend’s electric bass to add to his acoustic guitar and vocal tracks.

In his 20s, he was the basement go-to studio in Alaska for budding and wannabe vocalists who needed a demo tape to audition.

He’s cut three CDs

–       Christmas music

–       Original instrumental music

–       Unreleased my hymns

Much of his second CD is melancholy. It reflects the turmoil and grief our families’ felt when Mom was dying, and Dad had already died. His CD of hymns is arranged in minor keys.

To make a long story short, I am very pleased with the TV trailer/YouTube of Alaska Bush Pilot Doctor. It’s more than a marketing tool. It’s brother-sister team-work and a blend of creativity where the sum is greater than the parts. It’s a story. I’d like more of these kinds of stories – with my little brother.

Psst! That’s not the only story about Mark. There are the J-3 stories, too.

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Making Plans for your Trip to Alaska: A Prescription for Adventure

31 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Adventures

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If anyone is planning to fly to Alaska this summer, the time to make reservations …..was probably before now. I made reservations several weeks ago, for trips in April and in June.  Unfortunately, I did not have enough frequent flier miles on Alaska Airlines for both trips. That was my own doing because I refuse to fly the red-eye back, which is the least expensive. If you have not flown to Alaska in the summer, you might not know that Frontier flies up —for the summer months only— and all their return flights are red-eyes, as are United’s and Delta’s. I fly AK Airlines because they have daytime flights back, I can use my miles, and I just really like AK Airlines — and the AK Airlines people seem to like working for AK Airlines, too, which shows in their attitudes at all stages of the trip. But, a few words for any Cheechakos flying up.

If you do make your reservations early, and particularly for flights June – August, do not be surprised if you get alerts that your flights have been changed — 2-3 times–before your departure date – no matter which airlines you fly on. It is wise to have a grip on this before you leave for the airport, and in case you have connecting flights..

If you fly through Seattle, AK Airlines may book you for a 45-50 minute lay-over between flights – or, the really good deals may book you for 6-8 hour lay-overs. The short lay-overs are fine when your next plane departs from a gate in the same terminal; but, for your insider information, AK Airlines flies in and out of the main terminal and the satellite terminal. If your flights are in different terminals, you will run around wildly, find the escalator down, catch the train, de-train, leap onto the escalator up, and locate the gate on that other side.  This will give you an adrenalin rush, but really, there is no need to worry if  a)your plane does not arrive late, b) there are other AK flights departing for Anchorage, following the one you were booked on  —-that have seats available – and Anchorage is your destination and you don’t have to catch another flight — although ERA, out of Anchorage,  handles these situations matter-of-factly and you will get on the next available flight —- which, due to heavy tourist volume in the summer —  may be at 4:25 am the next morning.

AK Airlines knows that ANC is not everyone’s destination and that the last Frontier encompasses around 570,373.6 square miles. They recognize that some travelers plan to go to FBK, ENA, KOT, GAL, BE or elsewhere.  Other airlines can be baffled that there is life outside Anchorage. Where and how would a person fly anywhere else when you can see polar bear roaming the streets of Anchorage, catch salmon outside the Anchorage Hilton, and see Russia from the first story of their B&B?

Another problem with the delusion that Anchorage is the final destination is with baggage. A decade ago, 50% of the time, I discover that my bags had only been booked to Anchorage — where I’d have to find them and drag them to ERA, for my next leg – to Kenai. This process is complicated because unlike the olden days when ERA flew until 1 am, there are now no ERA flights to Kenai after 10:30 pm.

Again, there is no need to work up a sweat like a husky at the end of the Iditarod.  First, if you are there in the summer, the sun will be up much of the time and it won’t seem like you’re spending the night in the airport; second,  the Chili’s in the main terminal serves breakfast 24-hours a day; and third, you can be first in line for any 4:25 am flights.

Just making reservations is an adventure in itself, not to mention security requirements and lines, the anticipation of unknown flight connections, and the disequilibrium of time-change coupled with arriving in the Land of the Midnight Sun. And that’s just for starters! But, isn’t that why you want to go to Alaska in the first place? For an adventure? Absolutely!

Enjoy!

My Gaede family flying to Alaska in the late '50s.

My Gaede family flying to Alaska in the late ’50s

Connecting airlines to Alaska - late '50s

Connecting airlines to Alaska – late ’50s

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When it Comes to Adventure, Age Doesn’t Matter

12 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by in Inspiring Adventures

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Aunt Marianna --- minutes before a rain storm.

Aunt Marianna — minutes before a rain storm.

My favorite aunt just turned 89. Her red curly hair has turned gray; in my mind, it frames her face like a halo. As far as I’ve known, beneath that halo, there’s always been a smile.

Aunt Marianna has brought a smile to my face plenty of times. Take for instance one Thanksgiving when I visited her house. I brought an uncomfortable marrow-deep chill with me and couldn’t get warm.  Aunt Marianna poured hot water into a basin and set it on the floor before me. “Here,” she said. “Soak your feet. It seems that when feet are warm, the whole body feels warmer.” It worked. I smiled. I smiled too when she made her typical breakfast of fried rice, a tradition carried on from being a missionary in Japan.

She’s an adventurer. She and her husband back-packed around Europe when they were in their 60s; over fence stiles and into pastures of curd-chewing cows and wooly sheep.  Years later, those stories enticed me to do a walking trip through the Cotswalds in England.

She’s an inspiration.  From early on, she and my uncle opened their home and lives to international students – and in my adult years I was motivated to do the same.

When I taught a graduate class on aging, I asked who had a role model for growing older. Not a hand went up. Every student, most in their 20s, looked puzzled.. “Older” might have been age 40. Their assignment? Choose a grandparent-age person who they admired, and write about that person.

Now in her late 80s, she regularly reads stories to five classes in a nearby school. Reading isn’t “just reading,” it comes with visuals, items to touch, and conversations. Easy? Aunt Marianna has an inherited hearing loss.

Now in her late 80s, she walks a mile around the college track. Easy? Not with health issues that come with “almost 90.”

Now, in her late 80s, Marianna and her daughter, Sharon, regularly visit female inmates in the county jail who are awaiting trial, and the state prison. In the county jail, they sing along with a CD and have a Bible study.

Easy? No. Some days, at the county jail, mother and daughter are turned away due to a lockdown in the jail.

The prison is worse. “Easy” is not a word found anywhere. The guards don’t assume Marianna is a benign little old lady – dressed neatly in a red brocade kimono  top. Who knows? She could be carrying contraband, a crowbar, drugs, a chainsaw, explosives, chocolates. She has to empty her pockets, pull up her pants legs and show the bottoms of her shoeless feet; then, because she cannot go through the metal detector due to her pacemaker, she is “wanded.” She also has to point out her two hearing aids and show a written statement from her doctor for wearing them.

Some days are more worse than others. The prison does not allow visitors to wear hats, hooded jackets, or carry an umbrella. During the Christmas holidays, just before her 89th birthday, Marianna got drenched in a cold downpour while waiting to go in. Out of sensible concern for herself and her mother, Sharon urged, “Let’s go home, Mom. We can come back another day.”  My role model with a dripping halo could have done just that: shed wet clothes for a cozy robe, put her feet up, and sipped a cup of steaming tea; instead, she replied, “We’re already here. I want to see one more woman.” These are not nice women and nice visits. Several women they regularly visit are in for murder. All the same, the stringently searched angels of grace and mercy buy the inmate lunch, read the Bible, pray, and encourage her.

Now in her late 80s, my aunt’s home and kitchen table welcome college students, long-time international friends, and ex-inmates. Much like the father of the Prodigal Son, when she heard an ex-inmate was coming to visit, she set out a festive table with lit candles and brewed hot tea, and greeted her with a warm embrace. The ex-inmate could have repulsed many people. Easy? Not for a judgmental person. But, even though Marianna has a strong moral compass, she isn’t judgmental. When confronted with someone’s hideous and unspeakable crime, she asks, “What would Jesus do?” She manifests the hands and face of Jesus through open arms and the gift of unconditional love and grace.

All the same, she acknowledges that what she does wouldn’t work for everyone.

“My elderly next door neighbor would be horrified if she found out I was entertaining ex-inmates in my home,” she says with a soft chuckle.

Aunt Marianna isn’t climbing Mt. Everest, wrestling alligators, cleaning up a town after a hurricane, saving the whales, or learning to hang-glide, but she’s an adventurer. Her adventures are a prescription of her own. They match her God-given personality, passions, setting, and resources. And, her adventurers are encouraged by a family of cheerleading children, grand-children, great-grandchildren, and a host of other people who call her “mom” and “grandma.”

Age Doesn’t Matter When it Comes to Adventure

Freedom, Emancipation, Homesteads

01 Tuesday Jan 2013

Posted by in Gaede-80 Homestead

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"Proving up" the Gaede-80 (acre) Homestead

“Proving up” the Gaede-80 (acre) Homestead

January 1, 1863, 150 years ago, President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. We commonly think of this as freeing all the slaves, when it fact, it did not; it was only the beginning.

On that same day, the Homestead Act went into effect. The land was not completely “free,” improvements were necessary:  (minimum) living on the land for five years, clearing a percentage of the land, and planting a harvestable crop.  Each state had its own challenges. On the prairie lands of Kansas, where my forefathers and mothers moved from the Ukraine, grains could be planted and harvested.

From those wheat fields, my parents moved to Alaska in 1955.  In 1962, they got in on the tail-end of the Homestead Act on the Kenai Peninsula. That area was not prairie land; it was a forest of short and tall straggly black spruce with shallow, webbed roots. Clearing this terrain was arduous. My parents spent three winters with ax, chainsaw, and burn piles to clear a half-mile airstrip — for amount required to “prove up” the land.   Next came planting a crop.  The growing season was too short for many grains planted by homesteaders in other states. My father tried oats and timothy. A nearby homesteader planted potatoes.

Our family still holds the Gaede-80 (acre) homestead, which my father added 33 more acres to later. The airstrip shows up on aviation maps as “Gaede Private.”

Mark Gaede and David Isaak on the "proved up" acreage/Gaede Private airstrip.

Mark Gaede and David Isaak on the “proved up” acreage/Gaede Private airstrip.

Personal freedom, land, and just about anything else we dub as “free” is not really free. Someone has worked for it, fought for it, or paid for it. There are many things we take for granted that someone before made possible. We live in the Land of the Free because of the Brave.

Homestead Act of 1862

Look for the new Emancipation Proclamation stamp – “Shall be FREE.”

Let There be Light!

02 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by in Holidays and Special Occasions

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 naomi80-R2-E112The Gaede family in Tanana, Alaska, Christmas 1958

We leaned toward the candle. Our elbows dug into the table top.  I instructed my four-year-old sister, “Ruth, if you do it fast, it won’t hurt.” At age five, I was wise about sticking my finger into the liquid wax puddle around the flaming candle wick.  Tentatively, she reached forward, stuck her pointer finger into the pool and jerked back. We watched it solidify into a thick red cap. “It feels numb, doesn’t it.” She nodded. “Warm, too.”

We didn’t regularly use candles when we lived in Central Kansas, but here in Alaska, the dark winter nights crowded out the daytime, and there was a hunger for light.

Mom (Ruby Leppke Gaede) learned to make candles. She melted the paraffin blocks, added a few drops of color, and poured the mixture into cans with strings pulled tautly through the middle. Once hardened, she slightly warmed the cans, cut off the bottoms, and pushed the candles through. She wasn’t finished. She whipped additional wax and frosted the candles with frothy whiteness. Sequins and glitter completed the light-bearers.

December 21 or 22 is the shortest day in North America; in Anchorage, Alaska, that means 5 hours and 28 minutes of sun peering slightly above the tree tops. In Barrow Alaska, the sun vanishes on November 18, and a slight glow emanates from below the horizon until January 24, when the orb peeks up and slowing climbs out of hibernation.

Mom had come from flat plains where the sun reluctantly slides below distant fields. In Alaska, the sun hurries down, behind mountain ranges and tall spruce forests.  How did she brighten her world, and our lives?

–       Starting in November, she lit candles at the supper table. For variety, and our fascination, she tried tapers that dripped multi-colors which coated a syrup bottle.

–       Inside the house, she outlined our large picture window with Christmas lights. We kids could see these through the trees when we shuffled through the snow from the bus stop in the afternoon darkness. She left them up into January.

What do Alaskans do to battle Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD)?

–       Wear bright colors.

–       Paint and decorate the interiors of their houses with warm pastels.

–       Pull back window shades when there is any ray of light.

–       Build a crackling fire in their wood stoves.

–       Spend time with energetic people.

–       Go outside when it is light. Get fresh air. Keep the body moving.

What do I do?

–       Light a candle at my supper table. The friendly flickering seems alive. It keeps me company.

–       Listen to lively and light-hearted music.

–       Buy myself flowers. My favorites are carnations that stay fresh forever.

–       Go outdoors.

–       Get exercise, either indoors or out.

–       Have a winter project to look forward to.

 What do you do to brighten your world in the winter?

 This article first appeared in the Dec. 2012/Jan. 2013 issue of The Country Register – KS

 

 

Giving is Receiving: PrescriptionS for Adventure

22 Monday Oct 2012

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Rocky Mountain Mennonite Relief Sale – 2012

We think of adventures as hanging off cliffs, living in the middle of a jungle, fighting off zombies, outrunning a tsunami, or finding a hidden treasure. That’s not untrue, but that’s not the entire scope of “adventure.”

“Adventure” does not have a singular definition. It has multiple definitions: prescriptionS.

Adventure isn’t all about just-me either.

An adventure can come in the form of service. I support the service-work done by the Mennonite Central Committee. (www.mcc.org) I’ve put together health kits and school kits. I’ve sent money so families in poverty and famine stricken countries can purchase a cow or a chicken, pay for their children to attend school, or buy seeds to plant.

This last weekend, I went to a Mennonite Relief Sale where I gave and received at the same time. These sales are held across the United States and Canada. (http://reliefsales.mcc.org/)

The Relief sale I went to always sells German sausage, cheese, bierrocks, baked goods, pecans, and Neu Jahre Kuchen (New Year’s Cookies )– that are actually fritters. They have a big machine that turns boxes of apples into apple butter and apple cider. This aroma is mixed with that of corn popping. These sounds are blended with a barrel train filled with children and pulled by a small tractor.

These sounds are interrupted by that of a vintage John Deere tractor — putt..putt……putt, putt…..putt…a sound that is music to the ears of the farm folk who attend, and to some of us who are not farm folk, but remember that nostalgic sound on our grandparent’s farm.

And thus people stand around in the autumn sun and examine the tractor which is for sale in the live auction, right before lunch. Some have their pictures taken against the gleaming green restored tractor. Others mill around and then go inside the large metal and concrete exhibit hall to line up for a slice of pie, which is suitably located next to the ice cream booth.

Inside this county fairground exhibit hall are other booths, too: the Christmas booth; Craft booth; the Silent Auction tables with old books, vintage glassware, intricate lacework, yellowed pictures, and other memorabilia that people of a certain age reminisce about and people of a younger age ask questions about. The MCC booth describes the work the Mennonites do around the world, along with adventures that people can volunteer for, for hands-on service.

The live auction begins at 9:30 am and starts with the auction of a loaf of bread.  The bread represents the need of all people for the basic staff of life. It represents God as our spiritual Bread of Life. This year it sold for $1,100. Next up are old tools, wooden crafts of rockers and benches, large cross-stitched pictures, a hand-made dollhouse, collector china, quilt racks and quilt wall hangars. The list goes on.

At 1:30, the quilt auction takes place. It begins with hymn # 606 “Praise God from Whom.” There is no need for overhead projected words. There is no need for keyboards and drums. A simple pitch-pipe gives one note. Everyone stands. Everyone knows his or her part and sings in harmony and in accapella. It is a rich and poignant sound that whispers of traditions of Mennonite service and giving, and pulls generations together. I listen. I remember years of standing beside family members who are no longer with me. I’ve accumulated years of this tradition – and coming here brings me closer to those loved ones.

In late afternoon, the sun moves to the west, the pie and ice cream have sold out, the tractor is sold for nearly $5,000, the popcorn machine shuts down, children still beg for just one more train ride, and  I write one more check to Rocky Mountain MCC, and walk out with another quilt.

I have received much. I trust and pray that my dollars will give much to the world that hungers for the bread of life.

~ What do you give, that gives back to you, that makes you both a giver and a receiver? ~

Harvest Gatherings

17 Wednesday Oct 2012

Posted by in Holidays and Special Occasions, Kansas

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Autumn paints our world in golds, oranges, deep reds, and browns. These shades are seen in corn tassels, ripe tomatoes, pumpkins, peaches, and apples. The sounds of crickets and crispy leaves crunching under foot add to the sensory palette.  “It feels like fall,” someone might say. Once again, a sweater is comfortable.

My parents, farm kids from Kansas, were transplanted to Alaska. Their colors were cranberries, blueberries, red and green striped rhubarb stalks, red salmon thrashing their way upstream to lay eggs, and yellow aspen leaves.

Regardless of the geography or region, or the fare that has ripened or the flora that has matured, autumn is a time of harvest and a time of gathering. If we are fortunate, we gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing around tables of abundance; a table shared with family and friends.  For people who have moved from such a hub of family, friends, and traditions, gatherings are different.

My parents felt this absence acutely. They spoke of Thanksgivings past spent with relatives. They reflected, but they didn’t complain. Instead, they cultivated friends and gathered in a church basement to share food traditions. Their new Swedish friends brought Scandinavian bread pudding and Swedish meatballs. Longer term Alaskans brought a moose roast, cranberry nutbread, or rhubarb pie. My mother brought pluma moss, an unwritten recipe carried by the Russian Mennonites from their migration through Poland, and which they made for nearly every celebration.

In Kansas, stirring together this recipe had been easy. Cows in the barn produced creamy milk, the base of the fruity soup.  In Alaska, powdered or canned milk didn’t yield the same consistency. All the same, pluma moss nourished the memories of back home, just as it probably had for immigrants from Poland, to the Ukraine, to the New World. Gathering together could still be richly satisfying away from their first homes.

Pluma Moss

By Ruby Leppke Gaede

 5 C. water                               1 C. pitted prunes

1 C. raisins                              1 C. dried peaches and/or apricots, quartered

1 ts. cinnamon                         1/3 to ½ C. sugar

¼ C. flour                                ¾ C. evaporated milk (early Alaska version)

or whipped cream or half-and-half

Simmer fruits and cinnamon in water until tender, about a half hour. Beat together sugar, flour, and milk.  Add slowly to fruit and water. Stir until thickened. Good served with sausage or cold meats, and fried potatoes. Serve hot or cold.

What are your holiday family food traditions? Where did they come from?

Have you considered keeping a Family Recipe History Book? Here are some ideas:

  • write down the recipe
  • note when you first started using it
  • include anecdotes or descriptions about the person you got it from
  • describe the occasion when it is most often used
  • tell about the people who sit around the table and enjoy it with you
  • mention any changes that have been made to the recipe due to personal preferences and/or lack of original ingredients
  • leave space to record new memories made with its use

(First published in the 2012 Oct/Nov issue of “The Country Register  – Kansas”)

Kansas Cow Paths: Suggestions for Stops and Starts

15 Monday Oct 2012

Posted by in Kansas, Uncategorized

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I never get too much of Kansas. There’s always something I want to see next time.

Here are a few places I recently stopped at (October 2012.)

Braums (across the state) – good hamburgers, so many kinds of ice cream that you won’t know what to do. I tried Pumpkin, Butter Pecan, and Peanut Butter. I bought Pumpkin. http://www.braums.com/

The Bread Basket  (Newton) – Mennonite fare. At least: six soups served daily and three choices of fresh bread. Pie by the slice, cream puffs, and other dessert goodies. Bags of zwiebach, bread, and cookies, along with jars of jam.  http://www.newtonbreadbasket.com/

Faith and Life Bookstore (Newton) – It’s my pleasure to sign books and/or talk here. I always buy more than I sell. The seasonal décor, variety, and Kansas bookcase all draw me in. The frequent eblasts of events are intriguing and enticing. I wish Newton was closer to Colorado! http://www.faithandlifebookstore.com/

Bethel College Life Enrichment (Newton) – terrific programs with a series of three presentations each time. I presented on “Adventure and Alaska.”  http://www.bethelks.edu/academics/convocation-lecture-series/life-enrichment/

Ten Thousand Villages (Newton) –I love that shopping at Ten Thousand Villages (across the United States and Canada) is both a buying and giving opportunity. Ten Thousand Villages is a nonprofit marketing program of the Mennonite Central Committee that creates opportunities for artisans around the globe to earn a fair wage. http://newton.tenthousandvillages.com/about-our-store/

Kansas Aviation Museum (Wichita) – many airplanes and flying artifacts. Accessible control tower. This is where Cessna Aircraft Management held a dinner meeting where I was invited to speak. My presentation was “What Aviation Means to Alaskans.” Wonderful evening. http://www.kansasaviationmuseum.org/

Kansas Originals Market (Wilson – just off 1-70 between Salina and Russell) – Everything-Kansas! Items made by Kansans that represent the state of Kansas: sunflower motifs, quilts, jams, books, stitchery, jewelry, tole painting, woodworking, and so on.  http://www.kansasoriginals.com/

If someone were to visit your state or province, what would you highlight as “must-see”?

 

 

Kansas –Back to my Roots

02 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by in Kansas

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Ruby Leppke: Kansas Farm Girl

Kansas, an earthy place of black loam, wheat, corn, soy beans, sorghum, and sunflowers.

Kansas, a prairie-land with cows and calves, flat horizons, rolling hills, enormous skies and expanding clouds.

Kansas, the place my ancestors settled after the voyage from the Ukraine and the train ride from New York. Peabody, Kansas, the place they stepped into their New World and created the Bread Basket of America – with the Turkey Red Wheat they’d carried with them.

The Leppke farm, where my mother grew up, brought in corn cobs for kindling, milked cows, drove tractor, mended fence, and butchered chickens and hogs.

Kansas, where I come and try to reach back to the stories of my parents and grandparents. Where I drive through Peabody, Hillsboro, and Newton and wish the brick streets, stone buildings, and wide-porched houses would talk to me.

Kansas, where I feel space to breathe and move, where my senses are stimulated by the humid smells of simple, living things.

Kansas, where I show slides and tell stories of my parents’ plain beginnings, before they embarked on the journey to their Frontier World in Alaska.

From Kansas wheat fields to Alaska tundra where a Mennonite family found home, yet never forgot their roots.

 

 

Alaska Autumn Berry Picking

16 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by in Gaede-80 Homestead

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Front yard of Gaede-80 family home.

Brilliant gold aspen and birch leaves shiver in the breeze. Berry bushes change from green to red, and deepen into purple. Mid-August into mid-September is my favorite time to be on the Gaede-80 homestead, located outside Soldotna, Alaska. Berry bushes change from green to red, and deepen into purple. Tall fireweed molt magenta blooms into cottony strands and green leaves curl into faded red ribbons.  Low bush cranberries ripen into crimson clusters among mounds of lacy moss.  White dogwood flowers fade and produce fluorescent orange berries, and when touched by frost, match the cranberries in their deep red hue. The mosquitoes have ceased their annoyance. Walks in the woods are less padded as the moss stiffens with cooler. The smell of smoke, which in summer puts homesteaders on alert for forest fires, is now, after weeks of rain, a friendly outdoor fragrance.

I recall the autumn of 1999…….my siblings, niece, and I spend hours gathering cranberries. As if drawn by magnets, we wander into the woods.  We crouch low to the ground, exclaiming, “These are the biggest berries ever!” We marvel at the natural landscaping of weathered stumps filled with fuzzy natural vegetation and topped with black crow berries. In the quietness of the woods, with boots buried in moss, we talk of decades past when Mom taught us the joy of berry-picking.

We paid attention when she showed us how to remove their stems and bits of debris by rolling them on a rough kitchen hand towel. Some of the cleaned berries were bagged and placed in the freezer for future use; others were measured out for immediate cranberry nutbread, cranberry crunch, cranberry muffins, or cranberry tea.

For years it was a mystery to read recipes that instructed us to “chop” the cranberries. These berries, actually lingonberries, were too tiny to chop. No tough skins,  like true cranberries, harvested from bogs, and purchased in stores.

Perhaps next year, I will kneel in the moss and curl my fingers around the berries. This year, I savor the memories of Alaska Autumn.