Category Archives: Mark

The New Year Starts with a Bang

01 Tuesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Mark, The Bush Doctor's Wife, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

(Adapted from the Naomi Gaede Penner’s new book manuscript,

“The Bush Doctor’s Wife.”)

The year was winding down, as were the many holiday festivities for which Ruby had planned and prepared. She had energetically entertained people, dealt with long dark nights with mere glimpses of sun during the day, and so far kept her children warm in the frozen Interior of Alaska. Last on the list was Mark’s second birthday, December 27.

The little kid was grumpy and for good enough reasons. He walked around crying and rubbing his ears, all the while coughing with a hacking croup. Ruby could not keep up with his runny nose. She herself was not feeling at her top mothering capability and was suffering from a head cold. Both mother and son felt miserable.

Ruby would have preferred to be in bed rather than preparing supper, and more so with Mark underfoot and whining. She could not take a step forward or backward without bumping into him. All the same, the macaroni and cheese casserole with toasted, buttered breadcrumbs on top needed to go into the oven. She shooed him back as she pulled down the oven door to lite the pilot light, which required turning on the gas and touching a lit match to the igniter. What happened next terrified them both. She wrote home:

“…as I was making supper I lite the oven and Mark was right there and shut it (gas) off so I reached down to light it right away again and we had an explosion. I think of the song, ‘some through the water some through the fire some through the blood.’ Well the Lord did help me through the fire. I was in the middle of the explosion it all happens so fast, Mark was beside me blown down on the floor and he was frightened and I felt as though I was on fire, I felt my hair and it was singed badly my face burned so badly, I’m glad the girls were at the table playing and I screamed for Naomi to run to the hospital for Elmer. He came and brought salve, Furacin (a topical cream for second and third degree burns), and we put it on all the burned places, my nose hurt so and my right hand. Elmer did such a good job of treating me, and the pain was gone the next day. I wore a glove over the Band-Aids on my right hand. This is the second of Jan. and my hand has nearly pealed, and my nose has a new layer of skin, my chin and neck are in the process and I have no scars, the burns weren’t deep. So we have much to be thankful for.

 Who knows if the casserole got baked or if she put it into the refrigerator for the following night’s supper; or if the scare shocked the croup out of Mark; or if Ruby figured the oven explosion was enough use of matches and didn’t want to light even two candles for Mark’s birthday, which would not actually be noticed since his “cake” was a cookie Christmas Tree she had made earlier. With Mark improvising his own, there was no need for fireworks or firecrackers to start the New Year.

xxxxx

No doubt, Mark kept her on her toes and she could never let down her guard.  A few days into the New Year, Ruby was stacking freshly washed towels in the bathroom linen closet when she heard the scratchy sound of a match being lit. She opened the bathroom door to find Mark sitting on the rug in the hallway with a tiny blaze in his hand. Seeing his mother and hearing her yell his name, he dropped the match on the rug. Ruby stomped out the small flame and shook her son by the shoulders until his teeth chattered. Over to his room she marched him and up went the gate. She thanked the good Lord she had been nearby and not down in the basement, and that she had managed to keep him alive for the first two years of his life.

 

Mark — when he was not setting fires inside the house. Mark with moose antlers

 

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The Power of One: You + Me = We

07 Monday Mar 2016

Posted by in Caring and Compassion, Mark, Personal Growth

≈ 1 Comment

Naomi and Mark climbing at Death Valley

Naomi and Mark climbing at Death Valley

Between first grade and sixth grades, I changed schools five times; only once was I without a friend. In Anchorage, Alaska, I’d walk through the door and tell my mother, “Mary and I painted on easels,” or “We saved our silver crayon for special coloring.” In Tanana, along the Yukon River, Sally and I baked oatmeal-raisin cookies. In Tulare, California, Linda and I incessantly colored “stained glass” designs we randomly scribbled and after school rode our bikes with streamers flying on the handlebars. In Soldotna, Alaska, Karen and I tunneled in tall grass along the beach bluffs.

In Browning, Montana, I sat alone in class. No one would be coming to my house after school; no one to whisper to in the clarinet section. That was the year I stopped eating and I learned to cry without making a sound, in the bathroom stalls.

As an adult, I climbed my first of Colorado’s 53 mountains over 14,000 feet. Courtney was my guide and inspiration. I followed her deliberate zigzag traverse to the summit. “Just three steps this way– and stop to breathe,” she said. I couldn’t have done it alone.

Taffy watching the deer.

Taffy watching the deer.

Twice a day, I walk my English Cream Retriever. On a mild day, the time goes quickly. I observe Taffy sit and survey the deer, cock her head and watch the cows, or pounce on a vole hole. But on days when the wind howls and I know I’ll need long johns and a wool scarf, I’m not eager to go out. (Taffy already has her thick white fur coat on and earflaps down.) I text Melissa. She’ll meet us! Her long-legged Vizsla bounds towards Taffy. They race up and down the hills. Melissa and I talk about good books, places we’ve explored, and how we should have worn snowshoes. Forty-five minutes later we smilingly tell each other what a great walk it was. Alone, I might have turned back.

Working together on a wall quilt.

Working together on a wall quilt.

Anyone who has quilted knows how time progresses more quickly, and with more pleasure, when more than one person engages in the process. “Look how much we got done!”

When my grand boy relocated from Canada to Colorado, his parents wanted him involved in Drama Camp, Lego Camp, and Vacation Bible School. He is outgoing and social, yet he protested loudly, “But I don’t have a friend.” No one.

"Proving up" an 80-acre Alaska homestead.

“Proving up” an 80-acre Alaska homestead.

In a letter to my father’s parents in California, my mom wrote on January 13, 1963, “We wanted to work on the homestead Wed morn but didn’t have the courage to go out in the bitter cold, we did however go out yesterday in the heavy fog… the snow is getting deep enough that it really bogs us down, we cut and trimmed 12 trees, even got a fire going after sprinkling on some gas.”

It took my parents three winters to clear an airstrip, nearly a half-mile long. Imagine if only one of them had been working? Six years? Would one have given up in the hip-deep snow? In the below zero temperatures? One and one equal two; and two makes “we.”

Not alone. The power of more than one.

Not alone. The power of more than one.

If you’re not an extroverted person who gleefully assesses a group of people like a bee views a patch of clover, “we” doesn’t have to be a group. One come-along-side person is all the encouragement we need. One is a powerful number.

This article was first printed in “The Country Register” (Kansas), Jan/Feb 2016 issue.  i

Find and purchase Naomi’s Prescription for Adventure books, at www.prescriptionforadventure.com. Follow her on Facebook (Prescription for Adventure.)

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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