Category Archives: Alaska

One Matters

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If there were a few more days to August, it could just take a mama out at the knees.

We’re at the end of it now and the yellow leaves have begun to flutter down slow and it’s becoming a little easier to breathe.

Round here, we don’t much look forward to winter when the days will get short and the nights will get cold and the darkness just goes on, and on most of those short cold days we’ll pine wistful for the long-gone time of summer when the midnight sun beams round the clock and projects get done and fish get caught and energy stays high and the mountains shine bright.

We’ll mourn summer’s passing.

But sometimes, when the babies get big and the farm gets busy, the shortness can bring a fastness and in the summer rush of things…

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…a mama’s spirit can get blistered with burn.

Oh, she’ll keep going.

She’ll keep doing what us mamas do…

..running and cooking and laughing and project planning…

…the fairs, the butchering, the events, the camping…

But at the end of it, she’ll stand rumpled and disheveled, gravel in her Birkstocks and manure on her cowboy boots, dust in her nostrils and sand in her hair, with a thick, black line of August right up under her fingernails and she’ll feel a little beat up from the grittiness of it all.

She’ll feel a little traumatized.

And she’ll want to retreat.

To hide.

To be one less in the crowd of folks who all seem to have weathered the past thirty-one days with neat hair and clean shoes.

She might even feel outside of them, these ones she once felt so much a part of.

And she might wonder if she even matters to anyone but the little band within her walls, the ones she orchestrates and dances with daily.

Saddest of all, she’ll wonder if she’s even been missed in this flurry of days that has taken her and her and her people away from the ones she’s stood with all these Sundays, those voices she’s sang with and laughed with and cried with and grown with.

All that wonder can make a mama feel isolated. Separate from those she once felt so united with.

As if maybe she doesn’t matter.

But then one of those mornings during the thirty-one frenzied August days, she’ll hear that one of those she loves has passed into eternity while his family stood near and the sun was high, and she knows.

She knows that yes.

One does matter.

One matters.

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When the tears come over the sadness that is left in this world without that one good man…

…when his precious sweet widow’s smile is still bright because she’s happy that her beloved stands with his Savior even while she mourns with a whole community over the loss of the gentle presence her husband brought to so many people for so many years…

…when their family fills a row at church and stands as one to sing to the One who gives just three days after their strong leader flew…

…a mama is reminded.

One life matters much.

And that same night that strong gentle elder flew from this earth, my strong gentle husband took the knife from my son’s hand when it was time to butcher the pheasants that were our boy’s market sale.

We’d watched those birds grow all summer and we’d sit at their pen and in the quiet we’d observe their silent march and marvel at the kingly colors of the roosters with honorable names like Phillip and Chief…those rainbows of feathers who were both wild and noble.

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My son loved those birds.

And he knew the day would come and we knew the day would come but how does that stop a person from loving a creation? And when my husband took the knife and said Son, let me do it, tears rolled down my cheeks and my man-boy looked away as his father gently sent that first noble bird into eternity.

Those lives mattered.

One always matters.

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When we broke away from this flurry, this August, we went far to the big fair and we got there late and we stayed there late and we rode rides and we celebrated the end of this the busiest summer of all and we remembered what it’s like to be together and not be frenzied.328

And when the late-August sun set over the mountains, we dragged a bench out into the middle of the woodlot and we sat there, all six of us in the dark, and we watched the sky light up with the fireworks display and we were quiet.

I thought about all the years I’ve been loving this little family and the sky shook with cannon booms.

I thought of how my precious friend must be deeply missing her beloved right at that moment.

I thought of how thankful I was that my husband and my boy got to go see him one last time before the Father gently carried him into eternity…

…how odd this world will be without that wonderful laugh and sense of humor…

…how my own grandparents have been gone for so long now and how different this world is without them.

…how quickly a person goes from being here with us to becoming part of the cloud of witnesses…

…how every life matters…

…how one matters…

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…I thought of how fireworks must look so lovely from Heaven.

The sky got bright and the night got noisy and the colors got big and we started to hoot and holler.

And there we were, the loudest ones in the woodlot, my husband laughed, and we were yelling with joy and August was almost over and our friend was with Jesus.

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So when thirty-six hours later, we went back home and gathered with those ones who’ve been loving us all these years, those ones we could feel separate from if we listened to our doubts too long…

…we listened instead to the voices of those who smiled at the stories of our dirty shoes and our gritty month.

We listened to the ones who told us of their own fast and dirty month of August and we laughed at the sunshine and another year of growing and we cried for the ones who aren’t with us this year.

And we embraced and held tight to the ones who said we’ve missed you.

Because in the fastness and the grittiness of this month, this world…

we’ve missed them too.

We might be busy but we can’t be separated.

Life might get frenzied but we can’t get isolated.

We might feel outside the circle of things, but we’re never out when we’re in His family.

He came to clean us all and even the grittiest and the dirtiest fingernails are kissed and loved and in my dirt He cherishes and polishes and shows me how to love the neighbor who has even dirtier fingernails than mine.

He shows me that even in my dirt I am clean and He shows me how to hold tight to that until I fly into eternity with Him.

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And until that day, He sends gentle peacemaking men and He sends warm embraces of sisters and with the wind in our hair and with the flutter of leaves and with the flight of wild birds,

He reminds us.

We are one.

And one always, always matters.

 

Every Summer…

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There are times, when nearing July…

a couple yearns for rolling land and sand and grass…

and fireflies.

The song of the Midwest yowls and the people pull and it somehow all begs them…

Just bring the babies to run and laugh and chase.

But then they remember…

Alaska.

The mountains so patient.

The beaches so long.

The trees so tall and the salmon so many…the people so fierce.

Why would we ever think to leave?

And the annual tears fall…

Muskrat Mornin

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We’re always having a little something fall into the window wells of our basement. Usually a shrew or a vole will plummet the heights of three-ish feet, and most times, we’ll end up finding it, all of us squealing at its cuteness and inviting it in to breakfast.

Well, not really, but there was the one time we thought the mouse looked scared and hungry so we fed it a small plate of scrambled eggs before we sent him back on his way.

All of the critters that have come to visit our basement from on high have lived, unless you count poor little Tippy, who we think must’ve suffered a terrible spinal injury in the fall and could only walk in a herky jerky circular motion once we freed him. Sorrowfully, we thought it best to end his little life as he’d have no chance in the wild, and my son did what strong men do and quickly and mercifully sent Tippy into eternity with the help of his Red Rider BB gun. {{Things sometimes get sad round here…}}

Minus Tippy though, every time something has been “discovered” in one of the window wells, we’ve captured it, released it, and sent it back into the wilds of our property, where they can roam free and wild, or get tortured and eaten by our barn cats.

Our dogs somehow have this keen sense of knowing when something has fallen DOWN THERE. They have a special “THERE’S SOMETHING DOWN THERE” bark and will pick up the yipping in unison and force us to come investigate. The household stops, we ooh and ahh over the cute fuzzy creature that has come to visit us by unconventional means, we strategize a plan of capture, and we delight in its release.

So much for a morning routine.

Never a dull moment as they say right?

So the other morning, the THERE’S SOMETHING DOWN THERE bark commenced right after clearing the breakfast table and the kids all muttered as they put on their jackets…sounds like somthin in the window well.

And sure enough…

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Except sweet little fuzzy little vole wasn’t what greeted us. I’d been tempted to fry up another egg and bring it to whatever mousy friend awaited us when I heard the yipping start up. But what greeted us was NOT a guest I’d want at the breakfast table.

MAY 2015 021It’s a MONSTER right?!

Okay okay, so it’s only a muskrat. But those sharp rabid teeth! That long creepy black tail! I had the urge to push my children back like a bouncer at a rock concert and get them out of the way of danger.

Ewww.

Then one of those babies, my man-child, he got right to work fashioning a noose out of paracord attached to a BBQ skewer (he said it was the only long thing he could find but I think maybe those sharp little teeth got to him too) and he and Annie went on recognizance.

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Then Annie had to go in the house because of course she wanted to eat it…

So little sister joined in the rodeo.

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And it soon became obvious that while my son has excellent noose skills, this muskrat knew how to slip a knot too.

It became time to break out the big guns.

That’s right.

The manure rake.

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After a fun little ride on the manure rake, and then hopping off to skip across the yard and enjoy a relaxing visit with our barn cat Joe while they both rested under our canoe, (our Joe is a lover not a fighter) the muskrat took us on a wild goose chase when we decided we should’ve put him in a bucket and relocated him to the pond up the road.

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A half hour later, panting and defeated, bucket empty, we decided we’d have to concede to Mr. Muskrat and let him run free.

We learned a few things.

When you capture a wild critter, put him in the bucket FIRST before you do anything else.

We knew this but our barn cats confirmed it. Watch your animals. They will speak to you by their body language. Both our barn cats told us which tree root the muskrat had gone under when they went rigid and their tails started twitching.

Flip flops are not a good option for wildlife chasin.

And I learned again what I already knew…

…that it’s true.

With kids…and dogs…and farm animals…and muskrats…

…there really is never a dull moment.

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Epilogue: My friend up the road texted me later in the afternoon to tell me she’d seen a muskrat scurrying quickly through her yard and out of our neighborhood.

~

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all.

Spring Break – 100 Words

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It was time.

Too much work, too many appointments, too long running.

We homeschool. I can do this. Time out. Week-long break.

Spring at last.

My babies needed down time. Desperately, so did their Mama.

Cancelled outside commitments, made a project list.

We cleared brush. We picked trash. We raked flat the snow piles littering the lawn, stubbornly refusing to break it off with winter’s frozen ground, even after hours of sunlit heat.

My big boy, whole year older, he wore the man’s boots and started the first campfire of the year.

And I inhaled the scent of this family.APRIL 2014 023

 

{{Entered in 100 Words at Velvet Verbosity, http://www.velvetverbosity.com/100-words/}}

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On the Ice

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Ah, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field that the Lord has blessed. Genesis 27:27

He’s always started his prayers just like his Daddy.

“Dear Lord, thank you for this day. Thank you for this wonderful time together.”

When I heard him mumbling those words quietly, I glanced across the shanty and saw him hovered over the basketball-sized hole, peering intently down into the icy water.

He prays when he fishes.

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“Help me to get a big fish if you want me to, Lord.”

When we looked at the calendar and realized he and his dad wouldn’t get another chance to fish together before the derby ended, I looked into those big blue eyes, those eyes I’ve looked into every single day for the whole life of my mothering, eyes afraid to well with tears because Mom was there. Because he’s eleven now. Because he understands that with Daddy’s great new shift at work there are going to be sacrifices too. It’s a great new shift, he knew that. But his eyes misted over even so.

There is nothing this kid likes to do more than fish with his father.

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“Could I do that son? Could I take you?”

“All of us?” He knows with Dad at work, the five of us are joined at the hip. He knows how wild our adventures can get with his three younger siblings. He knows how weathering the wildness can sometimes take a toll on Mama’s patience.

“I think we could do it,” I tell him.

“Right?”

And so it was, after he and his Dad, the night before, had packed up all the gear we’d need -tackle, poles, chairs, tent- and Mama and daughter had packed up all the goodies we’d need -coco, snack packs, water bottles, sandwiches- we called Daddy, working hard on a Saturday, and told him we were rolling out.

My boy prayed then too.

Prayed thankfulness for Creation. For this family. For Daddy. For low wind. For fish.

For Mama to have patience.

We had a blast. We were there early and our fishing friend who had planned to meet us to take a power machine-auger-thing and drill some holes for us wasn’t quite there yet. So my boy and I did it. We took the handles and we let the motor rip and we pushed and pulled and rocked and then whooshhh…the water appeared, a mini-geyser up over the snow volcano we’d made.

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We cheered like we’d just won the Super Bowl.

And the tent only blew away once before our friend got there to check on us. He chased it down with his snowmachine, showed us how to screw the stakes into the ice.

My girl, not much for fishing, handed out snacks and told stories to her little siblings while they half-heartedly fished, kept them enraptured with tales of grumpy fish families, using tackle and bait as props, their eyes big and watching her every move.

My boy and I fished for real. For hours. Just like he and his dad do.

And even in the irritating midst of buckets scraping across the snow and big fish having a stare down with the bait before swimming off arrogantly and my preschooler being rambunctious and floppy and a reel falling off and diving down deep before I could finally pull it back up…

…I smiled big on the way home.

And my heart understood why my boy loves this time with his Dad so much.

Why most every weekend, and a few times in between, he wonders out loud if they’ll be able to go fishing soon. Why, on Sunday my husband will casually ask me what we’ve got going in the coming week and I know exactly what he’s really asking: “When’s a good time to take my boy fishing?”

It’s because when they’re fishing, they’re really praying too.

In the quiet, subdued, much-calmer-now-than-it-was-when-he-was-little way that my boy casually says “fish on” when his pole bends sharp, his heart is praying grateful to God, the One who made that fish, gave him that fish, the One who hears “Thank you for helping me catch that fish Lord” as the hooked catch flops up onto the ice.

In the tromping across the snow, the spruce trees black against the afternoon sun, rimming the flatness of the lake, a spirit prays free and content, breathes in the air, the Creation, the beauty…all hand designed by the ultimate Artist.

In the mercy of deciding which fish to keep, which one to throw back, my boy’s hands pray compassion and kindness as they quickly end the suffering of the gulping creature he’s been given, talking gently as he does it.

In the counting, the arranging, the packing, he prays marvel at the patterns of the fish skin, the colors of the scales, the shape of the fins, the intricacies of this aquatic masterpiece.

And in the cleaning, the bloody part, he’s praying gratitude for the provision, for the life of the fish and the nutrition it will provide, but also for Another too, whose body was made messy to forgive our sins and feed our soul when He gave us His life.

The undercurrent of it all is a heart praying thankful for the time he gets with his Dad. Praying thankful for this bonding that takes place on the ice, the love happening there, the hours that put down beautiful coats of memories…precious paint on the house of this family.

And Mama prays thankful too. Prays thankful to be part of this precious treasure my son has with his father. Thankful he’s let me into a world that has mostly been just theirs. Thankful he’s followed his Dad’s teachings; that he knew just what to do when it was time to pack the sled…when the fish weren’t biting… when it was time to clean the catch.

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A couple mornings later, I read a blog post about keeping our boys pure today, how to help them be strong in a weak world, turn their hearts away from the temptations our culture offers them daily and I think of my boy and his love for fishing. The love he has for his family. His contentment that comes just from having time with his father. With me. With his siblings.

As I read, I think of our day fishing. The monumental little day it really was. How it was the start, and the continuum too, of something big. Something that could be key his whole life, a focus of his heart. A place for him to go when he’s faced with less than godly destinations, impure opportunities.sink

 

The thankful keeps coming. For a husband who has taken all this time all these years to teach our children. To teach them gently and quietly and lovingly and manly. For a boy who loves the outdoors and loves his family, who’d rather be with us than anyone else, a boy who delights in doing things with his closest loved ones.

And I do just like my boy does, my son.

I pray thankful.

Thankful to the One who made the fish, the water, our son. Who gave him to us, who gives us glimpses into his heart. The One who gently leads those who have young, who showed me that day exactly how important and precious these times are for my son, for my husband. How faith-building.

“Dear Lord”….

I pray thankful to the One who has shown me what a good thing it is, what beauty takes place when we know the hearts of our children, when we know how much our boy loves to be with his people, when we get a peek at the urgency of this season with him.

“Thank you for this day”…

I pray thanks to the One who gave me the courage to take my little flock out that cold day.  The One who has shown me how much He’ll bless this family…bless me…my husband…our kids …when we keep our boy right where he loves to be most…

…Out on the ice.

“Thank you for this wonderful time together…”

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Out Fishing

(C. Rankin, age 11)

I was fishing one day

and wishing

that the fish might bite.

Maybe it will be big

and fat

and I might take home a prize and be proud.

But fun with dad, out on the lake,

just me and him and the fish,

there is the real prize.

Me and Dad

(C. Rankin, age 11)

The lake was bubbling with trout

and a few tan streaks of dolly.

I whip the shiny spoon into the frenzy

me and dad side by side having fun yelling fish-on

laughing at the power the fish have hitting our spoons so hard

our reels jump

shake like a snake

me and dad side by side having fun and yelling fish-on.

© This Crazy Little Farm

And Tonight I’d Like to Thank….

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liebster

So after my rant post yesterday about spammers and scammers here on our little block a’ bloggers, I came back to some sunshine on my shoulders this mornin’.

I got a little bloggy award nomination thingy today.

{{Squeeeakk!}}

Be still my bloggy heart right?

I still don’t have much of a grasp on how this all works or what this all means, but I DO know that an award nomination thingy must mean that real live blogger folks must be reading a little bit of what I’ve written here… and that real live blogger folks must even LIKE my little words a little bit. Nervoushumbledexcitedscaredencouraged, all at the same time.

Serious heart warms here, friends.

My new blog pal Janna over at Complexity Through Joy blessed my heart with a Liebster award today. She’s got a great little blog over yonder, you should go check it out. Really.  🙂

I’ll do my best to answer her questions, and then come up with some witty new ones to lay on a few more new friends here on The WordPress.

What fun, thanks for the love!

What is your comfort food? I’m gonna pass on this question. Answering it will send me face first into a carton of ice cream.

Is there someone in the media who really makes you laugh?  Who is it? Wow, this one REALLY makes me think hard! All the really good laughs in my life happen right here under the big top on this crazy little farm. Tim Hawkins though…is he considered media? He slays me every time. When we can get a good connection and get on the YouTube, his clips will send every single person in this family into fits of hyperventilation. Blimey Cow gets our giggles in gear too. Oh, and one of my bff’s Facebook posts really should be made into one of those daily calendars. Think Maxine. But a lot younger.  FB is media right?

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What is your favorite time in history?

1) The span of time covered from Creation to the early church will always and forever be the most fascinating era of time to me. When I started actually reading the Bible (in 2002), doing my homework, and realizing this stuff REALLY HAPPENED, I was hooked, wowed and amazed. We’ve got an amazing history y’all.

2) Pre-statehood Alaska. Talk about some ruggedness, folks. This place is tough, and they did it by hand. And by dogsled. And on snowshoes. Makes me proud and humbled to even trod the same earth they did. Lovelove learning/reading/studying the history of the Last Frontier.

Why? Oh, whoops. I always did tend to jump ahead on tests…free_1535570

What’s your favorite season? When I was a Midwesterner, Autumn. Hands down. I pretty much adore every last little thing about it, the leaves, the smells, the cozy…I relive it in my mind every October. Here though? In this crazy land where the season memo got lost in the mail? Autumn is like a drive through visit at the espresso hut. Some days a little slower than others, but it’s always fast in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a stop along the way, and it’ll leave ya hyper. Hyper as in frantically-getting-ready-for-winter hyper because it’s breathing down your back and will show up on your doorstep in seconds. You might think I’m joking. I’m not. Seventeen of em have made me a little suspicious and bitter when it comes to Autumns round here. So, the short answer (not that I gave you the short answer…{{all that espresso talk}}…would be summer. Glorious, beautiful, low-70’s, sun always shines and bedtime’s NEVER before midnight, SUMMER. Ahhh….only 126 more days…

Pie or cake? There I go thinking about ice cream again…

What was the last book you read? I’m wrapped up now in The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb (bedtime reading), and working my way slowly through the Gospel of Matthew in the morns. I tend to get a little ADD about books, starting one then leaving it like a scorned lover when it doesn’t hold my attention for more than two minutes. Hey, sometimes that’s all the time I have to devote to a book. It has to be THAT good.

To where do you mthost want to travel? Before I lived here, here. Nowadays we keep an ever growing list for The Rankin Family Ultimate Field Trip that we fantasize of taking someday in our used RV. This trip encompasses all of the upper east coast to soak up our country’s origins, Italy to see some high falutin culture and edumacational art, Hawaii (we’re not really particular as to which island, they’re just jealous that Mama went there a long time ago so now we all need to go together), Niagra Falls (again, pre-kid, we’ve been there for a weekend trip but could it ever get old?), and Kentucky. (I’ve got a kid with a serious passion for Daniel Boone and she HAS to see his final resting spot). And yes, I’ve already considered the complications we may encounter in getting our camper from Alaska to these places. Those are mere minor details. We’re still saving our pennies. So far we’ve got $52.36.

When do you most feel in your element? Oh boy. Not the kind of question to ask a gal who’s hopped up on coffee and a good night’s rest but really, I guess there’s not much to this. I feel “myself” the most when I’m in the groove of writing. I feel the most “known” when I’m in the presence of Christ during worship or prayer. I feel the most “beautiful” when I’m with my husband and he says a sweet little somethin. I feel the most “me” when you put all those things together…start me to writing about Jesus while my husband’s in the same room, add in a little sprinkle about my babies and our critters and the barn and BAM, I guess right there is me “in my element”. 

When do you most feel out of it? This one’s easy. Imagine a pool. There’s the upper surface of the water, say a foot or two, right? Then there’s the deep water. I am very UNcomfortable with top layer friendships. I try, and I have some, but I’ve never done them well. I operate best in the deep water part. My husband says I’m an all-in friend. I don’t do the kiddie pool well. Not in a weird, clingy-friend way but as in a “hi, what’s your name, this is me, this is everything about me, tell me everything about you, lets have a coffee together” and now we’re bosom buddies for the rest of our lives. I might be stuck in the world of a five year old in this area and sometimes wish I could just give people a little note. Ask them to check yes or no by the Are You My Friend?  I don’t have what it takes to maintain friendships that are not real and genuine and quite honestly, they make me feel really, really clumsy and unable to make eye contact.  And when I meet someone who is content to just hang out there in the shallow parts, I feel out of it. And inadequate. And insecure. And pretty awkward. And I hate that. That’s when I default to *see above question* to be IN my element. Cuz I’m a lot better at that.

Here may be the place to note that going for any length of time (more than an hour) without my Carmex will make me feel out of it in a way that nothing else will.  In a my day is shot kinda way. Out.of.my.element.

Lame huh?

I know  you didn’t really need to know that though did you?

That espresso’s realllly kickin in, must be. imagesB1JKZURM

Off to do the rest of the assignment. It’s been fun. In one of those Facebook survey kind of ways. I’ve only done one of those. If you’ve made your way through this post, you understand why. 🙂

Happy Thursday and God Bless,

Cassy

The rules:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog. 2. You must answer the 10 questions given to you by the nominee before you. 3. You must nominate 10 of your favorite blogs with fewer than 200 followers and notify them of their nomination. 4. You must come up with 10 questions for your nominees to answer.

Danger Day and the Gas Station

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We met her on Danger Day.

A Tuesday.

We’d left home on Saturday morning, the tires on the rental crunching the driveway gravel while the kids ran alongside the car and my mom waved from the porch.

The first time in ten years.

A vacation. An actual, real life, bonafide, just the two of us vacation.

Between pregnancies, babies, breastfeeding, and toddlers, vacation wasn’t a word in our vocabulary. And truthfully, even stepping out of those years and well onto the path of homeschooling, one income, and the farm…it could be another ten years.

We let the sun melt the frazzle as the ferry took us across the Sound. That night we puffed into the harbor of sleepy little Valdez, as far away as we dared to go to keep our checking account positive and our kids and home fairly close.

And it was magic.

It rained of course. But we didn’t care.

We fought of course. But we didn’t care.

Because after we figured out how to just be us again, there was no more of that and a quiet peace settled over our time.

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The plan was to relax and explore for a couple of days then take the rest of the time to meander back home. I had our stops all mapped out. Except for Tuesday.

That was, in his words, Danger Day.

“I don’t want a plan. I just wanna go with it.”

When a true and faithful husband wants a little “danger “while his wife is hanging on his arm…you let him go with it.

I smiled at his grin when he pulled us out of the motel, squealing the tires a bit on the Taurus before we put Valdez in the rearview.

And I held his hand across the console and flipped on the radio as we dared off into the wilds of not having a plan.

To say we didn’t know where we were going is not altogether true. Here in Alaska, between towns, there is literally one road. He had an idea of our destination, but by not telling me, and me not asking or fussing over the details…we were dangerous.

We were footloose. Fancy free. Young again and not even thinking about what to make for dinner. Our car could’ve been a cherry red Charger. Or a Harley. Or the big blue Ford truck he picked me up in on our first date.

He opened the sun roof and let the hair blow free over his bald spot.

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Danger Day wasn’t the destination. Danger Day was the ride. The mountains.  The snow on my flip flops at the middle of nowhere pull-out. The waterfalls as tall as a hotel. My babies with their grandma. A clean rental car. Sunshine with my love.

The first vacation in ten years.

We do date nights when we can. And once a year we pay a babysitter for a weekend away to celebrate our marriage. But a whole six days? Never. Be still my matrimonial heart.

Five or so hours out, he pulled us into a crossroads gas station. It was like most places in our great state, rugged, homesteady, tough, Alaskan.

That’s where we met her. BJ.

She rung us up and she looked a little like a mother and a little like an aunt and a little like a longtime friend who comes to visit with your mom on Saturday mornings while you watch Looney Toones and listen in from the other room as they talk and smoke Virginia Slims and drink Tab on ice.

Her smile is big behind a rugged worry and her brow furrowed in a way that’s seen on the faces of folks who’ve worked hard and come by things rough all their life. She shines her eyes at us. Tired, but shining.

Her hair looked so pretty in her updo.

By the looks of her little store, we were the only ones who’d been in for hours.

I wanted to stay all day. I wanted to drink a Tab and even though I quit years ago, I wanted to crack a pack of Slims and sit down with her, just our jelly jars of soda with the ice clinking and an ashtray between us while we start up a game of Yahtzee and sit and visit the afternoon away at her little table behind the counter.

Instead I browse the shelves of handmade Alaskana and make small talk.

My dangerous husband perused her display of pamphlets.

“We’re thinking of going to the mine” he tells her.

So that’s where we’re going on Danger Day.

It’s pretty late in the day. You could go halfway in and stay the night with my friend up the road. She’s got a great little B and B. Cabins at the halfway point. I’ll call her and make sure she’s got one open.

She pulls out a paper and starts dialing her phone that’s on the wall behind her counter.

We keep browsing and she keeps talking and its quiet here and her Alaskana is so Alaskan and don’t the most peaceful moments happen when you don’t plan them?

She hangs up and it’s all set. We have reservations if we want them. If my tour guide gets really dangerous and we take another route and sleep in the car, fine. But if not, her friend Kayane will be looking for us later tonight and if we want it, we’ve got a place to rest. If we do come in, just stop at the main house before we go back to the cabin and her friend said she’ll send some bread with us for a snack and isn’t that the Alaskan way?

Everywhere, a friend.

Full up on danger for the day we mosey in slow and take hundreds of pictures along the way and when we arrive late we’re treated to a cabin in the woods and a camp shower by the roaring river. She’s not able to take Visa and just shrugs come payment time.  Happens all the time. She assures me.

Just stop at BJ’s tomorrow on your way back through and leave some cash in an envelope if you want. I’ll pick it up on my next trip in. Or mail me a check when you get back home. Either way.

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And she hands me a loaf of warm homemade cranberry bread. I’m in rugged heaven and we become fast friends with Kayane and her dog, and enjoy her tour of the little storage shed turned gift shop filled with handmade items.

I just keep some here so customers can shop. And then of course BJ lets me put some up at her store too.

That’s really how it is here in this place we call home.

I find steaming hot coffee in a thermos on the porch when we wake in the morning and we pray together and hug as we leave, promising to stay in touch. Then we venture forth, my husband and I, him having claimed a second day now for a Danger Day, and me being just fine with that, well rested, heart full, and loving to see him so relaxed and at ease because we’re not on any set schedule.

Our day is spent exploring the mine, dangerously not taking the tour. We venture on our own, enjoying the old quiet of a place steeped in stories and history and age. It’s just enough to explore and find a bit of copper before starting the long trek back.

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By dinner time we find ourselves back at BJ’s, Danger Day 2 wrapping up and us needing to get back on the meandering path to home.

But I want to leave money for our stay at Kay’s cabin and tell BJ how right she was. That her friend’s place really is a slice of Alaska heaven. Tell her thank you for sending us. Get another Diet Coke for the last long stretch of the day.

My husband finds us a Klondike bar and as he looks around I visit with BJ and I suddenly have an urge to buy something from this woman who makes me feel like I’m eight again in footie jams, but who also makes me feel like a grown woman…a mother and an auntie and a proof, a womanly proof that we are all connected no matter where we live or what our job is or where our path in life looked like before or where it’s brought us now.

She makes beauty in her art and she lines her shelves carefully and it shows the people who grace her store that even though life may be rough and the road may be long and friends might be few and far between, there is beauty, always beauty in this world and it is important to take time to make it. Because sometimes, that’s just what a wanderer’s eyes need to see and what a friend’s heart needs to feel.

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I pick up one of her birch bark baskets. I decide. I’m going to take it home. I want to have a piece of this place to remind me of BJ and her homey little gas station gift shop on this side of the state. Remind me of the smile she offers to the strangers-who-are-not that come into her corner of the world.

Alaskan art isn’t cheap but BJ’s got hers priced to sell. Even so, our trip budget is dwindling, and we’ve got one more hotel stay before home.

I expect my husband to remind me of that when he comes to check on me and sees me standing there with her birch bark basket in my hand. I expect him to tell me that I can get one later. I expect him to remind me that I have several friends who do birch bark art and that I could get something exactly like this one back home any day of the year.

But I say it anyway and I say it soft so she won’t hear. And I say it firm.

I want to buy one of BJ’s baskets.

In the pause I hear what I think he’s thinking so I go on.

She makes all this. This is her art. She’s over here in in the middle of nowhere. How many people look at her stuff? I want her to know it’s beautiful. That someone thinks it’s wonderful enough to take home.  I know what it’s like. When no one sees what you made. She creates this. When you create you just want to put a little piece of yourself into someone’s heart ya know? She works hard on this. I want her to know it’s beautiful. I know we don’t have much money left but I’m buying one.

I prepare for his irritation. Except there is none.

“Okay.”

And he helps me choose one we can afford.

It’s a treasure to me before I’ve even reached the cash register.

We get ready to check out. He pulls out his wallet and I pull out my hugs and we tell BJ good-bye.

Thank you for sending us to the cabins. And thank you for this basket. It will always remind me of this trip.

She hugs me tight, smiles that beaming tired smile.

After our goodbyes, I leave my basket and my Diet Coke on the counter, ask BJ if I could use her outhouse before we push on to the next town, tell my husband I’ll meet him back at the car.

The sun frisks the horizon and we pull out, a happy sadness filling the car.

When you look for beauty, you’ll find it every time.

When you set the schedule down, you’ll find yourself doing what you never knew you were wanting to do.

When you allow yourself a little danger, you’ll find safety in the joy of life.

Telling her goodbye reminds me of all that.

I grab my husband’s big hand, smile at the land stretched out before us.

I sure liked BJ.

He pauses and the road hums under us, no cars to be seen anywhere.

“You know babe? I think BJ sure liked you too.”

Yeah. Ya know, I’ll probably never see her again. But I felt like I just made a new friend that I’ve known for a long time.

We’ve not turned the radio on and he’s quiet for another half mile or so.

”I betcha if you look in that bag you’ll see that she feels the same way too.”

What?

I reach in the back seat to find our bag and open it. There, wrapped in tissue and on top of my Diet Coke is the birch bark basket.

Except it’s not one I’d chosen.

It’s one that’s filled with intricate stitching and elaborate caribou hair tufting.

It’s one that would’ve taken her a very long time to make.

It’s one that served as a prime example of her pride in being an Alaskan.

He tells me she’d rung his items up, gotten a bag ready and that she’d gone over to the basket table and placed the one I’d chosen, the one he’d just paid for, back on the shelf and replaced it with this one.

I flipped it over in my hands as my eyes began to water, running my fingers over every inch of soft Alaska…the love…the care…the beauty…the friendship.

The tears touched the corners of my eyes and rivered over when my hand found the price tag she’d forgotten to take off in her rush.

She’d chosen one for me that cost three times as much as the one we picked to fit our budget.

She’d chosen one for me that was from the most expensive on her shelf.

“I think BJ really liked you too honey.”

The tears fall down my chin and slide into my lap.

And the glow of the midnight sun shined into the rearview and straight through my heart.

BJ’s basket sits on the window ledge in my kitchen to remind me.

It really is true.

Everywhere, a friend.

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