In A Land Far, Far Away

When you are born and raised in a place like Alaska, it becomes a profound influence in your life - forever. I don't say that to claim some rare privilege over "foreigners", but my boys, born and raised in the great Midwest, certainly haven't had the kind of childhood I had. I regret that for them.

I was born in Fairbanks, Alaska in 1958 when it was still a US territory. (It became a "real" state the day before my first birthday.) My parents were the salt of the earth - poor as church mice, decent as they come. Mom and Dad went to Fairbanks in 1952 to be "bi-vocational" missionaries for the Baptists. Bi-vocational means that you don't get paid by the church for anything you do. Dad was a carpenter, Mom was a teacher.

When Mom & Dad arrived in Fairbanks there were five blocks of pavement in the town. (See this photo of Fairbanks in 1952. My guess is this is looking east down 2nd Ave from Cushman St. Obviously this section was not one of the only five blocks of paved road!) My sister and brother and I lived in a one bedroom house in a subdivision west of dowtown. Although we never had two dimes to rub together, we had an idyllic childhood. Hunting, fishing in the wildest of lands, hiking and rafting around lakes and on rivers that define the term "virgin", skiing and sledding throughout a long winter's night. Yes, it was idyllic.

For an odd assortment of reasons, none of them legitimate in my mind - then or now, we moved from Fairbanks to central Texas in May of 1970. Leaving Alaska was a sad event. I marked the experiences of those last few days deeply in my mind. I seared the view of Creamer's Dairy in my mind. I knew I'd never go back to Fox to get water. I knew I would never want to forget driving down our street, Eureka Avenue, sitting on the tailgate of the 1966 blue Chevy pickup, dragging my high-top brown leather shoes in the gravel as the sunset exploded in deep oranges and brilliant yellows. I'll never forget the way the sun etched a bright white line around the clouds that floated between it and me - a silver lining to some, not to me.

I always planned to go back... the way most of us plan our plans. An idea never transformed into action. A yearning went unfed and unmet. I was going to drive back to Alaska the summer after my Freshman year in colllege. I had the whole trip worked out. I met a girl, or got a job, or some lame excuse instead. End of story.

And the years have come and gone. Four boys have grown up in the suburbs. We try to mark the equinoxes (when the sun rises and sets in perfect line with our perfect grid street network) with a special breakfast. We tried to brew up sourdough pancakes (an Alaskan delicacy) a time or two. In Fairbanks, your standing in the community is based on how old your sourdough starter is. A great family friend had some almost a hundred years old. Our's was pathetic stuff (and let's not speak of what passes in the states for blueberry muffins). My dear bride loves snow. A good winter in Kansas will net less snow than we would routinely have to coax off our roof after a modest Fairbanks snow storm. Neighborhood pond perch fall laughably short of the salmon I have netted out of the Copper River. I love my life, but I do miss Alaska.

So, to make a long story now no longer, we are going back to Alaska, if only to visit. As the calendar on the left indicates, we're celebrating the Midnight Sun season in Alaska this year. I hope you enjoy this painfully self-indulgent blog of our travels and activities. In my next post I'll be listing all of the things that will bring a tear to my eye to experience again. Most of all, just being there.