The Jets on the Boat Go Grumble and Grumble

Last week, Eric Yancey, who runs and owns charter company Breakaway Adventures, invited me to come along as he brought members of the high school band from Wrangell over to Petersburg. Unlike other kids across the country, Southeast Alaskan students travel to away games, extracurricular events, field trips by ferry, jet boat, or plane – not just by the mundane mode of car or bus. They oftentimes have to miss multiple days of school or stay overnight with families they don’t necessarily know. Spotting a whale on the way to a basketball game is normal fare for these students.

Below are some of the sights I was able to take in on the three-hour round trip jet boat ride.

Little Failures (Off the Record)

Leonard Campbell, who I mentioned in a previous entry, just came into the office and handed me a piece of paper. It was a comment about the article I wrote about him, his family, and his business. He said he was displeased with some of the statements made in the article, statements he had said he wished to be off the record.

I am really good at obeying the statement “off the record,” especially at this early stage of living in this town and working at the paper. When someone says it, I listen. I’ll even, upon request, send someone pieces of an article in which they are referred or quoted before it is given to my editor, and make changes accordingly, because I don’t want to get on anyone’s bad side; I don’t want to misrepresent anyone.

Particularly in a small town like Wrangell, no one wants to – by mistake – piss anyone off. Some stories are so heated in town, there are people who refuse to be quoted, refuse to answer questions, refuse to be mentioned in conjunction with whatever topic. Since I have just moved here, I am usually ignorant to the depths that some issues go. I have rarely felt like I was overstepping boundaries as I usually don’t know what those boundaries are. This, I have deducted, has been a blessing. Because I am new to town, I have no loyalties to any one person or group and people mostly assume I don’t know the background of things, which I don’t.

So when Leonard Campbell came in and told me he was displeased, I felt like I had failed in some way. I remember him saying that he wanted certain things he off the record, but I obviously thought he was referring to other statements, not to the ones I used.

I felt so bad, especially since I really enjoyed interviewing him and wanted him to like the story. What had sparked my writing the article was the city council’s decision to rename Outer Drive to Campbell Drive. A story that was supposed to honor him and his family ended up causing him some agitation, and that is something that truly makes me sad. I also felt bad because I actually take pride in writing profiles as opposed to other news I write about. I had failed with this one. I had caused someone to doubt my reporting skills.

And instead of letting it pass – because I will undoubtedly upset some people with my stories while I’m here, despite how much I’d rather not – I cracked. While Leonard Campbell was standing in front of me handing me this piece of paper, I kind of chocked up and started to tear. I don’t know if he noticed or not. I apologized as sincerely as I could, which makes me think it actually came out sounding insincere, explained that I must have misunderstood what parts were supposed to be off the record. And he left.

That was my first real episode of failure since I’ve been here. It’s affecting me way more than it should. Even as I walked through town a little bit after Leonard Campbell left, I felt like everyone who drove by me had heard about my failure and hated me. It’s exactly the same feeling I get when a friend is mad at me (which, with my penchant to please, almost never happens) – I feel as if everyone could see through me, and the only thing that was visible was the fact that I had made someone upset.

It’s a weakness of mine, I know. I need to have a thicker spine, deeper conviction in what I do. I need a harder shell that won’t let these types of things drive me to tears. I’ve needed these my whole life.

I like praising people through writing. But I guess I also like revealing little truths. So if through the supposed “off the record” statements, I shed some truth on a matter, then I guess it wasn’t a total failure. I also don’t necessarily believe in “off the record.” Like I said, I abide by it, but if it’s important enough to say in an interview, then it ought to be important enough to write about, or at least allowable to write about. I mean, I am a reporter – if you don’t want something written about, don’t say it. But then again, I also don’t want people to not trust me. People say things that they regret later, or people have the urge to say something that they know shouldn’t be said, so they add the disclaimer.

I guess there’s nothing wrong with revealing a truth, even if it is a bit ugly or a matter of conflict. Perhaps I’ll need to let myself forgive myself for this one and chalk it up to trials of the job.

I’ve figured this out in my personal life, and now I’m realizing it in my professional life – I will never be able to please everyone. I really, naively, thought I could. And if I'm being totally honest (on the record), I still haven't quite come to grips with it in terms of my personal life - it's a truth I cannot deny, but I'll always, always try my hardest.

Rite of Passage

I haven’t had this giddy feeling in a while.

They are sixteen inches tall. I’ve never owned anything like them in my life.

Today, I took one step closer to becoming a Wrangellite. I bought a pair of Xtratuf boots.

I knew about them even before I moved to Southeast – these brown boots that are essential to living here. I remember first seeing them on others waiting at the boarding gate in the Seattle Airport. It was the first tangible sign of Alaska. On this island, they are called the Wrangell sneaker. But really, we can’t take credit for them. They are a regional shoe. For the fisherman, the crabber, the skiff driver, and now me.

As I pointed out in my last entry, Southeast is a slushy paradise, and as I walked to work this morning in my New Balances through soft just-fallen snow that lay atop the melted remains of the last snowfall, I knew I couldn’t live like this anymore. I couldn’t continue to sink inches deep into wetness with just sneakers on. I couldn’t continue to slip on icy pavement while hesitantly trying to jump over huge, deep puddles. It’s a sad state of being for someone who doesn’t own a car. For me, the perpetual walker.

I kept thinking about it all day, buying them, taking the plunge into the ultimate non-fashion statement. While I haven’t been a fan of shopping for a while, I still rarely wear things that make life more convenient. I mean, I can’t remember the last time I wore snow boots, or footwear that was appropriate (I’m hopelessly in love with flip-flops). The first time I ever bought a winter coat that actually supplies warmth was right before I moved here. While I am a fan of the outdoors, I just have never really owned any outdoor gear, you know, rugged.

The concept of clothing being protective, hence, making life easier, more convenient, had never been revealed to me. Until today.

After work I went straight into Angerman’s, the local outdoor outfitter (is that what these stores are called?) and asked someone to show me the Xtratufs. Bear in mind that the few minutes walk to Angerman’s was filled with weather obstacles, icy streets covered in an inch of water, just slush everywhere. Mother nature is the greatest promotional tool.

I tried them on, different sizes. Even tried on different brands. And I left promising the sales girl I would think hard about it.

I went to check mail, went to the office, then right back to Angerman’s to buy the Xtratufs, and I left the store wearing them (with the wool inserts, of course).

Walking around town has never been more fun. I’ve never been more eager to encounter mounds of snow or the once dreaded puddle of slush. Even ice patches are no challenge. Nothing can faze me. I have a whole new outlook on life in Wrangell.

I’m 25 and these are my first pair of rubber boots, and they make me feel like a kid.

Who wants to go tramping through the woods?

Before Sleep, a Small Thought

I woke up this morning around 6 am to the sound of a snow shovel on pavement. I’m not complaining. I’d rather hear that sound than walk into inches of wet snow. Along with the shoveling I also heard the rain, which means the 14 inches of supposed accumulation just amounted to slush. Southeast Alaska, a slushy paradise.

But the days have started to become longer. It’s a small but noticeable difference. When it’s not totally dark by 4:30, you know there’s hope somewhere.

What's Wrong with Your Friend?

Upon stepping out of my office tonight, I witnessed something that is undoubtedly a classic Alaskan scene – a snowmobile dashed by in the middle of the street.

It continues to snow as it has been all day. They predict 14 inches of accumulation. I walked home in inches of white powder that, with each step, packed firmly below.

I stayed at work past five and went to the movies with Rich again. He might turn out to by my permanent movie buddy if I don’t recruit more friends soon, friends who I get phone numbers from. I keep forgetting to ask.

Mike came down from Petersburg this past Friday to visit. He supplied me with constant company the entire weekend, something I’ve been devoid of for a while now. It’s much more comforting (and less guilt ridden) to have someone to be lazy with, someone to pass the hours with while the weather is grey, windy and rainy outside.

We went to a party Saturday night, my first semi large social gathering where alcohol was involved. I met more halves of wholes – young married couples (Wrangell is full of them) – as well as more people in general. Everyone was friendly and inviting, talkative. There were even a few people that were truly great – you know, people you kind of fall in love with without even knowing them, the kind of falling in love that has to do with admiration. That night at that party, it seemed a simple, dauntless task – to be surrounded by people, having fun, in Alaska.

If only the night had stayed that pure.

Many of the people at the party ended up at the Totem after midnight. While I could’ve easily gone home, I felt the desire to be out late, something else I haven’t done in a long time. The next couple of hours was spent in a booth chatting with Mike and Brian, an overly enthusiastic, happy person we had met at the party.

Toward the end of the night, Kim Brink, the owner of the bar, came around with a digital camera and asked if I wanted a picture of my boobs taken. I declined. She persisted a bit more by saying the picture would go on the wall. Again, I declined. I think she might have been surprised that I didn’t want to expose myself, even a little bit. It didn’t occurr to me that pretty much every other female that night had fufilled Kim’s request.

I didn’t think much about it until the following day when Mike told me that a girl he had talked to at the bar asked him what was wrong with his friend. She inquired, “Why didn’t your friend want to show her boobs? Is she too good to show some skin?”

It’s all quite silly, really. I know that.

But I guess I am too good.

Look at the Stars

I had a bad day at the office – my first one. And it wasn’t even for any one reason. It just seemed to be a compilation of many. I guess that’s how bad days happen.

REM sang, “It’s been a bad day, please don’t take my picture.” Obviously there aren’t droves of people clambering to take my picture like they are of Michael Stipe, but I could still relate. When I have a bad day, I tend to feel ugly. I had many of those days in high school. I would feel weird and out of place all day and dread going home to look in the mirror as I was certain a mess of a person would be in the reflection. I felt ugly and I couldn’t seem to shake that, that feeling, of badness.

It probably has to do with the fact that I have no story list or that a story that I do plan on writing seems impossible, out of my grasp – do I really think men/women who control gas prices are going to talk to me and tell me the truth? Or that another story is boring – who wants to read about seat belts? Maybe it had to do with the caffeine never quite kicking in. Maybe it had to do with the sun coming out (the sun never comes out) and me being inside. Maybe it had to do with the thoughts that plagued me the night before – thoughts of being somewhere in Asia, or any location that has blue waters and white sand, or any location that’s not here. I’ve come to realize that thoughts of fleeing actually don’t have anything to do with where I am in the present moment. Right now, it’s just natural for me to constantly be thinking of the next stop.

I left work at 5 and left the bad day.

Amy, at water aerobics, is becoming more and more familiar. Talking with her is more comfortable and less formalized. I told her, toward the end of the class, that I had a bad day at work. It was my first trial at confiding in someone here (in a non drunk atmosphere).

After my aquatic exercise, I went to a lecture on Prague, part of the Chitaqua Series. We have a photographer who lives in Wrangell who spent his first 25 years in Prague. He and his wife escaped when it was under Communist rule. He spoke of his hometown, in what is formerly known as Bohemia, with pride but said, “No,” when asked if he’d ever want to move back. “We’ve been here for 37 years. I’m an American now. An Alaskan.”

When I walked home, I happened to look up and there was a clear sky full of stars. I hadn’t seen the stars yet here – it’s always so overcast. But they were out tonight and they shocked me and I arched my neck back in awe. I wanted to stay out there for a bit, but it was freezing, one of the coldest nights I have experienced here so far.

The stars made up for the bad day, completely. Other events that night had almost made me get over it, but the stars --

Water Aerobics

Every Tuesday (if I’m not at the office late) and Thursday I look forward to water aerobics at 5:45 at the community pool. I look forward to getting into my bathing suit (a bikini which I wear a tank top over since everyone else is wearing a one piece), grabbing two foam dumbbells (hand buoys), buckling the foam weights on my ankles, and quickly sliding into the heated salt water pool as it seems a difficult task to actually jump in with foam weights on.

[The salt water somehow goes through some processing while in the pool and becomes chlorine – I know it doesn’t actually become chlorine (or maybe it does – I’m horrible at science) but it becomes like chlorine, a chlorine agent perhaps. All I know is that the water doesn’t taste salty and when I get out of the pool my body and hair smell like chlorine.]

Most people, since you’re supposed to, wash off under the shower before getting into the pool. I don’t do that because I like being able to feel the water temperature of the pool as I get in, which is lost if you get wet beforehand. I also don’t because I hate following stupid rules like that, even though I know it’s probably not stupid.

The group that attends water aerobics is mixed. You have a few married thirty-somethings, some older grandmother types, the younger girls still in high school, and there’s even that one old man who stays to himself and does water aerobics like it's tai chi. No one wears a swimming cap, which I approve of.

We jog in the water, arms pumping on the side or arms pumping to the back. We do jumping jacks in the water without allowing our arms to come above. There’s leapfrog during which I pretend I’m a cheerleader able to perform fabulously high split jumps. Doing front cuff touches is as if you’re hitting a hackysack around with the inside edge of your foot, but instead of a hackysack you’re kicking your opposing hand buoy. Of course, there’s back cuff touches. We do scissor kicks, large and small, which I think you can figure out. Cross-country is another easy one to figure out. When we straddle jog, I imagine I’m running on two rows of laid out tires, something I’ve never actually done before but have seen on TV a lot. Cossack kicks are hard to explain through writing.

All of this would be much clearer in the pool, where it actually doesn’t really matter what you’re doing since no one can really see unless they’re underwater wearing goggles.

Legacy

Through my reporting job, I’m sometimes able to do what I love and what I think I do best – telling the stories of others.

It’s just about 6 pm on a Sunday night and I just finished writing that piece about Leonard Campbell whose family has been in Wrangell for over one hundred years. How many people can say their family has been in one town, a small town I may add, for 107 years? There’s something about legacy and a long sustained presence, something which I know nothing about, that seems rich and fulfilling; something about one’s family, not only knowing the history, but living the history.

And that’s what I like about telling other people’s stories – revealing a person’s history or a person’s present, which will ultimately become history. And through this job, I know that in this very small way, in this small town with this small weekly paper, these stories and histories are being recorded. They are kept and will ultimately be bound in big books organized by year.

Growing up, I loved seeing the news clips from local papers that my family’s story had once been spread on. I wish I could see them now. I’d record here what they said. In the summer of 1980, my family’s arrival to Chappaqua, New York, was newsworthy. In archives of various papers, that event will forever remain, even if a Phu never lives in Chappaqua ever again.

The preservation of my family’s history has long been a motivation for my writing – it’s my dream to write my mother’s story. It’s something that’s always in the back of my mind, always. In an egotistical way, I think it's my duty to do so, one of my responsibilities as the youngest daughter who didn’t have to go through any of the struggle or historical strife the rest of my family had to go through, the youngest daughter who’s been lucky her whole life perhaps because of that.

I love being able to write about Leonard Campbell’s grandfather coming to Wrangell from Prince Edward Island, passing through New York and Portland, Oregon on the way. I love that Leonard has roots that extend from Wrangell’s early days during the Gold Rush through the climax of the lumber industry to present day Wrangell. And I was a bit sad to hear that he thought the Campbell presence in Wrangell will probably only last, optimistically, ten more years. I’d like to think he’s wrong about that.

A few hours after our interview, Leonard called me back at the office. It was snowing that day, so he had gone home after talking with me, built a fire, and his thoughts wandered. He called back to recount to me a very fond memory that hadn’t occurred to him when he was here at the office. At the end of the conversation he said, “And I just thought I’d leave that with you. I don’t know what you can make out of it. But for me, it was one of the better memories of our existence.”

We all have better memories. My oldest sister once said when we were still living there that she wished Chappaqua could return to its past self, before the Clintons moved in, before everyone went on the Atkins diet, when there were genuine, kind people living in Chappaqua – the Chappaqua of our growing up. But that's the thing. We can no longer say that because we don't live there. Like many other families, we picked up and left. Twenty-three years – not too shabby. But it’s no 107 years.

During a time where moving from one home to the next is the norm, where kids going off and never coming back is standard if not desired, where neighbors who’ve been there and taken for granted are suddenly gone, meeting someone like Leonard Campbell is refreshing and inspiring, almost magical. As much as I want to home-hop for the next few years, spend no more than twenty-four months in any one place, I do aspire to ultimately make roots somewhere. A place where, I hope, I can start a legacy.

Friday the 13th

I just had a thought. It’s past 4:30 on a Friday and I’m in the office trying to get something done before the actual weekend starts. I’m in the midst of transcribing an interview that I had with Leonard Campbell, the current oldest member of a family that has been in Wrangell 107 years, and I’m also hoping that people who I left messages with call me back for another story, and I know I’ll have to come into the office at least once at some point this weekend, and I thought, This is it. This is my life. This is what I do. I’m a reporter. This is what I do for a living. And as I thought those things, I smiled to myself. Just a smile, as natural as can be, as knowing as can be.

I Left My Heart In...

As much as this blog is about my life in Wrangell, Alaska, it’ll just as much become about my life not in Hong Kong. As I’ve already done, I’ll draw inspiration from comparisons, what Wrangell lacks and how Wrangell, in other ways, somehow makes up for these losses. Sometimes I’ll grapple to find these ways.

Something I truly miss about Hong Kong is the dancing. I didn’t take advantage of it enough at all while I was there – to think I had ample opportunity, essentially every night of the week if I wanted, to be in a room or rooms full of people dancing. I miss those nights at Amnesia, Jewel or Yumla, or more embarrassing, those nights at Insomnia, Venue, or Mes Amis where we lost ourselves and didn’t care how we looked, who was looking. As girly or corny as it sounds, we just wanted to dance. That energy is lost in Wrangell. Instead I find in people the passion for hunting moose, fishing, walking one’s dog.

That’s not to say that if people in Wrangell were transported and placed in a dark room full of dancing people, they wouldn’t join in. Obviously, they’ve been in bigger cities, bigger bars or clubs in bigger cities, where dancing has taken place. I wonder if during weekend nights in Wrangell, there’s this widespread craving or mass desire to dance. Maybe even someone in their fishing boat right now thinking these exact thoughts? Perhaps? Or is it just me?

When I leave Wrangell, will I miss breathing in the clean, cold air as much as I now miss breathing in the hot, humid air of Hong Kong? That’s how it works, isn’t it? One home is replaced by another, one sentiment for a new one? I can just almost feel it now – what it was like to step out of an over-airconditioned building onto the street and feel the air cling to you. I love that. The heavy, drenched air.

The Joys of Being a Newspaper Reporter in a Small Town (or Bi Monthly Hell for a Newspaper Reporter in a Small Town Who Has to Cover EVERYTHING)

On Tuesday nights (which also happens to be my deadline night), every couple of weeks, I have a steady date which lasts anywhere from one and a half to three hours. My date is always on time, always shows up, and is never at a loss for words. Sometimes the time is passed with conflict, sometimes with a lot of agreement – it depends on what is discussed. At first I hated them, but over time they’ve grown on me so now I don’t mind them all too much. I’ve started to become more and more knowledgeable about topics and issues I once knew nothing about. Fear has been replaced by a sort of comfort. I even laugh at some of the jokes.

Who wouldn't want a date with the City Council?

(This is how late I stayed at work tonight).

Weather Resistant Kids

I heard recently of an elementary school meeting in which the discussion focused on playground safety, especially with the winter rainy weather. They came up with some new rules, certain areas one isn’t allowed to run around, etc. During that meeting, someone said to everyone else’s shock and disbelief that they were some places in the country where the students weren’t allowed outside for recess if it was raining. This was all relayed to me by my co-worker who has a daughter still in elementary school. She told me this last bit of information with a ‘can-you-believe-that?’ tone in her voice. I informed her that where I grew up, that is exactly what happened. In Grafflin, if it was raining during recess, we were oftentimes doomed to stay in the cafeteria where they’d play us some film we’d already watched during the last rainy recess. When I told her this, she said she guessed it made sense with thunderstorms, but I said, it wasn’t just during thunderstorms. If we were already outside and it started to drizzle, the teachers who were on recess duty would inevitably blow their whistles and we’d have to line up and go inside. She said if this were the case in Wrangell, the kids would never get a chance to go outside during school. When I asked though what the kids did in the rain, she said, “play.”

What were they so worried about in Chappaqua? That we would melt if touched by rain? Perhaps they worried that we’d get wet and eventually sick or would slip and fall. Do the kids here in Wrangell have stronger immune systems? Better traction on their shoes?

Rain is a way of life here in Southeast. Unlike most people’s perceptions of Alaska, I don’t live under an excess of snow. It has actually only snowed once since I’ve been here, and that quickly turned into dirty slush when it rained a few days later. I do carry an umbrella almost everyday but have not gotten around yet to buying those brown rubber boots that seem to be a staple around here.

I’d like to think that if I were a kid, I wouldn’t mind playing in rain, but it actually doesn’t sound too appealing. I mean, everything would’ve been wet – the bars, the swings, the sand box. What would we’ve done? I don’t even think I liked going outside for recess even after it just rained. Because everything was still wet.

The Banker

After almost living here for two months, I finally ventured into Wrangell nightlife. I know that sounds like the opposite of bold or daring. I was spoiled in Hong Kong with an easy to attain social life. Not only did I have good friends close by on Lingnan’s campus, but I also had people to see and things to do elsewhere. It never bothered me to kill an hour or two in the city waiting for someone. There was always something to do, someone to meet, some new restaurant to try out, some Pacific Coffee to check email, some Page One to loiter in, or some trusty bar to get a drink.

I went to Rich’s place to get him on the way to the Nolan Center, where the movie theater is housed. Rich is from Anchorage, moved here a few months ago, and lives like a 22-year old boy. I walked up the staircase and found him playing a video game sitting on his couch that was like a ship floating on an ocean of mess. There were empty beer cans, cherry coke cans strewn everywhere, an abandoned pizza box, a used dish bowl that had dried and crusted over, clothes all over the floor. To be fair, he did warn me beforehand and made claims that when he wants, he can be a neat person.

Rich is a tee shirt, jeans, baseball cap kind of guy, which I truly enjoy. He wears his cap a bit high and off center, which I find endlessly endearing.

To my shock and happiness he liked Rent, a lot. You know that feeling when you think you’ve dragged someone to see something, and all the while you’re stressing out wondering if they’re enjoying it? Every time he shifted in his seat or coughed I was sure he was about to lean over and tell me he couldn’t take the singing anymore and was going to walk out. And I was trying to figure out in my mind what I would do – would I walk out also, would I apologize but stay? But he liked it, and even said he kind of wanted to buy the soundtrack, which I kind of agreed with. So all those thoughts were just a symptom of over thinking and being paranoid – classic me.

Afterward I stepped foot into my first bar in Wrangell, the Totem. Wrangell has three bars – Totem, Brigg, and Marine. It was the sort of bar where most people look toward the door when someone walks in. The majority of the crowd seemed early twenties, and one side of the bar seated the older, middle-aged crowd. There were pool tables, booths, a disappointing jukebox that contained those NOW and Totally Hits compilations and country albums and that’s about is. Even though it caught me off guard, the soundtrack to Varsity Blues seemed appropriately fitting.

I sat at the bar, drank gin and tonics, and met some people that Rich all knew. Rich mostly drank Heart Attacks, which is some Red Bull and a shot of Jagermeister. I had the opportunity to put a face with a voice of a woman I had phone interviewed earlier that week, the owner of the bar. She said she took up ownership seven years ago, had spent her whole life in Wrangell, knew everyone’s name at the bar and supplied brief synopsis of the few I asked about. Her bartenders were a mother-daughter duo.

After some time, me and Rich started talking and we had one of those surprisingly revealing conversations, revealing even for a drunk conversation. It started with me asking him to name one thing he loved about Wrangell, and the answer was his job, which is my thing also. While I could rattle off more items – the picturesque surroundings, the small town life, the fact that I live in Alaska – his list began and stopped there. He loves his job at Well’s Fargo, that’s why he’s here, and that’s it. As we got more into it, the conversation steered its way into family matters, and while I could recount what he told me, I’d feel like I was breaching a confidence. I’m usually all for confessional writing, but I guess they’re not my confessions to make. I was genuinely shocked at how open he was – it’s rare to find a male who talks about family the way he did, who isn’t afraid to air the sad truths, his opinions, his mistakes, his hopes. When he talked, it was obvious how much he loves his family, how much his hard work is in part because and for them, how much he wants to lead by example for his younger brothers. It was about our fourth or fifth conversation ever and he confided in me more than my last boyfriend did during our whole relationship.

He was so natural. He was so full of hope and pride. Without having any idea of how long I'll be friends with him, how long I'll know him, I still hope he never changes.

Crime in Wrangell

When I was first considering moving to Alaska to take this job as newspaper reporter at the Wrangell Sentinel, the owner sent me some back issues for me to look through. I remember seeing items that amused me so much I was immediately endeared to the town. For instance, in Classifieds/Legals, under the Announcements heading, there read, “I KNOW WHO YOU ARE … If you try to steal my scrap steel again you will be arrested.” It turns out the person who put that announcement in is the landlord of the newspaper office. He’s what Alaskans would call a ‘sourdough’ – a crusty, old man who’s lived here his whole life.

Since actually moving here and writing for the paper, I’ve stopped reading it. When the delivery comes Thursday morning, I’ll grab a copy, look through it quickly to see if my articles are there, and that’s about it. I don’t read the items that amused me a couple of months ago when I was reading them in New York. At water aerobics last night, I was reminded about the how funny the police report is when someone told me how she calls her sister in the lower 48 to read it to her. Here are some items from the Police Report from our January 5 issue:

Monday, December 19
-Trespass: Report of a woman telling another not to come onto her property any more.
-Obscene phone calls: Report of obscene phone calls being made to the local bars, under investigation.
-Phone trace: Report of a man receiving threatening phone calls and requested a trace be placed on his phone. Under investigation.
Tuesday, December 20
-Phone trace: Obscene phone calls at Brig Bar.
Wednesday, December 21
-Vehicle in roadway: Vehicle does not run and is halfway in the street. Trying to assist owner in moving it.
-Caller stated they are having problems with a renter not paying rent. Officer suggested they go through the court.
Thursday, December 22
-Citizen assist: Caller reported seeing a lot of smoke coming from a boat at Reliance Dock. Officer responded and found a woodstove on a small boat.
Friday, December 23
-Suspicious circumstance: Report of person yelling “help,” just kids playing around.
-Possible juvenile party: Report of a party with approximately 45 juveniles drinking. Search and Rescue was requested to assist in shuttling persons from the cabin which was located on the Spur Road.
-Traffic Stop/trespass warning: Verbal warning given to driver for being at the shooting range after dark.
Saturday, December 24
-Criminal trespass: Call from the Marine stating a man was refusing to leave, man left before officer arrived.
Sunday, December 25
-Noise disturbance: Report of a man repeating “Ho-Ho-Ho” loudly outside a residence on Case Avenue, man was gone before officer arrived. (*Personal favorite)
-Disturbance/suspicious circumstance: Possible intoxicated persons making noise outside an apartment building, officer gave courtesy transport home.
Tuesday, December 27
-Citizen assist: Officer observed open door on a vehicle and items strewn about the inside of the vehicle. Owner contacted and all was okay, he just left the vehicle that way.
-Citizen assist: Request for an officer to stand-by while a woman checked on an elderly woman who was not answering her phone or yells at the door. She was okay, just sleeping hard.
-Citizen assist/courtesy transport: Report of a couple walking on the Spur Road that had vehicle trouble. Officer gave them a ride to a relative’s house so they could get some gas for their vehicle.
Thursday, December 29
-Suspicious persons: Report of two male juveniles running from the area of Salvation Army Church. Males were just leaving a sleepover.
Friday, December 30
-Suspicious person: Officer observed a person walking out from the area of the dog pound. The person was looking for wood to cut.
-Suspicious person: Three persons at the end of the Spur Road by the gate appeared suspicious, however they were just changing the brake fluid on a vehicle.
-Emotionally disturbed person/citizen assist: Report of a woman acting disoriented in several businesses downtown.
-Theft: Report of a sign stolen from Stikine Drug, under investigation.
Saturday, December 31
-Criminal trespass/911: Call from the Marine asking for an officer because a man refused to leave. Gone on arrival.
-Citizen assist: Report of a woman crying for help. Woman was intoxicated trying to get into her residence, all okay.

Gold Pages

AP&T (Alaska Power & Telephone) has just come out with their new yearly 'Gold Pages.' It's a telephone directory of most of the towns in Southeast -- Allakaket, Dry Creek, Juneau, Kake, Pelican, Port Protection, Whale Pass, among many others. Just to give you an idea of how small Wrangell is, I'll tell you how many pages in the phone book we take up -- three and a quarter; six and a quarter front and back. Juneau and its vincinity take up the most pages in the book. Towns, or more appropriately villages, like Healy Lake, Kasaan, Edna Bay, Dot Lake, and Dry Creek only take up a quarter to a half of a page. Pretty insane, huh?

No One Would Ever Win a Fashion Award

I just came back from a community meeting regarding healthcare in Wrangell. As one can guess, there was a lot to say, a lot of questions, some answers, a lot of complaints, the urgent need to know that something will get done. As I sat in on the meeting and heard their concerns, it dawned on me that I have started to truly care about these people, about their fates, about the fate of Wrangell in general. Since I came in as a reporter, I came in as an observer, someone who listens and tries to report back what I hear, what I try to understand. I’m oftentimes holding a recorder, taking notes, behind a camera – I’m never quite part of it completely. But I am getting there. Despite these extra objects, or perhaps because of them, I am becoming part of this community. People have asked me and I tell them, I came to Wrangell by choice. I want to be here.

The last town community I’ve been part of was when I lived in Chappaqua. I was part of a college community at Trinity and when I worked at Lingnan, but that is different as it’s shaped around academics. I spent 18 years in Chappaqua, born and raised, and didn’t leave until I went to college. A childhood in that town is one I would never trade and the older I get, the more I realized how extremely fortunate I was.

With that said, I have to admit, Chappaqua was very image conscious, extremely so. In our high school, Horace Greeley, we had this thing about mid-term and finals time. Since we didn’t have classes or full days of school and were only taking tests that we’d been cramming for, students came to school wearing attire that was less casual than normal, comfortable clothes for a stressful time. But the thing was, the majority of students still cared very much about how they appeared, even in sweats (or more likely stretchy pants for girls). The same amount of time, if not more, went into an outfit that was supposed to give off the image of not caring. It was quite amusing and ridiculous. And I’m sure this happened in surrounding high schools and others nationwide – I don’t claim we were specifically neurotic. This type of consciousness wasn’t just among the adolescent, underage crowd. We picked it up from our surroundings, from our parents.

There is zero evidence of this in Wrangell. Surrounding me tonight was a lot of flannel and baseball caps, a man in overalls, women with unmanicured nails, with unmade faces. There was no noisy click click of highheeled leather boots. This would never be a description of a town meeting in Chappaqua. Never. Despite appearances, one could never accuse Wrangell of not caring enough. There just happens to be no room for trendy, no time.

At funerals here even – I’ve been told – while some people will show up in dark suits and dark outfits, the majority of those attending will be wearing rubber boots, jeans, the clothes they wore to work that day. And no will accuse these people of being rude or disrespectful.

It’s usually too exhausting to strip away all that layering, all the extra work one puts into looking good, all the fuss. In Chappaqua, some people – not all – were packages. They came wrapped in pretty bows. In Wrangell, what you see is what you get.

I wonder what they see when they see me. And I wonder, if I’ve begun to care about them, have they begun to care about me?

Tent City?

One of my stories for the Sentinel this week is going to be on the Chamber of Commerce not sponsoring Wrangell's Tent City Festival this year. I have no clue what Tent City is so I looked at last year's coverage of it. According to Megan Melton (the reporter at the time), the Tent City Fesitival celebrates "Wrangell's rough and rowdy past." Ok... Upon further reading of the article I learned the origins of Tent City. Wrangell apparently played host to hundreds of miners during the 19th century who came here to strike it rich during the gold rushes. Since there wasn't sufficient housing for everyone, people set up tents. These miners established Wrangell as a real town.

The first Tent City Festival took place in Wrangell January 25-27, 1980 and the competitions were beer drinking, beard growing, Tall Tale telling, and a Home Arts Fair. I found some of the competitions and activities for last year's Tent City quite amusing:
Bed Races (wheels are attached to a bed frame and are raced in the street)
Cribbage Tournament
Pool Tournament
Women's Sexy Leg Contest (Shapliest, Stubbiest, Skinniest, Fattest Calf, Most Muscular)
Men's Ugly Leg Contest (Knobbiest Knee, Harriest, Skinniest, Fattest Calf, Most Muscular, Smoothest)
Beard Judging (Softest, Longest, Shortest, Scraggliest, Sexiest)
Sud Drinking (the suds used to be beer but for insurance reasons the suds changed to something non alcoholic)

Errands

Just had one of those midday excursions from work that I absolutely love. When the sun shines on Wrangell, there is nothing better and if I had a camera with me, I’d want to capture every corner. Even the post office with the totem pole in front was picturesque. I would serve well as proof of how much the weather affects one’s mood – the sun feeds you. When the sun is out in Wrangell, the idea of falling in love with Alaska, the idea of falling in love in general, doesn’t seem that far off.

Going to the bank here, an errand that has, for most of my life, always been done in a rush (what errands aren’t done in a rush? It seems that the definition of the word would contain the phrase ‘done when one is in a rush’), has become one of leisure and conversation. I realized that early on when I attempted to make my first two visits to the bank take under ten minutes each and failed horribly. I recall being a bit annoyed during my first visit but that disappeared quickly when the clerk who had opened my account ran home and came back to give me a welcome gift of fresh fish. At my second visit, it quickly dawned on me that the woman in front of me wouldn’t hurry up her small talk with the teller no matter how much I willed it in my mind. And once it was finally my turn at the teller, there was no way to not answer her questions politely, fully, and eagerly. I learned it then, there is no such thing as being in a rush in Wrangell. Life is slower and happily so.

Afterward I went to the post office where everyone in town must go to get their mail – all P.O. boxes, no mailboxes at the end of your driveway, no mailman. I guess that’s a sign of a small town. Some years ago, the town supposedly voted on whether or not they wanted proper mailboxes and they voted against it. If you have to go to the post office to pick up mail, you’re bound to see other people and you’re bound to talk to them. Going to the post office becomes a social outing of sorts.

I have a key for my box. It’s a throwback to Trinity days, except we had a code for those boxes. In fact, in other ways, this town with a population of 1,800 seems like a small college campus. When you give someone your number (a landline number – the majority of Wrangellites have not converted to a mobile lifestyle), you give your four-digit extension. Up until 1992, all you had to do was dial those four digits when calling someone else. There was no need for the 874. Likewise, when you give your address, you merely give the number of your box. But, unlike college where in-campus mail was circulated without the need of a stamp, if you post something to someone in town, you still have to put postage on it, which seems silly to me. I put a letter in the box and I know someone is just picking it up and walking a few feet to deliver it in someone’s box. I don’t even think they stamp it with the date or anything.

My number is 4350. My address is 1260.