The Treasurer

I just performed my first duty as treasurer for Little League Baseball – I wrote a check for $1,776 for the charter and insurance.

Yes, I am the treasurer for Wrangell’s Little League Baseball program. I know, it’s pretty random as I don’t have any children in Little League; I don’t have any children at all. And while I do like baseball, I realized last year I couldn’t work up any desire to watch the Little League games as it was raining almost everyday of the season.

My co-worker, Beth (who has nine children ranging in ages 4 – 20) asked if I wanted to be treasurer. After she assured me it didn’t involve much work or going to the games, I said ok.

Then I went to the first meeting, which lasted an hour and a half, and found out that being the treasurer means being on the board. So, I’m on the Little League board. I get to say things like, “I second that,” which is actually pretty gratifying considering all of the meetings I’ve had to sit through this past year and a half where I haven’t said one word, let alone make decisions.

When Deanna, the past treasurer, stopped by my office yesterday to drop off the treasurer items, her arms were a lot more filled than I had anticipated. Instead of the one checkbook and a ledger, there was a whole file case of papers, two ledgers, a huge checkbook, and superfluous other items that look a bit scary.

Maria was, and still is, angry when she heard what I had done, as she knows she will bear the brunt of my complaining. She wonders why I get myself involved like this. I know I probably will complain and wonder why I committed myself, but I won’t wonder why I got myself involved.

Well, I better run and hang up some fliers for Little League registration which, have I mentioned, is taking place at the Wrangell Sentinel office on a Saturday afternoon. Gulp.

The Con

Apparently, every few years the people of Wrangell become divided over some big issue. Some theorize that that’s our downfall, why the town will never really progress or get out of it’s economic down spiral. The community will always pull together for various tragedies – when a fisherman dies and leaves behind a wife and three kids, when a triple-murder suicide leaves multiple families emotionally devastated – but for the most part Wrangellites are a little pigheaded. They have this remarkable ability to fight ardently against each other in council chambers, but then drink together at the Elks. This vicious cycle of political strife slows down any number of projects and I begin to question the validity of the public process (not that I’d ever think it was wrong. It’s just that if you had to sit through 37 public testimonials that lasted four hours, you’d begin to doubt the sense and logic in it).

Since November the town of Wrangell has been polarized over issues involving a major fish processor in town. On Wednesday night, at around 11:28, it came to an end. The city is officially a major shareholder of a private local business, a non-voting shareholder at that. Doesn’t sound right, does it? I’ll write about the final outcome for next week’s paper but then it’s kind of odd to think that I might not be writing about it every week, that new information won’t be coming forth everyday, that the investigative digging will cease. Regardless of whether I think the city made the right choice, I should be breathing a sigh of relief.

But I still get this sneaking suspicion that in months to come, a certain individual will mysteriously leave on the ferry in the middle of the night, armed with a few million dollars, and never return.

Where I Rest

For the past five months, and going into my sixth, I’ve been a squatter, in the non-illegal sense that is. Me, along with three others. We’ve taken over the care and habitation of a house whose owners only use it six months out of the year. In Wrangell, and probably elsewhere, they’re called snowbirds – those who flee during the harder, colder months. Although, Wrangell – at least while I’ve been here – never ever properly heats up.

The four of us live and sleep and eat and bathe in rooms that are pre-furnished, pre-characterized. With only a few items out to call our own – what’s the use in unpacking too much, moving the established furniture around too much, when we’re going to have to repack so soon – we’ve somehow made a spot for ourselves, a dwelling, in someone else’s home.

There are a few amazing things about the arrangement – the obvious being no rent, just utilities; the wood stove that has used up more cords of wood then we originally anticipated; the constant company – I haven’t had a roommate, let alone three, since freshman year in college. But the best feature of all is that in this house that I’ve been living in for the past five months, when I go to bed, my head rests by a wall, and on the other side of this wall, maybe 10 yards away, is the ocean. So when I fall asleep and when I wake up in the middle of the night and fall back asleep, I hear the ocean. I do. I hear the ocean lapping against the shore, the tide retreating, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to be a squatter.