It's that time of the year when bears are everywhere. Thirteen-year-old A.C. Darden who comes and stays with us frequently told me that the day before she came to visit there was a black bear down on the dock at the nearby village. Fortunately there aren't that many tourist vessels in yet and the summer people are still sparse so there was no interaction.
My dad, A.C.'s brother, and I went over to work on the dam a few days ago and found that a bear had been there, too. While I was gone the bear had ripped the pump off the dam and chomped into almost every piece of plastic around, including oil jugs and the container we use to prime the pump. Fortunately he didn't bite the pump itself, or the waterline. He did carry off our can of ether, though, that we use to get the balky pump engine started. I pictured him passed out somewhere in the woods after puncturing the can.
Apparently, though, it didn't keep him down for long--either that or there's another bear around--because two days ago my dad saw a black bear near the beach that has a good signal, where I go to send my blog posts.
Not wanting to make the bear's acquaintance, even though I go everywhere with a .44 strapped to my hip these days, I've decided to just send off this short blog post explaining why my longer post about my trip back from Juneau will be delayed--it's on a bear hold.
(If you want to read about what took me to Juneau and the trip up there here's a link to my column that talks about it: http://juneauempire.com/capitalcityweekly/ccw-columns/2018-05-23/alaska-real: wilderness-nanny-interrupted.)
Sorry for the shortness of this post, but I have to use as few photos as possible so it will send from my house. I'm willing to brave deep snow, gales, and pouring rain to send off blog posts, but I'm not willing to face this:
An early memory that I treasure and often revisit is of when I was about eight years old and I was staying with my grandparents at their cabin in Meyers Chuck on a dark fall or winter day. It was overcast, windy, and raw outside. The water was a dark, angry grey, slapping at the boats moored at the dock across the harbor and rocking them, making the bells on the tops of the trolling poles ring out. Inside the house the wood stove was crackling and a pot of fragrant coffee perked on top of it. My grandparents were quietly reading books and exchanging comments while I was curled up on the couch coloring.
The waxy smell of the crayons, the rough texture of the paper in the coloring book about fairytales, the picture of a young man attempting to strike a flint stone and my grandmother's explanation of what a flint stone was and why it had been so important--she knew that as a bush kid I'd appreciate the need for fire in heating, cooking, and lighting--all come back to me in a flood of warmth accompanied by a deep sense of security.
It's not a lone memory. My mom always loved coloring and she brought us kids up to color alongside her, particularly during those cold, dark days when we couldn't play outside. I have many memories of all of us grouped around the table or on the floor with the stove emanating heat and an audiotape playing The Lost World or Wind in the Willows as we shared stubby, broken crayons, squabbling over whose turn it was to use the peach or sky blue.
We were in perpetual awe at my mom's intricate coloring and asked her how we could color like she did. Her reply was always the same, "It's just practice. The more you do the better you get at it."
We all tried, but I don't think any of us ever really believed we'd be as good as she was. And, to be honest, we never did attain to her level. Her ability to put light and shadow into a bland, flat drawing, to bring people and images vibrantly to life, is, in my opinion, without parallel. Many was the time I'd give up coloring for the greater pleasure of watching a scene come to life under her skillful fingers.
All of the children who have stayed with us get hooked on the joys of coloring. Twelve-year-old A. C. Darden, who visits us regularly and spends summers with us (along with her brother), asked if we'd get her a coloring book based on the Archie comics, her favorite reading material. We were able to do so and when she visits us in these cold days she takes pleasure in spending quality time with Archie, Betty, Veronica, Jughead, and Reggie in summery Riverdale.
"What's your favorite part of coloring?" I asked her.
"The colors," she said firmly.
My mom said she'd have to agree. "It's all about the colors. I can remember the very first picture I colored," she added. "I was about three, I think. It was of a chicken and an egg. I remember trying really hard to get the colors just right and I must have colored it really well--I think I was shading even then--because the adults all raved about it."
With that kind of validation, not common from adults to children when she was growing up, she became addicted to coloring, and not just for the pleasure of it.
Long before the current adult coloring book fad, before therapists found out the soothing qualities of coloring and recommended it to their patients, my mom always turned to her coloring books whenever she was going through a stressful time (being often entirely alone in the wilderness with five kids, for example), and especially when she's coping with Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Dr. Nicki Martinez, Psy.D., LCPC, writing for The Huffington Post, says that "There are many times when I suggest adult coloring books to patients and they look at me like perhaps we should be switching seats. However, time and again, they come back to me and tell me how beneficial they find them to be. Many psychologists and therapists 'prescribe' these to patients for various reasons, and many occupational therapists presribe them as well!"
As additional good news--my mom is always worrying that she's on the verge of complete cognitive disintegration--Dr. Martinez also maintains that "coloring has intellectual benefits as well. It utilizes areas of the brain that enahance focus and concentration. It also helps with problem solving and organizational skills. This may sound strange, and like perhaps the usefulness is being stretched, but it is all true. Our frontal lobes are responsible for these higher level activities and functions of the brain, and coloring detailed pictures activates all those properties."
Plus, she adds: "Coloring utilizes both hemispheres of the brain, right and left. When we are thinking about balance,color choices, applying colored pencil to paper, we are working on problem solving and fine motor skills."
My sister, Megan. A Duncanson, a world-renowned artist, created her own coloring book titled "In the Garden." (Available at Amazon and elsewhere.) In the front matter she wrote a dedication to my mom, saying, "She raised my four siblings and me to appreciate the arts and we would spend endless hours coloring in stacks upon stacks of coloring books as children. It was one of the most memorable and enjoyable parts of my childhood growing up in the remote bush of Alaska."
I feel the same way, and, in fact, I'm getting the urge to pick up a coloring book and start coloring to ward off the cold and short days of winter.
Note: A version of this story appeared previously in Capital City Weekly.
I once had a kid's book rejected by a New York editor who insisted that my description of teenagers running around in T-shirts in Alaska in the middle of summer was unrealistic. Everyone knew it was far too cold in Alaska to EVER wear T-shirts. I explained that I'd lived in Alaska for most of my life and I knew from first hand experience that T-shirts were common wear at all times of the year here. She refused to believe it.
It's too bad I couldn't have sent her these pictures of fifteen-year-old Julian, who's been staying with us for the last week, wearing shorts in below freezing weather. Our first walk of his visit took place during a storm with 70 mph winds with the temperature at around 29 degrees F. The windchill was brutal.
At his blank refusal to put some pants on, I took him over to the beach that has southern exposure. It was a clear day and with the trees blocking the wind and the sun shining on us we were ready to break out the tanning lotion.
Looking at the frothing strait, Julian said, "I knew the waves were big, but I didn't realize they were THAT big." We watched as a large ship of some sort on the other side of the strait was hammered by giant seas. It was cloaked in spray, explosions of white water continually bursting at its bow.
Both of us were glad we weren't on board and said as much.
"Do you see that line of white going all the way down the strait that looks like haze or smoke?" I asked him. "The wind is blowing so hard that it's whipping the tops of the waves into the air and that's a curtain of spray."
Julian looked at it silently and for a moment I didn't think he heard me. Then he said, "Wow! We live in an amazing place."
The beach we were on was speckled white with quartz, which I showed him, and told him quartz could sometimes be an indication of gold. Instantly, Julian was infected with gold fever. He hunted down large rocks with veins of quartz in them, lifted them over his head and crashed them down onto bigger rocks hoping to break one open on a nugget of gold. It didn't work out the way he fantasized, but it was good exercise.
On our next walk, with him still insisting on shorts despite no warming of the temperature, I led him to a comparatively protected beach. "What's that?" he exclaimed, pointing at an alien looking artifact.
"The wall of a boat that wrecked," I said.
He investigated it more closely and I added, "You're standing where the pilot house door used to be. Look at that, you can see wiring still on the wall."
He shook his head and continued to circle around it. He'd watched or read something about the Titanic recently and he was impressed to find himself face to face with the remnant of another wreck.
We headed on down the beach toward a towering cliff with trees on top of it. "Look," I said, "a tree blew down." It was lying on the beach, its foliage still fresh and green.
Julian studied it. "Did it break?"
"No, it was uprooted." I showed him where its roots had been torn away from its cliff top perch.
During our most recent walk, Julian still in his shorts, we were graced with a gorgeous day. The strait was a deep rich blue, practically Mediterranean--looking, that is. Neither of us was tempted to swim in it. We hiked around some rocks and came across a field of gravel that the tide was swiftly claiming. It was apparently the favorite haunt of land otters--I found two giant sea urchin shells that the otters had left behind after having made a meal of the urchins inside them.
Julian searched diligently, and spotted a couple shells the same size as mine under the water. He waded out to retrieve them, nearly going over his boots. He carried them back triumphantly, knowing to be very careful with them. They crumble easily.
"I wonder how they eat the sea urchins without breaking the shells?" he marveled. "They're so fragile."
We lined them up on a log and I took a picture of them. Who knows what treasures we'll discover in our next walk?
Tara Neilson (ADOW)