Trio in May

In May

The evening hums on wings designed to hover and travel in reverse
Breathe in the chill and sap rising
Wonder

The Song of a Green-belly Appetite

Two stand on the river flat and call; insistent, purposeful and loud enough that spring avalanches are only background rumble. Eight bodies with four bellies each and I'm the goatherd, happy only two are sheep.

Hooky Herd

The electric wire is strung, a request that you remain there while my attention and love are fastened over here.
Wait..., I love you more. So-long, rhubarb crown. We're away.
~ Dear, tonight, the milk carries the fragrance of willowherb.~

 

Happy in the Garden

The sweet intimacy of the last month has been superb. Our four Obie-goat kids have learned to cross streams, browse on tiny willow leaves and climb the steep forested hillsides with the adult herd and Mason and I. We have several bowers for resting where the little ones crawl into my lap, (though more than one can no longer fit.) We each get to nibble on the uncurling fiddlehead fern, twisted stalk, and purple shoots of fireweed. Happily, the mosquitoes aren't up and running--yet.

Before I invite the critters to join me, I groom each trail through the deep woods. While sorting broken branches and lightly raking the path I found the wild beauty of Violets, fragile and fleeting, peeking from beneath a shadowy bolder. The cold cloud cover today will keep them hidden and shy but perhaps tomorrow I can capture an image.

Tomorrow we begin milking again. I figure the day after The End of Days is a great time to start such a delight. Jackquie's fresh cheese next week!

Right now I'm inside loving the Spring Planting Show on A Prairie Home Companion, via WNYC FM. We're too far out the highway for our beloved KHNS FM. While the cast is taking time to put their northern gardens in and the repairs to a 1978 Winnebago satellite transmitter are completed, (Summer Love Tour 2011? Let's go!), Garrison Keillor is sharing a high spirited Spring compilation. So, though I'm cleaning the chicken coop this evening, right now I practicing my dance moves in heels.

What can I say? It's spring.

There's no help for me. Springtime makes me soft.  I yearn for intense warmth in steady abundance and this year, I'm in luck.

The older barn residents and I are taking part in the education of four new- comers, born a week ago. Mama Jackquie, a six year old Oberhasli grandmother, gave birth to two little does and two baby bucks. This week, there's innocence, beauty and a whole lot of laughs springing around on sixteen gangly legs.

Our garden variety sheep offered up a tremendous amount of beautiful fleece, as well. I'm busy carding, dying, and felting small things.

Like I said, there's no help.

A Sere Abundance

January was feathered in furry courtship. Now, two days after a late Easter, the forest is bursting with life. We’re springing in snowshoes across a network of buried ice-clad alder at the base of the cliffs. It’s warm enough to get down to our sweaters, Levis and boots.

Micah chooses a gentle climbing route. Green and burgundy shoots poke up along with signs that most of these early plants are being munched on. We pass a tousled bolder and an exposed root system: icy, moist and musky, telling of a larger appetite.

Sunlight glints off a limbed nest in the crown of a hemlock, two hundred feet up the hillside where three eggs were hatched. Hatched, or are the broken shells from eggs that have been abandoned, a reluctant offering, a snack for an array of flying or tree climbing predators, those who work tirelessly to feed many tiny mouths? On bold legs, fuzzy babies will totter a small advance beyond the warmth of the covey to paw, and claw, learn to snap sharp teeth and snatch sustenance with stealth. We spot feathers, tufts of fur and bone.

This is Micah’s last spring at home. The first born of three is ready to explore a larger life than the magnificence that surrounds him. I recall our earliest time together. Late at night his vitality was so great his tiny body would vibrate with anticipation. A rugged lifestyle was essential for him to grow up well. Now he’s ready. And-- I’m still getting in shape.

Our steady progress up the hill brings us to an outcropping of rock, covered with crunching orange lichen. Dropping our packs and stripping away the sweaters, we pause for a snack.

“I like your backyard, Bochart.”

“Yea, this has been one hell of a place to grow up, Mom. The freedom and ongoing inspiration has made me ready to learn about other places. I’m thinking East Coast as a base for a few years while working, going to school and traveling. I have to see parts of Africa and South America, and I’ve become really interested in South East Asia.”

Below, the glacial valleys are drenched in sunlight. The entire universe is thawing today releasing the sweet smell of a freshened earth.

“My love, wherever you go you’ll bring life and a bright new perspective. Now, THAT’S a mom talking!”

Across the ravine, we spot a brown bear and her new cub at work finding twisted stalk and fireweed shoots. At the base of a fallen spruce the young mother digs shoulder deep to harvest an ant colony while the little one examines her toes.

She’s aware of our presence. We’re compatible.

(Personal history written as an exercise for the class, Klukwan Writing.)

The Dance

Spring is Weighing In

The wind and cold are biting through everything but wool. Still, promises of warmer days are present in each of the garden starts from little green broccoli snipplets to cabbage, cauliflower, delphinium and phlox. Increased light and that compressed sense of 'gittin it ALL going', multiplies around 4 a.m., minutes after the moon sets below the mountain tops. The waxing energy is intoxicating.

The sheep are ready for spring. Winter was so dry that those with fur are still dealing with itchy skin. The ewes are attempting to rub their abundant coats off before the weather warms. Anything with an edge offers relief; the loft ladder, keyhole stanchions or low hinges on the stall. Following a fresh start for the woolly ones, the arrival of this spring's baby goats will occur. I'm going to be a barn maid this week. If it was a bit warmer, moonbeams through the hayloft window would be enticing.

Instead, it's time to build a fire in the woodstove. I'll watch tonight's sky cozy-ed up in front of the sliding glass door. Join me?

(The cottonwood and willow tops are wearing a greenish-yellow flush. The Fair Light Review couldn't resist donning a similar look. Now, if I could just catch that fragrance, both to wear and share here. I'll keep trying.)

As the Snow Melts

Mountain goat wool, drying in a cool spring breeze, ready for spinning.

Hightop moccasins made from native tanned deer and Klehini Valley felt, wool from the sheep at 39 Mi.

Exploring the otherside

Mason shows Okum and Young Bear (YB) the ropes.

Of Peas and Pods

“Claude Revenaugh was first a cowboy then one of Teddy’s Rough Riders and a merchant marine. He married late and then I came along. We tried working the land with teams of horses but the caked dirt was used up, limp sac-clothe. He dreamed of starting over in Alaska.”

Horizontal rain pummeled, flexing the loose window casings. My thoughts scrambled through lists for tomorrow’s classes when the dozy, old husk caught a second wind:

“The last ten years of his life he repaired automobile batteries. Kept a moderately lucrative business alive during the Great Depression. He was a big man, nearly as big as you. Great White Hunter type. Saw me as timid, a Mama’s boy, I suppose. ‘Hold the reins. Turn them, now, hold’em!’ Christ, I had nothing to prove.”

I can’t leave him stuck in the recliner, alone, but I’ve got to get to bed. Ivy will stay up visiting. He’s traveled to Alaska to say good-bye, accompanied by his eighty-three year old mother. The flight attendants who assisted the pair worried that one or the other might die before leaving the plane. Neil and I carried him, fireman-style, up eighty-seven slippery stairs from the street to the front door. Grandma was ready to go fishing. It’s been a long week.

“Were you in the service? No, I suppose you’re smarter than that. The war offered a lot of guys the chance to get the hell out, myself included, though once I was in, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Uncle Sam paid for a college education, and a chance to see the Pacific from a mine sweeper. I was a sonar man.”

He’ll hold you in a web of story for several hours, cover the most abstract subjects; politics, religion, modernist social strata, literature, backed by vivid accounts of the people involved. Then, ask suddenly if you’ve been formally introduced. It takes getting used to. Like body surfing.

Ivy leaned in from the dining room, kissed her poppa on the head and pulled a recorder from her robe, magician style.
“I’m holding the best friend a journalist ever had, primed with fresh tape to document the evening. What do you say, Revenaugh?”

“Well, Daughter, they tell me I’m dying of cancer and the disease is effecting my short-term memory, (hard on a reporter.)
There’s some concern I may not make the trip home to my companion of the last few years (we’ll see if I still hold influence with the airlines.) I’m honored to be with you, always, and I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, (if he’d be so kind as to remind me who the hell he is.)”

Ivy winked. April Fools

The Bridge

Patches of Blue

I marvel at the trees so heavily endowed with cone there's no way for them to stand under all that potential. Hemlock, spruce and scattered patches of pine, droop. From a distance, the entire forest is rusted over. Pepper-birds, chirpy siskins, filling the airwaves with music, harvesting cone across gray, white and charcoal hills. Rust never sleeps. The woods ring with thrush and robin.

Mornings, I'm filling seed containers with home grown starter mix and though I wake to a skiff of ice, rain, or snow each morning, the late afternoons peak around 60°. Planting never fails to offer that sorely needed jolt, "Pick it up, Girl! There's a lot of living to do."

I grieve the end of winter. I adore snowshoe scrambling across the hillsides, making camp with a book and journal; watching, listening, conjuring. This winter pushed hard with deep, continuous cold and terrific wind, breaking deadwood from the trees, sculpting the mountains and snow across the river flats. Hooked into and surrounded by such a force helps keep perspective.

This year many peers from our community took quick and permanent departure. My friend, Garrison Keillor said about writing eulogies, something like, "if I start now, where would I quit?" I walk with mental recitations of good times spent in and around valley residents who've died and all of us left holding.

It helps considerably that I'm married to the idea of new starts being hatched from rich, old material, including break-up come spring. My winter bridge across the Klehini gave way around midnight. The rush of water soaked snow and ice, suddenly running free, filled the night air with green sweetness.

We traveled up to Anchorage last week to pay a visit to old friends and take advantage of the state's positron emission tomography scan for Merrick; a PET Scan.
Happened also to be Fur Rondy, the kick-off celebration of sled dog race season.

It was terribly cold and windy.

The scan showed what we expected and hoped for. The large tumor has been dissolved. Chemo treatment around the world, operating like lounge centers for those fortunate enough to have medical funding, are finding ways to chemically halt the rogue cell production of some cancers.

The way in which people turned out to raise funds for Merrick's treatments still stuns me in the middle of the night. Our community has had many cases of cancer; many who survive and many who don't. We should all be able to have affordable health care and enjoy the love and support of friends and neighbors.

And, the loving support to die well.

I'm watching for signs of spring. Much longer days are making their presence known. Somewhere, beneath the snow, the rhubarb is turning blood red.

I've been away and guess who's watching the 'stead?

The Hayman

A reliable presence for small farms through out the Chilkat/Klehini Valley has taken leave this week and won't be making his usual round of deliveries.

Merv Armstrong of Haines Junction (more precisely, Dezdeash Lake, YKT.), died Mon. February 7th of a stroke. Merv operated his Hay Ranch at the lake for most of the last thirty years, supplying the region with a sweet mix of natural and Siberian grasses.

Our friends Bob and Margaret Andrews passed along this info for those hoping to pay their tributes. A celebration of Merv Armstrong's life will be on Friday, February 18, from 12 noon to 3p.m. at the Haines Junction Convention Center.

We'll miss the regular 'toot' on your way past, Merv.

Bob also gave me an introduction to JEFF LOWENFELS and his recent gardening articles in The Anchorage Daily News. I'm still such a newbie to the internet that I was thrilled to find such a great resource on Alaskan Gardening, so neatly bundled together. Thanks Mr. and Mrs. A.

So, here's to friends and gardens, and all matters in transition.

(looking down stream on the Dezdeash River ~ from Autumn 2010)

(a low snow year for the little barn and it's occupants)

Joan Dye Gussow

This morning I've spent time wading through my own archival tsunami that I've intended to pull from someday.
The effort's been brought on by three things. The passing of one full year of being home in the Klehini Valley (after being gone two years to help care for our mom through her passing last February). I'm taking a U of A writing course in Klukwan this spring (always an excellent catalyst to dredge). And, third... I'm a woman of a certain age (be forewarned, I'm looking at creating photo albums with paper, glue and thirty years worth of images next! Every family has it's archivist. Ours moved to NYC!).

From today's inbox, ~via~ Matter Daily Bookstore and Review, I was introduced to Joan Dye Gussow. Gussow's work is published and reviewed here by Chelseagreen Books covering some of my most cherished topics, particularly backyard homesteading. She's an eloquent thinker with dirt beneath her fingernails.

This fine video interview is on the topic of her new book, 'Growing, Older'.
For those of us with "out the highway DSL", start the film, allow it to download while it's on pause, continue to explore elsewhere with another page, then, when you return, drag the slide bar back to begin viewing. Patience is... well, y'know the drill.

She's smart, provocative, and compassionate about becoming real. If you take the time to watch, I'd be interested in hearing what you're thoughts are.



I'm calling Babbling Book Store this afternoon to order, then share.

Spring Classes Begin in Klukwan, Alaska

A variety of very popular art courses are being offered through the University of Alaska, SE. this spring in Klukwan Indian Village.

Last week, Jennie Wheeler instructed classes in high-top moccasins and skin sewing. Jennie comes to us from Yakutat, Ak. She says she always looks forward to teaching in Klukwan, the village where her mother and grandmother were from.

Twelve students, both adolescents and adults, completed beautiful knee-high boots and regular cut moccasins adorned with a variety of fur and leather. No two pair were alike. A number of the younger students met with us mornings before school and late in the evenings. When finished, the kids proudly wore their completed fancy footwear back to their regular classes.

Josie and her mocs.

Excited adults contemplated what their next projects might look like. Some will be offering their work through the Hospitality House ~ The Bentwood Box gift shop.

Carving, basketry and traditional woolen weaving classes will also further the local artists scope of marketable art.



Klukwan Writing with Daniel Henry is underway in the village.
The class is broken into two groups with considerable overlapping focus on both the practical writing skills that one might use with their job or community service position and a twelve week, over arching project designed by individual participants.
The work promises to be challenging while offering a chance to nurture local writers in a group setting.

The other classes and events in the village slated for the upcoming weeks will have a spotlight here at the Fair Light Review so be sure to check back on occasion.

And, as always... I'm interested in knowing what else is cooking in our community. If you'd like a column written about your activity, class or special performance, don't hesitate to contact me. I'm in the book!

Warmth, Chill, and Chits Abide

The month of January has been inspiring; deep cold, windy, lean, post-holiday inspiration. The homestead and art studio at 39 mile are rocking.

I tend two Oberhasli goats; a milking doe named Jackquie and her wethered son, Ivan. They share the barn with Anna Lise and Zoe our two garden variety ewes. The tiny hen house up the hill protects ten Golden Comet hens and their glorious gentle rooster, a giant Barred Rock named Capt. Kirk.

Through providing shelter, food, water and attention the birds and crits reward us with fresh milk, wool, meat, eggs and garden compost for our river-bottom garden beds. The added plus is the four-leggeds adore alder and eating additional brush (where they're allowed to browse) giving me the false notion of maintaining a bit of open space during the green explosion called summer in South East Alaska.

And ... they love to hike the back country; fording streams and negotiating the deep forest over logs and through the dense understory. They're fine companions who don't mind carrying a moderate load for the old lady.

This time of year however, Mason and I are the only two on the snowshoe trails.

Merrick's Okum-pup comes to visit every couple of weeks. He cranks up the tempo for the old guy and I. The little fella has been a bit house bound of late with this below zero front, however. It's the flesh slicing wind that makes one wonder if it's still the cat's meow living so far North.

For Okum, it's not the cat's meow but the resident squirrels that keep his attention. The little buggers have found access to the interior passage between the walls of my fiber studio and the kid is obsessed.

Honeyman Jeff, has located their various entry points and blocked them adequately, dangling atop the ladder on ice but two days later, the nesters are back. When Oakie is here he's able to ride herd and at least keep them off in the forest.

Pup is away this weekend. Guess who is warm today and ready to listen to A Prairie Home Companion down through the walls?

Merrick at play in the spin-cycle.

The show promises to be extraordinary and this week we get to welcome Sara Watkins as a guest host while Garrison watches from the wings. Enjoy!

P.S. Guy Noir was RED HOT today. Nearly abated my hunger for GK's regular articles which I miss so much. I've provided the pod snippet ~ it's great. Time to ante up my online subscription too.

Sara and her guests were a delight. Check out Abigail Washburn. Her claw-hammer banjo made my musical month complete!

A New Year's begun!

This has been a tremendous holiday season with friends and family (nearly the whole kitten-kaboodle as in one kaboodle, chock full of kits) plus fine food, and frolicking.

Hannah returned home from school just in time to help with five Geppetto's Junkyard performances of The Miracle of Life. The dinner theater was staged as a burlesque adaptation for actors, puppetry, and original music. I'll be writing more on this with the next update, but suffice it to say, it was a gas!

For Christmas dinner, Merrick cooked two mean (though happy) ducks, complete with stuffing and all the trimmings. We were also happily stuffed on Terry and Judy Jacobson's lefse and Caesar salad.

Micah and Jerin were missing but we kept close by phone. This is a picture taken during his recent SW trip.

Santa hired Handy Joe to surprise Merrick and Okum with a hand crafted freight sled.



We're settling into the nitty-grit of winter now, which I can't seem to get enough of though I pledge to offer a better update of pertinent news later this week.

A Happy New Year to all from 39 mile, Haines Highway.

Visitor from Afar 1948 ~ 1976

Each December 10, I offer a toast to our older brother, Mark Lee Revenaugh.

From The Fair Light Review

"It's Saturday, the band is playing..." Honeyman!

Take me to Town Hall... NYC!

My darling, Jeff, has helped to hook-up this beautiful little MacBook to the large sound system!

From The Fair Light Review

What a guy! Here's The News From Lake Woebegon from Nov.13, one Jeffe' would enjoy.

It's dumping great tonnages of white stuff, the living room floor is wide open; I'm dancing this afternoon!

From The Fair Light Review

Join me?

Sarah P. showed up in 'The Lives of The Cowboys' this afternoon. She's been put into safe keeping in the Museum of Natural History. If only!

Subscribe to A Prairie Home Companion podcasts here.

From The Fair Light Review

Online radio NCPR is now streaming River Walk Jazz, featuring John Hammond's brilliant career promoting and recording the jazz greats; Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, Benny Goodman..,etc.

It's a NYC kinda day, 39 miles north of Haines, Alaska!