A LOST ART

I received in the mail this week, believe it or not, a hand-written letter. This was not an oligatory thank you note for "the (fill in the blank) gift you gave us. I know we will use it a lot" No. This was a genuine 4-page piece of correspondence. There was nothing earth-shattering in the letter, just a hello and catching me up on her family's news.

In my recent letter, Patsy (the writer) shared with me about the camp we missed in eastern Oregon. Her best try for watermelon-seed spitting was just over 4 feet. She was whooped by a 10-year-old whose seed soared past 23 feet. There were photos from the camp: 1)tug-of-war, 2)beautiful sunset, and 3) look how my grandson has grown in one year. She purposely decided not to bring her needles and supplies for making pine needle baskets and, instead, brought a good book to read.

My Mother was a letter writer. For our 20 years in Alaska, Mother faithfully wrote me 2, 3, 5 times a week, sharing with me what she had seen at Gottschelks (her favorite store) or what she was fixing for dinner, or family news. Even after her death, I received two letters from her. Today is the anniversary of my father's death; he joined mother to their grave almost to the day one year later. I miss many things about my mother, but the greatest emptiness felt is evidenced each day when I open the mailbox.




Now, the reader may think that I am leading up to answering Patsy's letter with a pen-to-the-paoer letter from me, but that conclusion would be incorrect. At Christmas, I will send her one of our year-in-review newsletters,

WAXING NOSTALGIC...

I dare not speak how many years ago this day, I was ready to end the pregnancy. For only an elephant would have been expecting a child longer. It, like most of my stories these days, is a long one. Suffice it to say that, somewhere in the past year, I had had a miscarriage, and by the time the obstetrician detected that, I was pregnant again--also undetected.

Would this child be a little brother or a little sister for our firstborn? God only knew. We purposely took a bumpy ride up to Perseverance Theater to encourage the delivery. After all, another expectant friend (2 weeks past her due date) had announced to me that very day she was taking castor oil to induce her delivery. The race was on.

When my labor pains began, John and I ran for the phone book...not to call the doctor, but rather to come up with a boy's name. That's when the silliness started....but I won't bore my reader with that except to say that amidst all our giggles, the baby joined in...with the hiccups. The more bizarre the name, the harder the hiccup; the harder the hiccup, the more intense the nudge to be born.

Probably because in winter they needed to keep the steep hillside clear and sanded, parking was not allowed at the old Saint Ann Hospital. The climb from the block below took only moments. By the time, I was prepped for the delivery room, a chattering flash by my doorway returned to inform me "You better not be first!" In truth, I cannot say which of us delivered our baby girl first nor can I recall the family name. But somewhere in this world is a lady named Darian celebrating her birthday today.

And this day I will once again hold my daughter in my arms and remind her how very loved she is! And how much joy she has been in our lives.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICIA KAY.

LIGHTS ALONG THE SHORE.....

John and I just returned from a trip to the Washington coast; we spent time with three other Christian couples in a little-known RV park. After Friday's breakfast, John suggested he wanted to go into Westport to take pictures of boats. Everyone else decided to accompany him.

As we first entered the city limits, we spotted the top portion of a lighthouse towering over trees. Figuring that should lead us to some water, and perhaps boats, John turned left. However, when we approached the location, we could see that the lighthouse seemed to be in the middle of a forest. The road continued at least one-third of a mile with no water in sight. Turning around we did not stop to read the sign that was posted, so I drew my own conclusion (as I am prone to do). I decided it was not a real lighthouse but rather a restaurant or expresso structure.

Later, when the group decided to tour the local museum, I asked the lady who sold us tickets about the lighthouse in the woods not near the water. She told us the Grays Harbor Lighthouse is the tallest lighthouse in Washington State. It was built in 1898 and stood as a beacon for seamen for most of a century. However, silt from the Columbia River has changed the coastline, adding land in some places and subtracting land elsewhere. This structure of great pride is now more than half a mile from the shoreline. Later in our tour, we watched a video explaining the phenomenon further.

There is a hymn from my childhood (or maybe older) wherein God is our beacon, but we are the keepers of His lights along life's shore. Applying this natural phenomenon to life, I have been thinking about how each grain of sand that would distance one from the Father was so minute, no one would notice the change. I wonder how long and how far and how many grains of sand must accumulate before one realizes the perilous danger of being distanced from the Father. With the right equipment, one could dredge away the silt...but the better way is to live a pure and righteous life, unspotted from the world.

Sisters

Just when I sit back in my easy chair and sigh, "Life cannot possibly get any better than this." Hang on....because, once again, this roller-coaster ride called LIFE is about to reach a new peak.



Yesterday morning, following public worship, our oldest granddaughter (she will be the first to remind you that she is four minutes older than her sister) came to give me her usual hug. Or so I thought. However, this time, she whispered in my ear, "Memaw, I am going to be baptized today. My sister and I are!" Well, naturally, I assumed that they were going to avail themselves to using the new multi-dollar addition to the church building, but as I prepared to go to the front of the auditorium, her younger sister walked up to tell me that their choice of place for the re-birth (see Romans 6: 3-4 for starters) was the Columbia River.



Just before 7 on a beautiful, mostly cloudless evening, about 30-40 chirstians gathered on the banks of the Columbia River to witness the most important decision they will make in their lives.



Someone had thoughtfullly brought a few chairs for the event, and since I was not very steady on my feet, I sat down. I knew there was an alto singing beside me but gave little thought to who she might be, but after a couple of songs, I turned to see that the person holding my hand was my dear, dear friend of 38 years, co-owner of the trunk, and still the most beautiful lady I know. Since I was unable to maneuver the rocks that lay between my station and the dripping wet and happy girls, Joanne and I talked. I said, "There has been a lot of water under the bridge in 38 years."



Now I am thinking "There have been a lot of bridges over the water in that time." While we stayed in Juneau, they lived in Chile. In more recent years, she and I have shared the same bridge between Vancouver and Portland. Mostly, though we do not share the luxury of time we once shared. Our bond is eternal...for, we, too are sisters in Christ. And we now have two new young sisters. "Life just cannot possibly get any better than this."

A Long Way From Home

For the moment, let’s skip the report of getting to Eagle and our 10 days there. Let’s travel 3 miles South to Eagle Village on a dusty road which parallels the Yukon River.. There, we will find Charley Juneby’s House, or the community hall for the group of Athabaskan people – the Han Hwëch’in (pronounced Kwichin - with a little spit added in).

Most everyone knows that a potluck is an occasion when everyone brings a dish to share. A potlatch is the same thing except its purpose is to bring honor to someone. Postings in both Eagle and Eagle Village announced everyone was invited to honor Betty Wyatt at a potlatch on July 2nd. On July 1st, Joanne Beck came to our camper to discuss expectations.

The reason for the potlatch was two-fold. First, I wanted to present to Chief Marky the first several pages of Jessie’s photo album. The pictures on those pages are of Han youth in full regalia and of ancestors they have never seen. In 1975, a friend of mine took the photo album on a trip to Eagle and interviewed people who identified Jessie as well as other citizens. Second, it is important for the young people to witness such occasions.

At our preliminary meeting, Joanne asked if the pictures were framed, and I was happy to tell her that they had been beautifully mounted and framed. At that time, we also prepared her that we considered the photos to be a gift from Jessie, and we also wanted to present a gift from us. She said she would like to wait to see our gifts when presented.

In preparing me for the coming evening, Joanne said that after my presentation, a line would form to bring me gifts or hugs. She also said she did not know how many to expect but she knew of six from Dawson City and she thought there might be some from Fairbanks.

John and I arrived at Charley’s House shortly before the meal. Every Parkinson symptom I have experienced to that moment in time reared its ugly head for the occasion. After the wonderful meal, everyone gathered outside. John counted over 90 present so we figured 100 was a good guess. Young Chief Marky stood beside me as I shared my heart.

“In 2004, John and I came to Eagle to research the life of Jessie Fox Mather. Upon our arrival, we were invited to The Gathering which had been postponed because of fires in the region. We were shown around the property and went inside your church. When we came out, we walked to behind the church building.” At this time, I pointed to the huge bluffs across the Yukon River and stated, “When I looked at this scene, I felt I had been here many times before though I knew this was not possible. Then I realized that this was the exact place where some of the pictures of your ancestors were taken. It was not until we were ready to leave that I learned that Jessie’s possessions were a rarity. I apologize that it has taken me so long to present them to you.” Then John gave an eloquent speech, presenting the beautiful bent-wood, cedar box from Sitka.

After that, about 6 or 8 people lined up with gifts and hugs for me. Joanne’s aunt had made a lovely beaded necklace for me; it matched my clothing as though made for it; Joanne gave me foods she had canned, including salmon and “high bush,” and Carol Copeland presented to me a birch-bark basket which had been made by a lady from Eagle who had been taught the skills by Sarah, a Han master craftsperson. Of course, Carol waxed eloquent for her presentation. Then some of the heritage researchers from Dawson City presented a few gifts then demonstrated half a dozen songs and dances.

I think that I will never grasp the importance of the entire evening, but I know for certain that the pictures are in the right hands. To see them examine the notes from 1975 and see things I had never noticed even with a magnifying glass will live with me forever. And when I was visiting with a National Park Service employee from Fairbanks, I casually asked, “So, What brings you to Eagle? “His answer took me by surprise, “I came for this evening.”

The following day, Joanne Beck and two of the researchers from Dawson City came to visit. They talked of many things, but mainly they mentioned details they had seen in the pictures that mean something to their heritage, and they discussed preservation of the new treasures. It was a magical evening…a long way from home.

If you do not know the background of Jessie Fox Mather, you can learn about it by going to www.lulu.com/wyatt3.

Onward & Upward

Our next destination was Wasilla, Alaska, where we were expecting to stay on a quiet lake for the better part of a week. John would work on a cabin recently purchased by a dear friend. The only other plan was to go into Anchorage for a couple of days for John to 1) have lunch with a Christian brother who goes WAY back and 2) to find where Sydney Lawrence Paintings are housed to view them. By the time we pulled out of our perch in Haines, we had already heard whispers of other plans for this portion of the journey.

Incidentally, from Haines Junction to Beaver Creek and beyond seemed to me the worst roads on the trip. The road signs that indicate three clumps of coal are a warning you are about to hit the ceiling, and everything in the camper is about to shift to spaces unknown.

As we neared our destination, the timing just seemed right to go straight into Anchorage, and since our friends could not be reached by phone, we decided to start at the Anchorage Museum to view Sydney Lawrence. At the end of our tour of this magnificent facility, we visited their gift shop. I was impressed with the book collection, and thought Jessie could do well there. But I was told the buyer does not work on weekends and he would expect to see a copy of the book first. I told her I could not spare a copy but did leave a postcard our son David had produced to help promote Jessie.

Well, "long story - short" (I know, I know. By the time one inserts this, it is too late!) We caught up with our dear friends in time for dinner only to find she was in the throes of preparing for church camp and he was shuffling a new job with a new business venture so we just stood aside and watched the activity. Anyway, the following day after morning worship, we found ourselves following him to a lake near Wasilla, but not his cabin lake. Instead, we set up our camper at a lake that came complete with campers! John held his title from "Faith Quest" as Camp Grandpa but picked up others such as Metalsmith, Fix-it man, and Sourdough Cook. Miss Betty helped where she could with the darling pre-schoolers. The campers and staff were a delightful God-send, and though it was not the week we had planned, the Master Planner (with a boost from our DEAR friends), certainly made it one for our memory bank.

During this week, I did find a spot to make a phone call to the Museum shop manager, and was surprised when he said he would like eight copies. After I took his information, I asked, "Why did you order without even seeing the book?" His answer, "Your references on the postcard are impeccable. I have never met Robert DeArmond personally, but I've been around a long time, and Stanton Patty is well-known. Did you know he has written a book?"

So...how does this get us to the potlatch? We are on our way. Leaving camp, we are headed toward Eagle and Eagle Village.

.

A Journey of a lifetime

At Geoffrey and Dana's rehearsal dinner, John (proud papa of the groom) stood up, introduced himself, and asked each person present to stand, introduce him/her self, and to tell a brief story of how they were associated with the bride or groom. He saved me til the last. I stood, introduced myself as Mother of the Groom, and announced (to no one's surprise) "I don't have any brief stories about Geoffrey." I am learning that I don't have any brief stories on any subject.

I say this to say, "I will share with you about the potlatch in my honor, but you will have to endure the buildup."

On Monday, following the Saturday wedding, John and I flew to Sitka. Our hostess thought we were arriving by sea so, while waiting for her to come to the airport, I showed the book to the rental car fellow who had helped me locate Celeste's phone number. He asked what my wholesale price was, and when I told him, he said he'd like a dozen. Turns out he also owned the gift shop.

Anyway, we had just enough time to have a hot chocolate before I was to do a reading from the book at the Sitka Pioneer Home -- the setting for the beginning and the end of Jessie, the story of a genteel woman in frontier Alaska. Maybe 25 residents and staff were present for the reading, and because they were so receptive (laughing in the right places, etc.), I extended my time of reading. The following day, John and super-Celeste ran around town passing out flyers and encouraging folks to stop by the Pioneer Home. to meet the author. Much of that afternoon was spent unsuccessfully trying to locate Jessie's grave. I had a photo Geoffrey had taken earlier, but that photo was in Haines in the camper. We sold 37 copies in Sitka. We were invited to lunch in the Home, and felt doubly blessed to sit at the table with Robert DeArmond.

That evening, John and Celeste took her dogs to the beach. After the beach, it seems the two of them had been discussing the extreme honor of a potlatch and went in search of an appropriate gift. They located a local artist who agreed that the potlatch is very special and said he had a bent-wood cedar box he was working on that would be just the right presentation.

The next morning, there were a few stops to make before leaving Sitka. The first stop was a total surprise to me. The two of them introduced me to the artist, and we took possesion of the magnificent box. Already, I felt honored. We stopped by the bank to cash local checks, and the banker was the wife of the airport gift shop gentleman. She was half way through the book. She said I needed to leave several copies, but I told her it was early in our journey so I'd better wait. John and I caught the Fairweather ferry back to Juneau and, the next day, began our trek northward,

STAY TUNED!