Thanksgiving Memory
DEAR EDITOR: My grandma’s house on Thanksgiving Day was a log cabin castle a young knight longed to attack each year.
Sitting nestled in a forest similar to the trunks it was built from, the snow cast aside from the path leading to its stepped front door. The warmth held by ancient cedars flowed down from the kitchen and melted the winter as we approached.
My father always carved the Thanksgiving turkey.
No matter whose home the gathering flocked to, it would be his large hands that danced the steel blade along a sharpening block, attracting young eyes dreaming of adventure, old appetites edged by holiday liquids and his own sparkling blue twinklings as the mystical blade seemed to sink through a thin brown layer that hissed a dragon's steam of flavor into a buttery, soft flesh.
There was silence.
Each of us dreamed of just a sliver resting elegantly across our teeth, not to be chewed but to absorb the longing of what fantastic taste would melt the spirited energy of bothersome cousins half my age, calm the angst of the older siblings I would bother, and satiate the bemusings of those who brought us.
Grandma’s eyes would mist as father's craft reminded her of the meals in Sweden and Canada they had descended from.
Standing around his every move, holding white china plates like an eager congregation would the open books of the lord, the hungry would ooh and aah, emitting an exhalation of witnessing this revelation to us.
Around the table we moved, inspecting each item, judging the space on our plates in proportion to that which we desired.
My tie leading my chin along the tables border, lingering too long in a gravy bowl and sticking to my shirt.
The first with full plates began to find their places on the hardwood floor of the living room, surrounded by the layered lumber still rounded and taunt from the earth.
They were shiny now with varnish and caulkings but the logs still bore the scent of southeast beaches, of forests, of late nights surrounding a kerosene lantern that winked at a sturdy boy from a foreign land whose youth was shortened into a manhood and who swung an axe and moved an oaken oar through icy waters.
This was my father at 14.
Felling and hauling and raising logs into a castle because the man of the house had been taken away by sickness. Fending off the wilderness for his mother and sister and joined by his sisters’s husband.
Campfires led to hearth fires and when the lure of furs ran out of favor my father numbered each log and floated them into a Norwegian settlement some miles along the Wrangell Narrows.
There he rebuilt them, built his own second house for a woman whose smile and five children stole his heart, and added an additional two place settings for myself and the older brother who towed me about.
Each holiday meal of any importance was gathered at grandma's.
Those log walls held in the hopes of prosperity.
With full plates, we found our seatings.
Youth piled on the floor. Teens elbowed youths onto the floor. Young adults shared a couch or brought in more items to sit upon.
A large wooden rocker was for the balladeer who sang “I’ve Been Everywhere” and “North to Alaska.”
My small fingers, each inserted into a black olive, tapped along my plate to his tune. My tie, long ago loosened, now resting atop the bulldog sitting at grandma’s feet.
Grandma in her cooking apron rocked slowly between hearth and window.
Sometimes travelers stranded in this tiny village were invited to dine.
We welcomed as family those whose shelters were in big cities or small tent sites and they sang along.
Pies and crepes and cookies signaled our annual projector would click to life.
My father would stand a white screen against the log back drop.
First a slide show of the latest photos that had arrived from south aboard the steamships. They usually had nothing to do with many present, bemused those not shown and embarrassed the rest.
Then the long awaited replaying of the 1903 silent film “The Great Train Robbery,” clicked and chattered to the flickering image.
Dialogues were invented by older minds to entertain our young eyes.
Ice creams melted as the last frame showed the lead bandit emptying his pistol directly at us all, even after the chamber is empty, and the “The End” darkens the room to the crackle of the fire place.
The balladeer strums a chord. A host says there is more food on the table.
My eyes peer out into the snow through a window cut and framed inside pieces of a primeval forest, older than I will ever be.
Cedar, spruce and hemlock. Names I only knew because of the shavings my father put into his pockets and emitted aromas my mother would kiss him for.
Those inside logs of the old cabin home still stand.
The scents and smells still locked away within its frozen age lines, now redone, torn down and built up, but still providing the bones of being new in a strange land.
Memories still come around.
They peer in a window at small faces warmed by a hearthed fire, listen to the twang of old guitar ballads, feel the stroke of a weathered hand on tired young heads of wild hair… and they breathe in slowly and deeply the wispy first carvings that bind and calm us and remind us of loved ones, both present and missed.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Klas Stolpe
Emblem Club Thanks
Dear Editor: Thank you to Elizabeth Sutton and Mindy Lowrance and the entire Emblem Club of Sitka 142.
On behalf of the Marine Corps League of Sitka, Robert B. Johnstone Detachment, I wish to convey a sincere appreciation and thank you. The decorations in the Elks Club for the Marine Corps’ 243rd birthday celebration certainly made the occasion festive and meaningful. Not only did the club decorate the venue, they also bought and delivered the beautiful birthday cake that is part of any birthday gathering but an especially significant part of the Corps’ tradition. We appreciate the time, resources and effort exerted to celebrate this very special day in our Marine Corps history.
Bernie P. Gurule
USMC Lt. Commandant
Marine Corps League of Sitka
Robert B. Johnstone Detachment
Art Walk at Pioneers Home
Dear Editor: The ceramic room in the Pioneers Home has been a beehive of activity lately, as residents, staff and volunteers create beautiful things for Friday evening’s Art Walk.
We also have beautiful handmade baby sweaters, hats, slippers and blankets.
Add to that list potholders, mug rugs, phone holders and microwave bowl holders. We also have eight different Clint Potter prints.
Stop in and say hi. The chef is making cookies!
Pioneers Home residents
Open House Thanks
Dear Editor: “Relaxing, warm heartedness, great conversation, best chowder and bread ever, enjoyable, beautiful music, fabulous food and desserts, love the mission and what you do…” These are just a few of the comments I heard during the Brave Heart Volunteers Open House on October 18.
The staff and board of Brave Heart Volunteers extends their thanks and appreciation to all the volunteers who contributed to the success of our open house on October 18. To our creative chowder cooks, bread makers and helpers: Steve Warren, John Murray, Sherie Mayo, Anna Roy, Kristen Martinez and Cheri Hample; to Dennis Longstreth for his famous Thai soup; delectable desserts contributed by Ruth Culp, Bonnie and Max Cottrell, Ursula Zertuche, Mary Beth Hunn, Jill Kisaka, Greta Ryan, Jo Ingman, Pat Welsh and Mary Beth Palof; our marvelous musicians, Mike Litman, Debby LeVeck, Ritch Phillips, Vern Culp and Larry McCrehin; cashiers/greeters, Blossom Twitchell and Shauna Thornton and all who assisted with serving soup/bread, restocking, and help with cleanup: Aleeta Bauder, Ruth Culp, Kathy Kyle, Mary Beth Hunn, Angela Hessenius, Auriella Hughes, Beth Caffrey, Susan Padilla, Fredi Young, Helen Dangel, Maija Nurmikko, Jose Rivera, Kristen Martinez, Cheri Hample, Debra Pohlman, Heather Brown, Sherie Mayo, Anna Roy and Maury Hackett. (Please accept my apology if I have missed anyone who contributed.)
“Volunteers do not necessarily have the time, they just have the heart,” (Elizabeth Andrew). If you are interested in becoming a volunteer, please call 747-4600.
SAVE THE DATE for our annual fundraiser, Brave Heart Bowls, Thursday, Dec. 6, at Harrigan Centennial Hall.
Cheri Hample, Board President,
Brave Heart Volunteers
