Misadventures of an Alaskan Girl in the Deep South

Ozarks

2011-01-01T06:27:00.000-06:00

The foothills roll,

The movement we didn’t find in the state south of us

Now north is the corner of the house, cold and open to the field

East is the morning and the porch swing that has moved for so many of us

West is where I am, or was, depending on the day, week or month

On all distances in between I find echoes of conversations

This way, that way and another

Mother, Father, sister and brother

The things I’ve craved, the dates I’ve forsaken, to be absorbed without question

Once, twice, and again, to imagine and hope I have it to do over again

Only Blogging about Major Life Decisions

2010-11-19T23:27:00.000-06:00

Why is it that I only feel compelled to blog when I’m either getting ready to make a major life decision, or I already have? Am I using this blog for therapeutic reasons, or is it just my way of conducting the mental dialogue we all have with ourselves at critical junctures in our lives? I think it’s a bit of both in my case. So, what you ask, is the major life decision, and have I made it yet? First, yes, I’ve made it, and second, it’s an out-of-state relocation with my husband and 8-year old son. Not that monumental right? Well, maybe not if we hadn’t just moved to THIS state 4 years ago (almost exactly). Which is another line of thought I must explore later – why a lot of the major events in my life always occur around the Fall? Hmm… I’m thinking Freud would have had a field day with me. But, I digress . . . .

The barn on our property in Northern Arkansas

The move. We’re heading from Mississippi to Arkansas, so I guess this will continue to be the Misadventures of an Alaskan Girl in the Deep South – or maybe just the South. Arkansas, and certainly Northern Arkansas doesn’t feel like the Deep South. For one, in Arkansas they understand that mashed potatoes are a must at Thanksgiving and aren’t as familiar with the culinary qualities of cream of mushroom soup and Velveeta cheese (since we’re on the Fall theme).

Next on the list of life and its critical junctures – I will be a stay at home Mom when we move. A role I’ve only ever taken on once before for a 10-month stint. And, you also ask, how am I feeling about this? A little scared, and a whole lot of excited. So, maybe this will become less about me talking to myself and more about what a girl from Alaska does when she moves to the Deep South, moves again to the “less than deep” south and tries her hand at the simple life. Gardens, chickens, carpool, volunteering, cooking healthy meals, long walks with the dogs, learning to knit (seriously have always wanted to learn to do this). A little legal research on the side and a ton of taking care of my family. It sounds like a little slice of heaven to me; I just hope I can be thankful for the chance to have that mental dialogue with myself on a more consistent basis, and not just on impulse.

Finding Lucy

2010-04-21T21:34:00.001-05:00

She ghosted into the campground shortly after lunch on a Friday. I’m not sure if she was just passing through, or if she knew campgrounds meant food. We were there for a 2-day camping trip – a promise to our 7-year old in return for the past three weeks of too-busy schedules. After a gasp of shock, all of our eyes were drawn to her gaunt body; even from a distance we could see the hip bones and ribs. She sat by the dumpster for a minute or two, looking this way and that, and then stood and began to shuffle off towards the woods. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I remember looking at my husband and blurting something to the effect of, “We can’t NOT feed her.” Hanging in the seconds between when we first saw her are all the things you think – “How can we help, who did this, if I feed her, what then?” Then the other thoughts – “does she have a home, is there a collar,” and finally, “I can’t help myself … “

I think my kind-hearted better-half was thinking the same thing, as I myself shuffled off down the stairs to the cooler at the bottom – remembering him calling to me, “there’s roast beef in there and some hot dogs,” and our son following behind me as we’re cautioning him to stay back and not to touch her. She’s a stray after all, and we have no idea how she’ll act. I’m following after her, and Aidan is a bit behind me, and she’s about to cross over the bridge into the woods, and I start calling to her. Half-way thinking to myself: “it would probably be better to leave her, let her go, maybe she’s got puppies,” because at this point, I can tell that she’s probably just weaned a litter. But, she hears me, and shy, frightened, she stops and stands to look at me. I put the roast beef down and move away, and she’s on it so fast – not stopping to chew or breathe or anything. Wolfs it down – literally the way she looks is ravenous and I think of a wild animal. I turn to my son and tell him to head back to the camp and I’m turning to go too – thinking about the rest of the food in the cooler, and I hear someone call out – “I think you made a friend.” It’s an older couple in an RV and they’re gesturing behind me. I turn around, and the tan and white hound-mix is tentatively following me. I say to the man, “It’s just not right, who would do this?” I’ve seen the terrible scar across her back and can tell by the way she holds herself – someone has mistreated this pup and I’m not sure how, but she’s still following me, head down, tail between her legs. Glance up, shuffle, not making eye contact with me.

She’s with us for the next few hours, on a blanket in our campsite, as I call directory assistance and look for rescue shelters, emergency vets, whatever. It’s a late Friday afternoon, and the emergency vet I get on the phone is angry, not at me, but at the politicians who won’t fund a shelter in this area, and then she tells me about the counties hunting dogs and how they’re sometimes abandoned when they’ve reached the end of their “usefulness.” It’s a similar story at the Animal League I contact, and then the humane society. Neither can promise a no-kill situation, so those contacts are abandoned after questioning. By this time I’ve named her and her careful eyes seem to light a little when they fall on my son.

She rode back with us the next day, after meeting some other campground neighbors and getting a similar story from the camp host – this one about the rescue beagle they have up by the host site. He’d been shot at and left for dead, but 4 years later and he’s the well-fed guard of the camp host site.

We stopped by our local rescue league on the way home, but they were full and talked to us about fostering her. So, home she came – fleas, ticks, careful eyes and all. The next day my husband made a run for her in the backyard and the day after that, I made calls to find what services might be available. And every day she had a full bowl of food and fresh water and gentle scratches and patting. Kind words and use of her name and consistency. Turns out those donations we made to the rescue place were funding a pretty good organization as we went to pick up a nice igloo dog house for her, and found out about a voucher to get her spayed. Two days after that, we got her shots there and they also gave her a bath, de-worming medicine and a flea treatment. We walked away as foster parents and a dog that was straining on her leash and collar to get back into the van for the ride home.

So, outside tonight sits Lucy, by her igloo. She doesn’t like to go in it; she prefers the dog bed she’s got right next to her bowl of food and water (and the ham bone she buried and re-buried around dinner time). I’m not sure who her forever family will be, but I know it won’t be the Mississippi forest we pulled her out of, and I know it won’t be a shelter. They do good work, but the movie “Hotel for Dogs,” has taught my son that there are happy endings, and if our three rescue cats are any indication, my husband and I seem to think so too.

Finding Lucy, Lucy finding us? I don’t know. It’s too early to tell – but I do know that the little white ghost is holding her head up a little higher now, and every time the back door opens and we come out, a tail starts wagging like crazy – and that’s a lot better than one tucked between the legs.

Switching Careers in a Recession? Yep, the weird Northern Chick has Lost her Ever-Lovin’ Mind.

2009-12-23T19:03:00.002-06:00

originally posted August 4, 2009

So, I mentioned in my introductory post, that I was “searching for the right career.” Welcome to what I like to call, Finding Myself 101.

I’m one of those folks who woke up one day and found themselves in a career they really didn’t see coming. Sound like I’m an idiot? What does she mean she didn’t see it coming? I like to tell folks, sort of tongue-in-cheek, that I “fell” into my current career path. See, for someone who studied Justice / Pre-Law in college, and was at one time headed to Law School, working in the high-tech industry was the furthest thing from my mind. But, one thing led to another, and from about 2000 on, I’ve had a really interesting ride. I’ve learned a lot about business, the psychology of the office place, the way technology moves at lightning speed, and also about me. No, I’m not writing a self-help book, and I’m not going to tell you where to find my cheese, or what color my parachute is. I may tell you that you DO need a parachute as you jump out of the plane, but I’m not blogging to pretend to be wise about career choices.

Why not? Well, eight months ago, I parted ways with my last high-tech software company. Although I had found myself in the enviable position of being a Director of a department, I also found myself in the unenviable position of the clichéd “restructure.” As my boss, The VP told me, “You’re a victim of reorganization.” I guess there’s a first time for everything. Certainly the first time that’s ever happened to me. Talk about a check to the ego.

So, many buckets of water under the bridge later, and countless hours of soul-searching, and I’ve come to realize something. I don’t want to work in the high-tech industry any more. And how you ask, did I come to that realization? I went back to what motivated me in the very beginning. No, not to the primordial ooze, I’m not THAT old. I mean law. To help people. My goal was to become a defense attorney, and advocate for those who didn’t have their own voices. Children, the homeless, the impoverished. Ah, the idealism of youth. Anyway, I obviously never made it to law school, but maybe if I could find that long-ago catalyst; I’d find where the next adventure started?

Then it hit me, and not without help from some friends, that non-profit work was probably where I’d make a difference. I could use the skills I’ve obtained in the past 15 years, combine that with the fact that I’m usually volunteering to do something, and go fishing. Sure, the pay isn’t going to be close to what I've been used to, but what would it be like to get up close and personal with helping folks? Instead of sitting in front of a computer and worrying about the next big software bug, I could affect change. Some idealism? Check. Gainful employment? Check. Make a difference? Check. Job where you’re not living with your laptop and working 70 hour weeks? Hopefully check.

I’ve thrown a few hooks out; I’ll let you know what gets reeled in.

My Love Affair with Books, or "How to Feed my Habit."

2009-08-03T16:40:00.010-05:00

I don't know about y'all (I'm learning to love this word), but I'm tickled by a free book. So, here's a tidbit from me to you: starting today, August 3rd, Oprah.com members can download the book, Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann.

I fell in love with books, and I do mean Love with a capital "L," when I first learned to read. I learned young; even the she-really-meant-well teacher, who would force me read to other adults, as a sort of sideshow, didn't deter my budding fascination. I would devour anything printed -- whatever I could get my hands on.

This meant I was one of those precocious kids who hid under the covers with the flashlight (you're going to ruin your eyes!), and when out of my own material, would hunt down my Mother's trashy novels. Many heaving bosoms and wild untamed hearts later, I still love a good romance. But, if driven to tell you what my genre is, or what I like best? I couldn’t pin it down. Seriously. From you’ve got to be joking love stories, to the gut wrenching family dramas (We Were the Mulvaney’s), I’m hooked. That doesn’t mean there aren’t books I toss in disgust when finished. Not in the trash mind you (my God – it’s a book after all!), but the ones I throw on the coffee table, and say, “Well, that was a flippin’ disappointment!”

From my absolute all-time favorite, To Kill a Mockingbird, to my favorite fantasy series by Diana Gabaldon (Outlander Series), I love to read. I love the way a book smells, I love the escapism and I love the fact you can always go back to them. I’m sure Freud would have a field day with me, but until the time comes for me to get psychoanalyzed, I’ll be spending my therapy money at the used book store.

Note: For those who love books, and are in the Madison/Ridgeland/Jackson areas of Mississippi – check out this used bookstore “The Bookshelf.” I make a trip there every two weeks to trade in books and get my next fix. They’ve got good exchange rates, a great selection (even paranormal romance!) and a rare books section. Along with this, there’s a gal behind the counter who pretty much optimizes the southern hospitality claim.

Getting Ready to Head to the Farm - Score 1 for Mississippi.

2009-07-24T09:38:00.013-05:00

It's Friday, and I'm getting ready to head down to the Farm. THE Farm? Nope, don't think commune or cults, it's where my father-in-law grew up. He doesn't live there full-time as he and my MIL are farther down in Southern Mississippi, but they spend half their week there. Every other weekend in the summer, we'll pack up on a Friday afternoon, and head down to spend the night with them. They leave on Saturday afternoon, and we'll head home on Sunday morning. Since it's only about an hour and a half drive, you get the "getting away" part without having to drive for hours.

Cue the Andy Griffith Show music . . . .

I love this place. There are acres and acres for my son to roam - no, not by himself, hold your calls to Social Services! There are several ponds, and he and his Daddy try their hand at catching the "big one." There are gorgeous lush plants that I walk around and drool over, and there's the gardens to check on. But, more importantly, we decompress. No computers, no schedules, no phones ringing -- just family.

The "score 1 for Mississippi" part comes in because we didn't do this back home on a regular basis (in Alaska or Washington). We didn't have access to a large family piece of land (in either state anyway), and we certainly didn't have Grandparents an hour and a half away. But what makes this so special? Our typical Friday night. We pull up the drive-way about dinner time (yes, I know our timing is impeccable). My MIL has made a great meal, baked something delicious, and after we've eaten and done the dishes (by hand!), we sit around a table in the kitchen, and . . . play games. Yep, you heard me -- we play games. Not video games, not arm-chair Deal or No Deal, or poker (we save that for our trips to visit my Parents in Montana). We play dominoes. And, to top it off, we've become quite the aficionados of the games of chickenfoot and Bendominos. We tend to gravitate towards the dominoes games, because the few times we did play the new electronic Monopoly, Grama and Grampa got kind of cut-throat, and my son had to sit between them. Think June and Ward going at it over debit cards.

But, seriously -- ten years ago if anyone had ever told me I'd be sitting in a farm house in rural Mississippi, around a kitchen table, that could sell for a nice price at a vintage store (got to love those old red and chrome tables with the vinyl chairs), playing dominoes with my child and in-laws? Well, I'd have frisked you for the drugs you were obviously on.

Score one 1 for Mississippi, and score 1 for me.

Dipping my toe in the muddy alligator infested water.

2009-07-23T14:01:00.000-05:00

Okay, let's just get this out of the way -- I'm not a writer. Well, not a professional anyway. So bear with my sentence structure, misplacement of commas, and general literary disarray. I'm doing this for fun, and because I'm an avid insomniac. See, that implies that I choose to be an insomniac -- I like that better.

What will this blog be about? Me. Mississippi. How a chick who was raised in Alaska survives being transplanted in the Deep South. I'll probably mention my darling husband, (when I'm not trying to bury him in the backyard) and I'll be sure to drop in a note or two about my six-year old son. 'Cause I'm sure there just aren't enough adorable stories out there about how unique all our children are. Right?

So, in-between my searching for the right career, wondering if "y'all" is really a word, and just generally trying to be a good person, I'll shoot out a missive or two and see if someone is out there listening.