When Raven Dances, page 7
The water in the bay was a new sight for us. Aquamarine and translucent, the color seemed something out of a picture book to me.
The ship purser, standing beside us, explained, “That color comes from all that glacial soil that washes into the bay,” he said.
But I wasn’t so sure. I rested my chin on the railing, lost in thought. The water looked like the opal in one of Mama’s rings, reflecting light to a depth such that I wouldn’t have been surprised if a whole other world had lived under that water. I sure could see it, a deep perimeter seemingly marked by mirrors, scores of mirrors, reflecting a swirling place of enchantment filled with dancing ladies and princes and an occasional mermaid. Were those glimmers of honey-and-amber-gold I saw or just my imagination at work, I wondered.
Our friends stood near us, jacketed arms full of boxes and bags. We watched their luggage being carried off and set onto the pier. Assorted people stood, seemingly awaiting them. The moment had arrived and I was having a difficult time saying goodbye.
I pulled out my Brownie camera and took pictures of us all, in different configurations. That seemed to break the tension a bit. We talked about future visits, and I asked Silvio if he would write me. Mrs. Neroli grabbed my shoulders, air-kissing both my cheeks. Silvio and I just stood there looking down, looking at people, looking away.
Dr. Evert surrounded me in his arms and held me. Next, he lightly embraced Mama, held her away, gave her a long look, and pulled her to him again. Finally, frowning slightly, he released her, turned and descended the gangplank, followed by the others. They descended the gangway and were enveloped by people who appeared delighted to see them. From the deck we heard their busy chatter and saw pointing arm gestures ushering them to waiting cars, and then they were gone.
***
The departure ritual was repeated as in Seattle and Ketchikan. And the ship headed north again, gliding toward Glacier Bay. As we pulled away, Mama encased me with her arms as her hands held the railing. For a long time, we watched together, lost in our thoughts. The sun filled our pallet of sky that afternoon, affording us a full view of the blue-lavender-gray-white other worldly bay. Whales cavorted perhaps fifty feet from the ship and dolphins dove around us, all framed by the beauty of that eerie snow and ice.
An odd sound caught our attention, startling us. At first we heard a slight whine, then a profound, pitiful groan as we witnessed the glacier to our right reluctantly release a huge, thick slice of ice and snow that plummeted, tumbling into the sea. We held our breath, heard a thundering, whoosh! And water shot up, sending out an explosive wave that caused our ship to wobble and rock.
The ship rejoined the open sea. The days had already become very long and evening finally arrived wrapped in dull gray mist and rain. Mama and I had stood quietly at the railing for a long time contemplating our arrival in Seward and our future, but the chill reminded us that it was time to move inside. We went to our cabin and began to pack. Our date to depart was quickly approaching.
The water became rough; an angry rain storm lapped and buffeted us, and we traded our preoccupation with our sniffles for worries about queasy stomachs. We had little appetite that night. I finally turned toward the wall, hugging my little doll, angry at myself for feeling sorry about our friends who had left us today. I fell into an uneasy sleep.
In the very early morning hours, the rain abated and fog set in again; the ship’s engine set the constant rhythm and the foghorn provided a solemn accompaniment. The ship churned the sea inexorably carrying us toward Seward.
A FOGGY, MONOCHROME BEGINNING
Once more Mama and I leaned on the rail as close to the bow as possible, anticipating our first view of what was to be our new home. We were cold to the bone, shivering, but dressed in our best for our arrival in Seward. A stylish cloche hat hugged Mama’s face, her scarf still warming her neck and throat. I wore my skirt and jacket, but a turtleneck sweater covered my neck. The brown beanie once more sat atop my head. Months and years later, when my body had lengthened and thickened, and the skirt and jacket no longer fit, the beanie stayed with me for longer than I would have wanted.
We squinted our eyes and could see almost nothing; our view was arbitrarily rationed by wet, cottony fog. For a few seconds, a sliver-moment of clarity allowed us to see pewter-colored water lapping against the ship. Farther ahead, a darker, denser band of clouds enveloped mountains that I could only imagine. The ration for us was limited to sharp bluffs and escarpments caparisoned in lichens, grasses, scrub mosses and pines. Then, within seconds, fog surrounded even that portion of land.
Earlier we had slowly passed the wasted metal skeleton of the S.S. Yukon, a recent maritime victim of treacherous sea shoals. We were aware that all passengers had been rescued and treated at the Seward Hospital. But, as we slipped quietly past the rusty cadaver, there seemed to be, among us, a compulsion to maintain a sense of respect and mourning for the ship’s demise. Gulls screeched and battled for a resting spot on the rusting dregs and I heard a quiet groan as some part of the wreck adapted to its grave. Meanwhile our ship’s engine continued its barely audible chug chug—the lone rhythm—as small waves, ripples really, careened from the ship’s side and slapped at the pebbly shore.
We heard the engine ramp up just slightly and the chug chug became more insistent as we began our entry into Resurrection Bay. At that moment, we could make out craggy islands, their knife-sharp bluffs shooting skyward, their caves and crevasses fostering throngs of red-billed, red-footed puffins that dove here and there to grab their morning meal from the water. Below us, schools of tiny fish darted and divided crazily just beneath the water’s surface, closely pursued by hungry dolphins.
The edge of the mist filled my line of sight, giving me such a limited window, I wanted to reach out and pull the mist away with my hands so I could see what lay ahead. The sun began furtively to sever the curtain of fog, and I glimpsed water, one moment deep green, then turquoise, and next powdery blue through the mist.
A tug approached, its engines contributing to the ship’s lazy rhythm. It turned, slowly eased aside the ship, and began to guide us toward the dock. My heartbeat added a syncopated beat to that rhythm. My cold had slipped to the bottom of the list of important things at that moment. We were nearly there!
I could now see portions of the rugged coast to my right and left. A bald eagle left his perch in a tree and dove toward the chilly waters, causing fish to scuttle in frenzied effort to avoid the eagle’s deadly claws. Nonetheless, he grabbed his intended prey and flew off, carrying a flash of silvery squirming life to his nest in the nearby trees. I heard water cascading into the sea, but I couldn’t see it. A waterfall perhaps?
To our left, a long wooden pier jutted into the bay. It was tiny and fragile compared to the one in Seattle. As we neared the pier, I glanced up at Mama; her chin was firmly set and I suspected I knew what she was thinking. She started the day fiddle-string tense; I knew that because, when she fixed my hair that morning, she made my braids so tight I felt as if my eyebrows were now in the middle of my forehead.
The tugboat slowly, deliberately turned our ship toward the pier and, beyond it, I caught my first look at Seward. A jumble of bland one-story frame buildings greeted me, most shoved up against the base of a mountain still shrouded in low, soggy clouds. The buildings competed for space with piles of somewhat orderly clutter, apparently left over from the war. Crates, fashioned of raw wood, stenciled with numbers and letters, army jeeps and trucks, lined up for some imminent destiny other than Seward. I spied a military bucket loader, stacks of ammunition boxes in front of a Quonset hut, a scattering of the leavings of war—tires, airplane propellers, all standing at ease, awaiting their fate.
Directly ahead, a few modest buildings proclaimed their identity. One was a fishery, another the DREAMLAND MOVIE THEATER, and farther on, a wall declared KENAI LUMBER COMPANY. Scattered among the buildings were vacant areas and building remnants, still black with char and ash. Was this war damage? I wondered.
I was trying to be positive, but my first impression of this place called Seward, beyond its pervasive wet chill that morning, was that it was grim and colorless. Its buildings seemed surrounded by mucky mud, at times laced with dirty snow; sometimes colored cocoa-brown or dingy runoff—no matter, it was still mud, and it seemed to rule the town.
Rail tracks ran directly in front of us left-to-right along shore and then curved away, embracing the tiny town, separating the buildings from the sea. The train engine, painted bright blue and yellow, impatiently awaited its orders to move out. Busy workers hoisted, pulled and pushed crates and boxes, as the train engineer stood alongside, the smoke trail of his cigar evaporating into the mist. That train, with its brightly painted cars, provided us the only color to be seen in the entire town.
I looked up at Mama again. I swear I saw her jaw twitch just slightly, but it was still squarely set. If I doubted Mama’s wisdom, I knew better than to say anything.
The sea, the trees, the birds, the sea animals—they were fascinating, but I had seen them now. Were they worth forsaking our warm, sunny life in New Mexico?
Thoughts of family in Gardner poured into my head. My cherry red and pink quilt on my bed, my roller skates and the marks I had gouged with them on Grandfather’s veranda. My pet turtle, who slowly circumnavigated his glass world each day, the neighbor’s lilac bush, which welcomed my pals and our dolls for hours of pretend play; I missed them, and I said a little prayer. “Dear Lord,” I whispered, “forgive me. I didn’t choose this place, and I don’t think I like it.”
And the Lord answered firmly, “So? There are a lot of things that my children don’t like.
Get over it.”
So I did. I set my jaw just as Mama had set hers and told myself that we would be all right. I told myself what I had said many times recently, that together we could do anything. Even this.
With one substantial thud, the ship came to a stop and the pier burst into frenetic activity. Crewmen rushed about securing thick ropes, opening doors in the hold area, jiggling and shoving the gangway into place for our debarkation. Here the huge crates were marked, Perishable and SAN JUAN FISHERIES. Directly below me, two sea lions cavorted among the pilings. For the first time, I came to know that they have an aroma all their own, and it is not pleasant.
On the pier, a small collection of musicians in army uniform assembled to play a tepid rendition of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. “I wonder if they can play, Oh, Susanna,” I mumbled and Mama squeezed my hand stiffly. I was trying to make her smile; she ignored me. Yup, she was nervous.
On the pier, assorted town residents stood around, shifting from one foot to another, hands in pockets, staring shyly at us—a soldier, hands on hips, surveying the activity, a sailor brushing something from his Dixie Cup hat, a few fishermen, children of varied sizes and ages pushing, whispering, waving, carbon copies of the people we had seen at our other stops. In their midst, we beheld a portly female in a green print skirt and gray wool coat, her feet encased in sturdy brown oxfords. Short bluish curls and bangs defined her round face, her eyes encircled by brown plastic glasses. She held a white handkerchief high in her hand that she waved toward the ship enthusiastically.
That was our introduction to Dotty Etta, who was to be our first real friend in Seward. We soon discovered she was much more than the scatterbrain she first appeared to be on the dock. A long-time citizen, she volunteered to be the first town librarian and, long ago, she had decided that someone needed to meet each incoming ship, and she appointed herself to be that someone.
She had lived for many years in Seward with her daughter, Maudie, who worked for the mayor as the town clerk. Everyone knew them, of course. If not for their idiosyncrasies, they were known for the huge carpetbag pocketbooks they carried. Dotty Etta’s bag could be bright, or printed, or striped, and always full. Maudie’s bags were bold prints, also filled to the brim. But that didn’t seem to allow adequate space for what she needed, because Maudie often stuffed smallish things into her ample brassiere—paper receipts, lipstick, lunch money, cough drops—often giving her an iconic silhouette.
Over the next weeks and months we found Dottie Etta to be a source for information on just about any subject, including the coming and going of any citizen of the town of Seward. Weekly, she visited the SHEAR JOY SALON where she and her beautician Joyette shared all the gossip while Joyette cheerfully applied bluing to Etta’s bob and bangs.
Dotty Etta was the person to ask regarding anything, whether factual, spurious, or shocking. But we also found her to be a staunch friend—one whose mouth was locked shut regarding secrets of those who were dear to her.
Dotty Etta was also the keeper of Alaska stories related to wispy phantoms, bizarre deaths, and prehistoric monsters and she had a strange sense about things that had not yet happened. But I am getting ahead of myself.
From the ship’s bow, we saw our higgledy-piggledy mismatched trunks and boxes piled onto carts, and we scurried to disembark in order to catch up with it all on the pier. We looked around, took a deep breath, smiled and waved at the people who looked back at us, and stumbled along behind our luggage carts. Our luggage filled one cab and spilled over into a second. We squeezed in, bosses of our own gypsy caravan, and rode up the hill to our house on Third Avenue. To this day, I wish I had taken a picture of that. Our cabbies helped us lug our belongings onto our very own gravel driveway.
“Here we are!” said Mama, and she clapped her hands together—before knitting her eyebrows and emitting a quiet, “Hmmmmmm.”
This time I did think to grab my camera and I snapped a picture of Mama with a wry grin on her face, surrounded by luggage, boxes, trunks—everything we owned, which was not much. I think she had so many things on her mind that she forgot about her sore throat.
She turned, slowly surveying our new home, and began to laugh from her gut, laughing hard, her hands on her knees finally trying to catch her breath. At least I hoped she was laughing. I wasn’t sure at first. But then I began to laugh, too. It seemed like the thing to do, better than any alternative I could think of.
Mama then grabbed my camera and snapped a photo of me when I carried a box to our front door. In the picture, my saddle-shoes had transformed from bright white to brown-on-brown, in the short time it had taken to walk from the driveway to our front door.
My photos show our house, a frame structure shaped like a narrow shoebox with a roof sloped just enough to allow most Seward snow to slide to the ground. The entire house needed a coat of white paint, which it would get in spring. Nearly covering the front of the house was a series of windows, enclosing what may have once been a screened front porch.
Mama stood with my camera, her open-toed shoes soggy conduits of silt and black soil. She plunged on, determined to take a walk around our new home. We found an opening underneath the house where we suspected coal had been delivered at one time. At the back, stood a frame shed, sturdy but shopworn. We saw a gravel alley, like the one behind our Gardner house and we figured it served the same purpose. Beyond the alley was an empty lot which meant that, aside from the large cluster of poplars in our backyard and one tall spruce tree, the land around us was empty and susceptible to lots of wind. Mama looked up, surveying the many windows, and grumbled, “I wonder just how I’m supposed to keep this place warm in the winter.”
We continued, surveying the circumference of the house. A worn metal tank, perhaps four feet tall, perched atop four slightly splayed legs, was our oil tank, perhaps our major source of heat.
We climbed the front steps, divested ourselves of our soggy shoes, and entered into the spacious parlor-dining room area. Before us we beheld a dusty, but sturdy, dark mahogany dining-room table and six matching chairs. What a pleasant surprise gift! We suspected they arrived on one of those many military supply planes during the war. No matter, it was ours now. The seats were frayed and stained, but Mama knew she could remedy that.
We suspected a wood floor lurked somewhere below the two layers of curling green and black linoleum, but the linoleum would have to serve for quite a few years, until we had the funds to pay for its removal.
To our left was a large kitchen. A white electric Hotpoint stove perched on four chrome legs, and, on its surface, sat three large burners, all of which showed several years of hard use and questionable cleaning. An old Kelvinator refrigerator stood against the once-white wall, and a small wooden kitchen table with two worn wooden spool chairs constituted the only kitchen furniture. Affixed to the walls above the table were pine cabinets, sticky with age and constant use.
Off the kitchen was a dusty pantry that Mama would always call the bodega. On its shelves were situated stores of eclectic, zany items, unloved and unappreciated by their former owners and subject to our whim regarding their fate--four boxes of ping pong balls, some yellow, some red; three cartons of powdered eggs; four boxes of powdered milk and seven boxes of Colgate Brushless Shave Cream that promised to deliver a swell shave. There were also seven cartons of canned green beans, a large jar of dried parsley, two huge jugs of undiluted vinegar, a carton containing twenty cans of Ipana tooth powder, several containers of Sal Hepatica, and nineteen rolls of toilet paper.
