Gone With The Wind.

There we were, on a bustling Saturday night, having dinner together.

She sat across from me, a slight pinch of pink coloring her cheeks, glass of moscato in one hand and fork in the other.

Our food had just arrived, and my grandma, being far more adventurous than me with her sweet white wine and bacon wrapped steak, giggled like a little school girl as she prepared to dive deep.

As I ate the far less exciting meal (a salad), I smiled to myself, cherishing this meal with my grandma that I don’t see nearly as often as I’d like.

See, I was in South Dakota just last week, and though I was there just a few short days, its impact on me was everlasting.

Whatever did I do whilst in the Black Hills?

Well. I witnessed the epic of the buffalo roundup, which only happens but once a year. I rode on the 1880 Train, regaling in the company of those who were also a wee bit intoxicated by beer and German fare. I hiked to the top of Crazy Horse during their bi-annual Volksmarch. I ate, a lot. Drank equal amounts too. And of course I frequented and supported as many small businesses as I could; after all, we are weathering turbulent times.

This was all done with family that I love and adore, with grandparents that I used to see every year but now see but once in a blue moon.

And it was this meal in particular that I realized the value of simple conversation. Because as I sat there with my grandma on this seemingly insignificant Saturday night, I was hit with this profound realization that if we don’t have these conversations, if we don’t share these stories, these parts of the past that shape who we are, they get lost.

Over time, they’re gone with the wind.

*speaking of Gone With The Wind, I learned that my great grandparents used to own the only movie theatre in Custer, South Dakota during the 30’s and 40’s. When this iconic film came out in 1939, my grandma says she was forbidden to watch it due to its scandalous content (remember it’s the first film that used profanity “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Gasp!). She then told me the next day in school, all her classmates had seen it and discussed it and she was “quite livid with Mother.”

I don’t know if I’m noticing these things because I’m getting older, but I’m finding value in conversing, and I’m really appreciating the benefit of storytelling. I learned a lot about Grandma and her life that night, of my family history, and she learned a lot about me. I was told stories I had never heard before in my 20+ years, tales that connected parts of my family heritage to the Black Hills and beyond.

As I reflect on the importance of storytelling, I’m realizing that I’m doing the very same thing, here on my blog. I’m sharing stories too. And maybe someday, those stories will be passed along to the next generation.

Never to be forgotten, or gone with the wind…

Changing of the seasons.

It was as if a cold blanket suddenly settled onto the Peninsula, signifying the end of one season and the beginning of another.

The days became brisk, the trees changed color seemingly overnight, and the smell of decadent decay has officially filled the air.

All coming off the heels of a most memorable summer.

It’s strange, but despite working through a never-ending, headline-grabbing pandemic, the summer season ended up being alright. In fact, it felt as though not much had changed for us Alaskans. Locals filled the banks of the river, fishermen busy catching and harvesting for the long months ahead. Freezers were filled, gardens were meticulously taken care of, and our city of Soldotna remained bustling and alive.

Which is probably why the change of seasons feels so sudden. It’s as if everything halted, froze, paused. Sitting here in my cosy home as a fall storm brews outside, I feel like I finally have a moment to catch up, to breathe in this glorious change.

I find myself reflecting. Which isn’t unusual when you’ve spent the last few months running ragged and living off the high that summers in Alaska bring.

I find myself thinking back on all the excitement I experienced, the new sights I saw, the heartbreak, the love, the sun, and now the fog. I think about how lucky I am to live in such a state, how blessed we are to live in a place that provides, nourishes, inspires, and protects (social distancing? not a problem).

As I feel the momentum from summer coming to a close, I find particular pleasure in the little things I’m noticing in this seasonal change.

The two moose that live in my parent’s neighborhood, the double rainbow that soars across the Kenai River, the mountainsides changing color, as the first dusting of snow shows at the top of the peaks, the “beary” poop littered across the trails as grizzlies feast on fall berries in preperation for hibernation, and the spawned salmon, living out their last days in the glacial blue waters of the Kenai.

I am really lucky to live here, to be constantly surrounded by such raw beauty that never ceases to astonish me.

The world can be a polluted, complicated, dangerous, and political place but it can equally be healthy, safe, and simple to understand. It can be filled with fire, but it can also be doused with rain. You have the option to see the world in the lens of your choosing, and fall is prompting me to choose seeing the beauty in it all.

Alaska reminds me to appreciate and marvel at the world we live in, for so quickly it can change.

Hey, kind of like the seasons!