I LIVE YEAR ROUND in an internationally popular vacation destination, but I still have to do everything that people like me do when they’re not on vacation.
“Like me” is still, barely, middle class. This means I do housework, which includes vacuuming, and, except for people employed in the housekeeping industry, I vacuum more than anyone anywhere who is on the electrical grid. This is because Rys, my hairy, younger cat, is the Esau of Maine coon cats, and I have only a Shark (not a Dyson).
And there’s the rest of a “to-do” list that comes with keeping a house and maintaining standards set by my slightly obsessive-compulsive self. Loading and unloading the dishwasher, dusting, changing sheets, cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry. There’s a long to-do list in my head, and I review it at night when I want to be asleep.
Lately I’ve allowed myself to be on vacation at home. This is not a “staycation” where I troop around, eat at restaurants in town, and take a water taxi across Kachemak Bay to Halibut Cove and Seldovia. This is being on vacation in my own house, which is infinitely more affordable.
Today I put on my summer clothes (I mean all my remaining summer clothes from Georgia —a Target tank top and a Michael Stars knit skirt I bought at Squash Blossom in Decatur, GA). I sat on my postage-stamp deck in a chair I bought at a yard sale up the street. I hiked up the skirt to get a little sun on my pale Scots-Irish legs. I took a deep breath.
It’s OK to be on vacation. Nothing bad will happen because, for a couple of hours, I read and looked up at the sky. It’s OK just to breathe.
Copyright 2017. Genie Hambrick.
Depending on where you are—Northern or Southern Hemisphere—today is either the longest day of the year, or the shortest; the shortest or the longest night. And tomorrow is the first day of summer, or winter. Depends on where you are.
Right this minute, I’m at latitude 59°38’33″N, seated at The Wurlitzer Console about to write a confession, which is this: I’m not ready for the days to get shorter. Maybe that’s because it rained all day on this longest day, eve of summer 2017 CE, and I’m sitting here, with wool socks and felt slippers on my feet, sipping double-strength lemon ginger tea while I ponder the Yogi brand’s bromides that dangle over the side of the mug. One says, “Give love, get love.” The other needs a semicolon: “You don’t need love, you are the love.” For music to complement melancholy, I’ve queued up Virgil Fox to blast Bach fugues and preludes in minor keys through the Marshall speaker.
As I post this, rain has stopped in Homer, AK. Virgil Fox is into D major. And in Cape Horn, Chile, 55° 58′ 59.9999″S, it’s the beginning of winter for the lighthouse keeper and his family.
to Homer is a short trip. Once, when I expressed concern about the safety of the small planes that fly here, my Alaska son, Matt, said, “Just look at it this way, Mom. However it turns out, it’s quick.” Seating is completely egalitarian: one cabin about the size of a large passenger van, no assigned seats, and everyone gets a complimentary fruit juice or water, plus a homemade cookie–oatmeal-raisin, chocolate chip, or peanut butter. The selection varies, but never disappoints.
WHEN I ARRIVED IN THE LAST FRONTIER, my worldly possessions, except what I gave away or sold and wish I hadn’t, were still traveling cross continent by truck to be loaded onto a barge in Washington, then hauled down to Homer. Some things I mailed to myself, such as important documents and spices, because for some reason I thought the movers wouldn’t pack them, like they were contraband, and I didn’t want to buy all new when I got to Alaska. As if I’m a gourmet cook and bought them in exotic bazaars instead of Publix. As if the movers would refuse to pack the garbage if I asked.
The Cheechako Diaries 