This time last year, I was here in Georgia, with 12 days between here and there–there being Alaska. The year before, I was either here or just getting there, and the same thing for the past 12 or so years. Always this time of year, I’ve been just about there, or already there — Georgia to Alaska.

This time, when I get there, I’m back home, having lived through an entire year of Alaska seasons: cool green, cool gold, cold white, and cold gray, which right now is leaning again into cool green. The dark months went by in a flash, and I can’t attribute that to the light box that glowed on me while I worked at my computer in early morning hours. What kept my battery charged was more things to do that I could ever imagine, and all of it within minutes of my cozy apartment with its view of Kachemak Bay.

Three classes at Kenai Peninsula College — two of them on writing, and one of those the best I’ve ever had. Contra dancing. Concerts. Art exhibits. Reading. Writing. Tasty dinners cooked with and for family and friends. Swimming, Pilates, yoga, my grandson, walking on the beach, driving in snow (yep, I got a big kick out of that). Moose in the yard, walking down the street. Eagles. Sandhill cranes. Ravens patrolling the streets and beach. I’ll say it again: my grandson.

So I’m here now, here in Georgia, and this time has been good, too. Good times with my sister on her screened porch. Good times, not quite enough, with sweet friends. Good reports from doctors. Good enough navigation through traffic (good enough to get me safely in and out of the gridlock and on time to destinations).

Here and there, this time — now — is mighty good.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

Breaking up is  hard to do, and everyone here is going through it. Everyone. Think of it. An entire population breaking up. Things are a mess. Snow is melting, re-freezing, an ugly chocolate frosty oozes down the street beside my apartment building.

March is the top month for suicides in Alaska, I hear, but there is now this incredible sunshine, tonight it’s bathing the Kenai Mountains I can see outside my window. There is every good reason, past break up, to keep going.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

Several people doubted me this week when I mentioned that Daylight Saving Time begins this weekend. It seems early in the calendar, but Google can’t be wrong; it’s right there in red letters, and I didn’t add it as an event. Further validation came this morning from the University of Alaska, which used its emergency alert system to remind students to set their clocks ahead one hour–and to replace water stored for emergencies and smoke detector batteries. I don’t have emergency water, and the smoke detector in my apartment is working fine. I tested it the other day when a pot of something got cooking a little too strong. I flipped on the exhaust fan, but it couldn’t keep up, even though it is vented to the outside. I know this to be true because when I’m standing at the stove, I feel a breeze, more than a draft, coming through the cabinet where the fan is mounted.

But back to this thing of saving daylight. Somewhere in the Universe, there’s a bank for it, from which, come Sunday, Alaskans will start withdrawing deposits. And while we spend last year’s deposits to fish and create vitamin D around the clock, we’ll be saving this year’s sunlight for next summer. If anyone knows where that bank is, let me know. I’ve already figured out, it’s not SunTrust. I also wonder if somewhere in this grand scheme to save daylight there might be lessons for the government. You know, like saving (or taxing) while you’re spending to have enough for the next summer, and the next, and the next.

I majored in biology and reluctantly taught chemistry for a year, but sometimes backwoods, horse-sense explanations are more fun than the scholarly versions, which sometimes turn out to be hocus pocus. Like the translation of the West Virginia petroglyph that inspired this piece of stained glass. When I lived in southwest Virginia and had completed my study of gypsies, I got deep into petroglyphs and made a couple of trips to that neighboring state to see rock writing with my own eyes. That was in the mid-1980s, when the only explanation for their meaning came from a retired Harvard professor, a marine biologist and self-taught student of ancient languages who convinced at least a few people that the writing was Ogam, an ancient Irish alphabet with no vowels. He concluded that Irish monks who had traveled across the Atlantic around 600 A.D. in leather boats had incised the Ogam words in these stone outcropping in southeastern West Virginia. They must have ditched the boats somewhere in the Great Lakes area and come south, on foot, to do something. Maybe to give salvation to the Indians, who then would have not have been called Indians. Or maybe the monks were looking for their hillbilly cousins who had traveled across the Big Pond even earlier in the belly of a whale.

Anyway, an article about the petroglyphs published in Wonderful West Virginia magazine included Dr. Fell’s translation of the petroglyphs and this one, he said, describes how a ray of sunlight beams through a notch in a rock and illuminates the stone panel precisely on the Winter Solstice, which in those days would have been Christmas. A few years after the article was published, an impressively credentialed scholar of ancient language pretty well reamed out old Dr. Fell, as some scholars are compelled to do when someone challenges their theories.

This post comes from a mind that knows scientifically, unequivocally that dusting is futile. I remembered all of this petroglyph stuff when I stood this afternoon looking through the stained glass piece as the sun blazed through it.  Better to ponder Ogam, Irish monks beating Columbus and a few other guys to the New World, my neighbor’s chicken house, and the energy of sunshine.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

Nearly every minute of every day and night, I am doing things I really want to do. So, starting Friday evening, the weekend has gone like this:

Friday night. McNeil Canyon’s annual talent show and silent auction. Sam and his friend Ethan acted out a scene from one of the original Pink Panther films with Peter Sellers.  I had downloaded Bobby McFerrin’s incredible version of the theme song for them, but the sound engineer (who’s also the very cool school principal) couldn’t find the on switch on my iPod, which was plugged into the sound system. But things worked out even better, because Beth grabbed the microphone and began humming the theme song. The entire audience (at least the adults) joined in. The boys didn’t miss a step. All the kids were amazing and completely unselfconsious performing in front of a pretty big crowd. I purchased a beautiful hand-knit cap in the silent auction. The most unusual item was the peanut butter-bacon pie purchased by the Tobins, whose son Peyton is one of Sam’s buddies.

For dinner, after I got back to town at 9:30, I tried McDonald’s Fish McBites, and they’re delicious! Granted a lot of things would have been delicious right then, because lunch had been a not-inspired salad about noon. But, really, I love the Fish McBites. They’re Alaska pollock, coming from sustainable fisheries, and not greasy or heavily breaded. I came home, whisked together a cocktail sauce, and ate while I watched Woody Allen’s To Rome with Love. That’s a film I can’t recommend, except that Alec Baldwin is always fun to watch. Late bedtime.

Saturday daytime. First thing, coffee (I love it) while I read online Writer’s Almanac, the daily meditation from Richard Rohr, and the New York Times. After that, errands: post office, bank; Safeway for Major Dickason’s coffee, fresh rosemary, and tulips; Sav-U-More for cranberry beans, celery, onions, garlic; Petro for fuel,now $4.30 a gallon. Had lunch with a longtimer friend at Mermaid Cafe, then browsed adjacent Old Inlet books (used, some rare) and bought a copy of Beluga Days by Nancy Lord, who’s teaching the writers’ workshop I’m taking at the college. I have at least 10 books in my reading stack now, and this doesn’t include reading for class. After that I tuned my autoharp and practiced “Campfire Dance,” a gypsy melody that I’m learning so I can play along with the group of women who gather often to play whatever instruments they can come up with. They are kind enough to include me in this. Fortunately the autoharp is completely drowned out by the other instruments (accordion, fiddle, piano, acoustic guitar, electric bass guitar, flute). In the afternoon, I had a hilarious Skype session with my sister Joy.

After that, a fellow spiritual seeker and I got into an extended Skype discussion of Marcus Borg. By the time that ended, I wasn’t in the mood for Side Effects at the Homer Theatre. Instead I worked on research for the next major writing assignment that’s due March 18. I’m writing about the long dresses worn by Russian Old Believer women, who really stand out here because they’re the only people who wear dresses all the time. Everyone else–women and men–wears pants most of the time, except that many Homer fashionistas are wearing ski skirts over pants or tights. Just because they’re in style doesn’t they don’t look very good on everyone. Yes, some men do wear skirts, that is kilts, but only for special occasions.

Sunday so far. After coffee and reading, lots of cooking: bean and red wine soup, enough to last for week, from a NY Times recipe; roasted organic chicken a la Ina Garten, enough to last for days. This is what happens when you’re cooking for one person. While the chicken cooled I walked to Bishops Beach. Good golly! I live here! Still can’t believe it. I love beach-combing, now more with my eyes than to gather sticks and stones and haul them home. Today I noticed a bright turquoise condom and a pile of cigarette butts. Also clusters of small orange balls — looked like little grapes or the salmon eggs we used to fish for trout in the South Fork of the Holston River. And a labyrinth that had been drawn in the sand. The tide had started to come in, and if I had waited for my walk I would have missed it.

Chicken carcass is simmering on the stove now to make broth for more soups.Yoga practice is next in the little hall that connects the rooms of my apartment. It’s the perfect size and free of distractions. After that, I’ll have dinner — some of the chicken–and then maybe roll down the hill to the movie. Life is mighty juicy!

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

Last summer,  I was chatting with my friends Kay and Bruce about how friendships happen, long-lasting ones, that is. Bruce is a clinical psychologist, and he says it’s chemistry; neurochemistry, that is. Or as he put it, it’s “like birds of a feather flock together.” I thought about this today when I looked over at the next-door neighbors’ bird feeder. Tiny little birds, maybe two or three species among them, are flitting around the bird feeder.

Then, while I was watching the bird feeder, the Medivac helicopter landed on the roof of the hospital, which is just a couple of hundred feet from where I live. In fact, the landing pad is just a tad above the level of my apartment porch, so I have a bird’s eye view of what’s happening.

A friend who used to work at the hospital explained how this medical transport works. The helicopter comes in, medical personnel get off to prepare the patient for the flight to Anchorage, then the flight crew takes the plane to be refueled, I guess somewhere near the airport. When the chopper comes back, the medical personnel put the patient into the plane, board themselves, and then they’re off to Anchorage. Today I watched long enough to see the flight crew walking around the helicopter after they came back from refueling. They seemed to be checking on something near the tail.

Somehow these particular people were attracted to this risky, challenging job, and whatever brought them together also enables them to work together and save lives. I think that’s chemistry, too, and it’s not reserved for romantic relationships. It’s not the same kind of fiery combustion that gets people immediately excited about being with another person. That flames out anyway, eventually. What I’m talking about is a stable compound that stays warm without burning up.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

I’ve had my eye on a little boat that’s sitting in a lot down on the next street. One of my longtimer friends says  it’s a “jitney.” Seining fishermen use it to pull one end of the net around the fish, then circle back to the fishing boat. Then they close up the net and haul the fish in.Yesterday I took this image from my living room window.  I love the colors.  The green is mighty close to Pantone 7473C. That’s a mix of Pantone Process Blue, with yellow and black. The blue is “Sea” (1963 Karmann Ghia) or “Tahiti ” (1976 Triumph TR6). And they’re not far off from Pantone Process Blue.

Resources: CCF, Homer, AK; Jerry Seinfeld, “Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee”; Pantone, Inc.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

Today I’m considering the phenomenon of “raking light,” first brought to my attention by my daughter-in-law who knows of it from her work in fine-art framing. Here’s the definition (according to Google):

“Raking light,  the illumination of objects from a light source at an oblique angle or almost parallel to the surface,  provides information on the surface topography and relief of the artifact thus lit. It is widely used in the examination of works of art.”

What raking light does, in the lives of ordinary people–and it’s particularly bold about this in Alaska winters–is expose and highlight every speck of dust and lint, every hair (human and otherwise), every grain of sand and grit in your house.

What happened today is that to avoid working on a writing assignment for a class I’m taking, I started cleaning. Not a good idea in raking light, because you can become completely overwhelmed. Think of Sisyphus with a dust cloth. It’s the furniture, floors, art on the walls, books, the television, computer, printer, stove (Oh, my God, the stove . . . someone else has been in my kitchen flinging spices down the burners. I am just not that messy).

I’ll tell you this: I’m mighty glad my activities for the evening will take place after dark because raking light shows precisely what aging does to human skin.  Not pretty.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

I have it–I have one–A Cold, that is. I grabbed this bug’s baton somewhere (Saturday night Contra dance?) and by Monday evening when I was in the writers’ workshop at the college, I was lapping the track with uncontrollable, brain-rattling sneezes and a dehydrating profusion of bodily fluid from my nose and eyes. Good golly, Miss Molly!

The last time I had A Cold I was in McCarthy, AK -in the late 1990s. My older son’s namesake, a small Matt, who had just returned from a trip Outside with his parents, came back with a yucky nose. My younger son, Zach, was there too, having hauled a country ham from Virginia. We both got A Cold.

Emergen-C is my go-to remedy, then and now. I used to do salt water gargles, but this go-round I’ve dumped that for a hot brew of lemon, fresh grated ginger, cayenne pepper, and water. I’m also employing  the magic potion in Fisherman’s Friend throat lozenges. I bought a couple of tins at, I think, Save-U-More and sent one to a friend in Atlanta. I kept one for decorative purposes, just like I hung on to a tin of Bag Balm.  But yesterday,  I opened it up, desperate to calm the sneezing. And, ya’ll, I’m not kidding, it works!  Check it out at http://fishermansfriendusa.com/

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick

I took it easy on Monday. No snow shoveling. Work was mostly satisfying, though because of it I missed both opportunities for water aerobics. No one made me miss the classes. I chose that because I can’t stand to make people wait.

Late afternoon, I took an urban hike in my neighborhood, intentionally including the full length of Noview Avenue trying to understand why the Homer Advisory Planning Commission denied Small Pond Child Care’s petition for an “unconditional use permit.” I don’t get it. I’ve lived nearly next door to the current center the whole time I’ve been in Homer.  Occasionally you see a teacher out with a gaggle of quiet toddllers. They construct imaginative fairy houses from branches and twigs. They make bird feeders out of unusual things.  They do not make noise. The MediVac helicopters do that, but that’s all good too.

Early evening, I chatted with a friend in the Lower 48, Skyped with my sister to discuss the art of ice dancing and catch up on plans for Memorial Day weekend. I watched Downton Abbey, Episode 7, behind a night from everyone who watches it on cable television.  And, because I waited too late to start cooking a hen for chicken soup and more, I treated myself to takeout from the Thai/Pho restaurant down the hill —red curry with chicken. Bliss.

By 9:00, I was in my pajamas and ensconced in bed with my lap top. Leo snuggled close while I read more of the New York Times online. Such an easy, relaxing day, a juicy day, with a good night’s sleep ahead.

Right after I turned out the light, I felt uncomfortable twinges in my left arm. I got out of bed, walked around in the dark, massaged my arm, then lay down. The pain worsened, and I felt uneasy. Dr. Monkey Mind, doing her never-to-be-completed  medical residency inside my head, popped a quick  diagnosis. “Possible heart attack,” she said.

I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and took one, then another naproxen. Feeling better, but still uncomfortable, I opened my laptop and scanned heart attack symptoms on the Mayo Clinic website. My symptom didn’t match.

I got out of bed again and went upstairs, figuring that if I were having or about to have a heart attack, I should unload the dishwasher before I drove myself around the corner to the hospital. Piece of cake that would be: the driveway was all clear; car too. And my hair looked OK.  I hadn’t worn a cap the entire day (no snow shoveling and not smushed from the pillow).

Employing therapeutic diversion to cope with my unease, I folded a couple of origami cranes, and then it hit me. Snow shoveling. “Girl,” I said to myself (not out loud), “your muscles are edging toward the new 50s.” I thought about how many times I had shoveled out the car and cleared the driveway during the weekend? Five times?

I put away all the dishes, paying close attention to getting them lined up just so, turned out the lights and went back downstairs. I applied a generous amount of Tiger Balm to both of my arms and shoulders and crawled back into bed. All this time, Leo tracked right with me, hopeful that my arising meant what it usually does in the morning—breakfast.

Back in bed, I recommenced breathing “Sat nam,” and groaned when I looked at the clock: 3:45. I told Leo to give up, settle down. “Mercy,” I said out loud, as the Tiger Balm set my upper torso on fire. This must be what Diana Nyad felt when the jelly fish stung her while she was swimming from Cuba to Florida. “Sat nam. Sat nam,” I breathed.

I dozed off, woke again around 6:30, much to Leo’s delight, and fed him. Then I went back to bed and slept until about 9:00, when I thought, “Well, hey. I’m still alive and there’s work to be done.”

I brewed a cup of coffee and toasted an English muffin to top with a dollop of stewed rhubarb harvested last year from my yard. I read Writers Almanac, Fr. Richard Rohr’s daily meditation, as much of the Times that interested me after getting an early start on it last night. I glanced through an e-newsletter from Eileen Fisher (I’ve been a fan of her clothes for years).

Then I cranked up Beau Soleil and dug into projects for three clients. I looked out the window. More snow.

This afternoon, I bundled up, went outside and cleared car, driveway, front porch and steps. Add the deck to that; 43 minutes, start to finish.

I’ve got a good supply of Tiger Blam, and I’ll read the instructions before I use it again. No need to overdo it. I’ve put together an electic chicken soup for dinner, and it’s nearly ready. House of Cards is queued up. I’m easing into a great night. Life is juicy.

Last night, a friend and I went to Fat Olive’s for a quick salad before we headed up the hill to the movie theater for a fund-raiser put on by our employer. Seating was limited — it was the bar or the backroom–because Olive’s was crowded, which is unusual for a winter Thursday evening in Homer. The hostess reminded us that it was Valentine’s Day, and though I was completely aware of that earlier in the day, by 6:00 p.m. the annual celebration of red hearts and flowers and chocolate was pretty much wrapped up as far as I was concerned.

We couldn’t linger, so the bar suited us single girls just fine. The only drawback was that we couldn’t really check out who was there. As we were coming in, I did see a couple I know through my kids. He’s a real-deal cowboy, and they go Outside fairly often for him to participate in cattle drives and roundups. Last night, instead of a bandanna around his neck, he had a bright red scarf that looked like a blend of wool and silk. Cool as all get out.  On the way out I noticed a young couple holding hands and eating spaghetti and meat balls at the same time.

The fund-raiser included an auction for gift certificates, all donated by local restaurants and massage therapists (which gave the auctioneer opportunities to spice his banter with innuendos of romance and more). There were Valentine theme desserts for sale, too. Bags of cookies in clear plastic gift bags decorated with hearts. Cupcakes with hearts on top. Chocolate brownies. Peanut butter pie. Apple streusel.  Volunteers had gone overboard with baking for the event, and there was quite a bit unsold when we left the theater a few minutes before the film ended. I would say that a lot of folks will be enjoying Valentine’s Day sweets for several days longer.

There will be good deals on leftover candy and cards at the stores, too, where seasonal stock always exceeds demand. Safeway could not possibly have sold all their pimped up Valentine bouquets and potted plants. I wonder if they sold any of them? Yesterday morning when I shopped for my weekend’s supply of fresh produce, I noticed a bunch of guys buying basic bouquets of roses or other mixed flowers, but no one carrying out a pot of ivy with plastic hearts sticking out of it. There were a lot of heart-shaped balloons too, so maybe the practical romantics will celebrate Valentine’s Day today to take advantage of the sale prices while the flowers are still fresh and the balloons inflated.

As for me, I’m enjoying my indulgence in a bunch of Safeway tulips, actually a regular item starting right after Christmas. These are warm, energetic red–not that ponderous shade that turns maroon after a few days, like roses. I’m enjoying them this morning after my first Valentine’s Day in Homer, AK.  They’ll last more than a week if I keep trimming the end of the stems, and there’s nothing more to enjoy about them than that scrumptious color. That is plenty enough for me.

Copyright 2013-2014 Genie Hambrick