So what's my new home like? Well, I now live in the premiere agricultural valley of Alaska, which means people grow a lot of potatoes, carrots, or ostensibly marijuana. Our farm sits on a hill four miles outside of town, and is surrounded by fields of dry, matted grass that I want to name. Finger Meadow seems appropriate for the corridor of grass stretching from my cabin into the woods behind me. The next, accessible only by tractor paths through those woods, is totally surrounded by trees and the land dips into some wetlands beyond the field edges. I want to call it Moose Hollow.
“Town” is Palmer, population 8,000 (a number which interestingly has doubled from about 4,000 since 1990) whose most noteworthy characteristics, judging by the categories for the local Poetry Month haiku contest are: 1. Palmer Water Tower 2. Engine No. 5 (in front of the Palmer Depot) 3. Balto (Statue in front of the visitor's center) 4. Cabbage 5. Moose 6. Matanuska River 7. Glacial Dust 8. Break-up (spring time) 9. Breakdowns (mechanical) 10. Anything relating to Palmer. How revealing. I can't wait to get to know and understand the stories and history of this town.
Unfortunately, the deadline for the haiku contest has passed, the final opportunity for entry being April 15, my first day of work here on the farm. Had I known, I would have spent my otherwise idle “settling in” days constructing stacks and stacks of haikus (the number of entries was not restricted) illuminating the outstanding qualities of this quaint town. I'm sorry, a population of 8,000 in Alaska makes a settlement of humans worthy of the title “city.” Not quite a metropolis.
Anyway, my entry to this poetry contest would almost surely be an embarrassment, as I yet know almost nothing about Palmer. I would title my entry, “Palmer: An Outsider's Perspective” (they're probably looking for new and unique perspectives on this place, right?) and it would contain haikus like,
Moose here are like deer
Numerous beyond control
Still, they escape me
heretically undermining the moose category by admitting that I haven't actually seen one of these supposedly prevalent ungulates yet. Maybe I should pick something I actually have witnessed like,
Oh, water tower
Framed by blue muscle mountains
What makes you special?
Still not incredibly sincere. Maybe the irony would not be noticed? Maybe this water tower indeed does possess a sense mystery and intrigue amidst the local lore, making my haiku wholly appropriate and a possible winner? I do not yet understand how these ten categories represent the essence of this town (well, I understand the cabbages, since it has been explained to me that because of the long days here farmers can grow cabbages of legendary proportions), and so I cannot help but write semi-satirical haikus. I'm sure the judges would reject my entry without a second, hopefully muttering, “Hmph, must be from the outside,” in doing so.
Because that's what they say here: “Oh, so you're from the outside?” “Where did you get that awesome DVD player?” Oh, it's from the outside.” And though I'm uncomfortable with the thought of considering Alaska the inside, I have to say that it is a whole different world up here. People really don't have DVD players, evidenced by the fact that the video section in the library contains mostly VHS tapes. Normal household items, everything, is ridiculously expensive. Weird differences: it's hard to raise farm animals here because hay sells for $8-12 a bale, which is about 300% (at least) the price of hay in Vermont. There aren't enough grass farmers up here? The season isn't long enough to be sure of two or three cuts. They don't recycle glass here. Glass, people, the easiest thing there is to recycle. But they don't have the facilities here, so recyclables are sent to the lower 48 (excuse me, the Outside.) to be processed, which requires compression, making glass a suddenly difficult material. It's like a third world country in some ways: the economy here is mostly extractive and export based, and facilities have not been developed to process these raw materials, which would add to their value and bring a relative benefit to the local communities. This economy does not even make an effort to appear self-sufficient. Presumably the dominant attitude is that the communities here are not large or permanent enough to merit such investment. The last frontier. Communities seem to be temporary and transient, people are not here to stay. Anyway, every bottle of wine or beer I drink here will come with an extra pang of guilt. I've actually considered drinking beer from a can.
Alaskans are a different breed, too. Well, I've actually met only two people who were truly born in Alaska (I think?), and from what I can tell, they are total badasses. Trillium and Leila, ages 7 and 5, are the daughters of the APU professor who lives here at Spring Creek Farm. I saw them running around barefoot the other day on the near-frozen forty degree ground. I commented on this to my farm manager, Mimi, and she said that they run around barefoot when there's snow on the ground. These kids are tough. I saw Trillium take a spill on her bike into an ice-covered puddle, and in that moment where time freezes a little whenever something like that happens, I expected her to stand up crying. Instead she picked herself up, shook herself off, and ran to catch up with her sister for their morning horse ride, still soaking wet. There's definitely still a pioneer type spirit up here, a feeling that those who have chosen this place are living beyond the reaches and constraints faced by normal humans.
But it is beautiful and unreal. A little barren and exposed, especially at this time of year with strong winds sweeping across nearby glaciers and sending a constant gale up our valley. Austere, too. Though wildlife supposedly abounds, the woods are not diverse. A bird-guide devoted to Denali that I found in the book store was no more than thirty pages in length, I've spotted no more than four tree species in the forest around my cabin. Still, there is plenty opportunity for observation, wonder. My farm is surrounded by mountains except to the southwest, someday soon I will see a moose, maybe even a bear, and the northern sky still glows, the sun just under the horizon, at 11 p.m., reminding me that this world indeed is not flat, that I am spinning and small, that there is no edge but that there are poles, and that I am near one.
