LOCALS
August brings changes. Tempers run short. There was the Great Sock Dispute of August. “Who has been leaving their fucking socks drying in front of the tool chest?” “Not me, mine are all in my laundry bag. As is all my dirty laundry.” “I only have white socks. Those are all grey socks.” “I lost all my socks. I have like one pair.” (Guess who? I actually hoped they were mine.)
The next day, during a brief spat between Bud and Julia on the back deck, Allie says: “Oh those are mine. I’ll move them. Sorry.” The issue was dropped, with everyone but Allie feeling a little unsatisfied.
August brings a respite from Ketchikan and its urban spiritual remoteness. A fifteen minute pit stop in Petersburg brings a visit from the authors parents, cousin and family friends. Then onward, north and north, more north than I’ve been. A first time to Hoonah. Hoonah has a reputation as being very hostile to outsiders, in particular boatloads of drunk fishermen. We are visitors, we are workers.
Like most SE towns, and increasingly indiscriminate of size, Hoonah has become a pit stop on the cruise line. A very brightly colored, friendly looking brochure ended up on the galley table (Amy, bless her heart, always grabbed these for the crew, to highlight the amenities that we never had time to utilize). Hoonah! Has a high shool! A brewery! A post office! Some colorful houses on the hill! But gazing out on Hoonah with my tired scratchy eyes in the bright morning it looked like another gathering of buildings with a harbor and some resentful locals. Squalor, opportunistic overpriced coffee shops with unreliable wifi, rickety waterfront establishments on tarred stilts. Overweight local boys on bikes. Walking down main street I saw houses with broken windows and beware of dog signs. One small crooked house had a thicket of raspberry bushes, heavy in the afternoon sun with its ready fruit, leaning wearily over a dirty fence. The raspberries were copious and lush and hung over the sidewalk alluringly. A fish to a lewer. But I know better. I hope others know better also, than to indulge in this roadside attraction. It's as if this patch of raspberries stood as a daily temptation to oblivious white folk, tourists and fishermen alike, an edible marker of resentments and pugnacity. Do Not Eat The Local’s Berries.
I walked to the post office and sent a satisfyingly chubby letter. I continued on, past the end of town, past the Gun Shop/Nail Salon house for sale. Past the airport. The paved road ends. A hill of gravel as big as my elementary school. One lone digger working a Saturday.
Down the long road, truck after truck passed me full of locals. None slow, none wave. I clenched my jaw and sent out my beadiest greenest “don’t fuck with me” face. In retrospect I probably looked ridiculous. An angry-looking blonde little white girl in big time bear territory with nothing but her iPod to defend her. Blue shorts, old pink running shoes. Mean mug.
And signs of grizzlies everywhere. Running and ducking and plunging into the sawtooth grasses in an estuary I noticed trampled grass all around. “Why are people hanging out here?” I wondered. I nearly stepped in a fresh pile of bear scat. The running and ducking and plunging continued in the other direction, back towards the dirt road. I climbed a rock quarry lip and threw stones into the hole. Back at the boat that evening, strangers from strange boats walked by. One man with flaming tousled red hair down his back, high cheek bones and a crooked, beaky nose. I thought, merman caught in the net, considers his options, takes the life of a fisherman, sprouts legs. Male Ariel. Look at you. Yachters walked by, more than one comment “Women are taking over the world!” “You go girls!” Awkward female nods. Smiles. Eye rolls. Muttering.
That night, watching the sky turn peach, orange, purple, bruised blue, darkness settling in for the night, Bud came back drunk. We left. We wouldn't be back that summer.
Next: THE SOOTHSAYER WAS WRONG
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