"Did you remember to bring your snow pants?" asked Mr. Grey.
"Do I need them?" I responded. "I have some long pajamas that could go over my jeans."
"You definitely want to bring the pants if you have them," interjected the teenager in the room with us. "Out on that water, it'll get cold fast. You need the layers."
I waved a goodbye at the student and the principal, then seized my boss's keys from off his desk for good measure.
"I'm taking the truck. Back in a few!"
I ran into Bellatrix, a twenty-year-old educational aide who has struck up a delightfully awkward friendship with me, in the hallway.
"Hey," I said. "Do you want to go on an adventure?"
"Where to?"
"My house!"
"Sure."
That, in a nutshell, is what my life here in Point Goldlace has been like to this point. A good-natured boss, helpful students, friendly co-workers, and the occasional dramatic gesture resulting in my collision with a door--as happened when Bellatrix and I attempted the simple task of exiting the building--have been the hallmarks of my experience in this town, and as I examine those I find myself mindful that Providence so often knows what we need before we do.
As recently as a month ago I was despondent at being trapped here, then furious when my attempts at breaking the cage were met with an unyielding wall of defeat. Why wasn't God doing what I wanted? Why wasn't He listening?
And the thing is that here is superior, in virtually every way, to the little village of Gori I so mourned leaving, likely superior as well to the posting to which I tried to escape at the close of August. I was handed a tremendous gift in this place and did everything I could to destroy it, ribbons and all. Fate stayed my hand. Fate kept me still until I could see.
There's a community here, in a way there was not in either White Venice or Gori. It's not just that we have a coffee shop, although that has been a godsend. It's not just that our village is lovely and well maintained, laid out like an actual town rather than a random collection of buildings, patrolled by a real police officer in an actual car, serviced by competent public servants. It's that people care about those things. People are engaged. People take pride in their town and pride in their children, and that means getting them to school on time, prepared, and appropriately disposed to learning. On the few occasions I've had to speak to a parent about a student's behavior, the behavior has changed. That, compared to anywhere else I've been in this state, compared to most places I've even just heard about, is a watershed. I am so, so lucky to be here. And in many ways, this town is so, so normal.
Our weeks fall into a reliable rhythm, interrupted by the regular incursions of life that seem always to abound in bush Alaska. Moose season resulted in maybe half the high school class checking out. Several pupils fly every weekend to Aurora City. The recent death of an elder was commemorated by one of the great funerary celebrations for which this culture is known, and that event effectively took half a school day. A field trip engulfed two more. There's always something, some way that the schedule doesn't quite proceed as planned. But in general, things follow a predictable path.
I work from 8 to 2:30 in actual sessions, then use the time from 2:30 to 4 to perform housekeeping duties, usually grading. After that I swing by the coffee shop, gab a bit with the barista and associated church family, and head home to prepare the lessons for the coming day. Every Friday the school hosts a movie night, with the proceeds from admissions and concessions going to the volleyball team, and so I usually get to cap my week off by enjoying a film and some snacks with my co-workers, the great majority of whom are friendly and warm. This week, the particular colleague was Miss Victory, who sat through Blank Panther for what she said was the fourth time.
"And each time I've paid for it," she laughed.
Afterwards, she, Bellatrix, and I walked down to the River Goldlace with our cellphones serving as flashlights. I waited until we were directly on the bank, away from the lights of the town, to open my device's settings.
"Okay, now," I told the other two.
The mobile phones went off, and all of a sudden the glittering starfire of thousands of celestial tapers was raining its splendor down on us, reflecting off the surface of the river and competing for brightness with the barely discernible lights of the aurora.
"Oh, wow," whispered Miss Victory, a recent transplant from the South. "I'm really here. I'm really in Alaska."
I love my Friday-night socializing, but Saturdays are special for me. Those are the days I lock myself in my house, pile up the books, turn on the music, light the candles, brew the coffee, and dive into the projects that give me such pleasure. On Saturdays I read. I write. I think. I contemplate my future and my present. I occasionally trawl OKCupid, skimming through endless reams of attractive men and imagining which of them might one day be my husband. And then on Sunday comes church, at the big red Episcopal chapel located a convenient few hundred yards from my house. Not a bad deal.
This is a place, and a routine, I find pleasing, and what notes of discontent exist are manageable. For now. We've moved into the cold months here, and I adore the transforming landscape and the ever-shorter days that have made Point Goldlace and the surrounding country into a kind of fantasyland. Momentarily, at least. Autumn was magical, but it was brief, and lest you think the photos in this post are current you ought to know that winter comes early in the Arctic.
We had a field trip last week, to a camping site most of the kids have been visiting since childhood, and we opted to go the traditional route and make the journey there by river. When our boats left out, on the early afternoon of September 25, they did so under a light snowfall that lasted into the night.
