Thanksgiving, circa 1969

On this Thanksgiving Day I am thankful for my abundant blessings, and I am thankful for you, my blog friends.

I awoke at 3:30 a.m. this morning with Thanksgiving, 1969 on my mind. I was three months pregnant, a soldier's wife, living in a trailer the size of an old city bus, in Delta Junction, Alaska. It was a wilderness town, population 500, situated at the end of the Alcan Highway. We received Down the Road Pay, an extra monthly stipend of about forty dollars because we lived off post in a hostile environment. No, we didn't have to dodge bullets like the soldiers in Viet Nam, but danger lurked and our enemy was the extreme climate, fifty below zero degrees with unbelievably strong winds. Caribou, moose, a herd of buffalo and an occasional bear roamed freely.

Winter sunrise occurred about 8:00 a.m. and illuminated the town with a forty watt glow. Pitch dark enveloped the town by 2:30 p.m. There were no porch lights and no street lamps, like back home. Walking outside on a clear moonlit night was literally breathtaking; our exhaled breath crystallized. The stars looked so close it seemed I could reach up and pluck one. The aurora borealis spilled pastel streaks across the sky. But on cloudy nights, (3:00 p.m.) when I walked outside, my visibility was zero. I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face. I could hear and feel the thundering from the herd of wild buffalo tramping down our gravel road.

I stayed inside and watched either PBS, Public Broadcast Station or AFS, the Armed Forces Station. I viewed a lot of Sesame Street, a brand new childrens' educational program, and when I tired of that, I watched army reels. At 6:00 p.m. we were able to watch the NEWS, live from a local TV station in Fairbanks, 100 miles away. The male reporters were often caught licking their hands and smoothing their hair -talk about Candid Camera! Then Walter Cronkite would report the nightly world news. The only problem was, it was the news from the night before. There was a twenty-four hour delay because the newsreels had to be flown in from Seattle each day.

Thanksgiving, 1969 was one for the books. Every military family living off post had difficulty stretching their paychecks 30 days. We all ran out of something by the last week of the month. Often we didn't have six cents for a postage stamp to write home.

The day before, I'd purchased a roasting hen and stuffing at Diehl's, a general store, bookended by a tiny post office and bank. At 10:00 a.m. I put the chicken in the tiny oven and sat down to write a letter.

Dear Mom,
Happy Thanksgiving. As I look out the window I see an older Eskimo couple in their mid-forties walking down the road wearing parkas. They are arguing loudly in their native language. Most of the people around here are transient young military couples, and most of the wives are in various stages of pregnancy. This native couple must live nearby. I see them frequently, and he is always verbally abusive to her. I should invite them in for Thanksgiving dinner, but I know you'd lecture me about strangers. I've invited Bob and Karen from down at the end of the road. I like her, but her husband is more hot-tempered than mine. Have to go baste the bird ...

That's when my Thanksgiving took a turn for the worse. I opened the oven, anticipating the blast of warm air, but the oven was cold and the bird uncooked. My former husband and I pooled our pocket change, and came up with ninety-four cents. We scrounged around the couch, searched high and low and found three more pennies. He unscrewed the small propane tank (which fueled the cook stove) attached to the front of the trailer, and we headed up the road to the gas station. It cost $3.00 to refuel the tank, but my Ex explained the situation to the attendant, asked if he could purchase a dollar's worth of propane, and promised to pay him the three pennies later. The man filled the tank, and said, "Happy Thanksgiving, kids. Come see me on payday."

As we sat down with friends to a delicious chicken dinner, I said a long-winded prayer.

Forty-two years later, my kids and grandkids are scattered in all directions, visiting relatives. I will join Bill's children and grandchildren this afternoon and send up a prayer of Thanksgiving for good health, a good husband, good kids, good grandkids,and good gravy, because Robin makes the best!

Queen of the Last Frontier, published by High Hill Press

Queen of the Last Frontier, the biography of Emily Viaene Keaster, as told to Linda O'Connell, published by High Hill Press, is now available on Amazon.com. $15.95
http://www.amazon.com/Quen-Last-Frontier-Biography-Keaster/dp/1606530267/ref+sr_1_1?s+books&ie+UTF8&qid+1284313316&s+1-1





Emily and I met in Delta Junction, Alaska in 1969 when my former husband was stationed at Ft. Greely Army Arctic Test Center. Her husband, Walt, was a civillian who worked on post with my ex. The Keasters were pioneer homesteaders who battled the hostile environment, wild animals and the land boss.

This book chronicles the life of Emily from her birth in the back seat of a Studebaker to the present. Queen of the Last Frontier evokes a range of emotions. Readers will discover how Emily reared children and raised cattle and hell in the Land of the Midnight Sun. Emily Viaene Keaster has made numerous contributions to the town of Delta Junction. She continues to reign supreme over her homestead.


Publisher, Lou Ella Turner at High Hill Press, Cottleville, MO did a wonderful job on this book. I would highly recommend this small press publisher. My experience was pleasant and positive.
http://HighHillPress.com/

Forever Letters, Forever Stamps

About Letter Writing
Published 3/09 Suburban Journals

Letters have been a life-line for my best friend and me for forty years. They bouyed our spirits and kept us emotionally afloat as we endured the crashing waves of life. Now, our letters are an anchor for my friend's receding mind.

Our friendship began when we were next door neighbors and wives of soldiers stationed in a remote Alaska town. We connected immediately. When it was time to return to our respective hometowns, we vowed to stay connected.

My heart skipped a beat each time the letter carrier deliverd a red and blue edged airmail envelope - it felt like my cherished friend in Boston was sitting in my kitchen. We shared the joys and frustrations of motherhood; we reared our children with swapped ideas and complaints, and we did it all through letter writing. Each ten page missive was like unburdening ourselves at the gossip fence. Although we were separated by fifteen hundred miles, we knew we had one another to lean on when we needed a boost or a kick in the pants.

As divorce loomed on my horizon, she was there to listen, respond and support me. When medical issues loomed on her horizon, she shocked me with an unexpected phone call. "Tumor. Brain. Malignant." I'm sure she said a host of other words, but those were all I heard. "So very-very sorry." I'm sure I said much more, but what I remember is we didn't cry. Verbal words of comfort failed me; all the while my mind was spinning a letter. When we hung up, I took pen in hand, poured out my love, encouragement and addressed our fears. I did this twice a week for the next three years, when her letters were sporadic or non-existent. Chemotherapy and radiation were her topics; teenaged children and daily living, mine.

Today her cancer is gone and so is her short-term memory. I write her weekly. She tells me her heart skips a beat when she sees a letter from me. Although she can not remember a moment ago, her long-term memory is intact. Every letter is a connection to days of long ago when we walked among the wildflowers clutching our swollen bellies, sharing hopes and dreams, wondering what it would be like to be a mother.
Forever more we will be two newlywed girls walking a dusty path towards yesterday in that remote Alaska town (Delta Junction).

As my friend drifts away, I vow that we will stay connected. As long as there are Forever stamps, I will forever write my friend a weekly letter.