Cold in so Many Ways

By E.M. Brown

Cold in So Many Ways is a collection of nonfiction stories about a little girl growing up in Alaska before it became a state and as an adult trying to find her way. From the first story about a five-year-old’s treacherous journey to Alaska, to the final story describing events that convinced her that being human is more than just a physical experience, the reader joins her as she grows up in Alaska during times filled with uncertainty, dysfunctional relationships, and sometimes violence. These stories are filled with incidents and events that shaped, molded, and taught her lessons that would guide her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669879688

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Copyright © 2023 by E.M. Brown.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/01/2023

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Introduction

PART I

The Journey

Herbie

Chinaman’s Hat

A Winter Morning

Girdwood

Dishwater

Spring Break-Up

Freefall

Scissors, Paper, Rock

9.2

Revelations

PART II

Waiting for the Sunrise

Gaijin

Random Intersections

Writing Lessons

Night Visits

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

This collection of stories would not have made it into a book without the support and encouragement of my family: daughters Laina, Jacquie and husband, Larry. And my dear friends who read, edited and provided helpful suggestions for coherence and content clarification. I am so very grateful to Dr. Bill Fry, Margaret Gratton, my husband Larry, for the hours spent away from their busy lives to read my drafts and provide feedback. I am especially grateful to Dr. Kathi Assar who read very story not once, but three times to first edit then read for content and coherence. I was humbled by their enthusiasm for and their encouragement to share my stories. Many thanks to you all. I will be eternally grateful.

INTRODUCTION

Mother died young, before I was wise enough to know I would one day wonder about and wish I knew her history, wish I had asked the questions that would have told me how she came to be the person she was. I knew her to be independent to a fault, stoic, ambitious, community minded, stern, a hard worker, quick to anger, a person who drank too much and laughed too little. A person who was a Girl Scout Leader; who initiated the development of licensing regulations for beauticians in the State of Alaska; who was an entrepreneur; who developed the Visitors Information Center for our town, Seward, Alaska; who facilitated and participated in all community events. A person who faced her cancer with the same determination to succeed as she had faced life.

Mother never revealed anything about her past, her childhood, dreams, desires, or disappointments and left me to wonder where the drive to be so determined and self-sufficient come from? Or, the courage to divorce with two small children in 1945? How had she managed to afford Beauty School and support my sister and me? I remember the nursery school my sister and I went to. Was that while Mother worked or was it while she was in beauty school?

She and her younger brother and sister had been born in Texas. Not sure about the two older brothers; they may have been born in Oklahoma. Mother was the third child in the line-up of five. The family engaged in a long journey from Texas to Washington state in the 1930s. How did they get there and why Washington state? Her sister, my Aunt Ruby, once told me the family was very poor. So how was it my mother knew how to play the piano? Piano lessons cost money; how did that happen? Mother had an explosive anger that as a child I never knew when it would be triggered or why. Where did that intense anger come from? And, what caused the huge animosity she had for one of her older brothers, so much so that she could not bare to be in the same room with him?

All my mother’s siblings are gone. Cousins seem as void of knowledge of the family’s past as am I. And I continue to wonder, wish that I had known who my mother was as a person rather than just my formidable parent. Family history perhaps becomes more important as I grow older and begin to wonder what DNA has been passed down through the generations that contributed to traits, desires and skills that led me to become the person I am. Thich Nhat Han in his 2015 book, Silence, states "we are a continuation of our ancestors; they are fully present in every cell of our body; we are their continuation; we don’t have a separate self; if you remove your ancestors and your parents from you, there is no you left." Because of the many questions I have about my ancestors, my intent is to provide my family with a brief overview of my background in the event future generations may someday wonder and question what kind of a person their ancestor was; what events and experiences contributed to who she became; what traits, what similarities in life choices, what skills have passed down through the generations that have manifested in them.

These stories are about me, Mother, and my sister Berta. Part I contains my memories of growing up in territorial Alaska with a mother who thought children were quite capable of being self-sufficient at a very early age and believed that as long as Berta, who was one year to-the-month older than I was, and I were together we were safe. The stories are snippets of that childhood as I recall it and of my early adult life. An adult life that continued to force me to learn, to groom me into becoming. Part II are stories from life experiences after I left Alaska. These too, continued to shape and build the person I am still becoming. All the events and experiences retold in these stories molded me and folded into my character strengths, deficits, resilience, determination and independence. I am today the product of those years, of the unknown genetics and of the lessons learned from my mother.

Eleanor M. Brown, Ph.D., 2017

Revised and updated 2023

PART I

Everything that happens to you is your teacher. The secret is to sit at the feet of your own life and be taught by it.

Mahatma Ganhi

THE JOURNEY

I wake up to Mother’s voice in the other room calling to Berta and me: Time to get up! Our time-to-get-up record is playing in the background. The music echoes in the bareness of the two rooms we live in. Mother moved herself, Berta and me into this small cottage a few weeks ago. The cottage is cold and empty. I don’t like it here. And, I don’t know where my daddy is. I miss him. Mother hasn’t said anything about him...only that we’re going to go live with Bob. I don’t want to go live with Bob; I want my daddy. Our wake-up music used to make me feel happy, but it doesn’t now.

Later that day, Mother loads our suitcases and us into Bob’s car. Bob, pale yellow hair and big shoulders, waits. Mother tells Berta and me that Bob is going to be our new daddy. I don’t understand this; I already have a daddy. Bob drives for a long time. Away from the cottage and away from the house we had lived in with my daddy. Berta and I huddle together in the back seat of the car, silent, nervous. What seems like hours later, Bob stops the car in front of a house that sits by itself, trees in back, patch of lawn in front. Mother tells Berta and me that this will be our new home until we leave for Alaska. What does this mean? Where’s my daddy? Where’s this place, Alaska? Why are we moving into this house? Why can’t we go back to our other house where Daddy lives? Mother explains nothing, she just smiles and says, Come on; out of the car, and heads for the steps leading to the front door. I clutch Berta’s hand and pull her with me out of the car. We follow mother down the walkway and into the house. Inside, we stand very quiet, our sides touching, leaning into each other, waiting for Mother to tell us what to do next. Berta and I look at each other. Her sad eyes and scrunched mouth look like mine. I don’t feel like talking or doing anything. I feel like crying.

The next morning, Mother says Berta needs to start school because we won’t be leaving for Alaska until after Christmas. She tells us to eat and get dressed; she’s ready to take Berta to school. I get to ride along, but I can’t start school because I’m only five; Berta is six. Mother tells me I will start school when we get to Alaska.

While Berta is in school, I don’t have anyone to play with. I wander around the house, drift in and out of rooms. The rooms, almost bare, have dark empty corners...a couch, a chair, no rugs, no pictures, no toys, no dolls. I stomp around, drag my feet across the wood floors, look for something to do. Sometimes Mother tells me I can help her with chores. Then, I stand on a chair and wash dishes or go with her out to the orchard to look for Blue Jays. She takes the shotgun with us when we go to the orchard. Tells me we need to shoot any Blue Jays we see because they eat the hazelnuts before they are ready to pick. Mother always sees the Blue Jays before I do.

Bob’s gone. Gone to Alaska to find a job and a place for us to live, Mother tells us. She says when it’s time for us to go to Alaska, we’ll go on a very big boat with lots of other people. She says we’ll be on the ship for five or six days, sleep on the ship, eat breakfast, lunch and dinner on it. Mother smiles; her dark eyes shine as she tells Berta and me about the trip.

Berta goes to school every day, comes home with stories about what they do in school. She’s having fun. I’m not. I feel left out. The days get colder and shorter. I draw lots of pictures while Berta’s in school and learn to wash dishes without water over-flowing the sink or breaking anything. When I go to bed I wish to wake up in our old house. Daddy will be there and he and Mother won’t yell at each other.

We used to go to the farm, but not anymore. The farm is where my grandpa and grandma live. We used to go there a lot; all my aunts, uncles and cousins would be there too. Berta and I would spend all day playing with our cousins, running up and down the fields where the cows graze, playing in the barn, hiding in the house, under the dining-room table, in the closets. Sometimes grandpa would pick me up and carry me with him into the winery, rip a corner off an envelope, pour his special wine-making sugar into it and give it to me to lick the sugar out. The winery was dark and damp, smelled of wet wood and ripe berries. Grandma was always in the kitchen cooking, flour from the bread she made floating in the air, coating her hair. Grandma was short and round. Her lap was soft and warm. If I was hungry, she would give me slices of her fresh-baked, warm bread smothered with butter. I had fun at the farm; I’m not having fun now. When I ask Mother if we can go to the farm her eyes get dark, her lips tight, says we won’t be going there anymore. When I ask why not, she gives me her don’t-ask-questions look and walks away.

One day I followed the sound of Mother singing and found her in the living room, singing her favorite songs into a tape recorder. She told me the names of the songs were My Buddy and Always. She said she was making a tape to send to Bob so he wouldn’t forget what her voice sounded like while he was so far away in Alaska. Mother’s voice is soft and sweet when she sings. It flows around me and fills the house.

In January, a taxi came to take us to pier 42 in Seattle. Pier 42 is where the Alaska Steamships tie up and wait for freight and passengers to be loaded, wait to take people and things to Alaska. Mother is real happy to be on our way, heading for a new life in Alaska, she says. For weeks she has packed our stuff, humming and singing. My stomach is in knots. Mother took Berta and me on a boat ride once; I got sick to my stomach and threw up. Another boat trip that will last for days and days made my stomach hurt. I don’t want to throw up again and I don’t want to move again. Mother doesn’t notice that I’m not talking or smiling.

It isn’t bed-time but it’s winter-dark outside and Berta and I wear our best dresses, new shoes and new coats. Mother always puts our good clothes on us when we go someplace special. Mother said the trip to Alaska is real special, that’s why we have new shoes and new coats: thick wool, red coats that will keep us warm when we get to Alaska. The coats have leggings to match; I wish I was wearing them now. It’s cold outside and the seat of the taxi is icy-hard. My knees don’t come to the edge of the seat; my legs stick straight out in front of me. Even in the dark of the taxi I can see my new shoes, see how black and shiny they are. I wiggle my feet, watch the dim taxi-light on the toes of my new shoes slide back and forth. Mother clamps her hand down on my legs. Her stern voice says, Sit still.

The taxi stops at a building with a huge 42 painted over a big, wide door. This is it, Mother says, Pier 42, the Alaska Steamship Terminal. We get out of the taxi and stand in the cold while the taxi driver loads all our suitcases and boxes onto a big wagon. A gust of winter wind sends shivers down my neck and makes goose bumps on my legs. Mother holds Berta’s hand on one side of her, my hand on the other and leads us into a huge open room. The room is overflowing with people, suitcases, boxes, big wooden crates, cages with dogs inside, and lots of noise. People shout back and forth to each other, bump into Berta and me. The yelling and the people pushing frighten me. Mother holds tight onto our hands and guides us through the room to the dock outside. There she is, she says, that’s our ship: the SS Alaska. The ship is huge. Big