"Birthplace"

BIRTHPLACE

In the photograph, a tow-headed boy of perhaps four is standing next to the open back door of a blue Ford station wagon of late 1960s vintage. The boy, with his crew cut, maroon-gold-and-white cotton short-sleeved shirt, and brown corduroys, is smiling and pointing at the backseat. Although the photo itself does not make this clear, he is pointing at the behest of his father, for whom this simple gesture is simultaneously humorous and deeply meaningful.

The boy is my younger brother, Lowell, and our father was Calvin Munson Fair. On what is likely an early spring day in 1971 or 1972, the station wagon is parked on the somewhat snowy garage apron in front of our old homestead house (which at that time wasn’t so old, having been completed in late 1967). On the far-right edge of the photo appears the back bumper of our other family car, a brown four-door Dodge Dart Swinger, which is parked inside the garage. The photo is indicative of the progression of our family: First, Lowell was the third and last of three Fair children (after me and our sister, Janeice). Second, the appearance of two cars is important because for many years we had only a single vehicle, which meant that my mother was often left without transportation (other than our 1948 Ford tractor) on the homestead when Dad traveled in to Soldotna to work at his dental practice. Third, the big white colonial-style house replaced the single-wide trailer that we had lived in since October 1960. Fourth, inside the house was the family’s first telephone (a rotary-dial affair on the wall of the mud room) and first color television (replacing our old Zenith black-and-white set), and somewhere roaming around outside was the first family dog (an independent-minded German short-haired pointer named Queen).

But when it was taken, this photograph was more about looking backward than looking forward. Dad had captured the image to forever remind him of a story….

On a cold and stormy Jan. 25, 1968, Dr. Paul Isaak was preparing his single-engine aircraft to carry two passengers on another flight to the Seward hospital. Isaak had made hundreds of such flights—in fact, in 1983 he would estimate that he’d made at least 2,000 such trips—through Resurrection Pass between his medical practice in Soldotna and the peninsula’s only full-service hospital in Seward, where he often performed surgeries, delivered babies, and responded to emergencies.

Here’s how (in the book Once Upon the Kenai) Isaak described the Jan. 25 flight: “I was going to take one of my obstetric patients and her husband to the hospital in Seward for delivery. This man was a prominent citizen in the community, and it turned out that when we got about five miles out of Seward, the weather deteriorated rather rapidly and I was unable to continue, so we turned around and came back. And so he [the prominent citizen] drove to Seward, and about seven or eight miles out of Seward she [the obstetric patient] decided that she was going to have that baby, and indeed did have it in the back seat of the car. Fortunately, I had some of the bare necessities with me to manage the delivery in the car, even though it wasn’t the most ideal situation. Everything turned out fine for mother and baby, and they spent several days in the hospital after that experience.”

Of course, it’s no great surprise (given my set-up in this story) that the “prominent citizen in the community” was my father, and the “obstetric patient” was my mother.

Even now, my mother is terribly embarrassed by this story, despite the nearly half-century that has passed since it occurred. For the last two or three years, I have been wanting to write about this story in my local history column (the Almanac) in the Redoubt Reporter newspaper, but my mother has forbidden me to mention her name or to use the photograph of Lowell. I realize that I don’t technically need her permission, but I would like her blessing.

Her response: “You can write about it when I’m dead.”

On Oct. 10, 2012—unbeknownst to our mother—my brother told the story in Anchorage as part of a presentation for his Toastmasters group. A couple of years ago, I told the story in the newspaper, but I left out all the names and the crucial photograph. Writing it up in this blog is probably the best I can do right now.

But I do have to add this: In the photograph (displayed above), my brother is gesturing toward the backseat of the family station wagon because my father had (a) opened the back door, (b) stationed my brother there, and (c) told him, “Lowell, point to where you were born.”

I can imagine him laughing almost too hard to press shutter button. And I can imagine that when his yellow box of slides came back from the Kodak Company, he laughed again. (He may or may not have shared the photo with my mother at the time.) And I know he laughed when I placed the photo in a special photo-memory book that my siblings and I created for Dad’s 70^th birthday back in 2002.

My mother, however, still is not laughing.

"One Day's Difference"

 

ONE DAY'S DIFFERENCE

On a Tuesday morning in early August 2007, I was reveling in the fact that the weather had finally changed from rain and wind to bright sunshine, that my current diet (instituted to combat some lingering health issues) had left me about 20 pounds lighter than the previous winter, that we had finished our mowing jobs earlier than usual that week, that meteorologists were calling for a string of beautiful days, and that I had only a get-together with friends (on Thursday) and my son’s 12^th birthday (on Sunday) as firm commitments for the rest of the week. (The start of my 20^th, and final, year of teaching high school was only one more week away.)

 

Full of energy and enthusiasm, I set up a moderate hike for Wednesday, and then a longer, more difficult hike for Saturday. The Saturday excursion, up Cecil Rhode Mountain in Cooper Landing, was one I had completed several years in a row and was particularly looking forward to. It includes over 5,000 feet of climbing and spectacular views of the Kenai Mountains, Mystery Hills, Kenai and Cooper lakes, and much of the upper Kenai River valley.

 

Then, when Karen said that she was taking the kids to go mountain biking up on the Tsalteshi Trails at Skyview High School, I said I’d go along. Skyview sits atop a large forested hill just across the river from the city of Soldotna. In the surrounding hills over the years, crews have constructed miles of meandering, undulating trails for cross-country skiing and running (and also mountain biking, snowshoeing and walking). And so we pulled our vehicles into the school parking lot, extracted our bikes, donned our helmets, and headed out into the warm late-morning sunshine. For about an hour on the trails, I enjoyed zipping easily on the dirt paths, climbing and coasting, rolling along, until it was time to go. Then, as Karen cruised down a long ridgeline trail that skirted the school grounds, I told her I was taking a shortcut and veered off the main trail.

 

I headed down what, in the earliest days of Tsalteshi, used to be the main entrance to the trail system but was now abandoned. I took this route because I could see my son biking below me on an open grassy stretch of the main campus, and I thought I could easily catch up to him that way. The old trail descended fairly rapidly and was overgrown with tall grass and fireweed. As I started down, I saw what appeared to be the tracks of a previous biker, which gave me greater assurance that the trail was still okay.

 

But it was not okay.

 

Another trail had been cut with a Caterpillar blade perpendicular to the bottom of this one, chopping off the base of the hill and leaving a sudden drop of perhaps two feet right at the end. I did not notice this drop at first because I was traveling swiftly, was looking out briefly at my son, and was unable to see the drop-off until I was nearly on top of it. I’m not sure whether I hit my brakes. I think that my front tire simply dropped off the ledge and propelled me over my handlebars. Regardless, I inverted in mid-air and landed on my head. I heard a crunching sound and then I twisted over and slammed to the ground.

I knew instantly that I’d really hurt myself. Images of movie-star Christopher Reeve and his broken-neck fall from a horse flashed through my brain. I saw him in his wheelchair, paralyzed from the neck down for the rest of his life.

 

Honestly, besides the pain and the fear (that I might have broken my neck), what I felt most at that moment was anger because I knew that all my sunny-weather hiking plans had just been blown out the window.

 

I forced myself to try to move. As I heard footsteps racing toward me, I rolled to my left side and curled into an agonizing fetal position, pleased with the movement, regardless of the pain.

 

Then Karen and Kelty were there. Karen assessed the situation and ran into the school to find a custodian and get a bag of ice. Kelty tried to give me some support and keep me comfortable on the ground, but I struggled to my feet, anyway, straightened myself the best I could, picked up my bike and used it like a crutch to hobble back to the car.

 

About an hour later, a naturopath told me that my neck was out of alignment but didn’t appear to be fractured, that I had pulled the middle section of my right hamstring, and that I had also twisted my lower back and sprained the middle and ring fingers on my right hand. He recommended lots of ice and an adjustment on my neck after a week of allowing the swelling to subside. (Later at home, I realized that I had also pulled my left hamstring and hyper-extended my right elbow. And even later, an MRI revealed that I had herniated two vertebrae in my lumber region.)

 

I felt achy everywhere for days and had a mild but consistent headache. It’s possible that I had suffered a concussion; I know I wasn’t thinking clearly. For days, I found it very difficult to sleep comfortably or even change positions in bed. But the biggest problem—other than the psychological disappointment involved in sitting or lying around doing nothing while the sun shone brightly—was that I was having muscular or nervous spasms around the top of my right hip and I knew I was in for some extended medical treatments.

 

It took me weeks to heal up superficially and—with decompression therapy and chiropractic treatments—months to heal up completely. As the culmination to a three-year period of health problems that had included pneumonia, mastoiditis, hives, and more than two years of a terribly itchy body-wide rash, the injuries left me wondering whether I’d ever feel truly well again—and also doubly determined to take fuller advantage of opportunities when they arose.

 

Still, old habits die hard, and it was more than two years (and a divorce, and perhaps even some depression) later before I seriously embarked on real change. (See related stories concerning some of that change.) A shocking experience can prompt a transformation, but the heart and mind must unite in action before any meaningful alterations can occur. I’d spent so many years making excuses that I needed time to establish newer, healthier patterns.

 

“Carpe diem!” doesn’t sound so trite to me anymore.