Boston Reunion 2.0

(Note: I've been working on this post for a couple of weeks, writing a little here and a little there. Four days ago, the Boston Marathon was bombed by a yet-to-be-identified piece of scum who mistakenly believes his/their actions can dampen the spirit of the greatest and most indomitable city in America. I felt that since I was in the middle of a blog post about a place and a group of people so precious to me, I had to say a few words about what happened. This tragedy has reminded me of what I already knew: there's no place like Boston. I am so moved by the stories of marathon runners who finished the race and kept on running to Mass General to donate blood. And the stories of kindness and solidarity keep pouring in, stories of people running toward the blast instead of away from it to offer help. People being carried to safety by strangers. Spectators offering their cell phones to runners so that they could contact loved ones. People opening their homes to those who needed a place to stay for the night. The Yankees playing "Sweet Caroline" during their game. And so the take home message for me after these horrific events is--ironically enough--that goodness and human decency are alive and well in America. I love you, Boston. Now more than ever.)

Don't get me started on Boston because I will gush, and you will have to whack me over the head with a crowbar to get me to stop. The years I spent there are the happiest of my life so far, without question. I could rhapsodize for hours about skinny dipping in Walden Pond, eating ice cream by the barrel at Kimball Farms, channelling my inner Kennedy on The Cape, digging for bargains at Filene's Basement, celebrating Apple/Pumpkin/Maple and Chowderfests, leaf peeping in Vermont, and sitting in a little chapel in Harvard Square, feeling so close to God and--although 3,000 miles away from family--completely at home.

Suffice it to say I loved Boston. I miss it so much it hurts. I miss the cannoli, the Red Sox, the Freedom Trail, even the snowstorms. But above all else, I miss the people I met there. There is no Walden Pond without Kamber, Alicia, and Marissa. There's no Red Sox without Timmy. There's no game night at Ronaele Road without Jeni. There's no Chowderfest without Scott. The list of names goes on: Becky, Kelly, Juan Dolor, the Rob(b)s, Christy, Andy, Mikey, Carri, Sylvia, Peggy, Mary, Rachel, and many, many more. These are the people who made my Boston years so special, and I often wonder if I went back, would it be the same?

In 2008, my old Boston roommates and I returned to The Holy Land for the reunion of a lifetime. It was wonderful. The weather was perfect, the cannoli were delicious, and Walden was just as magical as I remembered. In 2013, one Jeni Hendrix Ennis (may her name be praised forevermore) felt like it was time to reunite once again, and she got the ball rolling. She rented an awesome home in Soda Springs, ID large enough to accommodate 5 entire families, and we spent the weekend eating, laughing, reminiscing, playing games, and relaxing in the nearby hot springs.

Soda Springs is a 12-hour drive for Rex and me, so I decided that we would break it up into a two-day trip. The road to Idaho luckily passes through Kennewick, WA, where my best friend of some 25 years, Rebecca, lives with her family. Rebecca generously offered to feed us lunch while we were there, and Rex was grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs. After lunch we hopped in our car, Rebecca hopped into hers, and together we drove to Walla Walla, WA--about a 45-minute drive from Kennewick.

At this point I should probably explain something. You've heard me talk about my friend Carrie on this blog before. Carrie and I have been friends since we were 12 years old, and she accounts for about 90% of my social life here in Kent, WA. Her husband is named Shanon--one of the greatest guys you'll ever meet--and he has gotten me hooked on the National Parks. He inspired me to purchase this little beauty...

... in which you can collect stamps from every National Park, Monument, Recreational Area, and Historic Site in the nation. The stamps themselves are pretty boring:

But there is a lot of thrill in the chase. Every time I travel somewhere, I always go to nps.gov to see if there is a National Park in the area. I have more to say on this new little obsession of mine, but I'll save it for the next post.

Those of you familiar with the drive between Seattle and eastern Idaho know that Walla Walla isn't exactly en route, but I decided that it was worth the extra hour or so to swing by and pick up a stamp for the old passport at the Whitman Mission.

Historical note: Dr. Marcus and Narcissa Whitman settled on Cayuse Indian land and established a mission in 1836. Relations between the missionaries and the Cayuse people were friendly at first. In the 1840s, when the mission became a popular rest stop along the Oregon Trail, tensions started to rise. The Cayuse watched as thousands and thousands of settlers invaded their lands, which made them more than a little nervous. These settlers brought lots of nasty diseases with them, and in 1847, a measles epidemic wiped out about half of the tribe. The Indians suspected that Dr. Whitman was poisoning them, since they suffered so many devastating losses while the white people seemed to recuperate quickly from the disease. On November 29, 1847, a small group of Indians attacked the mission and killed 14 people, including Dr. Whitman and his wife.

Aaaanyway, we made it to the mission site 10 minutes before closing. Phew! Stamping occurred (there was also an Oregon Trail stamp there, but I abstained since I had already gotten one of those at Ft. Vancouver) and then we wandered around, checking the place out:

The "Great Grave" site:

We hiked leisurely walked up a little hill that afforded a nice view of the valley. That perfectly manicured patch of grass is where the mission once stood:

The real-life Oregon Trail:

Rex was a good sport:

We had dinner with Rebecca and her kids after visiting the mission, and then Rex and I stayed the night at a crappy and very smoky La Quinta in Walla Walla. The next morning we got back on the road, which led through the bustling metropolis of Milton-Freewater, OR--a fact that would mean nothing except that it is the final resting place of some dead ancestors of mine on my mom's side. If you know me, you know I have a thing for cemeteries and dead relatives. I had to stop by and pay my respects to my...

great great grandparents, John and Rachel Hodgen:

great great grandparents, John and Margaret McDannald:

and great grandmother, Alice Louisa Hodgen:

It's kind of a dumpy and sad little cemetery (see photo below). These ancestors of mine Oregon Trailed-it from Illinois and Kentucky. I wonder what circumstances led these people to uproot themselves from their homes and make such a difficult journey west to a remote wilderness they had never seen before. My Mormon ancestors' story is so familiar to me, and I understand what propelled them westward. But these people? What was the allure? Land? Wasn't there plenty of that in Kentucky? I looked around and wondered what their first impressions of the area might have been. Were they happy with their decision to move to Oregon? I hope it turned out to be everything they hoped it would be. 

Here's a picture of John McDannald. I love it. I think he's such a cute old man:

But enough about my dead relatives... this is a post about BOSTON! So after several more hours on the road and about an hour and a half sitting on the freeway outside of Boise waiting for a semi truck to finish burning to the ground, we finally made it to Soda Springs, ID. The reunion was joyous, to say the least. It was so wonderful to see my Boston family again! And it was so great to meet all of the new kids who were born in the years we've been apart.

During our weekend of fun, we spent a few blissful hours in the town of Lava Hot Springs where they have, surprise surprise, some hot springs. These were the NICEST hot springs I have ever been to. They were nice and clean and didn't smell like eggy farts like most hot springs do. They were heavenly!

Once again, Rex was a good sport:

And so was Scott, who sat with him and kept him company while the rest of us enjoyed the hot springs.  Seriously, though. God bless Scott Buchanan. He was so good to Rex the whole time we were there--he even fed him his dinner the night we arrived. What a rockstar. Another big thank you to David, Brian, and Mikey who helped me get Rex in/out of the car, up the stairs, and did tons of heavy lifting for me. I just couldn't have made it through the weekend without your help!

The whole weekend went by too quickly. There were so many more games to play, so many more jokes to crack, so many more stories to catch up on... but time kept marching on and before we knew it, Sunday morning had arrived and it was time to pack it all up and say good-bye until next time. It was tough. I miss those idyllic Boston years when I got to see these people every day instead of once every five years. I'll admit a tear might have been shed. Next time, let's make it a one week minimum, OK?

March Sadness

I've been on a 30 Rock kick lately--the second greatest show on television after Arrested Development.

Last night I watched a particularly awesome scene, and I'm still laughing about it today. I tried to find the video, but could only find a sound clip. And after 20 frustrating minutes of trying to embed the link into my blog, I'm giving up and adding this montage that contains a portion of the scene in question. It's a conversation between Dr. Leo Spaceman, the quack physician who treats all of the 30 Rock characters, and Jenna Maroney, the starved-for-attention cast member of a SNL-esque comedy show. Jenna has come to consult Dr. Spaceman about her recent weight gain. (The scene begins at 00:40)




It ends with Dr. Spaceman telling Jenna, "Fortunately, there are solutions. Crystal meth has been shown to be very effective. How important is tooth retention to you?"

Last August, my friend Carrie and I got serious about eating right and exercising. We kept track of what we ate and we tried to incorporate some exercise into our sedentary lives. I lost 23 lbs! It was fabulous! I was so proud of myself! Then the holidays happened, and I started a vicious cycle of gaining 5 lbs and then losing it, gaining 8, losing 6, and on and on. I haven't stepped on a scale in a few weeks, and I don't intend to. I know I haven't regained the full 23, but I'm guessing I've regained a solid 10.

Long story short, I'm back on the wagon. I'm using the "Lose It" app on my phone to keep track of what I eat, how many calories I burn from the infrequent exercise I do, etc. Basically what I'm saying is that my life sucks right now, hence the title of this post. Carrie came up with a plan to keep us on track this time: if we go over our allotted calories one day, we have to be vegetarian for a week. If we go over a second time, we have to be vegan for a week. It may seem silly, but it's sure kept me honest thus far.

Because you know what, dear readers? After my dad passes away (may that day be in the far, far distant future) I am going on vacation to the Virgin Islands. I'm talkin' 'bout white sandy beaches, turquoise waters, and 5 stamps in my National Parks passport!

I'm goin' here:

And I'm goin' there lookin' like this:

OK, perhaps that's a bit ambitious. But you know... I just don't want to have to deal with people throwing water on me and trying to push me back into the ocean every time I lie out on the beach. Right now, I'm afraid that's where I'm at. I wonder how many Zumba classes it's gonna take to look like Jessica Alba. I probably don't want to know the answer.

So if anyone out there wants to join me in the Virgin Islands, let me know! I'm looking for a traveling companion!

You Asked For It

It's happening, dear readers: the Archie Bunkerization of Randi Johansen. The older I get, the more crotchety I become. The more I enjoy watching the news. The more fiber my diet requires. The less tolerance I have for the riffraff in my neighborhood (and by riffraff I mean the 6-to-10-year-olds with their wheelie shoes and their bubble gum and their school fundraisers).

I try to reign it in, truly I do, but it's a constant battle. My internal filter is more this:

than this:

But my readership has spoken. You seem to like it when I lose my sh**. Many of you wanted to hear my irony tirade. Others were disappointed I didn't divulge details of the three political Facebook fights I got into last year. You want to drink from the fire hose? Fine. Here is a list of stuff that has been bothering me lately, in no particular order:

*That "ironic" thing. It doesn't mean coincidentally, interestingly, shockingly, strangely, or even unexpectedly, even though Merriam Webster describes irony as an "incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result." Two women who show up to a party wearing the same gown is a coincidence. The fact that the woman who won the Oscar for makeup and hair design last night looked like a homeless meth addict was ironic. One would expect a beauty expert to be a little more put together.

*I hate it when people post cryptic things on Facebook, trying to bait their friends into asking follow-up questions. ("The craziest thing happened to me today!" or "Why me?") I once received a text message from someone that just said "Holy crap!" I waited for a follow up text, but my wait was in vain. Someone else sent me a text that just said "Hey." Listen. It's obvious you want to tell me something, so how about you stop wasting my time and either SPIT IT OUT OR KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, OK?

*On a more serious note, this whole Boy Scouts vs. The Gays thing makes me sad, and it makes me sad that the Mormons are involved. The church leadership in Utah has declined to comment until the Boy Scouts make a decision, but I truly hope that the church doesn't withdraw its support of the organization regardless of what that decision might be. For the life of me, I don't see what the big deal is with having an openly gay scoutmaster, or a gay kid who wants to go on some hikes and do some service projects. What do people think might happen? Gay scoutmasters are going to demand a few merit badges be added to the list? Show Tunes? Catwalking? Liza Minnelli Lore?

Maybe some of you have heard about a guy in my stake (a "stake" is a Mormon ecclesiastical unit, for the few non-Mormons who might be reading this) named Josh Weed. He's been getting a lot of press lately. He is a devout Mormon with a wife and three kids. He is also openly homosexual. His is an interesting story, and regardless of whether you think he is courageous or delusional, in the eyes of the Mormon Church, he is a member in good standing and entitled to all of the rights and privileges pertaining thereto. He is allowed access to the temple--the most sacred house of worship we Mormons have--yet he is barred from teaching a bunch of kids how to tie knots and build campfires? That doesn't make any sense.

Keeping my fingers crossed on this one.

*I hate places that don't have disabled access doors. It is so hard to open a big heavy door and grapple with my dad's clunky old wheelchair at the same time. I mean, thanks for the ramp, but how the devil am I supposed to get the dude inside the building without someone to hold the door for us? And why are those someones so hard to find? Why do people just stand there and watch me struggle instead of running over to help out? Grr. I almost lost my mind on our cruise. Every time we needed to use the elevator, we had to wait an eternity to get an empty one. ("Don't worry, able-bodied twenty-something hipsters. You stay on the elevator. I'll just wheel my dad up the stairs.")

OK, that's probably enough. I can feel my blood pressure rising. Of course, that could be due to the enormous donut monkey I have on my back these days.

Now I need to write a post about all of the things that make me happy--you know, to bring some balance into my life. I have a feeling it's going to be mostly about food. Stay tuned!

Irony

A long time ago, I posted a rant on Facebook about the near-epidemic misuse of the word "irony" that is sweeping the nation. Unfortunately, my tirade failed to attract the attention of any major media outlets and the situation remains unresolved. Hopefully my blog readership will mobilize, form a street team, and eventually eradicate this great evil once and for all.

Last night I wrote a lengthly blog post about what irony is and is not. This morning I reread it, slapped myself, and deleted it. I can be so obnoxious sometimes. I just need to take a deep breath, untwist my panties, and move on.

But not before posting my favorite ironic Far Side cartoon of all time:

Eurotrash

So I'm obsessed with Ancestry.com. It's pretty awesome. You wouldn't believe how many family secrets I've found out just by snooping around in old census records and the like. For example, my mother always told me stories about her Grandma Packer. I posted a picture of her on this blog several months ago:

Dead chickens in one hand, grandbaby in the other. I posed this question before, but I'll repeat it here: do they even make women like this anymore? Women like this built the West. Looking at this picture, I wouldn't be surprised if this woman built the West singlehandedly.

The majority of the branches of my family tree extend back hundreds of years, but Grandma Packer's branch ended with her. Nobody knew who her parents were, where they came from, nothing. When my Uncle George came to visit a few months ago, I asked him why that was. He told me the story he heard was that she was left on somebody's doorstep when she was a baby. He said he used to have a copy of her marriage certificate which listed her parents' names as "unknown."

After a LOT of digging, I finally found her in the 1870 census in Clear Creek, Iowa. She's 3 years old, she has been adopted by Frederick and Magdalene Jenlink (birthplace: Prussia), but her father's birthplace is listed as France, and her mother's birthplace is listed as Ireland. So now I presume that her adoptive parents must have known her biological parents fairly well, at least well enough to know where they're from, and besides, who hands their baby over to strangers? I'm dying to know the rest of the story. It sounds juicy.

So after a rough start in life, she marries John Anthony, they have a son (my maternal grandfather), and then her husband promptly leaves her and the baby. She makes her way to Spokane, lists herself as a widow in the 1910 census (although she's not a widow--John Anthony has remarried and started a new family in Iowa). She then hooks up with (but never marries) a British dude from London named Harry Packer. They live together for at least 15 years, but then he leaves her, marries some other lady, and moves to the next town. In the phone book, she begins listing herself as the widow of Harry Packer, although he's not dead and she wouldn't be his widow even if he were. 

At this point, I'm feeling awfully sorry for my old Granny Packer. Abandoned by her parents, abandoned by her first husband, abandoned by her sugar daddy...how does all that abandonment not mess with your head? She sounded like such a great lady. My mom adored her. Here's a photo of the two of them outside my mom's home in Nespelem, WA:

So as with any addiction, I now require increasingly higher dosages of genealogy to get a fix. I started watching the show "Finding Your Roots" on PBS, which was satisfying for a while. Then I added "Who Do You Think You Are" on NBC, but that was tragically cancelled after three seasons. Lucky for me, the original BBC series of the same name is still going strong. So now I'm reduced to trolling YouTube late at night, watching fragments of bootleg episodes involving obscure British celebrities I've never heard of. That's how it starts, people. One minute you're like, "It's no big deal. I can quit any time," and the next thing you know, you're mailing in your bodily fluids to have your DNA genetically mapped.

I'm not kidding.

I don't know what possessed me. One look at my pasty-white flesh and you can pretty much assume that I'm about as white-bread European as it gets. I don't need no stinking DNA test to tell me that. But, such is the nature of my addiction. Here's what my saliva revealed:

(Ok, I keep trying to upload the pie chart graphic showing my ethnic breakdown, but it's not working. Grr. Basically it says I am 64% Scandinavian, 14% Southern European, 11% Eastern European, and 11% British Isles.)

Weird. I'm a lot more Scandinavian than I thought. No wonder I love IKEA. I was expecting to be only about 25% Scandinavian, though, because my paternal grandfather is 100% Danish. However, according to the info that came with my results, genetics don't really work that way. One explanation for my beefy Scandinavian stock is that the Jutes (from Denmark) and Vikings each took their turn invading, raiding, and intermarrying all over England and Scotland, where 90% of my most recent ancestors came from. Another explanation is that the DNA we inherit from our parents is variable and not usually divided into neat little halves like I expected. For example, if your father is 50% Japanese, your own Japanese makeup could be anywhere between 0 and 50%. This means that each one of my siblings could have a pie chart that looks totally different from mine. I might have gotten all of the Swedish meatball DNA, and my siblings might have gotten more kielbasa or fish 'n chips DNA. Fascinating. 

Still puzzled by the Eastern and Southern European ancestry, because I can't find anyone from those regions in my research, but I guess I just chalk it up to the migrations of different groups of people around Europe. (Alicia, I wonder if your DNA test would reveal a Scandimexican ancestry, as you suspected?)

Wild. But it's like my cousins from ABBA said:

Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk

She says I began to sing long before I could talk

And I've often wondered, how did it all start?

Election Fever

Is there a name for what happens to people during an election year? Is there a medically recognized condition, disease, syndrome, disorder or similar affliction that people can acquire during this season that I should have a little more compassion for? Because my news feed on Facebook leads me to believe that in the last few months, some virulent contagion has overtaken half of my friends and family, transforming them into people I don't recognize anymore. Is this an epidemic? Do I need to purchase one of these:

Hell, I might purchase one anyway. You never know when you're going to have to enrich some uranium.

Unfortunately, I think it's too late for me. I am already symptomatic. In the last  six months, I've initiated three political Facebook fights. The first one was over contraception, and it lasted two days. The result? Neither one of us budged on our position and I lost a lot of sleep. When it was over, I vowed never to engage in another pointless Facebook argument again. Then one of my friends posted this:

Come on! I'm supposed to just walk away from a post like that? I should have, though. This fight ended about as well as the last one did.

Months passed. I thought I had finally learned my lesson. There were a few times I drafted a response to an outrageous political post, but then I came to my senses and refrained from commenting. But today I stepped in it again. A friend posted a video that I found utterly reprehensible. If you want to watch it, go to stolenhistory.org and click on the video entitled "Revealing the Truth About the Democratic Party."

I thought my response was brilliant, if I do say so myself. Point, set, match. But who cares? I went rounds with a lady in my ward at church who I consider to be a friend, and now it's going to be all sorts of awkward when I see her on Sunday. Great job, Randi. Congratulations on your...victory?

What is it about politics that makes us go temporarily insane? Because during non-election years, I certainly don't give it much thought. And what is it about politics that inspires such (I was about to say "near-religous" but I think it passed religious a long time ago) fanatic zeal? I have never seen anyone promote the gospel with the fervor I see them promoting their political viewpoints, and I include myself in that observation.

I refuse to post anything political on Facebook. So why, then, do I feel the all-consuming need to respond to the political posts of others? Why can't I just let it go and move on with my life? Has any good ever come from stirring the pot? 

A thought from Elder Quentin L. Cook:

"There are some who feel that venting their personal anger or deeply held opinions is more important than conducting themselves as Jesus Christ lived and taught. … How we disagree is a real measure of who we are and whether we truly follow the Savior. It is appropriate to disagree, but it is not appropriate to be disagreeable. … If we show love and respect even in adverse circumstances, we become more like Christ.”

I need to get that tattooed on my fingers.

Ugh. November 7th can NOT get here fast enough. 

Alaska!

I don't remember how it came up, but one day somebody in my family (it might have been me--my brain is shot) suggested that it would be nice to take Dad on an Alaskan cruise. After my dad's last stroke, however, it seemed like an impossibility. He was in bad shape. But when the old man rallied and made the comeback of the century, we knew this was probably our last chance. I dialed up Holland America--the official cruise line of the elderly and infirm, we would soon discover--and booked a 7-day adventure for my dad, sister Lee Ann, brother-in-law Mark, and myself. Here's how it went down:

A couple of Saturdays ago, my nephew drove us all to Pier 91 in Seattle and dumped us and our gear at the curb. This is the point where I offer some friendly advice to any future cruisers out there: select someone in your group (draw straws, perhaps) to decide which one of you is going to take one for the team and break one of your legs. Trust me, you want someone in your group to be in a wheelchair. You will get some real VIP treatment. Someone led us directly past all of the suckers standing in line, helped us check in, and wheeled us aboard in under five minutes. It was amazing.

We spent the first two days at sea. Pretty boring.

Day Three: Juneau, AL

Juneau is a lovely little town. Did you know that you can't drive there? There are no roads that lead to Juneau. One must arrive via ship or plane. I find that fascinating. Anyway, we didn't do any of the big shore excursions because a) they were so freaking expensive and b) you needed to take a float plane or helicopter to get there. Since you can't get a wheelchair into a helicopter, we stayed right in the little tourist trap district near the dock, which was fine. Did you know that Alaska is where you should go to buy your big ticket jewelry items? I sure didn't. A good half of the shops on the strip were jewelry stores. Apparently in the winter months you should head to the Caribbean for your diamonds, but during the summer months, Alaska is diamond/tanzanite/alexandrite headquarters. Now you know.

Day 4: Glacier Bay

We left Juneau and cruised on up to Glacier Bay National Park (another stamp in the National Parks passport, thank you!). When we got to the mouth of the bay, a couple of National Park rangers canoed over to our ship and climbed aboard. One of them was a nice lady who narrated our journey up the bay, and the other one was a douchebag. More on that later. When Captain Vancouver navigated these waters just over 200 years ago, this area was completely covered in ice. That ice field has retreated about 65 miles since then, which they say is a lightening-fast rate, geologically speaking. The scenery was crazy beautiful up there. The waters were so still, not even a ripple. The day was my definition of perfect: about 65 degrees, sunny and clear with a slight breeze.

We cruised until we ended up in a dead-end. On the left is the Margerie Glacier; straight ahead is the Grand Pacific Glacier. It looks like land, but it's actually ice covered in a bunch of dirt. The Margerie Glacier was so spectacular. Chunks of it would "calve" off (technical term) and plunge into the water every so often, as you can see here:

This was by far the best day of the cruise. The scenery took my breath away. Have you ever seen a sight so beautiful that it brought tears to your eyes? That was how I felt as we cruised up to Glacier Bay. The park rangers were freaking out about how lucky we were--apparently a day this beautiful is rare up in these parts. Sometimes cruisers only get to see a bunch of fog. Oh, and then we got to watch a humpback whale frolicking in the water below. Amazing!

Later on the douchebag ranger treated us to a slide presentation on the flora and fauna of the region. He kept using the word "resident" and "residency" throughout his little spiel. His point was that as a resident of a particular region, one usually develops a familiarity with the local species and therefore feels invested in the success of said species. Whatever. He spent the whole time making fun of his city-slicker friend from Seattle who came up one summer to go on a kayaking adventure with him. The dude showed up with a $700 wetsuit, which the ranger mocked and said was unnecessary. Then the friend asked if he could pet one of the otters they encountered ("Ha! Little did he know that a sea otter is like The Terminator of the marine world. He will mess you up!") and then the Seattle friend asked if they could jump onto one of the humpback whales and take a ride (I assume he JOKINGLY asked this, but apparently the joke was lost on the douchebag ranger: "That's like jumping onto a freight train moving at top speed!") AND THEN the friend was STUPID ENOUGH to suggest they set up camp on one of the glaciers. What a moron! Basically, the ranger spent the whole time telling us how awesome he was and, thanks to his "resident" status, how much better he was than his city-slicker friend. I wanted to give him a good swift kick to the crotch.

Anyway...moving on.

Day 5: Sitka, AL

The small town of Sitka didn't have anywhere for our big fat ship to dock, so we parked out in the bay and they lowered the little lifeboats ("tenders" they were called--I learned so many new vocabulary words on this trip!) and shuttled us over to the town. Did you know that Sitka is the 2nd largest US city by land area? (The largest is another Alaskan city nobody has heard of: Yakutat.) They're pretty loose-y goose-y with their city limits it seems. Most of that area is unpopulated wilderness.

HOT DOG, another stamp! We walked about 3/4 of a mile to Sitka National Historic Park, where I believe the native Tlingit people once fought a war with some Russian encroachers.

Oh! And at the park we saw these little cuties:

A little electric John Deere! Could you just die from the cuteness? I must have one!

Day 6: Ketchikan, AL

Ketchikan was a snooze-fest. The most excitement we had in Ketchikan was when my dad's wheelchair broke. We were wheeling him over a little bump when one of the front wheels cracked. We were able to get him back on the ship and into a rented (at the bargain price of $100) wheelchair from the front desk. 

Moving on.

Day 7: Victoria, BC

I don't know if you know this about me, dear readers, but I hate people. Perhaps I should clarify: I hate throngs of people. I always feel a little anxiety going to concerts, baseball games, parades, firework displays, what-have-you. I have personal space issues. So perhaps you can appreciate how frazzled my nerves were when three cruise ships arrived in Victoria at the same time, docked in the same area, and dumped roughly 8,000 frenzied cruisers onto Canadian soil, who then made a mad dash to get on buses or hail cabs all at the same time. It was bedlam, people.

I had one goal in Victoria: obtain Mackintosh toffee. I remember when I was a kid we used to go to Canada all the time and bring back pallets of the stuff. I thought it was the best caramel in the world.

It used to come in a bar, as pictured above. You'd throw the box down on the ground and crack it into pieces. You had to smash it to bits first because if you tried to bite a piece off in your mouth, you wouldn't have any teeth left to chew it with. Some time in the last few years they did away with bars and moved to the individually wrapped variety. Isn't it sad when you eat something you loved in childhood only to be disappointed when it doesn't live up to the memory? Don't get me wrong, I ate every damn piece of that caramel, but each time I unwrapped one and popped it in my mouth, I shed a little tear over my lost innocence.

We arrived in Seattle bright and early the next morning. Although it was a fabulous vacation, I have never been so happy to be home. I'm glad I got to see all of the beautiful sights in Alaska; I know I couldn't have seen them any other way. That being said, I don't ever want to go on another cruise EVER. The cruising lifestyle is just not for me. I felt trapped when we were sailing the high seas. By day two, I felt like I had already seen all there was to see aboard the ship. I don't gamble, drink, or go clubbing, so there wasn't much left to do but eat. Everybody talks about all of the food there is on the cruise ship, and there certainly was a lot. I just didn't enjoy most of it. The desserts were horrible. And I got sick of eating at the same place every day, all day. It bothered me that I wasn't more in control of my vacation. There were some stops where I wanted more time and others where I thought we had TOO much time. I can see that cruising is a great way to see a variety of places in a short amount of time, but I would hate to dock in a place like Venice and be told "OK, you've got 8 hours! Be back at 9pm!" I need at least a week in a place like that. I didn't find the pace of cruising very relaxing. And then there were the crowds...I think I made myself very clear about where I stand on crowds.

But really, the whole point was to take my dad for one last hurrah before he gets called Home. The whole time we were on the cruise, it was hard to tell if my dad understood what was happening or if he was having a good time. He kept asking me where we were. When we went to eat we would always sit  by a big window so we could watch for whales (we saw dozens!) but the old man always kind of stared at his plate. He fell asleep in all of the shows and performances. But since we've been home, all he can do is talk to people about our vacation. It's kind of shocking, because he really didn't seem like he gave a rat's you-know-what while we were on the dang cruise. Old people are crazy sometimes.