CHARLIE JOHNS KNEW it was going to be a strange year
when he found a three-headed dandelion blooming in mid-October. Charlie sat
drinking his coffee in front of the picture window at his home on Petroglyph
Beach. His dog, Ossa, an old Australian shepherd, sat beside him. Charlie was
Wooshkeetaan, Eagle, from the Shark House. He is called Aan gux — the keeper or backbone of the land. His mother was
from Hoonah but he’d lived in Wrangell all his life. His father was
Kaawdliyaayí Hit: House Lowered from the Sky. Here, Charlie lived among people
from the Sun House and the Dogfish Intestine House as well as the Norwegians,
the Finns, the Sáami, the Filipinos, and even the Chinese and Japanese. There
were Vikings, wizards, bears, siyokoy,
dragons, and Susanoo.
when he found a three-headed dandelion blooming in mid-October. Charlie sat
drinking his coffee in front of the picture window at his home on Petroglyph
Beach. His dog, Ossa, an old Australian shepherd, sat beside him. Charlie was
Wooshkeetaan, Eagle, from the Shark House. He is called Aan gux — the keeper or backbone of the land. His mother was
from Hoonah but he’d lived in Wrangell all his life. His father was
Kaawdliyaayí Hit: House Lowered from the Sky. Here, Charlie lived among people
from the Sun House and the Dogfish Intestine House as well as the Norwegians,
the Finns, the Sáami, the Filipinos, and even the Chinese and Japanese. There
were Vikings, wizards, bears, siyokoy,
dragons, and Susanoo.
The best thing, though, about living in Wrangell was living
among stories. He practically lived at the coffee shop. Their stories lived
there, and at the gas pump, and the work float, and at Shakes Island, and among
the petroglyphs beside his house. Since Jesse, his wife of many years, had
died, he began to spend his time among rocks, wandering with his thermos of
coffee along the beach. He knew exactly where the Raven stealing the sun story
was carved as well as the spiral and the killer whale. But he worried lately
about the beach and the erosion happening all along Alaska’s coastline.
among stories. He practically lived at the coffee shop. Their stories lived
there, and at the gas pump, and the work float, and at Shakes Island, and among
the petroglyphs beside his house. Since Jesse, his wife of many years, had
died, he began to spend his time among rocks, wandering with his thermos of
coffee along the beach. He knew exactly where the Raven stealing the sun story
was carved as well as the spiral and the killer whale. But he worried lately
about the beach and the erosion happening all along Alaska’s coastline.
The previous winter, an ice floe broke loose from the
Stikine in March. Early break up, they called it. He didn’t believe it. But,
the large sheet of ice came round the corner, then along the shoreline, and
smashed into his beach. The tides were higher these past few years and the
storms stronger. In fact, the sea had eroded the shore so many times that he
had to move his house back two times in the last twenty years. It wasn’t just
Wrangell, though. It was Shishmaref, Sitka, Tenakee, Newtok, villages on the
Ninglick River, and more.
Stikine in March. Early break up, they called it. He didn’t believe it. But,
the large sheet of ice came round the corner, then along the shoreline, and
smashed into his beach. The tides were higher these past few years and the
storms stronger. In fact, the sea had eroded the shore so many times that he
had to move his house back two times in the last twenty years. It wasn’t just
Wrangell, though. It was Shishmaref, Sitka, Tenakee, Newtok, villages on the
Ninglick River, and more.
Now Charlie sat down in the wet sand, tucking his raincoat
under his butt. He held his thermos in his gloved hands and took a big sip of
coffee. The gulls circled overhead, which made him feel comforted, since Jesse
had been a seagull. She was T’akdeintaan. Some people called her a
kittiwake, but she was old school and claimed she was a seagull. He looked up
and screeched back at them.
under his butt. He held his thermos in his gloved hands and took a big sip of
coffee. The gulls circled overhead, which made him feel comforted, since Jesse
had been a seagull. She was T’akdeintaan. Some people called her a
kittiwake, but she was old school and claimed she was a seagull. He looked up
and screeched back at them.
Every morning since Jesse’s death, he’d made a point to
check up on the rocks.
check up on the rocks.
Someone had to. Someone had to take care of them. Jesse who
used to clean up the beach. She’d pick up Pepsi cans and white plastic grocery
bags. Now it was his turn, he supposed, a sad turn. But he’d take it. He’d take
anything that would still connect him to Jesse. He’d started by just trying to
sit among the rocks but he couldn’t ignore the garbage. Once he’d found
remnants of a small fire and a pile of beer bottles. Another time, a roll of
butcher paper that people used to make rubbings of the petroglyphs, lying wet
and soggy on the beach. He found orange letters sprayed across a petroglyph and
it wasn’t even something profound: the numbers “1995.” That really pissed him
off.
used to clean up the beach. She’d pick up Pepsi cans and white plastic grocery
bags. Now it was his turn, he supposed, a sad turn. But he’d take it. He’d take
anything that would still connect him to Jesse. He’d started by just trying to
sit among the rocks but he couldn’t ignore the garbage. Once he’d found
remnants of a small fire and a pile of beer bottles. Another time, a roll of
butcher paper that people used to make rubbings of the petroglyphs, lying wet
and soggy on the beach. He found orange letters sprayed across a petroglyph and
it wasn’t even something profound: the numbers “1995.” That really pissed him
off.
These were his people’s petroglyphs. At least that’s how he
thought of them. He often had words with the tour guides and the town fathers
when they’d claim they didn’t know who carved the petroglyphs. They were his
ancestors. He knew this. It was as if the white folks were saying that the land
around here really wasn’t Tlingit territory because they weren’t here first.
You migrated here and so did we.
thought of them. He often had words with the tour guides and the town fathers
when they’d claim they didn’t know who carved the petroglyphs. They were his
ancestors. He knew this. It was as if the white folks were saying that the land
around here really wasn’t Tlingit territory because they weren’t here first.
You migrated here and so did we.
Sometimes he had to stop
the tourists from defacing the petroglyphs. At first, he simply stood on the
porch with his rifle in his hand. That’s when the cops got involved and told
him not to scare the visitors — they don’t call them tourists anymore. The government had made the beach a state
historic site and all that did was bring more people there. Some protection.
Vivian Faith Prescott is fifth-generation Alaskan, born
and raised in Wrangell, Alaska. She lives in Sitka, Alaska, and part-time at
her family’s fish camp in Wrangell. She’s married to US Coast Guardsman and
poet Howie Martindale, and together they have six children, seventeen
grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Vivian is of Sáami, Irish,
Suomalainen, and Norwegian descent (among others). Her children are Raven of
the T’akdeintaan clan/Snail House (Tlingit). She has an M.A. and a Ph.D.
in Cross Cultural Studies from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. She also has
a M.F.A. in poetry from the University of Alaska Anchorage. Vivian’s short
stories, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in numerous journals and
anthologies such as Cold Flashes: Literary
Snapshots of Alaska, Cirque, Altered States, and Tidal Echoes.
and raised in Wrangell, Alaska. She lives in Sitka, Alaska, and part-time at
her family’s fish camp in Wrangell. She’s married to US Coast Guardsman and
poet Howie Martindale, and together they have six children, seventeen
grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Vivian is of Sáami, Irish,
Suomalainen, and Norwegian descent (among others). Her children are Raven of
the T’akdeintaan clan/Snail House (Tlingit). She has an M.A. and a Ph.D.
in Cross Cultural Studies from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. She also has
a M.F.A. in poetry from the University of Alaska Anchorage. Vivian’s short
stories, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in numerous journals and
anthologies such as Cold Flashes: Literary
Snapshots of Alaska, Cirque, Altered States, and Tidal Echoes.
“House Falling into the
Sea” is a fictional story appearing in the forthcoming linked collection The
Dead Go to Seattle (Boreal Books). The story depicts an Elder’s struggle to
come to terms with loss and change. The stories in The Dead Go to Seattle
connect through generations of families living in Wrangell, Alaska, prior to
and in the midst of worldwide catastrophe: global warming creating havoc with
the island’s inhabitants. To read more of the excerpt, download a free copy of the Alaska Sampler 2015.
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Vivian, I love this. Thank you so much. I look forward to reading more.
TH
loved this! can't wait to read the whole book!! 🙂 ~Chaas Kawoo Tlaa