writer

How to Sell a Couch in Alaska

It was a summer Saturday like any other: we had things to do.

Weekends around here have been a little more chores and responsibility than chill and rejuvenate so when last Saturday rolled around, out of bed we rolled to an alarm, bright and early, though bushy-tailed we were not. Still, a bit of cheer filled our faces because the day ahead of us held a little pot of gold at the end of the responsibility rainbow: camping.

Camping in Alaska
The last real camping trip…in May.


The responsibility rainbow however, began with selling our couch. Seems easy enough, right? Ah, I thought so too. I must have forgotten we live in the woods where everything takes thrice as long and each situation is game to deal up unexpected cards to boot. Still, the plot that day was simple: as soon as we met up with the couple driving in to buy our couch, we were off to camp at The Lake.

Long Lake, Alaska
Gorgeouso!


The journey to selling the couch however, had already been an interesting one so we didn’t count our chicken plans before they’d hatched.

Who am I kidding, of course we did!

So there we were, running around as fast as kids post birthday cake, getting all of our chores done (laundry, water, dishes, etc.) when we got the call: there’d been trouble on The Road.

McCarthy Road, Alaska
First summer. First time getting stranded on The Road


Our road here is notorious for being rough on cars but this wasn’t even a problem to blame on the bumpy 60 miles of dirt madness. This time, the couple’s transmission had blown and they were only half-way down The Road.

Wait…”this time”?

You see, this here couch transaction had been in the works for over a month. Schedules hadn’t aligned and travel out here is tricky. With an 8-hour round-trip from their home to ours, the interested couple couldn’t exactly pop on over to see if they wanted it. Thankfully, through the magic of the interwebs, we were able to send pictures of the couch from every which way (posing. Posing with my arm) and they were certain it was their dream couch. Now, we just had to figure out how to get it to them.

Alaskan Malamute
Doggie dream couch


Both of them are teachers in the nearby (read: 3-4 hours away) districts and with the school season fast-approaching, we only had a few weeks to make it happen. So, three weeks ago, they had headed our way and…car trouble round one: something had malfunctioned in their vehicle, sending them back to Town. Still, all repaired up and ready to go, they had opted to give the couch a round two last weekend and…bam! Transmission.

Things weren’t looking good for this transaction.

Thankfully, Alaskan magic sent one of the wife’s prior students down The Road at just the right time and he gave them a lift to our town while we debated what to do. Their truck wasn’t going anywhere anytime fast. The reality was, they needed a ride home.

The end of the rainbow was getting farther away.

We decided we can’t just live in Alaska and not do the Alaskan thing and so we offered to drive them and our couch home. Still, first thing was first: getting the couch out of our tiny cabin.

[Sidenote: why oh why are we selling a perfectly good couch we bought less than a year ago? This pint-size princess, as my Dad used to call me, was a bit too pint-sized. My feet couldn’t reach the floor and so, despite my best attempts with a barrage of pillows arranged every which way, the couch and my back were not best friends and so, she had to go.]

Ok, back to it: getting the couch out.

Off-grid living in Alaska
Which reminded me a lot of this epic maneuver: navigating the Ramp of Doom with our new oven. Year One.


We whistled the “I need help with a household project” whistle (just kidding, we called them on telephones) and our neighborhood besties came to our aid. First, we’d have to maneuver the couch out of the house (which meant completely rearranging everything to make enough room to move). Then we’d have to load it in the truck (which meant taking apart the Ramp of Doom railing). Then we’d have to put back on the camper shell we’d taken off for fishing earlier this Summer (which meant more heavy lifting).

Just then, it started to rain.

Oh joy.

Skeptical Malamute puppy
Say what? Not impressed.


I rearranged the house while The Chief disassembled the railing on the Ramp of Doom enough that we could lower the couch from the house down into a huge plant of blooming Mugwort rather than try to pivot on the treacherous incline. The friend at the Mugwort end was apparently allergic and within minutes, his eyes were red and running. So, basically, it was going perfectly. Rain, allergies, awkward movements, breaking apart our house. A typical furniture move in AK.

Eventually, the couch was tied up snug as a bug in a rug in burrito tarps, away from the threat of rain in the bed of the truck with the camper on (thanks to The Chief’s wiggling in between the camper and the couch in order to secure it. Thanks, honey!) and good thing because we were already late to meet our road trippin buddies!

What an odd way to meet new people (“Hi! Do you have masks? Here’s one you can use!”) but lucky for us, they were awesome and lucky for me, my husband is a talker. I was pooped from an overly social week (which could mean seeing 6 people instead of my normal 3-5) and so appreciated being able to sit back and ask a few questions but mainly just listen for the 4-hour escapade. The husband in the couple was the same way. Opposites attract.

The rain gave up a little when we finally arrived at their house and unloaded the couch. Settled safely in its new home, we bid our adieus, sanitized and waved a farewell to our masks, at least for a little while. Juju needed some snacks! 4 hours without one? I was basically shriveling up.

Off-grid shopping list
The typical “Which kind of cheese do you want me to grab you?” shot for friends.


The drive gave us an excuse to grab a few fresh goodies (though I got so in Get Home Mode that I forgot to even buy a treat!) and a chance to just catch up. With The Chief’s maniacal work schedule this summer (who am I kidding, EVERY summer), we hadn’t really seen one another other than early mornings and rushed evenings aiming to make our prescribed bedtimes. We were able to finally hold the space for talks we needed and the time we needed together to simply unwind. Sure, it wasn’t camping but it was a place and a time reserved only for us and it was a treat. The day had been perfectly Alaskan: completely off-course and exactly what we needed. Exactly what we needed in order to say:

Tomorrow, we do nothing.

I can’t remember the last time we hadn’t woken to an alarm, weekend or weekday alike but last Sunday, we did. Even amidst a pandemic, we still find ourselves incredibly busy with responsibilities to the fire department and our home but that day, the only responsibility was: nothing.

Firewise, Alaska
Hauling brush in the rain? Not this Sunday!


We stayed in bed until the afternoon, drinking coffee and reading books (my absolute favorite. Nothing beats a Sunday like that).

Frida Kahlo
Our bedside companions: Frida & Sweet Pea blossoms



When we finally got up, we simply moved to our “nest” on the ground The Chief and I fashioned out of all of our camping gear.

Lovenest
Patterns, anyone?


What? Hadn’t you prepared and bought another couch for when you sold yours?

Nope.

The transaction had seemed so up in the air I hadn’t really ever known if it would actually happen. So, we sat in our little nest, cozier than we ever were on the couch with our little Leto joining the snuggle puddle, the perfect cherry on top of a do nothing Sunday.

Eventually, (aka hopefully this week while I’m in Anchorage. Eek!), we will find a new couch. Until then, it’s the nest and the reminder it provides: remember to rest.

Cheers to the unexpected. I guess its best to celebrate her, as she’ll show up to your party either way.

With love (and numb buns),

from Alaska

Alaskan Malamute and Dad
Au revoir, cuddle couch.

I Am an Artist

I am an artist.

I can’t tell you how many other artists just cringed at reading that.

Not because they deem it false or have questions as to my membership in the club. In fact, not because of anything to do with me at all. It is, in my experience, because they are wrestling with their own membership in this club or remembering the first time they announced their arrival.

This may not be true for every artist. I dare not declare it universal, lest the unicorn artists who knew they were just that from birth come and correct my wrong statement. I will say, after spending a weekend with artists that it seemed a nearly universally hard statement to conjure up for the first time for everyone. Some, even those on panels, were still choking on it.

Yet, I’ve said it.

You see, last weekend I attended the Alaska State Council on the Arts biennial conference in Fairbanks.

 

Beneath the Borealis I Am an Artist Fairbanks AK.jpg

Rainbow hills. Rainbow leaves.

 

I first heard about the conference a few months ago when a friend, who’s helped me more in writing this year than I can explain, mentioned that it was coming up. I looked at her and said something along the lines of “Oh, that will be fun!” She looked at me as if to say “Yeah…that’s why I’m telling you about it.”

A few minutes of her explaining it later and I still didn’t get it.

Finally, she put it in terms I could hear:

“Julia, it’s an artist’s conference. You’re an artist. You should sign-up.”

Oh!

Oh?

Oh…

I’m an artist?

 

Beneath the Borealis I Am an Artist Fairbanks AK hunting.jpg

Artists: Enter Here.

 

When I first started this blog, it unleashed in me the well-kept secret from myself that I, in fact, do want to be an artist. Yet I wasn’t ready to call myself one. As a youngster, I knew I was an artist, as kids simply know themselves without ego or fear. I was a singer and a writer and I knew it down to the depths of my little lady being that an artist was what I wanted to be.

How?

Because I felt alive.

Alive when I sang.

Alive when I wrote.

Yet, as I grew and grades and prestige and stability became a focus, I let that knowledge go and I covered it up with the “shoulds” of existence which placed more emphasis on succeeding than feeling alive.

And soon, I felt deadened.

Moving here allowed me to step outside of myself. It allowed me to bring with me not only that which was useful from my old life but to re-invite those aspects of myself I had lost. It felt like I was traveling. I was free to be whomever I deemed myself to be. And without thought, I suddenly found myself in a band, singing again. I had invited art back in and it had entered my life with a warmth I hadn’t felt in decades.

That first Winter, writing invited herself in. She opened the door, kicked off the snow and asked not why she’d been sequestered for so long but if I was, in fact, ready to begin.

I was.

I am.

I am an artist.

It may not be easy to say, but once you do, it’s like walking through the closet door into Narnia. The world feels a little more magical. It’s exciting and important and alive.

You don’t have to be a full-time artist to be called an artist. You don’t have to be in a gallery or be published or be the director of a Broadway hit. Art can lie in the simple act of taking the time to study a flower that strikes you, in letting your mind play. It can be as small as decorating a salad you make or as big as a complex canvas painting you’ve spent hours on end creating. It can be the notes you scribbled on a piece of paper towel 30 years ago that become your book 30 years later. It can be a photo that inspired reflection.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis I Am an Artist Fairbanks AK downtown.jpg

Urban mirrors.

 

There are no entry fees, merely the self-realization that you cannot be anything else.

Do what makes you feel alive.

With love,

from Alaska.