Tamara Ann Burgh

My Eskimo Family 68 (continued from February 1)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

I witnessed my first Iditarod in 1977. I lived in Nome, Alaska at the time and thus saw the finish of the 1049 mile sled dog race. A couple of years later I met my parents in Anchorage on one of their trips north from Chicago. From Anchorage we took a shuttle trip in a twin engine Otter to Soldotna on the Kenai Peninsula. We were to meet my father's uncle, my great uncle, Charlie for the first time. He told us the real story of the Iditarod.

Uncle Charlie met us at the airport. He was a small old man in his late 80's but full of character and spunk. His 1/2 brother was my father's adopted father, Henry Burgh. Charlie and Henry had the same mother but different fathers. Henry was originally a Gerberg but changed his name to Burgh when he found himself in trouble (in Montana?) with the law (embezzlement) and ran north to Nome. He became a successful business man and politician in Nome where he opened the popular Nevada Bar, became Mayor and then District Representative. He married a 1/2 breed Eskimo, the daughter of another successful business man, Pete Curran (my great grandfather).

Charlie Gerberg eventually found his brother, Henry Burgh, in Nome. They kept their relationship a secret, however, because Henry, a big man in town, was a wanted man living under a false name. Charlie also married a 1/2 breed Eskimo. The two of them lost some standing in the white social life of Nome for having married what were considered in those days second class citizens.

After meeting Charlie for the first time at the airport, he packed the three of us (mom, dad and myself) in the car. Dad sat in the front passenger seat while I sat behind Charlie the driver. I a view of Charlie's skinny neck and skewed baseball cap as well as Dad's reaction to Charlie's driving. He drove like a house on fire talking and telling stories along the way. "That's were I drove off the rode into the ditch." Charlie we immediately learned was quite the story teller. By his character and lucid memory, I deduced, as did my parents, that he was a teller of non-fiction with detailed recall.

One of his stories I found most fascinating was of the Iditarod's beginnings. He spoke of the famous mushers and lead dog, Balto, who has a memorial statue in New York's Central Park. Charlie was in Nome in 1925. It was a time of prohibition. He said the only way to get a bit of liquor was for medicinal purposes. He said the men in town would line up to see the pharmacist to get whiskey. The pharmacist would ask, "Is this for general or medicinal purposes?". One only had to reply, "Medicinal purposes," and one received a bottle of whiskey. Naturally most of the town had medicinal needs for whiskey.

Charlie told us there was no diphtheria in Nome in 1925 -- nor anytime during that period. He says some bored and thirsty doctors conjured the "epidemic" to bring some liquor back from the city. Quarantine signs where posted about town. The joke was to visit a quarantined home and be invited in with the welcome, "Come on in if you want some diphtheria." Charlie's first-hand account is quite different from the recorded one from wickipedia:

During the 1925 serum run to Nome, also known as the "Great Race of Mercy", 20 mushers and about 150 sled dogs relayed diphtheria antitoxin 674 miles (1,085 km) by dog sled across the U.S. territory of Alaska in a record-breaking five and a half days, saving the small city of Nome and the surrounding communities from an incipient epidemic. Both the mushers and their dogs were portrayed as heroes in the newly popular medium of radio, and received headline coverage in newspapers across the United States. Balto, the lead sled dog on the final stretch into Nome, became the most famous canine celebrity of the era after Rin Tin Tin, and his statue is a popular tourist attraction in New York City's Central Park. The publicity also helped spur an inoculation campaign in the U.S. that dramatically reduced the threat of the disease.

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

My first Iditarod. Musher Dick Mackey in Nome heading to the finish line. (pictured above and below)

 

Harry Gerberg and his wife, Dolly

My Eskimo Family 67 (continued from January 23)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

The first time I heard about the Iditarod was one night at the dinner table. Martin explained it was a sled dog race that began in Anchorage and ended in Nome. The mushers came right through Golovin on their last (dog) leg to White Mountain, then Saftey and finally to the finish line in downtown Nome. They traveled an unbelievable 1000 miles. The leaders made it in about 10 -- 12 days. Others took up to three weeks.  Martin said the dogs were excited and lively in Anchorage, but by the time they reached Golovin the dogs were exhausted, tongues hanging and "dogged". This was something I really wanted to see -- a real dog musher.

Dog mushing is a part of my heritage. My grandfather and grandmother (Mini) traveled by dog team in the old days. Mini's father and brother (my great grandfather and great uncle) had the mail contract from Nome to Unalakleet delivering the mail by dog sled. A round trip took them about two weeks. My great grandfather, Pete, was quite a sly dog himself. His home base was Solomon where he ran a grocery with his Eskimo wife and three children (a boy and two girls). He would load his sled (drive to Nome for the mail?) then trek back again east and south to Unalakleet.

It must get pretty cold and lonely traveling such a distance in the arctic cold and long nights for 'ol great grandfather, Pete, had a second Eskimo wife and children (two girls) in Unalakleet. When his first family was raised and married with children of their own, Pete's first wife in Solomon died. Pete then brought his second wife and two girls from Unalakleet back home to Solomon. Needless to say, the first set of siblings never got along with the second set of siblings.

It took nearly my entire stay in Golovin (about 9 months) to sort out the family lineage and who's who. With duplicate names (my great aunt and aunt share the same name) and with family members having been switched around (my Aunt Maggie was raised by Pete and his second wife, my great Aunt Maggie raised my father who's natural mother was Mini so my great Aunt Maggie is my adoptive grandmother) It was confusing.

I left Golovin before the kick off of the Iditarod but some 17 years later I would meet and become friends with the 1989 Iditarod champion and his champion musher wife, Joe and Sherri Runyan. We had both recently moved to the small New Mexico ranch town of Magdalena. 

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

Pete Curran, Sr. (1872-1968) was born in Erie, Pennsylvania. Nothing is known to my father as to his family. My father had a vague recollection of him telling of being beaten by his "old man" for some infraction. Pete retaliated by "hitting" the "old man" and running away from home at thirteen years of age. He's pictured here with his second wife.

Pete Curran participated in the Klondike Gold rush of 1898. From Klondike, Pete went down the Yukon to St. Michael and on to Spruce Creek to try his hand at gold mining. At Spruce Creek (east of Nome) Minnie (my birth grandmother), Maggie (my adoptive grandmother) and Pete Jr. were born. From Spruce Creek, Pete moved to Golovin where he became a mail carrier contractor (by dog team). From Golovin, he moved to Solomon in 1925 where he continued his mail contract and bought into a trading post and roadhouse. My great uncle Pete Junior took over the mail contract and also operated the ferry at the Bonanza river crossing for years.

Pete Curran's Solomon Roadhouse

My Eskimo Family 66 (continued from January 9)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

With the winter snow machines came out making land travel less constricting. A trip to White Mountain across the frozen bay or over the hilly snow covered tundra to Koyuk was now possible. A couple of brothers, grown men, who I had only heard about and hadn't seen all summer and fall, holed up in their homes, were now out and about. These two Golovin residents, born and raised, whom I had never seen in my up to then 5-6 month residency, came into the store to buy gas for their snow machines. Their names were, strangely enough, Unsky and Gooksy and were the elusive brothers of outgoing flamboyant Jimmy. As small framed Jimmy's personality could be pesky, his brother's larger stature and shy and indifferent personalities could be somewhat frightening. Like Jimmy, they drank a lot. So I heard.

When they came into the store for the first time, I figured these two had to be the brothers I'd only heard about. Their non-conversational demeanor made me nervous and when they did finally speak I could barely hear what they were wanting. They asked for their jerry jugs to be filled with gas and a can of oil mixed in. I had to ask the one talking to please repeat a couple of times. He would barely look at me and I didn't want to upset him by asking him to repeat several times. I eventually understood what he needed but succomed to my nervousness and blurted out, "You're Jimmy's brothers? Unsky and Gunksky? Oonsky and Gooksy?" Fortunately they laughed at my slaughtering of their names and the tension between us broke. I would see the brothers only one other time during my stay in Golovin.

Snow cover and more freedom of movement also meant a realigning of one's bearings. The snow cover and frozen bay gave the landscape an all-over evenness. Rising and falling hills, sharp dark rock formations, coastlines and water were now blended into a white softening of the landscape and the occasional disappearance of a horizon. One winter visit from M.O., home from school, he suddenly told me to follow him. It was night. He straddled the driver's seat of a snow machine and told me to get on. From home he drove far out onto the frozen bay then stopped. We got off the machine and looking back from where we had come I was surprised to see that the few small lights I expected to see from Golovin had disappeared. We had only the full moon illuminating the blue night snow and a sky with more stars than I'd ever seen before. 

He explained that the ice/sea sat above the village which is why we could not see it's lights. He showed me the stars and pointed out the Orion constellation and the three stars that make up his belt. In the belt was a star that appeared to twinkle re
d and green. In the arctic night it was easy to see.  He explained that if ever I was lost "out here" that I need to head in the direction of that star. I couldn't imagine my ever being "out there" by myself but I was grateful for his taking the time to teach me an important survival skill. He seemed quite serious and this trip was not a joy ride. We went back home.

As it turned out, I would, weeks later, find myself in a situation where I needed to know how to get back to Golovin from the middle of the frozen bay one night in zero degree temps.

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

The sea beginning its freeze

 

Frozen Bering Sea

My Eskimo Family 65 (continued from December 27)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

I loved the cold and snow when it arrived in Golovin. The freeze and snow cover drastically altered the landscape. It softened and quieted everything -- especially during a heavy snowfall. Somehow the falling snow and subsequent softening of sounds quieted my mind and my fears.

I had managed over the years to live through or mostly ignore my fearful countenance. I assumed I was the only one of my family and friends plagued with the constant companion of fear. It seemed to be a part of my DNA as most of the time it was inexplicably there. I felt its presence most acutely upon awakening in the morning. A slow leisurely wake was never an option for me. The pang of fear met me every morning like an alarm clock I couldn't slam off with my palm or throw against a wall. If I slept in, it was because I was in a dead sleep for eight or nine hours. As soon as I woke up, I got up.

Every morning in Golovin I met Martin downstairs at the kitchen table where he was finishing his second cup of coffee. I suspected he believed my mornings were a girl-y leisurely wake-up to the day. Everyone else had been up and working at least an hour or two. He couldn't and wouldn't know that I became a warrior each morning when I slayed a dragon who lay dead for 24 hours on my pillow.

The snow and freeze changed the way things were done in the store. When the mail plane arrived with fresh produce like eggs and fruit, the three-wheelers were quickly brought into service. It was a mere two-three minute walk to the plane and grocery boxes set on the snow packed ground, but in winter, it was a race against Jack Frost to get the produce from the cold air and ground and to the wood heated store before the precious fresh goods froze. 

Couples from other villages traveled on snow machines hauling sleds. Maggie's store must have been better stocked than other villages as it was no small feat to come so far across tough terrain or frozen waters. It was nothing like a hop in a heated car to a local grocery. Their trips involved extra gas, tarps, ropes and work. Maggie would meet them at the door and while they exchanged greetings and news in Eskimo, she brushed the snow from their parkys with a broom. If the heavy snow melted and saturated their canvas and fur (squirrel) lined parkys it would render their winter protection useless.

On my trip "outside" with Donny months before in the summer, I purchased a down parka from an outfitters store. I expected it to serve me well for my winter stay in the arctic. Maggie, however, replaced the thin commercial ruff (coyote?) around the hood with a six inch wide ruff. Martin explained to me it was a man's style ruff. A woman's ruff has a wolverine ruff on the inside -- against the face -- and a wolf ruff attached to the outside. My new ruff was wolf against the face, no wolverine inner ruff. My wolf ruff was also scrap -- not the long wolf hair across the wolf's back and shoulders. The long hairs draped against the wearer's back when down and stood high in the air when up. Male/Female scrap ruff was lost on me. I was happy with my parka turned parky and wore it proudly and fearless-ly in the falling snow, frigid temperatures to come and a reckless adventure or two. 

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

My father's mother with the traditional woman's ruff of wolverine and wolf. She also wears reindeer mukluks and (most likely) wolf mittens that go past the elbows and have some beading around the wrist.

My Eskimo Family 64 (continued from December 15)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

The beach brought forth other treasures in the fall besides decaying foul smelling walrus carcass with precious ivory tusks and oosiks. Fall storms washed up driftwood we collected for the wood stove. Donny was home for a brief stay from Fairbanks. We spent a day gathering wood while the tide was out. Donny and Sister each had a three wheeler equipped with a small trailer we used to haul logs from the beach to the house. I followed gathering what I could by hand. Some wood was considered worthy while most was not. I could not clearly identify the difference and in accordance to the Eskimo way, when I asked Sister to explain the identification of good from bad wood concept, I received a less than full sentence explanation punctuated with raised eyebrows and pursed lips (the Eskimo "point") from a good log to a bad log. Did she still consider me the "outsider" after all these months and not worth the bother educating about arctic ways? Did she think it not worth her time as I would be leaving soon enough anyway. People like me don't usually stick around long. Or was this an honest form of Eskimo communication? Does an Eskimo learn primarily, almost exclusively, from watching and doing? Do whites talk too much? Way too much?

I helped best I could. Some of the logs were far too unwieldy for me but Donny and especially Sister handled them like a trooper. I had become physically stronger but not strong enough if I were left to survive on my own. 

Early November, before it was cold enough to freeze, the winds raged from the North pushing the sea water away from land briefly exposing several yards of fresh flat beach. Maggie closed the shop, we donned rubber boots, gloves and warm gear to protect from the cold winds. We each carried trowels and buckets and with heads down we patrolled the hard packed water-logged sand for small holes, dimples, that when stepped on squirted a small fountain of water. That was a sign to dig. Dig quickly. Some six inches below the surface were Razor Clams. I often wonder how the first Americans stumbled upon food sources. Who among a tribe would have deduced that when the wind freakishly pushes the water back from the land's edge that for a rare day or two in the year, he/she would have thought to start digging? I would have stayed inside my sod home (historically no igloos in Alaska) and hunkered down until the bitter wind had calmed down.

Maggie was able to fix some 30 -- 40 clams for dinner. It was difficult to wash all the sand from inside and outside the shells and I had a few bites of granules in my seafood dinner, but it was still a five-star meal for me. Every bite of food tasted better in Golovin than anywhere else I've lived since. 

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann

 

What to look for in the sand.

Above pictures taken from http://www.alaska-fishing-guide-1.com/clam_digging_.html on how to dig for Razor clams. Click on the site for more pictures and information. 

Video on digging for Razor clams using a "tube" instead of a shovel. YouTube Link.

My Eskimo Family 63 (continued from December 4)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

One of MO's trips back from Nome had us all scrambling. He spotted a walrus washed up on the beach and it still had its ivory. Walrus that had died in the summer, slipped off the ice and sank to the bottom of the sea washed ashore in the fall. Over the summer the walrus bloated with decay rose to the surface then washed up onto the beach during fall's heavy seas. In the fall pilots and boaters cruised the beaches with an eye for washed up walrus.

Not knowing what to expect I followed orders to wear rubber boots, cloth gloves, a scarf over my hair and my least precious pair of jeans. Uncle Martin, Maggie and Sister packed gunny sack, ax and a large butchers knife into the Super Cruiser and took off. MO and I followed in the Piper Cub west up the beach.

Martin arrived at our beached treasure first. He cruised just above the beach spotting the safest place to land nearest the bloated carcass. In doing so he chased away three bears. After landing, he, Maggie and Sister cleared the beach of driftwood or any other debris that might create a problem for our landing or take-off. Once we landed and I exited the plane I caught a whiff of the stench streaming off the walrus carcass . . a stench only a hungry bear could love and stick his nose into.

While Maggie kept watch for returning bears, Martin began whacking at the base of one of the tusks to loosen it. Maggie told me to stand back free of any spraying tissue or fluids. She said the stench would never come out of my clothing. Thus, the expendable pair of jeans. I only had two pair of jeans and neither pair was expendable. It took some powerful blows to extract the two massive tusks. Martin then took the large butchers knife and began probing for the oosik. Of course I had to ask, "What's the oosik." Other's ignorance was bliss for Martin. My ignorance. His bliss. He only laughed replying that this was a male walrus. Seeing the area where he was sticking the knife it was easy to deduce what he was looking for and ready to cut out of the massive pile of decay. Once extracted I could hardly believe what I was looking at. It had to be two feet long.  While I googled the oosik, Maggie kept an eye for bears.

Martin gave me the knife to wash in the sand and water. Unfamiliar with seaside living I wading to ankle deep, bent over to wash the goo in water and sand. Just then a wave plowed into my legs spraying my body filling my boots with cold salty water. I felt the fool but pretended it was no big deal.

The ivory was packed into the sacks and loaded into the plane. Martin, Maggie and Sister waited on the beach watching and waiting for MO and I to take off first. In order for MO to twist the plane around to take off up-beach, he had me hang onto a handle at the plane's tail. I was to run inside the back flaps and pull the plane's tail around 180 degrees while he revved the engine. Then while the plane slowly moved forward I was to run up and board into the passenger seat. Blasted by the propeller wind, I managed to circle the tail around, but with water logged boots and sand to run in, I couldn't keep up with the forward motion. The back tail wings caught me behind my thighs and pulled me forward. I couldn't keep up so managed to slide sideways away from the tail but the forward motion sent me dashing back into the water. I was able to stop only when the frigid water was to my thighs. I ran out of the water to the moving plane only to have MO yell out, "Aren't you coming?!" I'm sure the sight from the other's viewpoint was something to see: black boots beneath the planes wings running as fast as they could then sliding off into the water. 

Another day Maggie, MO, Sister and I would take the ivory across the bay in the boat to a beach. We gathered wood and made a fire then positioned a tub of salt water. It took a long while for the water to boil as we had tea and pilot bread. The ivory was then boiled in the salt water to remove the decayed debris from all its surfaces and crevices.

I was beginning to enjoy beach life thinking I had begun to know a little of its ways. But winter arrived soon enough and the beach disappeared.

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

Mounted oosik, 18" long

My Eskimo Family 62 (continued from November 23)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

One afternoon, early fall, someone had spotted seal (oogruk) in the bay. MO was just getting ready to leave for "outside" (lower 48) to attend college but the hunter surged in his blood and he packed the boat with rifle and other gear to go after a seal. The hunter blood surged in me as well and I was nervous with anticipation when he asked me to help -- anything to get out from behind the store counter and kid's sticky coins dropping on the counter's surface.

The weather was cold and cloudy but not yet cold enough to freeze water or the bay. The wind was a factor and I wondered how we would be able to spot a dark seal in the choppy waters on a cloudy day. MO first handled the motor taking us out about a half mile from shore when, with his field glasses he saw a seal's head poking out of the water. He ordered me to the the back of the boat to take over the motor and steering while he prepared the gun and nestled down in the bow of the boat. He motioned for me to steer straight ahead until he saw again the seal. He motioned me to slow down. He raised his gun in wait and then "pow" he shot.

We were both pumping with Adrenalin and he yelled and motioned for me to punch it forward. I was too timid. He yelled back at me "Hurry! Faster!" We had to race to the wounded seal before it sank. I raced forward as fast as I dared but we found no seal and no evidence that it had been shot. MO took charge of the motor again and we circled for several minutes looking for signs of seal. The sea remained dark and choppy with no evidence of wildlife breaking the surface. Our day of providing for the family was over.

A week later a more successful hunter had brought Maggie a seal. She layed out cardboard on the sand with the seal atop the cardboard and proceeded to skin, gut and cut up the meat. It was a bloody oily mess and I wanted to get my hands into it. The native juices in my blood were flowing like Niagara Falls.

Maggie skinned the seal with blubber still attached to the skin. She draped the skin over a board leaning against the side of the house. With her ulu, she expertly separated the blubber from the skin in one large chunk. The blubber was then cut into small chunks, put into mason jars and left to render into oil. My mouth waters as I write this thinking about dried seal meat in seal oil and half-dried salmon chunks in seal oil. 

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

Image taken from shuttertalk.com

My Eskimo Family 61 (continued from November 9)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

One crisp afternoon while I strolled to the Post Office I heard a mellow gurgling drifting down from high above. I passed a young girl looking up. "Ishi gi!", she claimed. Looking up I saw miles above a dozen flocks of cranes in "v" formations. A sure sign of fall. A few years later, while living in Nome, my parents were visiting late September. We were up Nome river fishing when a flock of cranes flew low overhead. Very low. I grabbed my .22 and shot at one about 30 ft up thinking I could easily pluck it out of the sky and dress it for a few dinners. I shot once and heard the pellet hit the bird's wing and ricocheted off. The bird flew on seemingly un-phased. Cranes are tough birds.

Jack, the mighty hunter of the village, gifted us (or rather, gifted me, as Maggie would say) a swan. I saw him arriving to the house with the head and neck of the swan draped over his shoulder while the body and legs hung down to his ankles. I'm not sure if it was legal for him (an Eskimo) to kill a Tundra Swan but life in the village keeps one alert for fresh game, otherwise food sources were (30 years ago) expensive and spare for most isolated villagers. There's no question that Jack was a provider. Over the months he brought us (rather, me) rabbit, ptarmigan and swan. If I weren't living with competent fishermen, I'm sure the fish would have been forthcoming as well.

Since trapping for squirrel, fishing and picking berries I had become enamored with subsistence living -- hunting and gathering. I felt alive and empowered. So I looked for opportunities to "provide". A small pack of weasels lived in the porch of the old house as a chunk of moose meat was stored there in the oncoming cold weather. I set a couple of squirrel traps overnight close to the meat. In the morning I had two trapped weasels which I killed just as I had done with the squirrels -- pulling their hearts. Eventually I had six hides which I tanned. Martin told me that weasels had their own Eskimo folk tale, which my father confirmed some time later. Eskimo kids were told that if they came across a weasel and the kids had been misbehaving, the weasel will jump up and grab their throats. 

I carried the weasel skins for years and have recently applied them to one of the pieces in THE ENCULTURATED WHITE MAN: If the Indians Had Won body of work. 

(to be continued) copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

Weasel (winter coat). Picture taken from

www.saskschools.ca/~gregory/animals/weasel.htm

My Eskimo Family 60 (continued from October 20)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

Back in Golovin after a successful fall squirrel trapping camp, we were back in the routine: me unpacking and shelving canned goods, accepting sticky coins from kids buying candy and pop, sweeping sand from the floors, delivering phone messages, fetching flour and sugar from the old house, pumping gas into jerry jugs and working on a needlepoint pillow behind the counter. The simple chores that did not challenge my potential were enough for me at that time. The novelty of living in my ancestral arctic village also numbed me to the mild loneliness I felt; a loneliness that would become acute in the dark winter months to come.

One day, while attending to a small group of kids on their daily candy, pop and bubble gum run, one of the boys told me in a low muffled tone while pointing to the girl next to him, "She makes love." The girl he was pointing to was a mere 10 years old. "What?" I asked hoping he meant the innocence of k-i-s-s-i-n-g like the nursery rhyme. He repeated, "She makes love." The girl looked at me without expression. She made no attempt to deny it. "With the older boys," the boy added as if to make sure I knew what he was saying. I looked to the girl again and realized she was, with her silence, admitting to it, not only admitting it, but seemed to be a willing partner if not the instigator. 10 years old and buying bubble gum with scrounged pocket change she couldn't add up. My delusional thoughts that I might be something of a mentor to the kids in the village--visiting with them, joking with them, teaching them from behind the counter--suddenly came to an abrupt end. I was the naive one. As a college graduate with honors, I may not have been living to my career potential, but I was certainly getting a continuing education in village life on the arctic tundra.

It's been 30 years since I sat behind the counter in Golovin. I wonder what has become of that little girl and the other kids who have their own kids buying candy from the store. 

(to be continued)

copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

Picture from "Welcome to Golovin" homepage.

 

Tundra in the Fall. Photo by Tamara Ann Burgh.

My Eskimo Family 59 (continued from October 5)

To start reading from the beginning, go to May 11, 2008.

In the morning Maggie and I skinned the batch of squirrels caught the day before. She gave me a small ulu (eskimo knife made from old an saw blade with a bone or ivory handle) to skin with (I still have it). The squirrels were first gutted then skinned cutting around the muzzle then down to the tail. 

I gained more respect from the ladies when they saw that the insides of my squirrels were clean. In other words, when pulling the hearts I did not leave a bloody mess. I had no idea I had such natural squirrel killing skills. Considering my first appalling reaction to the idea of pulling a poor animal's heart from it's artery and how difficult it was the first time for me but more so for the squirrel, I was surprised to find I had a knack.

Naturally, for dinner we had squirrel -- head and feet and liver intact. I give loads of credit to my parents for training me to eat whatever was set before me at the dinner table. Mother often made chicken gizzards for dinner and baked extra turkey necks for Thanksgiving because we all loved them. Mother tried for years to disguise liver as it was the one food none of us could manage. As soon as an unrecognizable piece of meat was placed on the table, we knew it had to be liver. I was eventually well received at my Aunt and Uncle's home because I would eat what Maggie fixed -- and it wasn't typical white food. At "squirrel camp", however, I had my first gag response to the food.

The smell of squirrel I had killed, gutted and skinned baking in a pot made me a little nauseous. Then to serve it lying on its back, black eyes like bb's, mouth agape, legs and toes in the air on my plate, I had to force myself to engage in eating. For the first time in Alaska, I told the cook I could not eat everything on my plate. I could not eat the mashed liver mixed with blueberries laying in the squirrel's cavity. I risked a scowl from Belinda, but none was forthcoming. Maggie giggled -- the suburban white girl finally showed up.

One afternoon, back in Golovin, I came into the kitchen where Maggie was cooking something on the stove. It was a black something filling the pot and rising above the rim. Water simmered around the edges spitting droplets out onto the stove. It smelled wild and earthy. Upon closer inspection the vague contours eventually took shape. Water bubbled and steam rose through two large holes. Finally I was able to recognize what it was. Just then Maggie sliced a thin layer off the top with an ulu and popped the softened slice in her mouth then smiled. She asked if I wanted to try. No pride in the world could make me accept the offer to eat a piece. "No," I said, "I don't eat moose nose." Maggie giggled.

copyright Tamara Ann Burgh, all rights reserved

 

Above: squirrels to be skinned

Me skinning squirrels in the sun with the ulu Maggie gave me.