Skip to content

A different road

June 2, 2012

I have a confession dear reader, I tried to infiltrate the liberal majorities personal news machine. I didn’t need to lie or cheat but to only act like one of there own. You know you can never talk, one on one, with any extremist liberal without it getting into a shouting match so I took a different route. I invaded the very pumping heart of liberalism…National Public Radio, NPR. This den of snobbish people who think they are never wrong and if you think differently your are an ignorant dolt.

They announced a contest whose runner ups and winners voice would be heard on there stations nation wide. Sitting on my accomplishment of just having written an Op-Ed piece for a national magazine and having had it accepted, I felt I had a chance to make the cut. I was thinking what fun it would be to show up for my interview at my local NPR affiliate an old grizzled man who live in the woods and spout my conservative opinions. But it was not meant to be, my piece though accepted did not make the cut. So I will have to continue to write for you the few brave souls that venture to my minds canvas here on my blog. I have however included below what was written for them because I have judged it worthy of publication.

The first sentence was dictated by NPR,
the rest comes from the mind dwelling within these cabin walls….enjoy.

(She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door). Closing the cabin door behind her she reached up and took her snowshoes from the old cabin wall, lacing them to her aging feet just as she had done thousands of times before. As she walked away from her isolated cabin she thought back to the first memories of her mother lovingly holding her in the cabin’s small comforting interior. The decades of joy and sorrows held within its worn wooden walls spoke to her as she walked purposely toward her favorite spot.

As she walked her thoughts drifted back to the book on her table. Over the years she had written a few books dealing with the culture and life of the peoples of the interior of Alaska. This last book reveled far more. She had, this time, put pen to paper and wrote her own personal story. That of a little girl growing up in the villages and nomadic camps of the Athabaskan peoples, to that of an elder attempting to pass on the heritage of her ancestors to the next generation. She held nothing back, from the tragedy of her father being killed by a grizzly, to her joy at the births of her son and daughters in remote hunting camps. The book she had just laid to rest on the table was a ‘proof copy’ of her latest work, and her last work she thought as she walked stiffly away from her home.

She had written many stories and books about her life growing up in the vast wilderness that was Alaska, and she had enjoyed some success over the years, but this one meant much more to her than anything else she had ever written. She walked on through the frigged air each breath painful to her sick lungs. The crisp crunching sound of each snowshoe laden footstep dominating the silence of the nothingness the that surrounded her. As she looked over at the mountains across the sweeping valley floor her breath would freeze the moment it left her lips. She new with the certainty of a sunrise that she would not retrace her steps ever again. As she pushed on knowing with each step that this was not a good thing to do, she thought back to her family and her life and that of leaving something behind.

She arrived at her favorite spot, all her children and grandchildren knew she lovingly called it her thinking spot. It was at the edge of a high rock cliff overlooking her cabin and the vast beauty of the valley floor. She sat down, again knowing this was not a good thing to do with the temperature hovering at a frigged forty below, but she was tired. She had walked these woods for almost seventy years, raising her children and grandchildren in the ways of life and survival in this harsh environment. Like every human she wanted to be remembered by these same children, she did not want her life to end and then be forgotten. She had started this ‘last’ book as an epitaph a memorial of sorts, something her children and her children’s children could hold and read and remember her with. Now after reading the copy in her cabin she was content. Content that it showed her life and everything she loved in a good and true light. She was growing more tired as the hours wore on and she knew that sleep would soon come to her. A sleep that she knew would end her pain…

4 Comments leave one →
  1. Rosalyn permalink
    June 2, 2012 2:58 pm

    Nice, wish you would let a human proof read before submission.


    • Liz permalink
      June 3, 2012 12:44 pm

      there’s humans out there?
      wow, not here!


  2. Jon permalink
    June 2, 2012 8:47 pm

    In a small way, it somewhat reminded me of To Build A Fire, the short story by Jack London, except this woman was a whole lot smarter than the character in London’s story. Good read, Pete.


  3. Liz permalink
    June 3, 2012 12:44 pm

    very good, very much what I think one should do, but just my personal thoughts. keep on writing.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: