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CHAPTER 5

A Warm Hat, a Whale, and a C in Chemistry

When the 1977 legislative term ended, I returned to Anchorage for the summer. There I worked for my former guardian, Walt Morgan, who was always there for me whether I needed a place to stay, a job, or a good laugh.

With Walt, I learned about hard labor. He was a handyman who also managed some rentals. That summer I did some landscaping work (digging holes in dirt is hard work), a little commercial janitorial work (harder), and even work as a house painter (hardest).

I explored a lot of options as to what I wanted to be when I grew up. My first serious decision was to be a nurse-midwife.

This was a career suggested by Rona in Anchorage, with whom I occasionally roomed when in town. She was a nursing student working as a lay midwife. The natural childbirth movement that took hold in the Sixties was playing out in the Seventies. The idea was to abandon what had become the standard medical practices used in hospitals, such as the use of epidurals or medication for pain relief. Oh, no, none of that. The movement (actually begun decades earlier) preached that birth was natural for women, and we had done without medical intervention for thousands of years. Never mind that even up until modern times, the mortality rate for women in labor was as high as 50 percent in some parts of the world.

This could be another of those times when I should have thought, What am I thinking? What if a mother died on us? Or the baby?

I went along as Rona’s assistant on eleven home births. I trusted that all would be fine, and it was—until one night it wasn’t. During that home birth, the mother had a prolapsed umbilical cord; in other words, the cord dipped below the baby’s head and started coming out first, cutting off oxygen to the baby still in the birth canal.

The chance of the baby dying without surgical intervention: 90 percent.

We were in Eagle River, high on the mountain, miles from the nearest hospital, and in the middle of a fierce snowstorm. When Rona realized what was happening, she had me quietly call an ambulance. She then did something her instincts, training, and experience taught her—she put the birthing mother in a position to move the baby back up into the womb, allowing the cord to work free. She then gently pushed the cord back over the baby’s head until it fell into its correct place.

I was tense with fear but acted as if everything was fine. We could not cause the laboring woman to panic.

The paramedics arrived looking ashen, no doubt aware of what they were up against. As soon as they realized the midwife had saved the day and the birth was proceeding normally, they were shaking Rona’s hand.

After this episode, Rona refused to work with patients who lived more than a few minutes from the nearest hospital; they had to get full prenatal care and could not be high-risk. She eventually went on to become a licensed midwife outside Alaska.

I HEADED BACK to Juneau to enroll at the University of Alaska Southeast. And despite my midwifing scare, I planned to go into nursing—until my first chemistry class.

Despite how much I loved my high school experience at Steller, I seemed to have gotten out of high school without taking algebra. You need algebra to pass chemistry. Fortunately, our algebra professor told his students that if we came to every class, did all the assignments, and took every quiz and test (even if we failed them), then the lowest grade we would make would be a C.

I got a C.

After that algebra class, I knew I was not meant for a life in science. I then decided to major in something I loved—music. Part of this came from my father’s appreciation of popular music, which he’d play on high volume in the middle of the night when he’d come home from “working.” Imagine Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” at 3 a.m. If you’re a ten-year-old sound asleep in your bed, it’s not fun.

My dad liked it all—pop, rock, even folk. We had the Kingston Trio, Frank Sinatra, The Mamas and the Papas, and that damn Steppenwolf. In the middle of the night. Nevertheless, I was exposed to all kinds of music early on and loved it. I began my studies in music, playing classical guitar and studying voice.

I also took advantage of film classes, including a seminar about the work of famed film director John Ford. I thought I wanted to work in the movies somehow. I also enjoyed the local National Public Radio station in Juneau, KTOO. A lot of people in Juneau knew someone at the station. My boyfriend Jim hosted his own music show once a week, and I would sometimes help out.

Actually, I wanted to be a lot of things during that phase of life between eighteen and twenty. This included, in no particular order, a forest ranger, a carpenter, and even a folk singer.

I did get a job with the US Forest Service. All day, I just sat at a counter doing nothing. I didn’t stay long.

Carpentry seemed alternative, right? I decided I’d be a woman carpenter. I had a friend who was accepted into a union apprenticeship program. She advised me to get the textbook, so I did. It was a thick hardback book that I tried reading—but not for long. I decided a life of physical labor wasn’t for me, either.

The folk singer phase lasted a little longer. The Alaska Folk Festival held each spring in Juneau was—and still is—a hugely popular event. For years, I had been singing to popular recordings by the likes of Linda Ronstadt as well as taking classical voice lessons at college.

Before I met and dated Jim, I had gone home to Anchorage one summer and fell in love with my last musician. He was a tall guitar player with waist-length hair. Originally from Texas, he played with a band at a local hotel lounge. We met, fell in love, and were together constantly until the gig ended about six weeks later and he returned home. Then I learned what hadn’t been made entirely clear before—he had a longtime girlfriend back home. Oh. Here’s what you should always ask someone: are you available? He wasn’t.

What I got out of the deal was the desire to play the acoustic guitar. I went out and bought a six-string guitar and some songbooks, and taught myself to play. When I enrolled in college, I got a classical guitar for playing classical music. At some point, I decided to perform publicly and signed up for the folk festival.

Solo. What was I thinking?

The event was held at the Alaska State Museum, and it was usually packed. I wore a vintage blue velvet dress that I found at a secondhand store. I chose to perform one song, “Love Me Tender,” originally recorded by Elvis Presley and later by Linda Ronstadt.

I have no idea if I was any good or not. I was terrified of making a mistake, and somehow I got through it. But I got enough encouragement to keep performing.

The following year I went back to the festival as part of a band. One of my best friends from Steller, John, had moved to Juneau. John and I linked up with a friend named Cliff to form a trio we named The Maintainers.

Cliff was from upstate New York. He had unkempt shoulder-length blonde hair and played an electric guitar. I adored Cliff, although he hardly fit my back-to-nature philosophy. But that’s why John and I hooked up with him. John has always had a wicked sense of humor, and we both loved Cliff. We figured the folk festival needed something besides banjos and fiddles.

We came up with an opening comedy bit that made us a hit with the audience. John, a natural at the microphone, began our set with something like this: “Hi. We’re thrilled to be here. We’d like to begin our set with a classic folk song. Feel free to sing along if you know the lyrics. It’s called, ‘Play That Funky Music (White Boy).’” Then Cliff launched into the opening guitar riff from the 1976 disco hit by Wild Cherry.

The place erupted in laughter. They loved us! The rest of our set—some Crosby, Stills & Nash, and another song or two—went just as well.

The audience loved us so much that the next year, we were given a Saturday night slot, considered the biggest performance night. We had added a violinist and banjo player. A bunch of friends came down from Anchorage, including one who brought satin tour jackets monogrammed with the band’s name.

Alaska State Folk Festival, 1979.

We insisted the emcee introduce us as “live and direct from Anchorage”—our ironic reference to the way Juneau residents felt about our hometown.

Just before going on stage, we had one snag. Someone had left a car running with the doors open right in front of the hall’s main door. The emcee made an announcement looking for the driver. Who would be so dumb? I wondered, as we waited to go on stage. Then a friend ran up to us.

It was my car.

A friend moved the car, and we were ready to go. We opened with another bit delivered by John.

“We’d like to begin our set with a song we wrote as part of a promotion we did for the Anchorage bus system,” he announced. “It’s called, ‘Another One Rides the Bus.’”

Then Cliff played the opening guitar riff to “Another One Bites the Dust,” by Queen.

“Another one rides the bus,” we all sang, with the audience singing along, too. “Another one rides the bus.”

Again, the house exploded with laughter.

That was The Maintainers’ final show. I am still friends with John but have lost touch with Cliff, who I wouldn’t mind finding someday. But after that, I stopped performing, aside from school recitals.

EVEN WITH THE relative success of my short-lived musical career and music studies, I was still undecided about what I wanted to do for work. Another career idea: sailor.

I read the book Dove, the true story of Robin Lee Graham, who at sixteen sailed his twenty-four-foot sloop around the world. Of course, a part of my newfound passion for sailing was inspired by the handsome, golden-haired Graham.

Hey, I was a girl in college. I tended to get crushes on adorable guys.