Raising Girls

“What are you going to do with your empty nest,” a number of friends asked us as we stepped into Romay’s senior year of high school.

            “Funny you should ask,” I laughed, “Myra is pregnant.  We’re backfilling.”

            “Uh,” many would stutter in shock, “how do you guys feel about that?”

            I mean after all, what question can you follow that answer with?  Having adopted Romay when she was an older kid (8 to be exact) when we were younger made us some of the younger parents of a graduating senior that year, but in doing the math, that definitely would not be true the next time around.

            “Well,” I smiled, “I get to buy another shotgun.”

            “What if the next child is a girl?”

            “I still get to buy another shotgun.”

            The child arrived and we bought pink.  We have only ever raised girls, and when we had our male lab, Kemper, in the house, I at least felt he brought some balance to the force.  I have only experienced raising our girls, and so I don’t know what normal is… I imagine my girls aren’t.

           

            “Dad, I’m not going to prom this year,” Romay declared as she walked into the living room where I was sitting.

            “Oh,” that was one less thing for a dad of a pretty girl to worry about, “why?”

            “I just don’t think I would have any fun this year, and the ducks are back,” she said quite seriously.  “Do you think they would let me go to after prom if I didn’t go to prom?”

            “I don’t see why not.”

            “Okay, well, Kemper and I will go out to our blind then, and then I’ll come back, get cleaned up, drop Kemper off, and attend after prom,” she formulated her plan.

            “You don’t think Kemper will get jealous that you are going to after prom without him?” I joked.  “Just take the young man to the blind and then ditch him for the party?”

            “Dadddd,” and she headed for her room.

            She did go duck hunting on prom night and when she walked up the porch she was carrying a pintail and Kemper was proudly carrying a mallard.

Romay with the young man who would become her prom date (the blond guy holding the duck).

            On another occasion a young man walked into my English classroom displaying quite a shiner.  It was a full-on black eye.

            “Well Mr. Harris,” he began talking immediately as he took his seat, “are you going to talk with your daughter?”

            I smiled starting to put the pieces together, “About what?” I attempted a naïve question.

            “My eye,” he whined.  “She’s the one who gave me this,” he indicated by pointing at the swollen purple mess.  “We were playing ball at open gym last night.  Romay got the rebound, and when I went in for the ball, she was holding it with her elbows out, pivoted and caught me square in the eye.”

            I just smiled.

            “Well,” he prodded, “what are you going to say to her?”

            “Way to go,” I responded.

            When Ellen was just a little older than two, Myra and I bundled her up to take her and Amouk (great-grandmother) ice fishing.  It gave me a greater understanding of what my parents went through in preparing for similar outings when I was little.

            “Where are we going?” Ellen insisted on details.

            “We’re taking Amouk fishing,” her mom replied.

            “Oh, okay,” she answered and became more helpful in the process. 

            We had taken Amouk out a number of times that summer for salmon when they were running.  Ellen had dragged a decoy on a cord behind the boat, dipped the landing net, Amouk’s cane, sticks, and anything else she could get her hands on into the water.  Fishing, in her mind, was fun had in the boat involving barely remaining inside of it the entire time.

            Upon exiting the house, Ellen walked down the hill, trudged through the snow, crawled up on the trailer fender, and began hoisting herself over the gunnel. 

            “Bub, what’re you doing?” I asked.

            “Going ice fishing,” she honestly responded as I lifted her down from the boat and put her on the seat of the snow machine.

            Once she got the hang of it, she quickly got over the disappointment of ice fishing having nothing to do with the boat.

            “Ohhhhhh, that’s a big one,” she would squeal as one of the adults pulled a tomcod through the ice.

            She would run over to the hole, pick up the freshly caught fish, hold it to her chest and then run back over to the lawn chair that none of us were allowed to sit in because it was designated for her fish.

            Weeks afterward, I was accosted by her upon walking through the door after work concerning when we would be going fishing again.

Three generations of women fishers left to right: (little) Ellen, Myra, (Amouk) Ellen

            Looking at Myra, it is easy to see that I can’t take full credit for how our girls are turning out.  Thankfully, they have their mom’s looks, but beyond that, Myra has never been one to stay inside. 

            “I’m bored,” Myra said into my ear as we drove up the road toward Devil’s Hill in Koyuk via four-wheeler, “what is there to kill this time of year?”

            When I bought Myra her shotgun for our first Christmas as a married couple, I was accused of buying her something for myself.  I denied it, but it was kind of true.  We had gone duck hunting together that fall and I found myself sitting in our blind calling ducks into decoys while she held my duck gun.

            “Is it my turn yet?” I asked trying not to sound about eight-years-old.

            “Just a couple more minutes,” she urged as she looked to the horizon for birds.

            When Myra’s turn was up, she handed me the shotgun, stood up and began walking home.  I guiltily held my shotgun in my lap for five minutes before gathering up my stuff and following her.  If I wanted to hunt ducks and spend time with my wife, she was going to need a shotgun of her own.

Myra with a early spring rabbit that she shot with her .22 Mosquito

           

            Amouk has told us on numerous occasions upon me returning from a hunt with my girls that women in our culture don’t hunt.  She then always follows by saying, “My brother let me borrow his shotgun while we were out boating once.  The eiders were flying way out and he thought they were out of range.”  Amouk will look off gazing into the past before finishing, “I shot once and dropped one.  Only duck I ever shot,” and she smiles.

            Culturally, women may have not been hunters in Inupiaq culture, but girls are all God has blessed me with, and if they want to go, I can’t see leaving them home.  They rarely complain, I know where my kids are, I know they are learning skills that could help them survive, and I get to spend time with my favorite people.

            “We can’t leave yet,” Ellen argued as we packed up to go from her first fox hunt, “we haven’t gotten a fox yet.”

            I could hear Romay’s voice in my head asking for five more minutes in the duck blind.  Who needs a boy?