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?

The Game’s Not Over: Matching a College Ball Player up with a College Swimmer

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“Hey, that’s goal-tending,” my then girlfriend, Myra, angrily protested after I had jumped up and swatted her 3-pointer as it was on its way down into the hoop.

            “Go ahead and count it,” I shrugged.

            We had decided for some reason that it would be a good idea to play some one-on-one.  Aside from Myra, me, and our egos, there was no one in the gym.  Myra was two years out of playing college basketball and I was just two years out of college swimming.  Myra brought considerable skill with her into the situation while all I brought was pride.

            I took the ball out and clumsily attempted to drive past Myra.  If I drove too far, she would snatch the ball from me and laugh as she dribbled back out to the three-point arch.  If I pulled up too early, she would face guard me with the resultant air ball being easily retrieved by her with more accompanying laughter.

            She was having fun.

            I stood below the rim.  She shot.  I jumped and swatted.  I was not having fun, but at least I was in control of how I lost.

            “You can’t do that,” Myra said as I again hopped up and knocked the ball away from the rim.

            Myra had spent hundreds of dollars to travel to Savoonga where I was teaching to watch me pout as she handily beat me on the court.

            “The game’s not over,” she called after me as I walked off the floor and sat in the bleachers.

            “Yeah, pretty sure it is,” I moped.

            The rest of the visit went better.  We did what I imagine normal couples do when they date: cooked food together, watched movies, talked, went for walks.

            That summer Myra came down to Michigan to visit and meet my parents for the first time.  The childhood hoop was still up in the driveway, but I could not remember where I had hid… had stored the ball that went with it.  In place of playing one-on-one in the oppressive Michigan humidity, we had epic wrestling matches on the front lawn.  Looking back, I wonder what the neighbors must have thought as we threw each other around.

            I snatched Myra by the legs and pinned her shoulders to the grass.

            “Hey, you cheated,” she complained, angry that I had won.

            At that time, I still filled out my shirts in the arms and chest rather than at the belly like I do now.

            “Rematch?” I smiled and extended my hand.

            She slapped it away, “Rematch,” she nodded.

            I laid off and slowed down as Myra shot for my legs buckling me. 

            After pinning my shoulders to the ground, she pushed off and stood up, “You let me win,” Myra accused.

            “No,” I used my best earnest innocent voice, “you’re pretty strong, My.”

            She wasn’t buying it, “Rematch for real this time.”

            I was pretty sure that I couldn’t win no matter the outcome.

            Again, for the most part, the rest of her visit went pretty well.  We went out to eat, walked along the pier with a beautiful view of Lake Huron in the background, we went hiking at Presque Isle Lighthouse, went for drives, attended a high school buddy’s wedding… normal dating stuff (again, at least how I imagine people must do it).  Myra got on a plane and headed for Las Vegas where she would be working at a rescue mission for part of the year, and I headed back up to Alaska and Savoonga for my second year of teaching.

            Distance was a challenge, but we did a lot of writing and calling, and when we met up in Nome during the Iditarod Basketball Tournament (the one that accompanies the famous dog race), I carried a ring with me, and I sat and watched her team win the whole thing.

            We did the stereotypical couple of nights at Alyeska Ski Resort for our honeymoon and then made our way back to Unalakleet and the North River Bible Camp.  The camp is a rustic camp (more so at that time than now) with no running water or flushing toilets.  Since we were newly married, Curtis Ivanoff, who was running the camp that week for the young adult group attending, set us up with the honeymoon suite: a tent on a deck with a bottle of sparkling grape juice.

            At the end of the camp, we moved to Myra’s mom’s house and the comfort of a futon and flushing toilet.  Myra’s mom, Ellen, brought us berry picking where the wrestling match took up where it had left off the summer before.

            “You two remind me of a couple of young grizzly bears,” Ellen said to Myra, shaking her head and laughing.  “Look at your kuspuk,” she pointed to berry stains on the back.

            “I beat him fair and square this time,” Myra answered and Ellen just knowingly laughed in response.

Young Love... the table that was the site of the Rumikub battle can be seen just in the back of us.

            That first year on our own together in Koyuk… the first time we ever lived in the same community together, was an interesting one best described through what we still refer to as “the” Rumikub game.

            We had played for what seemed like an hour with both of our trays getting to the point of a handful of tiles.  Myra drew marking the end of her turn, but could already see where she could play her last pieces.

            That is when I started rearranging the entire table.  I moved pieces from one side to the other creating entirely new runs pulling tiles from my tray a couple at a time until I sat with just one in my hand wondering where to put it.  I borrowed a twelve from a set made up of all twelves and then slid another from a run into it to make the three it needed to remain legal, but then the run was without what it needed and so I tore it apart moving it into separate strains until all the pieces were used up with one empty spot that the ten in my hands just dropped into.

            A moment of silence and then I looked up and smiled.

            “Ahhhhh!  There is no way, you just did that,” Myra yelled winding up her arm with a tile from her tray.

            I ducked under the table just in time to hear it whizz overhead.  Myra stood up to get a better angle on her target and I started taking evasive action.  Laughing while running did nothing to help me get away or calm my attacker.  We were still finding missing tiles in the guest room across the trailer as well as behind the couch, in the vents, and wedged in the chair cushions for an entire month after the battle.

            I think both of us wondered if we could survive living under the same roof with each other.  We worked really well on the same team, but if anything came down to competition, we both played to win with the same ferocity we had in the college pool or on the college ball court.

            Fourteen years into marriage and just shy of a year after baby Ellen was born, we brought her to the gym and sat her down with some toys so that Myra and I could play some one-on-one.

            I play stretched and pulled my socks up as high as they would go all the while looking for a smile on Myra’s face.  Her eyes betrayed her even though she too played as though she was preparing for battle.

            Myra took the ball out beyond the arch, deftly dribbled between her legs and tried to go around me, settling for a jumper that crisply snapped through the net. 

I retrieved the ball and took it out, licking one finger and holding it up checking for wind, “Let it rain,” I sang out as I released, already running for the inevitable rebound while the ball was still on its upward journey.  Three awkward rebounds and shots later and the score was tied.

            Myra again took the ball out, shot around me and easily laid up the ball.  I strutted back out to the arch a look of absolute concentration on my face.

            “Let it rain,” again I sang out as I hoisted the ball toward the rim, sprinting as it was still heading heavenward in order to get my own rebound.

            I don’t remember the score of that game or who won, but I do know that neither one of us was pouting as we sat down with our younger daughter on the floor tired from laughing more than running.  That will to win is just as strong now that we are middle aged as it was when we did not quite have fully functioning frontal lobes, but what and how we compete with each other has changed dramatically.

            Maybe just after we got married I suffered from the illusion that I had won her.  Maybe she was under the impression that she had to beat me.  Either way, somewhere along the line we came to the conclusion that the game’s not over and winning wasn’t to be the focus.  The focus was supposed to be the game itself all along.