We hit the ground running the minute we moved back to Alaska a week ago. Since my last post, we’ve been from Anchorage to Homer and back, and by the time you’re reading this, we’ll be spending a long weekend in Juneau for more musical mayhem. And on our very first full day back in the state, we hopped on a plane to go up to Fairbanks on a whirlwind house-scouting mission (more big news about that, coming soon!).
It’s a lot of windshield time, but I guess that’s just how we roll, here in the Greatland. More to the point, it’s how our clan rolls.
I love Alaska for the connectivity that runs through such a huge geographical area, and that, despite great distances, we all make time to mobilize in order to be together. Slowing down and putting away the phones to spend real time with real people in beautiful places while making memories and laughing our heads off is food for the soul.
And what a mutual admiration society it is!
The trip down to Homer that we took was to attend a huge farm party that some friends put on every few years. Because it’s held in memory of the host’s uncle, the late Ray Garrity, we call the event “Bouche-Ray,” a play on the traditional boucherie.
And yes, it’s ironic- and fitting- that the first big shindig we attended upon moving from Louisiana back to Alaska was modeled after a Cajun tradition.
A boucherie, for those who don’t know, is a food-centric, social gathering that involves the communal butchering of animals. It’s a sharing of labors with much joie de vivre, much playing of music, and for most, plenty of imbibing in a generally festive atmosphere.
Ray was central to first sparking the strong connection that still runs between Louisiana and Alaska, ever since the Balfa Brothers came to perform at the Alaska Folk Festival, back in 1980.
Ray led the charge for our friends here to begin regular migrations to Cajun country, which is where Jason and I just spent the last two years. During our tenure in Southwest Louisiana, we loved getting to know more about its rich culture first hand, and bonded with some fabulous people.
Having lived now in both places, I’ve wondered what makes two such vastly different musical and food-centric cultures resonate with each other. I’ve been curious to understand what gives the music in each of them such an unpasteurized, deeply human sound, and what the people share in common that keeps so many of us moving between them.
I’ve decided it’s hardship.
In both lands of extremes, there is a very elemental, raw relationship to the land. Survival in either of these unlikely places is a task that constantly keeps one in check; there are biting insects, lethal temperatures, and yet, in spite of it all, a natural lust for life.
Plaintive voices rise from each, as well an abundance of seafood and homegrown, home-butchered food sources. And yes, they both suffer under the exploitation of natural resources — in particular, oil and gas. In the north, people often work remotely in shifts “on the slope.” In the south, it’s “off-shore.”
While at this great convergence of the tribe on our friends’ beautiful farm, I kept trying to find a way to articulate to myself the thing that makes the bond so strong in our Alaskan family of musicians.
What is it that makes us drive anywhere from five to twelve hours, or fly, in some cases, from as far away as the east coast, in order to gather in a downpour in the mud?
Certainly this weekend, it was the way Ray’s life (and death) affected everyone. Sadly, I never got to meet him, as he tragically passed away in an ATV accident eleven years ago. Just as I was getting to know my husband, Jason, everyone around him was freshly grieving his monumental loss.
Being with Jason brought me deeper into this huge, FUNctional chosen family, one that, previously, I had only stood at the edges of. And I’m here to tell you: it’s a one way ticket. Once you’re part of this fold, you are part of it forever, even in death.
Though I didn’t have a chance to know Ray in life, the greatness of his spirit still lives large. It brings tears to fall across my face to witness the pure emotion that is still held for him, all these years later. There is such reverence on the faces of my loved ones, and such pain at his early departure, as they recall his passion for life, his exceptional musicianship and sense of adventure, and deeply loyal friendship.
As our friend Bob-o mentions in a song he wrote about Ray after his passing: gathering in numbers to play music, imbibe, and enjoy great, homegrown food is how we choose to mourn.
Watching all of us milling around, at first in the splendor of a golden Alaskan autumn, but soon in pouring rain and mud that didn’t let up, I was reminded afresh what it is that motivates us. And it’s simple.
Love.
Love of life, and a shared appreciation for the simplest things: this beautiful land. Joy and merriment. Each other.
A good raincoat never hurts, either.
I love the Alaskan spirit. Even an inch of rain falling in the space of a single day couldn’t wash our smiles away.
You know you’re in your uniquely right place in the world when you and a hundred or two of your closest personal friends all agree that driving across vast distances to stand around in a downpour, or cram ten at a time into a two-horse trailer to crank out fiddle tunes for hours on end, is the best idea of fun.
There were multiple jams going on at a given time throughout the weekend, some in the Two-Horse Tiny Bar, in various greenhouses, and around bonfires.
A stage was erected and bands kept people dancing late into the nights. The dance floor — gently sloping mud and grass — was populated by big smiles, rain boots, and soaking wet Helly Hansens in bright yellow and neon orange. There’s nothing like honky tonkin’ in commercial fishing garb in the mountains in a downpour. There was so much condensation on the tent ceilings, it rained even under cover. No one was dry, and no one cared.
Of course we all know the value of wearing rubber boots in mucky weather, but here I must also mention the added benefit of being able to pee outside freely without too much concern for one’s feet.
Which brings me to one of my many great inspirations. I’ve long had an idea for a coffee table book, because whenever I make a pit stop on a road trip here, it seems I’m always gazing out at something like this.
Homer is such a special place. At the end of the road, the peninsula juts out into Kachemak Bay, where the Aleutian Range beams volcanoes across the water along one side, and the Kenais shine, equal parts craggy peaks and sparkling ocean, on the other. Truly, on a good day, Homer shines brighter than almost anywhere else in the world.
She can also remind you who’s boss.
Bumper stickers tell more of the story, of how Homer is a quaint little drinking with a fishing problem. And here’s my personal favorite:
Homer, Alaska: We’re all here because we’re not all there.
Playing music into the wee hours of morning, sharing incredible, homegrown food while surrounded by gorgeous scenery and bright smiling faces, I was reminded of why we toil. And why we just moved forty-five hundred miles to return to a place our souls couldn’t bear to miss for another minute, to rejoin the hearty people and stunningly beautiful places that make hearts soar, and our voices rise to meet them.