An Intro

I am Gabrielle. My husband is John, my sister Alexa, my four stepchildren Uriah, Caitlin, Claire-Elise and Brendan. I live in Alaska. My favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird and my favorite film Casablanca. I would be a vegetarian but for bacon and I would go to great lengths to be Oxford-educated.

This blog is a bit of a whim. As you may read in one of my future posts, the title comes from the amalgamation of two ideas: whimsy and practicality. Though in this lineup whimsy comes last, in the form of a Valentine. Nigel, although senseless in some circles, in my mind has always conjured up images and memories of practicality, punctuality, and British goodwill. He suffices for the inverse of the Valentine, but also for its compliment. I write whimsically more than practically, which is why I am married to John. He is the more (much more, in many cases, much less in others) practical of the two of us and I expect him to pull his weight on this blog, as well as he does on the laundry, the dishes, and on the travel plans.

Do enjoy. Leave comments–nice is best, but curious is tolerated and cranky will be tossed on the compost.

Merci and bonjour,

Gabrielle

The Family Loop

We love the fact that we are Together.

It’s odd what one won’t do in one’s youth. For example, as a young child one thinks nothing of going everywhere with one’s parents, even to the point of car trips and rest stop bathrooms. But as a youth and particularly a young-adult youth, traveling sans parentals becomes more the norm and less acceptable among peers and social groups.
Then as life waxes its fuller sphere, family appears again and reveals its own light. No longer do the Christmases and Valentine’s Days and Holiday Rentals seem bogged down by Mom and Dad. Rather, they seem filled to the very capacity they were created for.
Recently I experienced the death of my grandfather, Kenneth L. Buller, youngest of 10, son of a Mennonite minister, friend to all, and outstanding man. His passing was quick, and I had no chance to return from Alaska for his last words or a last visit. Indeed, the written message I sent via email correspondence did not even make it in time, and I was able to share my love and sentiments along with my grief at the funeral.   I would like to harbor some guilt about not having been there but I don’t, or am unable.  I am confident enough in my love for him and in his strength as Christian to know that we were okay.  I miss him,and I love him, but life goes forward for those who are left. Of anyone in the family, it is he who would agree most readily to being there for those who need you now.

In the Interest of Time and Place

I suggest we follow Becca’s advice.  Last week we were sitting around our living room, having just listened to a Podcast from our church in Seattle, Greenlake Presbyterian, and discussing the depressing notion of the two big empty buildings in our little village.  One of the buildings is the school and the other is the church, and I guess one could say they are both closed for the same reason.

Like most small towns and most extended families, lines get crossed, and so do people.  Misunderstandings take place, feelings get hurt (and one begins to speak too much in the passive voice), and soon what was once a simple solution turns into a feud of stark sentimentality and proportion.  Unfortunately, that kind of feud runs deep and, ironically, can really only be lifted by that which it has driven out: education and faith, or, more specifically, knowledge of the Spirit.   But when one is deeply or bitterly embroiled in a conflict of personal pride and worth of character, the last thing one wants to do is suffer humility.  Yet  humility is exactly what we must offer and exactly what we must gain.

Becca’s advice was not complex.  She said we ought to Invest in People, not in Things.  It sounded so precise, like A. A. Milne’s simplistic and wise Winnie-the-Pooh.  The words transformed, though, and their truth still lingers, echoing even louder two weeks later.  We have no church in which to honor or memorialize our dead, and yet we buried Dolly Jacko last Sunday after a heart-filled and close family service; we have no formal school, no building that is, and yet I sit here proctoring a math exam for four kids.  I think we are given second chances, and the chance to show our humility before not only God, but our village neighbors gives strength to our claims that we are interested in increasing our knowledge of the Spirit.

Lately I have been neglecting my morning readings from the Bible.  I had been consistent about it for several months, waking up and drinking coffee with my husband John, then spending time in Acts or Ephesians or Jeremiah before work.  But something changed; the days grew light in the morning and my cavern of scripture disappeared.  I’ve noticed a difference in my days, too.  I was not at peace the way I used to be, and so I took it up again, this time with John, writer of the epistle.  The work has already begun: In the interest of heart and mind, spirit and soul, let us invest.

Start Here

I live, for the time being, in the small Native village of Pedro Bay, Alaska.   There are probably 40 or so people here with me, and as it is October, these are the ones who live here year-round. Tomorrow, the Friday before Halloween, there will be a costume party and cake-walk at the Dena’ina School, and it will be, most likely, the last event held there before it closes on November 19.

Of the 40 or so people in Pedro, perhaps half, or less than half, will attend the event.  This is not unusual for winter months.  During the summer though, things are different.  During the summer the daylight hours stretch on and it seems, no matter how long the day is, there is always something else to do, something else to be done, another boat ride to take, more fish to put up, more wood to cut for the smokehouse.

During the summer there seems to be no time for worrying about school closures or airline rates, for the Sand Beach is ready for a bonfire and the bears at the pond by the airstrip are putting on a sublime show.

Now it is fall, early winter even, and the color that ran so smartly through our days is hibernating most assuredly and those green tones have wrapped themselves well into the hearts of the birch and the willow.  We see green now only in the tinges of spruce needles and in the new paint on the exterior of the council building.  Otherwise, sunsets get the most of it, as do the lines along the upper edge of Pedro Mountain or Big Hill.

Tonight John plays the guitar we bought in a little shop in Spoleto, Italy when we were there last spring.  Claire has named it Sebastian.  I write, while he plays.  Claire is picking out her outfit for school pictures tomorrow–the second-to-last event before it closes November 19.

We will dress up tomorrow.  We will walk when the music sings walk and we will stop to determine if the two-layer buttercream is ours…or if will go home with one of the 20 neighbors.  We will laugh.  And when we head for home we will look up, at the many million lights above our heads and remember the months we spent filling up our lives, unable to see the stars for the many hours of light.

Hayley’s Cat

The following is a piece of digital art created by my 7-year-old niece, Hayley Elizabeth, whom I neglected to mention was a relation in my About page.  My most sincere apologies, Hayley.  And apologies too, to the website from which she took the original idea.  But it this not the age of digital inspiration?

The Naming of Cats is a Difficult Matter

The awesome thing about Hayley–or one of the awesome things. as there are so many–is that she possesses massive store of confidence.  She is enormously confident.  I love this.  When John and I were home for a few days, packing up our apartment and moving everything we couldn’t take to Alaska to my parents’ house, mom told me a story about Hayley and Camilla Parker Bowles.

It seems Hayley had acquired a Webkinz by the name of Camilla.  Normally Hayley renames the Webkinz, often gracing them with the original name as a middle name, but dubbing them something altogether new and original.  Hayley-style.  This time, however, she took a few moments to listen to my mom–her Nana–explain the story of Prince Charles’ new bride.  She paid utter attention. When my mother asked her, Did she know the Queen of England?  Hayley purportedly replied, You mean Elizabeth the Second?  And mom said Yes.

From there she went on to spin the gracelessly romantic tale of Charles and Camilla. Hayley followed from pre-Diana to post-Diana and upon conclusion of British morality tale, promptly declared the new Webkinz to be named Queenie.  Queenie Camilla.   When mom explained that Camilla would never become Queen, Hayley disregarded it, stating that her Webkinz could be called whatever she wanted.

And although my generation, and perhaps your generation too, admires Diana for her pluck and her individuality, I admire Hayley.  For she was not born when Diana emerged from the horse-drawn carriage on July 29, 1980-something.  And she was not there for the grief bestowed upon a palace the morning after a tragedy in Paris.  And to her, Camilla seems just as romantic a partner for Charles as Cinderella for Prince Charming.