Alaskan winter equals dark.  This situational equation exists from November through January.   This being the case, it really doesn’t matter what time you get up in the morning in Alaska .  There is no greeting the sunrise or early-bird-grabbing -the worm scenario at work here in the north.  For most Alaskans this means hibernation mode.  More time to snuggle down into the depths of a cozy, down, comforter as the hours tick away.  However, when a home is heated with wood someone has to get up and stoke the fire so that sleeping instead of shivering can occur.

Becoming a morning person is an acquired discipline that requires strategy.  No one in their right mind would get up at 5:00 AM on a regular basis especially when the temperature zone beyond the blankets has dwindled like the ashes of the fire.  Drastic measures are necessitated so that becoming upright is not an option but a mandated position.  The placement of the alarm clock is critical for the resurrection of the body at such an ungodly hour, the further away from the bed the better.  This forces the body to move under duress to contain the incessant noise that will soon wake the rest of the household. 

For most individuals simply swinging one’s feet to the floor and becoming erect is the favored maneuver.  However, for a middle-aged woman located on the inside of the bed next to the wall of an elevated sleeping platform getting out of bed takes on a whole new meaning.  The morning ascension routine requires the ability to flip like a pancake in bed, slither snake-like across its length, and drop to the floor without landing on assorted paraphernalia that is currently housed on the landing site.   Upon the successful completion of this step it’s time to play Blind Man’s Bluff.  

Blind Man’s Bluff is a handicapped sport.  It can only be played in the dark, stumbling from night stupor, with one functioning eye.  The goal is to find and kill the alarm clock.   It has been strategically placed in the kitchen next to the wood stove.  In this way it is possible to thoroughly experience the chill that has enveloped the cabin at twenty below zero during the night.  It’s time to coax the few remaining red embers into an inferno so that 55 degrees becomes 74 degrees as soon as possible.  Unfortunately Mother Nature’s insistent call has penetrated the senses and I am reminded that the morning decision is at hand. 

To pee or not to pee, this is the question.  Actually the question is do I savor the warmth of the cabin and use the pee bucket or go outside and use the outhouse at twenty below.  It’s a hard decision to make.  I hate the pee bucket.  There is something distinctly gross about it.  First off, it’s a community endeavor.  It’s not like it’s just my own stuff in there.  It’s my stuff mixing with other family members stuff – yuck.  It’s bad enough to experience the aroma of my own stuff but the fruity concoction of a mix makes for nasal overload, especially if it’s used in tandem with another member of the family.  Double yuck.   Give me the great abyss (aka the outhouse) where no one knows where it goes and you don’t have to look if you don’t want too. 

Getting to the Outhouse is half the fun.  At twenty below you have to dress for the occasion.  It’s hard to keep the bladder under control while putting on boots, hat, gloves, and coat, and it starts to makes that plastic bucket look a “hole”  lot more inviting .  I always make my lead dog Moon go with me on my trips to the Outhouse.  He runs interference for any boogie-monsters that might be out there waiting to get me.   Happy to escort me, he runs circles around the building waiting for me to reappear and occasionally checking in the window to see if I need any help – sort of like an occupied sign with legs.  

All my friends hang out in the Outhouse.   I used to have an inspiration wall where I tacked up pictures of baskets, musher trading cards, inspirational quotes, cards, and pictures of friends that visited.  Since we’ve moved to the bush they have been relocated to the inner sanctums of the outhouse.  So now you know.  If you’re an esteemed individual in my life some part of you is located in my outhouse – now there’s something to aspire too. 

Also located in the outhouse is my current anniversary present.  A brand new piece of blue styra-foam that has been lovingly hand crafted by my husband to envelope the seat of the outhouse in celebration of our sixteen years together.  It might be construed as a real “stinker” of an anniversary present if the wisdom of the present was not known.  In order for Outhouse visitors to not become one with the fixtures during a cold snap a barrier of insulation between them and human flesh is required.   This does not however make the initial contact any warmer.  We refer to it as the -20 melt down or show-me-how-much-you-love-me by un-frosting the seat first.  The outhouse is truly a place to celebrate art, friendship, and love. 

Now that I spent time with all my friends and family it’s time to get back to the day at hand; put the tea pot on, stoke the fire, and generate some electricity.   The generator is housed inside the cabin where it has lovingly been kept warm all night.  This is so that when I return it to the generator shed and shock it senseless by starting it at -20 it will do so without protest.  Winter gear is donned and a headlamp strapped on to escort “Genny’s” 50 pounds to her work area. 

Generators have certain rules.  These rules are dictated by men who read the instructions.  Men are knowledgeable in the areas of oil, amps, voltage, and maintenance.  There are certain switches to be switched at certain times and in certain conditions.  There are procedures to be followed and they must be obeyed.  That is why the woman of the house is coaxing the generator to life in the cold of the morning. 

Men are smart.  They monitor the morning’s generation progress from the warmth of the bed making sure that all procedures have been correctly executed.  They have a keen sense of hearing and can detect when the slightest difference has occurred in the RPM’s of a generator and when someone has veered from the prescribed starting ritual.   Men understand the innards of machines.  They know how to make them work in perpetuity with the proper execution and maintenance and all family members that dare to make a machine go must know and execute them as well.  Upon re-entering the cabin the oral generation checklist is reviewed including such items as did you let it warm up before you plugged it in?  Did you remember to turn the eco-throttle on?  Did you open the gas valve?  Is my tea water ready and what’s for breakfast?  If I’m lucky those keen ears have been lulled back to sleep by the purr of a perfectly started operational generator giving me three hours of uninterrupted time to myself.

Now there’s a contradiction in terms.  The first task on the agenda is to learn my Algebra lesson.  A subject that I passed with a  grade of “D” in my high school years due to an aversion of showing up in the classroom.  It is the great karmic pay back that I now have to learn it before I teach it to my home schooled daughter.  I look at it as an exercise to fend off Alzheimer’s.  It could be that I’m experiencing delayed math smarts because forty years later Algebra makes sense.  I want to wear a sign around my neck that says, “I can do Algebra!”  I tell all my friends, “I can do Algebra!”  I want to find my old high school Algebra instructor, look him in the eye and say, “Mr. Prost!  I get it!”  My daughters former tutor says, “That’s great Jill, but can you take the high school exit exam for Jennah?” 

 In my other life, I spent a lot of time making other people look good.  One of the skills I gleaned from my corporate days is how to “spit and polish” a document enough to make it appear that I really know what I’m talking about.  Some people would refer to this as the ability to project a professional appearance but I call it being the “Queen of Bullshit”.  This title has helped me immensely through out my life and is currently generating all my dog food needs.    Armed with my keyboard and still in my jammies I am the prosaic corporate business woman via phone and internet guiding those in Kansas City on to greater heights in the business world. 

When 8:00 AM rolls around all extracurricular activities come to a halt.  It’s time to begin the morning chant.  The morning chant begins with a sweet melodious ring to it and deteriorates in direct proportion to the amount of time required for the action to be completed.  This means that “Jennah bug, it’s time to wake up” turns into “Gert!, GET UP!”  after about an hours repetition.  The manner in which my daughter awakens is a touchstone to foreseeing what the day’s events shall unfold for us; a lovely day full of educational insights or a day of working with a “bad toad”.  A sure cure for making the one-eyed, sour faced, nasty girl that is before me return to the beauty that went to bed the night before is blueberry pancakes.   She’s not the only one hungry around here, dogs need to be watered and fed and hay thrown to the horses. 

The morning shift chores complete there is only one thing left to do – hook up a team of eight dogs and get on the runners for 40 miles.   At the end of the day I have the dull lump look.  It begins with a glazed red face from wind burn and an absence of light in the eyes suggests that no one is currently available for comment.  Remaining upright in a chair is no longer an option and attempting to watch a movie results in the slow progression of the chin to the chest.  I discreetly check the clock through one eye to see if I can ease myself into bed yet – 6:30 PM.  My composure tells me it’s time to clock out so that evening shift can come on board.  I hand over to the night crew with my closing evening statements, “going to bed, you coming?” and “don’t stay up too late”.  Soon the house will reverberate with the sweet melodious sounds of my snoring in preparation for me to again begin the morning shift.