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and the winds whistled, exciting my imagination. Alaska is a land of extremes, with mountains climbing out of the ocean and glaciers that reach down into the sea like great white limbs, impossibly slow. Too much food in the summer, and too little in the winter. It is a place that requires great preparation for a human to have any sort of consistent sustenance. It requires a hardy, practical, and energetic approach to life, one that served me well on the long and winding road I’ve taken since then.
    Extreme characters also seem to be drawn to Alaska, especially the smaller towns. Extreme political views, from hippie communes (there were a few rather famous ones that settled near the head of the bay in the ’70s, including the Love Family and the Barefooters), left-wingers, expats, outlaws, and mountain men who felt they needed to get just that much farther from the government. On East End Road lived a female belly dancer with a full beard. There was Stinky, who lived in an underground shelter he’d dug in an old junkyard—a refrigerator lying on its back served as a door, and it would hinge open, coffinlike, and up Stinky would emerge from his underground dwelling, still convinced a Cold War was possible. There were immigrants like my family, and fishermen, lumberjacks, and Russian Orthodox in their brightly colored traditionalclothes. All of us living separate lives on the same peninsula. The rule was that everyone had the right to be themselves and pursue liberty how they saw fit. At night when we sang, I was always amused to see such a collection of hippies, hillbillies, and rednecks all sitting at the same bar.
    One of my favorite things about Alaska is that people are not jaded or too touched by pop culture. There is a tangible optimism that comes from making a living with your own hands. It’s honest and grounded and down-to-earth, qualities that served me well in a business that was anything but.
    Our own home reflected the extremes of the land. My dad’s drinking continued. I remember him being so “sleepy” on the drive home after gigs that he would ask me to help keep the wheel steady. There was lots of yelling, rage, outbursts, though not always when he was drunk. The abuse escalated in the drinking years though. It was random and I could never predict what would spark my dad’s temper, and it began a lifetime of walking on eggshells for me, trying to read the signs and check moods. I think he hit the boys occasionally as well, but I felt he had a particular problem with me for whatever reason. Maybe it was female need. Maybe I reminded him of my mom. Maybe. All I knew is we fought a lot.
    In some families this brings siblings closer together, but it seemed to splinter us. Shane handled it by being the responsible older brother, reliable and true, who would escape into fantasy books. Atz Lee was the favorite, and quite a rascal, defiant in his right to play and goof off. He could take hours just to fill a bucket of coal, the fire long out while we were waiting for him. I handled the stress by trying to be the best at singing and horse riding, and by trying to eliminate the competition. I didn’t understand that it was not my brother’s fault he was the favorite, and I resented him badly for it. I had a sharp tongue and I used my intuition like a weapon; whatever insecurity and weakness I sensed in him, I exploited. I tried to make him feel as badly about himself as my dad mademe feel about myself. My need to be loved was so strong that it took several years for my writing to expose the real issue, and for my conscience to get a foothold and defend my younger brother. To this day I am deeply regretful and sorry that I was not mature enough to see he was not an enemy but a victim in the same war. It took years of reflection to see that being the favorite can be a worse trap, as it leaves no door to exit by; loyalty to the love one receives, dysfunctional as it may be, is sometimes too strong a force to