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On Being Appalachian in Alaska Ginny Carney 'What greater grief than the loss of one's native land?" —Euripides Detergent, onions, canned goods, Pampers, and 50-lb. sacks of potatoes lay strewn among empty cardboard boxes of various sizes. At first glance, it appeared that the family's groceries had taken a spill—right smack in the middle of the post office parking lot. As a young Eskimo mother and her children scurried to pick the goods up, however, I noticed the father, whipping long strips of strapping tape around boxes with the efficiency of a seasoned packer. It was Sunday evening in Anchorage, Alaska, and this was merely a "bush order"1 being packaged for mailing. There I stood, gawking as if I had never seen such a spectacle, and getting the same lump in my throat I experience every time I am unexpectedly inundated by a wave of nostalgia. Let me try to explain. I was born fifty years ago in the hills of East Tennessee—a region one of Flannery O'Connor's characters caustically refers to as "just a dumping ground for hillbillies."2 I grew up in the house in which my father (now eighty-five years old) was born, and this meant: —Drawing water from the same well —Drinking water from the same dipper —Chopping wood for the same cookstove —Eating biscuits from the same oven —Shivering through the same frigid winters —Seeking warmth from the same featherbed —Scrubbing clothes in the same (#3) washtub —Bathing Saturday nights in the same (#3) bathtub —Walking six miles to buy the same kerosene —Trimming oil lamps to read the same books as did my father, and his parents, and their parents before them. 43 With this sense of family history instilled in me from birth, I assumed that the rest of the world shared a similar heritage. Thus, I lived and learned in Southern Appalachia without giving much thought to such pleasures as the loamy aroma of freshly plowed soil, the summer cacophony of jarflies and katydids, the juicy savoring of June's first ripe blackberry, the soothing comfort of a moonlit hollow—or a jillion other sensations with which I was blessed day after day. My marriage to a Minnesotan in 1963, however, initiated a chain of events that would uproot me from my beloved hills and cast me—like Harriette Arnow's Gertie Nevéis—into a cauldron of culture shock: Minneapolis, the wilds of northern Minnesota, the islands of the West Indies, and finally, Anchorage, Alaska. My initial frustration and shock upon being exposed to urban life in the North can perhaps best be perceived through excerpts from my journal: July 16, 1963 (Minneapolis). Every day I clean our apartment and bake cookies so that I will be prepared when our neighbors come to welcome us. We've been here two weeks, and so far I haven't met one neighbor—sure can hear them through the wall, though. July 27. Tired of being alone in this noisy, dirty city while Karol works. Got brave today and went next door to introduce myself. Three beautiful children came to the door, but their mother took forever making her appearance—not very friendly and never did tell me her name. When I invited her and the kids over for ice cream and cookies, she said, "If we want ice cream, we can eat it at our place." I almost cried—right in her face. I don't understand these people at all. August 21. Walked to the laundromat today. Nobody seems to notice you, even when you walk right past them on the sidewalk—feels a little scary. While I was folding clothes, somebody walked offwith my whole box of detergent and my laundry basket. Can't believe anybody would steal soap. Guess I should be glad they didn't get my clothes. September 15. Started orientation today as a nursing aide at Swedish Hospital. There are eight of us in the class and, as usual, I'm the only Southerner. I don't say much because the girls nag me to repeat everything . I feel stupid sitting there like a parrot saying "bed" or...
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