Here’s the thing about living in a magical place people pay lots of money to visit. Sometimes we work so dang hard trying to make a living that we don’t have the time to appreciate Homer. I think doctors call this “Carpe diem deficit disorder.” You’re supposed to seize the day and we’re lucky if we can seize 40 winks.
After decades living in Homer, the Betster can finally admit it. Yours truly has succumbed to birder fever. Consider the evidence: bird nerd sweatshirt by Amanda Brannon, two pairs of binoculars and a spotting scope kept in the Betsterbaru, seven bird guides on the shelf and checklists for the last 15 years of the Kachemak Bay Shorebird Festival.
Last Thursday the Betster took a photo safari looking for sandhill cranes at Beluga Slough. The B. got a solid tip that cranes had been seen at 11 p.m. last Wednesday, right on time for Earth Day. Out in the grass about 70 greater white-fronted geese waddled around feeding on whatever geese feed on there in the slough. The B. loves those darn goofy birds.
Just when you think the world might be getting back to normal, shazam, things have to go all topsy turvy on us. Not that the Betster has found a thorough definition of “normal,” and certainly not in Alaska. Your actual mileage may differ. How’s this: Normal in Alaska means that at least for one week things more or less remain the same.
When, oh when will our long seasonal nightmare end? Day after day, roaring blizzards have left maybe an inch of snow daily on our winter-weary town. Up in the hills, some people have reported deluges of up to a foot. It got so bad that every single day last week the Betster had to brush off a light layer of fluffy flakes from the Betstermobile.
Congratulations, citizens. This week you earn the distinct honor of directly participating in your government. Unlike voting, where you just have to show up and fill in some bubbles and make an informed choice, on April 15 you put some real skin in the game.
Holy Alexander Hamilton! That’s right, Betsteroids. Wednesday is the day we’ve been looking forward to all year, the day we send off our income tax returns. It’s the day we pay our fair share to keep this grand experiment in democracy running.
In the ongoing drama of our changing season, stuff happens. Sometimes it happens so fast you wonder if maybe we’ve slipped into one of those science-fictional time shifts. You know — nice English nurse wanders into a Scottish stone circle and, shazam, next thing you know she’s in the 18th century and being rescued by men in kilts.
Go to any meeting around town and you’re likely to hear the call of Homerus cruditis — that beast we transform into when the spring rhinovirus hits town. Holy hippopotamus! No, we’re not talking a beast with big horns, but rhino as in “nose,” an infection that takes up residency in your schnozzle. Not being content with the warm, moist microclimate there, the virus also migrates down into your chest.
Friday at 2:45 p.m. the sun crosses the celestial equator, an imaginary line in the heavens above the earth’s equator. We’ll experience one of those cosmic events marking the passage of this big blue marble around the sun. You may know that event as “spring.”
Anyone who has lived in Homer long enough to remember the real name of the old blue bank building shouldn’t be surprised that the Friday before spring break our weather flip-flopped. Alaska weather has it in for teachers and school district staff trying to get away. It can be warm, the snow will have melted and it looks like smooth sailing to breakup, when out of nowhere a big storm will roar in and mess up flight schedules.
Recently the Betster took a sojurn to Anchorage for a refresher course, “Why We Live in a Small Town on A Really Awesome Bay.” Sometimes you just have to go north, often on the way to get to someplace else, like the rest of the world. While in Anchorage, the Betster noticed several things:
• People drive a lot there,
• Few streets have only two lanes, and
• There are more ravens than crows in Anchorage.
This week marks a momentous occasion. After many long years of struggle, after thousands of hours of hard work, Alaska changes this week. Holy Sinsemilla! What, you thought the Betster meant Feb. 24, when marijuana became legal? No, no, we’re talking the retirement of McKibben Jackinsky, Homer’s hardest working reporter.
With all the weird weather back east, Homerites have been tempted to gloat. It’s 19 degrees in Washington, D.C., and look — it’s 40 degrees here. Or, Boston has 8 feet of snow, and here we have barely a half inch on the ground. The Betster fully understands this temptation, but here’s the caution.
Paybacks can be deadly.
Remember the winter of 2012-2013? Remember when snow piled up so high second-story balconies turned into front porches? Remember that winter when the harbor froze so much we had to postpone the Winter King Salmon Tournament?
The Betster has been in Homer so long that when typing the word “home,” inevitably a finger taps an extra “r” so the sentence comes out like “Homer is where the heart is.” Isn’t that a bumper sticker? Do other people have this issue?
This week we had an important celestial event: Groundhog Day, or as we call it in Alaska, Marmot Day. Monday was the day when all America watched to see if groundhogs cast a shadow. In Sun Prairie, Wis., Jimmy, the groundhog mascot, bit Mayor Jonathan Freund on the ear. There have been some fierce conversations at Homer City Council meetings, but to the Betster’s knowledge, no one has ever bit the mayor.
The Betster always finds the Lower 48 response to a big East Coast blizzard amusing. If a winter storm that in Alaska we’d call “a minor irritation” threatens the Northeast, people go into full-on snowpocalypse mode. Well, some people. The Betster knows most seasoned New Englanders react like Alaskans. Snow? In winter? What’s the big deal?
If you looked up in the sky lately and can see past the downtown light pollution, you might have noticed a big fuzzy dot near the constellation Orion. That would be Comet Lovejoy, a comet discovered last fall by Terry Lovejoy. Find a comet and you get it named after you. It’s the fifth comet that Lovejoy’s discovered.
We American journalists like to think we’re tough. Cover up a political scandal and we’ll go all Woodward and Bernstein on ya. We dig into stories, not afraid to offend politicians and ask hard questions. Sure, one Alaska journalist got handcuffed once, but last week the cartoonists and staff of “Charlie Hebdo” set a new standard of heroism. Gunmen burst into their Paris offices and shot dead 12 people, including two police guarding them.
Thanks to the services of the U.S. Government, and in particular the Naval Observatory, we’ve figured out how to compile sunrise-sunset and hours of daylight tables for Homer. We might complain about the feds, but now and then they do stuff right. Navigational charts, buoys, rescuing mariners on sinking boats, tide charts and astronomical tables: yeah, your tax dollars do work sometimes.
We’ve been working hard here at the Homer News, putting out not just this issue, but our super-mega-ginormous 50th anniversary edition, publishing Jan. 1. If you see one of us wandering around with a deer-in-the-headlights look, we’ve just stared down an 18-wheeler truck and jumped off the highway at the last minute.