We welcome the New Year on an old loveseat we’ve dragged beneath the bedroom window.
Out of nowhere, Chris laughs aloud about the way I used to bang furiously on the walls of our old farmhouse, to get the mice to quiet down so we could get some sleep.
Now here I sit, feet tucked beneath me and blanket atop, pausing a book to stare at the glacier outside. A bald eagle lands on a nearby tree branch, eyes level with my own.
What a life it’s been with you, my husband says.
To be sure, winter solstice is one of our most celebrated days here in Alaska. I had butterflies and warm fuzzies all day, even as I trembled beneath my office’s conference table during a 6.0 earthquake this afternoon. On this, the shortest day of the year, the earth and sun work together to bring us back the light.
“Acknowledging the winter solstice is a decolonial act for Indigenous people. The winter solstice is an opportunity for Indigenous people to reconnect to the natural world, sharpen our senses, and access our most powerful selves.” – NDN Collective
Happy Thanksgiving from us, which this year included our nanny and her sweet son. Also! A surprise blizzard with record snowfall hit us on Thanksgiving morning, and hasn’t let up since. Also, also! My kids have taken to musical instruments during the pandemic… drums, ukulele, guitar, bass, bells, and three-part vocal harmonies – the whole bit. They had their first gig on Thanksgiving night, performing Christmas carols at my long term care facility. Times are weird and nearly a decade after I started the hashtag, I’m still trying to walk it out in my own life… but the Kincaids are alright.
To live in Alaska, to live in 2021, is to greet each day as she comes, with uncertainty and hope. August was good to us. September, too. Highlights included lots of hiking, adventures across the bay, prepping for winter on our property, yummy food and fun outfits, berry picking at a friend’s, settling into my new office, adjusting to remote schooling against our will, and a farewell to the farmer’s market. So long, sweet summer.
We put our beloved bulldog down this past spring. Rescued from the pound days after we married, miles from our sham of a honeymoon, one could argue Delilah rescued a marriage many thought was doomed from the start. That dog gave us thirteen years of love and loyalty, snuggles and slobber, redemption and responsibility.
After traveling thousands of miles across the country and enjoying a year of Alaskan life, Delilah gave us the gift of the slow goodbye. She gently slowed until she stopped, making the end easier on all of us. She died with the help of a vet in our living room, with candles lit and soft music playing. It was not unlike a birth. It was my kids’ first death ever. It was beautiful and it was sad.
I’ve been sad enough for a few lifetimes since 2018. When Delilah died, I did not want another dog. We still have Samson, who’s also nearing his end, and besides… I just wanted to be sad. Chris wanted to grieve by starting over and getting a puppy, but I just wanted to be sad. No puppy. No starting over.
But then my coworker’s dog had puppies. The end became a beginning and thus is life. We started over.
Welcome, Jolene Delilah Babe the Pig Kincaid… Jo for short.
It’s late. We’re finishing a Netflix episode and out of nowhere I say, I’m thinking about cutting my hair. I glance up to a funny look from my beloved. This man will say exactly what he thinks of my fashion choices, such as the neon clogs. But he rarely offers commentary on the parts of me that are attached to my body. He is a wise man.
Isn’t this the trope of women everywhere? Aren’t we always thinking about cutting our hair? Consider the cut, take the risk, lament and grow it out? This is our process. Let us be.
I’m aware that I carry my weight in my face and we are headed into winter and I’ve made some questionable hair choices in the past and and and… Do you not want me to cut my hair? I ask.
This is tender territory, we both know. It’s my body and yet, he looks at it most. My husband hesitates and then…
I don’t mind if you cut your hair. It’s the highlights. I don’t like the highlights. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you. I think they age you. He gestures to his computer, where he is editing photos of our most recent adventure. His new camera can see through my pores and into my very soul. His new camera is a blessing and a curse.
I say nothing. I would prefer almost any critique to aged, but I won’t tell him that. I’m mostly embarrassed because I know he’s right. I hadn’t done anything with my hair in years; the new look felt a bit off from the moment I had it done on vacation several weeks ago. It wasn’t quite the look I’d pictured, but summer was here and I was ready for a change. I should’ve known we’d missed the mark when an older coworker asked if I’d gotten my hair frosted.
I say nothing. Instead, I thank my husband for the feedback. We finish our show. We go to bed.
The following night, I buy a box of dye at the grocery store and gently tone out the blonde pieces, in the quiet secret of the half bathroom downstairs. The box dye has given me the look I wanted all along. I have almost the same hair color as my kids, which has always been the goal. I go to bed triumphant and wake up victorious.
My husband does not notice.
Items necessary for a successful supper these days: a way-beforehand-plan, foods that are green, water. The nice-to-have elements, which will come and go: side items, bread, dessert, fun beverages, fresh flowers, a set table, a full table. Freedom; go forth and feed the people you’ve got.