Jet Lag

I’m in the Philadelphia airport on my way home. My desktop picture is Denali. I miss Alaska. Is it time to go back?
Speaking of time, who is crazy enough to book a 7 hour flight that leaves at 9:10 PM? This was yet another first for me. The flight attendants are calling the shots and manipulating you into the routine. After passing out drinks they remind you of your pillow and blankey, ask you to close your window, they turn out the lights and put on a video. It’s a long, skinny sleepover in the sky. Now sleep, people.! Most of us tried to. By the time I finally dozed off, the lights came on, a “light” breakfast was announced and served. People began milling around and chattering, the sun came up and it was a new day. NOT!!! Are you people nuts???? It’s 3 AM! I don’t care what they’re telling you, it must be a conspiracy because I taught first grade for 20 years. I can do a clock. 9:10 plus 6 hours equals 3:10. You have to know that to get to second grade. So why is everyone acting like it’s morning??? Wasn’t this a Twilight Zone episode? I looked out the window to see if a little man was standing on the wing? Then they carried me off kicking and screaming. I need coffee. Or maybe I’ve had too much. Jet lag is going to be murder.
The coherent part of my flight was very pleasant. I had a wonderful seatmate. He was a retired 6th grade teacher and, thank you God, a Methodist. After my Southern Baptist summer, I wasn’t sure there were any of us left. I’m still wondering if we’re going to heaven.
I don’t think I’ve written about my experiences in the native village last week. 21 of us white folks slept on the floor of the tribal hall, chopped and delivered wood to the elders by day and had an informal church service at night. This particular village lies 25 miles off the nearest paved road, over two mountains and in the middle of nowhere. The natives own almost a million acres here and it is breathtakingly beautiful. On Saturday after the wood was chopped, we were taken by fishing boat along a meandering path to a gigantic lake. I’ll post the pix on face book. I may get to go back this fall with a native group of Christians who are going in to conduct services.
The night before we left, an old guy named Roy showed up and played guitar and sang some old gospel songs, some in the Athabaskan language. I took out the fiddle and we jammed for a couple of hours. That was a real highlight of my summer.
Scott told me about a bush missionary gathering in October at a remote, fly-in only, location. He goes every year and takes a group and I’m signing up. So I’m setting a goal to be back in Alaska by the end of September. Need to get the floor repaired, find someone to watch my house, evict Richard, get the apartment on the market, and hopefully find a home for Daffodil.
Dr. Phil would be proud of me. I’m excited about my life! (Now I know just because I said that something else is going to break or go wrong. Just remind me that I said life is good, okay?)