Bear Dreaming

Kasigluk, Alaska, August 1999

"Lorna! Mike!" The villagers have gathered nearby for a summer fair and a few have spotted us walking down from the airport. "Waqaa!" they greet us.

I have looked forward to this homecoming for years, to bringing our daughters back to meet our former students. We shake hands with old friends, hug some, then introduce Ryann and Shauna. "Kenegnartuq!" (How pretty!) they exclaim over the girls. Mike and I nod our agreement.

Dressed in a purple fleece jacket, jeans, and knee-high rubber boots, Ryann could pass for a village kid. Shy but curious, she stands to one side, watching as we talk, dark eyebrows furrowed over green eyes. My mother says she's never seen a child study the world as intently as Ryann does. At thirteen, Ryann has a gaze that leans more toward bemused.

A full foot shorter, Shauna stands at Ryann's shoulder. At nine she's pixielike, with braces and blue eyes and bobbed blonde hair. Even with an ear infection simmering, she hiked the ridges in Denali last week on Ryann's heels, eager to impress the young ranger who led us. She still looks wan, and I'm anxious to lodge her at our friend's house, where it's dry and warm and a litter of sled dog pups awaits.

The following evening the four of us dress in the best clothes we have packed and walk to the gym for a reunion with our students. Even those who now live in other villages have traveled here to visit. Soon a table is full of our favorite Yup'ik dishes—fried bread, dry fish, and akutaq: berries and fat whipped into a frothy ice cream. My friend Olga notes that Ryann and Shauna enjoy akutaq. "We have Slaaviqs for their birthdays," I tell her. "I make the akutaq, Mike the fried bread." Over the next few days I overhear people telling one another that we hold Selavi. They seem pleased that we honor them this way by adopting the Russian Orthodox/traditional Yup'ik blend of gift giving and feasting.

Walking home, Ryann says, "People remember you so well. I don't think I'll remember my teachers like this."

"We grew up together," I tell her. "Some of our students were only two years younger than we were. And they watched Dad and me fall in love. It is their story, too."

The next morning we rustle the girls out of bed early because one of our students is helping officiate at the Russian Orthodox service. "Wait until you see the inside," I tell the girls. "They're not afraid to use bright colors." Upon entering, I'm offered a seat at the back in the one row of folding chairs reserved for older women and guests of honor. I'm surprised—I never sat during the services when I lived here. Seeing plenty of empty chairs and knowing how long it will be, I accept. Shauna ensconces herself on my lap, while Ryann sits down in front with the children. The other adults stand, including Mike.

For the benediction, the priests offer blessings for the start of school and Father Sergie thanks Mike and me for helping him prepare for the seminary. Afterward Mike teases Sergie about the three-hour service. "How long were you going to make us stand?" he asks, putting his arm around Sergie's shoulders as people photograph the two of them. I had forgotten how Mike behaves here—not as pushy as he is among kass'aqs (white people). He has recognized almost all of our students as adults and guessed correctly at which children belong to whom.

Sergie grins and comes back, "Mike, how come you look so old? Lorna is the same." Mike does appear older, but only because he looked sixteen when he lived here, plus he hasn't shaved in a week. Nonetheless, Mike bristles; he doesn't like hearing it.

Late that afternoon Mike starts for Montana and the girls and I settle in for a week of visiting and berry picking. First, though, I send the girls...