N. and I get off the plane in Nome, Alaska. The last thing I remember is eating at Chili’s in the Anchorage Airport. I think it’s 9:00 or 10:00 PM, but I’m not sure because we have been in and out of planes for the last twenty-four hours. Who knows what the time zone is in the far end of the Seward Peninsula? I’ve heard people describe “time traveling” when they imbibe heavily. I haven’t been drinking, but I think I now know the feeling.
I’ve never been in a war, but this town feels like a war zone. Dirt and mud cover everything. Even the few courageous houses with colorful paint are made dim by the slight grayness of Nome.
Our friend A.’s Ford Bronco, the OJ Simpson model, awaits us in the airport and we get in with our luggage. He and his wife M. had offered to fly and host us in Nome for a week. Knowing this would be a trip like no other, we acquiesced to the hospitality.
The floors in the vehicle are bare because otherwise the mud would consume the carpet. There is a tool box, some granola bars, a milk jug of water, and a roll of toilet paper stashed in the back seat. These things are necessary in Nome, Alaska, because a vehicle breakdown is more than an inconvenience. It is like a plane crash you survive, and you really don’t want to end the trip eating the unconscious passenger next to you and wiping yourself with his t-shirt. A. gives us a brief tour: the church in the center of town, the inordinate number of downtown taverns, and the rock wall.
“I heard there are some musk oxen just outside of town, if you want to go see them.”
“Oh, cool.” I pretend to know what a musk ox is.
The Bronco climbs up a rolling hill. The road is mud, of course, but with some gravel spread about. It was a nice attempt at a road. At the top of the hill I learn that a muskox is a furry, bovine-like creature. It looks harmless and lazy. We take pictures. We moo at them. The ground on which they stand is surprisingly green. It’s the tundra, and it takes an insane amount of years to form from the freeze-thaw cycle. Our stepping on it must undo a millennium of natural work.
We survive our first encounter with Alaska wildlife. How many people in Kentucky can say they have lived through an encounter with musk oxen? We feel accomplished, and get back in the Bronco.
It’s not dark. The sun sits over the horizon much like it does early in the August morning at our Kentucky home. The light feels hopeful over the flat land. It gives a warm tint to otherwise sad houses.
Before arriving, I assumed the nighttime Arctic light would be eerie and would give the land a zombie movie feel. But it does not. At its worst, the nocturnal illumination is disorienting but not creepy.
Nome is north of the tree line. This adds to the war zone feel. It’s as if all the trees were razed by an H-Bomb in a war with Russia that never happened. “Trees don’t grow here. How can you expect people to grow?” A. often says. I think this is a comment on the drug and alcohol problem on the Peninsula. But maybe it is more, and maybe he is projecting.
Our introduction to Nome is over and we arrive at A.’s house. There we are welcomed by a small gathering of “Nomites.” They are not really there to welcome us, but to celebrate the end of Sarah Palin’s reign as governor. I know the vodka and the Achorage-brewed beers are flowing, but I am too tired to focus on anything. I hear some music. Someone sings a song called “Nomite in the Big Ol’ City.” The song is a narrative of a naive, young man who heads to Seattle and finds himself swindled and lost.
We go to bed as soon as the company wanders out.
You’re in Corbin, Kentucky with your wife at Basil’s Italian Restaurant. It’s only two football field lengths away from the original KFC, The Sanders’ Cafe. You almost drive past it.
The Chef-proprietor comes to take your order. He’s awkward and never seems to blink.
“I’m Chef Richard. How are you doing?”
“Good. We’re here for a date night.”
“Am I your date?”
“I don’t really know you.”
“Everyone gets to know me. You’ll learn that.”
And from there, Chef Richard sells his food.
“This is the only authentic Italian food in the Tri-County. The other places aren’t operated by Italians, just some guys. Our dishes are homemade.”
And you order. And the food is fine. The lettuce on your salad is limp, iceberg junk. A little lower quality than the “just some guys.” The dressing is homemade. You asked about that. The pasta is simple and clean. It’s advertised as “Mama’s Pasta.” It’s all fine, but there’s a clear passion.
Passion. For cooking. Passion. For running a simple business. Passion. For being honest to people. This vision redeems all inadequacies.
I don’t believe that the Bible wants to “speak to the modern world.” Rather, I think the Bible wants to change, convert the modern world.
The modern world is not only the realm of the telephone, the telegraph, and allegedly “critical thinking,” this world is also the habitat of Auschwitz, two of the bloodiest wars of history, and assorted totalitarian schemes which have consumed the lives of millions. Why would our preaching want to be comprehensible to that world?
