I just popped in to the Forest Service office between an all day stint at the police department, and a session of the borough assembly that I agreed to speak at as an expression of my degenerating mental condition.

I'm here because one of my supervisors, who for purposed of decorum shall remain anonymous^* decided that one of the deep red Outfitter-Guide cards that I have entered into the database that I created for him is in error. He'd like me to just correct it. That is, one card in a stack of nine hundred and twenty two. So here I am after hours burrowing through the stacks of blood colored cards, looking for just the one he wants corrected, like some odd ground dwelling rodent creating a den for winter. Oddly though, it isn't the number of cards that had me agitated though, it's the color.

For, what does all this redness remind us of? It reminds us of the tragic discovery I made Saturday when taking pictures of the local children meeting Santa. I volunteered to do so to raise money for the cub scouts, a worthy cause to be sure. But as the afternoon wore on, I discovered my breathing growing shallow and rapid, my pulse pounding and my body contorting in awkward poses, without being consciously aware of why. Imagine my dismay when I paused to consider the matter, and was shocked to discover that it was all because I was fearful of making eye contact with Santa.

I'm forty four years old, and I'm afraid of Santa Clause. At least since I lost some weight I'm not asked to play Santa anymore.


^*Darryl, you hear me?! It was Darryl! D,A,R,R,Y,L- Dar-ryl, DARRYL!

A big "thank you" to Internet Explorer's new pop-up blocker that made my long post go away before it was published.

Bitterness Level:

The Bitterness Report is a new feature that we hope to produce monthly at what we assume to be the point of maximum bitterness for that month.

Bitterness Items:

• 
  Well here I am at the High School. I have to attend the ambulance for several hours yesterday, today and tomorrow becuase the students are engaged in a basketball tournament. These kids get flown by jet around the state to engage in High School sports. The school sports I'd like to see are: sweep the school, paint the scool, mop the school and cook the meals for the school, and the almost forgotten game- read the flippin' books.


• 
  I should be at home fixing my broken oil heater, but as stated above I need to be here in case some kid injures himself in a pointless activity.


• 
  None of the kids that have been in the computer room since I got here have ever heard of a blog, but thaey do no how to stream what might be loosely termed "music" by someone deaf since birth with such wholesome lyrics as "it's hot in here, take off your clothes."


• 
  I have to take pictures of kids visitiing Santa tommorow afternoon to raise money for the Cub Scouts- before I have to come back to the school with the ambulance. This requuires that I disassemble my home computer and trudge it across town tonight. What am I supposed to do at home then- housework?


• 
  I am stuck amoung teenagers today. I didn't like teenagers when I was a teenager.


• 
  I'm having to use a Mac. Why do they have all these Macs in the school? I mean if you're going to teach kids to use computers, shouldn't they use a type that they might actually see out of a classroom somewhere?


• 
  My walkie talkie battery just died, so I have to go out and sit in the ambulance for the rest of my stint.

Among the many pieces of wisdom I've gathered in my travels are such gems as, "Pop Tarts make excellent survival food," "nothing spells relief like morphine," "no expensive therapy could have better prepared Charlie Brown for life than Lucy and her football," and "the Universe responds to us (usually with humor, concern for our personal development and malice.)" This last item can be illustrated by our adventure for today.

It seems that having announced to all and sundry that I had more or less washed my hands of the whole Christmas thing and found peace and serenity in so doing, it fell to me to fix the Christmas tree at the Yakutat Police Department.

I should mention that I'm filling in at the PD this week for the regular dispatcher who is off visiting family for the Holidays. Just before she left, the police Christmas tree attempted a jailbreak, lunging out of its festive plastic holder, flopping against the front window and hurling its decorations to the floor- presumably to make it harder to identify if it got as far as the forest.

This distasteful situation came about as so often happens in rural Alaska, because of local residents' insistence upon using wild Christmas trees. Wild Christmas trees resemble domesticated trees such as are used in most of the rest of the country in say, the same way a Tea Cup Poodle resembles a pack of rabid wolves. (Rabid wolves are frequently eliminated from nature in Alaska by the consequences of "marking their territory" on a wild Christmas tree. The specific details do not bear disclosure in an article that might be read by children.)

Now we all grew up with Holiday episodes of favorite family oriented television shows depicting hardy pioneer families harvesting wild Christmas trees decades before the practice was introduced from Europe. (In Europe the harvesting of wild trees is generally much safer for a variety of reasons. For instance the typical wild French Christmas tree has about the same fighting spirit as a wilted sprig of sweet basil.)

Sadly, television shows typically show a highly edited version of frontier life. The charming family living in the log cabin," are never shown butchering livestock, digging out new outhouses, filling in old outhouses, gathering buffalo chips (if you think that "buffalo chips" are a snack item, please see me after class for remedial instruction,) or tending to psychotic Cousin Alice who lives in the root cellar. They are certainly not going to show you an hour long ordeal as "Pa," spurting blood from dozens of needle wounds, wrestles a vicious wild Christmas tree to the ground, chops its roots off and drags it back to that cabin so that they family can celebrate a tradition that they've never heard of.

But I don't live in a television show. I must deal daily with harsh Alaskan reality: sub-arctic weather, bears in the streets, eighteen-hour nights, and the voices in my head. Thus the snarling tree I had to deal with was no wispy, lacy evergreen confection from Wal-Mart. This was a feral member of the Spruce family, a wild Alaska Christmas tree.

To those of you fortunate enough to have never encountered one of these apex predators of the Vegetable Kingdom, a short list of common misconceptions might be instructive.

Misconception #1: the term "needles" used to describe the leaves of such trees is poetic imagery.

Fact: Emphatically not! They are needles- sharp, hard, flesh piercing needles.

Misconception #2: Wild Christmas Trees are shaped somewhat like domestic Christmas trees.

Fact: Wild Alaskan Christmas trees came in a variety of shapes such as partial cube, partial sphere and asymmetrical tumbleweedic, but never even vaguely conical.

Misconception #3: A Wild Christmas tree cannot shed more needles than it had when it was brought indoors.

Fact: Science has yet to offer an explanation for this phenomenon, but these cellulose factories of crippling injury shed approximately six time as many needles as they bear when brought indoors.

So today I, who had found refuge in ignoring the whole Christmas experience was given the assignment of wrestling a feral tree into an upright position and lifting it into a new holder, and replacing the glass ornaments and candy canes that it had throw off in disgust during the night. Fa-la-la.


Eventually, I enlisted the help of one of the officers who announced his need for a heavy coat and gloves before approaching the tree. Interestingly, he had no such concerns when I was sent scrabbling under the tree to clamp it into the new holder. Maybe my squeals of pain increased his safety consciousness.

I was proud of the fact that I got hardly any blood on the radio mike at all, though a fair amount on my trouser leg.

After half an hour or so of manhandling the tree proper, and another half hour or so a vacuuming fifteen or twenty pounds of needles, some of which now had festive red tips, it was time to deal with the glass ornaments.

So, I perforce had to deal with yet another Christmas tradition, namely the broken shards of razor thin glass all over the desk and in the paperwork tradition.

As I said above, the Universe responds to us, much like some cosmic circus clown with a custard pie. I made peace with my non-participation in the Christmas Traditions, and "splop!" I get a pie pan full of traditions right in the face. Where was Lucy when I was in my formative years?

I've finally conquered Christmas! No colored lights, wrapping paper, silver bells or stockings hung over the wood stove for me.

This is to say that after years of feeling blue at Christmas time, I have finally reached a state where- aside from the religious observances, Christmas is about as relevant to me as Guy Faulk's Day.

Now, before anyone gets all sad and misty, let me explain that most Christmases these last several years have been a trial. During those times I've almost always been far from family, working, flat broke, or combinations of the three at Christmas time. Add to that, that contrary to my wishes, I am not a father. One's home never seems so empty and lifeless as when one is over a certain age and childless on Christmas.

As for my family being far away and my being frequently broke during the Holidays- well I happily choose to live in a village with a very narrow financial base. Even with my four or five seasonal and part time jobs, the late fall and entire winter are a financial thrill ride.

Soon, if recent years are a reliable guide, monetary concerns will begin to temp me to think of my two loveable but stupid and useless dogs in the context of certain aspects of Asian cooking. I think the cat is deliberately hiding until the concept of fur gloves is somewhat less appealing.

Let me state once again, that I love living here and these little material inconveniences are a small price to pay for the privilege. (I love living here even if young Chuck in Pennsylvania thinks that living hundreds of miles from the nearest movie theater is a fatal affliction.)

Anyway, I usually can afford to give little more than good wishes for Christmas, a fact that makes me wish I could hide in the woods until spring.

So this year I've volunteered to work for the Dads at the power plant on the 25th. That way they can be with their kids, and I'll feel like I'm giving somebody something.

Truly, I keep the observance of Christmas as the birth of Christ in a glowing corner of my heart. But odd as it seems to some, and sad to others, at long last I no longer feel left out during Yuletide.

Since I'll be operating the village generators, I'll just be satisfied keeping everyone else's Christmas trees lit on the Big Day.

My existence isn't an exercise in futility is it? I mean look, here is what's going on right now. I'm at the town police station working as an emergency dispatcher because all but one of the phone lines went out yesterday- including the 911 line. It's after 5:00 am, and I've been here since midnight, there are about three hours left on this shift.

The idea was that in an emergency, folks could still call in on the regular line and then I could radio the officers or the EMTs or the Fire Department in order to send help to the needy. It was a chance to be a hero, it was an opportunity to make a difference, it was a chance to be here to help my fellow man and make my presence on Earth count for something!

Except that I have just discovered that at some point the remaining line has failed. I might as well be here with one of those Fisher-Price toy phones for pre-schoolers with the eyes that goggle up and down when you pull it along on its wheels. I could improve the overall communications profile with a couple of cups and a string.

A moment ago I just radioed the Chief to let him know that I am essentially a window display mannequin. Have you ever had the experience of waking up your boss at 5:20 in the morning to let him know that you are a useless bit of organic effluvia?

Well, if any urgent calls for emergency services come in by carrier pigeon, I'm on the job.

Today my mustache got crispy for the first time this season. Those of you without this noble facial feature will be sadly unaware of this Sign of the Season. (So sorry to all you girls, young boys, and ladies, with the notable exceptions of well loved, moth ball-scented elderly great aunts who always have stale candy from last Easter for when the nieces and nephews come to visit.)

Anyway, one of the sure signs of the Holiday Season in Yakutat is the magical formation of icy material in the mustache. Where the moisture for this seasonal fixture comes from is one of life’s sweet little mysteries. Some people think that it’s fairy dust, but it’s not.

But the coming winter has its advantages. It’s now too late to clean up the yard. In fact it’s nearly impossible anyway, since the frozen mud has cemented any loose articles into itself in a sort of temporary fossilization process. Further, soon the heavy snow will come, with its pure white blanket of cleanliness that will make us all feel OK about not walking the dogs quite so far. Sadlythough, when the spring melt comes, it is all too apparent why you really should have walked the dogs farther away. But winter laziness leads to greener lawns late in the summer.

So as life goes on in the Last Frontier, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, now let’s listen to the festive crunching sounds as couples kiss under the mistletoe!