Many Much Moosen

*WARNING--graphic pictures of butchering an animal are below.  You have been warned...though I realize that since the first picture is what pops up first, the warning is a little late and possibly unnecessary.*

A couple months ago, one of our friends invited us to help butcher a moose.  We felt pretty special to get to participate--I mean, how often to you get to help break down a moose?   Offered a share of the meat in return for our labor, we packed up some knives, grabbed a cooler, threw the kids in the bus and headed over.

Everybody knows a hunter, and a lot of people have butchered chicken or fish or rabbits or even a deer or pig, but a moose is in its own category.  For starters, a bull moose can stand up to 7 feet at the shoulder, weigh 1500 pounds, and have an antler spread of 5 feet.  In North America, only the bison and the occasional polar bear are bigger. The critter we helped with wasn't 1500 pounds, but it became clear pretty soon after we arrived that there was plenty much moosen to go around.

*Rick wants a reminder that this is only one leg of this animal. In addition to three other legs, there were also two bags of torso meat--making this Rick-size haunch only 1/6 of the meat that was processed that night.

As the sun set, we and seven other families--kids included--fell to work. That sounds like a lot of people to cut up a single critter, but remember--this wasn't some scrubby Arizona white-tail.  The moose was quartered and hung from a beam.  Four men cut the meat from the bones; the kids carried it to a nearby table, where some of the women cut off connective tissue, picked off leaves and hair, and cut it into more manageable portions.  From there it was carried, platter by platter (and tub by tub in some circumstances) to the house, where it was rinsed as necessary and further processed into either roasts, steaks, or ground into burger.

Because we're a little dark--and, frankly, because this was a golden opportunity--I and the other homeschool moms gave an impromptu anatomy lesson, pointing out muscle fibers, veins, and the difference between ligaments and tendons.  We also discussed responsible hunting practices, wildlife management, the life cycle, and the transfer of energy from producers to consumers.  Since several of the adults were also medical providers, trauma was discussed.  The older kids (who could mostly be trusted not to cut their fingers off) helped cut meat.  For the most part, the kids bore their forced education well.

I found the bullet.  In a thousand pounds of meat, it's the equivalent of getting the wishbone.

At the end of the night, we had several hundred pounds of meat, neatly labeled and mounded on table and counters.  Rick and I did the math; the 14 adults put in a cumulative total of 56 hours of work that evening. We all took a couple roasts and some ground moose.  The meat, though, wasn't my favorite part. 

I don't love hunting. I don't love blood. I don't love butchering animals or feeling meat-scum cake under my nails or the monotony of parceling and packaging meat--I don't even particularly love moose meat--and yet, in this circumstance, it was...fun.  Fulfilling.  Satisfying.  It was as if it appeased a deep, primal memory of a tribe coming together after a hunt, working together to ensure their survival.  Like that was how life was supposed to be.  Everyone had something to do.  Older children watched babies so parents could skin and carve and process meat, younger children filled and carried and emptied trays.  Nobody complained or slacked off.  People joked and laughed the entire time.  It was incredible to feel so strongly like we belonged, to be so in sync with our friends and neighbors and even a couple complete strangers.  It felt, for a few brief hours, like we were with our tribe--and it was amazing.

Moose still isn't my favorite, and I still don't love blood-crud under my nails, but I would do this again in a heartbeat.  I never imagined that this would be part of our Alaskan experience.

I'm so glad it was.

Telling Stories

Yesterday was Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.  For those of you who aren't familiar with the holiday (or somehow inexplicably haven't seen either Coco or The Book of Life, both of which I recommend), the Day of the Dead is a mash-up of good old-time Aztec religion sieved through Catholicism.  Running from October 31 through November 2, the Day of the Dead is best known for the calaveras, the brilliantly decorated skulls that permeate the holiday.  It's a celebration of life and a reminder that death comes to us all.  More importantly, it's a time to remember family that have passed on, to remember their names and tell their stories.

I first observed the Day of the Dead on November 3, 2015, when my grandfather died at 91 years of age.  I heard about his death as we celebrated my daughter's birthday, which is only fitting as death is as much a part of life as birth.  There was no offrenda, no marigolds, no sugar skulls, but that night I began to tell them his stories.

Papi is in the middle.

My papi, George Ernest Shoberg, was the son of Delia Carrisoza and Victor Shoberg.  He lied about his age in order to enlist during World War II, and fought in Germany.   Once his platoon found a warehouse full of women's clothes in a town freshly liberated from the Nazis.  This was a big deal, since clothes were scarce in the war-torn countryside.  My grandfather tried to tell a local woman, but he didn't speak German very well and she didn't speak English.  Finally, terrified of the Americans, she tentatively followed him to the warehouse.  When she saw the mountains of clothes, my grandfather said she screamed and suddenly German women popped out of nowhere, putting on four or five bras each and layers and layers of socks.  Another story he liked to tell was how, near the end of the war, a German soldier crossed into their camp and he had to take him prisoner.  Papi would always shake his head at this point in the story and say, "He didn't want trouble.  He just wanted to go home." The soldier was put under guard while they decided what to do with him.  Papi learned his name, and that he lived in the next town.  Papi went to his home, where the German's mother and sisters were waiting, and let them know that their brother was safe, and asked for a blanket for him.  The man was released the next day, and Papi was part of the detail that made sure he went home.

These are the types of stories Papi told about the war.  He told us about dancing with French girls in the canteens, or fishing by throwing grenades in a lake.  The other stories, the darker stories, he kept to himself, or shared with fellow soldiers.  Even without them, though, I have so many stories to share with my girls--like how he once helped carry John Wayne out of a bar, or how he would take us down to a cheap local carnival when we'd visit.  I remember how he would buy old gingerbread cookies to feed the skunks in the backyard, and we'd watch them snuffle and eat through the sliding glass door.  He was a plumber and all around handy-man.  He raised three children, two of which weren't his own.  He walked every day.  Instead of swearing, he would call people "dirty birds." His home is fixed in my mind, with the bandoliers and sombreros on the brick wall, the shelves of black and white westerns, the pot of beans on the stove and the musky-leather of his cologne.  Papi always told me to "keep [my] honor bright." I've tried my best to do so.

A year later, the unexpected passing of my mother-in-law in November of 2016 gave us another set of stories to tell.  While some of my girls will have their own memories of their grandmother, others will only know her through the stories that we pass on.  They will know that Grandma Kathy was a gymnast, and taught all of her kids how to do cartwheels.  She loved cooking and was an intuitive, uncanny baker. She mothered everyone.  She was whip-smart, with an irreverent, often naughty sense of humor.  I remember how, when Rick and I had just started dating, my family was out of town and I was alone for Thanksgiving; Kathy found out, and promptly decreed that there would be neither turkey nor pie until I was at the table.  Nobody dared thwart her, and I had my first Bushman Thanksgiving.  She delighted over her children, welcomed their spouses, and celebrated every grandbaby.

We also share stories about Uncle Gregg.  My brother in law died shortly after his mother, and his passing was perhaps the hardest.  Unlike Papi or Kathy, most of whose stories are secondhand or my own time-blurred half-memories, I knew Gregg from the time he was 11 years old with a bowl-cut and a K.I.S.S. shirt.  I remember going to his football games, and playing psychotic D&D campaigns on Saturday nights. He was also a soldier, and fought in Afghanistan.  We were stationed together in Ft. Bragg, and Leah, only about 18 months old, adored him.  He always told her she was his favorite, and he was definitely her favorite uncle.  He had a knack for making things happen.  The first time he got out of the military, he decided that he wanted to be an actor.  Rick and I were dubious, but Gregg and his ever-patient wife sold almost everything they owned and moved to New York City in a matter of weeks.  The day after they arrived he walked into a modeling and acting agency and was signed.  Even though he never became crazy famous, he did make it onto IMDB.  Gregg was larger than life.

Sometimes I get angry that stories are all I have to share about these people who were so influential in my life.  Not so much for my grandfather as for Kathy and Gregg.  I get angry that most of my girls won't remember snuggling their grandmother, or hearing her call them "bunny," or her sneaking them popsicles when I wasn't looking.  I'm sad that they won't get to listen to Uncle Gregg riffing with their dad, and that Gregg's sons will have only other people's memories of their father.  The stories seem inadequate, pale reflections of the vibrant people I knew.  But the stories are what I have.  The stories are what I can give.  And so I will.

"We are all stories in the end.  Just make it a good one, eh?" 

--The 11th Doctor