Alumnus
Alumni expertise ... sort of
Nanook illustrations by Jenn Baker, ’03
College can't teach us everything. Ever wonder about what quirky things your fellow alumni know how to do? When we asked some of you about your experiences outside the classroom, the results were pretty hilarious. Here are some practical, and some not-so-practical, tips for life.
If you have a "how-to" you'd like to share, send it to aurora@uaf.edu and we'll publish it in a future issue.
How to be a spelling bee champion
By Simon Kinneen, '99
The life of a spelling bee champion certainly has its ups and downs, and I wouldn't recommend it for everyone. Dictionaries (aka "study guides") have gotten lighter in the digital age so I'm sure that's helpful, but with the advent of spell check my usefulness to friends has diminished significantly. However, if you still yearn for the thrill of backing down would-be aggressors in darkened alleys with powerful statements like, "Hey, man, you'd better watch it; I was the 1986 Alaska state spelling bee champion," read on.
I don't actually recall ever having picked up a dictionary as a study guide, but I did definitely spend some time with the practice booklet that was available. Mom was a huge help in the studying (and genetics) process, and it didn't hurt that my main competitor was my twin brother.
I became eligible to participate in the Nome spelling bee in third grade, but decided in that infinite third-grade wisdom that playing outside was more productive. I won the fourth-grade event, though, and came in somewhere in the 30s in the state competition that year. My brother won the fifth-grade event (a dark period in my life I prefer not to discuss), and then I reclaimed the hugely competitive Nome title again the next year. The state bee (as we on the inside call it) went well, with words like machinator and stuccoed not able to thwart my dreams of fame on the nation's stage. I went on to the national event in Washington, D.C., and made it a few rounds there, eventually falling to the word kabuki (although not before playing some mind games with fellow competitors by tripping on my way up the stairs to the stage in order to make them lose their focus -- a strategy employed, but never quite reproduced, by many since).
I've since come to terms with my premature exit from the national scene; losing on a Japanese word made me question the justice of the system for many years, but there were definitely more talented spellers there than me so I think it all sorted out in the end. I never went back to the national event, but the fond memories endure. It was a great experience that I'm glad to be able to relive in this writing.
I also, with great satisfaction, would point out to my friends that both machinator and stuccoed were questioned by spell check as valid words in the writing of this document -- so I've still got it! I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon …
Simon Kinneen is the chief operations officer for the Norton Sound Economic Development Corp. He lives in Nome.
How (not) to deliver a baby at 8,000 feet
By Jillian Swope, '97
It doesn't matter if you're flying into the Bush or to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, there are finite rules when flying air medical transports.
Rule number one? Don't puke on the pilot. Most medevac pilots chunder when chundered upon, which makes for a rather unpleasant decontamination scenario after landing.
Rule number two? Placenta is not allowed in the helicopter. Aside from decon considerations, placenta in the whirlybird means at some point you've had to catch a baby. Trust me, newborn kidlets can be slippery, especially at altitude with turbulence.
I've had the opportunity to catch quite a few newborns since I first started flying medevacs my senior year at UAF. Now that I work as a critical care flight nurse and maternal team leader for high-risk obstetrical transports, I catch them more often. But even with all the high-tech gadgets and good drugs that we carry in the back of the birdie, I'm still a big fan of the no-placenta policy.
Earlier this year we received a flight request for a woman in precipitous labor at a small clinic in rural Arizona. Mama's cervix was fully dilated and she was pushing when we landed, which meant baby was ready to say howdy. The only problem was the kidlet was eight weeks premature, stuck sideways in the uterus and showing signs of fetal distress, which necessitated an emergency cesarean section.
We scooped mom into the helo and started the 18-minute dash to the nearest operating room, but halfway through the flight, mom shouted that she thought something "just popped out!" Uh-oh.
Our pilot made an emergency landing, which happened to be in the middle of a sheep field. A Navajo cowboy looked up quizzically as our Bell 407 dropped suddenly out of the sky into the middle of his flock.
He soon started laughing as I raced awkwardly around piles of sheep plop in full gown, gloves and helmet to the other side of the aircraft. Flight can be a dirty job, but someone's got to do it.
Luckily there was no baby yet, so we continued to the hospital and performed a "hot" offload with rotors turning. Eight minutes after landing, our kidlet made her grand entrance into the world.
Mama said later she was going to name her daughter "Alaska" after the experience. "That's cool," I said, a little embarrassed by the honor. "Just make sure when she grows up, she cheers for the Nanooks."
Jillian Swope is a lifetime alumni association member. She and her husband, Jack Fletcher, '96, '98, currently live in Colorado.
How to bake a shoofly pie
By Jenn Baker, '03
Late November at my house is the time not for pumpkin pie but for shoofly pie. I make it every Thanksgiving, and every year I have a hard time coming up with a description for the uninitiated besides, "Uh, it's kind of like molasses pie." A better description is that shoofly pie is a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch recipe and comes in two varieties: "wet bottom" and "dry bottom." Wet bottom is the more common version, with a dense, gooey layer on the bottom and a lighter, coffee-cake-like layer on top. The origin of the pie's name is debatable, but the cooling molasses may have attracted flies that needed "shooing" away.
I like to make this pie in the winter. At a time of year when fresh fruit pie ingredients are hard to come by, shoofly pie is a great way to use up those pantry staples. No exotic ingredients here! This is a pie that keeps well and can be served any time of day, though I recommend a slice at brunch paired with coffee or black tea.
I used the following recipe for the blue-ribbon-winning shoofly pie at the 2010 Tanana Valley State Fair: www.absoluterecipes.com/desserts-rec/shoo-fly-pie.html.
Filling:
1 cup boiling water
1/2 cup dark molasses
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
Crumb topping:
11/2 cups flour
1/4 cup butter
3 tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon cloves
1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell in a well-greased pie plate
Thoroughly combine boiling water, molasses, corn syrup, egg and baking soda. Let stand about 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium bowl, combine next 6 ingredients and stir with fork until crumbly. Stir half the crumbs into molasses mixture. Spoon into pie shell. Cover with remaining crumbs. Bake 45 to 50 minutes. Serve warm or let cool to room temperature.
Jenn Baker, who did the illustrations for this story, is a pie-baking enthusiast in Fairbanks. Read about her pie-baking adventures at http://jennyalpha.wordpress.com.
How to win an outhouse race
By Scott McCrea, '94
One does not wake up some random morning and decide to become a championship outhouse racer. Those passionately familiar with the sport know that it is much, much bigger than that. One does not choose outhouse racing; outhouse racing chooses you.
In the late 1990s there was a team of runners I belonged to that participated regularly in the annual Chatanika Outhouse Race, held every February at the Chatanika Lodge, about 30 miles out of Fairbanks. We were the elite ones. We took the sport, and ourselves, seriously. Too seriously, some might say.
While other competitors chose to lounge around drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, we treated the event as if it were the Midnight Sun Run, doing strides up and down the Old Steese Highway in front of the lodge while dressed in form-fitting running tights. We drank Gatorade and ate bananas. We waxed the skis on our outhouse. We debated the merits of one-ply versus two-ply for the mandatory toilet paper we had to include with our outhouse.
For the three consecutive years we won, the main competition was a team of local rugby players. They were good. They had the upper-body strength to push the outhouse over the nearly one-mile race course, but we were able to stay ahead of them because of our speed and finely tuned technique.
And oh heavenly father, the sweet thrill of victory. Prizes included coats, trophies, cash and free beer -- a case for each member of the team.
The highlight for us was the year ESPN II filmed the event for a travel/outdoor show hosted by NFL Hall of Famer Larry Csonka. Though we never made a highlight reel for SportsCenter, it gave the elite sport of outhouse racing 15 minutes of well-deserved fame.
I have not competed in outhouse racing for several years now, having stepped aside to let the next generation pursue its dreams.
But I yearn for the competition. This usually happens when I watch a sporting event of similar scope, such as the Super Bowl or the World Series. With that yearning comes memories.
The wind rushing in my face.
The roar of the crowd.
The challenge to keep going.
And, more importantly, the fear that the roll of toilet paper will fall out of the outhouse and my team will be disqualified.
I remember.
And dream.
Scott McCrea won the Chatanika Outhouse Race three years in a row, from 1999 - 2001.
How I became an ice carver
By Ron Tavernier, '97, '07
When I look back at my time at UAF I will always remember one of my unique experiences -- participating as an ice carver in the World Ice Art Championships. I am a scientist, not an artist. My students mock my daily attempts at diagrams and drawings that are more akin to cave scratchings than anatomical illustrations. But I do have one hidden artistic ability that I discovered through ice carving: I can cut straight lines with very large chainsaws.
Looking back at it all, I originally got into ice carving for the food. I was a cabin-dwelling graduate student when I got the call from the big leagues. Actually, it was a call from a strange man who identified himself as Klaus. He had gotten my phone number from my parents whom he met in a coffee shop in northern New York, where they live. They had overheard he was travelling to Fairbanks, so like all good parents they had handed out my number to a complete stranger. Klaus had called because one of his multiblock teammates had gotten ill and was unable to compete. He needed someone and the only qualifications were a strong back and the ability to follow orders. I hesitated, but when he mentioned that all the meals were free, I was in.
Even after seven years of carving in competitions and a handful of bronze medals I still consider myself more of an "ice enabler." Klaus was a retired art teacher and he had a design in mind. My job was to use the 5-foot chain saw and my muscles to make it happen. The first day on site I was hesitant. Growing up I had never been allowed to touch the saw. I was the chop-and-stack guy when it came to firewood, and here I was carrying a saw that was almost as long as I was tall.
The first thing I noticed when we reached the site was the size of the ice blocks. They sat on the ground looking like cubes Godzilla might use in a mixed drink. Klaus had laid out my first cuts of the day. I was to cut 2-foot-wide slices off the 5-foot-deep blocks. This I could do. After assuring my other two teammates I had it covered, I attempted to fire up the saw. It was a stubborn attempt that lasted 10 minutes before I asked for assistance.
As the saw kicked to life and I hefted it I suddenly realized what I was holding: a spinning implement of death and dismemberment. I laid the saw into the block and starting cutting. Ice chips and water covered my wool pants and instantly froze in the minus 20-degree air. I slowly worked my way through the block, amazed at the fact I could see clearly all the way through it.
As I lifted the saw and prepared for the next cut I heard Klaus boom, "STOP!"
Embarrassed, I lowered the saw and waited to hear the dozens of ways I had messed up. Instead my team gathered around with looks of awe on their face. "Perfect." "Look, his cut didn't wander at all. It's square." "Have you done this before?"
It was then that I discovered my hidden ability to cut really straight lines with big saws. Apparently, it is difficult. I was now part of the team. As my graduate career progressed I continued to carve every year with Klaus, and our friendship grew. Under his tutelage my artistic ability with ice also grew by leaps and bounds. I learned the tools of the trade and how to use them to create different textures and effects. I learned to look at a block of ice and see the sculpture hidden within it. If it were not for my choice to attend UAF, I would have missed this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. After all, it isn't every science professor who can also brag that he is a world-class ice carver.
Ron Tavernier lives and plays in the woods of northern New York with his wife, Sharon (Nagel), '97, '09, and their children Elyse (7) and Isaac (5).
How to audition for a play
By Leslie O'Connor, '02, '03
In order to audition for a play, whether on Broadway or in community theater, you must be an extrovert. A real one. No phonies here. If you were a ham as a child and hoarded most of the attention or you were the boss of your siblings, then I am talking about YOU.
Do you have a family you love, are you a workaholic or are you very busy? Then acting in a play may not be the ideal endeavor. Whether you get the lead or are a nonspeaking henchman, plays eat up your time like a fire-breathing dragon. Rehearsals are brutal. You sit around either waiting for your turn or you are on stage. Bring something to eat and read to all rehearsals.
Have you done enough self-examination to know if you play well with others? Nothing is worse than having a jerk or a prima donna on set. It will kill the fun, and believe me, bad karma is something you do not want following you around. Someone will remember you in the future and clue in the director. The last thing you want is a rep for being difficult. We would all prefer it if you just don't audition.
Did you really read that audition notice? It said 60ish, balding man. Or maybe it said this was a Shakespearean period piece. If you cannot do the accent or at least learn it, or if you don't resemble the characters in the least, Just Don't Do It! You could show up and hang around in the back. If no one shows with those qualities, the director may change the characters, but usually directors are looking for a certain type. Don't be disappointed if you don't get the part because you have a full head of hair and are an 18-year-old female.
If at all possible, find the script and prepare for the audition by finding a monologue your desired character says in the play. Also try to read the play ahead of time. This will really impress the director. I have never been to an audition where we did not do readings from the script. Please, oh please, do not show up and perform the monologue from Gone with the Wind. The director will not pick you on principle alone!
During the auditions, listen to directions. Even though you are not performing, you are being watched and judged by the director and his or her staff. If you cannot follow directions, cannot really whisper and are a distraction, you can bet you will not get the part.
The final and most difficult thing is waiting to hear if you got a part. I cannot offer any advice on this topic. I can tell you what not to do. Do not bug the theater or the director or, guess what … you will not get the part. Guaranteed!
Leslie O'Connor is a travel enthusiast living and working in Fort Yukon. You can read about her latest adventure at www.leslieoconnor.tk.
How to interview your hero
By Gwen Blackburn, '96
It was 1996 when a Civil Rights icon walked through the halls of the KTVF studios. Rosa Parks was actually in Fairbanks, Alaska, my hometown. And, I would have the honor of interviewing her. However, I was still seeing Mrs. Parks through the pages of a history book.
She had a few appearances to make before I would actually get to interview her. I was at every one of those appearances, studying her movements and mannerisms. She greeted everyone with a big smile and seemed surprised at the warm welcome she received.
So, finally I got my chance to come face to face with Mrs. Parks. I was nervous at first, but because she was so well known, the first few questions were easy for me to ask. Then it dawned on me: I was a part of her ongoing historic journey. This young black journalist was sitting in FRONT of a television camera interviewing the black woman who set the Civil Rights movement in motion by not sitting at the BACK of a bus. However, when you hear her talk about her journey, the words civil rights transform into human rights. Her experience blends issues divided by the color of one's skin.
It's easy interviewing your heroes when you know your future is embedded in their past.
Gwen Blackburn is a producer for Your News Now in Austin, Texas. See excerpts from her interview with Rosa Parks at www.youtube.com/user/GwendolynBlackburn/.