3-9-2013

Living in a remote village in Alaska means that if an emergency arises, you may have to wait a week or two before the problem can be addressed properly. Last week we had a

This is Nunam BBQ. Pulled pork for dinner tonight. 

scary encounter with a terrifying event. Spoiler alert: we both survived.

The ‘we’ in this emergency scenario were my pants and me. I tend to have a good

relationship with my pants. I make sure they’re washed regularly and my pants do their

job of covering what needs to be covered, giving me a place to store my keys, and

providing me with modest protection from the elements. The crisis came when the pant’s main responsibility was compromised.

A student asked me a question, so as a kind and caring teacher, I squatted down to assist the student. As I did, I heard a disturbing sound coming from my crotch region. I had a combined feeling of relief and terror all at the same time. Relief that the sound wasn’t coming from my body and terror realizing it was the sound of my denim quitting on me. My student and I looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. He politely looked back to his paper and I stood up gingerly. My undercarriage suddenly became much cooler and I realized I would have to stand for the rest of the day for reasons of modesty.

At most places, this would be a temporary problem. Up here, it is more complicated since there is not a store were I can buy new pants. To make matters worse, my other pair of jeans had given up on me a week before in a similar fashion. I was confident I would be able to make it until the end of the school year with my only pair of Levi’s intact. But the pressure of being the lone pair of jeans was just too much to bare (I know), so I was left with a problem. My next move would be important.

I called my mom. When she answered the phone, I told her I had ripped my jeans and needed a pair sent up ASAP. Her motherly response was to laugh out loud in a malevolent tone. I waited until she had finished and told her of the size of Levi’s I needed. She began her laugh all over again. But, being the caring mother she is to her only middle child, she agreed to send me up a new pair the next day. She also sent up Easter candy, so she is forgiven for her mockery.

The real hero in this situation was Monica. She promptly grabbed one pair of the quitter jeans and cut out a patch. She then used a needle and thread to sew a patch on my Levi’s so they could return to the starting lineup. I was saved from having to walk to work in sub-zero temps with air conditioning or wear Dockers to work. Both equally disconcerting.

So the pioneer spirit lives on. Monica has crocheted me a pair of socks, I wear a hat made from dead animal hides, and I walk to work every day. In the case of a medical emergency, I’m fairly confident that Monica can take out my appendix if the need ever occurs. And she’ll use old Levi’s to patch me up.