The Entire Adventure Part 13
Not even a spider plant. Pitiful. I know.
After LCC, faced with the next (HUGE) step of transferring to the University of Oregon (that was
the plan), I sidestepped into the U.S. Air Force and ended up in Anchorage, Alaska, for four years.
Very cool, by the way. Loved it. Totally.
In between 12-hour shifts, war games, midnight chow, and observing the weather (that was my
official job), I headed over to the University of Alaska Anchorage to watch the women play
basketball. And immediately fell headlong in love with the University of Alaska Anchorage. GO
SEAWOLVES!!! The coach then was a lady named Linda Bruns, and she simply emanated
coolness. Pure class. Anyway, I was hooked. I not only immediately wanted to leave the Air
Force and sign up for classes at UAA, I wanted to try out for the team and be a real Seawolf. For
Coach Bruns. She was a coach I wanted to learn from. So much like the coach I wanted to be.
Well, long story short (and my job is to take short stories and make them long, so be grateful for this
reprieve), I soon found myself out of the Air Force (with great memories), in the Air National
Guard, and signing up to be a full-fledged Seawolf. (But I was too chicken to try out for the team.
My life's one regret.) Anyway, what did I sign up for? Yep, you guessed it. Biology. I was a
Junior Transfer majoring in Secondary Education with an Emphasis in Biology and minoring in
Coaching.
I was set. LA-HUV-IN it. Until the bottom dropped out.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 14
Money. What a pesky thing. Especially when it starts to run out. I've heard it said that money
talks. Yep. It says to me, "Good-bye!"
Anyway, in a nutshell, that's why I left Alaska. Sad. If I had stayed and finished school at UAA . . .
Anyway . . .
No, I have no regrets leaving Alaska. (Well, only a few, maybe. I miss you A!) The day I saw my
car being towed away because the engine was frozen solid was the day I started to pine for warmer
climes. Though having one's nosehairs freeze into little needles while watching the morning's ice
fog dissipate in brilliant sunshine to leave behind a stunningly gorgeous sparkly layer of diamonds
over everything, knowing that night the Northern Lights would illuminate the brilliantly clear sky
while one stood and watched and had her nosehairs freeze into tiny needles again . . .
But I digress.
So. Pack up the wagon, it was time to head home. January 1990 saw me excited to be back in
Florence. February 1990 saw me living in Eugene. Go figure. But that was fine, because I was
determined to transfer to the University of Oregon once and for all in the fall to take up my single-
minded pursuit of becoming a Biology teacher and coach at Siuslaw High School. In the meantime,
I worked for the U.S. Forest Service and had an absitively (absolutely positively) incredible time
on the Northern Spotted Owl Survey Team and being the trail crew boss for the Youth Conservation
Corps high school trail crew. Amazing time! Talk about a terrific job.
But again, I digress.
Or . . . do I?
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 15a
Now, I know I've been spending a ton of time here talking about one thing. Me. And I hate that.
Really, I do. Though it's fun to remember and recount, I realize that I'm probably boring you all to
tears with the backstory. A good novelist knows when to use backstory . . . and when to . . . not.
So. With that said, here I go again. Why? Because there's a deeper story here that not even a
novelist could create. Only God could orchestrate a story so wild. And only He could make it play
out so completely in a person's life. Though God loves a good story (and He proved that over and
over in the Bible), the stories He plays out in people's lives are not fiction. They're real. We live
through them. You've lived through the story He has written for you. And you can go start your
own blog so you can tell us all about it.
Hey. That's a good idea. Go ahead. I'll be here when you get back.
Hey. Why not. Let's all brag a bit on our big God and about what He's done in our lives. You
know what the Bible says . . . If we're gonna boast about anything, let's boast only about what Jesus
had done for us. So here I am, boastin' about my Lord. Why? Cuz it's FUN! What a story! What a
Story Maker. What a crazy mixed-up plan that He would make a story so cool for a person so
completely . . . lame. Thank You, Lord!! : )
So. In telling you "da stuff" that's happened to me, that's my goal. To take you back with me so we
can see how He has been and done in me, and then hopefully you'll be challenged to go back and
also see how He has been and done in you. Cuz He has. It's there. If you've never taken a look,
what are you waiting for?
: )
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 15b
Okay. Back to the story. : )
And, by the way, here's where you should probably buckle your seatbelt. I know Brandilyn writes
the "Seatbelt Suspense" (www.brandilyncollins.com), but maybe this could be something like
"Seatbelt Drama." Hah! : )
Anyway, here's zit.
Working on the Northern Spotted Owl Survey Team for the U.S. Forest Service was like
worshipping . . . and getting paid for it. What an incredible job. I'll go into detail later in a post
just because I'd love to tell you what all we did as we hooted and "hunted" owls. (Check out the
gallery for some pix of me feeding one. Awesome!) Anyway, I worked on the Team for almost six
months (until my hiking legs wore out), then transferred to be the YCC trail crew boss. Wow.
Another incredible job. I led the crew for two summers. And both sets of kids were fan-tas-tic.
All of 'em. I came away from that experience with memories I'll cherish forever. (Keep that in
mind—it's totally relevant!!) : )
But. The moment had arrived. Here's my journal entry for September 23rd, 1990.
Unbelievable. Totally unreal. This is finally it. Eight years ago I was thinking this way about
my senior year of high school. It's been seven years since graduation, but I'm now—finally—
getting started at the University of Oregon. I can remember walking around this campus during
basketball camp way back then. Even back then I knew this is where I belonged. But yet all I
can think about—a dream that has never faded—is getting back into my old high school, to start
doing what I've always wanted to do—teaching and coaching. I can see myself coming out of the
Biology room at Siuslaw High—or sitting in the Salem Armory watching my girls win the AA
state championship. But now it's 3A. No problem. Whatever.
For so many reasons, I'm totally cracking up right now. You see, when I wrote that in my journal, I
had absitively no clue what was about to happen that next year. Oh, my! If I had only known!
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 16
September 24th, 1990. The day I officially became a Duck. Fully intending to finally finish my
fragmented pursuit of higher education so I could once and for all finally find myself standing firmly
in my future . . . I headed off to class. A junior transfer on financial aid forced back to the feeble
ranks of my fellow frightened freshmen facing the foreboding Biology core requirements classes, I
stood firm, determined not to fail.
Now, at this point, there's something you need to know about me. First of all, to refresh your
memory a bit, up to this point, except for the mold growing in my fridge, I had never even grown a
house plant. How can I best describe my longing to study Biology and to become a Biology
teacher? Awe. Awe of the creation. And of the Creator. That's what did it. You see, I'm a
naturalist-type of biologist. (And a naturalist-type of editor, as well, but that's a subject for a later
post.)
I'm a gazer. I'll sit inside an old growth stand of Douglas fir and gaze for hours. My heart sings
(really, it does!) when I stand on my beach and gaze out over those waves.
As a Naturalist, I was perfectly at home at the University of Alaska Anchorage, where their core
requirements for their Biology program included classes like Trees, Flowers, Animals, and Sky.
Very cool classes suited supremely toward my naturalist leanings.
The University of Oregon was, let's just say, not. While I was enrolled in the Biology program at
the U of O, the program was ranked 5th best in the world. I thought that would be a good thing for
me. Wrong. The U of O's core requirements in Biology for beginning freshmen consisted of
Molecular Biology, Genetics, and Biochemistry. The rest of my requireds included two years of
Physics, four years of General and Organic Chemistry, Calculus, Mathematical Theory, and
beyond. I couldn't even think about taking an "education-type" class to prepare me for being a
teacher. The U of O didn't even want to talk about preparing me to teach until I graduated with my
degree in Biology. It was like the gurus of Secondary Education said, "Look us up in four years. If
you're still around."
I do remember being able to take some coaching classes. Wow. I soaked them up like you would
not believe. Psychology of Coaching completely confirmed, at least in my own mind, that coaching
was my calling. And I could not wait to get at it.
I was determined. I had set my mind on a prize, and I was not about to give up.
Determined . . . until a year later, when I received some very interesting news.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 17
I was a Duck, darnit! How could they do this to me??
My first hint of impending doom: a letter from the financial aid office. "Miss Fleisher, our records
show that according to the number of transfer and accrued credits you have earned, you should be a
senior by now, ready to graduate at the end of the year. If you do not concur, please let us know. If
we do not hear from you, your financial aid will end at that time. Have a nice day."
Granted, those weren't the exact words, but you get the gist of it! And you'd better believe I quickly
wrote them back. "Dear sirs. Please understand! I started out as a PE major! And the U of O is a
Biology RESEARCH university! Not a GAZE and GAWK one! I need more time! I throw myself
at your mercy! Don't cut off my financial aid! Like the blood in my veins, it's vital to my existence
right now! I'm just finishing my FRESHMAN year! I have at least three more years to go!"
I heard back. "Not according to our records. Have a nice day."
And that was that. My summer Forest Service job was a good one, but it certainly didn't amount to
a year's worth of tuition and books. Not if I wanted to also live and eat. I had some moolah saved,
but that wouldn't last. I was facin' a dilemma of most serious proportions. I had to get a job!
What I got was another very interesting piece of news.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 18
It happened that spring. Right after my financial aid rug had been pulled out from under me. A
story on the five o'clock news. "UO cuts programs!"
At first the words made little sense. Especially after hearing the words "Education" and "Physical
Education." Along with having a nationally ranked Science Department, the UO also had a
nationally ranked PE and Health Department. Why in the world would they consider cutting it?
Buckolas, baby. Buckolas. Seemed the UO also had its financial rug pulled out from under them.
And look who gets to take another fall.
Yes. It's true. Nine months after I started classes at the University of Oregon majoring in Biology,
minoring in Coaching, and most eagerly looking forward to enrolling in their masters Secondary
Education Program, due to demanded budget cuts, two of my three programs dissipated into thin
air. Interestingly enough, it was the only two programs the UO cut that year. (And then reinstated
two years later—after I was long gone.)
Yes. Me. My future. A puff of smoke. A wisp. Gone.
Hmm. It was time to rethink the plan.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 19
Now, I certainly could have remained at the University of Oregon and stuck it out. Finished my
three more years and graduated with a degree in Biology. Then I could have transferred to Oregon
State University and obtained my secondary education certificate from them. Two years later. I
could have worked a full-time job while I took classes to pay for all this. And I certainly didn't
need any classes to help me be a better coach. I had the one thing a good coach needed: the
insatiable desire to be a coach. And I had been coaching. In 1992 I helped a young lady learn how
to throw a javelin far enough to win the 3A state championship. She not only learned how . . . she
did!! Woo-hoo!! (You go, Leslie!)
Yes, I could have "bit the bullet," "bucked up," "lowered my nose to the grindstone," and "pulled
myself across the floor of my future by my bootstraps." But I didn't. I tried . . . mind you. I put in
another two terms. Until that calculus class. My teacher was a grad student from Japan, bored,
extremely over-qualified, and very extremely Japanese. I understood only one word he said.
Derivative. I had no idea (and still don't know) what that word meant, but I could hear it in his
heavily Japanese English. Blahblahblahblah . . . derivative. Blahblahblahderivativeblahblahblah.
(The blahs were more like blees.)
Anyway . . . after dropping that class, the rest of my trip in Higher Education was a short downhill
one. I dropped out. With a term left in my Sophomore year. With years left to accomplish my
dream.
Oh no, don't cry for me, Constantina. Because in all the years since I've met Him, I knew my Lord
had a plan. My big realization that spring of 1992 was that my plan may not have been exactly His.
Or, if it was, I had just run out of gas to see it through. With no certification, one does not teach
Biology at Siuslaw High School. Though I had coached three sports at Elmira High School and had
loved every minute of it, coaching fifteen sports would still not earn me enough to support my living
habit. And that was before the bills for my student loans started pouring in.
So. It's a pathetic story, I know. Continue on with me (if you dare) and we'll see just how pathetic
it really got.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 20
Dropping out. Now, I certainly wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but, for me, dropping out was . . .
heavenly. Whew!! That entire next year this is what I did with myself.
Spring after dropout: became an apartment manager—a job that not only paid my rent and earned
me a few extra buckolas (when I painted and such), but lasted as long as I wanted it. Very cool.
Right on campus, too. Hah! I got to watch all the schmucks trudging off to school while I sat out in
the yard and sipped iced tea!
Anyway . . .
Summer: took the summer OFF. Worked around the apartments. And jelled. Very cool. : )
Fall: returned to Elmira High to coach their frosh girls' volleyball team. (By the way, I'll not
mention my teams' win-loss records. Some things are better left unsaid.)
Winter: coached the frosh girls' basketball team. La-huv-ed it. Basketball's my sport. (Well, it
was. Now I'm allergic to anything even remotely resembling exercise.)
Spring: coached the throwers on the track and field team. Great fun. Incredible fun. (You were
awesome, Heather. Hey. You still are! You firefighter, you.) : )
Summer: packed up my wee belongings and moved back to Pennsylvania.
You're going, "Huh?"
Well, did you forget I told you this story would get even more pathetic?
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 21
I did. I packed up and moved east. And the sad thing was, I thought that was it. I thought I'd never
return to my beloved Oregon. (Shows you how short-sighted I was.)
My parents had moved back a few years previous, and my brother had also moved back. I was the
only Fleisher (at least from our clan) west of the Mississippi. Though I enjoyed my year of
coaching and "working" (I say "working" lightly, even though I did paint several apartments and
cleaned more than I care to remember), I didn't enjoy how my checking account had shrunk.
The drive back was . . . weird.
Pennsylvania was . . . weird.
I got a job working at a convenience store. Slave labor. But, ya know? It was fun. My dad's "area
of expertise" (he worked for the same company). Am I allowed to say Uni-Mart here? I guess I
just did. I worked at Uni-Mart. And enjoyed it. It was in my blood, after all.
Anyway . . . I worked and enjoyed Pennsylvania for about a year. Made some positively cool
friends (one is still on my list of "bests"). (That's you, Vickie. Wuv you! Hi, Nicole and fam! Hi,
Brandy! Hi, Carrie! Hi, Ralph!) But the year passed. And restlessness settled in. I needed to be a
teacher! And a coach!
Sound like a broken record, don't I?
My mom thought so. No, she thought I had gone plain loco. (Or is that plum loco?) Take your
pick! I had gone it. I left Pennsylvania in spring of 1995 heading for a small island off the Alaskan
Aleutian Island chain. A place called Sand Point.
To find out why, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. (I can only bear to share so much pathetic-ness
in one post.)
: )
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 22
Ahh. You're back. You're a daring soul. : ) I'll now continue with our story.
Yes. Sand Point, Alaska. Why? (I can hear you asking!) One word. Fish. Fish represents one
thing to Alaskans. $$$$. Those Alaskans know how to catch fish. Know how to collect their
$$$$—by selling their fish to the canneries. Those canneries know how to make their $$$$—by
hiring slave labor to clean and gut said fish, and then selling said fish to stores, restaurants, and to
the Japanese (everything's a delicacy over there).
Well. Being familiar with Alaska, fish (Skippers is my most favorite place to eat), and slave labor,
I signed on the dotted line. Became a surami (don't tell me how to spell it or what it is—all I know
it's a delicacy in Japan) processor. At the Trident Seafoods Cannery in Sand Point, Alaska. Why?
(You're still asking! Sorry!) One word. $$$$.
You see, if a slave worked 14 hour days processing surami, with time and a half for overtime and
free room and board, the $$$$ piles up quick. (Or should I say $$.)
BUT WHY???!!!
If I tell you why I processed surami at a fish plant on an Aleutian Island in the middle of the Pacific
Ocean, you'll roll your eyes. Like my mom did. If you'd rather not roll your eyes, maybe you
should skip this post. I'll understand. : )
If you should dare to continue . . .
Here's why. Three words. Teaching and coaching. Doesn't make sense, does it. I know, I know.
But that was me in the spring of 1995. I didn't make sense. My plan was to work 14 hour days at
Trident, accumulate all kinds of $$, take that $$ to that totally cool school in Anchorage, and plop it
down once and for all in exchange for a Biology/Secondary Education/Coaching degree.
Don't laugh. I'm serious. And I was back then, too. For about a day. You see, the day after I
arrived at Sand Point, those great (legendary) cod fishermen (and women—would that be
fisherpersons?) decided to go on strike. Seemed their $$$$ was a $ short. They wanted $$$$$,
and the canneries were only willing to pay $$$$. Which left us slaves getting $ instead of $$
because instead of working 14 hour days 7 days a week, we went to working 8 hours a day 5 days a
week.
I mean, for crying out loud, I was making more money at the convenience store in Pennsylvania!!! If
I had known the fishers were gonna go on strike the day after I arrived to cash in on their industry, I
would have STAYED HOME!
No. No animosity, here. No hostility. It was actually very, very, very cool. I'll give you one guess
why. And a hint. Lots of spare time on an Aleutian Island Wonderland. Another hint. Binoculars.
Okay, lots of hints. Fish plant. Critters eat fish. Critters that swim right up to the docks, critters
that wait for the fish guts to float out to them, critters that fly in on their huge majestic wings and
carry the fish away. Last two hints. Me. Gaze and Gawk.
Figure it out yet?
You think about it. I'll give you the reason my "fish plant disaster" was one of the most amazing
experiences of my life . . . tomorrow.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 23
I have a super-huge sweatshirt with the words TRIDENT blazoned across the chest. That, and the
pictures I took while I was there, are all I brought back from my adventure at Sand Point. Oh, yes.
And the memories. Here's an idea of what delights my wee brainpan when I fondly recall my
Trident Days.
Sea otters lying on their backs washing their adorable little faces with their tiny paws. They'd roll
over in the water about six times, then settle back on their backs and continue to wash. So cute!!
Sea lions and seals barking and gorging themselves on the fish debris falling directly from the floor
of the cannery into the water they swam in.
The eagles. Oh, my, the bald eagles. They were absolutely awesome. Hundreds of them. The
distinct shriek of their call. Wow. I'm not kidding. They sat in a tree so close to my dorm room
window (which was open) that I could see my reflection in their eyes.
The people. Just to give you an idea: there was only one other "Caucasian" female working in the
processing section of the plant besides me. All the rest of my fellow "slaves" were from a dozen
countries. And were the absolute best people I've ever met. Always smiling. Always saying,
"More feesh! More feesh!"
The entire place. I was in Alaska again!
The cod fillets on the light table. Talk about gazing and gawking and getting paid for it. You would
not believe how beautiful a thick cod fillet is when florescent light floods through it. The blues and
silvers and grays and whites. Amazing. Don't worry about the little curly critters. We pull them
out with tweezers. Worms and bones. That was my job. Gaze and gawk at the beautiful fillets—
pull out the worms and the bones.
Sorry. Hope you didn't just eat lunch.
I'm just about through with this part of the story. But if you're really squeamish (or offended by
bathroom adventures), you may want to skip the next post. It details why I left Sand Point on the
first plane leaving the island.
To be continued . . .
Not even a spider plant. Pitiful. I know.
After LCC, faced with the next (HUGE) step of transferring to the University of Oregon (that was
the plan), I sidestepped into the U.S. Air Force and ended up in Anchorage, Alaska, for four years.
Very cool, by the way. Loved it. Totally.
In between 12-hour shifts, war games, midnight chow, and observing the weather (that was my
official job), I headed over to the University of Alaska Anchorage to watch the women play
basketball. And immediately fell headlong in love with the University of Alaska Anchorage. GO
SEAWOLVES!!! The coach then was a lady named Linda Bruns, and she simply emanated
coolness. Pure class. Anyway, I was hooked. I not only immediately wanted to leave the Air
Force and sign up for classes at UAA, I wanted to try out for the team and be a real Seawolf. For
Coach Bruns. She was a coach I wanted to learn from. So much like the coach I wanted to be.
Well, long story short (and my job is to take short stories and make them long, so be grateful for this
reprieve), I soon found myself out of the Air Force (with great memories), in the Air National
Guard, and signing up to be a full-fledged Seawolf. (But I was too chicken to try out for the team.
My life's one regret.) Anyway, what did I sign up for? Yep, you guessed it. Biology. I was a
Junior Transfer majoring in Secondary Education with an Emphasis in Biology and minoring in
Coaching.
I was set. LA-HUV-IN it. Until the bottom dropped out.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 14
Money. What a pesky thing. Especially when it starts to run out. I've heard it said that money
talks. Yep. It says to me, "Good-bye!"
Anyway, in a nutshell, that's why I left Alaska. Sad. If I had stayed and finished school at UAA . . .
Anyway . . .
No, I have no regrets leaving Alaska. (Well, only a few, maybe. I miss you A!) The day I saw my
car being towed away because the engine was frozen solid was the day I started to pine for warmer
climes. Though having one's nosehairs freeze into little needles while watching the morning's ice
fog dissipate in brilliant sunshine to leave behind a stunningly gorgeous sparkly layer of diamonds
over everything, knowing that night the Northern Lights would illuminate the brilliantly clear sky
while one stood and watched and had her nosehairs freeze into tiny needles again . . .
But I digress.
So. Pack up the wagon, it was time to head home. January 1990 saw me excited to be back in
Florence. February 1990 saw me living in Eugene. Go figure. But that was fine, because I was
determined to transfer to the University of Oregon once and for all in the fall to take up my single-
minded pursuit of becoming a Biology teacher and coach at Siuslaw High School. In the meantime,
I worked for the U.S. Forest Service and had an absitively (absolutely positively) incredible time
on the Northern Spotted Owl Survey Team and being the trail crew boss for the Youth Conservation
Corps high school trail crew. Amazing time! Talk about a terrific job.
But again, I digress.
Or . . . do I?
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 15a
Now, I know I've been spending a ton of time here talking about one thing. Me. And I hate that.
Really, I do. Though it's fun to remember and recount, I realize that I'm probably boring you all to
tears with the backstory. A good novelist knows when to use backstory . . . and when to . . . not.
So. With that said, here I go again. Why? Because there's a deeper story here that not even a
novelist could create. Only God could orchestrate a story so wild. And only He could make it play
out so completely in a person's life. Though God loves a good story (and He proved that over and
over in the Bible), the stories He plays out in people's lives are not fiction. They're real. We live
through them. You've lived through the story He has written for you. And you can go start your
own blog so you can tell us all about it.
Hey. That's a good idea. Go ahead. I'll be here when you get back.
Hey. Why not. Let's all brag a bit on our big God and about what He's done in our lives. You
know what the Bible says . . . If we're gonna boast about anything, let's boast only about what Jesus
had done for us. So here I am, boastin' about my Lord. Why? Cuz it's FUN! What a story! What a
Story Maker. What a crazy mixed-up plan that He would make a story so cool for a person so
completely . . . lame. Thank You, Lord!! : )
So. In telling you "da stuff" that's happened to me, that's my goal. To take you back with me so we
can see how He has been and done in me, and then hopefully you'll be challenged to go back and
also see how He has been and done in you. Cuz He has. It's there. If you've never taken a look,
what are you waiting for?
: )
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 15b
Okay. Back to the story. : )
And, by the way, here's where you should probably buckle your seatbelt. I know Brandilyn writes
the "Seatbelt Suspense" (www.brandilyncollins.com), but maybe this could be something like
"Seatbelt Drama." Hah! : )
Anyway, here's zit.
Working on the Northern Spotted Owl Survey Team for the U.S. Forest Service was like
worshipping . . . and getting paid for it. What an incredible job. I'll go into detail later in a post
just because I'd love to tell you what all we did as we hooted and "hunted" owls. (Check out the
gallery for some pix of me feeding one. Awesome!) Anyway, I worked on the Team for almost six
months (until my hiking legs wore out), then transferred to be the YCC trail crew boss. Wow.
Another incredible job. I led the crew for two summers. And both sets of kids were fan-tas-tic.
All of 'em. I came away from that experience with memories I'll cherish forever. (Keep that in
mind—it's totally relevant!!) : )
But. The moment had arrived. Here's my journal entry for September 23rd, 1990.
Unbelievable. Totally unreal. This is finally it. Eight years ago I was thinking this way about
my senior year of high school. It's been seven years since graduation, but I'm now—finally—
getting started at the University of Oregon. I can remember walking around this campus during
basketball camp way back then. Even back then I knew this is where I belonged. But yet all I
can think about—a dream that has never faded—is getting back into my old high school, to start
doing what I've always wanted to do—teaching and coaching. I can see myself coming out of the
Biology room at Siuslaw High—or sitting in the Salem Armory watching my girls win the AA
state championship. But now it's 3A. No problem. Whatever.
For so many reasons, I'm totally cracking up right now. You see, when I wrote that in my journal, I
had absitively no clue what was about to happen that next year. Oh, my! If I had only known!
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 16
September 24th, 1990. The day I officially became a Duck. Fully intending to finally finish my
fragmented pursuit of higher education so I could once and for all finally find myself standing firmly
in my future . . . I headed off to class. A junior transfer on financial aid forced back to the feeble
ranks of my fellow frightened freshmen facing the foreboding Biology core requirements classes, I
stood firm, determined not to fail.
Now, at this point, there's something you need to know about me. First of all, to refresh your
memory a bit, up to this point, except for the mold growing in my fridge, I had never even grown a
house plant. How can I best describe my longing to study Biology and to become a Biology
teacher? Awe. Awe of the creation. And of the Creator. That's what did it. You see, I'm a
naturalist-type of biologist. (And a naturalist-type of editor, as well, but that's a subject for a later
post.)
I'm a gazer. I'll sit inside an old growth stand of Douglas fir and gaze for hours. My heart sings
(really, it does!) when I stand on my beach and gaze out over those waves.
As a Naturalist, I was perfectly at home at the University of Alaska Anchorage, where their core
requirements for their Biology program included classes like Trees, Flowers, Animals, and Sky.
Very cool classes suited supremely toward my naturalist leanings.
The University of Oregon was, let's just say, not. While I was enrolled in the Biology program at
the U of O, the program was ranked 5th best in the world. I thought that would be a good thing for
me. Wrong. The U of O's core requirements in Biology for beginning freshmen consisted of
Molecular Biology, Genetics, and Biochemistry. The rest of my requireds included two years of
Physics, four years of General and Organic Chemistry, Calculus, Mathematical Theory, and
beyond. I couldn't even think about taking an "education-type" class to prepare me for being a
teacher. The U of O didn't even want to talk about preparing me to teach until I graduated with my
degree in Biology. It was like the gurus of Secondary Education said, "Look us up in four years. If
you're still around."
I do remember being able to take some coaching classes. Wow. I soaked them up like you would
not believe. Psychology of Coaching completely confirmed, at least in my own mind, that coaching
was my calling. And I could not wait to get at it.
I was determined. I had set my mind on a prize, and I was not about to give up.
Determined . . . until a year later, when I received some very interesting news.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 17
I was a Duck, darnit! How could they do this to me??
My first hint of impending doom: a letter from the financial aid office. "Miss Fleisher, our records
show that according to the number of transfer and accrued credits you have earned, you should be a
senior by now, ready to graduate at the end of the year. If you do not concur, please let us know. If
we do not hear from you, your financial aid will end at that time. Have a nice day."
Granted, those weren't the exact words, but you get the gist of it! And you'd better believe I quickly
wrote them back. "Dear sirs. Please understand! I started out as a PE major! And the U of O is a
Biology RESEARCH university! Not a GAZE and GAWK one! I need more time! I throw myself
at your mercy! Don't cut off my financial aid! Like the blood in my veins, it's vital to my existence
right now! I'm just finishing my FRESHMAN year! I have at least three more years to go!"
I heard back. "Not according to our records. Have a nice day."
And that was that. My summer Forest Service job was a good one, but it certainly didn't amount to
a year's worth of tuition and books. Not if I wanted to also live and eat. I had some moolah saved,
but that wouldn't last. I was facin' a dilemma of most serious proportions. I had to get a job!
What I got was another very interesting piece of news.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 18
It happened that spring. Right after my financial aid rug had been pulled out from under me. A
story on the five o'clock news. "UO cuts programs!"
At first the words made little sense. Especially after hearing the words "Education" and "Physical
Education." Along with having a nationally ranked Science Department, the UO also had a
nationally ranked PE and Health Department. Why in the world would they consider cutting it?
Buckolas, baby. Buckolas. Seemed the UO also had its financial rug pulled out from under them.
And look who gets to take another fall.
Yes. It's true. Nine months after I started classes at the University of Oregon majoring in Biology,
minoring in Coaching, and most eagerly looking forward to enrolling in their masters Secondary
Education Program, due to demanded budget cuts, two of my three programs dissipated into thin
air. Interestingly enough, it was the only two programs the UO cut that year. (And then reinstated
two years later—after I was long gone.)
Yes. Me. My future. A puff of smoke. A wisp. Gone.
Hmm. It was time to rethink the plan.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 19
Now, I certainly could have remained at the University of Oregon and stuck it out. Finished my
three more years and graduated with a degree in Biology. Then I could have transferred to Oregon
State University and obtained my secondary education certificate from them. Two years later. I
could have worked a full-time job while I took classes to pay for all this. And I certainly didn't
need any classes to help me be a better coach. I had the one thing a good coach needed: the
insatiable desire to be a coach. And I had been coaching. In 1992 I helped a young lady learn how
to throw a javelin far enough to win the 3A state championship. She not only learned how . . . she
did!! Woo-hoo!! (You go, Leslie!)
Yes, I could have "bit the bullet," "bucked up," "lowered my nose to the grindstone," and "pulled
myself across the floor of my future by my bootstraps." But I didn't. I tried . . . mind you. I put in
another two terms. Until that calculus class. My teacher was a grad student from Japan, bored,
extremely over-qualified, and very extremely Japanese. I understood only one word he said.
Derivative. I had no idea (and still don't know) what that word meant, but I could hear it in his
heavily Japanese English. Blahblahblahblah . . . derivative. Blahblahblahderivativeblahblahblah.
(The blahs were more like blees.)
Anyway . . . after dropping that class, the rest of my trip in Higher Education was a short downhill
one. I dropped out. With a term left in my Sophomore year. With years left to accomplish my
dream.
Oh no, don't cry for me, Constantina. Because in all the years since I've met Him, I knew my Lord
had a plan. My big realization that spring of 1992 was that my plan may not have been exactly His.
Or, if it was, I had just run out of gas to see it through. With no certification, one does not teach
Biology at Siuslaw High School. Though I had coached three sports at Elmira High School and had
loved every minute of it, coaching fifteen sports would still not earn me enough to support my living
habit. And that was before the bills for my student loans started pouring in.
So. It's a pathetic story, I know. Continue on with me (if you dare) and we'll see just how pathetic
it really got.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 20
Dropping out. Now, I certainly wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but, for me, dropping out was . . .
heavenly. Whew!! That entire next year this is what I did with myself.
Spring after dropout: became an apartment manager—a job that not only paid my rent and earned
me a few extra buckolas (when I painted and such), but lasted as long as I wanted it. Very cool.
Right on campus, too. Hah! I got to watch all the schmucks trudging off to school while I sat out in
the yard and sipped iced tea!
Anyway . . .
Summer: took the summer OFF. Worked around the apartments. And jelled. Very cool. : )
Fall: returned to Elmira High to coach their frosh girls' volleyball team. (By the way, I'll not
mention my teams' win-loss records. Some things are better left unsaid.)
Winter: coached the frosh girls' basketball team. La-huv-ed it. Basketball's my sport. (Well, it
was. Now I'm allergic to anything even remotely resembling exercise.)
Spring: coached the throwers on the track and field team. Great fun. Incredible fun. (You were
awesome, Heather. Hey. You still are! You firefighter, you.) : )
Summer: packed up my wee belongings and moved back to Pennsylvania.
You're going, "Huh?"
Well, did you forget I told you this story would get even more pathetic?
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 21
I did. I packed up and moved east. And the sad thing was, I thought that was it. I thought I'd never
return to my beloved Oregon. (Shows you how short-sighted I was.)
My parents had moved back a few years previous, and my brother had also moved back. I was the
only Fleisher (at least from our clan) west of the Mississippi. Though I enjoyed my year of
coaching and "working" (I say "working" lightly, even though I did paint several apartments and
cleaned more than I care to remember), I didn't enjoy how my checking account had shrunk.
The drive back was . . . weird.
Pennsylvania was . . . weird.
I got a job working at a convenience store. Slave labor. But, ya know? It was fun. My dad's "area
of expertise" (he worked for the same company). Am I allowed to say Uni-Mart here? I guess I
just did. I worked at Uni-Mart. And enjoyed it. It was in my blood, after all.
Anyway . . . I worked and enjoyed Pennsylvania for about a year. Made some positively cool
friends (one is still on my list of "bests"). (That's you, Vickie. Wuv you! Hi, Nicole and fam! Hi,
Brandy! Hi, Carrie! Hi, Ralph!) But the year passed. And restlessness settled in. I needed to be a
teacher! And a coach!
Sound like a broken record, don't I?
My mom thought so. No, she thought I had gone plain loco. (Or is that plum loco?) Take your
pick! I had gone it. I left Pennsylvania in spring of 1995 heading for a small island off the Alaskan
Aleutian Island chain. A place called Sand Point.
To find out why, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. (I can only bear to share so much pathetic-ness
in one post.)
: )
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 22
Ahh. You're back. You're a daring soul. : ) I'll now continue with our story.
Yes. Sand Point, Alaska. Why? (I can hear you asking!) One word. Fish. Fish represents one
thing to Alaskans. $$$$. Those Alaskans know how to catch fish. Know how to collect their
$$$$—by selling their fish to the canneries. Those canneries know how to make their $$$$—by
hiring slave labor to clean and gut said fish, and then selling said fish to stores, restaurants, and to
the Japanese (everything's a delicacy over there).
Well. Being familiar with Alaska, fish (Skippers is my most favorite place to eat), and slave labor,
I signed on the dotted line. Became a surami (don't tell me how to spell it or what it is—all I know
it's a delicacy in Japan) processor. At the Trident Seafoods Cannery in Sand Point, Alaska. Why?
(You're still asking! Sorry!) One word. $$$$.
You see, if a slave worked 14 hour days processing surami, with time and a half for overtime and
free room and board, the $$$$ piles up quick. (Or should I say $$.)
BUT WHY???!!!
If I tell you why I processed surami at a fish plant on an Aleutian Island in the middle of the Pacific
Ocean, you'll roll your eyes. Like my mom did. If you'd rather not roll your eyes, maybe you
should skip this post. I'll understand. : )
If you should dare to continue . . .
Here's why. Three words. Teaching and coaching. Doesn't make sense, does it. I know, I know.
But that was me in the spring of 1995. I didn't make sense. My plan was to work 14 hour days at
Trident, accumulate all kinds of $$, take that $$ to that totally cool school in Anchorage, and plop it
down once and for all in exchange for a Biology/Secondary Education/Coaching degree.
Don't laugh. I'm serious. And I was back then, too. For about a day. You see, the day after I
arrived at Sand Point, those great (legendary) cod fishermen (and women—would that be
fisherpersons?) decided to go on strike. Seemed their $$$$ was a $ short. They wanted $$$$$,
and the canneries were only willing to pay $$$$. Which left us slaves getting $ instead of $$
because instead of working 14 hour days 7 days a week, we went to working 8 hours a day 5 days a
week.
I mean, for crying out loud, I was making more money at the convenience store in Pennsylvania!!! If
I had known the fishers were gonna go on strike the day after I arrived to cash in on their industry, I
would have STAYED HOME!
No. No animosity, here. No hostility. It was actually very, very, very cool. I'll give you one guess
why. And a hint. Lots of spare time on an Aleutian Island Wonderland. Another hint. Binoculars.
Okay, lots of hints. Fish plant. Critters eat fish. Critters that swim right up to the docks, critters
that wait for the fish guts to float out to them, critters that fly in on their huge majestic wings and
carry the fish away. Last two hints. Me. Gaze and Gawk.
Figure it out yet?
You think about it. I'll give you the reason my "fish plant disaster" was one of the most amazing
experiences of my life . . . tomorrow.
To be continued . . .
The Entire Adventure Part 23
I have a super-huge sweatshirt with the words TRIDENT blazoned across the chest. That, and the
pictures I took while I was there, are all I brought back from my adventure at Sand Point. Oh, yes.
And the memories. Here's an idea of what delights my wee brainpan when I fondly recall my
Trident Days.
Sea otters lying on their backs washing their adorable little faces with their tiny paws. They'd roll
over in the water about six times, then settle back on their backs and continue to wash. So cute!!
Sea lions and seals barking and gorging themselves on the fish debris falling directly from the floor
of the cannery into the water they swam in.
The eagles. Oh, my, the bald eagles. They were absolutely awesome. Hundreds of them. The
distinct shriek of their call. Wow. I'm not kidding. They sat in a tree so close to my dorm room
window (which was open) that I could see my reflection in their eyes.
The people. Just to give you an idea: there was only one other "Caucasian" female working in the
processing section of the plant besides me. All the rest of my fellow "slaves" were from a dozen
countries. And were the absolute best people I've ever met. Always smiling. Always saying,
"More feesh! More feesh!"
The entire place. I was in Alaska again!
The cod fillets on the light table. Talk about gazing and gawking and getting paid for it. You would
not believe how beautiful a thick cod fillet is when florescent light floods through it. The blues and
silvers and grays and whites. Amazing. Don't worry about the little curly critters. We pull them
out with tweezers. Worms and bones. That was my job. Gaze and gawk at the beautiful fillets—
pull out the worms and the bones.
Sorry. Hope you didn't just eat lunch.
I'm just about through with this part of the story. But if you're really squeamish (or offended by
bathroom adventures), you may want to skip the next post. It details why I left Sand Point on the
first plane leaving the island.
To be continued . . .
| page two of my entire adventure |
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