Thursday, March 21 from 6-8pm @ Sitka Public Library - All are invited to a free showing of the documentary film "The Human Element," hosted by Sitka Conservati...
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Sunday, April 14 at 12noon @ Harrigan Centennial Hall - Zuill Bailey and Awadagin Pratt will perform a Sunday Brunch Concert, to celebrate their 33 years of fri...
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Saturday, April 13 from 4 - 6pm @ SFAC's Stevenson Hall - Join Awadagin Pratt and Zuill Bailey as they celebrate 33 years of friendship and collaboration. This ...
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Wednesday, Mar 27 from 2-3pm @ Baranof Elementary School - please join us for Kindergarten “Sneak Peek." This is for upcoming kindergarteners for the 2019-2020 ...
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Police Department establishing a hiring list – F/T with benefits, including 100% employer-paid health benefits (medical, dental and vision) for employee and dep...
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Sitka Public Library seeks permanent, P/T Library Assistant – 15 Hrs/wk; $15/hr to start - Application deadline: April 1, 2019. EOE. Streets Maintenance Work...
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Wednesday, Mar. 20 at 6pm @ Centennial Bldg Meeting Room 6, there will be a Public Question & Answer Session, regarding the SCH/SEARHC Affiliation Project. ...
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Tuesday, March 19 - Thursday, March 21@Centennial Bldg. - 45th annual meeting of the Alaska Chapter, American Fisheries Society. This year’s meeting will be hel...
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Friday, Mar. 29 through Sunday, Mar. 31 at 7pm and 3pm @ Sitka PAC: "9 to 5 The Musical" presented by GSAC Community Theater. Music & lyrics by Dolly Parton...
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Saturday, Mar. 23 at 12noon - the Sitka Cycling Club is hosting a group ride. The ride will start and end at the BEAK restaurant, for live music and 20% off foo...
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Thursday, Mar. 28 at 6pm @ St. Peter's See House - The Sitka NEST Board of Directors invites community members to join us at our next scheduled meeting. Sitka N...
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Wednesday, March 13, from 6-8 event @ Beak Restaurant - SJ Museum needs your help!! The event is to help folks contact legislators and others making decisions ...
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Friday, April 5th from 5-8pm @ participating locations in downtown Sitka. The Spring Art Walk is happening! Brought to you by the Greater Sitka Arts Council. T...
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Patrick Anderson, the CEO of the Rural Alaska Community Action Program (RurAL CAP), in February sent out a press release about potential impacts of the Governor...
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Creative? Friendly and not easily stressed? Enjoy working with elders? The Sitka Community Hospital Long Term care unit needs an activity assistant and director...
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The Soupster groks that everybody is thankful for something.
Originally published November 18, 2010
Greta, aged two, drooled onto the sitting Soupster’s left calf as she clung to him. Across the tidy living room of his friend’s house, Brandon-the-pre-teen regarded the Soupster with a suspicious boredom.
“Nice of you all to invite me for Thanksgiving,” the Soupster told Brandon, who grunted.
The Soupster could hear clattering from the kitchen and the excited voices of Corey and Barb, the parents of Greta and “Don” as he liked to be called.
“Okay,” yelled Corey, who looked like George Clooney, but sounded like Gilbert Gottfried. “Thanksgiving feed bag in the deen-ing room!”
“When I heard you were planning on spending Thanksgiving alone, I said `This is a Crime Against Soup!’” Corey said, as the Soupster and the children gathered around the well-decorated table, with Greta lifted up into her high chair.
“Didn’t I say that, honey,” Corey yelled out, “That the Soupster spending Thanksgiving alone was a crime against soup?”
“You did indeed,” Barb called back.
Corey filled everyone’s glasses with cider, even Greta’s tippy cup. Then Barb appeared from the kitchen holding a platter. “Here’s the `bird,’” she said.
The Soupster stared at the item on the platter she placed in the middle of the table. It looked vaguely like a turkey, but there was no brown skin and the flesh was wrong.
“It’s fish!” said Barb and Greta called out “Fiss!”
“It’s Halmoncod,” corrected Corey, who pointed with his carving knife. “The white meat is halibut, the dark meat is salmon and the Parson’s nose is black cod.”
“The posterior,” explained Barb.
“But before we eat this Halmoncod, we should all say what we are thankful for,” Barb continued. “I’m thankful that the Soupster could be with us.”
“And I’m thankful that Barb let me do something I’ve always wanted to do,” said Corey. “Go to Freezing Man.”
“Freezing Man?” said the Soupster.
“Like Burning Man, except it’s on the tundra,” said Corey, evoking the weird tribal ritual and art show that occurs annually in the Nevada desert. “Instead of making a giant statue out of wood and then setting fire to it, like they do at Burning Man, we bring discarded car and truck tires from all over Alaska and make a giant bear statue. Then we wait for it to get cold enough to make the tires brittle and we pelt the giant bear with stones and sticks until it shatters.”
“I have to ask,” said the Soupster. “Sounds like it needs to be at least 50 degrees below zero to get the tires that brittle. But at Burning Man, a lot of people are naked.”
“At Freezing Man, too,” said Corey. Then he saw the Soupster’s astonished expression.
“Underneath our parkas, Soupster, underneath our parkas!” he said. “We’re not crazy.”
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The Soupster hears about seasonal remedies.
Originally published December 1, 2016
There was a long line of people waiting at the airport, but none of them were flying that day. Instead, they waited to submit their names in the annual Customer Commensuration Event, where the airline awarded pairs of unrestricted tickets to three writers of the best essays titled, “Why I Need to Leave Our Town This Fall.”
Ah, autumn in Our Town, the Soupster thought, as he waited in line clutching his essay. A dark and wet autumn in Our Town, indeed. Like trouble piling on itself, the rain caused there to be more rain.
“It doesn’t rain, it pours,” a wise man once said.
“Oh, it gets better after Thanksgiving,” said Shirley “Bo” Burley, standing behind the Soupster and reading his mind. “Once the Christmas lights go up and cut the gloom, our mood lightens, too.”
“True, Bo,” said the Soupster. “To me, the absolute worst is the day after they change the clocks and instead of it getting dark at 5pm, which you’ve just gotten used to, it’s dark by 4pm, which is an unreasonable time for it to get dark.”
“Never lived up north, have you?” Bo asked.
“No,” said the Soupster.
“Wimp!” said Bo. “How would you like to go through a couple of months when the sun doesn’t make it over the horizon?”
“You’re just determined to lighten up my mood, aren’t you, Bo?” said the Soupster.
“Here’s a good `Coping with the Fall’ story,” said Bo, barreling on and accepting the Soupster’s implied consent. “You know Cleon, the computer guy?”
The Soupster nodded.
“He used to make house calls and one day, in the doldrums between Alaska Day and Thanksgiving, he got a call from that cute many-sided house out the road,” Bo explained.
“So Cleon strapped his small repair case to his bike and set out. Cleon loved his bike, but only a few minutes into his ride, he questioned his decision to take it. The temperature hovered right around freezing — depending on the microclimate Cleon traversed, the rain passed back and forth between liquid water and some snowish kind of thing. You know how it is, Soupster.
“As a shivering Cleon mounted the stairs to the house, he could hear music. Jimmy Buffett. Margaritaville. The door opened to a big, sweating guy wearing a toga. Inside, it was 90 degrees. There were people sprawled all over the sand-colored carpet. All their drinks had little bamboo umbrellas. A cardboard palm tree had been erected and a stuffed parrot perched on a corrugated branch.
Without a word, the big man showed Cleon into his office where a computer sat on the desktop. Cleon got to work. After about a half hour, Cleon stood up and stretched, another cyber problem solved.
Just then, the big man returned with a large can of tropical punch and two glasses. Cleon told him the machine was all fixed.
“Good job, fine fellow!” he said to Cleon. “I am the ruler of my Kingdom. I control the weather here. And now, thanks to you, I can also surf the Internet again!”
“So,” the man said with a wink. “When it rains, I reign.” He held up a glass and dispensed from the can of punch. “And when it pours, I pour.”
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Why not? – the Soupster enjoys a good cartoon.
By Kara Kesanooksisk
Would you like to create an Our Town?
The Sitka Soup would welcome an infusion of “new blood.” You may tell your story in words (450-500 of them), or as a graphic “cartoon” strip (probably four panels the size of those above). We would even consider a short, original photo essay with B&W photos. Your Our Town must be closely connected with the life of Sitkans, and the Soupster must make an appearance, even if it’s a brief one. If we run your Our Town, we’ll pay you $50.
Email your creation to email@example.com and put “Our Town” in the Subject line. Or call 747-7595.
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The Soupster Lives!
Guest Written by Rose Manning (with input from Mike Helmrich)
“How ya doin’?” said Max-the-Dog to his human friend Irish Lil, as they stood chatting by the post office.
“Well, Max,” said Lil, “I’m getting back to Our Town after being in ‘America’ for eight weeks. Seven weeks in Michigan and one in California. Both were 100 degrees in the shade, with a daunting amount of mugginess. I tell you, when I walked off that plane into the grand, fine mist of Our Town I even considered kissing the damp ground. But, even with all that joy, when I heard about the writer dying it made me want to cry. That’ll teach me to go roamin’!”
“I hardly knew him, Max. I only met him twice in person. How could it have hit me so hard? The writer was kind. He was witty and nice. You know, I’m a bit of a writer, too,” said Lil.
“That so, Lil?”
“The writer laughed at my writing and even published some of it. That really tickled me.”
“I know what you mean,” said Max. “I liked him, too. And my wife, Kitty, really liked his writing. One time, he wrote a story about the two of us, when we met the Soupster – I was sitting in my truck, waiting for Kitty to come out of the sandwich shop.”
“Well,” said Lil, “I remember the first time I met both the writer and the Soupster. It was in the grocery store parking lot. There I was, in the front seat of a kindly Our Townsperson who’d agreed to give me, carless newbie, a ride. While I was waiting, I pulled a Soup from between the seats and read ‘Our Town.’ First, he made me smile, then chuckle and, finally, laugh right out loud. And I thought, ‘Yep, this town is going to be just fine for me, with people like you in it.’
Max replied, “You know, the writer had respect for everyone – he met them right where they were. He saw no problem with me and my wife, even though we are different breeds. Dogs, cats. Even telemarketers. And his sense of humor – quirky, for sure, but with lots of underlying truth. My wife Kitty loved the one about, ‘Cats have staff.’ That’s true – I’m her staff. She also loves the mystical stuff, like the time he talked about the ‘Wise Old Man’ – cats do like the mystical.
“What about the Soupster, Max? Did he pass away, too?”
“The Soupster? Oh, no! Soupster’s still around. Why, I saw him the other day, talking to Sam Grace out in front of our-doctor-the-vet’s office. That’s what I mean – the writer understood everyone. Soupster is a cat man through-and-through, and Sam – well, he’s definitely a dog man. And there they were, jabberin’ away like old friends.”
Lil agreed. “The writer gave me perspective, made me see Our Town in a new light and raised my spirits, too. I still imagine him slipping around corners, taking mental notes of humorous human habits, just to entertain, and maybe now, I guess, cause the occasional angel to raise the occasional eyebrow.”
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By hook or by crook, the Soupster makes it to the ballot box.
Originally published Sept. 23, 2010
“There it is!” the Soupster cried when he saw the watch he had lost last Christmas, fallen between the washing machine and the dryer. He should have thought of looking between the appliances – from there he had at other times retrieved single socks, misplaced mail and some multi-legged critters with segmented exoskeletons.
The watch was a nerd delight with a big time face and a tiny calculator. He loved it: the Soupster was great at addition, but anything more complex gave him a headache. He glanced at the watch as one of the digital numbers changed. It still worked!
A knock at the door and the Soupster opened it, to find Keith Undermeyer standing outside astride his new hybrid on-road/off-road bicycle, with a meaty plank mounted on the rear bumper as a cargo carrier. He had one bike helmet on his head and another cradled in his arm. The Soupster fastened the watch to his wrist.
“You gonna vote, Soupster?” Keith asked.
“Of course,” the Soupster said.
“Got a bike?”
“Well, I was probably just going to dri….” The Soupster started.
“Well, you are probably going to ride your bike there now,” said Keith, cutting him off and tossing him the helmet. “Go get your cycle.”
The Soupster retrieved his ancient Schwinn 5-speed and met Keith out by the road, already starting off. The Soupster tried to catch up with his nimble friend, but no matter how hard he pedaled, the distance between the two men grew larger.
Something was wrong. Even the Soupster was faster than the top speed he now attained. He stopped and examined his bike. His rear tire was nearly flat! No wonder!
A speck in the distance now, Keith turned around. The speck got bigger. The Soupster looked at his recovered watch to see that it was a few minutes to 8 – WHEN THE POLLS CLOSED!
Keith pulled up.
“I have a flat, you’ll have to take me on your bike,” said the Soupster.
“What’s your hurry?” said Keith, but the Soupster just jumped up onto the meaty cargo plank. “Let’s go!” he said.
Keith shook his head, but dutifully pulled off. With the greater weight he was slower, but still fast. The Soupster mentally egged him on. The polls were going to close! They would miss out on voting!
At the polling station, the Soupster jumped off the back of the bike and was opening the doors even before Keith stopped moving. He stepped inside, breathless.
“Made it!” the Soupster said triumphantly.
“Actually, there’s still an hour,” said the woman checking IDs and taking signatures.
“But the time…” said the Soupster, showing her his watch.
“Your watch is wrong,” said the nice lady. “When’s the last time you checked it?”
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