Page 13 of Timber Ridge
The morning passes in a flurry of activity. Lucas sketches a formidable vessel, his fingers smudging the pencil lines into the waves. Tommy’s crayons move across the paper, bringing to life the worlds of our imagined voyage. Hailey arranges her stones, assigning stories to each one, transforming them into a navigator’s most prized possessions.
By lunchtime, the room is alive with the energy of creation. Hailey talks of smooth stones that could guide us through treacherous waters. She points out her favorite, a white stone that she sets on the paper. Tommy describes an island off the Prince of Wales Island where his parents take him to collect clams. He swears the ground is as soft as his mud pies. Lucas entertains us with tales of how our ship could stand up to the fiercest storms—storms his father has fought on the sea. My mind goes straight to Kane. What dangers does he face when he sails out of the cove? Has he ever been stuck in a storm? I read about the dangers of whales breaching beside boats. Has he ever experienced something so majestic, and yet terrifying?
As they share their tales, I’m thankful for this space where I can teach in color and dimension, where a child’s imagination is the curriculum. The joy of discovery is the outcome. I’m excited about what we covered as we tidy up for the afternoon. It was more than geography. For Lucas, it was a lesson in physics and engineering as he constructed a paper ship. He learned about the forces that keep a boat afloat and the science behind sailing, all while believing he was just playing captain.
Tommy’s drawings did more than decorate our imaginary world. They were a lesson in art and environmental science. As he sketched our provisions, we explored where food came from, dipping our toes into biology and the life cycle of plants native to Alaska.
Hailey’s rocks were more than just playthings. They were the foundation for a beginner’s course in geology. We talked about the different types of rocks and how they form, and I watched her get excited as she realized that her collection told the story of Earth itself.
This morning was education disguised as a day of play. If teaching was like this every day, I wouldn’t have accepted that testing coordinator job for next year, but the raise was too hard to pass up.
Lunchtime sneaks up on us, and the kids unwrap their meals with the seriousness of pirates uncovering treasure. I retrieve my lunch from my bag—a jar of homemade chicken noodle soup that I found on the shelf of recognizable foods.
Staring into the jar, I wonder about the chicken—could it be a relative of Kane’s mail-order flock? My imagination paints a comical lineage of chickens raised here, destined for mason jars and the mouths of hungry people.
My gaze drifts over to Lucas, who’s unwrapping a bologna sandwich with an air of satisfaction. Then there’s Tommy, tackling a tuna salad sandwich with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old gourmet. Lastly, there’s Hailey, halfway through her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the quintessential staple of childhood lunches. And once again, my thoughts are on Kane. Are mornings chaos in the Hollister household or does he run his home like a tight ship, ensuring everything is organized and prepared in advance? If Hailey’s appearance is an indicator, I’m going with chaos.
I glance at the kids’ lunches, and a smirk tugs at my lips. While I’m grateful for the soup, I would kill for one of those sandwiches. Staring at Hailey’s peanut butter and grape jelly, the soup seems more like a sentence than sustenance.
I unscrew the lid and microwave it for a minute. The ease at which it heats is not lost on me, and I remind myself to never take a microwave or a light switch for granted again.
The metallic clink of my spoon against the jar of soup is almost melodic in the quiet that falls as the children eat. Just as I’m about to take another delicious spoonful, the door swings open, and Eliza walks in, carrying what looks unmistakably like a small picnic basket. The kids’ heads pop up, eyes wide, like meerkats on alert. They shout a loving hello to her as if they haven’t seen her in weeks.
“Thought you might want something a little less ... jarred,” Eliza says with a wink, handing me a wrapped ham sandwich.
“The soup is delicious.”
“I know, but it can’t beat all that bread and mayonnaise. Let’s not forget the cheese and ham.”
“Thank you for being so thoughtful.” I swap the jar for the sandwich. She reaches into her small basket like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag and pulls out a baggie of cookies for each of the kids and one for me. It feels like winning the lottery, as the kids squeal with delight and start counting the chocolate chips to see who has more.
“How’s the first day going?” Eliza asks.
“It’s been great.” I take a bite and savor the salty ham, the cheese, the lettuce, and the fresh-baked bread. As I chew, a couple of questions come to mind. “Eliza, why didn’t I need an emergency license for this summer gig?” When I emailed her about it, she said it wasn’t necessary and then said something about summer programs being less strict.
She leans against a desk, her expression a mixture of amusement and conspiracy. “Well, this isn’t exactly a Board of Education-sanctioned program. It’s more informal than that.”
I cock my head to the side, processing another half-truth in the job description. “So, I’m essentially a summer camp counselor?”
“You could say that,” Eliza says. “But think about it—have you ever wanted to teach without constraints? This is your chance to make a real impact.”
I take a bite of the sandwich, and I can’t deny the truth in her words. “That does sound wonderful.” I glimpse at the children who are digging into their cookie bags. “Why would you hire me when I have so few children to work with? I would imagine someone in town could fill in.”
Eliza explains how summers work in Alaska. “The kids over twelve are working with their parents.” She points to Lucas. “This will be his last summer in the classroom. He’ll get a different education on his father’s boat. Those who aren’t working to support their families during salmon season have jobs, like May or Rhys. If you’re not working on a boat or running a business, then you’re probably too old to help.” She looks down at her stomach. “Or you’re pregnant and need someone who’s willing to step in for you. Thank you for being that someone.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m reminded once more that life operates on a different wavelength compared to Arizona.
“I should get going. I need to stop by May’s to make sure she’s ready to deliver my boy.”
“May’s delivering your baby?” I knew she helped with simple things like coughs and colds, but she delivers babies too?
Eliza nods. “Yes, she’s delivered most of the children here. Any complicated pregnancies force the mother to stay in Craig. The only way there is by float plane, or a boat around the island to where you clear the ridge. I certainly don’t want to be on a boat when I’m about to deliver.”
I had not thought about how remote this place is. Even though it’s a part of the Prince of Wales Island, the population is locked in a small piece of land surrounded by a mountain range. There is no way in or out unless you travel by air or sea.
“I’m off. Have fun, everyone.”
The kids rush to give her a hug.