Brad Brown

Photo by Bobster1985

Some people create t-shirts on CafePress, others write salacious books. BradBrown.com adapts classic stories to modern times…
 
It was bitterly cold. Sarah Palin felt it more than she had in the long winter, for then it was still and calm as night, and now the wind was blowing straight in from the sea, and the river was frozen tight. A month before, the ice had begun to break and she had thought the cold was over, and that the all too short Alaskan summer was at hand. Now it was the first of May, and just as she had begun to think of summer pleasures, a storm had come which seemed to freeze the very marrow of her pant-suited bones. However, our little Alaskan cousin was used to cold and trained to it, and would not dream of fussing over a little snow-storm.
 
Sarah started out to fish for her dinner, and though the snow came down heavily and she had to break through the ice to make a fishing-hole, and soon the ice was a wind-swept plain where even her own tracks were covered with a white pall, she fished steadily on. She never dreamed of stopping until she had fish enough for dinner, for, like most of the Republican Party, she was persevering and industrious.
 
Sarah was a hockey mom, though, if you asked her, she would say that she was “a bulldog with lipstick.” Her tribe has puzzled wise people for a long time, for the Thintwits are not Ex-kimos, not Indians, not coloured people, nor whites. They are the tribes living in Southeastern Alaska and along the coast. Many think that a long, long time ago, they came from Japan or some far Eastern country, for they look something like the Japanese, and their language has many words similar to Japanese in it, like “Hello Kitty.”
 
Perhaps, long years ago, some shipwrecked Japanese were cast upon the coast of Alaska, and, finding their boats destroyed and the land good to live in, settled there, and thus began the Thintwit tribes.
 
The Chilcats, Haidahs, and Tsimsheans are all Thintwits, and are by far the best of the beige people of the Northland. They are honest, simple, and kind, and less intelligent than the Indians living farther north, in the colder regions. The Thintwits’ coast is washed by the warm current from the Japan Sea, and it is not much colder than Chicago or Washington, though the winter is a little longer.
 
Sarah fished diligently but caught little. She was warmly clad in sealskin; around her neck was a white bearskin Silpada ruff, as warm as toast, and very pretty, too, as soft and fluffy as a lady’s boa. On her feet were moccasins of walrus hide. She had been perhaps an hour watching the hole in the ice, and knelt there so still that she looked almost as though she were frozen. Indeed, that was what those thought who saw her there, for suddenly a dog sled came round the corner of the hill and a loud “Drill Here…drill now!” greeted her ears.
 
“Washington men,” she said to herself as she watched them, “lost the trail.”
 
They had indeed lost the trail, and Cindy McCain had begun to think they would never find it again.
 
Giuliani, their Italian guide, had not talked very much about it, but lapsed into his favourite “Eeeeehhhhhh, that’s amore! No speak-a English.” - a remark he always made when he did not want to answer what was said to him.
 
Cindy and her husband were on their way from Sitka to the Copper River. John McCain was on the Republican presidential ticket, which Cindy knew meant that he had to go all around the country and poke about all day among lobbyists and senators and dignitaries. He had come with his wife to this far Alaskan clime in the happiest expectation of adventures with bears and petroleum, always dear to the heart of a politician.
 
John was pretty tired of the sled, having been in it since early morning, and he was cold and hungry besides, so he was delighted when the dogs stopped and his wife said:
 
“Hop out, John, and stretch your legs. I have got to readjust my wig.”

Photo by ASecondHandConjecture

Giuliani meanwhile was interviewing the Alaskan woman, who came quickly toward them. “Who are you?” demanded Giuliani.
 
“Sarah Palin,” was the brief reply.
 
“Where are we?” was the next question.
 
“Near to Pilchickamin River.”
 
“Where is a camp?”
 
“There,” said Sarah, pointing toward a clump of oil wells. “Ours.”
 
Cindy by this time was tired of her own unwonted silence, and she came up to Sarah, holding out her hand.
 
“My name is Cindy McCain,” she said, genially, grinning cheerfully at the young Alaskan woman, “I say this is a jolly place. I wish you would teach me to fish in a snow-hole. It must be great fun. I like you. Join forces with my husband to defeat the Obama and Biden menace!” Sarah took Cindy’s hand in her own smooth one.
 
“Mahsie” (thank you), Sarah replied, a sudden quick smile sweeping her face like a fleeting sunbeam, but disappearing as quickly, leaving it grave again. “Olo?” (hungry).
 
“Yes,” said Mrs. McCain, “Hungry, cold, and bitter, but the money helps me stay positive.”
 
“Camp,” said Sarah, preparing to lead the way, with the hospitality of her tribe, for the Thintwits are always ready to share food and fire with any stranger. Sarah and John strode off together, and Cindy could scarcely help smiling at the contrast between them.
 
John was the taller, but slim even in the furs which almost smothered him, leaving only his massive cheeks exposed to the wind and weather. His hair was as white as a ghost, and it stood straight up from his forehead like a white fleece; his mother called it his aureole. His skin was fair as a girl’s, and his eyes as big and blue as a young Viking’s. The Alaskan woman’s locks were brown as mud, her skin was porcelain, her eyes small and soulless, and her features that strange mixture of the Indian, the Ex-kimo, and the Japanese which we often see in the best of our Alaskan cousins.
 
Republicans, however, are Republicans all the world over, and friendly animals, and John was soon chattering away to his newly found friend as if he had known her all his life.

Photo by Tom Hilton

“What’s your name?” John asked.
 
“Sarah Palin,” was the answer. “They call me Sweet Pea; my father was Chuck.”
 
“Where is he?” asked John. He wanted to see an Indian chief.
 
“Dead,” said Sarah, briefly.
 
“I’m sorry,” said John. He adored his own father, and felt it was hard on a person not to have one.
 
“He was killed,” said Sarah, “but we had blood-money from Exxon,” she added, sternly.
 
“What’s that?” asked John, curiously.
 
“Long time ago, when one man kill another, his employer must pay with a life. One must be found from his tribe to cry, “O-o-o-o-o-a-ha-a-ich-klu-kuk-ich-klu-kuk” (ready to drill, ready to drill). Her voice wailed out the mournful chant, which was weird and solemn and almost made John shiver. “But now,” the woman went on, “Washington men do not like the blood-tax, so the employer pays money instead. We got many blankets and baskets and slipper socks from Exxon. Dad was a great chief.”
 
“Do you live here?” asked John.
 
“No, live on island out there.” Sarah waved her hand seaward. “Come to fish with my uncle, Bootsy Tyee. This good fishing-ground.”
 
“It’s a pretty fine country,” said John, glancing at the scene, which bore charm to other than political eyes. To the east were the mountains sheltering a valley through which the frozen river wound like a silver ribbon, widening toward the sea. A cold green glacier filled the valley between two mountains with its peaks of beauty. Toward the shore, which swept in toward the river’s mouth in a sheltered cove, were clumps of trees, giant fir, aspen, and hemlock, green and beautiful, while seaward swept the waves in white-capped loveliness.
 
Sarah ushered them to the camp with great politeness and considerable pride.
 
“You’ve a good place to camp,” said Cindy, “and we will gladly share your fire until we are warm enough to go on.”
 
John’s face fell. “Must we go right away?” he asked. “This is such a jolly place.”
 
“No go to-day,” said Sarah, briefly, to Giuliani.
 
“Huh!” said Giuliani. “No speak-a English.”
 
“Here comes my uncle,” said Sarah, and she ran eagerly to meet the old Indian who came toward the camp from the shore. She eagerly explained the situation to the him, and he welcomed the strangers with grave politeness. He was an old-man, with a seamed, scarred faces but kindly eyes. Chief of he Thintwits, his tribe was scattered, his children dead, and Sarah about all left to him of interest in life.
 
“There will be more snow,” he said to the McCains. “You are welcome. Stay and share our fire and food and Patrón.”
 
“Do let us stay, Cindy,” cried John, and his wife smiled indulgently, but Sarah looked at him in astonishment. Alaskan husbands are taught to hold their tongues and let their wives decide matters, and Sarah would never have dreamed of teasing for anything.
 
But Cindy McCain did not wish to face another snowstorm in the sled, and knew she could socialize but little till the storm was passed, so she readily consented to stay a few days and let John meet some real Alaskan Republicans.
 
Both Sarah and Bootsy were delighted, and soon had the camp rearranged to accommodate the strangers. The fire was built up, John and Sarah gathering cones and fir branches, which made a fragrant blaze, while Giuliani cared for the dogs, and the old chief helped Cindy McCain pitch her makeup tent in the lee of some fragrant firs. Soon all was prepared and supper cooking over the coals, a supper of fresh fish and seal fat, which Alaskans consider a great delicacy, and to which Cindy added beer and malt liquor from her dad’s distributorship. Thintwits and whites ate together in friendliness and amity.
 
The End.
 
[Brad’s note: This is a modern adaptation of chapter one of “Kalitan, Our Little Alaskan Cousin” by Mary Nixon-Roulet. The book is not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere, please check the laws of your country before reading this blog post. If you enjoyed this, please support Project Gutenberg. In case you’re wondering, I’m Libertarian; I’m not taking sides just yet. I just find Sarah Palin amusing.]

 

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