Simple Pleasures Part 3: Heliotransfolium

And see that limning action at the bottom? That's hot.

For those of us to whom ancient Greek roots are "like Greek to me, man", rest easy; it's as simple as sunlight through leaves. We've all seen it, right? That wonderfully alive sort of green glowing with the richness of syrupy golden afternoon sunlight that makes actual, factual gold seem a cold dead facsimile indeed. It is a vision of vibrancy and wealth far past any inert metal, because this is the color of something alive, and in the act of living as hard as it can. The fact that I could find no word for that beautiful sight nagged at me like a toothache. There's no helping it; one had to be made. Introducing:

With helio meaning 'sun' and trans meaning 'through', and foli of course meaning 'leaves', barring any grammatical or syntactic crosscultural differences, this should be seen as a legit word; in that it successfully communicates its message, at least. However, I totally made this up in  a few minutes by Googling ancient Greek roots, so if you see any hitches in my giddyup, please let me know. And, until proven otherwise, enjoy your new word! Just in time for Fall, too; am I good, or am I good? You're welcome.

Fireweed: Alaska's Summer Countdown



Halfway there: wretched jaunty little thing

As the car hood starts to sport delicate frost patterns in the morning and the sun starts getting up later than we do, Alaskans are forced to admit that the default state of our State is nigh; as certain throne-straddling individuals are wont to mention, Winter Is Coming. It shouldn't come as a surprise, though; even before the termination dust starts to whiten the very tops of the mountain ranges, Alaska gives us an easy visual reminder by which to more accurately dread the end of Summer. This is called fireweed. While not the actual State flower, it is still a big part of the eco-tourist's picture of Alaska, in much the same way that palm trees are not Hawaii's state plant but are still inextricably linked with one's mental picture of the place.  

 

 

But this bright pink blossom is no docile tropical perennial, that will reliably stay the same shape and size while your back is turned; these sneaky devils are countdown timers to their own ultimate demise.

  



Nothing if not literal, they spring back from their dormant state in mid-Spring, but aren't up to blossoming until genuine Summer has arrived in June. Then begins the merciless pink indicator, creeping up the stalk like a dynamite fuse until late August, when it starts to get chilly at night.

Termination dust: You can actually see

Winter storming the barricades

Now, as it's September and time to get out the coats and scarves, it's too late -- Fall arrived with force on the 5th, with a wind storm so ferocious I experienced my first-ever paid emergency State closure. I got to stay home, one of the few homes with power and internet service, snuggling with my Bun, marathoning White Collar and generally living the dream while the cats tore wildly around the house. My smugness could not outweigh the inescapable promise of the fireweed, though; hearing birdsong, feeling sunlight, wearing anything revealing, or going outside out of anything but necessity is all over for another nine months. While the earth carries this next summer to term, I will just have to sit in my sweaters, saving up enough spite and bile to resent the fireweed again next time. 



Alaskan Summer: The OTHER White Fluff

Ahhh, Alaska -- home of the 8-month Winter. Where weather becomes, if not a matter of life and death, at the very least a factor in how you're going to be leading your life. Like, whether or not you're going to get to see your friends, or go outside today. Or if your power will be staying on.

As a Hawaii-girl by birth, I'm not accustomed to such a proactive meteorological scheme. I do admit to a flash-flood or two, but that's in a 20+ years time-frame. Every semester at UAA there was at least one emergency shut-down of campus, where students were encouraged to remain safely at home and indoors. And funnily enough, it wasn't because of snow; believe me, Alaskans know how to deal with snow. It was the wind; not a frequent phenomenon, but instantly noticeable when it appears...something about how it tries to eat your skin off through all 4 layers of clothing, including that expensive heavy winter coat.



The void of space; almost as cold as our car in the morning





No, snow is largely the icing (ha!) on an already icy cake. It comes down in flurries of tiny snowflakes, little points of white that stream past the car windshield like stars past the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

Thank goodness for Summer-- the Alaskan skies switch their game up with sunshine, rain, and these beautiful white flurries that stream past the windshield like -- hold on, wait a minute! What the fluff?

Just lather, rinse, repeat...every year.

No, you didn't reread -- and I didn't mistype. Here, in the depths of August, white specks float silently in the air, and collect in drifts along the ground. But it isn't snow; thank the gods for that. It's dandelion fluff.

Disregard that my work building is in the background; I do.

Yes, dandelions are one of the many types of wildflower Alaskan hills sport in nigh-on every available color, and it is certainly the most proactive in getting its action in before the Summer fades. Ever accidentally biked through a cloud of gnats? Try having that experience every yard of the way. It is a unique sensation, to say the least, and inspires post-cycling dental hygiene like you wouldn't believe. But it is a sign of Summer, and I'm willing to take that as glass-half-full. Unlike every other white person I seem to meet, I'm not allergic to dander or pollen, and am familiar -- nay, even comfortable -- with the reality of insects. I guess I have my tropical upbringing to thank there. However, in semi-urban Anchorage, the outside world is treated with a strange, hesitant sort of hopeful suspicion. They're used to it trying to kill them, and at least Winter is a familiar concept to them. Summer is full of bugs and burrs, and Kana prances quite alone, barefoot in the backyard.

That speck? Way in the distance? That's her.

I tempted Miss Pants to a dandelion-festooned impromptu picnic last year, however, to great success; exactly why she had picnic supplies and an old shower curtain to spread out in her car at that particular time is just one of the wonderful mysteries that surround her.

And while the brilliant sunshine phase of the brief Alaskan Summer has largely passed us by since last I wrote, this newest of sky-occupants waiting for me to bike through it is none other than glorious, miraculous rain. With my (relatively) new flora-inspired bumbershoot, I look for excuses to go out in the wet. It didn't work so well against the dandelion fluff, so while it means our Summer is fading, I bid a blithe farewell to Alaska's Other Fluff, in favor of a sub-season I can really accessorize with.

You may tease shallowness in the "Comments" section below. :)