Sometimes the Ending Isn't the Part That Matters
This is part two of a two-part story. You can read part one here, and sign up for our emails to get updates on our weekly Neighborhood Storyteller column and other great articles!
Tina picked me up at the front door of the airport, minutes after my flight arrived in Juneau on Thursday, February 10. It was curtains up for act two, a long-anticipated reprise of the Valentine’s shenanigans we started back in Missoula. It was raining, sleeting, and snowing all at once, but miserable weather couldn’t dampen the spirit of our reunion. Besides, the seat heaters were on in the car, and Tina had a spare pair of XTRATUF rubber boots in my size.
I was a tiny bit disappointed, concerned even, by the tidiness of her adorable little home, until Tina showed me the explosion in her craft room. “See?” she assured me, gesturing around the glittering piles of craft wizardry, “Nothing’s changed!” Later, I was further heartened when I found a pair of lobster claws in the dishwasher. “Oh, I’m going to make a back scratcher out of those!” Tina chirped. Naturally.
Friday morning, after a late breakfast, we took a whirlwind sightseeing tour that ended in downtown Juneau. In one quaint, warm shop that sold books, stationery, artsy trinkets, and was also a post office, I bought a candle in a glass jar with a scent called Juneau Rain.
“Just so I don’t forget,” I laughed, gesturing out the window at the unrelenting drizzle.
Later that evening after a basket of halibut fish and chips so good they brought tears to my eyes, we got to work preparing to make a mess of Valentines. Colored paper, stickers, ribbon, fake flowers, feathers, sardine cans, plastic astronaut figurines, and all manner of shiny, sparkly things… It was all systems go.
Our big Valentine giveaway event was just a day away. We were slated to set up our booth in the lobby at Centennial Hall in downtown Juneau and give out Valentines before the Saturday evening and Sunday matinee performances of the beloved Wearable Arts show. The one-hour window we’d have before the event started would be tight compared to the leisurely, full-day affairs we used to pull off on the streets of Missoula. We wouldn’t have time to write poems on the fly for everyone, so we decided to type messages on the cards ahead of time.
Some of the old standby messages from the Missoula days like, “You make me happier than a goat in the lilac bushes,” took on an Alaska flavor; a brown bear popping out of a trash can with the words, “You make me happier than a bear on trash day,” and an arctic tern with a heart dangling from its beak proclaiming, “I’d fly 25,000 miles for you.”
Saturday morning, Tina recruited her friends Robin and Scott to join the effort, cutting out more hearts with pinking shears, making signs, painting display shelves, and hot glue-gunning everything in sight. Somehow we stayed focused, our heads bowed in silent industry, punctuated with howls of laughter at the ridiculous captions we came up with. Somewhere in the mix there was leftover pizza, donuts from the celebrated Breeze-In, and a pot of coffee we made, but forgot to drink.
Juneau Wearable Arts ’22 was themed, “Oceanic Overtures,” and audience participation was encouraged. Moments after the doors opened at Centennial Hall on Saturday evening, people filed in wearing an array of jellyfish hats, sea urchin vests, and metallic mermaid skirts, stopping by our booth to giddily paw through the Valentines. Despite the wide array of outfits, though, almost everyone looked the same from the knees down in the requisite rubber boots that are ubiquitous in Juneau.
One woman, who had simply placed a lifejacket over her purple sweater as an ocean-themed costume, snatched up the card with the bear coming out of the trash can right away. Each oooh, ahh, giggle, swoon, and belly laugh brought me back to the spirited afternoon at Tina’s house that felt like a shift in Santa’s workshop.
Before the matinee performance on Sunday, a man named John stopped at our station and asked me to write a poem for his husband. I scrawled a few details he’d given me as a prompt, and tipped my head back to think, “Take your time,” he said, “I’ll be back,” then disappeared onto the patio for a drink. When the lobby lights flashed signaling the beginning of the show, John had not returned.
“Do you know a guy named John?” I asked the woman at the ticket counter. Since we would be breaking down our station and heading out before the end of the matinee, I wouldn’t be able to get the card to him. “White guy, probably in his seventies, average height, average build?” I sensed the futility in the description even as the words left my mouth.
She ran through a mental list of the Johns she knew who were at the show. Was he wearing a loud shirt with tropical fish? No. Orca hat? No. Was he with a woman wearing a crown made of fishing lures? No.
“My John,” I said, referring to the man I’d known all of five minutes, “is wearing a forest green windbreaker and has a husband.”
“Oh, that John!!” She assured me she would get the card to John, even if it meant delivering it to his home. “I know where he lives,” she winked.
On Sunday evening, basking in the post-show glow, Tina and I sorted through the remaining cards. She picked a handful that she’d take to work in the morning to sneak into the goody bags she gives her patients after cleaning their teeth. A new toothbrush, floss, and a handmade Valentine: See you in six months!
I chose a few cards to stick in my backpack to distribute along the way home. I’d be traveling back to Missoula via Seattle, and it would actually be Valentine’s Day, after all.
It was a short night, and the Juneau international Airport was more alert, awake, and alive at 4:30 a.m. than I’d be all day. Navigating TSA screening in a pre-dawn blur, I watched the bin with my laptop come through, followed by the one containing my coat and scarf before the conveyor belt stopped. The guy working the scanner paused, leaned into the screen, squinted, then backed the conveyor belt up and sent my backpack on the reject detour.
The TSA agent checking the suspicious bags moved methodically, unhurried, as if she were following step-by-step instructions only she could hear. The questionable bag ahead of mine was a plastic grocery sack filled with ready-to-eat pouches of Indian food. I suppressed an exasperated sigh as she carefully kneaded each pouch of Vegetable Korma, Kashmir Spinach, and Madras Lentils while their annoyed owner stood by, tapping his foot.
After the Indian food, the TSA agent pushed a long, dark strand of hair out of her eyes, then grabbed my bag. She patted around deftly with gloved hands for the item that had brought the conveyor belt to a screeching halt. She paused at the lower corner of my backpack, slowly unzipped the zipper, and removed the knit hat that was wrapped protectively around Juneau Rain in its little glass jar.
I pictured the candle being chucked into a bin of other poorly thought out souvenirs like pocket knives and bottles of beer. Instead, the TSA agent paused, read the label, and surprised me when she lowered her mask, held the candle near her nose, took a deep sniff, then replaced the mask. She nodded at me with approval, eyes crinkling at the corners, then re-wrapped the candle in the hat and gently tucked it back into the backpack..
I took my bags over to the empty stainless steel table to regroup before heading up to my gate. I thought about going back and giving the TSA agent the candle; it seemed right in the spirit of the trip, but I realized that it would be weird, and might trigger a security event. Besides, I really did want to take Juneau Rain home with me.
I felt around in the front pocket of my backpack where I’d stashed the leftover Valentines, and found the one that Tina had made on her typewriter that has one of those fancy ribbons that can type either black or red. I took a few steps back toward the TSA agent, reached out and slipped the card onto the table where she was inspecting a lime green messenger bag. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I said over my shoulder, a bit louder and more enthusiastically than was appropriate in that wee hour. I didn’t look back to see her reaction.
As the plane lifted off into darkness, I stretched my legs out across the two empty seats next to me. I wondered if the Valentine would make her day, or if she would toss it in the trash and soldier on? Did John’s husband ever get his poem? Would Tina’s patients put their Valentine’s cards on the refrigerator, or would they throw them out with the floss? In the end, though, I decided that sometimes the ending isn’t the part that matters.
(All images for this piece were provided by the author.)
Karla Theilen is the Neighborhood Storyteller at Strong Towns. Karla is a writer, storyteller, and Registered Nurse based out of Missoula, Montana. Her penchant to explore wild places informed early career choices as a trail builder in the Grand Canyon, and a forest fire lookout in Idaho. Her current writing inspiration comes from a different kind of wilderness, navigating healing journeys with her patients in far-flung places where she works as a travel nurse. Her writing has been featured on NPR, and select stories and essays have been anthologized. She has been Facebook-free since 1972.