Upon returning from Spring Break, I got word that my research proposal had been approved by the Institutional Review Board at APU, which means I have a green light to start collecting data for my thesis project. From what I’m told, getting one’s ducks in a row for approval is often a superlative pain in the ass, so I’m glad to have this hurdle out of the way.
Perhaps more importantly, at least in a long-term sense, is my next piece of news: I accepted a job. For next season.
Spring Creek Farm sits on the outskirts of Palmer, Alaska, a small, rural community about forty miles north of Anchorage. In the mid-1930s, some two hundred-odd Midwesterners, mostly in their late twenties and early thirties, picked up their families and moved to the Last Frontier as part of Roosevelt’s New Deal. The Matanuska Colony has existed in various incarnations since then, and today, the sleepy township of Palmer is home to just under six thousand people and, still, plenty of dairy cows.
When we were getting ready to move to Alaska, people asked Kevin and me a lot of really stupid questions. Not, like, “Is it really dark there all winter?” More like, “Are you guys going to start doing meth?” This seems like a good opportunity to debunk (and, occasionally, confirm) the many Alaskan myths we were asked about before we started our journey to the Great White North.