While living in Kivalina , we encountered many natives considered elders. I asked Tiger, “what were these elders?” His answer was simply this: they were ascribed this title because of their knowledge of village history and maintaining the ways of the past and integrating it into today’s world.

Some think of these old Eskimos (Inuits) being sent out on icebergs to die. This is the tale we were brought up with. This is partially true. It happened when conditions such as a famine were extreme. It must have been a terrible decision for the villagers to make. The last of senicide happened in 1939. Today the elders are revered for their knowledge and for their story telling. Their recounting of customs and beliefs are handed down from one generation to the next.

The elders I first met in Kivalina were in their late forties and early fifties. They had a great amount of knowledge of their heritage and customs. Others were in their sixties and seventies and passed the Inuit traditions on to the village youth. My elder friends had a profound influence on my life and they will live in my heart forever.

Amos Hawley was my husband’s best friend. He was known as The Artist because he had fathered many children who all looked like him. He was an avid hunter who had tales to tell of ancient hunting traditions.Tiger and Amos had an incredible rapport. I felt they had been brothers in a previous life. I loved to watch them together as Amos relived stories of his life and his ancestors. After Tiger’s tragic accident, (recounted in my memoir, Journey Through Fire and Ice, which will be published soon) our house was now a tent near Amos’ house.

When Tiger was away, Amos would come to check on me and comfort me. I enjoyed his visits and many of the stories he told Tiger. I was priviledged to have him as a friend. Amos was 24 years older than my husband — considered a young elder in 1964, yet old enough to be a surrogate father to me. Our second child, Sarah has his Eskimo name – Appolinea (spelling). She wasn’t given this name legally but she is aware of her Eskimo name and Amos as well as the friendship he had with Tiger and me. She was fortunate enough to meet him in 1976 when we spent ten days in Kivalina.

Ruth Adams was my best friend. She was at least 20 years older than me — certainly old enough to be my mother. We had a special relationship. My mother shared the same name and because of this I could have called Ruth, Ana, the native name for mother. When I visited Ruth, she made me feel at home. She helped me make a rabbit fur parka. I spent a lot of time with her and felt as though I were her daughter. She taught me how to cut the skins and sew them together. One day, we were talking about naming a baby. She told me Eskimo babies were given an Eskimo name before they were born. It might be after an animal or a person that was admired. I asked her what her name was. “Nanantoque” she replied. I should have asked her what it meant but I didn’t. I was too excited because I had decided we would give our first child her Eskimo name. When I told her, her face broke out in a huge smile, one I will never forget. Karen, our eldest met Ruth in 1976 .

Edith Kennedy was a true elder in every sense of the word. She was seventy five or eighty when we lived in Kivalina. Edith was brought up by school teachers and spoke perfect English. Early on she was my nemesis as I was forced to cut up seals with her. I knew nothing about the art of cutting up seals and all she would say was “watch me.” I hated every moment of it and I lived in fear of her. As time passed she developed respect for me because I cut up seals with her. She would come over and sit in the rocking chair with her knitting. As her needles clacked away she would talk about current affairs and a bit about her life. I always wanted to know more but she was a private crusty old lady who didn’t talk much about herself.

Elders are still revered in Kivalina for the knowledge and stories passed from one generation to the next. Today, as in the past, they rarely move from their own village. Often they live under the same roof, recounting their ancient traditions and beliefs.

In my world, there is no tradition of stories passed from one generation to the next the way the Eskimos did. I think of the time I spent with my grandmother who lived with our family. I was fortunate to have grown up with her. Her stories of her life are now like sepia toned photographs, faded stories of another time, which I continue to pass down to my children and grandchildren. I am now the elder.