Fur Rondy

There is a shelf in my closet that used to be dedicated to storing evening bags. I remember aspiring to own those pretty little accessories, symbols of a life full of cocktail parties and formal events.

That space has quickly become a catchall—swim cap I never use, confiscated Nerf guns, mending that’s been handed to me, spare toad and fish coffins, and most recently, removable fur trim from jackets and boots.

I can’t even see the pocketbooks anymore and haven’t really missed them. There aren’t many occasions requiring an evening bag here in Ithaca. In fact, if you did decide to doll yourself up and pack up a little purse, people would think you were delusional or on your way to dinner with the Obamas.

The most recent social engagement we went to was a “Fur Rondy”—short for “Fur Rendezvous”, an Alaskan winter celebration started in Anchorage in 1935 to bring folks out of their dark cabins to celebrate, dance, and enjoy good friends. Our friends invited us to their annual party.



They are amazing—our friend from Alaska and his wife served chili and hot cocoa, and the most exciting, set up a “Great Race of Mercy”, a tribute to the 1925 serum run to Nome where 20 mushers and 15 sled dogs relayed diphtheria antitoxin across 674 miles in 5 ½ days during the dead of winter.



We all ran the race; I pretended my dog was named “Balto.”



The event was a blast, but all I really needed were my snow boots. It would have wasted precious time if I stopped on the trail to put on lipstick and how would I have kept that bag tucked under my puffy jacket arm anyway?



Besides, I needed my hands free to carry vials of medicine to save people from a dreadful epidemic...



I didn't win the race, but I think I was the only one who actually saw parts of Russia from our friends' yard!