Dear Grandma Agrafena

We are your children.
We wish we knew more about you.
We don't know when you were born or when you died.
We aren�t sure we know the name of the family you came from, or 
     even if your people used last names in your time.
You were woman.
And you were Aleut.
But you bore four children, three daughters, and one son.
Creoles, they were called.
Did you love that Russian man, Efim, that you married?
Did you have any choice in who you married?
You must have been a good mother.
Did you know you had 19 grandchildren from Luba and Mavra?
It's sad that Maria died before giving you any grandchildren.
Did you learn to read?
You would have enjoyed reading this book.
There are so many of us named in these pages.
And we're just your children who came from your daughter, Mavra.
You must have had many more descendants.
But we don't know all their names.
We've even lost track of some of each other who are living today.
Did you ever feel special?
Or were you too busy and never had a chance to think about that?
Well, you were special.
We wouldn't be here if you hadn't given birth.
And there were many special people who came from you.
Lots of fishermen, who fed their families with salmon.
And other good mothers, who, like you, married men from Russia.
Did you live long enough to hold your grandchildren?
How about any of your great grandchildren?
Did you know that some of them lived along a river, in a little place called 
     Ninilchik?
A lot of us in this book spent all our lives in Ninilchik.
Oh, sure, we'd take a boat or dog team or pickup truck or car and visit Kenai 
     or one of the other settlements, but we usually came back.
Some of us have only heard about Ninilchik, from our fathers or mothers, or 
     grandparents.
You know what?  Ninilchik has a zip code now, a laundromat, a video store, and 
    T.V. repeaters.  Oh, what are those?  Well,...it would take awhile to 
    explain, but it sure would be nice to sit down with you and tell you about 
    these things.
But it would be even more nicer to introduce you to our families, to our own 
     children, and grandchildren, and great grandchildren.
We're a pretty big bunch by now, not all just Russians and Aleuts, either.
We hope you don't mind, but we've also let in some Poles, some Irish, some 
     Norwegians, and some who are just a pretty good mixture by now.
But some things still are about the same.
Most of us still like fish.
The water still gets rough between Kodiak and Ninilchik.
But we can fly above the waves now.
Oh, sorry,...yes, people can fly now.  Well, we call it flying, anyway, but we 
     don't flap our wings like the birds on the big island did around you.
You know, if you could come visit us today, there's still a few around who 
     could talk to you.
You did learn Russian, didn't you?
Did you teach your children your own language, too?
All of us today speak an even different language.
It's called English.
And Kodiak, and Ninilchik, and Kenai, and all the other places around here 
     don't even belong to Russia, anymore.
But Russia belongs to the Russians, again.
Oh, this must sound confusing.
We wouldn't want to confuse you.
For we are your children.
We've never been ones for saying very well how we feel about you, or your 
     children, or grandchildren, but we're learning...

Spasebo, thank you, 
Babushka, Grandma Agrafena.

Love,
from all of us

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