The secret to happiness is - nothing

As Americans (or part of the connected civilization), we are constantly bombarded with marketing images telling us how to find happiness from purchasing products. A new car, cold soda, salted snack, or vacation on a cruise ship holds the key to our happiness. They want you to believe that happiness is only found in a tangible item, something we can see and touch.

There's a very interesting book I read recently titled "Buyology", where the author justified his manipulation of consumers' minds with the position that he was only unlocking our hidden desires  for useless junk. I recommend reading this book, so you will be forewarned to the dangers of the constant bombardment you are subjected to, and the subtle ways the marketers go for your neurological triggers. After reading this book, you may unplug the box.

In the early '80s a friend and I noticed that roads connected Alaska to NJ. Over the course of two months, this friend and I decided to drive to Alaska to see what it was like. We made the drive, and I stayed there a couple of years. He stayed longer.

There's no place like home

I lived in a cabin on the outskirts of Wasilla, and worked for a construction company. (No, I never met Sarah Palin.) For about 8 months I lived in the tiny village of Holy Cross. There were 470 people living in the village, with a mix of people with Yupik and Athabascan ancestries. There were also a few non-indigenous residents, and about 15 of us building houses. The houses we built were on "Housing Road", and "New Housing Road". "Housing Road" was built first, and "New Housing Road" was built second. If they expand the village, the new road will be named "New New Housing Road", or 'Newest Housing Road". Relativism is so simple, yet so difficult to keep going over time.

The only way in was the gravel runway
welcome to Holy Cross

During my time working there, I had the opportunity to interact with many of the locals. They were for the most part hardworking and decent people, with a few of the lowly types every town is afflicted with. On my rare days off,  I hunted duck and bear, and explored the mazes of the Yukon River with a couple friends of mine - Beanie and Walter. I provided the fuel, they provided the boat, engine, and buckets for bailing the water out of the leaky boat. Crossing the Yukon in bad weather, with a heavy chop was pretty exciting. We'd be in construction coveralls, with our pockets loaded with shotgun shells, and no flotation in site. Walter would have to vary the speed of the boat to keep us in the middle of the 4 foot troughs of glacial silt-filled water that rolled against the wind. Beanie and I would bail to keep the boat afloat. I shudder when I think back to these dangerous days.

I never could grow a 'stache

Carpenters and plumbers
waiting for flight 

As the construction project approached the winter, we could see that we'd be out of work in a few weeks, and would have to wait until the spring thaw to install more pilings into the permafrost. As my colleagues finished their work, they'd fly out of the gravel runway on one of our company planes, and our numbers would decrease. As our end date approached, an elderly woman in the village invited me to her home for coffee. She lived outside of the village, close to the river. I accepted the offer, and headed out.

When I arrived, she was a gracious hostess, kept my coffee cup filled, and served me some homemade cake. Her husband headed outside to get some wood, and the hostess quickly made me an offer. She had no money, but was wondering if I would be willing to trade my Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun for a Marten hat. Marten are valued for their gorgeous fur, and it was considered very stylish to have a Marten hat with multiple tails off of the back. I accepted the offer, and we made the trade. I still have the hat, and often take it out of the box to admire the fur.

After her husband returned with the wood, our conversation was around his memories of growing up. He remembered the white traders who came down the river, and that his father and uncles would take pot shots at them as they made their way past the village. One family name in the village was "Whitemankiller". This wasn't some ghetto rap name invented to look cool, it was history in a name.

Holy Cross, AK, 1984

As always, I get off topic as I open up the memories my mind is filled with. Now back to the story. One of the things he said to me was something I never really understood until much later in my life. He said that the people in the village didn't know they were poor until the white man arrived. Until then, the village was isolated, and lived off the land. Your hunting and fishing were your currency, and life was active and fulfilling. People worked together, and there was little jealousy or greed.

Looking around the village, I could see the two stores with all the junk food you'd need to destroy your health, a. gas station to fuel up your car to drive in endless circles around the village, satellite dishes to bring in the endless infotainment of television, and the regularly scheduled boat with the contraband alcohol loaded in the lock box. Alcohol was illegal in most Alaskan villages, and the smugglers would lock the booze up on their boat, requiring the State Police to get a search warrant to open the box. Getting a search warrant rarely happened when the nearest judge was hundreds of miles away. .

The day after the alcohol boat left, a gambler would show up on one of the small planes, organize some card games, and leave with all the money before the drunken villagers woke up from their drunken stupor. We had many of our locally hired craftsmen who came back to work broke, asking for advances or loans to feed their families.

I remembered the old man's story last week, as my honey and I relaxed on a Caribbean island. We were in a cottage without television, phone, cell signal, or any technical diversions. We lived to the rhythm of the day, enjoying books, time together, the view of the ocean and stars, the hikes along the ocean cliffs and in the forests, and walking barefoot on secluded beaches, as well as swimming in the clear and refreshing waters. We were happy and relaxed. We talked about our past, the present, and the future. We wondered if we could spend the rest of (our hopefully long) life in this rhythm. We acknowledged that a year or more ago, we couldn't do this. But now life is different, and we can envision a life at a slower pace, enjoying the simple pleasures.

Our daily happiness should be based on simple criteria, and not on stuff we accumulate. Health, love, shelter, food, and warmth are pretty simple areas that we should look to for our happiness. Everything else is just a potential distraction. Happiness comes from the intangibles in life, the things we can't touch physically. "When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose", Mick Jagger may have sang the secret to happiness long ago.

What makes you happy? Is it things you can touch, or is it things you can only experience?