GRANDMA'S ALASKAMOES CORRIE LYNNE OBORN A STUDY IN HUMAN RELATIONS Old socks as washcloths? Hamsters in the laundry? Oh come now... who'd believe it? It's difficult, I'll admit, but one evening under our roof convinces even the most hardened scoffer and sometimes reduces him to blithering idiocy if he's not equipped with a remarkable sense of of humor. Our unorthodox household, consisting of four children, more or less; a widowed mother; and miscellaneous livestock, is the type that sleeps until noon and is usually in high gear around midnight. We are viewed with varying degrees of alarm by well-meaning, but misunderstanding relatives. I suppose that is the main reason we live in Alaska-it saves explaining We exchange letters at infrequent intervals, gloss over the ridiculous or unbelievable portions of our existence, and have succeeded in lulling all those in Utah with our apparent normalcy. But sometimes we are thrown a curve, so to speak, and somebody decides to visit us--like the time Grandma decided to see how all her sweet little "Alaskamoes" were doing. Mother called a special emergency council and carefully explained that Grandma was slightly nervous and used to order and serenity. Ten-year-old Chuck looked surprised and asked, "Then why's she coming to see us?" Mother ignored him and went on to describe how we were to behave. She stated emphatically that no more than one dog could be in the house at any time, Angie would have to get rid of at least thirty of her over-productive hamsters, that the dishes must be done after every meal, that we must keep the wet laundry from piling up on top of the washing machine, that we must avoid, at all costs, 10 our impromptu scuffing, and finally that we had better, for heaven's sake, get this placed cleaned up! We all listened intently, formed industrious plans, and promptly forgot until the evening before our unprepared elder relation was fated to arrive. We didn't really mean to-psychologists would probably call our reaction suppression.... It was one of those bitterly cold nights when the moon looks like it will shatter and come tinkling down with the slightest shock. All dates had been cancelled, because no one wanted to stir from his warm nest; we were spending a cozy, and normally noisy evening at home. Angie was playing Picasso, surrounded by her paints, brushes, and linseed oil; Chuck was wrestling with his gigantic husky, Mukluk; Grant's gangly sixteen-year-old form lay sprawling in front of the Stereo as he listened at full volume to his latest collection of 45's; Karen, my curvaceous aunt age nineteen, was writing in her diary; and I was blissfully reading with a pillow over my ears, when I suddenly had a flash of memory. I groaned as I gazed at the tangled living room and remembered that my poor hardworking mother was depending on us...and that she would probably commit a brutal murder if something weren't done in a hurry. I broke the news of "Grandma'll be here at five tomorrow morning!" as gently as possible. Everyone stopped what they were doing, looked startled, then the boys promptly disappeared. It didn't matter. They were never any help anyway. Angie, Karen, and I were seized with chaotic enthusism as we madly attacked the house. Dust, dog hair, books, records, clothes, and various animals flew with intensity and the ceiling swayed. 11