When I sit at this keyboard I sometimes think the output only amounts to a bunch of doggerel and drivel, but I’m heartened and encouraged to go on when I read thoughts like the following: “If only the most gifted bird in the forest sang, the forest would be a very quiet place.” The world resounds with the voices of billions of birds, so I’m claiming a perch on a crowded branch, too.
I still enjoy going back to read old journals that I have kept at certain times in my life. Alaska used to hold a magnetic draw for me, and I had to go up there to look around. Here are some entries I made at that time.
“. . . being so far north, the natives of the area made their own entertainment, and I think I must have stayed overnight in one of their inns where almost anything goes. I believe it was at Watson Lake, the location of the well-known signposts, that I spent the night hearing all kinds of funny noises such as footsteps up and down the wooden stairs at all hours plus laughing and giggling behind flimsy walls. Earlier in the evening I had sat in the bar listening to an Indian singing and playing guitar, not well, but with as much emotion as I’ve ever heard.”
Later, closer to Anchorage I wrote “A man — a native — walking along the road catches my attention. He is what I call a typical Eskimo, and he has in his hand what my stereotypical mind should think he would be carrying — a pail full of fish, which he had evidently just caught in the nearby river. He smiles proudly lifting his bucket just a bit to show off.”
“I drive further and see something that is beautiful! The Matanuska Valley Glacier stands shimmering in the distance, and, at first, because it is so striking, I am not sure what I am seeing... The weather is fairly clear now and the sun is shining off the ice...The day is passing and I intend to make Anchorage by evening. So once again I get in my trusty Impala and proceed to drive.”
So, I get into Anchorage late that day and tour around the city and area for a couple of days. “The port area was large and expansive. A large lake on the outskirts was the scene of a busy pontoon plane airport. So the day went. Another night, another morning brought me to the employment office. Long lines met me as I walked in the door. ‘Sir, you’ll need a permanent address before we can process your application.’ Oh, oh. What a shock! ‘Won’t my motel address do?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry.’ Reflecting on that experience now I realize that I was really a babe in the woods. If nothing else I could have fibbed and made like the motel was my permanent address. But how was a sheltered ‘til now young man like myself who was raised to always tell the truth be expected to be resourceful enough to work my way out of that situation? He couldn’t do it and was shattered. Maybe Alaska isn’t Valhalla, after all. The cost of living up here is frightful and with winter coming I could see my supply of money dwindling rapidly. There was only one thing to do — get out of here as fast as I can to avoid being stranded. I load the car and take off. Somewhere I had heard about the inland waterway where I could load my car on a boat as well as myself and ship straight south...”
More to follow . . .
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
A Potpourri
Winter has set in here along the Missouri River. I enjoyed watching the river freeze up in stages, i.e. a light skin along the banks, then a few floes bobbing in the current, next those same floes piling up into a solid mass, and finally, the complete freeze-up.
. . .
A year ago we stood under the “Survivor Tree” at the federal building bombing site in Oklahoma City. It was sad to see it yesterday on the news heavily coated with ice and in danger of breaking down. Workmen were trying to get the ice knocked off its branches in hopes of saving it.
. . .
Various voices in the media have accused the Bush administration of not knowing their history, a deficiency that affects decision-making! A glaring example recently occurred regarding the recent usage of “World War III” verbiage. Dana Perino, Bush’s press secretary, under questioning, admittedly did not know anything about the Cuban Missile Crisis. Well, I do! I still remember watching President Kennedy speaking to the nation about the seriousness of the situation. It did not take long to interpret his message that nuclear missiles could soon be exchanged between us and Russia if the situation did not cool down and fast! A heavy cloud of anxiety and fearfulness settled on me that night as well as throughout the country until it was resolved. Even if she’d use the defense that she is too young to remember it, history turned on that event. Ms. Perino certainly is history-challenged!
. . .
I’m going to go back to reminiscing in my journals again, but some of these other things have been on my mind. Christmas fast approaches, and we enjoy enjoying reading the messages that people are sending. Unfortunately, few exchanges of letters take place at other times of the year anymore.
. . .
I’m listening to a CD that just played the line, “...string around my finger, but I don’t know why anymore.” I’m glad I’m not the only one with that problem. Now, if I could just remember what it was that I was going to say next ... I’m reminded of the grizzled old timer who with his lifetime of experience says, “There are two kinds of people — those who have to say something and those who have something to say.”
. . .
A year ago we stood under the “Survivor Tree” at the federal building bombing site in Oklahoma City. It was sad to see it yesterday on the news heavily coated with ice and in danger of breaking down. Workmen were trying to get the ice knocked off its branches in hopes of saving it.
. . .
Various voices in the media have accused the Bush administration of not knowing their history, a deficiency that affects decision-making! A glaring example recently occurred regarding the recent usage of “World War III” verbiage. Dana Perino, Bush’s press secretary, under questioning, admittedly did not know anything about the Cuban Missile Crisis. Well, I do! I still remember watching President Kennedy speaking to the nation about the seriousness of the situation. It did not take long to interpret his message that nuclear missiles could soon be exchanged between us and Russia if the situation did not cool down and fast! A heavy cloud of anxiety and fearfulness settled on me that night as well as throughout the country until it was resolved. Even if she’d use the defense that she is too young to remember it, history turned on that event. Ms. Perino certainly is history-challenged!
. . .
I’m going to go back to reminiscing in my journals again, but some of these other things have been on my mind. Christmas fast approaches, and we enjoy enjoying reading the messages that people are sending. Unfortunately, few exchanges of letters take place at other times of the year anymore.
. . .
I’m listening to a CD that just played the line, “...string around my finger, but I don’t know why anymore.” I’m glad I’m not the only one with that problem. Now, if I could just remember what it was that I was going to say next ... I’m reminded of the grizzled old timer who with his lifetime of experience says, “There are two kinds of people — those who have to say something and those who have something to say.”
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Journals-2
Thinking about my old journals got me interested in going back to read more of the old thoughts regarding experiences I’ve had. Rummaging around my flotsam and jetsam stored here and there, I ran across my Alaska journal. I traveled up the Alaska Highway in the fall of 1968 because Alaska held an inexplicable draw to which I had to respond, a journey which I have never regretted.
After passing through Calgary and staying overnight in Edmonton, Alberta, I set out on the interesting part of the area, and I wrote: "The miles now carried me into an increasingly north country setting. Farms became less frequently seen, and forests were rapidly taking their place. Yet the highway was still busy, showing the heavy traffic of the vehicles needed to carry on the business activities..." Several hours down the highway the drudgery of driving turned again to some excitement: "Not until I came to Dawson Creek did I become excited again. It was here that Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway was situated. Finally, I thought to myself, I’m almost there. Little did I realize at the time that the hardest and most lonely part of the trip was ahead of me...Now the real journey began. The smooth paved highways I’d become accustomed to turned into the rough gravel surface...To compound the inconvenience, it had been raining quite heavily and, of course, the road’s surface became quite muddy."
I wanted to see new and different sights and I wrote about this scene: "A fantastic sight causes me to stop near Kluane Lake. A break in the weather that day permits me to look about a bit more, and I see beautiful white spots arrayed on a distant hill. I study them and conclude that they are Dall Sheep...I snap pictures with my Kodak and find only tiny white dots with no sense of perspective on the developed film. It is a picture I still carry in my head, though."
This trip was before the days of cassette tapes or CD’s or even FM radios for that matter. I enjoyed listening to my AM radio for company and recorded this: "The radio having been my constant companion is not very effective at certain points. The broadcasting stations are too few and far between so I am forced into solitary periods. No sound but the noise of the road gets very monotonous, and I drive on and on averaging 30, maybe 40 miles an hour because of the poor driving conditions. When I do get radio reception, I am subjected to an entirely different perspective than I have ever experienced. Messages between inhabitants were frequently relayed by the announcers, such as ‘Fred Johnson, meet John Olson at the river crossing at noon Saturday to pick up your groceries.’"
"The miles pass by. Inches are gained on the map. Place names are now behind me — Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, Watson Lake, Minto, Pelly Crossing, Stewart Crossing, Whitehorse, Haines Junction. I started out in North Dakota,crossed into Montana, then into Albertan, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and now I am ready to enter Alaska. Milepost 1221.3...My car is loaded with mud clinging onto, under, inside, and all over. I promise myself a wash job as soon as I get to Anchorage."
I’ll have to return to this memory trip next week. Most of the good stuff is still to come.
After passing through Calgary and staying overnight in Edmonton, Alberta, I set out on the interesting part of the area, and I wrote: "The miles now carried me into an increasingly north country setting. Farms became less frequently seen, and forests were rapidly taking their place. Yet the highway was still busy, showing the heavy traffic of the vehicles needed to carry on the business activities..." Several hours down the highway the drudgery of driving turned again to some excitement: "Not until I came to Dawson Creek did I become excited again. It was here that Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway was situated. Finally, I thought to myself, I’m almost there. Little did I realize at the time that the hardest and most lonely part of the trip was ahead of me...Now the real journey began. The smooth paved highways I’d become accustomed to turned into the rough gravel surface...To compound the inconvenience, it had been raining quite heavily and, of course, the road’s surface became quite muddy."
I wanted to see new and different sights and I wrote about this scene: "A fantastic sight causes me to stop near Kluane Lake. A break in the weather that day permits me to look about a bit more, and I see beautiful white spots arrayed on a distant hill. I study them and conclude that they are Dall Sheep...I snap pictures with my Kodak and find only tiny white dots with no sense of perspective on the developed film. It is a picture I still carry in my head, though."
This trip was before the days of cassette tapes or CD’s or even FM radios for that matter. I enjoyed listening to my AM radio for company and recorded this: "The radio having been my constant companion is not very effective at certain points. The broadcasting stations are too few and far between so I am forced into solitary periods. No sound but the noise of the road gets very monotonous, and I drive on and on averaging 30, maybe 40 miles an hour because of the poor driving conditions. When I do get radio reception, I am subjected to an entirely different perspective than I have ever experienced. Messages between inhabitants were frequently relayed by the announcers, such as ‘Fred Johnson, meet John Olson at the river crossing at noon Saturday to pick up your groceries.’"
"The miles pass by. Inches are gained on the map. Place names are now behind me — Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, Watson Lake, Minto, Pelly Crossing, Stewart Crossing, Whitehorse, Haines Junction. I started out in North Dakota,crossed into Montana, then into Albertan, British Columbia, Yukon Territory, and now I am ready to enter Alaska. Milepost 1221.3...My car is loaded with mud clinging onto, under, inside, and all over. I promise myself a wash job as soon as I get to Anchorage."
I’ll have to return to this memory trip next week. Most of the good stuff is still to come.
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