Alaska: The Last Frontier To The Outhouse And Beyond!

Introduction

I was born in Benihana’s parking lot. I could say that my mother was headed in to have a little shrimp, but that would cause even me to groan. Actually, when I came into the world, the old Providence Hospital stood at the Japanese restaurant’s current location. (The dining establishment would not become part of Anchorage’s landscape for many years.) Point is, things change. That is one reason for stories within this book. They are a bit of the city’s and my history, inextricably woven together.

When remembering occurrences from the past, the adult me often viewed them as humorous. (My young self, however, experienced life with heart-pounding intensity.) I frequently found myself jotting memories, and then forwarding these stories to family and friends. This kept a connection with those I didn’t often see, and allowed for some lighthearted sharing.

The individual stories of this book are just that—individual. Arranging events in a strict chronological order proved difficult and unnatural, so the book is not a linear read. The writings were intended to allow the reader, whenever there is time, to experience a few moments of levity.

In the Beginning…

Chapter 1

The Old House

My family resided in a boxcar. For years. We were not railroad people.

In 1950s Anchorage, Lowe’s and Home Depot were distant dreams. This was a time of making do, of commandeering any discarded lucky find that would keep out snow and calling it home. We hoped for something better, and there appeared to be a light at the end of the tunnel. Or so we thought.

My mother tenaciously guarded any quality items that came our way. A pretty dishtowel with no holes, a potholder without burns, or a pan with handle intact was designated off-limits and squirreled away for the new house. We’d get to peek at the accumulating treasures if the cries of When are we going to move? grew too loud. Before long was always the answer. (Even at seven years old, I had my doubts. I mean, I was noticing visible signs of aging in myself as we waited.)

With few modifications ever done, the long rectangular boxcar was our kitchen. Here, the aroma of freshly baked sourdough bread wafted through the air. A large oil stove made scrumptious pancakes when batter was poured directly onto its flat, black surface. A metal ladle, hooked onto a chipped porcelain bucket, provided a quick drink of water.

The side of one cabinet developed into a storage spot for ABC (already been chewed) gum. If any vestiges of flavor remained, we would remove our piece and smash it into the existing mound. The knoll grew when someone would forget that they had gum on hold, or when they simply no longer desired it. Occasionally, ownership lines blurred. If you didn’t remember which was yours, or if you were just looking for a chew, the cabinet surface offered a rich variety of flavors and colors.

The crown jewel of the kitchen was the sink. This basin captured spit-filled toothpaste, dirty dishwater, and soapy remains of a multi-child bath (taken in a round, metal tub resting on two chairs to avoid drafts). Its pipe jutted straight out through the wall, where grayish contents were dumped outside just below the kitchen window. An enormous ice pile grew each winter. Viewed as a challenging recreational area, knees and backsides were bruised attempting to scale or skate it.

Our dining table, with ironing piled almost to the ceiling, had one bare spot. Dad ate here. The rest of us, cradling plates and silverware, migrated into the living room, laying claim to the best seats as we went. I dubs the Big Chair, was always the first callout. (Unaware that the word was dibs, we seemed to be conferring knighthood on some distinguished executive.)

The living room, an add-on to the boxcar, was a minefield of aesthetics gone wrong. Years of foot traffic eroded the green and white patterned linoleum until a dull blackness showed. A hole in the ceiling (due to a foot going through the attic floor) was neatly patched with a white paper plate. Brown plastic-coated wire, attached to the television, lay in a tangled heap on the floor. Periodically, one of us had to get up, move across the room, and repeatedly kick the snarled mass to continue TV reception.

The television sat high atop a clothes dresser. One drawer held my dad’s underwear. Due to gaps and crevices throughout our house, a steady stream of small vermin also called it home. And, to them, my father’s undies seemed a mecca.

From a mouse perspective, the soft briefs were an excellent nesting area to raise newborn. Our mom thought otherwise. Carefully drawing back and latching a spring-loaded bar, she positioned a mousetrap in Dad’s underwear drawer. (This is not a euphemism to keep the story G-rated. This actually happened.)

I’d hear a THWACK! and scratch, scratch, and then nothing. Mom, tough as always, reached in with bare hands, extracted the trap, and plucked out the dead mouse. (These traps were, of course, reused.) The limp rodent was then hurled out the backdoor, perhaps becoming a bonanza for some stray cat.

Two bedrooms existed for eight people. My mom and dad’s room could be entered via the door, or by crawling through a hole in the fibrous living room wall and landing inside their closet. Although hysterical to my brother and me, I’m fairly sure Mom and Dad never accessed their room this way.

Two hulky, built-in bunk beds, large enough to swallow a person whole, were packed tightly into the Kids’ Room where my brother and three of the girls slept. (My bed was the living room couch, and one sister converted the evil attic into her private refuge.) Maroon curtains hung in place of a door, and were permanently stained by grubby hands that threw them aside with each entry into the lavender and yellow sleeping area.

When my mother went missing one day, and after hours of our wailing and deep anxiety that she may have run away from home, we tracked her down, asleep, enfolded in a top bunk. Only Elvis had known her whereabouts, but he never broke his silence from the glossy wall poster. After that, top bunks were immediately swarmed whenever Mom was lost. (As an adult, I was perplexed as to why Mother never fled.)

The overhead light in the Kids’ Room was turned on by connecting two wire ends. Although my father was an electrician, home fix-it projects did not seem to be on his radar. As early as four years old, I was proficient at gently touching the copper ends to produce light. (In retrospect, perhaps my parents were testing the survival of the fittest theory.)

Needing curb appeal could be said of the dwelling’s exterior. (Needing demolition would be more accurate.) Wall sides were covered in composition roofing, which (I learned later) was supposed to make one think brick when viewing the house. Not a chance. Overzealous roofer, maybe. But contemplation of the siding quickly evaporated when one scanned the rest of the story.

The well house, a separate structure next to the boxcar, was erected solely to protect a large red pump. Although not a place I cared to play, it did have some enchanting aspects. By quickly raising and lowering a handle, the pump magically (in my mind) disgorged blasts of water as if it had stomach problems. And once, in the musty blankets stacked against a wall, a semi-wild cat gave birth to tiny, mewing kittens.

Prominently displayed on the back porch, like a throne, sat a white porcelain honey bucket. By day the porch was safe, but at night it morphed into a shadowy, scary place. I was quite certain monsters lurked here, whispering of how to ensnare and devour small, curly-haired girls. Although immeasurably better than the long trek to the outhouse, I rarely visited the honey bucket after dark without dancing from foot to foot until I could wait no longer. When a sister squished a live mouse between her toes during her nighttime visit, I begged Mom for an indoor coffee can.

Across the porch step of rotting wood where black ants busily labored, a dirt path led to a structure that provided both service and drop-you-to-your-knees stench. The white, double-seater outhouse stood in the far reaches of the backyard. (I have never fully understood two seats, but then some experiences I simply choose not to share with others.) In summer, when making the trek, one would pass a lovely garden of flowers, carrots, peas, and leaf lettuce, but the aroma of the day was always eau de toilette.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, it all ended. The long-awaited move became reality. Jubilation abounded.

The new place enthralled us with a kitchen sink that whisked away soapy remains, never to be seen again. Sheer delight came with a table where six could eat at one time. Simply twisting a knob produced a glorious, never ending stream of water. (At first, my brother and I even voluntarily took baths.) And in the coziness of a warm little room was a beautiful pink toilet that flushed.

After a short time passed, the excitement and elation faded. Although appreciative of all things the new house offered, there was an unfamiliarity to it, a stiffness.

One night as I lay in the new bed, tears spilled down my seven-year-old face.

What’s wrong? asked my sister MeMe.

I miss the old house.

Chapter 2

Easter Chicks

The contents of this letter contain graphic depictions as seen through the mind of a once impressionable five-year-old and may be disturbing to some individuals. Reader discretion is advised.

As Easter nears, nostalgia sets in: The pride I felt in my new black patent leather shoes and light blue skirt with dozens of inch-wide pleats. Solid chocolate bunnies peeping through white and blue candy eyes were almost too lovable to eat. The excitement of Easter egg hunts. And soft, yellow, peeping baby chicks.

Bought from an animal feed store on Spenard Road, the essence of chicken manure reached our nostrils even before stepping inside. This did not deter us; cheeps from newly hatched baby birds filled the air. Bursting with excitement, all of us kids (and our neighbors, the Buroughs children) picked out a cute, cuddly pile of fluff.

We tucked our new pets into a cardboard box with a soft towel liner. So as to recognize whose was whose, a blue piece of thread was tied to one leg, a red thread to another, a yellow to yet another until each chick could be identified. Armed with baby chick feed and plenty of water, we provided tender loving care, wanting them to grow big and strong. And grow they did.

In short time, the chicks no longer fit in the box. Scaly looking legs grew long and gangly. The yellow softness was replaced with stubby, white feathers. And these ingrates turned mean, pecking and scratching chubby hands that tried to embrace them. A new home was needed.

A portion of the Buroughs’ backyard was surrounded by chicken wire. Packed tightly together in their old home, the birds journeyed to the new one. Threads no longer designated ownership, but we didn’t care. Untrainable chickens (that did not do tricks nor come on command) had replaced our precious, little yellow fluff balls.

Fast-forward some months.

Winter was approaching and chickens could not survive the cold Alaska season in an