An Alaskan comes to visit

It looked as though an Indian summer was in the making, getting cooler but still short sleeve weather. School had started back recently enough for my interest in what had happened during the day to still be on my mind while walking home. We only lived a few blocks from the High School, it was my first year there having graduated elementary with somewhat dubious results. I wasn’t in any hurry until I spotted the strange car in our driveway.
Sunset, Alaska    Photo: Bryan Mulder

I stopped watching my shoes shuffle as I walked, and put my brain in gear. I’d never seen that car before and certainly not the man sitting in the front seat. From a short distance the visible head and shoulders were not familiar; I didn’t know anyone with a beard. It was then I noticed the license plate, Alaska. That immediately set the mind racing. My father, being a preacher knew a lot of people from all over the place but I’d never heard him mention Alaska. On seeing me approach the man got out and asked if I lived here and if my father was in fact a preacher as the name on our mail box implied. I confirmed those facts and offered to get Dad whom it transpired wasn’t home nor was Mom. I didn’t think to ask questions, being shy and naturally stupid, so when he drove off saying he might be back later, I had a limited amount of information to give my parents when they arrived home. Dad hadn’t any idea who this fellow might be so when he in fact did return around five o’clock, Dad went outside to speak with him.

Some people are gifted with things like good looks or a mind for complex maths, this man was gifted with something everyone loves, he was a great story teller. Dad had discovered something of his purpose in coming to our house. Having grown older as people do, he had become a migratory being, as most don’t. Not itinerant, since he had a home in Anchorage, but one who lived in Alaska in the warmer weather and moved south when it grew colder. He enjoyed moving around, simply going wherever he wanted, staying wherever he was, as God saw fit to provide. He would often drive around the town he was in as the day wore on looking for somewhere to stay the night. Often in a park or roadside, his old station wagon making an acceptable hotel, his nights were spent reading by flashlight with his thoughts and the radio to entertain him. Sometimes wanting company and a home cooked meal he would, as he had that particular day, search for a minister’s house, having found success with that strategy before. Dad invited him to dinner and offered a bed for the night, mine. Accepting the meal, he declined the bed not wanting to displace me, saying his car would be fine if he could park under our carport. I can’t remember what was for dinner that night, but I do remember two things; I got to stay up late, the younger kids were sent to bed around nine when visitors were there talking. And I got to listen to stories about a place far from anywhere I had been, or imagined going.

Now, our visitor was not a large man who would demand attention in a group, just of average build. What drew my focus was his unkempt beard, dark but with more than a splash of grey, it hung half way to his belt. Dressed in a plaid long sleeve flannelette shirt and brown corduroy trousers he looked right out of some movie made exactly about the places he would describe to us, the Pacific North West. Yes, he looked just like a stereotype lumber jack, but without the build necessary for that occupation. As a young man he had moved from somewhere flat, like Wyoming or Oklahoma to Alaska, he said he just wanted to try something different. He had worked in many jobs, cook, cleaner, handyman, construction, anything he could do he did. He had stories about the places he had been, people he had met and stories about their stories. This one’s great grandfather had come to Alaska in the gold rush another’s father to work on the pipeline. Someone lost all his toes to frostbite during one particularly cold winter when his truck broke down a hundred miles from his destination. He didn’t seem to want to talk much about his personal experiences, but even when talking about someone else’s it was as if he had personally been there and experienced the incident himself. He told us of the landscape, the mountains and rivers, the summers and winters always answering our questions with an “I remember…” story, which added a third dimension to what could have been a simple answer. He had seen the Northern Lights, had lived in places that only a seaplane or boat could visit, and met characters like those we only read about. To a 13 year old boy who was more inclined to imaginative adventures than the study of math or science this guy was a hero of the first class. Even though much of his talk was about interesting things that happened to other people, he had been there to hear their stories, that fact alone made him interesting.

The next day was a Saturday so I was home when he left; while I watched him pack up his car he asked me if I didn’t have a sport to go play. I told him I had trouble playing sport because of problems with my feet to which he replied something along the lines of “watching just isn’t the same is it?” I’d like to tell you his reply inspired me to always do as much as I could, but all it did was make me wonder what it would be like, to do the things I knew I couldn’t. Before leaving he offered dad money for his hospitality, dad said no of course. Thinking about it later we came to the conclusion that he wasn’t particularly poor, his things were of good quality, just a little old. Perhaps he simply enjoyed doing what he did. He left on his way to Florida by way of Texas; he told us his visit to our home in Alabama was just a pit stop,

In later years I would try, and sometimes succeed at doing things I thought I couldn’t, not because of what he said, but because I had always wondered what it would be like to do them. Sitting in a plane at the Sea-Tac airport once, I noticed the Air Alaska plane next to mine, I wondered at the time what had happened to that man, for the life of me I can’t remember his name, but will never forget his visit.

Sydney
Sept.2009                                                              Return to Main Page.