Talkeetna Town
What a beautiful fall, from
bright yellow leaves on birch trees, red and orange underbrush carpeting the
forest, we woke to drifting snow out the window. Autumn is here and gone in a
mere two weeks.
Walking along the
Alaska railroad that followed the Susitna River snowflakes twirled around us in
the slight morning breeze. At fifteen degrees, we kept a good pace to stave off
the chill heading into town for supplies and mail.
Two ravens, played on
the wind currents flowing over the river, calling to each other in raucous
voices, dipping and diving. The joy in their interaction together made me glad
they stay the winter. A good omen as the raven is my main Totem.
Chickadees called to
us from the bushes nearby. The black-capped white bibbed fellows darted
in, out and around. I threw bread crumbs from my peanut butter and jelly
sandwich as I ate. The little ones nearby let their friends know food was here
with a sweet Chick-a-Dee-Dee-Dee.
“Where do you want to
spend the night, Kris?” Steve asked.
“I’ve been mulling
that over for a while.”
“Well, we only have
three options. The Fairview, The Roadhouse or the Talkeetna Motel.”
“I know, I know. We
stayed at the Talkeetna Motel our last trip to town. I am not excited about
sleeping there again. Remember how we saw our breath because of the cold room,
and it had a weird feel. Neither one of us slept well.”
“Yeah, I agree,”
Steve said. “Let’s check out the Fairview first. We’ll have a beer before we
decide.”
The Fairview’s rooms
are nice, the beds clean, the bathroom shared, but that didn't bother us much,
just the fact of /indoor plumbing and a real bathtub was a big plus. The one
drawback and it was a big one,the rooms were directly over the bar and the
ceiling was thin. Depending on the crowd it could get quite loud and
boisterous, not very indicative to a quiet sleeping environment.
The entire atmosphere
made you feel like you had stepped back into the 1800s Wild West as you sidled
up and sat down on the old wooden barstool to order a drink.
As we walked in the
barmaid Babe Barnes looked me square in the eye. “Ya gotta hand over your
firearm before I serve ya.”
I carried my 45 Long
Colt pistol and Steve his 44. We unstrapped our holtsters and slid the
side-arms over to her waiting hands.
“I'll give um back
when you leave town tomorrow.” She said, asking , “What’ll ya have, the usual?
“Sounds good Babe. “
Steve answered.
No broaching the
subject of getting your gun back anytime soon. Babe ran a clean place and meant
to keep it that way. She only asked for our ID’s the first time we came in.
Thereafter, she always knew our names and favorite drinks.
We decided to spend
the night at the Roadhouse knowing we wouldn’t get much rest on a Friday night
at the Fairview.
After a shower down
the hall; shared baths, of course, and a good night’s sleep, we would ready to
pick up our supplies for the train ride home at noon.
Owned and operated by
Carol and Verna Close the Roadhouse became a town legend. For the morning
entertainment value it was priceless. I woke up to the usual banging and banter
around 5:00 am with Carol hollering as he stoked the wood cook stove.
“Verna, I heard you
snoring when I got up at 4:30.”
“Oh no!” Verna
replied, stamping her boot. She was a formidable wiry lady at barely five feet
tall.
“You heard yourself
snoring when I got dressed at 4:00!”
The conversation
became as heated as the old wood cook stove warming up for the breakfast crowd
eager and hungry for real home cooked food.
The Standard was my
favorite; whole wheat bread baked in the wood fired oven, cut a good inch
thick, real butter, and homemade jam. Along with toast four slices of pepper
bacon, and a generous portion of fried potatoes mixed with bell peppers and
onions. The eggs were scrambled; no matter how you asked for them, over
easy, sunny side up, or hard boiled, they were scrambled. I knew better than to
ask for my eggs any other way.
Sitting down at the
room long table Verna called from the kitchen, “What’ll you have this morning
folks?”
“We’ll have two
Standard’s with eggs over easy.” I replied.
“ Eggs, yup
scrambled.” She hollered back at me.
There are times when
you can’t help yourself. I knew they only came one way.
We topped it all off
with a glass of orange juice and plenty of coffee; a substantial meal. If you ordered
their biscuits and sausage gravy it filled the entire plate, plus more gravy on
the side. You never went away from the Roadhouse hungry.
As we ate our meal we
laid out the plans for the morning.
“I‘ll pick up the
supplies we ordered last night. Are you up to the challenge with Mr. Kunckle at
the Post Office Kris?” Steve asked.
“I guess so, but as
you know it could take me a while.”
Just talking about
the Post Office we both started to laugh. The postmaster, a rather grumpy old
fellow made getting mail an adventure in patience. We knew it to be a long
drawn out process, all, according to Mr. Knuckle’s timing. Individual boxes
were nonexistent; the entire community still received everything general
delivery. The mail, separated in alphabetical bins against the back wall, still
needed to be sorted when anyone asked for their letters. A large wooden
container jammed in the back corner contained packages overflowing waiting for
pickup.
The Post Office
itself was situated on the right side of the B&K Trading Post in a five by
ten cubby hole just large enough for three people to stand inside. Lining up at
the minuscule counter waiting for the Postmaster to acknowledge you, time came
to a standstill.
Mr. Kunckle, plodding
around, noticed me standing in front of him. Staring over his wire rimmed
glasses “Yes, what, do you want?”
This was the tricky
part; you only requested one item at a time. Inpatient I rambled off, “ I want
my mail, three stamps and my neighbor Tom Harvey’s mail”
This met with a stony
glare and a harrumph. Pinching my thigh I kept myself from giggling. The
tattered clock on the wall ticked ominously in the background.
“One…thing…at… a….
Time.” He said, appearing as if he measured the distance between each word.
“I‘m sorry Mr.
Kunckle, my name is Kristine Mahay, “
“Yes?” he
interrupted.
‘May I please have
mail for myself and my husband Steve Mahay?”
Lumbering to the M
bin he leafed through the letters one at a time. Shuffling toward me holding a
bundle of envelopes, “Here you are Mrs. Mahay.”
“Thank you. May I
please buy three first class stamps?”
Mr. Kunckle opening a
drawer in the back of the counter pulled out a sheet of stamps. Slapping them
down, shoving the drawer closed, he asked, “How many do you want? “
“Three.” I answered
in a quiet quiver.
One at a time the
stamps were separated from the sheet and handed over to me. Every eight cent
stamp he added separately with a ka-chink at each entry on the antique copper
plated cash register.
“That will be twenty
four cents.” Mr. Kuncklkkle glared over his wire rimmed glasses.
I handed him a
quarter.
“Twenty four for the stamps and one cent change is
twenty five.” Giving me a penny he closed the cash register with a bang that
shook the counter. The stamp drawer flewh opened as if by magic as the sheet of
stamps fluttered in. He stood there looking at me.
I gulped,” Tom
Harvey's mail please?” The process repeated and five minutes later I had my
neighbor’s bundle of mail in my hand. Scooting around the other not-so-patient
folks waiting their turn I lunged out the door before Mr. Kunckle changed his
mind.
For some
reason none of us could fathom, he despised Tom Harvey. If Tom asked for
his mail, Mr. Kunckle never met his eyes, invariably lifted his nose and snorted,
“No mail for Harvey here.”
Steve and I thought
it was downright funny, though Tom didn't think so. The only day he could ask
for his mail and get it was on Saturday when Verna Thompson worked.
A few years after Mr.
Kunckle passed, they built a new Post Office to better fit the needs of the
growing metropolis of Talkeetna; now up to 500 year round residents. When the
move took place during the cleaning out the old office, more than a few missing
letters turned up. A myriad of small spaces and cubby holes had become
convenient hiding places for the mail of the miscreants that Postmaster Emery
Kunckle refused to acknowledge. I overheard one lady comment how she knew she
had sent that wedding invitation to Mrs. Jones. When a crack in the wall
revealed a crumpled fancy envelope she finally got her answer. Another
miscreant rises to the surface.
Walking into the
B&K Trading Post Adele, the proprietor greeted me with a hearty hello. She
always made you feel at home, glad to see another face coming into her store,
and remembered your name and what you ordered.
While Steve packed up
the groceries, I checked the bundle of letters I retrieved from Emery Kunckle’s
domain.
Alaska, nearly five
thousand miles away from our childhood homes in New York felt at times a
different world, on another planet. We phoned home once a month from a payphone
outside on the porch of the B&K.
Dad’s first question
was always, “How much do you weigh?” For some reason he thought Steve, starved
me. If dad had seen me then it would have been confirmed. Growing up, my average
weight was 120 lbs. That first winter my weight dropped to just under 100 lbs.
Letters from home
made me feel part of my family and gave me a sense of still belonging to one.
Mom wrote about happenings on the farm, and gave the latest exploits of my young
nieces and nephews.
The letters from my Granma
Durfee, were a special treat to behold. She rambled on about whatever, cleaning
house, gardening, cooking, but the fun part; she never used any punctuation.
The entire two page letter became one long sentence, not a comma or period, no breaks
through the entire missive. I was out of breath trying to read it without a
pause.
Granma’s native language is German, and I
always wondered if she never quite understood how to write in English.
After carrying our supplies
to the train depot, we had a last stop before leaving town. Babe wished us well
handing over our pistols at the Fairview Inn. The train whistled its arrival as
we ran to the tracks to board. The six weeks until Thanksgiving seemed a long
time before the next trip back to town. Watching the houses disappear across
the Talkeetna River Bridge, sadness overtook me. I already missed the
hustle-bustle of the village, the chitter-chatter of folks known and unknown. I
wasn't sure I was ready for the solitude of winter facing us. Lazy snowflakes
floating down on the breeze disagreed; whispering it will be a peaceful period,
a time to quiet your soul from the turmoil and hard work of building your home
in the wilderness.