My Patchwork Childhood - William Combs, Author · My Patchwork Childhood ... a Root Cellar 30 ......

My Patchwork ChildhoodFrom an Alaska and a Way of Life That No Longer Exist

By William E. Combs

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Copyright © 2017 by William E. CombsAll rights reserved.

Cover and Interior Design by William E. Combs

The cover's patchwork quilt pattern waspurchased from Shutterstock.com

Published in the United States of America978-1-935631-90-3

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Introduction i

Chapter One Let's Homestead in Alaska!! 1

Chapter Two The Oil Can Highway 9

Chapter Three Homesteaders-R-US Part One 17

My Encounter with a Spruce Tree 21 A Log Cabin for the Nunley's 24

Chapter Four Homesteaders-R-US Part Two 27 First, a Bridge 28 Next, a Well 28 Then, our House 28 Finally, a Root Cellar 30 Electricity Would Be Nice 31 Mama Kills a "Goose" 32 Epilogue 34

Chapter Five Our Three-Holer 35 How I "Helped" Mom's Rose 41

Chapter Six Phoenix Seeds For an Alaskan Farm 45 Communal Shopping During Spring Breakup 47 John is Born "Outside" 48 No Green Thumb 49 Boat Eggs 50

Chapter Seven The Wasilla Follies 53 The Follies 54 The Other Side of the Tree 58 Finding the Road 59

Chapter Eight ILA and Bill Senske 63 Meals for the Alaskan Native Kids From Knik 63 Dog Sled Mail for the Mines 66 The Beaver Dam 67 Thar She Blows 68 My Sister Valerie 71

Chapter Nine How My Childhood Has Shaped Me 73

Endnotes 77

To Miriam in loving memory, my God-given soul mate, my wife for forty-eight wonderful years, filled with love, courage, strength, and wisdom.

You are my warm, golden Sunrise, my deep and abiding Joy, my Bride, my Song, my Treasure, my closest Friend.

Oh, to see your clear blue eyes, and hear your joy-filled laughter ring! All these things I’ve said and more, convince me that you’re blessed by God.

Special thanks to family and friends for supporting me with their encouragement and prayers while I was researching and writing these articles:

Valerie Saunders, Ron Combs, Mike and Cheryl Combs, John and Linda Combs, Lana Combs, Marty and Barb Fergu-son, Al and Lola Cain, John and Peggy Gillespie, Gloria Irwin, Mark and Ginny Bigelow, Scotty and JoAnne Cookston, Jim and Christie Garras, Linda Anderson, Russ and Louise Sim-melink, Keith and Nancy Arnold, Larry and Becky Bugbee, Nick and Blanche Campbell, and Jonathan and Jennifer Luce-ro.

Kudos to my sister Valerie for sending me all of mom's photo albums: a treasure trove of the early family photographs found herein.

Thanks to the Palmer Historical Society Colony House Museum for granting permission to use the photo of the Palmer Hospital on page 23.

I am grateful to Fred St. Laurent of the Book Club Network, Inc., and his staff, Cheri Swalwell and Hilary Dodge, for publishing original copies of my articles in their monthly on-line magazine: the Book Fun Magazine at BookFunMagazine.com.

I am also indebted to Joni Sullivan Baker, my publicist, who has often climbed to the “crow’s nest” on our marketing “ship” to scout out and secure the best tactics for getting these articles into the hands of prospective readers.

iIntroduction

Introduction

My name is Bill Combs, and my childhood reads like

chapters from Little House On The Prairie. Those pioneers

traveled by covered wagon and homesteaded on the plains

as mid-western states opened their borders to new settlers.

Alaska demanded a courageous spirit from everyone

who dared to venture into the Last Frontier where few ame-

nities and mind-boggling challenges both frustrated and

exhilarated its participants. Rather than allow my memories

and family stories to fade into senility, I invite you to jour-

ney with me as I relive several boyhood experiences from an

Alaska, a world and a way of life that no longer exist.

I am a retired Presbyterian minister and Boeing se-

My parents drove a

Burma Jeep from Phoenix to

Alaska over the Alcan high-

way a few years after WW II

to homestead in the

Matanuska Valley. They

were no less pioneers

than their counterparts from a century before.

ii My Patchwork Childhood

nior computing systems architect who is passionate about

the Gospel and God’s ministry imparted through the lives

of those who follow Him. As a pastor, I loved to paint word

pictures so the congregation could better identify with the

sermon’s text, and have carried that love into the writing of

these episodes.

1Let's Homestead in Alaska!!

OneLet's Homestead in Alaska!!

His training included a unique type of shorthand ca-

pable of transcribing both German and Japanese. Once on

paper, dad recited the shorthand symbols to a person fluent

in the language who translated it into English if it contained

My mom and dad grew up in Phoenix, Arizona and

right after Pearl Harbor, dad enlisted in the signal corps.

Earl and Mary Combs - Wedding Picture

2 My Patchwork Childhood

information critical to the war effort.

But before he shipped oversees, he volunteered for a

special assignment to test the effectiveness of a nerve gas

recently developed for the military. Officers told the volun-

teers to don face masks and walk down into a shallow de-

pression where canisters would be opened remotely. At a

command, they were to remove their masks, take a breath,

put their masks back on and rejoin the group. When the cue

was given, many of the men died instantly. Dad barely sur-

vived with extensive lung damage. But five of his buddies

were not so fortunate.

After a lengthy recov-

ery, the army declared

dad unfit for active service

and issued an honorable

discharge with a monthly

disability check for eigh-

teen dollars and change.

His lungs required an

expectorant for the rest of

his life. To make matters Earl Combs in Uniform

worse, he smoked cigarettes like most men from the war era


During our first years in Alaska, his government pen-

sion was the only source of hard currency for paying bills.

Many folks encouraged dad to apply for a larger remittance.

But he steadfastly refused saying he was grateful for being

spared, and that the sacrifice was his small part of the war.

After his release, he went to work for the Southern

Pacific Railroad as a clerk. While there, he read in the Ari-

zona Republic newspaper about homesteading in Alaska

and was so intrigued, he shared it with his wife, Mary and

friends, Leo and June Nunley. Homesteading in the contig-

uous United States had long since ceased, and the idea of

owning 160 acres of free real estate seemed like an oppor-

tunity too inviting to pass up.

Initially, dad and Leo thought Homer, Alaska would

be a perfect place to settle down because, in addition to

farming, they could also fish in Kachemak Bay. Unfortu-

nately, Homer had no medical facilities, and the only way to

get there was by ferry from Seward. Even though the guys

promised their wives they could always return to Phoenix

“in a year” if things didn’t work out, mom and June insisted

on a more “civilized” location.

which took an additional toll on his health.


They contacted a US Land Office and found open par-

cels in the Matanuska Valley. A hospital in nearby Palmer

satisfied their initial concerns. So, they filed a request for

two allotments.

Their homesteads, located about seven miles west of

the small village of Wasilla, would give them a chance to

start over. A 1912 amendment also reduced the time they

had to live on and improve their farms from five down to

three years before the property was theirs.

Sure, a few drawbacks existed: the nearest road to

their adjoining sites was about a mile away. Furthermore,

there would be no electricity, running water or sewer not to

mention snowfall began in September, and temperatures

dropped to thirty or forty below for days and weeks at a

time in the dead of winter.

Finally, they would need to build their own homes and

clear five acres for agricultural use. Spring breakup also ren-

dered the dirt roads virtually impassable. But hey—others

did it. So, it couldn’t be all that hard!!

The Alcan (an acronym for Alaska and Canada) had

been built by the Corp of Engineers and would not be avail-

able to the public until late 1947. So, they had time to pre-


pare and save for their new adventure.

At the conclusion of the war, all manner of items, no

longer needed oversees, flooded surplus depots. To con-

quer Alaska’s primitive highways, dad purchased a Burma

Jeep1 he called the Gismo, with a winch in front. The winch

pulled at the same rate as the lowest gear. Together with

4-wheel drive and a vehicle clearance of twenty-five inches,

the winch was an essential component to help extricate the

Jeep from most hopeless situations.

It was not the easiest truck to steer for these two “city

boys.” No power steering and the 4-speed manual transmis-

sion with a 2-speed transfer case was probably not synchro-

nized. So, dad and Leo had to double clutch for every shift to

June, Fred, Leo and Jane Nunley, and Mary, Earl and Bill Combs in front of their trailer and the Burma Jeep they called the Gismo.


keep from grinding the gears. Furthermore, both gearshift

levers were positioned between the driver’s legs and the

6-cylinder, flathead, in-line engine extended into the cabin

making for cramped quarters. The short wheelbase provid-

ed an excellent turning radius but delivered a jarring ride.

And the Spartan folding “passenger” seat faced the driver.

Other purchases from military surplus: a trailer and

extra butane bottles for its built-in heater, a five-man army

tent, fold-up cots and cases of C-rations. The two families

also ordered “polar” clothing from the Sears and Roebuck

catalog: thermal underwear, insulated boots, wool pants/

slacks and shirts/blouses, heavy winter coats and mittens,

sleeping bags, cooking paraphernalia like Coleman stoves,

ovens and lanterns, inexpensive pots, pans, dishes, cups

and utensils, as well as axes, hatchets, shovels, hammers,

“Swede” saws, battery-powered radios and plenty of rope.

Dad visited the local post office and obtained the

address of the corresponding office in Wasilla. After a few

letter exchanges, the two couples secured addresses they

gave to family and friends prior to departure.

They had also amassed nearly $5,000 between

them—a considerable sum in 1947. They wired the money


to a bank in Palmer, Alaska requesting separate checkbooks

so they could more easily pay for services when they arrived.

Queries about conditions on the Alcan confirmed their

suspicions that the best time to leave would be mid-winter

when the roads in the Canadian territories would be blan-

keted with smoothly packed snow. Of course, it would also

be a challenging time to arrive at their new digs.

One final item on their agenda: contact the Arizona

Republic to record a blurb about their trip. The paper was

interested enough to send a photographer and a reporter

to document their upcoming journey. The article came out

two days before they left and proclaimed to friends and

relatives they were on their way to the Last Frontier. How-

ever, it was also seen by another family who would create

numerous headaches during their travels over the Alcan—a

subject in my next episode.


9The Oil Can Highway

TwoThe Oil Can Highway

In the last chapter, I introduced you to my family and

their commitment, shortly after World War II, to travel from

Phoenix, Arizona to homestead in Alaska. They partnered

with their close friends, Leo and June Nunley, and pur-

chased numerous items from army surplus, including a Bur-

ma Jeep dad called the Gismo, and a trailer. The two fami-

lies also procured everything else they thought they would

need and that they could reasonably take with them.

Our adventure continues.

The Alcan (short for

Alaska-Canada) Highway1

had been constructed

through Canada by the Ar-

my Corp of Engineers2 but

did not open to the public

until late 1947. Road

conditions would be best

during the mid-winter

months when packed snow would make it smoother.

Bill Combs - Baby Picture


The departure date of November 11, 1947, had finally

arrived. No one got much sleep the night before with all the

final good-byes and last-minute packing. Then, just as we

started to leave, a car arrived loaded with a family of five: a

couple I will call Joe and Sue since I never knew them, and

three preschool kids.

They had read the newspaper article telling of our

impending journey. The blurb also contained our address-

es—big mistake. Without any planning for an excursion of

this magnitude, the parents determined they also wanted

to homestead in Alaska and asked if they could follow us.

It was obvious they were ill prepared since the car

held all their belongings. What could dad and Leo say but to

grant them “permission.”

Dad also hoped the Burma Jeep’s top speed of 45 mph

might frustrate them as we traveled north, prompting them

to go on ahead at their own pace. His hopes soon evapo-

rated because their car followed us like a puppy. Moreover,

they mooched gas and food at every opportunity and, be-

cause of their kids, we grudgingly met their needs.

Our expedition from Phoenix to Dawson Creek, Cana-

da and the beginning of the Alcan took nearly two weeks,


and was relatively uneventful except for a growing distaste

for Joe’s self-serving disposition.

Snow had been falling in the Yukon territory, provid-

ing a compacted surface for driving. However, their trek

through British Columbia was anything but smooth. The

1700 miles of the Alcan had been built in 1942 in just eight

months through some of the most difficult terrain and cli-

mate in North America3.

It was nicknamed the "Oil Can Highway" by the Corp of

Engineers because of all the oil cans strewn along its route.

Over 310 miles of switchbacks, blind curves, and “expedi-

ent” routes were eliminated by 2012, and the entire stretch

is now paved. But my family faced the old road in all its ug-

liness.

Manhandling the Gismo with a trailer in tow around

a steep, 25 percent grade on one of the switchbacks over

Steamboat Mountain, took its toll one afternoon when the

right front tire dug into the loose gravel at the edge of the

road. As dad tried to steer the Jeep back to solid ground, the

trailer jackknifed sending them careening toward the op-

posite side. Another correction, another jackknife, and the

trailer broke free rolling on its side—with us aboard!


Luckily, it was a slow rollover in the soft gravel, and the

door to the trailer was facing up. Dad and Leo raced over,

climbed onto the side of the trailer, pried opened the door,

and found us all OK, though thoroughly shaken. There was

a gravel pit nearby, and with the temperature plummeting,

a bonfire soon lit up the sky and kept us warm through the

rest of the night. My first memories are of our small band

huddled around that cozy fire.

In the morning, the guys fastened the wench cable to

the side of the trailer, slowly righted it, hitched it to the Gis-

mo, and pulled it back onto the road. Regrettably, the acci-

dent separated portions of the trailer walls from its wheel-

base making it somewhat unsafe for further travel.

So, dad motored the approximately 46 miles back

to Fort Nelson to pick up roofing tar, heavy tarps, narrow

wooden boards, nails, tacks, and more food, while Leo

stayed behind to keep the bonfire stoked. Mom and June

spent the time while dad was gone rearranging the inside

of the trailer.

When dad returned, they folded the tarps into pan-

els to cover the lower sections of the trailer and the upper

portion of its base, heated the tar by the fire and slathered


the hot tar all over the affected segments of the trailer while

smoothing the tarp bands into the tar before it cooled. Then

they secured the tarps with roofing tacks and boards the

length of the trailer. Unfortunately, this mishap added near-

ly a week’s time to make sure the trailer would stay together

over the rough roads.

Service stations along the highway were located

about 100 to 150 miles apart, making it necessary to gas

up at every one. They all sold food as well as fuel. But not all

included roadhouses with lodging and restaurant facilities.

Whenever we encountered the latter, we always stopped

for a “home-cooked” meal. Knowing we would always pull

in at every station, Joe soon decided to go on ahead of us.

One evening just after entering the Yukon territory, we

drove into a service station to find Joe’s car parked in front

of a roadhouse still running. Puzzled, dad looked inside and,

seeing the children slumped over in their seats, he quickly

yelled for help.

Everyone responded immediately. They pulled the

kids out of the car, reeking of exhaust fumes, and force-

walked them around the parking lot to bring them back to

consciousness.


Once inside the roadhouse, they accosted Joe for leav-

ing his young family in the car while they ate. Joe turned

and rather matter-of-factly replied, “You can expect to lose

one or two on a trip like this.” Mom and dad had lost their

first child due to a miscarriage, and I had barely made it as

well. So, you can imagine how his comments sat with them.

Every night was now well below freezing. Sue and her

kids were invited to sleep in our trailer—which was already

cramped—instead of their car. Her children slept on the

floor, and she curled up in the door-well with her head on

the landing.

Of course, Joe was not too happy with this arrange-

ment, and every morning he flung the door open, tore off

the blanket from his sleeping wife and shouted, “Get me my

breakfast, woman!” My mother’s fuse grew a little shorter

each time it happened, but she said nothing.

Even though the propane heater kept the trailer warm,

the door-well was quite a bit cooler, and it wasn’t long be-

fore Sue came down with a cold. Mom didn’t want her con-

dition to worsen. So, dad ended up on the floor with me—

Sue and her kids slept in their bed—and mom curled up in

the door-well for the night.


Suddenly, at first light, the trailer door flew open, Joe

ripped the blanket off the sleeping person in front of him

and bellowed, “Get me my breakfast, wo . . .” He terminated

his demand as soon as he realized the woman was not his

wife. Too late!

Mom had kept her clothes and shoes on to help her

stay warm. Grabbing the cheap broom they stored nearby,

she came boiling out of the trailer with fire in her eyes. She

sprinted after his hastily retreating form while screaming

every reprehensible expletive she could think of and beat-

ing him mercilessly until she broke the head off the broom.

A much chastened Joe always knocked politely on the

door of the trailer for the remainder of the journey.


17Homesteaders-R-US Part One

ThreeHomesteaders-R-US

Part One

In the last chapter, I shared how we journeyed over the

Alcan during winter, the best time of the year to travel this

unpredictable new highway. Unfortunately, the farewell

article in the Arizona newspaper caught the attention of a

couple with three preschool kids who wanted to tag along.

Our adventure continues.

Shortly after we crossed the border into Alaska and

were on our way to Tok (pronounced Toke), Joe informed

dad and Leo that he and his family wanted to head back to

Young Bill Combs - Phoenix

I referred to those

parents as Joe and Sue

since I never knew them.

In addition to being

totally unprepared for

such an undertaking, Joe’s

obstreperous disposi-

tion tried the patience of

everyone.


Phoenix. His wife and kids slept with us in our warm trailer

while he remained in his car. Apparently, sleeping alone ev-

ery night in sub-zero temperatures as we passed through

the Yukon territory dampened his enthusiasm for home-

steading in Alaska. Dad gave him $100 and wished them

well—relieved that they wouldn’t be a further burden.

From Tok, one could continue on to Fairbanks, or turn

toward Anchorage. We headed south through Glennallen,

Palmer, and arrived in Wasilla on December 23rd, 1947.

Wasilla was the nearest village to our homesteads

where, according to the locals, 108 souls resided counting

dogs and chickens. It had been established with a train

A 3X5 postcard mom and dad picked up at the roadhouse when they arrived in Wasilla to send back to family in Phoenix. This shows main street and the railroad crossing. Teeland’s store is the large building on the right. The road to the right leads to Palmer.


station to support the gold and coal mines in the nearby

Talkeetna mountain range. Walt and Vivian Teeland’s Coun-

try Store1 was the hub of daily life. Down a boardwalk from

Teeland’s, the Roadhouse offered meals and a place to stay.

Farther up, a small post office provided a link to the out-

side world and a few more steps brought you to a log cabin

Grange Hall, the focal point of many social functions.

The local bar was situated across the street from Tee-

land’s, and up from there, Rose and Oscar Johnson built a

sauna where people also held meetings. A few streets be-

hind the bar, the Presbyterian church and school house

served the families in the region.

After parking in front of the roadhouse, we dragged

our weary bodies inside, grateful that our journey from

Phoenix was finally over. We stayed at the roadhouse until

Leo found a contractor with a Caterpillar D8 bulldozer2 who

could construct a right-of-way into his property. (My first

memories of Alaska: walking behind that huge machine as

it cleared a mile-long driveway from Hayfield Road.)

Cottonwood Creek bordered our two allotments. After

the driveway was finished and the Nunley's had settled in

for the night in the trailer, the three of us went for a walk


to take a closer look at our new digs. A full moon lit up

the frost crystals covering the trees and the ice diamonds

in the snow so much there was little need for a flashlight.

Following a path across the frozen creek where the ice was

white and not clear, we soon approached a clearing about

two hundred yards away. We could just make out several

dark forms bedded down in the open space when sudden-

ly three moose sprang to their feet and disappeared into

the surrounding forest. Mom gasped in amazement and

exclaimed with tears in her eyes, “That is where I want our

house!”

Leo wanted to use the majority of his remaining funds

to develop his required five acres to fulfill the homestead

act. A log cabin3 would keep his home-building costs down,

and plenty of spruce trees on his parcel were well-suited for

this type of structure.

But a log cabin was not what mom envisioned in the

clearing where she had seen the moose. She wanted our

home designed with lumber. So, we decided to erect the

log cabin first during the spring and summer of 1948. We

stayed in the trailer, and the Nunley's lived in the five-man

army tent.


As soon as spring breakup ended, dad and Leo started

felling enough spruce trees to satisfy the design specifica-

tions in the log cabin construction manual they checked

out from the library in Palmer. One especially sunny day

found the crew in a small meadow near the driveway and

only about a hundred yards from the trailer. While mom

and June fixed lunch, dad stationed Jane and me at the far

end of the meadow out of danger. Fred was old enough to

be nearer where the guys were Swede-sawing their way

through another spruce tree.

My Encounter with a Spruce TreeJust as the trunk started to crack, mom and June came

back with lunch. From their perspective, Jane and I ap-

peared to be standing too close to the falling tree. So, they

yelled frantically for us to come running—and, of course,

we did—right under the tree’s downward trajectory. The

tree had already begun to sway. But, dad and Leo pushed

back on the trunk with all their might, hoping to slow the

inevitable—even for a moment. All too soon, though, they

had to step back and let the tree fall.

Meanwhile, Jane and I kept running as rapidly as our

little legs could take us. Then: KAA—W-U-M-P. Jane was


more than a year older than me. So she ran faster and es-

caped all but a swipe from a few spruce needles. For me—a

small branch clipped the side of my right temple, tore open

my scalp, and cracked my skull, leaving me unconscious

with blood all over my face.

Dad was there in an instant, checking to see if I was

trapped under any other limbs. Fortunately, I was fast

enough to run well past the main trunk, and the only dam-

age was to my head. Both men had received emergency

first-aid training in the army. So they knew not to relocate

me until they were sure my neck wasn't broken.

began asking questions: “Can you wiggle your fingers and

Me with my bandaged head.

Mom and June raced

back to the trailer for a

pan of water, towels and

wash cloths, and the

all-important first aid

kit. I eventually regained

consciousness enough to

realize dad was holding

my head and encouraging

me not to move. Then, he


My responses were all normal. So, dad asked me to

slowly turn my head—again, no issues with movement.

Then, he gently picked me up, and cradling me in his arms,

transported me to the driveway where he sat me down on

a berm.

The ladies returned, relieved that I seemed to be OK.

Mom gingerly washed the blood off my face except for the

immediate injury area. Dad cut small strips of medical tape,

and while mom dried the skin on either side of the lesion,

he used the tape to close the wound. A quick trip to the

hospital in Palmer confirmed that my encounter with the

spruce tree had inflicted a slight concussion and little more.

Palmer hospital in 1947 when we arrived in Alaska. The log cabin hospital had burned down. A colony house and Quonset hut were hastily erected to serve the surrounding communities. Courtesy of the Palmer Historical Society Colony House Museum.

toes? What is your name? Can you follow my fingers with

your eyes—and how many fingers can you see?”


A Log Cabin for the Nunley'sLeo rented a draft horse, harness, and chains from Bar-

ry’s farm on the other side of Wasilla. Then, with all the trees

down, cut to length and peeled, dad led the horse to our lo-

cation while Leo hauled the gear and enough hay and grain

for the animal in the Gismo. They spent the next few weeks

yarding timbers out of the woods to the home site, and re-

turning the horse and gear.

I don’t remember much about how the cabin went to-

gether—just a lot of notches cut in the ends of logs; hoist-

ing them into place, and caulking the cracks. But by late

summer, the Nunley’s had a place to stay complete with a

barrel wood stove4 to keep them warm.

A spring erupted out of the hillside just down from

Leo’s home and flowed so plentifully that it remained open

through most of the winter. A new rock bed and sides made

it easier to extract water without disturbing the sediment.

One of my jobs: retrieving the best water I have ever tasted

for our consumption.


Here I am holding my Teddy bear next to the log cabin.

Here I am on my rocking horse next to the log cabin.


Grandpa even made me a swing.

After my mishap with the spruce tree, Grandpa decided to come up from Phoenix and help keep me occupied. Here we are cutting firewood for the winter.

27Homesteaders-R-US Part Two

FourHomesteaders-R-US

Part Two

During the winter of 1948, dad hired the Caterpillar D8

bulldozer operator to extend the driveway from Leo’s house

to our home; clear three, five-acre fields; dig a shallow pit

for a root cellar, and build up the road on either side of Cot-

tonwood Creek for a bridge. Dad also purchased two, fif-

teen-foot railroad track rails from a surplus yard to span the

stream so he wouldn’t have to put any pilings in the middle.

In my last episode, I

shared how we arrived

in Wasilla and built a log

cabin for the Nunley's.

Now it was our turn to

create a nest in the wil-

derness.

Our adventure con-

tinues.Bill Combs in the clearing where the moose had bedded down.


First, a BridgeAfter spring breakup, dad had the rails delivered and

set in place about a foot wider than the wheel base of

the Gismo. Crossways on top of the rails, he and Leo laid

4"x12"x8' planks about three inches apart to make a bridge

deck. Next, they positioned 2"x12"x16' boards—two for

each tire track— and nailed them to the deck. Afterwards,

they leveled the on ramps for easy access.

Next, a WellWith the bridge in place, all manner of materials could

be delivered. Before the construction of our home began,

we had to dig a well under where the kitchen sink would be

located. Since our site was only a few feet above the creek,

we found more than enough water with a shallow well. A

six-inch sewer pipe served as the casing for the 1-1/4 inch

galvanized pipe for a pitcher pump1 at the sink.

Then, our HouseOur delivered building material included used 7”x9”x8’

Creosote-treated railroad ties and concrete blocks. Dad dug

the holes at four-foot intervals deeper than the frost line so

the posts would not be affected by the changing weather

conditions. He positioned a block at the bottom of each


hole and placed a post cut from the ties on top of the block.

Next, he filled gravel in around the post and tamped earth

around it at ground level. Dad and Leo fastened railroad ties

with spikes to the posts to serve as stringers to complete

the foundation.

Then, they attached

2"x12" floor joists to the

ties with angle braces

and covered them with

shiplap2 as a subfloor. My

job: helping Fred bring

nails and boards to dad

and Leo.

2"x4" stud wall Chow time for the building crew.

frames were next; more shiplap exterior siding; rafter assem-

blies; insulation; doors and windows; and a plywood-cov-

ered-with-tarpaper roof. They overlaid the inside of the wall

studs and ceiling joists with Celotex sheeting painted white,

and because mom wanted hardwood floors, dad installed

bead-board3 throughout—the only “hardwood” he could

afford. A 55-gallon barrel wood stove provided heating for

the house.


Since we did not have electricity yet, dad fastened

hooks at various locations in the ceiling to hang Colman

lanterns4 for nighttime illumination. We purchased a lot of

white gas for our Colman implements, and there was a side

benefit to buying in bulk. Two, five-gallon Blazo white gas

cans came in a wooden crate with a wooden divider. These

boxes, mounted to the ceiling in the kitchen, made suitable

cabinets especially with a cloth curtain to keep out the dust.

Dad mounted a pitcher pump beside the sink with a

five-gallon bucket underneath to capture the effluent and

hooked it up to the well—our version of indoor plumb-

ing. Dad constructed counter tops under the cabinets and

rounded out the kitchen decor with a Coleman camp stove5

and oven6 for cooking.

Finally, a Root CellarWith the house in order, we hurried to finish the root

cellar7 before snow fall. It was literally a log cabin partially

underground: logs on edge for walls; a 2"x12" treated plate

along the top to anchor the cross-beam timbers, covered

with tar paper to delay rotting; hooks for hanging cabbag-

es; sawdust bins to keep root vegetables; shelves for canned

goods and sacks of potatoes; a double-layer shiplap entry


door filled with sawdust for insulation, and a trap door lead-

ing down steps to the entry door. Once completed, we en-

closed the cellar with earth so its contents wouldn’t freeze

in the winter and remain cool during the summer.

To celebrate our new digs, dad ordered a watermel-

on from Teeland’s country store. It was more than a bit

pricey—a dollar a pound—and we ate everything but the

seeds. It was a surprise and a blessing for mom who missed

some of the nicer things she enjoyed in Phoenix.

Electricity Would Be NiceOf course, like any family, we wanted electricity. But

since we lived out in the “boonies,” the Rural Electric Associ-

ation (REA) said we were low on their list—unless we agreed

to slash a lane along the road to our homes. If we complied,

they would install the poles and hook us up more quickly.

Bill and Ila (ila) Senske’s house—the closest home with

electricity—was over four miles away. Dad and Leo accept-

ed REA’s terms, and we began the arduous undertaking in

1950 right after they marked the course with white flags.

The right-of-way had to be wide enough to accommodate

trucks and a tractor with a post-hole digging attachment.

All the tree and shrub trunks had to be cut no more than


a few inches above the ground. We stacked logs alongside

the route so as not to hinder their vehicles. And a path from

the road had to be created every mile or so to facilitate easy

access to the right-of-way.

It was backbreaking work, done largely with Swede

saws and axes. Our one saving grace: the wench on the Gis-

mo. Using a pulley attached to a tree trunk just outside the

right-of- way, Leo would wrap the Jeep's cable around a log

so the Gismo could yard it to the side. Of course, Fred and I

were conscripted to haul branches.

Lunch was always a welcomed break, and the long

Alaskan summer days gave us more time to finish before

snowfall in September. What seemed at first to be an insur-

mountable task was completed in time, and the REA prom-

ised they would connect us the next year.

Mama Kills a “Goose” Mom could not drive the Gismo. So, dad bought an

army surplus Jeep8 so the two of them could get around

much easier. It came equipped with a starter and a manual

crank if the battery went dead.

One late summer day, mom drove the Jeep to visit the

Lemon’s a couple of miles away. August is the rainy season


in the valley and there was shallow, standing water on the

road near their house. A bird that looked like a goose to

mom appeared to be stranded at the edge in the grass.

“I killed a goose on the way to Lemon’s," she proudly

proclaimed holding it up for all to see. Dad looked at it and

gently told her he thought it was a loon and not a goose.

But to make sure, he drove mom, me and the bird over to

the Senske’s.

Once there, Ila confirmed it was indeed a loon, winked

at dad and mentioned she knew a recipe for cooking a loon.

She asked if we had a pressure cooker and an old boot. Puz-

zled, mom said yes—and Ila continued.

“Pluck and prepare the loon like you would a goose.

Boil it and the boot in the cooker for 5 hours. When the

It must have been

hit by a passing car, she

thought. Grabbing the

crank out of the back of

the Jeep, she ran the bird

down and beat the poor

thing to death. She threw Dad relaxing in their new Jeep.

it in the Jeep and raced home to show off her prize.


cooker cools, open it, throw away the loon and eat the boot.”

Mom was not amused.

EpilogueThe loon likely mistook the shallow, standing water on

the road for a pond and landed. Loons are capable swim-

mers, divers, and flyers. But they cannot take off on land,

needing an extended stretch of deeper water to become

airborne. Because their legs are so far back on their body,

they can hardly walk. So, it was not hard for mom to catch

this hapless bird. Had she not killed it, its demise from an-

other predator was inevitable.

Unlike ducks and geese that feed on vegetation, loons

consume a diet mostly of fish, frogs, snails, salamanders and

leeches9 giving their rather bony flesh a distinctive fishy

taste. Although they are protected in most states, they were

once hunted when other more preferred migratory fowl

were unavailable. And their unsavory reputation proliferat-

ed a host of loon recipes as jokes about these magnificent

icons of the north woods. Here are links to two other loon

recipes10.

35Our Three-Holer

FiveOur Three-Holer

(An excerpt from my new bookWho Told You That You Were Naked?)

from a flashlight was on

our homestead in Alaska

at age six. Our family’s

modern conveniences

were only two: Coleman

lanterns and an indoor

pitcher pump.

The three-holer be-

hind our house, however,

was the envy of our

neighbors. My grandpa built it even before our house was

complete. He was a large, friendly man, intensely proud that

we had journeyed over the Alcan highway from Phoenix to

the Matanuska Valley shortly after World War II to try our

hand at farming. No unisex, one-size-fits-all outhouse for

his daughter’s family! Only a well-designed, ergonomically

Bill Combs at our homestead.

My first encounter with light as more than illumination


Grandpa constructed the walls from bark-edged

boards, the first cuts from logs at the mill. This lumber kept

the cost of the project down and contributed to the rustic,

country appearance he was after. A tar paper roof enhanced

its rural ambiance, and he fitted the inside of the door with

a brass hook for extra privacy.

Next, he lavished his loving attention on the structure’s

interior, sanding the sides and top of the furniture-grade fir

throne to a smooth, satin finish. An ample book rack and

toilet paper dispenser adorned each end—along with ac-

commodations for papa bear, mama bear, and me.

As the only lefty in the family, my little aperture was lo-

cated on the left side nearer the front edge and came com-

plete with a built-in footstool so my legs wouldn’t dangle

over the side.

Grandpa finished the privy before we had electricity,

so it had no light bulbs or heat—minor inconveniences

during Alaska’s long summer days. But in the dead of win-

ter, after he had flown back to Arizona, the darkness and

sub-zero weather severely limited our outside reading.

engineered masterpiece providing years of trouble-free ser-

vice would do.

37Our Three-Holer

The bitter cold did not hamper my nightly treks out-

doors so much as the uneasy feeling the long nights creat-

ed in me. I carried a small penlight just powerful enough to

brighten the path immediately in front of my feet. On most

occasions, the snow reflected the moonlight and stars, but I

could also make out the shadowy forms of the trees around

the house. It didn’t take much imagination to hear and see

all manner of foreboding creatures lurking at the edge of

the woods!

I remember one night, slipping out of my warm bed

and into my wool coat, knit cap, canvas mukluks1, and mit-

tens. The crisp air bit at my nose and face as I ventured

out the back door. With clear sky and no moon, the stars

reached right down to the cold snow. My senses soon be-

came accustomed to the night and I was sure I could detect

something crashing through the forest in the distance.

I was just a few steps from the house when large, fresh

moose tracks confronted me! The night seemed to close in

on my pounding heart as I reconsidered my outing. Sure-

ly the beast would not attack me in the three-holer, so I

flashed my trembling light ahead of me and hurried on.

Once inside, I listened so hard for evil noises I hardly


noticed the occasional glimmer filtering through the cracks

in the walls. With my business finished, I pulled up my “jam-

mies” and cautiously stepped outside into . . . a breathtaking

wonderland. From out of nowhere, a spectacular display of

the northern lights2 set the night sky ablaze.

Huge folds of colored brilliance whipped and arced

across the heavens as if dancing to an unseen choreogra-

pher’s directives. At times, the hues became so intense the

frost crystals covering the trees and the ice diamonds in the

snow sparkled with undulating shades of yellow-green, red,

and purple.

This drama so illuminated the surrounding landscape

Moose often came right up close to our home. In the foreground, my new Schwinn bicycle.

39Our Three-Holer

that I forgot to turn on my flashlight. Gone was the fear the

tracks had elicited earlier, and in its place came a beckoning

to stay and participate in the dance.

I do not know how

long I stood there sway-

ing with the silent music

and marveling at its

majesty. Eventually, I

returned to the house and

answered Mom’s concern

for my lengthy absence.

What a difference be-

tween a tiny penlight and

the splendor of the Mom and me at our homestead.

aurora borealis! My trusty possession was totally predict-

able. It came on at my bidding and, as long as I changed

the batteries, kept my immediate horizon from playing too

many tricks on me. It also focused on precisely those things

in which I was interested, but its paltry beam restricted the

scope of my world. The trees and snow drifts did not change

with the setting of the sun, but my perception of them defi-

nitely did. My artificial candle outlined more shadows


Just as a Hebrew day is defined as a period of dark-

ness followed by a period of light, the Old Testament is

sometimes viewed as a shadow of the truth revealed in the

Gospels. We are tempted to skip through this extended in-

troduction to rejoice in God’s love and forgiveness in Jesus

Christ.

Like stepping out into the Alaskan winter night, I have

often directed my controlled beam of spiritual illumination

at those early pages, hoping to better understand the God

I could not see. Each time I retraced my careful footprints

from the litany of creation through Malachi, I found myself

longing to walk with God as Adam and Moses did. Their

light was not the Sonshine of the New Testament, but an

Aurora in Excelsis Deo nonetheless!

Then quite unexpectedly, a different kind of brass

hook unlatched and an old wooden door slowly creaked

open in my mind. I heard the words, “Who told you that you

were naked?” as though I had been there on that tumultu-

ous afternoon with our great, great, great . . . great, great

grandparents.

than reality and left me wrestling with images I could not

perceive.

41Our Three-Holer

It is said the genesis of all biblical revelation has its

roots in the first book of the Bible. My knowledge of sin, sal-

vation, and faith had been largely shaped through the lens

of the New Testament. Standing in the garden that day, as it

were, brought a much deeper understanding of these criti-

cal building blocks.

How I "Helped" Mom's RoseMom loved roses. In Phoenix, they graced walkways

and patios to brighten nearly every home. Native wild ros-

es flourished on our homestead, and I relished eating their

ripe rose hips. But these delicate pink flowers didn’t keep

their petals very long, and their radiance paled in compari-

son to the ones mom grew up with in Arizona.

Alaska’s brutal winter environment devastated most

cultivated varieties, especially in the late 1940’s. However,

dad managed to find a hardy strain and purchased one for

mom. She planted it outside our front door as soon as the

weather improved, and we all waited eagerly to witness its

first blooms.

Mom’s new acquisition fascinated me because I was

too young when we left Phoenix to appreciate their roses.

Every morning, I retreated to our porch to study each new


development. First, the leaves, then the buds, and then the

buds started to swell. But it looked like even the biggest one

would never open, and when its petals began to separate

from their tight configuration, I grew more impatient with

the slow advancement.

So, I decided to “assist” by pulling its petals apart ever

so gently each day—hoping to hasten its progress. But my

efforts didn’t seem to help much, and after a while, I started

leaving the house by the back door with dad to work in the

fields.

Then, about two weeks later, I remembered to check

on the rose again and found it covered with beautiful red

roses—radiant all except one—the one I had “helped.” It

was in full bloom, and its color was every bit as bright as the

rest of its neighbors. But its outer petals were gnarled and

misshapen and stood as a stark reminder that my interces-

sion had inadvertently kept it from achieving its ultimate

splendor.

I drew a picture of the bush and sent it as a gift to dad’s

mom. I never forgot the life lesson I learned that spring

“helping” mom’s rose, and was reminded of it many de-

cades later when I saw my faded drawing hanging on a wall

43Our Three-Holer

in gramma’s bedroom.

The drawing I made of mom’s rose bush. I took a picture of it at gramma’s home and enhanced it with Photoshop. You can tell I was much more interested in the flowers than in the leaves.


45Phoenix Seeds For an Alaskan Farm

SixPhoenix Seeds

For an Alaskan Farm

Now, with the spring of 1951 approaching, dad pur-

chased a Ford Ferguson tractor1. Attachments includ-

ed a two-bottom plow2, a harrow3, a cargo box, a small,

rear-mounted grader blade4 for smoothing the driveway

out to the main road, and a small, circular saw mill5 for cut-

Bill and John Combs

electricity.

operator to clear three,

five-acre tracts near our

house and push the trees

and stumps into two

windrows dividing them.

Those areas remained

fallow for two years while

we built our house and

slashed a right-of-way for

the REA to install

During the winter of 1948, dad hired the bulldozer


ting firewood.

Even though the tree stumps had been cleared, the

three fields still contained numerous roots large and small–

all of which needed to be extracted before plowing began.

The two-year hiatus turned out to be a blessing because the

smaller roots came out easily when pulled up by hand. Dad

and I removed the rest one at a time with either the tractor

or the wench on the Gismo.

Dad decided to prepare the field directly in front of

our home for a vegetable garden while it was still spring.

We readied the other parcels later that summer. Speaking

of vegetables, dad asked his mother in Phoenix to send

him a seed catalog while we waited for the breakup to end.

He and mom perused the entries and picked crops they

thought would sell well in Wasilla and Palmer.

The first plowing was arduous because the tractor kept

finding hidden roots. The ground was eventually ready and

we staked out rows for the seeds dad ordered. The length-

ening summer day rewarded our efforts as row upon row

of green shoots turned into young plants. Of course, there

was always weeding—a minor inconvenience watching our

new crops flourish in the extended sunshine.


Unhappily, what started out well didn’t end up quite

as planned. The carrots did fine. But the cabbages, broccoli,

and cauliflower didn’t mature like the pictures on the seed

packages. Puzzled, mom and dad asked Ila (ila) and Bill Sen-

ske what they thought went wrong.

Our quandary stymied them at first until dad men-

tioned he received the seeds through a catalog. “Did it

come from Phoenix?” Bill asked. “Yes,” replied dad. “Well, I am

afraid that is the reason for your poor showing. That catalog

contains codes to help the seed company know where in

the country their seeds will be planted. You bought seeds

for your farm that were designed to grow well in Arizona.”

We sold most of the carrots. However, there was on-

ly so much room in our root cellar for immature heads of

cabbage, broccoli, Brussels sprout stocks and cauliflower.

The rest stayed in the field and fed the moose that winter.

We didn’t lack for food: moose meat, trout and salmon from

Cottonwood Creek, vegetables from our estate, and wild

currant jelly.

Communal Shopping

During Spring BreakupI have mentioned before that the breakup offered its


own set of challenges. The rapidly melting snow and em-

bedded frost turned our dirt roads into ugly stretches of ax-

le-deep mud making them practically impassable for sev-

eral weeks at a time. Our one saving grace: the Gismo with

its winch on the front to extricate us from any predicament.

So, when we and the Nunley’s went grocery shopping

during breakup, we always stopped to pick up our neigh-

bors on the way to town. Of course, those same folks always

invited us all in for a bite to eat on the return trip, and it

often took days to get all the way back home.

John is Born “Outside”Mom endured another miscarriage after we arrived in

Alaska, and when she became pregnant again in 1951, she

insisted on returning to Phoenix where the medical facili-

ties were not so primitive. So, mom and I flew “outside” in

December to stay with her brother Harvey and his wife Dor-

othy until John was born in early January.

After we left, dad walled off one part of the house and

made two bedrooms for John and me. Next, he built a “mas-

ter bedroom” between our rooms and the kitchen. Then, he

moved the barrel wood stove out to an addition at the other

end of the house, created a bathroom and installed a toilet


and shower. Of course, he waited to hook them up until af-

ter he dug another well under the house and designed a

septic drain field6 so we could have indoor plumbing.

No Green ThumbOur farming successes in 1952 didn’t fare much better

than the year before. Since he was working full time at the

experimental station, dad decided to develop only a small

patch of vegetables and devote most of the clearing in front

of our home to potatoes. We obtained several sacks of seed

potatoes7 in Palmer, cut them in quarters so that each piece

had only one or two eyes, dipped them in a yellow treat-

ment solution to ward off fungal rot and planted them in

hilled rows. Once again, the plants came up as expected.

Mom, John, and Bill with Aunt Dorothy in the background.

In the meantime,

dad went to work for the

agricultural experimental

station near Palmer. And

when mom and I returned

to Alaska with John, we all

moved into an apartment

at the compound until

dad finished the improvements on our homestead.


Unfortunately, when we harvested the potatoes, they were

not much larger than golf balls.

The culprit this time: lack of nutrients. Dad mistakenly

thought our virgin property could support several seasons

before he needed to add fertilizer. All the information he

read about farming in the lower forty-eight states said so.

Our severe winters meant it took a long time to convert veg-

etation into usable plant food. The previous crop depleted

our poor soil to the point where the vines had little left to

feed their tubers. So once again, we and our neighbors had

plenty of nourishment for the winter—this time in the form

of baby potatoes.

Boat EggsSo, maybe we weren’t the most astute farmers at grow-

ing crops in Alaska. There was one glaring need that seemed

to jump out at mom and dad every time they bought gro-

ceries—fresh eggs. Those for sale in Wasilla and Palmer had

been shipped up by barge from Seattle and were more than

a month old. Needless to say, to a person from Phoenix, their

unpleasant odor and taste made them almost unpalatable.

And when fried in a skillet, the whites ran to the edge of the

pan, and the yoke flattened to almost the same height as


the whites. Moreover, the stores charged a dollar for each

dozen of these specimens—a huge price at the time.

One hundred chickens might reasonably produce

three dozen fresh eggs a day amounting to around ninety

per month. Surely it would cost no more than half of our

sales to provide food for the birds, and we cut enough

wood for free to keep them warm in the winter.

So, we embarked on a new adventure. First, dad or-

dered building material and enough chicken wire to en-

close a bird run for them to live outside most of the day

during the spring, summer and early fall. Next, we built a

simple coop with nest boxes and roosting poles and a stor-

age room for feed and egg shell supplement. Finally, dad

purchased enough chicks to ensure we would have at least

100 hens, and we nurtured them with all the excitement

and expectation we lavished on our other projects.

When the hens started laying, we carried the eggs to

the house, washed and candled them to make sure they

did not contain any blood spots, and then put them in egg

cartons. Teeland’s in Wasilla and a grocery market in Palmer

agreed to try them. So, we took our first consignment in and

eagerly awaited our anticipated payment.


However, when we delivered the next batch, the

manager told us they had received numerous complaints.

From mom’s perspective, ours mirrored the ones she

shopped for in Phoenix. But for our Alaskan customers who

grew up on boat eggs, ours had no flavor or aroma. They

even acted weird when cracked into a frying pan. Their

whites stood up instead of running to the edge, and the

yokes looked just like eyes staring back at the person trying

to eat them. Had we marketed poultry for meat, we might

have been able to sell the birds. Regrettably, these were lay-

ing hens and way too skinny. So, we ate eggs and chickens

for the rest of the year.

53The Wasilla Follies

SevenThe Wasilla Follies

The local bar, located across the street from Teeland’s

Country Store, held dances nearly every weekend. With

no rules in those days for minors in establishments serv-

ing liquor, everyone was invited—kids included—because

babysitting was out of the question. The dance area accom-

modated twenty or more couples. An upright piano and a

record player for 45 and 78 RPM vinyl records supplied the

Bill, the fisherman with a spring rainbow trout.

our ten-party telephone

lines functioned like a

reality show with us as the

entertainment since our

neighbors always listened

in. With little diversion at

home, community activi-

ties became an important

part of Wasilla’s social

fabric.

In the fifties, few families had television sets. Moreover,


music for polkas1, schottisches2, waltzes, and foxtrots3. And

kids of all ages actively participated with the adults. Parents

cared for their infants, and everyone went home by eleven.

The FolliesFor several winters, the locals sponsored their version

of the Ziegfeld Follies4 at the Grange Hall complete with a

chorus line and vaudeville5 skits. Here are a few of the many

scheduled acts.

After a short intermission, the curtain was drawn back

to reveal a bar scene where dad portrayed this poor way-

ward lass as shown in my second photo. Other "ladies of the

Dad lip-singing a Beatrice Kay song.

lip-singing “She’s More To Be Pitied Than Censored” while

Beatrice Kay’s recording6 played behind him.

Men dressed as

ladies performed most of

the singing and dancing

and dad was no excep-

tion. I have included sev-

eral pictures of dad in the

follies. The first one shows

him in a dress standing at

a microphone and


children in attendance. With burlesque music in the back-

ground, and whooping and hollering from the spectators,

Carl first discarded a shawl followed by a dress, a skirt, a

blouse and finally a bra. Next, he playfully tore off baby

bottle nipples he had taped to his hairy chest and threw

them into the gathering. As a finale, he grabbed his wig and

Dad as the poor wayward lass.

night” are depicted in the

third photograph below.

Then, Carl Paulson

came on and impersonat-

ed a strip-tease artist7. Of

course, he only stripped

down to a pink tutu out of

consideration for the

Dad liked to have fun. That's him on the right.


tossed it into the air.

While Carl did his thing, a crew set up the next act be-

hind the curtain—a medical procedure by a quack doctor.

The stage consisted of an “operating table” with plywood

in front of it to block the audience’s view. Under the table:

several items such as a tin can, a brush, a small pan and a

jar had been tied to a chord. Surgical equipment included

a wooden mallet, a small piece of firewood, a hefty knife, a

small pitcher of water, and a potato sack needle with a long

string through its eye. A powerful flood light was stationed

behind where the action would soon take place.

When the skit started, an announcer came out

in front to inform everyone that during the previous per-

formance, a member of the cast had gotten very sick and

needed an immediate operation to save his life. With the

actors standing behind the curtain, the light was turned on.

All the audience witnessed were silhouette images of the

participants.

The spoof opened with the doctor and his assistant

behind the table. A man staggered in, bent over and howl-

ing in pain that something was terribly wrong with his belly.

The physician quickly surmised he needed surgery immedi-


ately to save his life. So, the patient got on the table, and the

nurse administered a knockout anesthesia with the mallet.

(She actually struck a chunk of firewood located next to his

head.)

As soon as the victim stopped shuddering from the

blow, the doctor made an incision across the patient’s mid-

section with the knife—and, from the audience’s silhouette

perspective, he reached in and began pulling out the chord

with the can, brush, and other paraphernalia attached to it.

He kept up a constant chatter with his assistant, dramatiz-

ing the gravity of each new discovery.

After removing the impediments, the doctor asked

for a needle and thread and proceeded to stitch up the

wound. Once the laceration was closed, his nurse doused

the poor chap with the pitcher of water. The patient sat up,

thanking everyone for saving his life. Afterward, they all

came out from behind the curtain and bowed low to the

delight of those in attendance.

Next, Ted Mumson and Glen Barnes, who both worked

for the Alaska Railroad, Ernie Line, the high school superin-

tendent, and John Blissard, teacher, took the stage. They re-

galed the audience with several rousing barbershop quar-


tet numbers dressed in traditional red striped vests, straw

hats, arm garters, canes, bow ties and handlebar mustaches.

As a final vaudeville act, dad had one more treat for the

onlookers. A stagehand erected a huge sign in front of the

curtain which read: “You Are About To Observe Something

You Have Never Seen Before And Will Never See Again.” Dad

strolled out onto the stage and assumed the posture of an

academic scholar. He began by telling them the object he

was about to reveal had likely originated in Argentina or

Bolivia and had been passed down through many gener-

ations, ending up in one of the southern states. His exposi-

tion lasted at least five minutes before he asked the crowd if

they wanted to witness this unique article.

The kids were especially eager. So dad inserted his

right hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a peanut in

the shell. He carefully showed it to everyone. Then, he broke

open the shell and held up one of the peanuts declaring,

“You have never before seen this particular peanut.” Pop-

ping it into his mouth and slowly eating it, he went on to

say, “Furthermore, you will never ever see it again.”

The Other Side of the TreeDad taught me a valuable lesson while we were walk-


ing along Cottonwood Creek by our home that has served

me well over the years. During our walk, he asked me to

look at a tree in front of us and tell him what I observed. I

briefly described it, and we continued. Later, we returned by

the same path, and he asked me to examine the tree again.

This time, I saw a large burl8 on its trunk and defined it in

great detail.

Then he said, “When you face difficult challenges in

life, it is sometimes best to approach them from the oppo-

site way most folks are taking because in doing so, you will

discover critical clues they have missed.”

Finding the RoadEach year during the summer, the Civil Engineering

department at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks deployed

several teams of professors so their student engineers could

gain hands-on experience charting the path for a highway.

They started with existing roads to make the exercise easier.

Their assignment was simple: find the road using on-

ly their survey tools and maps to make sure the route was

where their instruments said it should be. After becoming

proficient at this task, they graduated to virgin trails through

the wilderness where trees and other obstacles presented


more real-world situations.

For some reason, the road just outside Wasilla leading

to our homestead became a favorite target for these “be-

ginner” crews, and dad grew to relish their visits. He knew

the person holding the leveling rod9 while his colleague

worked the transit level10 would be one of the newest mem-

bers of the team.

One day, we drove into town to pick up a shipment

from the train depot with the truck we had recently pur-

chased. There in the roadway ahead of us was one of these

work gangs. Dad turned to me and grinned as he pulled up

alongside the student holding the leveling rod.

Rolling down his window, he asked innocently,

“Whatcha doin?” “We’re trying to find the road sir,” replied

the young man. Dad leaned out and with all the solemnity

of a wise sage imparting eternal wisdom to the next gener-

ation, he intoned, “Son, you are standing right in the middle

of it.”

He pulled himself back into the cabin without crack-

ing a smile, and we motored off leaving the bewildered

young college engineer trying to decide whether to laugh

or to wonder if this country farmer was playing with a full


deck.

John, Mike and Ron in the Jeep with Harvey and Dorothy in the background.(Ron is under the hat behind Mike.)


63ILA and Bill Senske

EightILA and Bill Senske

Meals for the

Alaskan Native Kids From KnikWe weren’t the only ones that were the focus of the

Senske's attention. During the school year, my bus first

drove down to Knik1 to pick up the Alaskan native children

from their village before picking me up. Only a few kids

arrived in Alaska. When

we decided to extend the

Rural Electric Association’s

right-of-way from their

home to ours, the Sen-

ske’s made sure we had

enough food and water

throughout the whole

ordeal even though we

assured them that we had My grade school picture.

packed enough lunches and thermos bottles of coffee and

juice.

Ila and Bill Senske befriended us almost as soon as we


boarded the bus from Knik. Most of these families needed

their youth full time and didn’t send them to school.

Initially, ocean vessels landed at Knik and docked their

barges across the bay at an anchorage. Unfortunately, the

prevailing currents flooded Knik with silt requiring it to be

dredged on a regular basis. So, the territorial government

relocated the maritime traffic to the docks where Anchor-

age is today. Without the shipping industry to sustain it,

Knik became a ghost town inhabited largely by indigenous

families who eked out a living through subsistence fishing

and hunting.

Their children sat in the back of the school bus

and were poorly dressed even by our standards. Worse yet,

they often went without any breakfast because they left for

school so early, and their lunches usually consisted of Won-

der bread with mayonnaise dressing and little else.

When Ila found out, she told the school administra-

tion these children deserved breakfast and a decent lunch

so they could have enough energy to learn. The offices in

Juneau subsidized Wasilla schools2. They not only provided

the funds for the buildings, they also hired and paid the sal-

aries of the teachers and administrative staff. The facilities


were small with no cafeteria and no plans for one until en-

rollment grew substantially.

No school improvements could be initiated without

written approval from Juneau. So, the school sent a letter

asking permission to build a cafeteria in their attic to furnish

meals for the native children and any other kids who need-

ed help. Consent was eventually granted on the condition

that Wasilla underwrite its construction and the cost of food

and personnel.

Many bake sales,

spaghetti dinners, and

community contributions

later, the board finally had

enough money to pur-

chase a commercial bu-

tane stove, sinks, counters,

pots, pans, dishes, uten-

sils, and folding tables and

chairs. Folks volunteered Dad's favorite school picture of me.

to install electric lighting and a cold water faucet and drain.

Ila volunteered to cook. She also baked bread at her home

and arrived at the school in time to prepare breakfast for


Dog Sled Mail for the MinesAs I shared earlier, Wasilla had been established with

a train station to support the gold and coal mines in the

nearby Talkeetna mountain range. Several of these estab-

lishments remained open year around and needed postal

services to communicate with the rest of the world.

The government awarded Bill and Ila Senske a con-

tract to deliver mail during the winter by dog sled when no

other transportation was available. They took turns mush-

ing the team from Wasilla to the mines and back. They also

made sure the cafeteria was manned on the few days of the

month when it was Ila’s turn.

Of course, dogs had to be cared for twelve months of

the year. Like us, Bill and Ila lived near Cottonwood Creek

and set up a catch basin in the stream. The salmon reached

their location a few hours after high tide. Bill had the water-

way blocked off so the salmon had to swim into the catch

those who needed it as they got off the buses. I remember

eating lunch in that cafeteria before the new one was built

years later.

One more remembrance: Ila loved kids. When she

gave you a hug, you knew you were loved.


basin and didn’t let any of them escape until it was full. Then

the couple gaffed, cleaned and split the fish down the mid-

dle, and hung them over a pole to dry in the sun on large

racks. They continued this process until all the poles on the

frames were filled with drying salmon to feed their dogs for

the entire year.

The Beaver Dam

But the highlight of the evening came nearly every

time we visited the dam. Biting flies, especially horse flies,

attacked the moose mercilessly. There was only one way to

Bill, Major, and John.

then slapped the surface with its tail to propel it under wa-

ter and into its lodge.

One of my favorite

pastimes was sitting out

on a beaver dam near our

home with my collie dog

Major and watching the

activities in the pond as

the sun went down. Occa-

sionally, a beaver glided

across the water with a

branch in its mouth and


rid themselves of these pests: go for a swim in the beaver

pond. It was quite a thrill to see these magnificent creatures

come to the edge of the stream and slowly enter until only

their head and upper neck were visible. Almost on cue, the

water around them became a boiling frenzy as trout hungri-

ly devoured the insects trying to reach the surface.

Thar She BlowsSeveral years after we homesteaded, the road com-

mission built a new highway right in front of our home to

open the region for further settlement. An enormous cul-

vert carried Cottonwood Creek under this road which was

wide enough for cars to park and fish or picnic.

There are two military bases near Anchorage: Fort

Richardson Army Base and Elmendorf Air Force Base. It

didn’t take long when the salmon started running for the

road to fill up with automobiles from the bases every week-

end. Except for one problem, we thoroughly enjoyed these

young men and their families who came out to enjoy them-

selves in our neck of the woods.

That one double-barreled issue: firearms and liquor.

For some reason, several of these well-oiled enthusiasts

thought they could fish for salmon by shooting at them.


Their actions concerned dad. If the angle of their bullet’s

trajectory made them ricochet off the water, we might be in

danger.

And the situation only got worse each year. Dad would

walk out to the road and try to reason with those parked

near the culvert even though they were often not the of-

fenders. So, dad hatched a plan.

We had cleared a small, two-acre plot next to the

stream in the back of our property. Unlike the fields in front

of our house, the soil in this area consisted of six to eight

feet of black muck laid down by eons of dead fish and

leaves. Regrettably, it was impossible to farm because it was

a bog—too wet to cultivate. The solution: dig a ditch the full

length of the field down to the stream to drain the bog so

we could plant celery and other fast growing crops.

Furthermore, there was an efficient way to fashion

the trench with ditching dynamite. The ground would be

dry enough for such an operation in the early fall about the

time when salmon began their migration. First, dad bought

a case of explosives, a dynamite cap, and enough wire to

stand safely away from the blast. Then he and I started at

one end of the plot and, using a slender shaft to create a


deep cavity, dad pushed a stick of powder down the hole

into the mud as far as the pole would allow. We placed the

sticks at three-foot intervals all the way to the stream, wired

the charge in the center with a detonation cap, and ran the

wire back to the edge of the clearing.

Sunday afternoon, after a few unsuccessful attempts

to get the weekend fireworks t o s top, d ad a nd I d rove o ur

tractor to the bog. The waterway downstream from us

seemed alive with revelers yelling and shooting to

their hearts' content. Dad turned to me, grinned, and

touched the wires from the discharge cap to the battery on

the tractor.

A gigantic, muffled explosion ensued lifting

chunks of muck the size of a stump into the air. The larger

segments all went straight up and back down. But a

number of smaller pieces the size of one’s fist flew over

the tree tops and into the stream. The silence after the

blast was palpable followed soon after by the sound of cars

starting up and hastily driving away. The unruly firearm

disruptions mercifully stopped thereafter.


My Sister ValerieI can't leave this account of my childhood without

mentioning my sister Valerie. Dad wanted a girl. But after

four boys, he thought it would never happen.

However, while I was in high school, they decided to

try once more and this time and on October 20th, 1959, dad

got his wish: a beautiful girl complete with a golden ringlet

cascading down her forehead.

Mom reading Christmas stories to her four boys.


My sister Valerie—Daddy's little girl.

73How My Childhood Has Shaped Me

NineHow My Childhood

Has Shaped Me

I hope you enjoyed journeying with me as I relived

several boyhood experiences from my family's homestead-

ing days in Alaska. Mom and dad loved life and met each

challenge with the belief nothing was too hard as long as

they tackled it together.

These episodes are peppered with entertaining

events. But they also reveal a darker side to their adventure:

The Last Frontier was an unforgiving place right after WW

II for anyone who dared to enter regardless of their level of

preparation.

I could have been killed by my encounter with the

spruce tree. And when their dreams for making a living at

farming were dashed not once, but every time, their resolve

might have dwindled to the point of desperation and de-

spair. They saw their best efforts for each new endeavor cut

short by one seemingly minor miscalculation after another.

We endured winters when blowing snow created

huge drifts the entire length of our mile-long driveway forc-


ing our two families to dig out to leave home. And there is

something about twenty to forty below temperatures that

make all but the most critical tasks outside—like shoveling

snow or cutting firewood—nearly impossible.

True, we caught fish in Cottonwood Creek and planted

a garden so each time adversity struck, our root cellar con-

tained enough canned salmon and vegetables to survive.

But the north star guiding them through all those tu-

multuous years: the conviction that the Lord would meet

their needs no matter how grim the circumstances. They al-

so realized their friendship with caring neighbors was much

more important than money or possessions.

As for me, dad's compromised health meant I faced

many of those challenges right along with them as their el-

dest son. So, I too learned those same priceless lessons.

They form the grist for a book I recently wrote called

Who Told You That You Were Naked?—A Refreshing Reex-

amination of the Garden of Eden. No, it is not a racy novel.

Instead, it documents my relationship with the Lord forged

in the crucible of my own experiences.

75How My Childhood Has Shaped Me

If you would like to read an eBook, Kindle or PDF ver-

sion for free, you can download it at:

www.WilliamCombsAuthor.com/eBook

Thank you for your interest in my family.


77Endnotes

EndnotesChapter One

1. A link to information and images about the Burma

Jeep dad called the Gismo: http://www.military-

factory.com/armor/detail.asp?armor_id=630

Chapter Two

1. Here is a map of the Alcan: https://en.wikipedia.

org/wiki/Alaska_Highway#/media/File:Alaska_

Highway1.png

2. A typical construction picture: https://commons.

wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alcan_construction.jpg

3. An account of the integrated 93rd regimen gives a

history of the highway’s construction: http://ww-

w.93regimentalcan.com/tag/negroes/

Chapter Three

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teeland%27s_

Country_Store http://www.wkhsociety.org/

home.html

2. An example of a Caterpillar D8 Bulldozer: There

were many of these dozers available as military

surplus after the Alcan highway was completed.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caterpillar_D8

http://www.militaryfactory.com/armor/detail.asp?armor_id=630

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alaska_Highway#/media/File:Alaska_Highway1.png

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Alcan_construction.jpg

http://www.93regimentalcan.com/tag/negroes/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teeland%27s_Country_Store

http://www.wkhsociety.org/home.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caterpillar_D8


3. Log Cabin Images: https://images.search.

yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=A86.J yRUWx-

JYpDwAed-4PxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4c-

Gh1BGNvb-G8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHN-

lYwNzYw--?p=Build+a+Log+Cabin+By+Hand&-

fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=y-

hs-adk_sbnt

4. An example of a 55 gallon barrel wood stove:

https://www.amazon.com/US-Stove-BSK1000-

Cast-Barrel/dp/B000IO6RAA/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UT-

F8&qid=1477769274&sr=8-2&keywords=55+gal-

lon+barrel+wood+stove+kit

Chapter Four

1. An example of a pitcher pump: http://www.

acehardware.com/product/ index. jsp?pro -

ductId=1278432&cid=CAPLA:B:Shopping_-_

Catch_All&bingpla=bingpla_960056&k_click-

id=1881e229-9665-4be2-9be7-e48b053729d0

2. An example of shiplap board design: Our shiplap

was basic spruce shiplap used for subfloors and

walls. https://www.amazon.com/Better-Wind-

swept-Shiplap-Board-7-Piece/dp/B01HMCRW-

https://images.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=A86.JyRUWxJYpDwAed-4PxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvb-G8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=Build+a+Log+Cabin+By+Hand&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt

https://www.amazon.com/US-Stove-BSK1000-Cast-Barrel/dp/B000IO6RAA/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1477769274&sr=8-2&keywords=55+gallon+barrel+wood+stove+kit

http://www.acehardware.com/product/index.jsp?productId=1278432&cid=CAPLA:B:Shopping_-_Catch_All&bingpla=bingpla_960056&k_clickid=1881e229-9665-4be2-9be7-e48b053729d0

https://www.amazon.com/Better-Windswept-Shiplap-Board-7-Piece/dp/B01HMCRWFE/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1482799683&sr=8-3&keywords=shiplap+boards

79Endnotes

FE/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1482799683&s-

r=8-3&keywords=shiplap+boards

3. An example of bead boards which are used almost

exclusively for wall siding decoration. http://www.

americanbeadboard.com/?gclid=CPmp2_7_ktEC-

FUJqfgodLp4JQQ

4. An example of a Colman Lantern: https://

www.amazon.com/Coleman-Premium-Pow-

erhouse-Dual-Lantern/dp/B00006IS32/ref=s-

r_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1482792884&sr=8-13&key-

words=coleman+laterns

5. An example of a Colman Stove: https://www.

a m a z o n . c o m / C o l e m a n - P r e m i u m - Po w e r -

house-Dual-Lantern/dp/B00006IS32/ref=s-

r_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1482792884&sr=8-13&key-

words=coleman+laterns

6. An example of a Colman Camp Oven: https://www.

overstock.com/Sports-Toys/Coleman-Camp-Ov-

en/8853025/product.html

7. Root Cellar: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Root_

cellar

8. An example of a WWI Army Jeep: https://imag-

https://www.amazon.com/Better-Windswept-Shiplap-Board-7-Piece/dp/B01HMCRWFE/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1482799683&sr=8-3&keywords=shiplap+boards

http://www.americanbeadboard.com/?gclid=CPmp2_7_ktECFUJqfgodLp4JQQ

https://www.amazon.com/Coleman-Premium-Powerhouse-Dual-Lantern/dp/B00006IS32/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&qid=1482792884&sr=8-13&keywords=coleman+laterns

https://www.amazon.com/Coleman-Guide-Powerhouse-Dual-Stove/dp/B00006I56J/ref=sr_1_5?s=outdoor-recreation&ie=UTF8&qid=1482793081&sr=1-5&keywords=coleman+stove

https://www.overstock.com/Sports-Toys/Coleman-Camp-Oven/8853025/product.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Root_cellar

https://images.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=AwrTccVtq3lYNvcAckIPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=Wwii+Army+Jeep&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt


es.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=AwrTc-

cVtq3lYNvcAckIPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh-

1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlY-

wNzYw--?p=Wwii+Army+Jeep&fr=yhs-adk-adk_

sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt

9. Here is what Wikipedia says about the loon: https://

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loon

10. And I found two other loon recipes: http://www.

cooks.com/recipe/9n6da2cr/baked-loon.html

http://www.startribune.com/oct-21-1911-how-

to-cook-a-loon/132216183/

Chapter Five

1. Canvas Mukluks: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/

Mukluk

2. The Northern Lights: https://en.wikipedia.org/wi-

ki/Aurora

Chapter Six

1. https://www.fastline.com/v100/listings.aspx?cate-

gory=Tractors&mml=_Ford,9N

2. h t t p s : / / i m a g e s . s e a r c h . y a h o o . c o m / y h s /

search;_ylt=A86.J5FtrnlYjFsAjDoPxQt.;_ylu=X-

3oDMTB yNWU4cGh1BGN vbG8DZ3ExBHB -

https://images.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=AwrTccVtq3lYNvcAckIPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=Wwii+Army+Jeep&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loon

http://www.cooks.com/recipe/9n6da2cr/baked-loon.html

http://www.startribune.com/oct-21-1911-how-to-cook-a-loon/132216183/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mukluk

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aurora

https://www.fastline.com/v100/listings.aspx?category=Tractors&mml=_Ford,9N

https://images.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=A86.J5FtrnlYjFsAjDoPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=Ford+Ferguson+Plow&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt

81Endnotes

vcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=Ford+Fer-

guson+Plow&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=ad-

k&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt

3. http://www.northerntool.com/shop/tools/prod-

uct_200660618_200660618

4. http://www.northerntool.com/shop/tools/pro-

duct_200660628_200660628?cm_mmc=Bing-

p l a & u t m _ s o u r c e = B i n g _ P L A & u t m _ m e d i -

um=Farm%20%2B%20Acreage%20%3E%20

3-Point%20Category%201%20Implements&utm_

campaign=NorTrac&utm_content=51453

5. h t t p s : / / i m a g e s . s e a r c h . y a h o o . c o m / y h s /

search?p=ferguson+cordwood+saws+for+-

sale&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&h-

simp=yhs-adk_sbnt&imgurl=http%3A%2F%2F-

w w w . p l o u g h m y f i e l d .

com%2Fimages%2F2008_03_14%2FA-LE-A19%-

2 5 2 0 c o r d w o o d s a w . j p g # i d = 1 & i -

url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ploughmyfield.

com%2Fimages%2F2008_03_31%2Fsaw1.jp-

g&action=click

6. An example of a Septic Drain Field: https://en.wiki-

https://images.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search;_ylt=A86.J5FtrnlYjFsAjDoPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=Ford+Ferguson+Plow&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt

http://www.northerntool.com/shop/tools/product_200660618_200660618

http://www.northerntool.com/shop/tools/product_200660628_200660628?cm_mmc=Bingpla&utm_source=Bing_PLA&utm_medium=Farm%20%2B%20Acreage%20%3E%203-Point%20Category%201%20Implements&utm_campaign=NorTrac&utm_content=51453

https://images.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?p=ferguson+cordwood+saws+for+sale&fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt&imgurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ploughmyfield.com%2Fimages%2F2008_03_14%2FA-LE-A19%2520cordwoodsaw.jpg#id=1&iurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.ploughmyfield.com%2Fimages%2F2008_03_31%2Fsaw1.jpg&action=click

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Septic_drain_field


pedia.org/wiki/Septic_drain_field

7. A Demo for seed potatoes: https://video.search.

yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&h-

simp=yhs-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&p=seed+pota-

toes+how+to+plant#id=1&vid=05156066121311

632b48888e13dab4d3&action=view

Chapter Seven

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polka

2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schottische

3. https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foxtrot

4. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ziegfeld_Follies

5. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vaudeville

6. Go to this URL and then select the Beatrice Kay Al-

bum in the lower right portion of the web page to

play her recording. NOTE: There are more than one

recordings at this location. http://www.oldielyrics.

com/lyrics/julie_andrews/she_is_more_to_be_

pitied_than_censured.html

7. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Striptease

8. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burl

9. https://martininstrument.com/field-supplies/

crain-25-leveling-rods-10ths.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Septic_drain_field

https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&p=seed+potatoes+how+to+plant#id=1&vid=05156066121311632b48888e13dab4d3&action=view

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polka

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schottische

https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foxtrot

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ziegfeld_Follies

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vaudeville

http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/julie_andrews/she_is_more_to_be_pitied_than_censured.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Striptease

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burl

https://martininstrument.com/field-supplies/crain-25-leveling-rods-10ths.html

83Endnotes

10. http://www.engineersupply.com/CST-berger-20x-

speed-line-transit-level-kit-54-200k.aspx

Chapter Eight

1. Knik Alaska: http://www.wkhsociety.org/about-us.

html

2. Wasilla Territorial School ca. 1942: http://vilda.alas-

ka.edu/cdm/ref/collection/cdmg21/id/12692

http://www.engineersupply.com/CST-berger-20x-speed-line-transit-level-kit-54-200k.aspx

http://www.wkhsociety.org/about-us.html

http://vilda.alaska.edu/cdm/ref/collection/cdmg21/id/12692

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