Good to the last drop.

by David Jensen

In the mid-1960s, our family leased an old porcuipine-gnawed cabin near upper Summit Lake on the Kenai Pennisula.  Cozy and less than 300 square feet, it was just large enough for a family of six and a goofy black labrador retriever we called Festus (named for the deputy on the television show Gunsmoke.) Boy did that dog know how to find quills.

Winter nights were spent listening to the sourdough voice of Ruben Gaines as he spun his tales and poems through an evening KBYR radio show called Conversation Unlimited.  Our cozy living area was lit in the evenings by a flickering kerosene lantern that offered a soothing “whrrrrrrrrrh” sound. These days, I try to pretend that’s the sound I’m hearing when tinnitus flares up between my ears.

During his airtime, Ruben shared messages back and forth between families who had no other means to communicate with each other.  That portion of his show was called Trapline Chatter.  Ruben relayed exchanges between Alaska families that were important, mundane or ridiculous.  “Soapy Stone in Wrangell says ‘hi’ to Butch, Karen and the gang in Galena.  Don’t let the snow build up against your door or we might not see you ’til spring.” He’d also relate grocery lists and travel itineraries. Every once and awhile, we’d hear a long-distance message from my grandparents.  My grandfather, Chris Jensen, went by the moniker “Chief Goodbook.”  He’d give an update about their travel plans and send warm wishes along with sage advice. Sometimes he used code words to my father to disguise topics. He once relayed “Sending buckets of liquid sunshine your way!” It was always fun decoding his messages. We knew he was really saying that a bottle of Scotch whiskey was in the mail.

Ruben concluded each show with my favorite piano orchestration, Clare de Lune. We’d settle into sleep listening to that song when the radio reception allowed. Sometimes, we kids would have to take turns holding onto the radio’s antennae for a better signal, lifting strung foil into the air with one hand.

The title of Claude Debussy’s Clare de Lune means ‘moonlight’ which couldn’t have more appropriate when the stars, glow of the moon and Big Dipper provided the best light of the winter evening. To this day, I pause and sigh when hearing it play.

Waking up in the morning in that cabin was always peaceful and pleasant.  The sound of a crackling fire meant that dad had stoked the wood stove. The cabin would soon be warm again as we four kids snuggled in squeaky bunk beds that were used by gold miners decades earlier.  Our blankets were long enough to bury our foreheads as we waited for the cabin’s old logs to warm up again. Our toes sometimes competed with our faces for blanket coverage as the smell of Folgers coffee sifted through the air as it percolated on the stove. The evening before, we would heat up river rocks next to the stove and use the warm boulders to keep our feet warm until we went to sleep. We pushed the cold rocks aside in the morning and waited for “It’s time to out of bed, kids.” from mom or dad.

This was how we started each day in that grass-roofed log house, called “The Disney Cabin.’ It was named for the elderly out-of-state owners who allowed us to use and care for it. Their last name was Disney. We don’t know if they were related to Walt but, then again, the cabin certainly held a century of stories that could easily capture any writer or cartoonist’s imagination.

Fast forwarding to the present, my border collie Beau and I were traveling to Kenai.  For some reason, I was compelled to stop in to visit the empty land that once held The Disney Cabin.  Sadly, the buildling burned down decades ago. I’ve passed by the property hundreds of times, always turning my head and remembering snippets of fishing, hiking, exploring old mines and plain ol’ growing up stories.

I walked past old squirrel nests nearby.  They probably still had chinking insulation stuffed into their nests - stolen from between the ill-fitting logs of the cabin.

I listened to Quartz Creek as it gurgled through new ice forming along its edges.  The creek flows 25’ downhill from where the cabin used to rest.  I remember hauling buckets of water up the steep slope from that creek in the morning with my brother and sisters each evening.  We tried our best to fill the buckets to the brim and not spill a drop along the way. It was good training for water conservation.

Walking on the ground that used to be home to the cabin, I saw something a little further in the woods.  I was surprised to see a relic from my childhood.  It was a building that has remained standing, though a bit bent, for more than 60 years.  It was the original cabin outhouse.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I thought “Wow, those miners really knew how to build a place to spend their most important thinking time.”

I peeked through the door of the outhouse while admiring the antique hinges and the hand hued toilet paper holder.  Inside, I saw a familiar water bucket that may have recognized me as well. Inside the water bucket was a 50-year old Folgers Coffee can.  Rusty after all of this time, it was another artifact of days gone by.  Its edges had the familiar markings of sharp burrs indicating it had been opened using one of our old finger-held church keys. It was the same tool that opened the beans, spam, Hi-C Fruit Punch cans and other staples of the day.

Standing in the middle of that old forest, I could almost smell a familiar “Mountain Grown” coffee aroma.  I imagined a piano echoing in the distance as chickadees and squirrels played and bickered in the trees. It sounded a little like children playing, not unlike the voices of me, my brother and sisters, laughing, splashing and galavanting without a care in the world.

What a chapter.  It was all brought back because of an old coffee can, a dependable creek, water bucket and a weathered old outhouse that seems, like my mind and body, stubbornly determined to remain standing.  The breeze in the air may, every so often, cause a whimper from the joints, but we’re both thankful to be able to stand tall with a somewhat determined lean.

— dj —

Copyright protected - David Jensen; david@alaskaportraits.com