Cancer on My Mind – July 15, 2012

Part 2 - Test Results and Other Discoveries

It has been nearly six weeks since my cancer diagnosis. The hard part of dealing with it has been the realization that I did not know what I was dealing with. Dr. Shannon told me that I had an ulcerated growth when I came out of the endoscopy on May 30th. He said it didn’t look good, but we’d know more when the biopsy came in. For a whole day I comforted myself with the hope that it was nothing more than an old fashion ulcer. That delusion lasted only till evening. Then the bad news came. The “growth” at the top of my stomach was a malignant tumor. That’s about all I knew. Many questions began to trample through my mind. How big was it? How long had it been growing there? What stage had it reached? Had the cancer metastasized? How long before I would I feel pain? How long was I going to live? Questions without answers create vacuums - empty spaces for the imagination to fill.

I am nearly without symptoms. I have a little trouble swallowing – have to consciously chew my food and chase it with water. I sleep a bit longer than I use to, but can’t say that’s due to the cancer. I have plenty of energy for chores and projects. I feel no pain. I’m super-tuned to the least stomach grumble, but can’t claim any definitive activity in that area. In short, I feel fine. I wouldn’t know I had cancer.

I visited the surgeon the other day. Dr. Peters estimated it has been growing down there for around five years - about the time I had my last colonoscopy - seems I was looking at the wrong end.

A PET scan on June 29th revealed the cancer might have spread to nearby lymph nodes, but not much further. My radiologist and oncologist took my case to the “Tumor Board” on July 5th. The board, made up of about twenty local specialists, came to the consensus that I had a stage three esophageal cancer. Its recommended a five week treatment of radiation and chemo therapy. The two work in a synergic manner to shrink the tumor and kill cancer cells throughout the body. Surgery will follow with the removal of a part of my stomach and a portion of the esophagus.

So, why me? Why stomach cancer? I’m not overweight. I exercise regularly, follow a good diet, limit alcohol to only two or three glasses of wine in the evening, and my blood tests range in the normal. I’m supposed to be healthy. Stomach cancer is rare in the United States, but quite prevalent in Japan. Doctors routinely screen for colon cancer here, in Japan its stomach cancer. I’ve been delving into my genealogy for twenty years and am assured that no Japanese were hiding in any of my ancestor’s woodpiles, but my Cousin Sarah in California reminds me that our grandfather, John Harrison Buckingham, died of stomach cancer. He passed in 1939 at 58 years - just six months before I was born.

My reaction upon learning of the stomach cancer could be likened to that of a prisoner being sentenced to death. The condemned has the advantage of knowing his impending date. I suspect my mortality has also been scheduled, sometime earlier than I have always expected, with the exact moment shrouded in the future. From my perspective this seems unfair because it doesn’t reflect my own made-up lifeline. Others may not have chosen the age at which they expect to expire, but mine has been set somewhere around 85 years. That is probably because my mother and maternal grandmother died at that age, just short of 86. The two were the longest survivors of my birth family (Grandma lived with us from a time before my birth). Uncle Charlie (Mom’s brother) lived into his 90’s. He has the record for several generations - including my own. I’ve had this number stuck in mind for some years, so I’ve always been focused on how many I have remaining (for example, 85 minus my present 72 equals thirteen years - at a minimum). So there was yet plenty of time to accomplish the things on my “bucket list”. It’s a bit of a shock to disover that I’ve been using a faulty system all these years.
Go to: Part 1, Part 2,  Part 3,  4, 5, 6, 7,

Part 5 - Hazel and Friend Bob Visit Alaska

Mom and Bob Eschelman at Portage Glacier, Alaska, 1993 

Mom believed mightily in fate. What was to be, would be, so when a direction was set she generally followed course. I think this was the result of her having been the youngest sibling in a family of three older brothers. She never got the chance to be the lead dog while growing up, and since Dad was older by a year and a half the situation continued into their marriage. 

Bob, Mom and Mary at Garage Sale in Anchorage, Ak, 1993

In 1992 Mom and Bob planned a trip to visit Don and Ellie in California by car, and then to fly up to Alaska to see us. I think she had misgivings about the road trip; probably because of Bob’s drinking. She called when they were about to head west. She seemed subdued, and when we hung up she said “goodbye” in a tone of such finality that I wondered if she thought she might be speaking to me for the last time. They made the trip without incident.

Mom and Bob at neighbors for a Salmon Bake

In August they flew into Anchorage. Mary and I waited for them to deplane at the gate. The passengers filed out, and we stood there as the last trickled by. Then Mom came out trailed by a flight attendant shoving Bob in a Wheel chair. He suddenly rose from the chair, tripped on the foot rest, and fell flat on his face. He was drunker than a skunk, and Mom was beside herself with anger and embarrassment. We got him back in the chair. The attendant informed me that if I didn’t take responsibility she would have to turn him over to airport security. I was tempered to decline the option, but agreed to see after him. It seems Bob had bought two bottles of Absolute Vodka just before departing the Minneapolis Airport. Mom hide them in her purse on boarding, and Bob preceded to have a four thousand mile party.

Mom and Bob in boat returning to Cabin, 1993

I no longer recall how we got to the baggage claim on the lower level, but we soon found the designated carrousel with weary travelers crowded in front of a conveyor laded with rotating baggage. Mom recognized her bags, but couldn’t identify Bob’s so I maneuvered him in behind the first row of people. He spotted his sliding down the shoot, and bolted out of the chair, dived past the people in front and landed on the conveyor belt. He lay there clutching his suitcase in triumph as the conveyor transported him toward the exit. I hesitated for a moment but then extracted him and his luggage before they disappeared behind the curtain.

Bob and Mom at Window all Day

We took Bob to the house, filled him with coffee, and put him to bed. He slept on a fold-out couch in the recreation room, a large open area downstairs. A big wood stove stood near the couch/bed. I pulled the curtains to darken the room. It was August but daylight still lingered long into evenings That proved to be a mistake, because Bob got up in the middle of the night needing to take a potty break. In the alcoholic infused confusion he tripped, fell over the stove, bruised a rib and skinned his nose. He was quite a sight for the next week, but continued to smile in that uncomplaining way even though we limited him to beer for the rest of the stay.

Bob and Mom at window at night

I took them to the cabin in Seldovia for a week. Mostly I remember them sitting at the table before the big picture window, Bob on the left, Mom on the right. They would sit there for hours with heads turned toward the window, chins propped on a hands supported by elbows on the table. The tide would flow from high to low in six hours, sometimes with as much as a twenty-seven foot change in level. The high tide flooded the cove climbing up the banks to where tips of tree limbs dipped into the ocean’s surface. Then it would drain exposing the sea floor with mud flats extending out for hundreds of feet from the shore. They could never get enough of watching it.

Bob, Mom, Joe and Mary at Farewell Celebration, 1993

Mary had planned a garage sale on our return. Those events were always more like parties at our house. It was a big success, lots of friends showed up to meet the soon to be departing couple. Mount Spur blew its top the day before they were to fly home. Volcanic ash covered everything and their departure was delayed for a couple days. Bob seemed more anxious about the interruption, and was more eager to depart than we were to see him go. Things ended fairly well as it was hard to stay mad at Bob.
GO TO: Part 6 - Hazel's Life Without Her Friend Bob

Wes on the Kenai River

Bob Evans & Wes Warner visiting, 1987

Bob Evans came home one day in 1975 to inform us that he was buying a condo in Mount Vernon Estates in mid-town, and would be moving. That was the beginning of the end of our bachelor household. Wes had met Carla Clayton a year earlier and the two would marry within a couple years. So our trio broke up and I became the sole owner of the house.

Wes, Carla, and Frances, visiting in 1994

Wes went into business with two other guys, obtained a NAPA auto parts franchise, and opened their first store on the Old Seward Highway. Over the years the business expanded to include stores in several towns around the State.

Joe & Moonshine visiting Wes in 2007

Wes and Carla had a girl, Frances, and in 1992 they moved to a log home on the Kenai River off Funny River Road near Soldotna. Wes managed the NAPA store in Soldotna for several years before retiring. They went to Mississippi each winter, but Wes never missed coming back to Funny River every summer.

Mary visiting Wes on Kenai River in 2007

We continued to get together over the years. Mary and I stopped by to visit Wes nearly every season. More than once we parked our travel trailer behind his house, over-looking the Kenai River, and spent a few leisure days fishing and visiting while sitting at the fire pit near the river’s bank.

Joe at the firepit at Wes's place, Kenai River, 2007 

On one occasion I picked him up at the airport on his spring return from Mississippi when his flight leg to Kenai had an extra long layover. He came back to Anchorage only one time that I remember. That was in 2003. He drove up intending to spend a few days looking around town to see how much it had changed. He stayed two nights - couldn’t stand the bustle of the big city any longer.

Joe, Moonshine & Wes on Wendys Way, 2003

Mary, our dog Moonshine, and I spent three or four nights with Wes in 2007. Moonshine was forever transfixed by the resident squirrel living in the tree next to the house, but the main event that visit was Mary’s decision to fish for salmon. A run of Sockeyes filled the river, and she, after twenty years of distaining the fish, had discovered “blackened salmon” and couldn’t seem to get enough of it. We went to Soldotna and got her a license, but she gave up the sport before getting a line wet. I caught the first one, clubbed it over the head to send it to fish heaven, and Mary decided, then-and-there, the sport was to violent for her. However, she had no qualms in continuing to consume the abused creatures.

Moonshine visits squirrel at Wes's, 2007

View of Kenai River from our Trailer, 2007

In 2009 we stopped by for an afternoon to introduce Wes to my nephew and grandnephew, Lee and Daulton, who were making their first visit to Alaska from the flatlands of Indiana. Mary and I were giving them a whirlwind tour in seven days, and I wanted them to meet Wes.

Joe with a Red Salmon, 2007

I went down by myself for the last visit of 2010. The summer had been miserable with constant rain - a record of more than thirty consecutive days. A break in the weather finally came in September. I had a pleasant stay with Wes and his son Pete. Pete fixed a freshly caught Silver Salmon the first night and we had steaks the next.

Wes at Funny River, 2007

I called Wes several times over that winter. We invited him and Pete for Thanksgiving, but the drive was, I think, more than he could handle. We talked to him right after New Years - invited him again.

The ladder to the fishing hole at Wes's, 2007

Pete called to report the sad news the first of April. I knew Wes had felt poorly for a couple of years. I’d ask him how he was feeling, and he’d say, “Not so good”. He didn’t sleep well, had trouble walking, couldn’t even get down the ladder to fish anymore. Several times he said something like, “I don’t know why I’m still around!”. Wes “Crossed the Bar” on March 31, 2011. He was one of the nicest guys I ever knew, and the first friend I made in Alaska. I’ll miss him.
GO TO: Wes's Memorial Day

Buying A House and other Adventures with Wes

Home on Wendys Way, Ahchorage, AK 1970

I returned to Indiana in the fall of 1968 to work on a graduate degree in education, and headed back over the ALCAN the following August. In December, Bob Evans, our new roommate, found a beautiful, four bedroom home to rent on Wendys Way. The place belonged to some old friends of his, Don and Gladys Beattie. It was on the west end of town off Northernlights Blvd., and near the International Airport. We moved on December 19, 1969. Bob, Wes and I pooled our money and jointly bought it in the fall of 1971.

Wes Warner on back porch of Wendys Way, 1970

In the spring of 1970, Wes joined me, Dan Wilson, Jim Sumner, three teachers at West High, on an early spring fishing trip. Someone had the idea that we could get some grayling out of Crescent lake on the Kenai Peninsula. The lake sat in the mountains nestled in a crook of the bigger S-shaped Kenai Lake that lay below. The six mile hike into the lake was mainly uphill. Our trek started on a warm May day with hints of spring in the air, but as the trail gradually climbed into higher country we ran into snow that became deeper with elevation. No one had anticipated the depths we found, waist deep in places.

Wes and his first big Salmon

The five trudged laboriously onward. Several avalanches thundered ominously, unseen and distant. We came to the lake a few hours later, wet and tired. To add insult to injury, it was still frozen. The ice had yet to go out. No fishing that day. We held up in a Forest Service cabin for a hour or so - built a fire and someone made a watery, tasteless soup. Then we trudged back over the trail. The misadventure led Wes to refer and count all future outing that Dan Wilson and I were involved with as “Fiasco Number One”, “Fiasco Number Two” , etc.

A friend, Bob Evans, and Wes Warner, Winter, 1970

Wes Warner, Turnagain Pass, 1970

We had a number of adventures over the years. The three of us bought snow machines shortly after moving. Wes and I went out nearly every weekend over the next three or four winters. Bob often accompanied us, but it was rare for Wes and I to miss. Sometimes several others would go along.

Wes Turnagain Pass, Alaska, 1970

Wes Warner & Larry Robidue, Lake Louise, 1971

Hatcher Pass was our favorite area. We accessed it from either the Palmer or the Willow end. Once we went to the top of Mount Baldy from the Willow side and explored the wreckage of a Military transport that had crashed in the 1950’s. Old abandoned mines were accessible from the Palmer side. We visited several perched on the sides of mountains. One mine was located four or five miles up a valley on the Palmer side. The mine had not been in operation for several years, but a cabin with basic furnishings still stood in fairly good condition. We went in to it several times one winter. I remember a steel cable crossed the path as we came into the mine area. We could not reach up and touch it on our first trip in. We road over it on the last.

Wes Warner & Bob Evans, Mt. Baldy, Hacher Pass, 1971

We made excursions to Lake Louise, and Juneau Lake on the Resurrection Trail, among others, but Turnagain Pass was our other favorite place to snow machine. Wes and I went there on our first trip out of town. I recently purchased a pair of Air force mukluks, blue canvas boots that reached half up my calves. They had thin rubber soles with thick wool liners, and were so light it was like wearing house slippers. I remember wiggling my toes in them on our way to the pass that morning wondering how they could possibly keep my feet warm in such cold weather. We spent most of the day on our machines exploring, stopping once to take each others pictures in front of backdrop of snow covered spruce trees. We had so much fun we both, like kids with new toys, could hardly wait for the next weekend to come. I never worried about the mukluks after that first trip.

Staging Area at Hatcher Pass, Willow side, 1971

A half-dozen of us went to Turnagain Pass on another occasion. We worked our way up to a bench at the mountain base and were spread out, maneuvering through widely spaced trees. I would, now and then, catch a glimpse of one of the other riders off to my side. We were in deep snow. The boughs of the trees were heavily laden with snow, but there was none at their bases. I went too close to one and slid into the hole, an inverted cone of empty space, around its base. It took me nearly an hour to work my way out. I shut off the engine at one point and heard nothing but absolute silence, and knew I had to get out of it on my own. Wes and I purchased snowshoes after that and carried them strapped to our machine. The snow was too deep to walk through, and you could go further on a machine in twenty minutes that you could walk all day - even in snowshoes.

Wes riding on Oil Well Road near Ninilchik, AK, 1971

We bought Honda motorcycles at the start of the 1970 summer. All three cycles were small, not the macho Harley Hog type, but better for running on the back county trails. Bob’s was the smallest, a Honda 90. We teased him saying it looked more like a girlie bike. It was a low geared vehicle with a large platform on top of the rear wheel - a good work horse for carrying things. Mine was orange, with a 100cc engine. Wes had the largest with an emerald green 125cc machine.

Wes on beach near Ninilchik, AK, 1971

Our two cycles were the classic dirt-bike variety with a gap between fenders and tires, but they had little power. We tried hill climbing a couple times. Other bikers, with bigger machines, could easily beat the hills, but ours repeatedly petered out before reaching the top.

Joe Buckingham on his Honda 100, Ninilchik, AK, 1971

One weekend the two of us went south on the Kenai to the Ninilchik area. We road miles along the beaches, feeling free and exuberant, as we leaned into curves, and carved “figure-eights“ in the wet sand. Later that weekend we explored the fifteen miles to the end of Oil Well Road (off of which I’d staked my Open-to-Entry land claim) where it ended at a circular pad. A large diameter, “well-head” pipe rose vertically from the center. It was a bit eerie - we had finally come to the end of the road - fifteen miles through wilderness, no fences, no houses, no poles, no nothing…and then it suddenly ended.
GO TO: Wes on the Kenai

My First Year in Alaska, Wes Warner - Part 3

The Christmas of 1967 was especially difficult for Wes. He told me that he had married the prettiest girl in school, thought it was a happy union, but surprisingly found it to be illusion. He dropped everything and came to Alaska after they broke up. One morose evening he told me that he considered his life to be over. That thought proved to be false; life had just taken a new direction for him.

 Bill Smith, Tim, & Wes Warner, Big Lake, AK, Septermer, 1967
Four of us had driven north to Big Lake the preceding September. That had been the extent of our exploration till May when Wes and I took an impromptu trip to Homer and Kachemak Bay. During the summer we tried our hand at fishing, but often found the streams to be “sterile” - our way of justifying fishless returns. We had yet to learn the ways of fishing in Alaska; that waters could be full of fish at certain times of the year and empty at others.

    

Wes Warner fishing the Sisitna River, AK 1968

One weekend, while fishing down on the Kenai, we decided to try the Lower Russian Lake. We’d heard that it had some nice Rainbow trout. It was a bit late on a Sunday afternoon, after another fruitless day without fish. We started up the three mile-long trail with nothing but fishing poles in hand. I don‘t remember much about the trek other than it was a nice sunny day, and we walked along at a brisk pace. It probably took a hour to walk in; we fished for no more than an hour, and then walked back out - shows how determined and desperate fishermen can get.

Joe Buckingham with Pink Salmon on the Sussitna River, Ak, 1968

Mom and Dad drove the Alcan the following summer, 1968. They arrived in mid -June and stayed several weeks. We flew up to Kotzebue and Nome on Alaska Airlines during the Solstice. Mom and I were having a beer at the local saloon in Nome when I went out to take a photo of Main Street at midnight. Later the three of us walked an ice field at Portage Glacier, drove a very rough road to Lake Louise, and then fished for Red Salmon on the Russian River. They had a memorable time, and reluctantly headed back in July.

Mom and Dad at signpost in Nome, AK, 1968

Dad and Mom left their small travel trailer with me to sell as they did not wish to tow it back to Indiana. I sold it to a couple, that had just arrived in Alaska. I remember they were in their forties, had just obtain jobs in the boom town of Kenai, and were excited about starting a new life. The price was $900 dollars, they paid $300 down and were to make two monthly payments of equal size. The next payment did not arrive as promised, so I had to drive down to Kenai to look them up. I found his wife working as a waitress in a popular bar, and she went and got him. His arm was in a cast. He had a accident shortly after beginning work, and they were up against it. The trailer was in a local park, and his mother was living with them.

Mom and Dad on Snow field, Poertage Glazier, 1968

Dad with Red Salmon catch, Kenia Peninsula, AK, 1968

Mom with her first Red Salmon, Russian River, AK, 1968

I had borrowed Bill Smith’s truck and driven the hundred and sixty miles to Kenai thinking I might be taking it back with me, but I didn’t have the heart to put them in the street. I had a potential sale lined up with a contractor in Anchorage, but told the guy I didn’t want to do that if he would make the two final installments. I gave him another month. I did not tell him I was heading back to Indiana in a couple weeks. Both payments arrived on time.
GO TO: Buying a House and other adventrues with Wes, Part 4

My First Year in Alaska - Meeting Wes Warner

Wes Warner at home on 26th Avenue, Anchorage

Wes Warner, having flown in from Idaho in July, was like the rest of us, a new arrival to Alaska. He was working the sales counter at the auto parts store with Bill Smith, and had rented a room, of which he found wanting.

We decided he should move in with us, but the only room available was one jammed full of junk. Our entrance, at the back of the building, passed through a small vestibule that doubled as a tool room and catchall area. From there we entered the kitchen to the right. The small room at the back of the vestibule had been filled and forgotten for years. The landlady was not opposed to our suggestion that we help clean and furnish the room. Wes moved in mid September.

Wes Warner, Christmas 1967

Wes Warner was not an imposing figure. The first time we met I perceived a short fellow with a slightly rotund body. His hair, kept short in a brush style cut, rose above bespectacled owl-eyes that stared out of a round face. Wes’s visage was remarkable in its plainness. He was, at thirty-seven, ten years my senior. We possessed very different backgrounds, but circumstance had introduced us, and over that winter we found common ground for a lasting friendship.

Wes Warner & landlady Louise Machevski

Two things helped to bring us closer: we were single men arriving in a new world; and we had arrived alone. Wes was starting a new life; I had yet to decide what I was going to do with mine. Neither of us considered ourselves to be a vanguard for those who might follow. Bill Smith and Bill Peasal had wives back home; Smith expected his wife and family to join him, which they eventually did; Peasal planned on returning to South Dakota and eventually did.

So Wes and I, unencumbered by domestic responsibilities, began to frequent nearby establishments on Friday and Saturday nights. There were many in the neighborhood, but our favorite haunts were the Chef’s Inn, a mere two block walk to Northernlights blvd, and the Pink Poddle, located in a strip mall off Spenard Road, only a block from home. Both had live music on weekends and offered diversion and entertainment within safe walking distances.

We often drove to the Office Lounge because we liked its uniqueness. The establishment lay a mile east on Northernlights. It had a circular bar on the second floor of a hex shaped building with windows on most sides. The view of the mountains and surrounding city was spectacular, but the unique aspect of the place was that the bar rotated. We would sit there as giant gears revolved unseen somewhere below, slowly spinning us as we sat at the bar - a merry-go-round of a different breed. Its movement was imperceptibly sluggish, making one revolution per hour. Many new visitors, ignorant of its capacity, sat on bar stools as it made one complete rotation after another. They watched the ever shifting scenery, mountains then city, mountains then city, without ever perceiving the ambiguity.

That winter we got to know each other while bar hopping. Many a night we would walk toward home after midnight, tramping through crisp snow that squealed ever louder underfoot as the temperature grew colder. Some nights we would rock back and forth listening to the crunch, trying to gauge the air temperature from the pitch of the noisy squeak.

On more than one night Wes broke out in slightly tipsy rapture, reciting a poem he learned in school. He never got beyond the first stanza - couldn’t remember the next line or the rest of the poem - didn’t recall the author - but he really loved it, and recited it on many a cold evening walk home.

I eventually found the poem, by Alfred Lord Tennyson, copied, memorized it, and waited patiently for Wes’s next attempt at recital. Eventually it came:

           “Sunset and evening star        

        And one clear call for me!
        And may there be no moaning of the bar,

       When I put out to sea,"
                          
 He faltered at that point and I took over:
   
       But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

       Too full for sound and foam,
      When that which drew from out
        the boundless deep
      Turns again home.

      
       Twilight and evening bell,
       After that the dark!
       And may there be no sadness of farewell,
       When I embark,

       For though from out our bourn of
      Time and Place
      The flood may bare be far,
      I hope to see my Pilot face to face
     When I have crossed the bar.” 

I gave him the copy, and we joined in late evening recitals thereafter.
GO TO: My First Year in ALaska, Wes Warner - Part 3

My First Year in Alaska

The day after I arrived in Anchorage I started hunting for a room and a job, mainly a room. June is one of the few months when sunny days should not be surprising, but it was raining the day I arrived, and I don’t remember being exposed to sunlight for some while after. There was one cloudy day after another in June of 1967. I did not feel like camping any longer, didn’t like the idea of crawling out of a soggy tent each morning, and I wanted to be able to clean up and hunt for a job.

I settled in the Mid-town area though the reason escapes me; perhaps it was because the Moose Lodge happened to be located there on Arctic Blvd. I was a member of the Kokomo lodge, knew fellow Moose would have ideas as to employment and housing, so I frequented the lodge several times over the succeeding months.


The local newspaper provided a couple leads on housing. The first was at the Fireweed Hotel off Arctic. It lay between Fireweed Street and Northernlights Boulevard and seemed more of a rooming house than hotel. The tenants were really young. I was only twenty-seven, but felt like the old man of the place. The room must have been a closet in its former life. The door jammed against the bed upon opening; there were no windows, and one’s legs brushed the bed and wall while edging around its perimeters. The place was a prescription for claustrophobia.

My First home in Alaska

1037 W 26th Avenue, Anchorage, Alaska

The second offering, only a couple blocks away, on 26th Avenue, was near perfect in comparison. My new abode was in the basement of a three story stucco house. The main floor housed the owner/landlady and her teenage daughter. The top floor and basement had been converted to room rentals. I had a spacious room adjoining a small living room that lead into the kitchen. The house sat a block east of Spenard road, close to a grocery, several restaurants, and a couple bars - everything a single guy needed. I was in the “Heart of Spenard”.

Bill Peasal and Bill Smith

Two fellows occupied a room off the kitchen. They were both named Bill and both came from South Dakota, though the similarity ended there. Bill Smith was tall and slim like a bean pole. He stood six foot six, and weighed no more than a hundred-fifty pounds, wore plad cowboy shirts, slim fitting jeans and cowboy boots. Smith was confident, sure of himself, and spoke of things in a knowing manner. Bill Peasal reached a medium height and weight, but was a quiet, mild-mannered fellow, almost bashful. Both were married with wives back in South Dakota. Smith worked at an auto parts store; Peasal labored for a construction company. Both had been in the state for less than a year.

Bill Smith

Anchorage numbered about fifty thousand, and the military bases counted for that many again. Much about the town was frontier, many side streets were gravel, sidewalks were rare, and more than one parking lot lacked pavement. There wasn’t much happening in town that year, the economy was kind of slow, and not many good jobs were available. I took one as a custodian with the school district within the week, figuring something better might come along, but continued to work through the winter. Crews were involved in giving each school a thorough cleaning. During the summer I moved from one location to another as the season progressed and was assigned a position at the new Dimond High School that fall.

Landlady Louise Machievski

I was a bit short of money through the summer. Mom and Dad sent me a check for a couple hundred. I had to open a checking account and wait several weeks before the money was available so I didn't adventure out of town other than a one day trip to Portage Glacier in July. Mainly I stayed in town working and passing time reading books, many about Alaska and the North.

Bill Peasal

Several things happened in August. Bill Peasal and another fellow were taking building materials to Valdez, Alaska when the truck’s breaks went out going down Thompson Pass into Valdez. The driver could not navigate the final curve at the bottom and they crashed. Both survived, but only by luck. It so happened the only doctor in town was being visited by his three sons, who also happened to be doctors. The four worked on the two injured men for several hours. That coincident saved their life, but Bill was in the hospital for a month. The other thing that happened in August was I met Wes Warner.
GO TO: Meeting Wes Warner

Courting Mary, Part 2 - The Wedding

Mary’s younger sister, Angie, moved up from Oklahoma that fall to try life in the far north The two got an apartment by Lake Spenard, at which I spent considerable time. Angie stayed till after Thanksgiving, but decided she preferred a hot, humid, and conservative Oklahoma, to a cold, wild, and free-wheeling Alaska. Mary needed a new roommate or she needed to move. I needed to look after my house, and invited her to move in with me. We transfered her stuff on a cold day during the Christmas vacation of 1981. All went well except for a couple plants that didn’t care for the temperature they had to endure.
Fast forward a few months to a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Minnesota and Benson Avenues. I proposed marriage over a sampler “Poo Poo Platter”, our favorite appetizer plate. She said she didn’t know. We always wondered what significance we should ascribe to the fact that the place closed shortly thereafter.

We arrived upon an agreed October date. Neither of us had much enthusiasm for big weddings, so we decided to have a small ceremony at the house and to limit the wedding list. We sent out no invitations and asked only a few close friends. We were both teaching at West High School, the number of possible attendees were enormous, so we decided to let word-of-mouth take it to where ever it went. When someone asked me about it I would tell them they were invited and what time to show up. I had given the end of the year faculty party at my house several times over the years so all knew where we lived.

Charlie Hostetler arranged a bachelor party for me at Clinker Daggers. About a dozen, mostly fellow teachers from West High, escorted me out of single hood with a raucous dinner that was apt for the occasion. Luckily we all made it home without police intervention.

I was finally getting married after forty-two years of blissful bachelorhood. There was a bit of a quandary concerning my upcoming wedding though. I had no idea who to ask to be my “best man”. There would have been no problem if my brother Don had been available, but as he was farming in Wisconsin, and had neither time nor money to break away, I was in a puzzlement to decide the stand in. I could ask Charlie Hostetler or Dan Wilson. I had done a lot of things with both of them over the years, but to ask one seemed to be slighting the other. Then there was Doug Jackson and Wes Warner. And there were others, a bunch to pick from, and under different circumstances any one of them would do. So I kept procrastinating till nearly the last minute, and then one day the answer presented itself.
Mike Bujno had been my renter roommate for five years. He was from Poland and we were talking one day when it occurred to me that Mike was also one of my good friends. We had liked each other from our first meeting and had come to respect each other. He had entrusted me with his life savings one year when he went back to Poland for a extended visit. He handed me a sizable cashiers check in my name, and wanted me to keep it in case something happened to him. I said fine, but what did he want me to do with it in case something did happen. He wanted me to send it to his parents in Poland. So Mike was a perfect choice for best man. He was my newest friend, and kind of neutral. I ask him then and there and I think he was surprised and flattered by my request.

Next we needed a person to tie the knot, and luckily, there lived one right next to us. Gordon Corbett, a Presbyterian Minister, and his wife Winn had been neighbors and good friends for ten years. Gordon said he would be happy to perform the wedding, so Mary and I reworked the traditional wedding ceremony, omitting items such as obedience of the wife to the husband, until it was nearly unrecognizable.

The day soon arrived, an overcast Saturday in October. We had two cakes, one that said, “Macho Mary, and Big Bad Joe”, and the other was inscribed with, “A Computer Programmed Marriage”. The second one had to do with the fact that we had just completed a college course in computers and were thus proficient in throwing around arcane terms like BYTE, CPU, RAM, ROM, and GIGO which stands for: “Garbage In, Garbage Out”. Word of the wedding got out. We had a full house of guests but were not swamped. There was a good variety of participants, and they segregated themselves to upstairs and down. The more straight-lacers were up stairs and some of their noses twitched as whiffs of wacky tobaccy wafted up from below, but all went well. I asked Charlie Hostetler to take photos of the ceremony and all was ready except that the best man and the maid of honor were missing. Both came after the ceremony was over. I looked around and saw Wes Warner standing in the back. Mike was my newest friend in Alaska and Wes was the one I’d known the longest, so I ask him to sub for my sub. Pat Tremble, a former striper at PJs was to be the maid of honor, Mary ask Rita Atchison to sub. Rita, a former student of mine, was married to Johnny, who use to live above Mary when she was on Roosevelt Street. And thus we commenced our adventurous and tumultuous life together.