The Colorless Soldier With A Bedroll

I was sitting with a group of friends from New Hampshire, and they were talking about ghosts.

Actually, they were talking about their personal ghosts.  “My ghost follows me down the hallway, and I can feel a cold breath on the back of my neck”.  “My ghost makes a lot of clanging sounds”.  “My ghost is female and she lives in a trunk in the dining room.  Whenever she gets too annoying, I tell her to go back in her trunk and things settle down”.

My friends were certain that ghosts exist.

I am willing to believe that ghosts exist because I saw one in Alabama in 1968.

Mary Ann Smith was coming down from Michigan with her boyfriend to spend the weekend with her widowed mother in Grand Bay, in southwest Alabama.  I was in the Army at the time, stationed in Dothan, in southeast Alabama.  I hitchhiked across the state, met Mary Ann and her boyfriend in Mobile, and we traveled together to Mrs. Smith’s house.

I slept on the sofa.

In the middle of the Alabama night, I woke up to see an early 19^th-Century soldier standing in the center of Mrs. Smith’s living room.   He was tall and colorless.  He held a rifle, with a thin bayonet fixed.   On his back was a small knapsack with a bedroll on top of it.

He faded away when I screamed.

I immediately regretted that I had screamed.  Here I was, a guest in the house of someone I had never met before, and I woke everybody up with my scream.

“Are you OK”?  I quickly decided not to reveal what I saw.  Instead, my answer was a bland “Yes, I’m fine.  Everyone please go back to sleep”.

In the morning, I did not tell anyone about the early 19^th-Century soldier.  So, I did not find out if Mrs. Smith had ever seen the soldier.  I did not find out if he was Mrs. Smith’s resident ghost.

More likely, the soldier appeared to me because I was also a soldier.  He was dressed for the War of 1812; I was dressed for Vietnam.  The soldier probably was from the north, sent south by the US Army --- just like me.  He probably struggled with the Alabama climate --- just like me.  He probably counted the days until he could leave ---just like me.

Maybe he wasn’t Mrs. Smith’s ghost.  Maybe he was my personal ghost. 

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Ladies Of The Long Alaskan Night

I was surprised to find out that Alaska once had the world’s largest copper mine.  It produced $32,000,000 worth of copper in its prime.  And it was extremely isolated: surrounded by glaciers and the Wrangell Mountains, 200 miles from the nearest seaport.  The miners, all single men, lived in dormitories in a company town where they were forbidden to drink and to gamble.

I was surprised to find out that the largest city in Alaska sprang up almost overnight to take care of the needs of the copper miners.  The city was ten miles from the mine, and had 500 buildings.  It was called McCarthy.  McCarthy was thriving before Anchorage was even founded.

I was surprised to find out that one street in McCarthy, called The Row, consisted of houses where single ladies lived --- ready to take care of the needs of the copper miners.

Our tourgroup had been in Alaska for a week, and I had grown used to surprises.  I had seen wild ptarmigans walk across the path in front of me as if I did not exist; I had seen a Volvo graveyard where old Alaskan Volvos were lined up on the side of a mountain; I had seen tomato plants that were way taller than I am.

In 1938, the copper ran out.  The last miners got on the last train to the seaport.  The train tracks were torn up.

Seventy-three years after the mine had been abandoned, our tourgroup went to McCarthy.  McCarthy had not been abandoned, but it had shrunk dramatically.  Its year-round population is now forty-five people.

What do these forty-five people enjoy? 

They have a museum displaying photos of the ladies who lived on The Row.  They have an espresso truck.  They have a renovated boarding house.  They have an arts center in the old hardware store, with a sign announcing an upcoming poetry workshop.  They have a new general store.  They have a bar, and right next door to the bar is a 5-star restaurant with a James Beard Award-winning chef.

Now I was in hyper-surprise mode.  A 5-star restaurant in McCarthy --- that is 1 star for every 9 people in town.

Because I have lived near the Sahara Desert and I have lived in Minnesota, I know that harsh climates and harsh landscapes make individuals stand out. 

In the harsh climate and the harsh landscape of the Wrangell Mountains, it was one man who helped shape present-day McCarthy.  I got to meet him; his name is Neal.  It was easy to see his impact on the town.  He renovated the boarding house, renovated the bar, updated the general store, and brought in the 5-star chef.

In the past eleven years, Neal has only left McCarthy once.  He spent a winter as the assistant manager of the Whole Foods store on Union Square in Manhattan.  Yet another surprise.

When our tourgroup left Alaska, I felt that McCarthy was the most Alaskan of all the places we visited.

I may have to go back to McCarthy because I forgot to ask my history question.  In the lower Forty-Eight, we use the term “ladies of the night”.  What term did they use in McCarthy in its heyday?  Certainly they didn’t call the women on The Row “ladies of the night” when the Alaskan night is six months long.

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

The Opened Bag Of Cheez-Its

We flew deep into the Wrangell Mountains of Alaska on an 8-seater bush plane, built only 6 years after I was born.  It was the thirty-fifth DeHavilland DHC-2 Beaver ever to roll off the assembly line.  The plane was still in good flying condition and delivered us to the isolated Kennicott Glacier Lodge.

My buddy Randy and I were on a small-group guided tour, and the day’s activity was a hike.

The hike was to be 4 miles to the trail’s end, which offered a panoramic view, and 4 miles back.  The group headed out.  After a few miles, I not only started to fatigue, I started to freak out because we were walking over rocks and I imagined slipping off a rock and crushing my ankle.

When we stopped to eat our sack lunches, I announced that I was not going any further.  I would watch people’s backpacks while they continued the hike to the panoramic view.  The group went on, and I settled down on the most comfortable rock I could find.

I noticed that I was sitting next to an opened bag of Cheez-Its, left over from lunch.  I also noticed that I had a fine view of a glacier, and that I was enveloped in a rare silence: the dense silence of the Alaskan wilderness.

The silence was broken by four German hikers, eager to display a photo on their camera.  “Ein Bar”.  A brown bear?  Where?  “Dort.”  They pointed, and I thought they were pointing halfway up the mountain.  “Am links.”  I looked to the left and did not see anything up on the mountain.  “Er ist verschwundet.”  Dang, the bear on the mountain has disappeared.

The Germans continued their hike.  I settled back onto my rock, enjoying the glacier view, the solitude, and the dense silence.

This time the silence was broken by the sudden appearance of Randy, who was gasping for breath and shouted, “Doug, there is a bear behind you.”

I turned around, and there was a brown bear, staring at the opened bag of Cheez-Its.

I remembered what to do when confronted by a bear in the wild: I am supposed to stand tall and make a lot of noise.  However, I did not stand tall and I did not make noise.  Instead, I pulled out my camera and took a photo.

Apparently, the bear was camera shy.  It did not like the flash, and it lumbered away.

Randy filled me in on what happened. 

The four Germans caught up with my tourgroup, displayed the photo on their camera, and scolded them in English: “You should not leave your friend alone.  There is a bear 50 meters away from him.”  On hearing that number, Randy ran all the way back to where I was sitting amidst the backpacks and the remains of the sack lunches.

The Germans had not told me that the bear in their camera was 50 meters away from me.  When they were pointing to show me the bear's location, I thought they were pointing halfway up the mountain --- but they were pointing at the ridge right behind me.  By the time Randy appeared to save me from the animal, it was 20 meters away.

I learned my lesson.  Never sit by yourself next to an opened bag of Cheez-Its in Alaska.  I think that advice also holds for opened bags of potato chips and Fritos as well.

- . - .- . - . - . 

NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com