Our Town
A closer look at Sitka businesses, artists, events, topics and more!
The Soupster Visits A Mad Scientist.
Old Steve Parks lived in a dilapidated wooden structure facing a road that was a logging trail not long before (as opposed to New Steve Parks who lived in town). Folks wondered what went on, not so much in Old Steve’s house, as in the equally-dilapidated accessory building he called his shop.
The Soupster rolled up on the long gravel driveway, gave his bike’s kickstand a boot and knocked on the door. “Old Steve!” he called.
“Soupster!” called Old Steve from inside the shop. “Come on over!”
Old Steve met the Soupster at the shop door, wearing goggles and leather gloves. “I’m glad you’re here,” Steve said, “I need a hand.”
Steve’s request gave the Soupster a start – but in a good way. Old Steve, old irascible Steve, was brilliant and anyone who talked to him for even a moment knew it. Word was that Steve had a PhD in aeronautical engineering and electronics. Word was he had worked for NASA. Word was he had flamed out, took the proceeds from his patents, and moved out the road in Our Town.
Old Steve knocked his goggles onto his forehead and showed the Soupster deep into the spacious shop, which looked like a combination metal shop and chemistry lab. An eight-foot tall, conically-shaped object covered by a tarp was next to a ladder that reached up to the ceiling.
“It’s a retractable roof,” said Old Steve, pointing to the area above the ladder. “I need your help to open it.”
He posted the Soupster next to a large metal hand crank, then climbed the ladder and starting banging with a hammer.
“Metal is so unyielding,” the Soupster said.
“Not as much as some people,” Old Steve called.
“How so?” the Soupster asked.
“Well,” Steve drew a long breath, “you can bang on metal and you can reroute electricity, but with people sometimes you’re stuck with what you have.”
“You’re on to something, Steve,” said the Soupster. “Scientists used to believe that it was tool-making or something technological that caused the brains of our far-ago ancestors to grow big. Now, a lot of them theorize that it was navigating complicated social relationships in those ancient groups that caused our ancestors’ brains to grow.”
With a last slap of the hammer, Steve forced the mechanism loose. “Now turn the crank,” he called, which opened a four-foot square in the shop roof.
Old Steve clambered excitedly down the ladder and grabbed the tarp. He pulled it off to reveal an eight-foot tall silver cylinder.
“You going to space, Steve?” the Soupster asked.
“Not in this,” said Steve. “This is a model for testing. I’m having a problem modulating the temperature of my liquid oxygen fuel, and the pitch-and-yaw controls are all screwy. Any suggestions?”
The Soupster looked blank.
“But don’t let me waste your time, Soupster,” said Old Steve. “You save your big brain for those social situations. I can handle this.” He lifted a screwdriver and started opening a panel. “After all, it’s just rocket science!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster observes unsustainable drought measures.
At the airport for a Goldstreak and a slice of Strawberry-Rhubarb, the Soupster saw Lydia “Wrong Tide” Lerner, weaving her way among the luggage carts stacked high with white cardboard fish boxes.
“Wrong Tide” is an unfortunate nickname in a fishing community and, also unfortunately, what Lerner’s name portended was true – when fish saw Lydia coming, they swam the other way.
Nonetheless, Wrong Tide was an enthusiastic consumer of everything fish-related, was fiercely loyal to the commercial fleet and could mutter under her breath in way that allowed her still to be heard.
But she muttered something now that the Soupster could not hear above the general terminal noise. He called out “Lydia! Wrong Tide! W.T.!”
At last she turned around. “Soupster,” she said. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Just a minute, I just saw you,” said the Soupster, taken aback.
“Oh, don’t listen to me,” Wrong Tide said. “I get all worked up when I see all these big white boxes full of fish. When you don’t catch fish, you get real jealous of them. You don’t want so many fish leaving town with other people.”
“But look at the smiles on all those folks,” said the Soupster. An older woman in a rain jacket blissfully pushed a cart with five boxes of fish, a stack taller than her. “How happy she looks,” said the Soupster after the woman had passed.
“I’m glad for them,” Wrong Tide said, “But those are our fish!” She looked around, then muttered loudly enough for the Soupster to discern, “I better get out of here.”
Wrong Tide left.
Truth was, the Soupster was no stellar fisherman and found himself growing uncomfortable with the long line of people waiting to load their huge boxes of fish. It wasn’t like the Soupster wanted for fish. The expensive species he poached from friends. He kept his freezer full of the cheaper species from the store to fill in any time his poaching failed.
Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being taken from him personally.
And then he saw it – how could one ignore it? A small parade – or not so small – passing through the terminal’s automatic door. Three young people in identical forest green polo shirts pushed three luggage carts piled precariously with fish boxes.
The Soupster counted 19!
Bringing up the rear was a white-maned and mustachioed alpha predator, pushing a cart with only one fish box. The man kept a close eye on the three green-clad youths laboring with the rest of his booty.
“Sir,” the Soupster called, feeling ornery.
“You really going to eat all that fish?”
The man slowed in front of the Soupster and pointed to the lone box on his cart. “This much fish, I can eat, yes,” he said.
“What about your other 19 boxes?” asked the Soupster.
“They’re not fish,” said the man. “They’re full of water.” He started rolling his cart again to catch up with his crew. “Hey,” he yelled back. “I’m from California!”
Keep Reading
The Soupster hears confessions from a lover of Our Town.
Originally published Oct. 24, 2006
“Because it feels so good when I stop,” Grant — sitting with the Soupster at the sushi bar — tried to say while cramming his mouth with Alaska roll.
“Feels so good when you stop what?” said the Soupster, who had been distracted by the sushi chef’s artful chopping of a huge geoduck clam.
“Well – a long time ago – I used to mean living in Our Town,” said Grant, signaling to the chef to prepare some geoduck for them.
“Really?” asked a skeptical Soupster. “You hated it here that much?”
“When I first moved here the smallness of Our Town got to me,” said Grant. “Having just a few choices for everything – I became bored with that pronto. I came here in the Coast Guard – from Governor’s Island in New York harbor. With all due respect — Lincoln Street ain’t Times Square.”
“Seems like we have everything we need here,” said the Soupster defensively.
Grant ignored him. “And the rain,” the former Coastie said. “The constant rain drove me insane. All the time. The summer I transferred here was like this summer. I came to Our Town in May and waited until early November for more than a single dry day in a row. And actual sunny days? I have a one-armed buddy who could count them for you.”
“Kept my sense of humor, though,” Grant continued. “I remembered the old joke about the man hitting himself in the face. You heard it?”
The Soupster shook his head.
“A man is hitting himself repeatedly in the face,” said Grant. “His friend is horrified. `Why ever would you do that?’ asked the friend. Says the first man, `Because it feels so good when I stop!’
“That’s the way I felt. I loved Our Town, for those first few years.” said Grant. “Cause it felt so good when I went back to civilization. To the United Contiguous Lower 48 states.”
“I never felt that way,” said the Soupster, who had lived in Our Town longer than most professional baseball players had walked the earth. “Those first few years, I wanted to drag everyone I knew up here to live. I got over that, though.”
The sushi arrived. Both men loved the delicate taste of geoduck neck meat – like butter melting in their mouths – and neither spoke while they attacked the plate. Our Town was one of the few places this side of China and Japan where the giant clams made it to the menu.
Grant stopped chewing, spoke first.
“I don’t feel that way anymore,” he said. “Over the years, each time I returned to Our Town from a trip Outside I grew happier and happier to be home. Our Town came to be normal for me, just the right size. Now, there’s only one good reason I ever like to be in the Contiguous United States.”
“You mean…?” asked the Soupster.
Grant nodded. “Because it feels so darned good when I stop!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster learns secrets of keeping dry.
“Bang…Bang, Bang…Bang,” sang the hammer, as its owner, Our Town contractor Mike “Curt” Curtis, pounded nails. Curtis was working on the front of a house right on the road the Soupster passed on his morning walks.
The Soupster had taken the same walk for years and had the luxury of watching as the homes and yards slowly changed. Having the time to literally watch the paint peel – well, not literally – the Soupster noticed changes that even the homeowners might miss.
But it would be hard to miss the pile of warped shingles and pieces of soaked and rotted plywood lying in front of the house. Our Town’s ever-present rain had worked its way under the shingles, causing them to warp. The rain then worked its way deeper and deeper, causing the rot.
The Soupster stopped in the street and regarded the pile. Curtis, descending a ladder, regarded the Soupster.
“Grody plywood, Curt,” the Soupster said.
“I wish it was just plywood,” said Curtis, jumping to the ground. “It’s OSB plywood – oriented strand board. It’s made up of little flakes of wood all held together with layers of glue. Soaks up water like a sponge. All the builders here hate it. They call it Beaver Poop* Board.”
* ed. note: Poop is used here instead of another common scatological term that starts with “S” — for obvious reasons.
“Goodness!” said the Soupster, as a few drops of rain struck his bare head.
“Then,” said Curtis, taking off his hat. He smoothed his hair and replaced the hat. “They thought they put enough ventilation in the attic.”
“They thought wrong?” asked the Soupster, as the rain fell harder.
“And with the foundation,” said Curt, nodding. “People don’t understand that ventilating the foundation is important, just like the attic.”
“It is? I mean, they don’t?” said the Soupster, sounding out of his depth. The rain dripping down his face looked like cartoon beads of sweat.
Curtis laughed. “Nervous, Soupster?” he said. “Your house have any secrets I need to know about? I already fixed your porch, right?”
Curtis had saved the Soupster’s house from damage when he noticed that the back porch had been tied directly into the house, instead of leaving a small space between them for drainage. Without that simple fix, rot would have started where water was trapped at the point where the porch connected with the house. The rot would then have spread.
“Well, it’s no secret, Curt,” the Soupster said, “that I admire you and all of Our Town’s builders for knowing these tricks to keep the rain from biting us civilians on our bottoms.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Soupster,” said Curtis as the rain began to pound even heavier.
“Any more good advice for me?” the Soupster asked, raising his voice to be heard.
“I’d buy a hat!” said Curtis
Keep ReadingThe Soupster okays an unusual pet.
Submitted by Lois Verbaan Denherder
“Did you know Our Town has bearded dragons?” asked the Soupster’s friend Tina.
“It does?” said the Soupster, eyebrows raised.
“Check this out.” Tina showed him her phone. “For Sale on Facebook,” it said.
“Just look at those babies! They are soooo cute! ‘Two Males – one gray and one cream. Born and raised locally and ready for their forever homes.’”
“Hmm, won’t be long and these spiky little dinosaurs will be extinct in Our Town,” the Soupster predicted. “After all, they’re both males, right?”
“Soupster! You’re hilarious. If one was a female, it would be his sister. Even you know what’s wrong with that picture”.
The Soupster laughed.
“Says they hatched May 20, 2015. You know what that means, Soupster? You can celebrate their 3-month birthday! Bet you’ve never been to a bearded dragon birthday party.”
“Nope, can’t say I have,” the Soupster admitted.
“And look at this,” Tina continued. “They ‘make great companions, are safe, docile and like to be handled.’
C’mon, Soupster, they sound like the perfect pet.”
“Hmm…” the Soupster mused. “Most dogs I know fit that description. These critters are a bit of an unknown quantity. What’s more, this sounds like a lifelong commitment. Don’t forget, they’re ready for their ‘forever homes.’
“Oh, Soupster, since when were you afraid of commitment?” Tina asked. “Check this out: ‘Bearded dragons are cold-blooded reptiles in the lizard family,’” she read.
“Therein lies the first problem,” the Soupster noted. “Cold-blooded animals are meant to live in warm places and clearly, this is not one of them.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Tina. “You guys have so much in common! Like you, bearded dragons need a source of heat. ‘Some people use a heat pad; however, beardies like to bask in the sun and a lamp provides a good replica of the sun.’”
“Ok, food” she said. ‘Crickets and dark leafy greens should be two of the main choices. The live food consists of commercially bred crickets, meal worms, wax worms and juvenile Madagascar hissing cockroaches, which you should get at a pet store.’ It is ‘not recommended that you catch the live food for your bearded dragons because outdoor bugs may have been exposed to pesticides.’”
“Well, that’s a relief,” the Soupster chucked. “Have to say I prefer spending my weekends garage sale-ing or fishing. Anyway, been a while since I saw anything on that list around here. How much do you feed them?”
“Good question. Soupster. Finally I detect some interest.” Tina winked. “’As many crickets as they can eat in a 10-minute period.’”
“Interesting. We do have a lot in common. That’s my mealtime philosophy, too.”
“If you need any more convincing, this will do it, Soupster. Bearded dragons ‘have one of the best temperaments of all lizards and can be quite personable and intelligent.’”
“Man, they sound nicer than a lot of humans I know,” the Soupster chuckled. “What did you say that contact number was?” he asked.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster compares consumer choices.
Garth McGregor was a big guy, but looked strained carrying the enormous box on his shoulder. A sheen on Bart’s skin indicated a relative rarity in Our Town – sweating outside.
The Soupster held the door from the post office for the bigger man and then followed him to his truck.
“Can I get the truck door for you, Garth?” the Soupster asked.
“Thanks, Soupster,” Garth said.
Garth drove a white pickup with a crew cab and wanted to put the box on the rear seat. He grunted as he did so.
“It’s a big microwave oven I just ordered online,” Garth said. “One heavy puppy.”
“Was it a special model?” the Soupster said. “Did you look at any of the stores in Our Town? You know, ‘Buy Local’?”
“I know, I know,” said Garth. “But I was reheating some haggis my brother sent me in the middle of this great BBC penguin thing I was watching on my e-reader and the microwave burned out. Just died.”
“Wow,” said the Soupster.
“No, the haggis was still delicious, even lukewarm,” said Garth. “But, like a zombie, without even thinking, I ordered another one on the e-reader.”
“This microwave is a nice unit,” Garth continued. “But I didn’t realize it was so big and heavy. I could’ve gotten a smaller one. I’m not looking forward to lugging this up the goat trail to my house.”
The Soupster noted the model number of the microwave and asked Garth the price. Garth told him and the Soupster wished his friend “Warm Haggis!” as Garth drove off.
“Warm haggis,” the Soupster thought, which led to another thought and then another thought until a new thought surfaced in his mind as “I need a new fluorescent bulb for my office lamp.”
At the hardware store, the Soupster was again pressed into service as a doorman. Lottie Brandywine came striding out the entrance with her usual confident commandeering of space. She was followed by a tall young man with his long arms around a big box.
As the young man passed, the Soupster noticed the item was a microwave oven, pretty much the same model that Garth had tussled with a half hour before. He followed the young man, who followed Lottie.
Lottie popped the hatch of her car with a handheld device, instructed the young man to put the box in there and thanked him.
The Soupster sidled up and greeted Lottie.
“New microwave?” he asked.
“Aren’t we nosy,” she answered.
“Well, I just saw Garth McGregor lugging a similar microwave at the post office.”
“Oh, yeah? What did he pay?” Lottie asked. When the Soupster told her, she smiled. “I paid $8.96 more. And I didn’t have to lug it anywhere.”
“Buy Local,” the Soupster said.
“Bye, bye,” said Lottie.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster unravels a garbage mystery.
Before the strolling Soupster even reached the bend in the road, he heard three things: the treble-triples and quads of bald eagles, the more purposeful caws of ravens and the baritone of the Soupster’s neighbor, Jean-Pierre, spouting loud, angry French.
After retiring from a large bicycle manufacturer in Paris, Jean-Pierre had built a sailboat and headed out to sea. Six years later, with a wife he’d met in Phnom Penh and a son born in Christchurch, New Zealand, Jean-Pierre came ashore in Our Town and declared it “Ze Heaven On Zis Eart’!” The son was married himself now and living Outside. The wife had moved back to Cambodia to be with her family. But to Jean-Pierre, Our Town was still “Heaven on Zis Eart’.”
Well, maybe not today.
Today, Jean-Pierre was in a furious competition with some ravens to return to their rightful place the contents of his trash can before the black birds pulled the items out again. As to who was winning, the scene still rated a toss-up.
In the hemlocks surrounding Jean-Pierre’s trash-strewn driveway, bald eagles watched the action from a dignified distance. Not so the ravens, one of which swooped low enough to knock Jean-Pierre’s cap off. Then the bird glided smoothly to the rim of the can, cackled happily and grabbed a piece of melon peel.
“Yo, Jean-Pierre,” the Soupster called. “You can’t win a battle against those odds. Let me help you.”
The Soupster tipped the scales some in Jean-Pierre’s favor. The ravens may have given the Soupster slack because he truly loved ravens. Or because he was not French. Whatever, they flew back up into the hemlocks and started harassing the eagles.
“What got this stuff all over, Jean-Pierre?” the Soupster asked.
“I zink it was ze bear, mon Zoupster,” said Jean-Pierre. “It may have been ze land otter, but I don’t zink so. I zink it was ze bear.”
“Did you keep your trash in your garage until pick-up day like you were supposed to?” asked the Soupster.
“Oui! Yes!” said Jean-Pierre. “Always!”
“Did you put any fish or meat in the can zat might have smelled strong and attracted the bear?”
“Sacre bleu!” Jean-Pierre said. “My freezer needed repair. I thought for just a little while it would be all right. You are right, Zoupster. It was ze smelly fish that attracted ze bear!”
“Not such a “heaven on Earth” if you have to watch your garbage so closely, eh, Jean-Pierre?” the Soupster teased.
“Au contraire, Zoupster!” Jean-Pierre said. “Zis is nature. In nature, zere is always something to capitalize on a mistake zat any creature makes. Nature, she is very efficient, no?”
“Yes,” the Soupster said.
“And, Zoupster,” Jean-Pierre concluded, as the two men hoisted upright the now-filled can. “We are lucky to live right with nature. With nature right on our doorstep. In our driveway. C’est magnifique, no?”
Originally published June 26, 2003
Keep ReadingThe Soupster ponders alone time.
Guest Written by Eddy Rau
The Soupster cozied into his first class seat. Using his upgrade from Seattle was a great idea. The reunion of his writing class had been interesting, and now his eyes drooped as he thumbed through the magazine, waiting for take-off. Apologies for the hold-up came from the loudspeaker, as two guys walked in and took the seats behind the Soupster.
“Hmmn…looks like they’re out of a Patagonia catalog,” was his thought as take-off commenced.
“You must have clout somewhere to get a 737 to wait for you!” said a deep voice from behind.
‘Well, this trip is costing me a bundle. Seems my wife equates ten days fishing in Alaska with ten days in Paris. Say, Jake, how do you get away with it? You’ve been going fishing every year.”
The Soupster’s ears perked up. This sounded like a story – it already had politics and economics with overtones of women’s lib.
There was a pause and finally the deep voice replied. “Leland, you were smart to deal with your fishing right up front. Remember that trip around the world Susan and I took a few years ago?”
“Ha-ha, don’t I just? I still get, ‘How come Jake and Susan can afford it and not us?’”
“Well,” said Jake, “my story started when I had to go up to Prudhoe Bay with that spill settlement. It was thought a little fishing stopover might be in order. Then, Susan got all excited about meeting up with me. Instead of saying it was an all-guy fishing trip, I dropped the subject. So, she thought it was just work.”
Jake mused, “I had so much fun with those guys – fishing and drinking and being out on the water. I kept going every year – Susan thought it was all business. That worked for about five years. Then, one weekend, at a barbecue, that damned Al Krankins started in about the fish.”
“Where’d you get this fish? Tastes like real wild salmon!” Blah, blah. “You have friends in Alaska?”
Jake’s voice got wistful. “Susan gave me ‘the look.’ I felt the old bank account shrinking. But, I like a peaceful life, so three months tripping around the world was a small price to pay. Now we negotiate in advance. Susan’s on a New York shopping trip with our daughters.”
The Soupster marveled – was this calculated negotiation a feature of all marriages? It sounded exhausting – not for the first time, the Soupster thanked his stars that he had only himself to answer to. He drifted off, thinking of the nice, quiet evening he would soon be enjoying.
Finally, home! The Soupster walked into the terminal. There was his buddy Sheila, come to give him a ride. He gave her a big hug. And then, the shouts started.
“Hey, Uncle Soupster!!”
“Hi, you old dog!,” said Sheila. “Guess what – my family came up for a surprise visit, and the best part is, they get to stay for a whole week! Will you barbecue fish for us all tonight?”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster backs away from trouble.
The imposing Doris Capfield barreled into the city official’s office holding a map.
“It’s a land map,” she told the official. “I’ve got a big problem with my neighbors,” she said and the official gulped.
He knew about the three-generation-long feud between the Capfield family and their neighbors, the McCrorys. This was not the first time a member of one family or the other had been in the official’s office, not by a long shot. Neither family had ever resorted to outright violence against the other, but they had been creatively nasty at expressing their grudge over the years.
And the official was painfully aware that a predecessor had lost his job when he accidentally expressed a pro-McCrory sentiment at a public meeting and the Capfields just about ran him out of town.
The Soupster, who had come into the office a few seconds after Doris, read the scene instantly and backed silently away.
Doris spread her map out on the desk and motioned the official over. “These McCrory fellers – you know who I mean? – think they’re gonna build a fence on a property line that exists only in their mind. Their very demented mind.”
A quick glance at the map told the official that the McCrorys had the stronger case. And, deep down, Doris must have known that, too, because when the official started to tell her, she reared up on her hind legs and huffed, Mama Bear that she was.
The official groaned inaudibly.
“I want you to issue a “Stop Work’ order,” said Doris. “Send the Troopers if you have to. Send in the National Guard!”
“I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help you,” the official said.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Doris huffed again and the official thought he heard her mutter the word “weasel.” She angrily rolled up her map and looked like she might bop him with it.
Then Doris burst into tears.
“What is it, Mrs. Capfield?” asked the official.
“It’s my son, Lawrence,” she sobbed. “He’s been seeing the McCrory girl – Sarah?”
“Oh.”
“He spends all his time with those… monsters!” she wailed. “Sarah is a nice girl, she can’t help who her family is. But he’s over there all the time. Lawrence, I mean.”
The official handed Doris a tissue.
“He’s going there for the Fourth of July! What if they get married?” Doris grabbed the official by the lapels. “What if they have a baby?!”
“A baby,” she said, tugging harder on his jacket. “My grandchild! What should I do? What advice would you give me?”
It took the official only a second to decide. He plucked the map out of Capfield’s hands and spread it out on his desk. “Now about this land issue,” he said. “We should definitely look at that again.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster has yucks aplenty.
Originally published May 2, 2002
“I have never seen so many boats! This place is nuts!” the professional comedian on the stage of a tavern full of laughaholics. “I noticed you have a nice Salvation Army store,” the jokester commented. “But with your boats? What this place needs is a`Salvation Navy!’ store. You know – used Xtra Tufs and rain gear. Going from boat to boat with the bell and the red kettle at Christmas. They’re so compassionate, that Salvation Navy, that their boat hugs the shore!”
“You people are nuts with your rain gear. I’ve never seen anything like it,” he continued. “I heard you once had a rain gear fashion show here. One fisherman went to Mexico for vacation, saw a comely lass in a bikini and commented, `I‘d sure like to see her in a Helly-Hansen rain bib.’”
The crowd liked this, and the Soupster, sitting three tables back from the front, could see the thrill of victory in the comic’s eyes and the square of his shoulders.
“Rains a lot here, I must say,” said the jester on a roll. “Rains cats and dogs. I know. I just stepped in a poodle!”
The crowd – including the Soupster — groaned.
“Really though, I’m walking down Lincoln Street with the guy who met me at the airport,” said the comedian. “And who do we see but the Pillsbury Doughboy. My friend says, `Nice tan!’”
“I see this little boy and ask him if it ever stops raining here. `How do I know,’ he says.“I’m only six!”
“No, but rain is great,” the joker said. “I heard that at the gates of Hell, someone saw Satan throwing the doomed into a huge lake of fire, but every once in a while he tossed someone aside in a pile. `What’s that for?’ asked a curious on-looker. `They’re from Sitka,’ answered Beelzebub. `I have to dry them out before they can burn.’”
The Soupster convulsed in howls and chuckles, joining those around him doing the same.
“And I’ve heard of your bears – I’ve heard of your bears,” the hyper comic sped on. “Did you hear about the religious man walking in the woods, when he came upon a stupendous and ravenous brown bear? Shocked, the man dropped to his knees to pray for deliverance. `Lord,’ the pious man prayed. “Let this be a good and pious bear.” When the man opened his eyes, the bear was also down on his knees saying, “For the food we are about to receive, we give thanks…”
The Soupster and the crowd roared.
“Gotta go, gotta go,” said the comic. “I’ve abused you people long enough. Besides, it’s been 10 minutes since I’ve been rained on and my skin is getting dry. Gotta go. Love you guys!”
The Soupster and the others screamed, “Encore!”
“Okay, okay,” said the funnyman. “What’s more Alaskan than having a backhoe in the back yard? Having a broken backhoe in your front yard! Now that’s it. Really! I’m getting upset. Goodnight!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster greets a secretive new Senior.
There in order to pay her utility bills, Betty graciously held the door open for the Soupster, who was exiting City Hall. They exchanged greetings and the Soupster ambled off easterly toward the center of Our Town.
Betty was relieved the Soupster didn’t know it was her birthday. She wasn’t sure how she felt about turning 65. Although she had been enjoying a few over-55 senior discounts in the Lower 48, Our Town didn’t offer any benefits until 65. And, oh boy, did they then!
At sixty-five, a resident of Our Town enjoyed exemption from the dreaded sales tax that buzzed around every monetary transaction like a mosquito. That’s why on Tax Free Day in the fall, everybody acted like someone who could walk in the woods at dusk in short sleeves without wearing bug dope.
By accepting the exemption, you had to declare yourself a Senior (Citizen) once and for all. Betty wasn’t quite sure she was ready to do that. Still, not to claim the discount she was allowed? She stayed comfortable enough, as long as she watched pennies. But she wasn’t so rich she could turn her back on a 5 percent discount on the entirety of Our Town.
Betty had barely made it inside City Hall when Leah of the Big Smile accosted her. “Howdy, Betty, whatcha doin?” Leah pronounced it “Beddy.”
“Here to pay your utility bill?” said Leah, flashing seriously white choppers. “Bills going up and up. What a pain! And then they charge you sales tax on top of it. We’re all going to sit in the dark and shiver someday soon, you mark my words.”
“Well, taxes are important,” said Betty, hoping she didn’t sound like a Public Service Announcement. “The library and hospital, roads and schools – you know what I mean. It’s how we pool all our money together to do the things we need to do.”
“You have a good attitude,” said Leah, pronouncing it “additude.” You’d almost think you didn’t have to, personally, pay the sales tax.”
Then, Betty’s husband’s friend Mick, who worked in Planning, came down the stairs and whizzed past the two stationary women, saying: “Hi, Leah. And hello, Birthday Girl! I told your husband to get you something nice.”
“Birthday Girl?” asked Leah of the Big Smile. “Today is your birthday? How old are you?”
“Sixty-five,” Betty squeaked.
Although it seemed anatomically impossible, Leah smiled even wider.
Keep Reading
17 Things A Tourist Should Know About Our Town.
Originally published April 8, 2004
- It does not “rain all the time.” Even during our rainiest month (October) there are whole minutes where rain is not actually falling. In Our Town, we concentrate on those dry periods when judging the quality of the day. This is why, when asked, “Does it rain here all the time?” members of Our Town say “No.”
- However, do not dangle your airline ticket in front of a member of Our Town during the entire month of October, unless you want to lose it.
- Everywhere else, the road “never ends”. Here the road “always ends.” Some local residents feel the need to check this fact and will periodically drive to the end of the road to do so. It’s also a good way for them to test their radio reception.
- Do not be offended if someone enters your conversation without introducing themselves. Some members of Our Town know so many residents, they assume all conversations involve them.
- If you use an umbrella, we will consider you eccentric, from England or here to sell hot dogs.
- If it is cloudy in Sitka during your entire visit — be advised: there really is a volcano out there. We’re not just making it up.
- A backhoe parked in a yard is a sign of wealth.
- Drivers here are very polite. One exception: if someone pulls out quickly in front of you causing you to slow down, that person is required to drive no more than 3 blocks without turning again.
- The amount of business a restaurant gets in its first month of operation will in no way predict whether that restaurant will succeed or fail.
- Don’t run out of milk on Monday.
- Problem Corner is not a therapy talk show – actually, it kind of is.
- Do not leave groceries in the back of pickup trucks unless you have checked for ravens.
- Don’t ask a boater how their skiff, cruiser, yacht or dinghy is doing, unless you have 20 minutes to spare.
- The big fish tote boxes at the airport usually contain more than one fish, despite what the fisherman says.
- A car with 60,000 Arizona highway miles is a “new” car.
- Even though there aren’t that many places to go, you will never go to them all.
- Do not try to calculate the number of people who would live here on a sunny day because it will be raining again before you finish writing all the zeros
The Soupster helps a father on a quest.
“I looooove Tristan,” five-year-old Lily cooed about her preschool classmate in a continuous loop. “I want to marry Tristan. We will live in the house next door.”
The little girl was cuter than a bug, but her mother, Sarah, frowned. Strong-willed Lily had been at it about Tristan for more than a week and Sarah was so, so tired of it. She worried that Lily was obsessed. She worried it had to do with their recent move from their former town to Our Town. Lily had talked constantly about missing her friends from their old town until she started in on Tristan.
“Lily is much too young for us to have to be seriously concerned with her having those kinds of feelings, isn’t she?” asked Sarah’s husband Bill, who thought he was agreeing with his wife.
“No, you’re wrong,” Sarah said, “The kinds of feelings Lily is having are fine. It’s just that she’s so driven and relentless about it!”
But a week later, Sarah and Bill would have been only too happy to hear their daughter talk continuously about her happy future life with Tristan. For, Lily and Tristan’s daycare closed suddenly when the woman who ran it had to go South to care for relatives. The two young friends were separated, parceled out to two different daycares. Lily was crushed.
Bill decided that he would save the day. He would find Tristan and arrange a play date for Lily. With Sarah taking the brunt of supporting a little girl who very publicly expressed her sadness, Bill set out to find Tristan.
Now Our Town is a small town, to be sure. But even a small town can be daunting when you don’t know anybody. Bill knew only the guys at work, so he started there.
But when he told his gape-mouthed co-workers his story, they hooted with delight. The whole crew had been looking for some way to razz the new guy, and the story of Lily and Tristan fit perfectly. They started calling Bill “Dolly” — after the matchmaker-protagonist of “Hello, Dolly!”
The experience eroded some of Bill’s enthusiasm, but he kept at it. He didn’t know Tristan’s last name, parents’ names, or where they worked or lived. After striking out for a couple of days, Bill decided to play detective and visit the old, now-empty daycare to see if he could dig up any clues.
He stood outside the daycare building, formerly a home with a semi-attached B&B. The Soupster, who lived next door, saw Bill and sidled over.
“Quiet, with the kids gone,” the Soupster commented. Bill told the Soupster why he was there.
“Tristan?” said the Soupster. “That kid is a pistol! He was always hanging over the fence wanting to help me with my chores. There was a little girl with him – brown curls? His mother Pam works at the city.”
Bill barely said thanks, he was in such a rush to get back and deliver the good news.
He burst through his front door and saw Lily in the living room, embracing her teddy bear.
“I found Tristan!” Bill spilled happily.
“No, Daddy,” said Lily. “I want to live with Teddy in a house next door to you and Mommy. I looooove Teddy!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster compliments an off-road driver.
The man loved Our Town’s cool dampness, its outpost quality, its traditions which he had taken as his own. Despite being known as friendly, the man kept a lot secret. When asked how he’d come to be in Our Town, he would only say, “On the ferry, just like everybody else.”
At another time in his life, the man had loved to drive his car for long distances alone. Herculean drives – 20-hour hauls taking him non-stop from Denver to San Francisco or Raleigh to Oklahoma City. His first car had an 8-track where he played Beatles and Satchmo tapes for company. “Ramblin’ Man.” Later, a cassette player, then CDs.
The man still played CDs sometimes, it helped him when he felt compelled to overlook Our Town’s physical imitations by driving several times from one end of the road all the way to the other, while pretending he was actually going somewhere. Since he moved to Our Town, the man purchased beaters and lemons for cars, to disabuse himself of his desire to escape by a road that went nowhere. And then one day, he had the luck – good or bad – to inherit a nice, peppy, late-model car.
The man drove his new ride to the end of the road and felt, for the first time in a long time, the desire to drive further. He fought the urge.
He liked the new car – it had satellite radio and heated seats. The Soupster, among others, had complimented the man, as though he had lost weight. The man did feel vaguely…proud? Yes, he liked his new car. But ooh, that urge.
One day, as he drove north on the state highway, the urge won.
He passed a shuttered convenience store, then a private cruise ship dock. He felt in no way agitated. More like the calm one feels on the first steps of a long journey.
Past the ferry terminal he drove, and the last vestiges of Our Town disappeared into the forest. He saw the “End of Road” sign ahead of him. He closed his eyes for a split moment and wished that he could keep driving, keep driving. Keep driving.
And when he opened his eyes he saw a very familiar sight – the 24-hour SeaTac restaurant, 13 Coins. Late-model cars whizzed past on either side of him along the straight-as-an-arrow road festooned with motels and eateries. To his left were the elevated tracks of the new light rail by SeaTac Airport. The man and his peppy car worked their way up International Boulevard toward Seattle.
The man was confused. He pulled into the parking lot of a Denny’s and went inside for coffee. He sat at the counter pondering his experience when a big trucker with a kind face sat down on the next stool.
The trucker looked just like the old actor Pat O’Brien, who often played priests. So the man told the trucker his whole story. “…and then there I was,” the man told the trucker. “I mean, here I am.”
The trucker was the non-judgmental type. His only comment was, “Wow. How are you going to get the car back home?”
The man was silent for a second. Oh, I’ll probably put it on the ferry,” he said. “Just like everybody else.”
Keep ReadingA dreaming Soupster is egg-faced.
“Two hundred and forty-seven eggs, wreck `em,'” the waitress called to the short-order cook in the Soupster’s dream about Spring.
In his dream about Spring, the Soupster sat at a breakfast counter that hadn’t existed in Our Town for years. Two large dark-haired men sat on either side of him. Both men wore Tlingit regalia and eagerly tore into herring eggs, mounded into a large pile on a plate before each.
“Pass the soy sauce?” asked the man on the left and the Soupster, still dreaming, did.
“Eggs for you, Soupster?” asked the waitress, her hand on her hip.
“Uh, two, over easy,”
“Two eggs?” said the waitress, her eyebrows arching with disbelief. “Just two?”
The waitress looked over at the men, who, like her, tried to keep from laughing. “You want seal oil with your two eggs?” she said, collapsing in hysterics.
Next, the Soupster dreamed he walked through a park of totem poles and old-growth trees. The Soupster peered into the forest, where he could see figures moving. They were bunnies and chicks — more specifically, children dressed as bunnies and chicks — a score of them, bent over and peering under salmonberry bushes and behind spruce and hemlock trunks.
“I’ve found one!” a cute blue rabbit called out, pulling out from under a skunk cabbage a small hemlock bough covered with herring eggs died in different colors.
“Me, too,” called another youngster, this one dressed as a duckling, holding aloft a similar prize. Cries of success came from hither and yon.
At that moment, the two men from the restaurant reappeared and grabbed the Soupster by the arms. The Soupster’s body stiffened and the men held him parallel to the ground, as they would a plank of wood. They continued down the forest path, the Soupster strangely calm for someone who was being kidnapped. The men carried the Soupster down to the beach and placed him in a small, open boat. Then they rowed for a time.
Despite the unexpected recent turns of the Soupster’s life – or should he say “dream life” – he felt a calm from believing that all this strangeness was a good sign. A sign of something good. Something like Spring?
The Soupster could hear the men placing the oars back in the boat. They grabbed the Soupster, hoisted him up, tipped him over and plunged his head into the cold water. They held him there. In his dream, the Soupster had no sense of the amount of time he hung upside down in the water. Then someone jostled him. Four arms brought the Soupster up sputtering. His hair was filled with herring eggs, which poured, as well, down over his shoulders.
“Sorry, Soupster,” said the first of the two men from the boat and restaurant. “We thought you were a hemlock bough.”
“A real `egg head'” said the second man. “That’s the Soupster!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster hears some old Soviet jokes.
“Congratulate me, Comrade!” boomed Yuri, as the Russian plopped his bulk into the chair across from a startled Soupster. The coffee shop was empty, fortuitous since Yuri was a roomful himself.
The big man wriggled his shoulders and slipped his coat onto his seat back. “Twenty-five years ago the Iron Curtain came down and I moved to Our Town. Siberia was too big for me, so I moved to Alaska.“
When the Soupster didn’t laugh, Yuri explained,“I moved to Alaska because Siberia was too big. Alaska is big, too, but small compared to Siberia. Why is this not a funny joke?”
“I don’t know,” said the Soupster. “Things are either funny or they aren’t. Comedy and math are the two things where there is always a clear right answer.”
Yuri chuckled. “Comedy and mathematics, that is a good joke, no?”
“A lot of humor is cultural,” said the Soupster. “And most Americans have heard people say that they liked math in school because it had definite right and wrong answers. And with a joke, you either laugh or you don’t.”
“When the Iron Curtain was the Iron Curtain, jokes were very important,” said Yuri. “They gave us a way to say things we were not allowed to say. I will give you an example:
“Everyone was supposed to be equal, but that, of course, was not true. In this joke, the mother of the Communist Party leader Leonid Brezhnev visited him at his big and fancy apartment in Moscow. He spared no effort to impress her as he showed her around the many well-appointed rooms and they ate a wonderful dinner. But the mother seemed very quiet. So, then, Brezhnev took her to his enormous dacha in the countryside. When she still looked unhappy, Brezhnev could hold back no longer.”
““Mama,’ said the Premier, ‘are you not impressed with my apartment and my cars and this beautiful dacha? Are you not happy for my success?’ ‘Leonid, I am happy, but I am worried, too,” Mama said. ‘What if the Reds come back?’”
“Very funny,” the Soupster said. “I get that.”
“Behind the Curtain, you had to wait in a lot of long lines,” said Yuri, embarking on another joke:
“Two friends, Boris and Andrei, heard that some Czech-made toasters might be available, so they waited in a line of hundreds of people hoping to obtain one toaster. The longer the line, the more desirable the product. This was a long line, very desirable. They waited in the cold for several hours, but the line did not move one millimeter.
“’This is ridiculous,’ said Boris. ‘I can’t stand all this waiting! I am going to kill the Commissar!’ He stormed off.
Several hours passed and Boris came back. Andrei was still waiting in the toaster line. ‘Well, did you kill the Commissar?’ Andrei asked. ‘No,’ said Boris, ‘the line was too long.’”
The Soupster laughed. “Funny, Yuri! What kind of jokes do they tell there now?”
“I don’t know anymore,” said Yuri, a little sadly. “For this half of my life I only now know the jokes they tell in Our Town.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster and Curley love water.
Laura Rhodes was nicknamed Curley because of her luxurious auburn tresses, so “Curley!” was what the Soupster called out when he saw her near the shell of the old library, watching the construction workers.
“The library is going to be fantastic, when they finish it,” Curley said as the Soupster stepped beside her. The two exchanged pleasantries.
“A great library is a real blessing to a town,” said the Soupster. “’Course we got a lot of blessings in this town.”
“Our Town — our whole region — has the greatest blessing anyone could ask for,” said Curley.
“And that is?” asked the Soupster.
“Water,” said Curley. “Plenty of clean, fresh water.”
“You should have been a hydrologist,” the Soupster told Curley, who baked wonderful almond and lemon cakes and was – in the Soupster’s eyes – already an alchemist.
“I’ll answer up to the title of hydrophile,” said Curley, producing an aluminum water bottle and unscrewing the cap.
“Water-lover,” translated the Soupster.
“Water is a unique substance, with a combination of properties shared by no other,” Curley said, as if she was channeling a science text. “I love water.”
But the Soupster didn’t mind. The Soupster loved water, too. Even the freezing stuff that had been bouncing off his hat brim all morning. Even that water he loved a little.
“Water is the only natural substance that can exist in all three states of matter at the temperatures normally found on Earth,” Curley said, steam coming from her mouth as she spoke.
“Solid, gas and liquid,” echoed the Soupster.
“Most compounds are heavier when they are solid than when they are liquid, but not water!” said Curley. “Ice floats. And it’s a good thing it does, or many a body of water would be frozen from the bottom up. Instead, the ice helps insulate the water beneath and allows many organisms to survive the winter.” She took a swig from her bottle.
“Water is unique in a bunch of ways,” Curley continued. “It takes a lot of energy to boil liquid water and you also have to remove a lot of energy to freeze liquid water, compared to other liquids. Water molecules stick to themselves and that gives water a high level of surface tension. It’s pretty hard to break the surface of water, and that helps things float.”
“Then there’s the whole issue of three days without water and you are in very bad shape,” the Soupster added.
“That’s because our body uses water in countless ways,” said Curley. “Depends on water. An adult male human is about 60 percent water.”
“Wow,” said the Soupster. “I should drink more of the stuff.”
“Our Town water!” said Curley, proffering her aluminum bottle. “Best water in the world. Skol!”
Keep Reading
The Soupster overhears secrets of the retail trade.
It’s a habit of Our Town’s residents to show great patience while waiting in a line at the supermarket, airport or the bank – especially if they can listen in on the conversation that the person in front of them is having with the person behind the counter.
In this case, the person in line in front of the Soupster was Carrie Greenough, one of the most successful merchants in town, taking a breather from her own busy gear store and out shopping local for holiday gifts at the clothing store. Behind the counter, rookie store owner Eugene “Kid” Gulliver was not completely unnervous. Carrie was a local retail legend.
“Retail is like show business,” Carrie counseled Kid. “When you put on a big sale, it’s like you’re putting on a performance. And Black Friday is like Sweeps Week or the Emmys!”
“Wow,” Kid managed to extract.
“It’s all show business,” Carrie said. “How can I explain it to you? Maybe I’ll try this joke.”
The Soupster tilted forward onto the balls of his feet and was very quiet.
“Kid,” Carrie said. “Have you ever heard about the guy who was selling radios for less than it cost to buy them in the first place?”
“Yeah,” Carrie continued without waiting for an answer. “This guy is shopping in this electronics store and he sees these beautiful radios for $12. So, he says to the store owner, `These are beautiful radios for only $12. How much does it cost you to get them?’ `$14.50,’ the owner says. `You’re selling these radios for less than you paid for them?’ says the customer. `How do you make any money?’
“`I make it up in volume,’ says the store owner. Get it, Kid?”
“I got it,” Kid said, smiling broadly.
“Or, here’s another old chestnut,” said Carrie.
“The customer goes into another electronics store and sees the same radio for $12,” Carrie said. “He goes to the owner and says, `Beautiful radios, I’ll take one.’ The store owner says, `I’m sorry, I’m sold out of them right now.’
“Well, the customer goes to yet another other electronics store. He sees the exact same radio selling for $20. So, the customer says, `How come these radios cost $20? They’re selling for $12 at the other store.’
`So go there and buy one,’ the store owner says. `They’re sold out of them,’ says the customer.
“`Well, if I was sold out of ‘em, I’d sell ‘em for $12, too.’”
Kid roared with laughter and slapped Carrie with a high five. “You see, Kid? Show business!”
The Soupster could keep quiet no longer. “I don’t understand either of those stories,” he said.
Keep Reading
The Soupster discusses No Tax Day and solves the mystery of a recurring voice.
“Why is it such a pleasure,” asked Sue, strolling downtown alongside the Soupster. “To shop on a tax-free day?”
She and the Soupster each toted several plastic bags emblazoned with the logos of Our Town merchants. Sue swung her bags happily on the crowded sidewalk, and one shopper had to make a last-minute correction to avoid being bopped.
“I know what you mean,” said the Soupster, steering Sue safely by a “Clothing Specials Galore” sign outside a woman’s shop. “The sales tax is only 5 percent. Yet it feels so good to avoid paying it.”
“I mean, if a store offered a “5 percent off” sale, I wouldn’t even get off my duff,” Sue said. “Nothing below 20 percent off even gets my attention. Yet here I am grabbing stuff like crazy.”
“What makes our `tax-phobia’ even stranger is that we all benefit from the money we pay in taxes,” said the Soupster. “I mean nobody likes taxes. But in order for Our Town to function as an organized society, paying taxes is the way we’ve chosen to have people chip in for the common good. Snow plowing, school books, sanitation…”
“Got to have sanitation,” said Sue.
“Gotta have it,” the Soupster echoed. “Well, Sue, we solved that pesky tax question. What else is strange and wonderful in your life?”
“You want strange — how about this?” she asked. “I wanted to buy a bicycle, so I called three people who advertised in the newspaper. None of the three was home and I got their three answering machines.”
“What’s strange about that?” asked the Soupster.
“All three answering machines had the same voice,” said Sue. “Then I called another friend to tell him how spooked I was. His answering machine had exactly the same voice!”
This was a good mystery for the Soupster. Was there anybody offering narration services for answering machine messages in Our Town? Couldn’t be. Some very odd burglar? Probably not. Someone who lived in three different apartments and was selling bikes out of each of them? Impossible!
The Soupster groaned with the mental effort, then looked at the store nearby and a satisfied smile stretched across his face.
“Kind of official-sounding male’s voice?” the Soupster asked.. “Neutral accent?”.
“How did you know?” Sue asked.
“Mystery solved!” said the Soupster. He took Sue by the arm and turned her gently toward the window of the store, which sold electronics. “ 20 % Off — Answering Machine Sale Ends Today,” trumpeted a big banner.
“The bike-sellers all bought the same model answering machine,” he went on. “What you heard was the voice that came pre-recorded with that model of machine. Your friend must have bought a new machine, too.”
“I live for conundrums,” the Soupster said, mostly to himself..
“Now that’s really strange,” said a grinning Sue. “And kind of wonderful!”
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