Fox Farm
 
In the spring of the year I was in 3rd grade (1923), Dad exploded over something and quit his job at the Experimental Farm.  He'd been dissatisfied and really never liked the job so I suppose it wasn't much of an issue only the trigger.

He quickly outfitted poor Cynthia and went back to fishing as he'd wanted to do all along.

Before the summer was over he was approached by a group of three townsmen to take on a job much more to his liking.  The boomtime of the twenties had spurred many new industries, including fox farming.  These men - Len Peterson, Felix Beauchamp, and a Mr. Ulrich - had invested in one of the first in the Sitka area.  They leased 3 islands from the Navy (part of the outer­ defense perimeter) and bought a few blue foxes for breeding stock.  These ran free on the islands and would not swim away as long as they were well fed. Roaming freely in a natural environment, they developed superior fur that brought top prices at the London fur auctions.

Len's bachelor brother, Carl Peterson, was caretaker on Legma Island. Another was needed for Maid and Tava Islands which faced each other and formed a somewhat sheltered harbor.  The partners had a two-room log hut constructed on Maid Island, installed a 90 gallon kettle under a shed roof where the food could be prepared for feeding the foxes, and now asked Daddy to take the job.

Somehow, I doubt Mother had much voice in the decision.   At least I do know that by the time my classmates were starting to fourth grade, we were learning to row a boat, split wood and dig clams.

More and more I helped with cooking and other housework, accepting my share of outdoor chores as we all did.  At first it was exciting.  Winter storms kept us indoors when we didn't have to carry buckets of food to the fox feeding stations.  I was nine years old.

Mother procured discarded books from the Sitka Schools and tried to teach us, but just about every day she'd be called outside to help Daddy do something we weren't quite big enough to do.

Once again our lights were kerosene lamps or lanterns.   Finally we progressed to gasoline mantle lanterns and lamps.  A trough from the roof drained rainwater into barrels behind the house.  When a big storm brought sheets of spray across the harbor drenching the roof to run off into the rain barrels the water was most unpalatable.

A wood stove served for cooking.  To provide extra heat, Daddy contrived with a large metal drum, cutting a hole for the stove pipe and ventilation at the bottom and a door to feed in the wood at the top.  Cutting wood was one of the biggest chores. Many logs drifted in on big storms, but not nearly enough.

Daddy would take us off to Chickenfoot or one of the other inlets over on Baranof Island where he'd spotted suitable trees.  These he'd cut down, then with all of us pulling on the block and tackle, he'd haul them to the beach and into the water to tow home.

Once the logs were in the harbor at home we waited for the highest tides to float them ashore, then with block and tackle, hauled them into the best position for cutting.  At first this was done by hand with a "cross-cut saw'' Dad on one end, Mother on the other.  Later the partners furnished a second-hand gasoline powered saw--an awkward heavy thing.

It was V-shaped, about five or six feet long.  The motor was on the apex of the V with the saw suspended on the right side to move from one cut to the next.  Daddy would lift the lower, heavy motor end of the saw while someone else standing on the log would lift the upper end to the next cut.  To do this, he would grasp the handles or upper edge of the V, slip the rope connecting the arms of the V over his shoulders and carefully edge the frame along to the next designated spot.  Sometimes a cut would have to be a bit longer or shorter because a rock supporting the log would protrude and interfere with the saw.

Someone (first Mother, later Ruth or me) would stand on the log being cut to position the saw while Daddy lifted the motor end each time.  I think these were called "donkey" engines although I'm not sure.  At any rate, it was back­ breaking work for a ten-year-old (or any woman).  We all learned to split the rounds and carry them to the shelter of the woodshed to dry for winter fuel.  (My backaches started at a young age--the other children were even younger).  The electric saws now-a-days would have been so much easier to handle, lighter and faster.   I suppose someone has developed a battery powered one by now.

Even the youngest member of the family had to carry the smaller chunks of wood to the woodshed and there was no shirking.   We knew our warmth and cooking depended on that wood.  Since it was in the cold, stormy fall that we did the wood gathering, so as not to interfere with salmon fishing or school it was doubly brought home to us.  I usually was the one to help move the saw because Ruth could split the blocks better.  Between each cut I'd carry a load up the beach to the woodshed while Daddy tended the motor, ready to shut it off at the end of the cut.

The first year on the island, Ruth and I learned to fish off the rocks for bass and other rock fish for that yawning 90-gallon kettle.  We learned to row a boat and could go further from the harbor, finally mastering an outboard motor. That kettle took two standard barrels of fish every other day the year around.   It became our job to fill it until Glen was old enough to help.  Usually l did the actual cooking, keeping the wood fire going until the fish were cooked enough to fall off the bones, adding a 50 pound sack of rice and a 100 pound sack of rolled wheat the last hour, gradually reducing the heat so it wouldn't scorch.  We used a shovel to stir the mass, a constant job after the grain was added.  When it was done, we filled 5-gallon tinned milk pails and set them into a trough of cold water to cool.

Once the "mush" was cool enough we trudged off across our island in all directions carrying our buckets of food to previously arranged feeding stations. Daddy did a wonderful job of hacking out trails that led to the various fox dens. At first we dumped the food onto the ground.  Later we used large dish pans.  Slowly, Daddy built trap houses in each place but this took several years to complete.  They were very simple, but effective of 1" X 12" spruce boards with a slanted tar paper covered shed roof.  A simple door on strap hinges let us in and out.

The foxes ran up a cleated board to a high opening then down inside to the huge dish pans for the food.  At trapping time we simply removed the inside ramp and they couldn't get out.

Getting around Tava Island, and later Legma, was a different matter. First, they were much larger and the shoreline more rugged.  Maid Island was about a mile and a half in either direction.  At first we children could only manage 2 full five gallon buckets.  (Perhaps this is why my arms are so long.) Inspired by pictures, Daddy carved us wooden yokes so the real weight was on our shoulders.  The younger ones, Glen and then Donald were-e allotted the closer stations and gradually Ruth and I were promoted to the "boat."

Until we could manage the outboard motor, we rowed around Tava (and later Legma when Daddy took it over).  One would manage the outboard (usually Ruth) until we were abreast the feeding station, then cut the motor and row to the rocks where the other would balance on the bow of the boat, a bucket in each hand.  Ruth would watch and ride the waves in on the "big one" while I would jump onto the chosen boulder--often skinning my knees if I slipped on the seaweed and barnacles.  After a dash to empty the buckets in the trap house, I'd rush back and wait for Ruth to edge the boat back into shore where I'd leap in with the empty buckets as the wave lifted the bow.  Familiarity with the job never robbed me of the fear that I'd miss when I jumped so I'd land in the heaving surf, a sure death.  While I never did miss, it was a fuel for nightmares that persisted long after I'd left the island.   Ruth was more agile and better coordinated.   Her look of contempt when I'd land in a heap on the bottom of the boat soon taught me to keep my fears to myself.  She managed the boat better and was stronger so it was natural she should do this part and I understood.   Until Ruth and I  were 10 and 11 Daddy, with Mother's help, would do the boat work.

To house us all that first year was a problem.   Early winter storms were fierce with the surf booming against the rocks and the wind whipping the tops off the white caps blowing across the harbor to deposit great sheets of salt spray onto the roof (which leaked) and contaminating  the water supply.  At times the spray was so constant and thick that we couldn't see the shore of Tava.

That first Thanksgiving Day brought the highest tides of the year along with a fierce storm so water beat its way up the sandy beach and all over the floor by at least an inch.  The chinking of moss between the log walls blew out and we were cold and wet despite the efforts of Daddy and Mother to keep a fire going in the very elderly stove.  The breeze through the cracks even made the lantern hanging  on a rafter swing so much that Daddy had to take in down and set it on the table otherwise it could have smashed and set fire to the house.
The storm lasted several days and Daddy worried constantly that Cynthia would drag anchor and land on the beach.

This was meant to be a very special day.  The partners had sent a rare treat, pork chops.  Mother cooked them, splashing about in at least an inch of icy tidewater.  They smelled wonderful and tasted even better.

Following that storm was great activity.  First Daddy and Mother consulted on a breakwater to keep other high tides from the cabin.  With pry and peaveys  they rolled great boulders into a wall about 10 feet from the cabin.  All we children were set to carrying smaller stones to fill the space behind the wall, stones as big as we could carry until we had a ledge seven or eight feet higher than the beach.  At first it was fun.

Great heaps of seaweed had been blown in on the storm and littered the beach.  Daddy constructed a wheelbarrow from scraps of lumber and saplings. Using this and buckets, we trundled the seaweed and kelp to a spot designated for a garden.   Left there, the constant rain could leach it of sea salt.

Meantime Daddy mended the roof as best he could.  It was too stormy to go to Sitka with the Cynthia and until the weather was better we "made do". Gathering sphagnum moss was an all family occupation and Daddy "chinked" the cracks between the logs that formed the walls of the house so we were warmer.  He also started cutting driftwood for the fires and stacking it under the lean-to he constructed of bits and pieces.

The big brass bed Mother and Daddy had brought from town fitted into one end of the bedroom, just barely.  For us, Daddy constructed bunks on either side of the other end of the room using pieces of board and saplings for uprights. Chicken wire for the bottom over which Mother folded a quilt as mattress.

Donald and Carl had the smaller bunks on one side, Glen, Ruth, and I had the other side, three high with me on the top and Ruth in the middle.   Empty wooden cartons that had held evaporated milk were the only chests for "foldables".

The other room had a decrepit wood cook stove, a "cabinet" with sugar and flour bins and two shelves above the counter top where the Seth Thomas wedding gift clock reposed flanked by cornstarch and other foodstuffs as well as the medical supplies (bandages, paregoric,  iodine, tincture of mercury and Epsom salts).  There was a rickety table and two or three straight chairs.

After a trip to town for supplies, Daddy built window seats with lockers beneath for clothing and other necessities.  Those windows--two side by side with three six-inch panes, two high in each were the only daylight in the room.   Mother soon had her precious geranium slips there on the log window sill.  She made curtains from an old remnant that cheered the room considerably.

Between storms Daddy continued to go to town that winter.  Because of the short days and violence of the weather he usually had to stay over so none of the rest of us went. Cynthia was too old and the motor too unpredictable.  At best she could manage no more than five miles per hour.  Storms brought heavy seas with giant rollers eight to ten feet or more high.  There were no radios to give weather warnings then, either, so sometimes he'd have to be gone for several days.

Sears catalogues were indeed dream books and we'd spend hours drooling over them, not really expecting anything.   Necessities were ordered, clothing, bedding, etc., only when there was money from selling fish.

At first the partners paid Daddy a salary (probably not much).  Major food supplies were purchased at McGrath's or the Cold Storage store.  This meant things like flour, sugar, yeast, potatoes, and rice.  Meat was the venison Daddy shot, the fish we caught, the clams we dug.  Shortening was the rendered  venison fat (tallow) and Mother made our soap from it with lye from wood ashes. We lived a primitive frontier life.

When summer came and brought the fishing season, Daddy was off and we continued the fishing and feeding of foxes.  Salmon brought in necessary cash.

Sometime that first winter Daddy had a brainstorm and Mother concurred so two programs were started.  First, it was obvious that we children were not yet big enough to do a full man's work and second, that we did need to be educated. Daddy proceeded with a letter writing campaign.  First, the Territorial School System informed him they would start a school and provide a teacher for no less than ten pupils.  At that time Ruth, Glen, and I were of school age.  Next, it would have to be situated where a teacher could get room and board.

The fox farm owners replaced bachelor Carl Peterson with Chris Jackson on Legma.  Chris had fished and saved enough money to go back to Norway for his family.  George was Glen's age and Johannah a year younger, both of school age.  Of course they had not yet learned English, but that didn't matter.  With their father's help and school primers even their mother soon knew the rudiments, and from the beginning we could communicate.  We delighted to have other children only a mile away. For a school, that now meant five of us.

Daddy's letter writing brought other results.  Since he really needed help from an adult, he persuaded his cousin, Foster Mills and his wife to come.  They had two children, Jane and Russell.  That meant two more for the school.  After they arrived late that spring, Daddy and Foster built a house for them on the far side of Tava where there was a harbor.  Jane and Russell could take the trail across the island and go with us, and we picked up George and Hannah on the way.  Now we were seven for school.

Another result of Daddy's letter writing was the arrival of his Uncle Seth with this second wife, Edna. They, with the Houghs had decided to try their luck at fox farming.  The Houghs had an adopted son, Donald, about 7 or 8 so we had another boy for school.

Ed Harris and his wife settled next on a nearby island with their two little girls, but only Eleanor was ready for first grade.

Another wave of letter writing and by the time we'd been on the island a year and a half a school was established at Goddard Hot Springs three long miles across open ocean.  There was a resort hotel at Goddard where a teacher could live and a one room cottage they were willing to rent for a school. Because of the stormy weather in winter, the session was established April 15 to October 15.

During the winter following those first two years, the fathers volunteered their labor and a one room school house was built a mile down a trail from the hotel.  The teacher trudged, storm or sun, each day.  A Miss McCann was the first teacher there and she stayed several years.  She was followed by a Mrs. Garretson, I think, although a Miss Whitmore possibly came between.

At first Mother or Daddy took us to school in the rowboat or with the outboard motor. In very rough weather, if he was home, Daddy took us on the  Cynthia.  If we ''sheared a pin" on the outboard or had other engine problems like spray getting in the carburetor, we'd end up rowing.  It was heavy, scary going, at least for me.  The boat itself was a 17-foot flat bottomed affair with two sets of oars.  Because of the numerous rocks and heavy kelp beds, boats with keels were useless for getting near the shore, either for feeding foxes or as a school boat picking up children.  Moreover, the wider, flatter boats were safer and less likely to tip over, even though cumbersome.

I've never known why exactly Foster and Louise decided to leave, but they moved to Sitka where Louise worked at the Pioneer Home and Foster became custodian at the Post Office.

The Houghs and Seth Mills family next departed for the "Outside" (Alaska was still a territory).  Harrises moved to Sitka because they couldn't  stand the isolation and he ran a hardware store in the (Indian) Village near the cannery.

But I'm ahead of myself. One summer there was great excitement. Barrette Willoughby wrote a novel with a fox farm island near Kodiak as background.  I can't remember the story at all, but instead of filming it in the stormy Kodiak area, Goddard Hot Spring was selected.   All the actors and work crew were boarded there at the hotel.  The scenery around the islands and ocean were easier to photograph because there was more good weather.   I do know that Ed Harris and his boat, Spark Plug, were used in the filming, much to my father's disgust.  Instead of a fox, a dog was disguised and used.  In order to fit the plot, the background film was run backwards.  These were liberties my father would not tolerate.   He would not permit us to see the film when it was shown in Sitka, citing those faults, yet I think he must have seen it on one of his trips to know so much about it.  For us, movies always were "no, no," and NO!" even when we were in town.

All my life I've heard: "Time and tide wait for no man."  Our lives were governed by this creed along with the weather and the changing seasons, the long summer days when it never was really dark at night to the short winter days when daylight came at about 9:00 AM and was gone by 4:00 in the afternoon.   A tide table was more important than a calendar.   On "minus" tides we could go for abalone if the weather was calm enough, reaching deep down to pry them from the rocks where they hid unaffected by the surf that boomed during bad storms. The bigger clams could be dug then right on our own beach.   Feeding the foxes by boat we tried to go near time for nigh tide because we could get closer to the stations with the boat and there was less chance of hitting submerged rocks. Logs for firewood were towed ashore on the highest tides so they were floated as far up the beach as possible.

All activities were planned according to the tide table, especially meals and even the youngest could quote the high and low times.

It was a cardinal rule that we all eat together.  If work delayed some of us (say we were out feeding foxes) the meal was delayed for all.

Mother and Daddy agreed that we be taught manners fitting us for any society when we were grown.  The table was properly set for each meal including cloth napkins.  Breakfast and lunch the oilskin cloth sufficed, but for dinner a proper tablecloth was used.  Dad carved if he was home and there was roast or fowl.  Food was passed and we had to have some of everything served. If we fussed about anything Dad would reach over and give us a double helping. We couldn't leave the table until it was finished.   Many times since I've been grown I've been grateful for that edict because it taught me to accept strange foods anywhere in the world even though the very sight was disgusting.

We learned to use the correct silver even though it required polishing, not to talk with our mouths full, how to cut food, never, but never to lean elbows on the table and shovel food in.   If we persisted in sticking our elbows out too much Dad shoved a book under and we had to keep it there.   Disagreeable topics were eliminated at the table and we had to converse around the table on acceptable subjects.  Mother usually read a short selection from the Bible at breakfast and we took turns saying grace at all meals.

Next: Life on the fox farm: groceries, hunting, fishing, gardening and entertainment.

Sitka

Late summer 1920 found us fishing off Biorka, St. Lazaria and the other Islands on the outer fringes of Baranof Island near Sitka.  Sometimes we even went to town to sell the fish and buy supplies.  Of course we children didn't go ashore, but were fascinated watching all the activity around the wharves, the cannery, the cold storage and Standard Oil dock.

Sometime in the late summer of the year l was six, almost seven, the decision was made for a drastic change. When we were in Sitka the folks bought some property up on Lake Street very near Swan Lake for the enormous sum of $300.00 cash.  Only one house was further out than the three little shacks they bought on about an acre of ground. Dad built a one-holer on the creek side of the road and moved us into the most usable building.  There was one combined living room-kitchen, a bedroom, and a lean-to we used for sleeping in summer. Dad returned to fishing and Mother started the process of cleaning the shack and making it into a home.

Cooking and heating was by a coal stove and for the first time we had electric light.  (On the boat we used kerosene lanterns. )  In each room one cord hung down from the center of the ceiling with a bare light bulb.  All the wiring was exposed.  There was another novelty--piped in water--no sink, however, and it was cold.  A hot water tank was an unheard-of luxury.

Mother ordered wallpaper from Sears catalogue along with some paint. When Daddy came home from fishing the two of them trimmed the paper and pasted it up after tearing down the old newspaper a former tenant had used to keep out the cold.  It wasn't long before the little house was cozy and clean. Daddy built bunks in one end of the bedroom for us kids and bought a big brass bed that had to be pushed up against the wall in the other end.  When I left home last, they still had that bed.

It must have been August when we moved ashore although I really can’t remember. In any event, we children gloried in the freedom and lost no time making friends with the children in the neighborhood. Charlotte Burkhardt lived in the last house out past us and was my age.  She had several brothers, but  they were all much younger.   Johnny Charlton and his mother lived about a block away at the top of a little hill toward town.  He was younger--nearer Glen's age.  Further down Lake Street was another boy, but sadly I can't remember his name. He was a bit older than I. We all ran wild that last bit of summer, climbing trees and falling into the creek, so shallow we only got wet. It was a wonderful glorious time.  We picked elderberries so Mother could make jelly, we climbed the stunted apple trees in the vacant lot next to ours, we yelled and screamed for joy.  Aboard the boat we'd been shushed--now we were free.

In late summer, possibly a week or two before school, Ruth and I were invited to a party.  We were ecstatic and could talk and think of nothing else for days before hand.  The all-important subject of party clothes became important for the first time in our lives.  Mother contrived as best she could, even allowing us to wear bobby socks for the very first time.  Grandma Markell had sent them, pretty little short pink, white, and blue socks, but Daddy had decreed we continue to wear long black stockings.

Scrubbed until we were almost polished, we set off for the party at Anna May McNeil's.  They lived across the street from the school in a pretty little yellow trimmed white bungalow set on the back of a smooth green lawn bordered by a white picket fence.  Sitka didn't have many lawns and this one looked like luxury to us.  Ruth and I were definitely nervous--scared.  We didn't know any of these more "posh" families--but we wanted to, and feared rejection.  And we were rejected!   Not only were we ill-dressed strangers, none of the children would hold our hands for "Ring Around the Rosy" or other games.   Ruth's weren't so bad, but my hands were rough and almost bleeding with eczema, great scabs along the backs.  It was all I could do not to cry and run home.  Even then I didn't blame the others for not wanting to touch me, but it did hurt.

When we trudged home at last, Daddy was there and we were in more trouble, even Mother, for wearing those pretty little socks.   I think they were burned.

With the rains of early September Daddy returned from fishing.   I was almost seven years old the first and only time he took me shopping.   He bought two little gingham dresses just for me (by this time I was wearing Ruth's outgrown ones).  Marvel of marvels was a pair of oxblood red Buster Brown lace shoes.  I was so proud of my new finery I almost walked on air.  These were my new school clothes and never worn elsewhere.  Each night Daddy would carefully brush and dry my shoes then apply a coat of spar varnish so the soles of my precious shoes would last--never mind it made them slippery.  

Vaguely, I remember Mother taking me to register for first grade. It seemed a long, frightening distance and certainly was a lot further than we children ever ventured before except for that party.  When the first day of school arrived, Mother had arranged for the boy down the road (now in third grade) to take me with him--and was he ever disgusted!   But he did take me.  After a few days the fear was gone and I romped along by myself.  Sometimes Charlotte would go with me, but usually she was late.  To be late was a sin according to our parents so I went alone.

 That year I made so many friends!   It was my first real time to have playmates of my own age and choice.  All these years later I still see Esther Jennings although infrequently.  Her father taught printing and similar subjects out at Sheldon Jackson Mission School. Doris Stewart's father also taught there.  Myrtle Morton's father was superintendent  of the Pioneer's Home. Virginia Ulrich's father was the "weather man" and she had a sister, Doris, Ruth's age along with several younger brothers.

Olga McNulty was a year ahead of me in school (and six months older), but her twin sisters Maggie and Bubbles were a year behind.   Right here let me say that Olga was the oldest of seventeen children.  Agnes Dennard was in my class as were several others I have forgotten. They all seemed so smart and sophisticated to me after our life on the houseboat.

There were three rooms in the school.  First and second grades shared a room, our teacher was Miss Hood.  Third and fourth grades had a room, then fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth were all together for the first two years that I was there.   I was scared, but proud and thrilled to be a part.  From embarrassment I'd stutter and stammer when asked to recite, even when I knew perfectly well the answer.  It was awful. On the playground it was different I was usually chosen the witch in an on-going game (a kind of tag) and was well involved in whatever was going.

It was an adventure--an exciting discovery.  No one was allowed inside the school room door until the first bell rang, then we lined (in rather straggly fashion until we were sharply called to order) the teacher called roll, first graders then second graders and we marched into the room and were seated in our respective grades by alphabet.  It was puzzling, but probably easier in one way for me because Mother had taught me the alphabet.
Next we learned the Pledge of Allegiance and after that first day the whole school gathered around the big flag pole outside as the flag was raised before being marched into our rooms.

I'll never forget the teacher at the blackboard with our next lesson.  In huge letters she wrote and printed "Yes" and taught us to spell words in unison.

Teachers were superior beings.   Every detail of their dress, what they said and did was faithfully reported as soon as I was home--not only once but many times.  Poor, patient Mother!  When Daddy came home he was also regaled with the days' events.

The world over, I think all children new in a school are asked by the teacher to talk about their families and background.   I stuttered and stammered about living on a boat until I remembered Daddy was going to climb Mt. Verstovia to hunt on Saturday.   It was his first day off his new job.  How I bragged about him!  And how unbelieving my new friends were.  It ended in me saying Daddy wanted to take my teacher with him.  At home Mother was aghast and Dad furious.  Forced to put a good face on it, Mother wrote the proper note of invitation which I promptly delivered to my teacher next day.   She accepted for herself and another teacher with a note I conveyed back home.  Everything was very proper.

 Early on the Saturday, glowering at me, Daddy set off in his long, loping stride while the teachers crashed and gasped behind.  Dad was furious because of course they not once saw a deer.  Never again did I brag about his prowess as a hunter or invite a teacher to go with him.  I was always in hot water with my impulses and desire to find favor among my peers.

Daddy soon had a job! and how he hated it!!!  I think even more than the one in Petersburg.   He worked at the government agricultural experimental farm not too far away on the edge of town.  It was there different kinds of vegetables and fruits were tested to see if they'd grow in that climate with all the rain.   Many acres were devoted to different types of celery, carrots, potatoes, peas, beans, etc.  Several greenhouses were devoted to tomatoes and other things that would not tolerate the constant damp.  Since there were no bees to pollinate, it had to be done by hand.  Some things thrive in the short, intense growing season with the long daylight hours.   I have a picture of a stalk of rhubarb as tall as a man and remember it made nine pies.

Being poor--I didn't realize we were poor until that first year in school when I found the other children had more and nicer clothes.  What impressed me most, however, as I gradually was invited to their homes, was "iInside plumbing"--toilets were an engineering marvel and bathtubs instead of a two-holer outside and galvanized tub in the kitchen were true luxury.

We children went to bed at what would be called too early by today's children steeped in TV.  Then there was no TV nor even radio and to bed we went after a suitable story was read aloud.  We loved Buster Brown books. Sometimes I went to sleep as the rest did, but I was getting older and didn't require so much sleep.  Even if I did nap at first during those long winter nights I usually woke to the laughter as Dad read aloud to Mother while she mended or ironed. Just now I can't recall the authors or book names nor do I know where they came from since there was no library yet in Sitka, but the stories I liked best were a humorous collection about Cape Cod.   Later Dad even bought "Brewster's Millions" and the O'Henry books for us, but that winter he read borrowed ones to Mother.  Perhaps this was the beginning  of my love of books.

It was a whole new world to explore and I longed for the day I, too could read those funny exciting stories.
Dad was born out of his time.  He worked hard--none harder--but he was not willing to work for others and he did not take direction or criticism well. Those periods when he had a "job" were few and he became irascible after a very short time.

As far as we children were concerned it was a good year and so was the next when Ruth started school.  The third year the third and fourth grades were moved to a neighboring building that had once housed the old Russian orphanage.   We had the upstairs while a library, Sitka's first, occupied the ground floor.
Mother thoroughly enjoyed that library.  She'd made friends with May McNulty (who had seventeen living children by the time I was in high school) and the DeArmonds.  Mr. DeArmond was postmaster (she was the assistant) and  also he was the acting commissioner (or judge) for all local court cases except murder.  Those had to be sent to Juneau.

DeArmonds had three children.   Robert was several years older than I, his sister Ruth about two years older and Harriet tagged along at Glen's age. They were wonderful friends as long as they lived in Sitka.
Mother was invited to join the Friendly Society, a women's club that met in the afternoon.  I suspect it was much like all women's clubs.  Dad joined the Arctic Club and soon was treasurer.  He often spent an evening in their rooms.

One night, it was probably around midnight, there was a disturbance over by the big bed and I woke up to see the doctor, Mr. Axelson (a neighbor from across the creek), and Daddy hovering and talking in low tones.  Sitting up in my top bunk I wanted to know what was going on.  Dad sharply ordered me to go to sleep and keep quiet before I woke the others.  Wondering, worrying, I huddled down in my blanket watching until I finally did go back to sleep.  In the morning we had a new baby brother, Carl.  It was October 24, 1920.

Sometimes Mother would sing solos for the church service at the Sheldon Jackson Mission.   Once, I remember Daddy going with her.  We children didn't go but later a Sunday School was organized in a vacant building that later became a laundry.  Mother always took us and taught a class.  Whatever the denomination, we were herded off with the hope we'd learn something even though it wasn't a Friends' Church.  Mom had been raised a Presbyterian, but at various times attended other denominations.   No minister stayed long.

The town of Sitka was strictly divided along racial lines.  The Indian Village was strung out along the rocky beach front west from the Cold Storage to past the two canneries, with the summertime stench.  They had their own school and a public health nurse provided by the Territorial government and Bureau of Indian Affairs.  White people were excluded from all these sources.

Our only contact was through the Indian women who made beautiful beaded buckskin moccasins and baskets from grass or the inner bark of trees. These they peddled door to door for such low prices mother outfitted each of us with moccasins.   When a steamer was due, the women would gather at dock­ side setting out their wares displayed on old blankets for the tourists’ selection.

A walk down through the Indian Village as it was then would be a delight now.  Then we were afraid of the dogs that ran more-or-less wild.  Racks of seaweed would be drying and also split salmon.   Here and there would be a totem pole, standing or in process of carving.   An anthropologist would have had a field day.  Daddy knew many of the men and learned many of the old legends and stories but we were not permitted to fraternize.

The white part of town was separated from the Indian by the Pioneers' Home that faced the wharves for small boats between the Cold Storage and the Standard Oil Dock.  Drawn up on the rocky beach was a beautifully painted Tlingit war canoe.   On the lawn of the Pioneer Home was mounted several old "pushkas" or Russian cannon left from their occupation.  High on the hill above the post office, up one hundred plus wooden steps was the "Castle", a large private residence that replaced the Russian Castle, both residence and administrative building that had burned some years before.  The view from that vantage point covered the whole town, the channel into town, and all the way to Mount Edgecumbe.  On really good days, even Biorka Island, 12 miles away, was visible.

From the post office at the shore end of the Standard Oil dock a board walk edged the unpaved road that circled through the business district, ending by the old sawmill where the creek from Swan Lake emptied into the bay. Between the sawmill and post office were all the accepted "white" businesses.

First a tiny fast-food type restaurant, Walners', patronized only by the fishermen. McGrath's Grocery (a true everything store) came next and some kind of other business I've forgotten.  Then there was the Drug Store--a marvelous place, mysterious and smelling wonderful from cosmetics.  There was a hardware store, an apartment building, a dime store, a bowling alley and pool hall, a movie theater open only on Friday and Saturday (but not even Sunday).  The Mercantile--owned by W.P. Mills and sister May--no relation to us--was the most posh general store with a separate meat department and butcher.  Tom Tilson was the clerk and assistant later owning it and AI Tilson was butcher.   Frank and Lloyd Tilson, Tom's sons, went to school with us.  Barron's was the yardage store.  Across the street from McGrath's was a bakery and next door the Petersons had ladies apparel.  They also ran the dime store and a bakery. There was no bank.

In the midst of the business district, dangerously narrowing the street and causing it to divide into a triangle, stood the old log Russian-built Saint Michael's Cathedral where the bells pealed out over all the town.  ln those early years the priest came from Russia and fascinated us children with his flapping black cassock trailing in the muddy wet streets.  I remember he always had a long straggly beard, Behind the business district was only one other street lined with clapboard residences.  Past the sawmill, following the curve of a beautiful sandy beach were build the majority of the residences of the more affluent of the five hundred whites.  There, too, was the grammar school.  A high school wasn't built for several years after that, after we no longer lived there.   Facing the waterfront was the Bay View Hotel.  Mr. Bur and his wife owned and ran the hotel.  He also had his barber shop in the hotel.  Nancy and Birdie (Alberta) went to school with us.

About halfway around the curve of the bay was the beautiful little stone Episcopal Church, Saint Peter's, and behind it a residence built for the Bishop.  He had long since gone to a larger parish and it was left to a caretaker. And at the far end of the bay was Sheldon Jackson Mission run by the Presbyterians.   A huge granite boulder at the seaward side of the road marked the Mission.   We called it the Blarney Stone.  Here too, whites were excluded and only natives could attend the classes.   Even the missionaries’  own children came to school with us although the Mission offerings and teachers were superior to ours.

The gravel road followed around the point past the Mission and through a much smaller Indian Village.  These were the mission-educated Indians and  quite an economic and social cut above those in the main village.   Their houses were neat and painted, no weeds in the yard or wild dogs around.

Shortly past this little village came the Totem Park set in well-preserved forest lands.  Only the central grassy circle where the most valuable totems were kept was changed.   Set at intervals all along the paths through the park towered the brightly painted totems that told so many stories.  While we were there a replica block house was built on the point near the Russian River to commemorate the last bloody battle between the Indians and the Russians. Pete Thrieschield was the custodian of the park and grandfather of the McNulty children.

Two bridges spanned the usually peaceful Russian River.  One, a suspension bridge, was for foot travel only and swayed in frightening fashion. Further up the river was a wider bridge built to accommodate the horses and wagons on their way to Jamestown Bay and then on to Silver Bay and the Power Plant where all electricity for the town was generated.

One of the joys of our life as children was to see Dapple Dan, the horse that brought our wagon of coal.  He was a favorite with everyone and often the older boys would run along and jump aboard the wagon for a free ride.   I've forgotten the name of the carter, but he was a kindly man.  Sometimes, when there was a Sunday School, Mom and the other parents would arrange a summer picnic in the park.  The wagon would be cleaned of coal dust and the youngest would have the thrill of a ride to and from the selected site.  Other times we just walked.
The first full summer in Sitka when I was between first and second grades was a joy.  Somehow I knew the folks had a financial struggle, but it didn't really affect me.

With permission, when the days were warm, we were to be found playing on the beach and running in the edge of the water.   Sandcastles were our chief occupation.

On our first Fourth of July in town, Mother bought a string of those little Chinese style firecrackers.   This was a very special treat and we were "jumping­ up-and-down" ecstatic when we gathered in the front yard along with several neighbor children.   Mother helped us light them until the last one was exploded. When she went back indoor to fix dinner we were still excited.   Ruth, as ever, was a leader in what we all knew was forbidden.   She gathered all the bits and pieces.  Several neighbor children huddled with us as Ruth put first one, then another of the bits on a flat stone and pounded it.  Little sparks flew!  As usual, I was the wet blanket,  Standing a bit behind,  saying, "Mamma won't like it," and, as usual when a piece with more powder in it was exploded, I was the one it flew up and hit in the eye.  My scream brought Mother who sent for the doctor while herding everyone else away.  (Ruth was not punished.)   For weeks I wore an eye patch.  The sight of the eye was saved although there is a scar that diminishes the vision.

Ruth finished her first year of school with another escapade. She went all around inviting everyone of the children she knew to her birthday party, then  went home and told Mother. I don’t know how she managed it, but somehow Mother baked a cake and was ready when all the town's first graders arrived. None of the rest of us would have dared do such a thing because we knew how scarce money was just then--and none of the rest of us ever had a party either.

That was the summer President Harding visited Sitka.  All the little girls (first and second graders) were requested by the town council to appear on the parade ground in front of the Pioneer's Home wearing white dresses.  We assembled and waved flags of welcome as the Presidential party walked up from the battleship moored at the Standard Oil dock.  After speeches to the townspeople we little girls were herded to the steps in front of the larger of the three Pioneer Home buildings. Agnes Dennard was seated beside me, I know.

After the speeches crewman from the Navy challenged the city men to a baseball game, the first I ever saw.  I don't know who or how the local team was selected because it was a spur-or-the moment recruitment.   What I do remember is that a foul ball hit Agnes dead center of her forehead.  A year later she was blind.  By the time l reached high school she had been sent to Seattle where doctors removed a piece of her scull at that spot, allowing a huge developing tumor to expand outward like a balloon.   It did reduce some of the pressure that caused headaches and she lived until I was in high school, but it was a gruesome sight.

Grandma Markell and Uncle Wilfred came to visit that third summer.  One of the little shanties was cleaned out and furnished enough so they could camp in it.

Uncle Wilfred still annoyed Daddy and we children were very aware of the scarcely veiled hostility. Grandpa Markell had died the previous year.   

Next post: Fox Farm

Kake
 
My own memories, though scant, date back to this period.  By this time Daddy was very inactive as a missionary, the church being administered by the Presbyterians, with Dr. & Mrs. Beck in residence.   We lived in a little one room shanty about halfway between the Indian village and the cannery fronting on a footpath that connected the two.  The shanty had a small lean-to that was used as a kitchen.   Behind was a chicken house where Mother raised Plymouth Rock hens for eggs and food.

There was a pebbly, shell strewn beach across the path.  On a hill directly above lived the Stedmans and at the corner of the beach nearest town, the Millers.  Mrs. Stedman was French and called me Marie Helene to Daddy's disgust.  She even made me a hand crocheted collar with a rose in the design. Her own son was away at school (Kenneth, I think his name was). George, her husband was away daytimes and I don't remember him at all, but I think he had something to do with the cannery.

Millers had several children, all older than I was.  They did permit me to play with them sometimes.  Once, I did remember, we found a half barrel of tar that had drifted into the waist high beach grass on a winter storm.  I vaguely recollect Henry (the older boy whom I now suspect was about eight) climbing up to a cupboard in their kitchen to get matches while his mother napped.   Back at the tar barrel they started a fire to melt the tar and, in the process, ignited the summer dry grass.  If Mother had not come looking for me, we'd all have been incinerated.  I still remember her fright and my spanking.  With the help of an Indian from the village who was passing, she put out the fire, beating it with an old gunny sack soaked in the tide water.

At this time, I think Daddy was hand trolling for a living.   Sometimes he held Quaker church meetings in Stewart's hardware store in the village, as far as I know, his only missionary work.  Even then we were not permitted to mingle with the Indians.   Dad was a true racist.

The village itself had a board walk that joined the footpath curving to the point where Kerberger had his grocery and general store.  This sunny point is where the church, the Presbyterian minister and family, and the school were situated. This, with Mr. Stewart of the hardware store who did not mingle with the whites because he had an Indian wife, the Stedmans, and Millers constituted the white population.  Miss Taylor was the teacher I first remember.   She and Mother were probably near in age.  Once Miss Taylor was lucky enough to get some fresh tomatoes which Mr. Kerberger had imported..  Without refrigeration in those days this was a special treat and she brought them down to share with Mother.  I remember the two standing outside the door eating them like apples with every sign of ecstasy.  The taste I was offered only curled my tongue--ugh!

Another time, and most details are missing, but I suspect it was inspired by Mother, there was a beach party on the sand just around the point from Kerberger's store.  All the white people were there.  They dug clams and cooked fish over a huge bonfire.  That part is hazy.  I do remember they slept out on the beach, with a great to-do about keeping Miss Taylor a distance from Mr. Kerberger, the only two single people, and it puzzled me.

Ruth was born at Beck's.  Mother had trudged up to Kerberger’s store with me trotting along.  The long walk (about a mile) was too much and Kerberger helped Mother the tiny distance to the manse.  I remember George, Beck's ten­ year-old son, was instructed to take me away and look after me, not bringing me back until his father came for him.  The only memory I have of this day (June 16, 1915) is the sunshine and George's consternation when I wet my pants--I was 20 months old at the time.

That next year we were in Kake, Miss Taylor was replaced at the school by Charles Sydnor who was (I now think) on sabbatical. He quickly captured Daddy and Mother was friendly with his wife, Cora.  They had a baby daughter, Virginia, just older than I, and an infant son, Thurston.   I've never understood why, but Daddy was enamored from the first and in later years would drop whatever he was doing if Sydnor appeared.   None of the rest of us felt this way.

Once, and it was a wet, cold winter day, Daddy took me to the cannery with him while he visited with the winter watchman.   Probably this was when he arranged for the purchase of a discarded scow the cannery was glad to part with.  Meant for use with seines, it was quite broad (7 feet, I think), a 20-foot open flat-bottomed boat with a narrow keel.

I don't know how long it took, but Dad decked it in, built a cabin over the bow half, and installed a second-hand gas engine that went 5 miles per hour. There was a water tank next to the gas tank in the bow and a tiny wood-burning stove, bunks--in fact a veritable palace, but of course no toilet.  There are very vague recollections of this period with quarrels between Mother and Dad. It was a late November or early December when Dad again took me with him.   Possibly I remember these two instances because they were so rare.  He always preferred to take Ruth who was already larger than I and red-haired.  We were in Stewarts' hardware store, already leaving when Mr. Stewart called me back and gave me a small doll about four inches high with a blue cambric romper.   He seemed to feel sorry for me, but I didn't know why.  Anyway, it was the only doll I ever had.  It was only a few days before Glen bashed its head in.

Dad's itch to go "wild" seems to always have occurred in the early fall or winter.  Almost immediately we were all bundled aboard the "Cynthia" as Daddy called his boat.  Mother was not permitted to see anyone, Daddy telling us smallpox was rampant in the village.  What wouldn't fit into the small space aboard was again left behind.  There were Mom and Dad, Ruth and baby Glen besides me.  I must have been almost four years old.  While these memories are sketchy they are never-the-less vivid.

The next time I saw Kake, Mother was taking Ruth and me to Oregon for our first year of high school. Aboard the S.S. Queen when it docked at the cannery, I was surprised it was just as I remembered it.

Cynthia The Houseboat

The purchase that last day in Kake at Stewarts’ Hardware was a set of traps.  We chugged along until Dad found a likely spot, then anchored and set his traps for mink Sometimes he caught a squirrel instead of mink, so Mother skinned and tanned the hide to make Ruth and me lovely mittens.

This was the period when we learned about skinning, fletching, and stretching the mink pelts for market.  Skinning is self explanatory.  Fletching is the scraping of the fat from the underside  of the skin.   It has to be done carefully because to leave too much fat means the skin will not cure or dry and there will be a rancid odor.  To nick the skin reduces the value.

After the skin is prepared it is stretched over shaped board frames, fur side down and propped up to dry.  In that confined space it was a definite problem. Dad had another problem.   He discovered that I had a positive propensity for falling overboard.   It ended in his installing a 1" X 12" railing all around the deck area.  Two minutes in that icy cold water and I was blue.   It took hours to restore me to a semblance of life and warmth.  None of the others shared this problem, happily.   I suspect it was about then they discovered my coordination was poor.   I stumbled and skinned my knees more than Ruth or Glen ever did.  It was rare my knees or arms weren't either bleeding  or covered by scabs.  Once I leaned over the side of the Cynthia to retrieve something and fell into the row boat along side, breaking my nose.

It was a long, cold winter with much snow.  The deer would come down to the beach, kicking in the sand to find seaweed to eat.  They made wonderful venison, but I cried when Daddy shot one.  When he shot ducks or geese in didn't bother me half so much.  We needed every bit of food he could get.  For months we stayed out trapping and never once went to town for supplies.

On frosty winter nights Dad would call us on deck to watch, open­ mouthed the shivery flash of ''Northern Lights" (Aurora Borealis).  The eerie display of uncontrolled  blue and white electrical lights sent cold chills up and down my spine, frightened yet too fascinated to hide in the cabin.

This was the winter we came to know Bob St. Claire. He, too was trapping.   At first when he came into the harbor, he anchored a little distance away.  Later he moved over and tied up next to us so he and Daddy could step from deck to deck.  More often than not, he shared our dinner, often contributing from his own stores.  My memory tells me he was an older man--about 50?

Once he arranged with Daddy to tend his traps and went off to town for a week, coming back not feeling well (giant hangover), but loaded with little straw baskets of candy for each of us.  Mine was stained green and equipped with tiny spools of thread so it would be a sewing basket.  I might have been only a little girl, but he was wonderful.   He also brought back groceries Mother had ordered. One time when Daddy was out tending his traps, Bob brought across to our boat a jelly glass of wine he'd made from raisins.  (Only I suspect it was more like brandy.)  The tiny sip I sneaked was powerful; I didn't like it at all.  Mom tasted, thanked him, and used the rest to tenderize a very tough venison roast.  That night, I remember Dad exclaiming on and on about the wonderful flavor, but Mom and Bob kept quiet.  After all, even at that age I knew Quaker Missionaries would not tolerate alcoholic beverages  in any way.  Some things we learned at a very young age--by osmosis I now believe.

Perhaps I should say something about our general appearance so you can better visualize this whole story.  Mother was a hazel eyed natural ash blond with hair that almost reached her waist.  For convenience she twisted it into a knot at her nape, but for "dress" occasions used "rats" of her own hair to give it fullness and did it high on her head.   (Now we "back brush" with the same result.)  Mother was gentle and sensitive with seemingly infinite patience yet she could fire up when prodded sufficiently.   She was slender and graceful in those days, loved "company", sang and laughed.   Cooped up with only three infants most of the day, she did her best to keep us washed and entertained,  especially during wet, cold weather when we couldn't poke our noses out on deck.   Now I marvel at her persistent good humor when she must have been lonely.

I'll never know how she managed the laundry for a toddler (Ruth), an infant (Glen), and me plus her own and Dad's.  There was scarcely foot space between the motor and the lockers built along the side.  Two adults couldn't pass in the space.  Our toilet was a coffee can; the tub an enamel wash basin.

Before my birth, Dad bet Mother a five pound box of chocolate covered cherries that I'd be a red haired boy.  (His mother and both sisters were red­ heads.)  Neither came true, but he never did pay up.  By all accounts, he was infuriated to find me a scrawny girl who was almost immediately a blue-eyed tow­ head.  Then Ruth came along and captivated him with her sturdy figure and red hair.  Many a time I was ordered to "get out of the way" so I'd climb up on the locker and watch while Dad held Ruth and played with her while Glen slept and Mother fixed dinner or washed the dishes.  I still remember the hurt.

Glen, too, was a towhead.  My hair darkened so I was an ash .blond by the time I was six or seven, but Glen's hair was always very light--and let me say right now, all of us had blue eyes, but never as deep a color as Daddy's.  Like me, Glen was inclined to be awkward in his movements and was more husky of frame.   Even though he was Dad's cherished desire, a boy, for some unknown reason he was never a favorite.  We felt it, even then.  Some children are  deliberately  naughty for attention.   I can't remember either of us trying to gain approval that way.

I cannot remember a time Daddy did not wear a black felt hat and a necktie along with his wool shirt and trousers held up by suspenders.   He had oodles of beautiful wavy dark brown hair and vivid blue eyes.  After we went aboard the Cynthia he let his beard grow.  As spring peeped through and we were ready for our first adventure into town, he took the razor strop from its customary place hanging at the end of his bunk to sharpen his razor, a long wicked blade that folded into its own handle.

Wide-eyed  we clustered around, no doubt with our mouths open, as he carefully shaved off almost six months of dark curly beard.  Even though we saw it happen it was hard to recognize him when he finished.  He did leave a mustache and always wore one afterwards, dark and bushy.  All his life he remained very slender, skinny I say now.

As the snow began to melt, Dad grew restless.  When the sun shown, we children were allowed on deck and reveled in the freedom.  Dad no longer trapped, but often took long tramps on shore with his camera, coming back with pictures of wildlife.  Finally he came with long sturdy saplings to install for trolling poles.  At first they were laid lengthwise, almost as long as the Cynthia, while they seasoned.   Some days he melted lead on the wood stove and made "sinkers" for fishing, molding them in empty tin cans.  Ruth and I hovered, fascinated, when he started making and polishing the "spoons" and attaching the swivels and hooks.  Bob St. Claire had departed as the trapping season ended so this new activity was welcome entertainment.

Poor Mother!  She still had the cooking, washing, mending and babies to look after.  For someone who had never cooked before, it was a real frontier challenge she met cheerfully. When late spring came and brought the fishing season, Dad decided a family was a real impeding nuisance.   He had explored around for several days, the poor old Cynthia slowly chugging while he fished.  Ruth was by then larger than I and Glen was crawling,  even trying to walk while the boat rolled in the stormy spring weather.  Mostly, as I remember it, I was seasick, but it didn't bother Ruth a bit.

Somewhere at the south end of Baranof Island (the island on which Sitka is situated) Dad found an old camp someone had deserted.  It had a wooden platform for a tent and an abandoned little wood stove, ideal for us.  In no time Daddy stretched a much patched tent on the platform and moved us ashore. Before going off to the bliss of solitude and fishing he cut a stack of firewood. There was still slushy snow on the ground under the trees.   I remember Ruth and I wore our prize possessions, old fashioned black, clamp style galoshes much too large for us.

I was about four and a half at this time.  Daddy decided it was time for me to learn to help.   He gave me a hatchet, stood me in front of a chopping block with several smaller sticks to cut for kindling.   Dad had his back to me, chopping wood.   Now began an ordeal with that torment, my sister Ruth.   Long since she'd learned she'd always get the best of me, but this time it was more serious.  Each time I raised the hatchet, she stuck her foot on the chopping block right next the stick I was to cut, snatching it pack when I halted the swing.   Dad, with his back to me and not hearing any sound of chopping, yelled at me to get started.   Ruth, with that impish look, again stuck her foot on the block, but that time I didn't halt the swing.  Down the hatchet came and cut through the overshoe.  I was sick. Ruth screamed even though her shoe and foot weren't even touched only the galosh had a gaping hole.  Once again I got a spanking.   To this day I'm thankful for those oversize galoshes, but resent that spanking.

After the winter's confinement aboard the Cynthia, that camp was a delight.  We played along the beach and under the trees.  Mother was freer too. Laundry was hung on lines she tied to trees, bedding was aired, and finally we had neighbors when other fisherman deposited their families in the camp site.  It lasted a very short time--maybe two or three weeks, until Dad came in from his first trip fishing.   He took one look at our companions and herded us back onto the Cynthia. I don't know what he didn't like about the other families.

That summer of fishing and houseboat living was more interesting as far as we children were concerned.   For one thing, we were older and noticed things about us more.  Also we saw the other boats and speculated about them, once­in-a-while even seeing another wife or family.  This was very rare and usually one of the Indians.  Days started at 3:30 or 4:00 AM in the long daylight hours. Mother served lunch as Daddy headed toward harbor and afternoon siesta unless the salmon were really biting.  In nice weather we'd sit on the hatch covers and watch the tips of the poles for the first sign of a bite.  It was a glorious, free, exciting summer.  At anchor Mother kept us quiet by letting us cut out the pictures on the tin can labels--the tomatoes, peaches, and whatever she had.  We learned to weave strips of paper and make paper baskets and boats. Dad was fond of origami-type paper work and taught us a number of things I've now forgotten.  Mostly, he'd nap in the mid-day, then go out for the late afternoon and evening fishing.  Summer days were long, with no real dark.  We children would be asleep long before the faithful Cynthia was anchored.

We traveled wherever the fish were reported, around Biorka, up in Icy Straits, out near Warm Springs, down around--well,  all over Southeast Alaskan waters.   I think it was probably a good year for fishing because I can remember the fish flopping on the deck faster than Daddy could clear the lines and lower them.  Mom had to learn to help.  Those were days before "gurdies" and the lines were all hauled and lowered by hand.  Mother's hands were cut and bleeding from the lines.  When the fish hold was full, Dad would stop at the "Buyer Boat", a large, ice-carrying boat with gigantic tanks who bought the fish and conveyed them to the Cold Storage plants or canneries.  They didn't pay quite so well as taking them in ourselves, but often saved as much as two or three days away from the fishing grounds.  There were no closed days then and fishing went on all day, every day.

 Petersburg

At the end of the season when it was too stormy for further fishing and Mother was very pregnant, Dad took us to Petersburg.   Here he found us a little shanty on the boardwalk at the edge of town.  Compared to the Cynthia, it was a mansion with a living room, one bedroom and lean-to kitchen.  We kids went literally wild, clambering  over the rocky beach, climbing our little hill and romping up and down the board walk.

Now, for the first time in my memory, Dad had a "real" wages job.   He worked the night shift at the sawmill.  It was war time, 1918.  For us children it was wonderful, but Dad hated every minute.  He'd have been happy with Daniel Boone or Lewis and Clark.  To be confined to a job in town with dictated hours was torture.

Sometime in mid-November Dad came home with the flu. He was very, very sick and Mother sent for the doctor when he stumbled home, then crawled into the house, no longer able to stand.  He had gone back to work by December 15 when Mother sent me down the boardwalk one night to our nearest neighbor about a quarter mile away, to once again call the doctor.  This time it was for the advent of our brother, Donald, who arrived that day in 1918.  Mother had caught the flu from Daddy so she was very seriously  ill.  Mrs. Martin helped with the new baby for a couple of days before she, too, was forced to seek her bed.  The doctor trekked all the way out to see Mother a couple more times, shaking his head and grumbling, she was so sick.  For the first time she was bed-fast.  The doctor dosed each of us in turn with a tiny, bitter green pill I suspect was mostly quinine.   Even now I associate that shade of green with those pills.

When Daddy was home in the daytime he cooked breakfast and fed us and cared for the new infant. While he slept we played outside under orders to be quiet.  Daddy left for work about 4:00PM.  From her bed, Mother instructed me on peeling vegetables so we had vegetable soup for our dinner.   It was the first of many lessons in cooking--but  one well learned.   I even learned to change diapers when Mother was unable to do it--and of course she worried for fear Donald would catch flu from her--or that we would.  The green devil pills must have worked, because we children escaped that war time flu epidemic.

Gradually Mother recovered sufficiently to leave her bed and resume the household  work, but Daddy was restless, he didn't like the night shift, he didn't like working for someone else, and he was still dragging from the flu.  There was no penicillin or other antibiotic in those days so recovery was slow.  We were lucky because we daily heard of someone dying from it.

I don't know what triggered Dad's fury, but he came home mid-shift one night   Next day he had us all on the Cynthia and off for the remainder of the trapping season.   It must have been the last of January or early February.   We had a repeat of the previous year, fishing season following trapping, only now we had another tiny baby with us.   Don was a fretful baby.  He had had to be weaned and fed on diluted evaporated milk because Mother still suffered aftereffects of the flu.  No special formulas then, not even powdered milk.

 My recollection  is that it was a critical time with no income, illness and anger.  When fishing season started the fish could be sold for cash, but the mink skins in winter had to be shipped "outside" to market by auction and it sometimes was months before a check arrived.

It was that second winter trapping that Sam Butts entered our lives.  Like Bob St. Claire the previous year, he anchored near us and sometimes came  over for a meal or to chat.  As long as I was at home, we could expect to see one or the other of the two men appear occasionally.  Hadley, with his boat, Lituya, would stop by too.
By osmosis we learned to ask no questions about the personal lives of these men or other like them who appeared from time to time.  Sometimes they were like Daddy, only happy in a frontier; sometimes they were hiding from a past they couldn't face.  Some even had families "outside".  Always they were friendly and kind to us children.   I'm sure they would have been the first to help if there had been real need.

Next: Sitka