Sweet Home Alaska

by Carole Estby Dagg

  She had trouble finding their plot on the map because the numbers were often assigned haphazardly, with lot eighty-three next to lot one hundred and sixty-seven in one cluster, and lot forty-seven next to one hundred and seventy-nine in another cluster. Pop knew where they would live, though. He pointed to a little square on the map near a bend in the Matanuska River. “Here’s our piece,” he said. “It should be a good location, not too far from town. After the month the government allows for exchanges, we’ll move our tent out close to our building site so we can watch our house going up.”

  Terpsichore stood on tiptoes to get a closer look at their plot on the map. What would their plot in the big woods look like?

  Pop avoided Mother’s face as he rerolled his lottery paper and carefully centered the rubber band around it. “They’re a little behind on the building so everyone is in tents now. But as soon as the shipment of hammers arrives . . .”

  Mother squawked in a most unladylike way. “They don’t even have enough hammers to go around?”

  “It’ll be like a camping vacation,” he said. “Summers are beautiful here, I’ve heard. In the meantime, we can clear land for the house and barn and kitchen garden.”

  “And where are the school, the stores, the church?” Mother looked around, as if hoping to catch sight of a steeple or school bell tower.

  “The railroad’s donated a passenger car for the primary children and I heard that older kids’ll go to the school in Matanuska, between here and Wasilla, until there’s a school in Palmer.”

  Mother’s shoulders stiffened.

  “Let’s get settled in, then, shall we?” said Pop. “We’ll be rooming temporarily with the Wilcox family . . .” Pop started to guide his family to the tent they’d share with a Minnesota family who’d arrived two weeks ago.

  Mother jerked away from him. “What kind of disorganized mess is this? I can’t believe they don’t even have our tents ready.”

  Pop gently turned Mother toward him. “Now, Clio, we’ll only be sharing for a few days, until our own tent is set up. The Wilcoxes probably aren’t any happier than we are having to share their tent, so let’s meet them with a smile and make the best of it.”

  Mother leaned her head for a moment against Pop’s chest, then pulled back with an almost-smile. “At least we’re on solid ground sharing a tent with just one other family instead of the hold of a ship with seventy other families,” she said.

  “That’s my trouper,” Pop said, and took her elbow to guide her through the mud toward the Wilcox tent.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rude Facts of Life in Tent City

  POP KNOCKED ON THE POST SUPPORTING THE CANVAS ON the entryway of the Wilcox tent, and a man’s voice called out from inside. “Please don’t let the mosquitoes in!”

  As the Johnsons quickly sidled in and secured the tent flap, Mr. Wilcox greeted them. “Well done. First rule of Alaska etiquette,” he said. “Get through the door as fast as you can and close it behind you.”

  Terpsichore clapped her hands to smack the mosquito that had followed her inside and wrinkled her nose at the spot of blood on her hands. Mendel would probably know the species and the Latin name for whatever kind of mosquito it was.

  While the grown-ups talked, Terpsichore examined the tent, which wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The floor was a raised wooden platform. A wood and coal-burning stove to the right of the door took off the morning chill, and someone had brought in two more cots. Two, for all six Johnsons? At least the Wilcox family had only one child. What if they had had to share a tent with a big family like Eileen’s?

  A clothesline crisscrossed the room. One of the lines was already strung with diapers and a sheet, doing double duty as a partition for the Johnsons’ section of tent.

  When Mrs. Wilcox pointed out the screened window at the outhouse, shared by who knew how many families, Mother sniffed and shot a glare toward Pop that could have cut inch-thick steel. That look reminded Terpsichore which parent had passed on the gene for the basilisk stare.

  Mrs. Wilcox touched Mother’s arm and pointed to a corner of the tent that had been cordoned off with another sheet. “There’s a chamber pot; you won’t have to find your way to the outhouse during the night.”

  Was that supposed to be reassuring? One chamber pot? In a tent shared by nine people. Terpsichore’s pioneer spirit was already flagging. In reading books about the pioneer days, she had never thought about things like outhouses and chamber pots.

  “Thank you for all the trouble you’ve gone to for us.” Mother smiled weakly.

  Terpsichore didn’t know how many times she’d heard her mother say “Good manners don’t cost a cent and are the cornerstone of civilized life.” Good manners seemed to be the only element of civilization left here.

  “The line at the outhouse isn’t too bad if you want to go right now,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “It’s a two-holer, so that makes the line go faster.”

  Mother, who was still patting Matthew’s back into a burp, paused in mid-pat. “We’re expected to go in two at a time?” She turned to Pop. “Really, Mr. Johnson, this is quite beyond the pale.”

  “The smaller hole is for the little ones, going in with a mom or dad,” Mrs. Wilcox said, nodding toward the twins. “So they don’t fall in the pit.”

  “We could fall in?” Cally and Polly clutched each other in horror.

  Mrs. Wilcox smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We haven’t lost a little one yet.” She went on to explain outhouse etiquette. “There’s a checklist posted on the wall with a pencil attached with a string. If it’s been a couple hours since the last person used lime, take a scoop from the bucket in the corner and sprinkle it in. It’ll help keep down the smell and flies. Don’t get any on your hands—it’ll burn.”

  Mother wrinkled her nose. “Let’s get it over with.” She handed Matthew to Pop. “Ladies first,” she said, and trooped valiantly toward the outhouse, followed by Terpsichore, Cally, and Polly.

  • • •

  Cally poked Terpsichore’s arm. “Trip, do you know that boy? I think he’s trying to get your attention.”

  Mendel waved his newsboy cap and called out from the boys’ line. “Don’t worry about spiders,” he said. “There have been no confirmed sightings of deadly spiders in Alaska. There are a few that bite, but they won’t kill you.”

  Cally and Polly clung to their mother’s coat. “Spiders! There might be spiders!”

  Even though Terpsichore turned her head away from Mendel so people would think he was talking to someone else, he persisted. “You might see some of the Araneidae, though, if the calcium hydrochloride whitewash doesn’t keep them away.” He drew a circle in the air. “Araneidae are the orb-weaver spiders that weave the great webs with spokes coming out from the center. The stink brings the flies and the flies bring the spiders hunting for a good meal.”

  Terpsichore swatted another mosquito. The stink—or maybe just the lines of people in front of the outhouses—also attracted mosquitoes. She glanced in Mendel’s direction. Mosquitoes were attacking him, too. “Aedes implicatus, I think,” he said. “Or maybe Aedes intrudens. It’s hard to identify mosquitoes without a magnifying glass.”

  Terpsichore scratched another bite. As far as she was concerned, there was only one kind of mosquito: BAD.

  That night, Pop draped mosquito netting over the clotheslines near the tent ceiling and down to the floor, enclosing each cot and Matthew’s basket. Mother put a pillow at each end of the girls’ cot so Cally and Polly could sleep one direction and Terpsichore the other. The tent was too cramped to unpack suitcases, so they slept in their clothes. If Cally, Polly, and Terpsichore all lay on their sides like sardines in a can, they just fit.

  Outside, older children still played. “It can’t be bedtime,” one of them said. “It’s still daylight.”

  “It’ll still be daylight at midnight,�
� a grown-up answered. “But my watch says it’s bedtime!”

  Daylight or not, Terpsichore was too tired to think of playing outside. She snuggled under her share of the blanket. The twins’ toes were within inches of her nose. “Your feet smell,” she whispered.

  “Yours do too,” the twins whispered. They hadn’t had a bath since Seattle, so what could they expect? And they probably wouldn’t get a proper bath now until they had their own tent and could fill a washtub with hot water. A few minutes later, when the twins had stopped fidgeting and started snoring, Tigger slipped under the mosquito net and jumped up on the cot. She paced up and down, trying to find a place to wedge herself into the narrow valleys between Terpsichore and her sisters.

  Terpsichore’s fingers sought the place on Tigger’s jaw that she liked rubbed. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispered. “No matter where we are, as long as we’re all together, we’re home, and we’re still your people.” She felt the vibrations of a near-silent purr, then each paw-step as Tigger crept up to lick Terpsichore’s jaw. Satisfied that all was well in this new world, Tigger slipped to the floor and found her own spot on the plank floor underneath the cot.

  To the distant whine and screech from the sawmill and the closer whine of mosquitoes attempting to access fresh flesh, Terpsichore fell asleep at last.

  The next morning, she woke to the sound of hammering and sawing, and the tickle of cold, wiggling toes in her face.

  “That pounding is the sound of our tent going up,” Pop said.

  “I hope,” Mother said. She was huddled under the blankets feeding Matthew.

  “It doesn’t take long to build a tent frame,” Mr. Wilcox said. “They’ll have everyone in their own tent in a couple days. Meanwhile, let’s give the ladies some privacy. I’ll take the rest of you on a tour.”

  Since they had slept in their clothes, Terpsichore, Cally, and Polly were ready as soon as they put on their shoes and visited the outhouse.

  “Breakfast at the community hall first, I guess,” Mr. Wilcox said. “You can always find it easy; it’s the only frame building here. Even the bigwigs are living in tents for now.”

  Long plank tables and benches were set up in the mess hall. Another long table supported vats of scrambled eggs and bacon, piles of toast, urns of coffee, and pitchers of milk.

  “This mess hall setup is just until everyone is in their own tent and unpacked,” Mr. Wilcox said. “You’ll get a welcome packet of bacon, eggs, and coffee when you get your tent, but from then on you’ll have to buy food on credit at the general store.”

  After breakfast, Pop asked, “Can we see the lot where we’ll be living?”

  “Have to build the road to it first,” Mr. Wilcox said. “You’ll be assigned to a crew to help clear a path to your plot. Where will you be?”

  “Seventy-seven,” Pop said. “It’s just south of town.”

  “The big map is deceiving,” Mr. Wilcox said. “I expect that cluster south of town is going to be a couple miles away.”

  Mr. Wilcox turned to Terpsichore and the twins and shook his finger at them. “You girls stay away from the garbage bins behind the community center. They attract bears. And stay out of the way of the CCC workers the government brought up from California to clear land and build houses and barns. We want those houses built as soon as possible, don’t we?”

  The twins clutched Pop’s coat. “There really are bears here!”

  “Garbage is easier pickings than kids,” Mr. Wilcox said. “Just stay out of their way and make noise as you go so they can stay out of yours.”

  Apparently all the children in camp had heard the advice to make lots of noise. Almost louder than the sawmill and tractors, groups of children whooped and yelled, reveling at having running room after being cooped up on trains and ships.

  • • •

  Mr. Wilcox was right. The tents did go up fast, and two days later, Terpsichore and her family were unpacking in their own tent in the sixth row back from the train tracks. The construction crews were still waiting for more hammers, but Pop had packed his own. He scrounged wood scraps and installed shelves in several of the packing crates so each of the girls had a make-do cupboard. Terpsichore had her own cot and the twins had stacked cots like bunk beds. Pop made Matthew a make-do crib out of pieces of packing crates sanded smooth.

  Once her mother had covered the rough picnic table with a good cloth from home and Polly and Cally had set the table with silverware and their Shirley Temple dishes, they could try to ignore the whine of buzz saws and the roar of tractors and pretend they were back in civilized territory.

  Until more land was cleared and folks could move their tents closer to their own plots of land, all two hundred and two families were together in one camp. For now, this was home sweet home.

  CHAPTER 11

  Terpsichore, Not Trip

  TERPSICHORE HAD NEVER SEEN HER MOTHER DO ANYTHING as undignified as skipping, so she was surprised when Mother skipped into the tent after the mothers’ meeting in the community tent. “Good news! The camp superintendent arranged with the Matanuska District to have a bus come and round up the fourth- to eighth-graders to take them into Matanuska for the last two weeks of school!” She beamed at Terpsichore expectantly.

  “School?” Terpsichore’s question came out as a whispery squeak. “I thought—that is, I heard some of the kids say—that since the school year was almost over, summer vacation might start early.”

  Mother humphed. “Just because we’re in Alaska doesn’t mean you can become hoydens. Besides, school will keep you safely out of the way of falling trees and bulldozers and excavators.”

  “But what about us?” Cally scooped up her jacks and stood.

  “Yes, what about third-graders?” Polly stood too, clutching the red jacks ball.

  Mother handed Matthew to Terpsichore so she could hug the twins.

  “Tip,” he said. “Tip carry!”

  “Terp-sick-oh-ree,” Terpsichore whispered, bumping noses gently with her brother. Maybe she could at least teach him to say her real name.

  “The primaries will have school right here in camp in a railroad car,” Mother said. “Won’t that be exciting? You won’t have desks, but the Matanuska school has loaned Palmer a teacher and a few primary textbooks to share. At least someone’s trying to provide the basics of civilized society.”

  Cally and Polly looked at each other, trying to decide how they should respond. With twin telepathy they spoke in unison. “Fun!” they said.

  “And, Terpsichore, you’ll have to get up early because the Matanuska bus leaves the community center at seven fortyfive tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Terpsichore said.

  “Tomorrow!” The twins headed to their packing crate cupboards to decide what to wear on the first day of school in Alaska Territory.

  Terpsichore scrubbed the muck off her Buster Brown oxfords and used her father’s shoeshine kit to rub out the scuffs. Even if the only dress that covered her knees was made from a flour sack printed with roses, her shoes would be presentable. She found a pencil and what was left of a rough-paper tablet and arranged it under her cot next to her shoes. She’d never ridden a school bus before, and she was not looking forward to a room of classmates she had not grown up with, but she had done all she could to get ready.

  The next morning, Terpsichore put a coat over her pajamas to beat the line to the outhouse. She ate her oatmeal and drank her reconstituted powdered milk, then brushed her teeth.

  She had five minutes to dress. She knelt at the side of her cot, and then straightened with a howl that would have startled a wolf.

  “What happened to my shoes?”

  Cally and Polly rolled sleepily on their bunk-cots. Cally leaned over the top bunk. “Did you lose one?”

  Terpsichore held up her shoe, pointing indignantly to the ragged end of a shoelace. “Somebody a
te my shoelace!”

  “It wasn’t me,” Cally said.

  “Me neither,” Polly said.

  Mother took the shoe and wrinkled her nose at the shoelace. “More likely a rodent.” She quickly thrust the shoe back to Terpsichore as if she were afraid of catching bubonic plague.

  “But what am I going to do about my shoelace? There’s not enough left to tie.”

  Mother cut a yard of waxed twine that had been wrapped around the packing boxes.

  “String on my shoes?”

  “You’ll have to make do.”

  A loud honk announced the arrival of the school bus from Matanuska.

  “You’ll have time to fix it on the bus,” Mother said. “Now scoot!”

  Terpsichore slipped on her coat, picked up her lunch pail, tablet, and pencil, stuffed the string into her pocket, and slipped on her shoe, curling her toes to grip the inside sole to keep the shoe from falling off.

  “Love you, honey.” Mother kissed the top of her head and nudged her out the tent door.

  “Don’t let the mosquitoes in!” chorused the twins.

  Terpsichore stumbled toward the bus by the community center just as the door started closing.

  “Wait!” As Terpsichore ran to reach the bus before it pulled out, her toes lost their grip on her shoe and it tumbled off.

  When she straightened from picking it up, she saw the row of windows on the bus, each one filled with kids laughing and pointing. She slogged through the mud in one shoe and one muddy sock.

  With a pneumatic hiss, the door opened again and she puffed up the steps. She stood in the space by the driver’s seat, holding her dripping shoe as she looked for an empty seat. The only one left was on the boys’ side. And it was next to Mendel.