DILLINGHAM — In more than 50 years of Kenai Peninsula residency, I never considered myself a townie, even during the two times I lived within Soldotna city limits. I spent most of my Peninsula life on the Fair family homestead midway between Soldotna and Sterling.
Town was a place to visit, not a place we belonged. Dad worked there. We kids went to school there. The family shopped and attended church there. But we weren't from there.
Ironically, when I moved to Bush Alaska, I wound up back within city limits, living in a Dillingham apartment. "Town" is no longer a destination.
Growing up on the homestead, "going into town" was no simple affair. It almost always meant putting on nicer clothes, planning and driving.
The dressing-up part lingered from my parents' childhood in rural Indiana. For my mother's family, going into town was a special occasion, whether the destination was a Grange meeting, the grocery store or a church service. Consequently, everyday appearance was insufficient. A trip to town meant first washing off the farm dirt, combing or brushing one's hair and exchanging grubby work clothes for something clean, preferably something pressed. Women wore dresses and carried purses; men wore slacks and starched shirts and donned hats.
Mom liked getting gussied up, even for a trip to the market. Looking good felt good, she said, a pleasant change from the farm. (Although Mom now lives in Soldotna, you'll rarely catch her out of the house if she's not dressed properly and her hair isn't done.) So when my parents moved north and produced three Alaska children, they attempted to groom those children accordingly when it came time to venture off the homestead.
I can remember fighting against pulling off patched blue jeans and pulling on woolen trousers, and against replacing a comfortable T-shirt with a stiff dress shirt, buttoned at collar and cuffs, with the tails tucked neatly into my pants.
I wasn't tortured with tidiness, but I wasn't exactly comfortable, either. I saw myself as a play-in-the-dirt, tear-the-knees-out-of-pants kind of kid, not some polite-in-the-store, snazzy-dressing kid.
I was a homestead boy. Looked like one. Felt like one.
In town, wearing my itchy slacks, I was a fish out of water.
Piling into station wagon
Going to town was also rarely a spur-of-the-moment thing. Soldotna was 4 miles of narrow asphalt and 3 miles of winding gravel road away, so the planning process included a written record of our intentions. We wanted to forget nothing at home — a wallet or a purse, a grocery list, a piece of copper pipe to match up at the hardware store, even turning off the lights and the burners on the stove.
Since it took about 15 minutes to get to town, forgetting something on either end meant 30 minutes of wasted time and fuel.
And, until I was well into my teens, staying home alone was not an option. If both parents were headed to town, the whole family piled into the station wagon.
By the time I was an adult, I wearied of trips into town, and I worked to minimize all the back and forth.
I also worried less about my appearance. Straight from gardening or wood splitting, painting or lawn mowing, I'd hop into the car and go, wood chips or dirt cascading from my pants, my hair unkempt, sweat gleaming on my brow. When my mother saw me in such a state, she eyed me sternly. "You're going into town looking like THAT? Don't you want to clean up a little first?"
Sorry Mom, no. I'm a homestead boy.
Now here in Dillingham, I live in an eight-unit apartment just down C Street from the Moravian Church and a GCI communications array. Our apartment has four windows, and from all of them I can see neighbors.
From our apartment, I can stroll to city hall, the Bayside Diner or N&N Market in about five minutes. The post office is perhaps two minutes farther. So is Wells Fargo, which stands next to the public library, L&M Supplies and UAF's Bristol Bay Campus. To the west are the police and fire departments and the Subway restaurant.
Given 15 minutes, there's nowhere in the Dillingham city center I can't reach. Going into town requires no planning. I practically walk out the door — and voila! I'm there.
Once I carried a pile of groceries to the checker at N&N, only to realize that I'd left my wallet home. No problem. The checker set my groceries aside, and 10 minutes later I was back with my money.
Convenience, thy name is Dillingham.
I used to imagine shopping like Europeans or New Yorkers I'd seen on television. They'd wander daily to their neighborhood shops to pick up a baguette from the baker, some chops from the butcher, fresh fruits and vegetables from the local wholesaler, the daily paper from the newsstand on the corner.
Their arms full, they'd amble home, greeting friends and neighbors along the way.
Here, it doesn't work quite that way, but walking through Dillingham every day, whether to the post office or the grocery store, brings me in regular contact with friends and neighbors. That would not be the case if I lived, say, out by Kanakanak Hospital. Since we have only one car, living out there would require time-consuming, round-trip walks of 10-12 miles for each journey to town. Chances are, I'd stay at home.
If we had two vehicles, however, I might be tempted to drive into the city at least once a day just to run errands and let people know I was still alive.
I might even make lists.
But I wouldn't dress up.
Clark Fair, a Kenai Peninsula resident for more than 50 years, is a lifetime Alaskan now living in Dillingham.