We are building an 8×8 greenhouse at our home in Alaska with the help of our friend, Lev. In the coming weeks it will be framed up and finished with a gravel floor and plastic panels. This is a project that was two years in the planning stages
One of the quirkiest communities in the eastern Interior of Alaska is the village of Chicken. Located at about mile 66 of the Taylor Highway and is comprised of downtown Chicken, the Original Chicken Gold Camp/Chicken Creek Outpost and the Goldpanner.
Chicken got its name in 1902 when it was incorporated officially. Rumor has it that the residents wanted to call it Ptarmigan, because that was the wild bird of choice for local prospectors in search for gold. But when it came time to officially name the town no one could spell ptarmigan, so they settled on Chicken.
With only about 30 year-round residents and a deluge of tourists from the Lower 48, this little town near the Canadian border is very unique. There is little electricity for public use, few phones, little plumbing, and mail arrives only twice a week by bush plane, but with the lack of amenities this little hamlet makes up in eclectic charm.
For visitors, there are several several gift shops, cafes and even a bar. Be sure to check out the Chicken Gold Camp, the most complete dredge open to the public in Alaska.
If you are in Chicken in June (8th and 9th this year) you have to check out Chickenstock. Billed as the “Top of the World Music Festival” with an emphasis on bluegrass and jam sessions.
To get to Chicken you turn left on the Taylor Highway 12 miles east of Tok and head up the highway for more than an hour. There will be plenty of tour buses ferrying tourists to point north–Eagle, Boundary and Dawson City, Yukon so be carful.
It was a beautiful drive. It rained at times but that is okay. It can be expected in Alaska in the summer. Along the way I stopped at Mount Fairplay, and the Mosquito Fork bridge and got out and stretched my legs. Did you know that the largest caribou herd in North America traverses the Taylor Highway every fall on their great migration south?
Date of visit: May 27, 2012
I am participating in the NaBloPoMo challenge for May. It should be a fun one. It is titled: Play.
Today’s topic is: How did you feel as a child when you lost a game?
As I mentioned in an earlier post, in the Forto/Gibson household there were no points for second place. It was sudden death overtime every day and night, seven days a week, 365. No questions asked. Period.
This competitive edge has helped and haunted me for the last 41 years.
One story to share was dinnertime at the family abode.
My stepdad, Mike, being a U.S. Marine was disciplined. Very disciplined. You have to be to be a part of the nations elite military service. We had weekly inspections every Saturday for our bedrooms. I’m not talking bounce-a-quarter off of the bed sheets, but our rooms had to be in order and things picked up off the floor OR we weren’t allowed to go outside to play. Simple as that.
Back to the story… Mike used to watch the Evening News with Peter Jennings every night on ABC before dinner. My mom, would be slaving away in the kitchen making up the nightly casserole (or whatever) and us boys were itching to eat. We were growing ya know!
Inevitably, every night my brother, Ryan and I, would be sitting at the table a few minutes before 6:30. You could set your watch by it. Thank god daylight savings time didn’t occur at 6:30 in the evening because we were starving!
At 6:30 you would here Peter say, “For everyone at ABC News, I am Peter Jennings. Good Night.”
That was it. It was like Pavlov’s bell. We were salivating! All that food laid out so neatly on the round table in the corner. Every night it was a main course, a side or two, bread and a glass of coke. No milk. Gross.
As Mike would sit down to eat in his chair with the arms. The only chair with arms. He would say just three words. “Dig in, boys!”
That was our cue. It was time to enjoy the fixin’s laid out before us. My mom was still over in the kitchen doing one thing or another as the three of us ate like savages. We consumed our daily food pyramid of viddles quicker that mom could serve it up. I don’t recall her siting down for a hot meal for 15 years.
It became a competition. Whoever came in second would have to do the dishes. I was not having that. Ever.
On nights that I did lose. Usually nights with brussels spouts I was resigned to K.P. duty. That usually meant just loading up the dishwasher. Never pre-washing. Why? It was a dishwasher.
By 6:35-6:40 it would be all over. The ceremony of the family dinner was complete. Even though it was quick and relatively painless, we all made it a point to eat together. That is something that most families don’t do today.
By 7:00 we were back outside playing catch in the back yard or our favorite, wiffle ball with a huge red bat that Mike called “Big Bertha”.
During those evenings outside Mike would talk to us about the importance of doing your best and setting yourself up for success.
I will never forget those nights with my family. I just know I did my best not to lose at dinner because I hated doing the dishes.
And still do today.
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Robert Forto is mushin’ down a dream in the wilds of Alaska. He and is wife are raising two teenagers at Forto’s Fort.
I am participating in the NaBloPoMo challenge for May. It should be a fun one. It is titled: Play.
The topic for today is: Who wouldn’t you play with as a child?
I grew up in typical middle America in the heart of the iron belt along the Ohio River Valley. It was full of coal mines, trains and hard workin’ men that you may see in Ford truck commercials.
On our street, Collis Avenue, we had our smattering of recently returning Vietnam veterans, a salesman or two, plenty of housewives that loved their bonbons and their afternoon “stories”. These same ladies would prowl the neighborhood at night after dinner, usually of the goulash variety, to hawk their wares from Avon and Tupperware.
On one end of the street was my little girl friend Micthy and here little sister Cindy that cried as much as my brother, which is hard to beat because he fully lived up to his nickname: Cryin’ Ryan.
On the other end of the street was a man-child, a beast of a boy, with greasy blonde hair, buck teeth, dirty Toughskins and worn and faded concert T-shirst from the 60s that rolled through town a decade before he was born.
His name was Zeke.
Who names their kid that? He is sure to end up in a correctional facility or in films that you are forbidden to see before the ripe-old age of 17.
Zeke was the neighborhood Scut Frakus sans the toadie. He was fully a one man operation and he was only seven–a year my senior.
You would often see my mom in the driveway as I headed out to play with her hands on her hips and sportin’ a housecoat giving me the what-for.
She would say,“I better not catch you down at that Zeke kid’s house or there will be hell to pay!”
Even though Zeke only lived six, maybe seven, doors down, that was the forbidden zone of Collis Avenue. You would often catch us kids taking the long way ALL the way around the block to meet our other playmates that lived PAST Zeke’s place.
We never played with Zeke, at least my little clique. We stayed as clear as we could of him but giving him mucho respect as he trolled the halls of Highlawn Elem. Even as a kindergartener Zeke commanded a head nod from the boys as he passed them in the halls. It’s a guy thing. If you are a lady, you might not understand.
I don’t know what happened to Zeke. But my money is on one the fore-mentioned occupations. But if not, he would be wise to change his name to something like John Smith or something. Because in this day an age, with a name like Zeke, you might be on one of those lists at the airport.
Who wouldn’t you play with as a child?
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Robert Forto is mushin’ down a dream in the wilds of Alaska. He and is wife are raising two teenagers at Forto’s Fort.
I am participating in NaBloPoMo this month sponsored by the site, BlogHer.com. Today’s prompt is what is your earliest memory?
I have two of them actually and they both are about my dad.
It was 1977 or so and we were living in Huntington, West Virginia. I was about to enter school and my mom and dad were arguing all the time. Not something that a six year old little boy should be going through but I was a tough little guy and even then I thought I could take over the world when I was wearing my Aqua-man underoos.
My dad wasn’t home much anymore as he had taken a job in Logan as an insulation installer and there was talk of a word called divorce in the Forto house on Collis Avenue.
I remember when my dad was home he used to sit with me before I went to sleep and talk with me about little things that little boys find interesting, matchbox cars, Saturday morning cartoons and getting dirty in the backyard.
I was having bad dreams back then (of course I was!) and my dad used to give me his watch to hold on to while I slept. I can remember rubbing that old gold plated watch’s face between my little fingers until I fell asleep. There was an odd comfort in that– I can remember it to this day.
My dad also told me if I had bad dreams; to lay my little head on my pillow and “turn the channels” using an imaginary knob on the pillow and find a channel that had good pictures. Every night before I would fall asleep I would clasp his watch in one hand and find a channel on my pillow TV to take me to dreamland. At least on the nights that dad was home…
Another memory is one day my dad brought me over a pair of blue cowboy boots for my birthday. I think I had just turned seven and I was in Kindergarten. I wore those little cowboy boots EVERY day until the soles literally wore out and full of holes. I wore them to school. I wore them with shorts and white tube socks pulled up to my knees. I wore them to Sunday school and I think I wore them to bed from time to time too.
Here it is over 30 years later and I can not say that my relationship with my dad ever really flourished but I still think about him every day. I make it a point to tell my kids, who are now teens, stories and how important family is no matter what the circumstances. That is one thing that my dad taught me even if he wasn’t around. I wish he could have taught me more.