| The Birdhouse |
| Gone but not forgotten . . . |
| Turnagain Arm |
| I'd been into the Birdhouse briefly on my first visit to Alaska. There were skid-marked undies, ID cards, dollar-bills; you name it; stapled to the walls six inches thick . . . |
| It was a slow night. The highway was glare-ice. The bartender and I were enjoying the quiet moment. I think his name is Terry. A couple of guys wandered in and ordered beers. All of the sudden this guy comes in Butt-Naked, Soaking Wet, and he orders a beer. Terry ordered him out of the bar instantly. I got the impression there's a hot tub or sauna nearby. |
| I'd seen sawdust on floors but never a sawdust floor. Birdhouse was a log cabin on the outside. Inside, the walls and celing were fluffy with things people posted. The floor felt like a sandbox of sawdust. It was one of the original roadhouses from the gold rush era. The original settlers probably topped off the dirt floor with sawdust and called it good. |
| The 1964 earthquake tilted the floor to an angle of what looked like thirty degrees. If you let go of your beer, it would slide down to the next guy. |
| There were doorbells on the bar. If you pushed one (out of curiosity perhaps) a loud alarm signaled your intent to buy the whole place a round. |
| One day I go in and the bartender hands me a frilly toy whistle. She grabs a bag of chips. As she's yanking at the bag and bending down toward a funny low window, she calls out "get them ptarmagan up here." I looked quizzical. She says "yea, we got 'em trained to come whenever we blow the whistle." The bag of chips relents with a pop. She bends back toward that window . . . I blew that whistle--sand shot out all over my face! The whole place busted up. She gave me a sticker that said "I blew it at the Birdhouse." |
| A little later she's opening a jar of pickles, cutting slices for an houre dourve tray. She asks with the innocent eyes of a child "Would you like some?" As she raised it toward, me I caught a glimpse of the label. They were indeed Birdhouse-brand pickles. Naturally suspicious, I looked cynically into those innocent eyes, while sneaking a skeptical whiff. That was a big mistake! It was weapons-grade, whatever it was. I literally saw stars. I was reeling. Gasping for breath, I exclaimed: "you don't eat that!" She prattled on about the secret recipe . . . and about how her husband uses the pituitary gland of the Musk-Oxen, after a kill. A few beers later, the houre dourve tray came around. Even those who witnessed my trauma had picked up slices. They were reluctant, dangling the slices from fingernail-type grips we typically use for the grabbing of something nasty. But someone took a taste. I did it too. It was actually good! Then I exhaled. Big mistake! I saw stars again. |
| I think her name was Janis |
|