Chinook
by George Hosier II  - August 6, 2007

Fun

I had one of those Déjà vu moments the other day. Did you ever smell an odor or hear a sound that triggered long-forgotten memories? Maybe it was the unique olfactory cocktail of musty mattress ticking, fresh log sealer and wet sneakers that took you back to your summer youth camp days. Perhaps the sound of a revving Harley, a guttural laugh, creaking leather and the “snick” of a switchblade spring reminded you of the time you wore a Kawasaki shirt to a H.O.G rally. For me it was a petulant voice that I overheard in a local business, “So, what is there to do around here for fun?”

Instantly it seemed that I was back in Moose Hole Lodge tending the cash register as a pimply-faced adolescent. Back then, the concept of human beings not being able to figure out how to occupy their very own time was incomprehensible. The first time a traveler asked me the question, I was so nonplussed that I found myself struck mute on the spot. It was as if someone had asked me, “So, why do you wear your ears on the side of your head?”

Probably my schedule of pumping gas, flipping burgers, waiting tables, sorting mail and selling souvenirs 15 hours each day at my parents’ business had given me an unrealistically optimistic perspective on the boredom problem afflicting America. Personally, I was only too happy for any opportunity to seize the few odd moments of chill time that sporadically became available to me—at least during the summer months. Even in the winter, though, I don’t ever recall sitting around agonizing for something to do. It seemed like I never had enough time to get the stuff done that I wanted to do.

As you can see, I was woefully unprepared for a glimpse into what I’ve come to understand is a disturbing reality for millions of Americans. If the tourists who passed through Moose Hole Lodge are a representative cross-section of American culture, then the fun deficiency crisis has reached epidemic proportions. I hypothesize that the tragedy is caused by a retrovirus acquired through exposure to bright flickering lights such as those found at a nightclub or on a television screen.

At any rate, just hearing that whining question jerked me back 25 years to the first time a tourist had asked me the same question:

“So, what is there to do around here for fun?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you do for fun around here?”

“Oh…um…whatever I want.”

“Whatever you want? Heh, heh, Wise guy!”

“Heh, Heh. Thanks. Mom says with my IQ I could become a…”

“Right. Let me put it this way: What if I want to go clubbing? Any good clubs around here.”

“Uh, sure! I just cut a nice sturdy one last week. Birch. Oughta work great for bonking salmon or packing in my snow machine sled on the trap line.”

“Let’s try this again. What do you do when you’re not working?”

“I read, write, draw, whittle sticks, pick berries, swim in the gravel pit, shoot squirrels, find shapes in the clouds, memorize poetry, drop firecrackers down old man Granger’s chimney, throw snowballs at ravens, build tree forts, throw rocks in the lake, feed Exlax to my neighbor’s dog…”

The tourist seemed to develop a sudden spasm in his optical suspensory ligaments. His eyes rolled back violently. I felt sorry for him.

“You OK, Mister?”

“I don’t know if I can stand it.”

“Want me to call the clinic?”

“You have a clinic in this god-forsaken hole in the ice?”

I didn’t like his tone of voice. “Of course!” I bristled.

“You’re telling me that there’s actually a doctor that chooses to live out here?”

“Oh, no, no, no. The closest doctor is a hundred miles south.”

“You don’t say. How can you have a clinic without an MD?”

“Oh, we have CHA’s.”

“CH…who’s? What’s that? Like a paramedic?”

“Naw, it’s a Community Health Aid. Need me to call one?”

“I’m touched by the offer, but I think I’ll manage. I mean, if I would happen to be having a heart attack or something, I don’t think I’d want some Community Health Aid…”

“Oh, don’t worry. They’d fly you out.”

“Ah, you do have an airport then?”

“We don’t need one. Highway’s really straight here. We just call Louie Garfield on the Ham Radio. He drives his Bobcat out to block the road south of Bear Creek, and Jake Thaddeus flags down traffic at the north end of town, so the Life Flight people can land on the Alcan.”

“Fascinating! So how about theaters, concert halls, museums, sports stadiums, amusement parks? You got any of those?”

“Oh yeah, we got one of them.”

“One of them? One of them, what?”

“One of them theater/concert hall/museum/sports stadium/amusement park things.”

“You…you do?” His eye condition seemed to be worsening. The spasms had subsided only to be replaced with corneal edema and eyelid paralysis. “And where might I find this imposing edifice?”

“The Community Hall. Klondike Clancy brings his slide projector every once in a while and shows his pictures from Vietnam and Disney World and the time he went to Mao Clinic to get his stomach stapled.”

“Ah, the aforementioned theater!”

“Yeah, and whenever the home schoolers have a music recital, they use the Community Hall…”

“Thus the concert hall.” The tourist turned gray and groped unsteadily for a chair.

“You got it. Then, we’re always having pool tournaments, and Friday Night Parcheezi Playoffs, and at least once a month Walrus Fahnestock’s dad sets up hay bales at one end of the hall and teaches archery lessons.”

“Sports stadium, amusement park--I get the picture. Did I miss the museum part, or do I really want to know?”

“Oh, they have all sorts of cool things hanging on the wall. Athabascan beadwork. Pictures of the village elders. A lace handkerchief with ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ cross-stiched on it by Elma Winkler before her arthritis got too bad. The back of a Pilot Bread box with quills taped on it that Skeeter Jackson pulled out of his tongue after his brother dared him to kiss a porcupine. A plaque that used to display a Jamaican coin that Gigi’s aunt brought back from her cruise. Of course, now all you can see is the imprint of the coin in the blob of dried glue because somebody stole it, but…”

I paused when I noticed the tourist was gasping for air, his head weaving feebly from side to side. I leaned forward in concern. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

His voice was faint and hoarse. “Can you just answer me a simple question?”

“I’ll try.”

“What do people in Moose Hole do when they want to relax?”

“Hmmm… That’s a tough one. Never really thought about it much. I usually feel pretty relaxed. No sense getting too worked up. Life’s too short.”

“OK, OK! Let’s say you want to have a really good time. I mean, really party, know what I mean?”

I didn’t know what he meant.

“Look, you little hillbilly Eskimo twerp brat, where can a guy get drunk or pick up women around here?”

“Uh, this is a dry town. The strongest drink we sell here is ginger ale and root beer. But as far as picking up women, you might want to stick around until tomorrow. We’re having a wife-tossing contest at 11:30. If you don’t have a wife, for half a gallon of chainsaw oil and a can of Skoal, one of the Cleaver sisters can usually be persuaded to stand in.

“Hey, not only will you get to pick up a woman, you get to try to throw her across Moose Hole Slough. It only costs five bucks per ticket, and if you toss your wife the furthest, you get to take home the pot—a slightly used, well scrubbed honey bucket containing all the entry fees. I’ve seen winners walk away with 60 bucks! What do you say?”

What he said was unintelligible, because the poor tourist lay in convulsions on the floor. It’s too bad he didn’t stay lucid long enough for me to tell him that the main thing I like to do for fun is watch the expression on a tourist’s face when I feed him a line of moose nuggets. I keyed the HAM radio mic and notified Louie Garfield to get his Bobcat fired up.

 

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