Story of the cans

My dad, brother and I were digging holes one particular day in 1972. I remember the spade hitting far too many river rocks along that driveway into the Cooper Creek cabin. Not surprising since Kenai River, at some point in history, flowed its glacial water over that same property long before the 100-year old, spruce log cabin was built.

We were looking for the easiest place to dig a cavity to relocate a new outhouse. I remember sparks flying from the shovel’s rusty metal tip as it struck each round boulder while trying to get a purchase on deeper prying positions.

It’d been many years since the outhouse was moved or replaced. My grandfather captained that project in the 1960s. It involved moving the small, single stool shack to the side, pouring a bag of lime and wood stove ashes over the top of the sunken, ripened pile and filling the hole with debris, dirt, rocks and boulders from the new hole yet to be dug. The lime would neutralize the aroma while the ashes were meant to help with decomposition. The final step was putting the new or existing outhouse on top of the new hole.

Grandpa, we called him Ol’ Buddy, came to Alaska to build the Alaska Highway in the 1940s. He was a bit of an engineer and perfectionist. Grandma Joan Jensen expected as much. Ol’ Buddy told dad and I about his first outhouse build. He said grandma waited for the announcement that it was complete. She marched out with a level in her hand, walked around the shack and measured the building’s balance right to left, forward to backward, up and down. He grew a bead of sweat on his brow knowing that his job wouldn’t be finished unless grandma was convinced that the seat was precisely level. Creating a comfortable seating environment is important when nature calls in the middle of a cold, dark winter constitutional. It was especially important to Grandma Joan.

Sometimes hard to please, grandma must have scrutinized the construction inch to inch. I can imagine her counting each 10-penny nail in the weathered gray, repurposed plywood expecting to find a flaw. It’s a Jensen family tradition that “a nail unused is a nail wasted.”

She swung the door wide and and placed the level on the plastic seat in multiple configurations. Grandma stepped out and looked at Ol’ Buddy and said “This will do.” She shook her head in disbelief (without actually shaking it) before walking back to her knitting project in the old log cabin. Her knitting table sat next to a firewood box with Grandma’s favorite words painted on top: “Don’t follow in my footsteps, I just stepped in somethin’.” Given my current occupation as a photographer of dogs, I live and breathe those words daily.

Anyway, as we worked on the new outhouse location, we found a patch of ground that seemed to have the least amount of fight in the gravel and soil. But along the way, we found some curious treasures that reminded Dad and I of Ol’ Buddy who had passed years earlier.

Before my time, Grandma had pleaded with Ol’ Buddy that he give up his beer habit. He promised he would stop drinking the stuff and, as far as Grandma was concerned, he had at least feigned interest in her dictate. As dad and I dug holes we were discovering cans of Schlitz Beer throughout the yard at varying depths and locations. Schlitz wasn’t necessarily Ol’ Buddy’s favorite beer but it was sold at the Cooper Landing Grocery and it was cheap. We were discovering that grandpa had hidden the err of his ways by burying the evidence where ever the ground seemed soft. There was a lot of evidence.

In reflection, Grandma surely knew what was going on with Ol’ Buddy’s drinks and promises. Most husbands can’t hide anything from the ones closest to their hearts. Plus, women are just plain wiser than men. In this case, it was an “I know you know I know” sort of thing. When I told my wife, Carol she said “Yes, you have to pick your battles.”

As I toast these memories, it now makes sense that Grandma was surprised that each joist and corner of the outhouse was flush. It also tells me a little more about why Ol’ Buddy had a problem giving up his taste for beer.