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| "Names The Same" An Alaskan Short Story Adventure by Alaskan Artist Dianne Roberson |
"Whittier* round trip, please,” I requested a ticket from the napping clerk as I laid a twenty dollar bill on the counter at the train station in Portage, Alaska.
He snapped his head up and retorted, “It’s leaving now.”
Handing him my newly purchased dozen of eggs, I said “Enjoy! Where is the restroom?”
He laughed, “Better get going lady; I said the train is leaving now!”
I looked out the window and saw several men securing the train doors, and then the whistle blew. I grabbed my bag and heard him yell to my back, “You
forgot your eggs!”
“They’re your tip,” I hollered.
I didn't plan this trip to Whittier, Alaska. The ice in my cooler wouldn’t survive until I returned. I tripped in a big mud hole running for the train; jumped up and
grabbed the hand sticking out an open door. Two burley guys helped me up on the moving train. I leaned against the cold hard metal for a moment to get my
breath.
“You didn’t have to run so fast,” the uniformed man said. “This old Alaskan train’s barely rolling.”
Still choking on air, I managed to reply, “That’s the way they do it in the movies.”
The other man laughed, “Well, I guess you must be some famous movie star then?”
“Yup, I’m in disguise,” looking at the spiral staircase, I inquired where it went to.
“Ain’t you ever seen a two level train, lady?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t. “A restroom please!
I really need to change these shorts for jeans before we get close to the ocean again,” I pleaded. After cleaning off the mud, I opened my bag to find only my
jacket, camera equipment, and art supplies. At least my arms would be warm. In my hurry I had forgotten the bag with my cloths. I climbed the stairs hoping
to get a better view of the glaciers and rocky terrain; flopped down in a window seat, took out my camera then began filming the action. I now have great
movies of my reflection in the train’s window.
Before hopping the train, I had driven from Homer, Alaska with its cool ocean breezes. Intent on driving to Anchorage that day, I felt the sunny day became
hotter the further I drove. About sixty-five miles out side Anchorage, I noticed a sign for Portage Glacier. An icy glacier sounded refreshing. Wondering how
glaciers stayed frozen in this heat? Everyone down south said Alaska was cold in the summer. The weather had been cool at night since I arrived in April,
but the days were starting to get hot in June. I decided to stop for a look. The blue ice shimmered in the blazing sun. What a treat, to see ice on the land in
June. I read all the information available at the visitor’s center about the area. I was intrigued about the living history I was gazing upon. How many
generations of human families must have stood in front of this glacier? Photographing the area, I walked for hours. Hanging glaciers fell from the top of the
mountains their white values provided a sharp contrast to the black rocks. I followed a small path through the woods to the edge of a lake where I quietly
observed a female moose nurse her calf. Carefully remaining at a distance I photographed them with my telephoto lens. Since she seemed in no hurry to
leave and didn’t notice me, I sat on a big rock and sketched the tranquil scene with a regular pencil and paper I carried in my backpack. When the young
moose lead her calf up the mountain trail, I headed back to the paved road to find my jeep.
I should have kept driving toward Anchorage, but somehow I just felt the need to stop. Intuition, I guess you could call it. Just before I got to the highway, I
steered into the parking lot of the train station and cut the engine off. Guess I might as well find out where this train goes.
Workers loading supplies on the train filled me in on the situation. The train went to Whittier, Alaska. There was no road to Whittier in 1995. The Alaska
Railroad maintained the only land connection to the small town. Sitting on Prince William Sound, surrounded on three sides by steep solid rock mountains,
Whittier was created by the United States Army during World War II as a petroleum delivery center because of its ice-free deep port. One guy said I would find
several ships available to cruise out to the glaciers.
Summer under the midnight sun continued to be an adventure for me. Texas had been my home for the last five years after traveling over the world for most
of by adult life. I never liked the extremely high temperatures in the south. Family demands had kept me in cowboy country longer than I desired. Breaking
fee, I headed north from Port Isabel, Texas and I am still moving. I love trains and boats, the slow, lazy way to travel. It was already turning cooler; as we
entered the train tunnel, I shivered. Soon the train was slowing down, and I looked out to see the town. All I saw were some small boats, a few small
cabins, and lots of train tracks. I was still looking for Whittier when I got off. Looking like a Dallas cheerleader at a losing game in the 70’s who didn’t know
twenty years had passed; I appeared out of place. Did I ride a train into another time zone?
“You must be Dianne? “ A friendly voice inquired.
“That’s me”, I answered.
“Thought so, Pet said only one woman was coming in on the train. I’m Sam, came to take you to our bed-n-breakfast.”
As I hopped into his car, he pointed at the big apartment building across the tracks. “Where is Whittier,” I asked. All I could see were boat docks, small
cabins, and the train.
“Right here and up there in Begich Tower,” he said. “Got everything in it, country store, school, post office, even the beauty shop is located on the first floor.
Oh, there’s a restaurant on the hill, and a few small shops across the tracks.”
Not only was this my first night in a bed-n-breakfast, but most of the town in one building! The elevator was slow, and everything seemed rusty, but nowhere
in my travels had I felt so welcomed. I opted to walk to the restaurant on the hill for dinner. I needed to stretch my legs and it was still daylight. Besides I
wanted to get away from my host’s inquires about a woman traveling alone.
“Not safe.” she said. “From so far, how could you not inquire ahead, no reservations, no information on the area?”
I wanted to say, gee lady, I didn’t make reservations when I left Texas to drive to Alaska, and this is just a little bit further. Instead, I smiled and said,
“Unfortunately, my job doesn’t give me any advance notice of time off.”
She was talking to a woman who never made reservations; I felt reservations are needed only in places I don’t want to be in. This was at a time in my life
when I couldn’t commit to a telephone account or a magazine subscription and I always flew on standby. Only recently have I conceded to society’s
necessity for certain scheduled demands. Just to keep the peace with my associates. They say I have finally matured. Now, I make reservations when
forced to and cancel them a full two weeks in advance.
“A couple of lawyers from New York had reserved the other bedroom in this apartment, but they called and canceled only an hour ago. Too bad,” she said,
“You’ll have to stay alone. I’ll leave a cold breakfast out for you and set up the coffee pot.”
Next she showed me the TV, proudly announcing that she had cable. We can get a couple of stations now. She gave me a big hug before she closed the
door, and the welcomed, “Yell if you need anything.”
Glad I lucked out with that cancellation. I would have been out the door when two lawyers entered. Looking out the window, I guessed I must be on the 9th
or 10th floor. No one could get up this high and break through these windows. I refreshed myself then decided to go out and hunt for a new shirt and jeans
in the shops near the railroad tracks. Crossing my fingers, I rode the elevator down to the ground floor. Crossing my fingers on an elevator is just a habit left
over from being trapped in an elevator in Montreal for five hours after the twenty story building I lived in had a fire alarm set off by some kids smoking in the
basement.
I read all the door signs on the main floor, just like Sam said. Post office, beauty shop, country store, down the hall was the school. There was a sign for
almost everything a town needed. A good walk would be great after sitting on my rear end traveling for so long. I walked right up to the town reindeer. He
posed for a few pictures, and I rewarded him with several pats. Then I headed up the hill to the restaurant. Old unpainted wood steps creaked as I climbed
to the entrance. A waitress was cleaning the floor. I could hear a TV coming from the bar and requested a menu so I could catch some news. Entering the
darkness of the bar, my eyes relaxed and I welcomed the artificial night. The bar was as empty as the dinning area; I sat on the bar stool in front of the little
TV. Soon a pretty young waitress appeared and turned up the volume on the television.
After taking my order for fresh grilled halibut and salad, she brought me two beers and then perched on a stool behind the bar. We watched TV together in
silence until I cleaned my plate, replacing the empty beers she began to ask the usual curious questions.
“Why are you traveling alone? Have you been in Alaska long?Are you married? Where are you from?” She queried as she stared at me with her enormous
blue eyes and nervously twisted a lock of her blond hair.
I was tired, feeling sleepy, and ready to go when she asked my name. “Dianne”, I said.
To my shock, she replied, “My name is Dianne too!”
We both laughed. I perked up. Feeling a little lonely lately, I welcomed a friendly chat with another woman. She must have been lonely too, or she sensed my
need. We talked for a couple of hours. No one was in the bar but the two of us. I couldn’t help noticing her transparent blouse under which she wore a black
lace push-up bra. Her skirt must have been made out of spandex otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to move her legs. Not that there was much of a
skirt to cover her long, milky legs. Black spiked high heels added about three inches to her height and she rolled her hips with an exaggerated swing
attempting to keep her balance. I remembered wearing spiked high heels when I looked that good, but years of feverishly working as an artist left little time
or money for those luxuries, and I had replaced my high heels with boots that would take the punishment hiking in remote places gave my feet.
Dianne told me about the two young children she left with their granddad in Kansas. She sent all her money back to them, hoping for the day she could bring
her family to Alaska to live with her, although she knew that day would never come. With no education, just the good fortune of great looks, Dianne jumped
from one abusive boy friend to another, then to an abusive boss and back again. She ran away from the one who nearly killed her in Anchorage, only to be
dumped in Whittier by a gentle fisherman who promised her safety.
We showed each other pictures of our children, mine grown up. I told her all about my quest for artistic fulfillment. We laughed about my torrid romances
with several mister wrongs. What a delightful night it had turned out to be. I was just saying good bye to Dianne when through the door walked the tallest
blond hunk of male pride I had seen in years. Like a peacock, he strutted over to the bar. Slamming down a fifty dollar bill, he demanded a shot of whiskey.
“Ant you gonna give me a kiss, huh Dianne?”
Dianne sat the whiskey down and turned her back. I could see she was very upset.
He turned to me, “Guess you will have to keep me company. My name is Bob, what’s yours?”
I didn’t reply. He moved closer.
“City woman, tourist I‘ll bet?” he queried.
“Wrong, she’s an artist,” Dianne informed him.
On and on he went about his fishing day, totally disregarding our silence. I wanted to leave, but I felt the urge to protect Dianne. The kind of motherly feeling
that springs up instantly when a younger friend is in danger. So, I sat and listened to his bragging while sipping a cup of coffee to ward off the effects of the
beer. When she brought him another whiskey, he requested a light for his cigarette. It was only when the match flared up that I saw the black and blue
circles around Dianne’s eye. She put the match out quickly and turned away.
I took a good look at the fisherman now. His dirty blond hair fell in front of his bloodshot eyes; eyes which had a look of unsatisfied hunger for feeding his
greedy ego at any expense. Dirty all over, with a strong smell of rotten fish hovering around his body the sweat rolled down his hairless chest and made
creases in the mud caked on his muscles. His muscles strained at the effort to magnify his harsh deep voice as he told me of Dianne’s behavior last night
in the bar. An evil broad grin spread over his face as he told me the details of her sluttish performance. She had danced on the tables, stripped naked as
the men threw dollars, and spread her legs for ten of the fishermen before passing out.
“Ha, ha, you should have been here. If the boys come by later, I’ll have her do it again,” he laughed, satisfied that he had let me know Dianne was a whore.
I couldn’t look at her, Yes, I was disappointed. She had everything going for her. Great looks, outgoing personality, intelligent, youth, everything I felt I had
recently lost. We were instant friends, like two office workers on a lunch break swapping family stories. Both of us had wanted to part that way. Just some
comfort, believing we were good women struggling to do right. Bob felt good, he was proud of himself, told it like it is. He didn’t want no artsy woman getting
friendly with his money maker. Women gotta know whose boss. He stomped off to the men’s room. I got up in a hurry to leave before I said something to
fuel his anger, for he was much stronger. Even if I had my equalizer with me, I relied on my wit and swift feet first
Finally looking Dianne in the eye, I requested her mailing address on a napkin. “I’ll be taking an apartment in Anchorage in the fall, maybe we can talk again,”
I said.
There were no tears in her eyes like there were in mine. Behind the bruises the skin was deadly white. Dianne had more demons after her than I could
imagine. I walked into the midnight sun and slowly made my way back to Begich Towers.
I decided to take a boat trip to Prince William Sound the next day. The Alaskan glaciers were said to be awesome. Awesome they were, with bright blue ice
touched with slivers of gold reflected from the sun, echoing sounds of cracking ice as they moved in the water. I was sure I would paint a series of glaciers
some day. This was my opportunity to record the glaciers mentally, on film, and on canvas. The ship was rocking in high waves as we entered deeper
water. The wind blowing off the mammoth chunks of ice was cold and breaking waves hit the deck with icy splashes that washed all over me. When the
boat returned to the dock, I remained near the water and painted from a spot between two buildings on the dock that were protected from the wind.
Tired and hungry, I entered a small cafe for a hot cup of coffee. After bringing my coffee, the waitress began the usual inquires.
“Are you traveling alone?” She asked. “Where are you from?”
Soon we were laughing and talking, trading facts about our lives. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table across from me. Her boyfriend was
a fisherman. They were saving their money to return to college in Anchorage. Long dark hair hung straight and shiny, falling almost to her waist. As she
spoke of her love and their plans, her dark eyes danced. Suddenly through the door busted a tall young man with an arm load of fish. His face was red from
the sun, and his eyes sparkled at the sight of her.
As he handed over the fish, he looked at me and said, “Dianne is a great cook, best place to eat in town.”
My coffee splashed on the table as I stuttered, “Dianne?”
She smiled, “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Dianne, and this is Jake.”
The heavy wood door banged against a log table as it swing open to the thrust of Dianne’s forceful entrance. She was still wearing the same transparent
blouse, black bra, and mini skirt she wore last night. “Do you need any help with the tables today?
Looking at me, she exclaimed, “Oh, hi, you sure are wet!”
“I’ve been to see the glaciers,” I replied.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair.
“It’s slow today, a typical Wednesday. I was just doing some baking,” Dianne smiled.
“Ok, I’m out numbered, and all by a trio named Dianne.”
Jake decided we were settled in for girl talk and left.
“I’ll make myself a sandwich,” he yelled.
Three females named Dianne looked at each other and laughed.
I held up my fresh cup of coffee and proposed a toast.
“To Dianne, a toast lets drink to the name Dianne!” I laughed.
We talked for a couple of hours or more. Dianne had just received several new pictures of her children which she spread out on the table, and the other
Dianne wrapped muffins and put them in my bag. A few tourists entered and both Diannes got up to wait on them. I was happier knowing Dianne had two
good friends in town, Dianne and Jake. I remained in Whittier for a whole week completing several new paintings during the day time and enjoying each
evening with my new friends.
During our girl talks, Dianne shared her receipts with us. Homemade baking complemented her many fish dishes. We laughed a lot at our foolish ideas
leading to bad choices in our lives. Dianne’s jokes about the various characters that found their way in to the bar were animated with her natural talents for
entertaining. As for me, I sketched while we talked and left both my new friends with a few drawings of themselves. When the weather forecast called for
rain and overcast skies for the next few days, I said goodbye. I had enough new paintings now to set up at the downtown Saturday Market in Anchorage and
bring in some cash before heading to Fairbanks.
As the train pulled slowly out of Whittier, I laid my head back on the tall seat and closed my eyes. Tired from the boat trip, I reflected on the two women. Were
they really both named Dianne? Or had they just been having fun? It didn’t matter, what mattered was that they made me feel welcome, and the three of us
shared an instant bonding.
I have never been as gregarious as my daughters who traveled all over America from birth. It was a special gift for me to meet new friends so quickly in
distant places. There was something in the way we looked at each other, looks that acknowledged our similarities. Unvoiced envy, piety, or sadness for our
difference circumstances showed in our eyes. One Dianne, with Indian features, loved and protected, looking forward to college was happy. The other
Dianne, slim and blond, a young mother struggling to support her children, bearing the illness of her wrong choices and abused by her own consent was
surviving. This Dianne, a young soul in a middle aged body running from her past was searching for her creative inspiration to lead her into a better future.
Looks of acceptance and compassion gave us a brief and enjoyable friendship. For me, I will always feel welcome in this small Alaskan town.
* Whittier, Alaska - Picture Whittier...
• A city barely 50 years old that had no road access for its first 50 years.
• A city where 90% of the population lives in a single building.
• A city of stark contrast, drab concrete buildings nestled within the beauty of Prince William Sound.
• A city built to house 30,000 in two of the largest structures in Alaska, yet only 300 people live there now.
Whittier sits at a fascinating historical crossroads, traveled for hundreds of years by natives, traders, explorers, gold rushers, the U.S. military, and now
visitors from all over the world. The area surrounding Whittier and Portage pass had significant roles in the expansion of Russian America, the Alaskan Gold
Rush, World War II, and the Great Alaskan Earthquake of 1964.
Dianne Roberson is a free-lance artist, writer, and photographer who works from her art studio in Palmer, Alaska and in her digital art
gallery on line at: http://www.artworldplus.com where you can view her prints and on her online art gallery where you can view all of
her original paintings.
| Portage, Glacier |
| Road to Portage Glacier |
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| Copyright 1997 © Dianne Roberson . All rights reserved. |
| Art World Plus | Short Stories Alaskan Art by Alaskan Artist Dianne Roberson |