Memories of a Long Ago Alaskan Childhood

Books inspired me, gave me courage, and were my friends.

Eagle River Valley, Alaska. 1962. The bulky army green duffel bag hit the ground as I thumped it across the front yard.

"Help! It's too heavy for me," I call to my older sister as she throws her matching bag into the rear of the mud-caked blue station wagon.

"Mom will be mad; you're getting snow in the car," Linda scolds as together we squash the canvas bag on top of the five already in the car. Twelve washing machine loads, to be exact. We'd already folded the back seat down, and she and I would perch amid the bags of dirty clothes.

Our older brother stayed home to help Dad with chores.

We don't have a washing machine — or electricity or running water.

So it's an understatement to say the laundry piles up with five children. We were all used to sniffing our clothes to see if we could wear them one more day.

Mom hauls us all to Anchorage for a mammoth session at the laundromat in Anchorage every two weeks. My little sister, Sharon, sits in the front seat because she gets carsick. I think she's faking and vomits so she can sit in the front seat.

Linda settles baby David in the seat with the hooks looping over the back of the front seat. His little fists bang on its miniature steering wheel. It used to have a horn until mom threw it out the window.

“Linda, did you remember the detergent?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Do you remember how you forget David’s diapers last time?”

“Yes, Mom. I’m sorry.” Linda slouched into the window, avoiding Mom’s glare from the front seat.

Down the mountain, through the stands of spruce and groves of alders until we hit the jeep trail. The road was clear today because Dad had spent last Saturday with his little bulldozer clearing the narrow road.

Passing Eagle River, our little community of about 300 people, I see Saturday kids ice skating on the school playground. Across the river, up the long hill, we drove 14 more snowy miles to Anchorage.

Anchorage seemed like a bustling city to me in 1963; now I know it was only about 45,000 people back then.

Sharon and I loved laundry day; Linda did not.

Mom drops Sharon and me off at the Z. J. Loussac Public Library on the corner of 5th Avenue and F Street. She gives us each twenty cents, which we tuck deep in the pocket of our parkas. Clutching our Red Chief tablets and two pencils each, we head to the library.

I gaze up at the words chiseled in stone above the front door. Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

It seemed profound to me, and I felt smarter. I was in love with the library, more books than I'd ever seen.

Libraries were our second home. The school bus stopped five miles from our house, so after school every day, we headed to the small library in our town of Eagle River to wait for our Dad to pick us up on his way home from work.

Community members had donated books and rented a small space next to the grocery store. Nothing fancy, but it was warm, and it had books.

After my youngest brother was born, there were six kids in my family, and we were a book-loving family. As adults, four of us would own bookstores.

Libraries and books were always safe, warm, friendly places.

I heard voices whispering in the long, bright rows filled with stories. They promised to take me far away and distract me from the now. Books called to me of possibility.

I was nine, and Sharon, seven, and we were both working on serious research projects. I was cataloging all the breeds of dogs in the world. She was copying recipes to use in the candy factory she planned to own. She brought her recipes home and taped them in a scrapbook with Candy Cooking printed in crayon on the front.

We had stacks of 3x5 cards, and we'd each go to our preferred corner of the library to write. I was already up to German Shepherd, one of my favorites. When I got home, I would add each card to a metal recipe box I'd gotten for free by mailing in 200 Campbell's soup labels. Dogs filled my heart and mind. In my dreams, they rescued me from dangers yet unknown.

My pencil lead worn down, again, I tapped on my sister's shoulder, "Are you hungry yet? Let's go to Woolworth's in five minutes."

"Sure, only a couple of more fudge recipes anyway."

The sun sparkled on patches of sidewalk ice, and slush lined the street's edges, busy with weekend shoppers as we walked two blocks to the corner of 5th Avenue and F Street. We edged past the crowd outside The 4th Avenue Theatre, lined up to see 'The Music Man'.

Entering the Five & Dime, we perched at the counter, trying to look mature swiveling on the red and white stools.

"Too bad a hamburger costs a quarter," Sharon said, examining the menu while looking in her little purse.

"And what can I get you, ladies? The usual?" the waitress winked.

It was true. We got a hot dog for ten cents and a root beer for a nickel every visit. We saved our last five cents for some chocolate Flicks or thin Necco wafers.

After lunch, we headed back to the library for the rest of the day. Tired of research, we checked out a few books and settled in the children's room to read. Not a fan of Nancy Drew, I imagined solving mysteries with the Hardy Boys.

Frank and Joe Hardy were close to finding the diamond smuggler when Linda's tired voice pulled me from the book, "Hey, let's go. Mom's waiting in the parking lot!"

Our older sister never stayed at the library with us.

She seldom played outside. And she never, ever giggled in bed at night like Sharon and I did until Dad hissed, "If I have to tell you one more time," or escalating, "Don't make me come in there…"

We simply accepted that she always had to go with Mom, watch the baby, and fold 12 loads of laundry. In a big family, there are roles, and Linda was Cinderella. That's just the way it was, and we sure didn't want to help with laundry anyway.

As adults, Sharon and I have wondered why this didn't seem strange to us at the time — Linda never playing with us, being punished for imaginary wrongs, excluded from childhood fun.

Since it was just the way it had always been, we've decided that we simply accepted it with a childish nonchalance. Perhaps because Sharon and I had each other, we didn't feel the loss. But Linda did.

A child cannot be raised as an outsider within their own family without profound consequences.

For years, I struggled with survivor guilt; the feeling I should have saved my older sister. The last two years as I work through memories, buried emotions, and photographs curling with age—I’ve forgiven myself. I was simply a child.

Throughout my childhood, books protected me.

Heroes, and yes they were usually boys and men back then, taught me how to be brave. Of course, there was my idol, Pippi Longstocking. She scoffed at grownups, humiliated police officers, and rescued children from burning buildings.

Marie Curie, Jane Addams, Mahatma Gandhi, Louis Schweitzer, all became my role models. Day by day, year by year, I felt their courage and curiosity inspire me.

You can be more than you are today they whispered to my heart.

Cindy is writing a memoir of her adventures growing up on a homestead in Alaska, farming in the southwest, owning bookstores, and more. Access exclusive early family photos here.