Chinook
by George Hosier II  - October 8, 2007

Little America, Part I

Once upon a time, a party of friends embarked on a canoe trip far out in the Alaskan wilderness. The party consisted of Olga McDonald who was a farmer by trade; Paul Bunion who owned a sawmill and construction company, Sauer Doh, a prospector and amateur metallurgist; Botty Crecker who was a chef; Brooklynne Bridge, an engineer; Hans Armstrong, a laborer; Gerald Eyejoe, an ex-Navy SEAL who ran a big game guide service; and Freddy MacLehman, a bank teller.

Well, as it happened, Hans and Paul decided to play a game of chicken in the middle of a lake. In a testosterone steeped stupor, neither canoe operator chickened out in time. Their canoes collided violently and both canoes, ruptured by the impact, sank to the bottom. What would have been a minor incident was exacerbated by the fact that in spite of Gerald’s protests, Brooklynne had packed the group’s entire inventory of GPS systems, maps, compasses, radios and cell phones into Hans’ canoe. As a result, all of their navigation and emergency contact gear was irretrievably lost.

The group rallied at a large island, not far from the site of the tragedy to berate each other and evaluate their situation. There were not enough canoes remaining to carry everyone back to civilization, and even if there had been, without their navigation equipment, the group had no clue where they were, or how to get home. It was decided that they would settle down on the island and make the best of things until help arrived.

As they began to explore their island, they discovered that they were in better shape than they had initially thought. Evidently this island had once been somebody’s homestead, and an old cabin site could still be discerned among the dense brush that had grown up to camouflage it in the intervening years.

Olga was delighted to find herself chased and butted by some hearty descendents of domesticated goats. She was even more delighted to discover that the thorny bush into which the goats had butted her had once been a cultivated raspberry bush. Nearby grew potato and cabbage and squash plants. With a little work, she knew that she could produce enough food for everybody. Hans could work her garden and goat pasture for her and perhaps Freddy could count lettuce leaves.

Paul was delighted to see the thick stands of tall timber, which could be converted into excellent lumber. Immediately he sought out Brooklynne, and the two of them began planning the layout of a rudimentary village of huts. Hans would help them build it.

Sauer discovered that the rock formations of the island were rich in mineral deposits, and felt confident that with a little help from Hans, he would be able to produce metals from the ores and even be able to make some pots and pans so that Botty Crecker could feed them all on Olga’s produce and the game that Gerald would procure.

Each one felt proud to be able to contribute his particular skill to the benefit of the community. They called the place Little America. Joining hands, they thanked the Good Lord for permitting them to experience such good fortune in what could have been a very nasty situation.

Time passed, and everybody worked hard to make the little village thrive. They enjoyed the fruits of their labor. Food, clothing and shelter became abundant, and nobody lacked, because if they didn’t have something, they could trade their own products or services for it.

All except Freddy. He just couldn’t seem to fit in. He tried his hand at various things, but nothing could maintain his attention for very long. He detested counting Olga’s lettuce. His hands got sore and his underarms began to sweat if he tried to work with Hans. Minerals tended to be hard and scratchy. He was allergic to sawdust. Animals terrified him, and Brooklynne’s diagrams and drawings stifled him with tedious boredom. The only place he found some measure of peace was assisting Botty. At least he could sample her delicious cooking. As his restlessness grew, so did his waistline.

One day, Freddy made a show of tucking one of Botty’s frying pans under his arm and wandering off toward the creek. Intrigued, the others who had grown accustomed to Freddy’s sedentary lifestyle asked him where he was headed. Freddy declared that he had decided to do some gold panning. Sauer immediately offerred to come along and show him the ropes, but Freddy declined quite firmly, explaining that there was no need to trouble any of the fine hard-working citizens of Little America, and that the fresh air would do him good.

He returned later that afternoon with a bulging sack under his arm and a triumphant smile on his face. He announced that had been very successful and at last he felt ready to take his place as a productive member of society. He explained to the Little Americans that their system of barter was inefficient and primitive. He would set up a bank, and usher in a new era of convenience and sophistication.

At first his companions couldn’t understand the point of going through all the bother of creating a bank. They were content with how things were. Freddy had to patiently remind them that sometimes products to be exchanged were not always available when they wanted to trade. For instance, when Paul delivered a load of firewood to Olga for use in heating her greenhouse, he might have to wait until the squash ripened before he could be paid. He also pointed out that when Gerald shot a massive bull moose, he was obligated to cut it up, jerk it and trade it to a number of people for smaller items over a period of time. This just made things complicated and required a lot of bothersome record-keeping. If they all had a common monetary system, however, they could use their money to buy anything they wanted from each other anytime it was available.

That sounded pretty good. “So you’re going to divvy up that gold you just panned and lend it to us to use for money?” asked Brooklynne. Freddy laughed. Most certainly not. He wouldn’t dream of it. Gold was far too valuable to be passed around like photos of grandchildren. What if something should happen to it? Clearly, the only sensible thing to do would be for him to hide his gold in a safe place. Instead, he would write up a stack of Gold Promissary Notes on birch bark scraps in his finest calligraphy. Each one would represent a certain percentage of the gold he was faithfully guarding, and if someone wanted to trade it in for the actual gold, why, that was their right.

Hans was scratching his head. “Wait a minute? You’re just going to let us use your Birch Scraps? What do you get out of it?” Freddy patted Hans on the back and congratulated him on his astute question. Of course, it was only fair that anyone who borrowed from him should pay back a little more than he had borrowed. After all, the only product or service Freddy had to contribute was the loan of his Birch Scraps, and he needed a little something to keep the wolf away from his door, didn’t he?

Hans grinned in relief, and thanked Freddy for explaining everything so clearly. The others gathered around and shook Freddy’s hand, congratulating him on his genius and his spirit of public service. By the next morning, Freddy had seven little stacks of banknotes drawn up and the Little Americans excitedly lined up to receive their loan.

Freddy cleared his throat and spoke loudly so that everyone could hear him. “May I have your attention? Remember, the gold is mine. So these Birch Scraps are mine. But don’t worry, you can use the Birch Scraps for whatever you want. All I ask is that you pay me 10% interest. Fair enough?” Everyone nodded and beamed. “Great. One last thing. We’re all friends here, but business is business. I’ll need each of you to sign a paper promising that if you don’t pay back your loan plus an additional 10%, I can come and haul your stuff away and put it in my hut.”

He smiled disarmingly. “Don’t worry, though. I have absolutely no interest in your stuff. Heh, heh! What on earth would I do with your cool saw, Paul--or your cute goat, Olga--or your delicious raspberry pies, Botty? This contract is just a formality—to protect both parties. You’re all good honest people. I’m sure I’ll get my Birch Scraps back. You get to use them just like they were yours, plus you get to keep your own stuff too. I almost amaze myself with my own generosity. Now, here’s your money. Let’s start out with 100 Birch Scraps each, shall we? Step right up. Single file, please. No shoving.”

It was great. Those Birch Scraps made trade so much more simple, and Freddy MacLehman became the most respected person on the island. Then came the day when the repayment of the loan came due. The residents began to count their Birch Scraps and realized to their shock and horror, that none of them had 110 Birch Scraps to give to Freddy. In fact among the seven of them they could only come up with a total of 700 Birch Scraps. Collectively, they were 70 Birch Scraps short no matter how frantically they turned their pockets inside out or searched under their mattresses and in their odds and ends drawer. They feared that Freddy would come and confiscate the stuff that they had worked so hard to accumulate. It was beginning to look like Freddy now owned everything on the island.

But a deal was a deal, and they were honest folk. They would just have to throw themselves on his mercy. Trembling with fear and shame they prostrated themselves before their benefactor. “We don’t have enough Birch Scraps to pay you.” They confessed.

Freddy’s eyebrows knitted in concern. “Hmm, you did promise to pay me back, didn’t you? It’s not that I don’t trust you when you tell me you don’t have the money, but—well, this money does represent the value of the products you have been buying. Correct? And since you haven’t had to spend so much time with record-keeping, hasn’t your production increased? So I don’t understand why you claim you don’t have enough Birch Scraps to pay me my modest 10% extorti…er, I mean interest payment.”

Hans scratched his head bewildered. “When you put it like that, it makes perfect sense, but, it isn’t our products you are asking us to pay you in, it is Birch Scraps, and you are the only one who can produce them. You’ve only made 700 and yet you expect us to pay you back 770. I can’t figure out how this works.”

Freddy smiled beatifically upon him, and patted Hans’ head in a fatherly fashion. “Don’t strain your brain. It’s high finance, and it really requires a PH.D. in Economics to properly grasp the finer points of my brilliant system. All you need to know is that I am only here for the good of the community. As a gesture of my generosity, I am only going to require you to pay me the interest. Give me merely 10 Birch Scraps, and you can keep on using the remaining 100 Birch Scraps as you wish.”

Hans was scratching his head again. “Don’t you mean the remaining 90 Birch Scraps…” His voice of protest, however, was drowned out by the cries of gratitude and adulation that the others were raising. They lifted Freddy up on their shoulders and danced around the clearing, leaving Hans standing there with a befuddled look on his face, adding thoughtfully on his fingers and toes.

To be continued…
 

Index of Chinook Articles