Chinook
by George Hosier II  - October 19, 2007

Whippersnappers

Gomer Clodhopper didn’t talk much. It had taken years for him to perfect loafing to a fine art, and he had chosen to settle down in Moose Hole, Alaska, specifically because the atmosphere of this bush village seemed the ideal environment for the continuation of his research. As a result, you could count on three fingers the topics that Gomer deemed worth the energy expenditure required to activate his vocal chords. On the rare occasion when a person was able to coax him into uttering more than two mono-syllabic grunts in succession, you could bet that he would be discussing hunt-n-fishin’, chawin’ terbaccy, or whippersnappers.

I never could figure out exactly what a “whippersnapper” was. The word evoked images in my young mind of a lion trainer or Indiana Jones, but Gomer’s descriptions of them were not nearly as dashing. One thing was clear, however. Whippersnappers were always young. Perhaps their occupation was so dangerous that they inevitably met a horrible fate before they had a chance to reach middle age.

Gomer found it crucial to stress the difference between himself and whippersnappers. He had experienced much that whippersnappers could never fathom. He had been places and done things that had faded away in the mists of time, never to be embraced by mere whippersnappers. Not that whippersnappers cared. They were too busy whining and complaining to recognize how much better they had it these days than back when Gomer was a young buck. That was what Gomer had been in his youth—a young buck. He had never been a whippersnapper.

Mr. Clodhopper quoted a few stories to argue his case. They were always the same. Within two or three visits everybody who knew Gomer had memorized his entire conversational repertoire. I have decided to preserve some of the best of them here while I can still remember these irreplaceable tidbits of Alaskana. Perhaps they will serve to admonish any whippersnappers among my readers.

If Gomer were here, he would hunker back on his haunches, scoop a dose of chaw out of his ancient tobacco pouch, tuck it reverently into his lower lip, and begin to talk:

“Young whippersnappers these days, allus complainin’ ‘bout bad roads. I guess they cain’t drive them fancy hotrods fast enough for their likin’ whin theys a pothole now and agin. Lemme tell ya sumpin’. Ah recollect whin drivin’ the Alcan wuz worse’n tryin’ ta skateboard up a Dall Sheep trail. Why, one particular day, Ah wuz drivin’ on a sartin stretch of Highway, somers between Dawson and Whitehoss, whin lo and behold ya, didn’t Ah encounter another rig jest ahead. ‘Fore long, his tires commenced ta throwin’ rocks at mah windshield the size of a king sammin! Irked the chicken feathers outa me, but they was nuthin’ Ah could do about it.

“Ya see, if Ah slowed down, bah gum, he slowed down. If Ah went to pass ‘im, he’d tromp on the gas and stay aheada me! If Ah shuck mah fist at ‘im, Ah seen ‘im up there in the driver’s seat, shakin’ his fist, same as me. When Ah teched the brakes, his brake lahts come on. After about twenty mile of that, Ah stopped gettin’ mad and tuk ta developin’ a full-blowed case of the heebie jeebies! Finally, Ah was able ta make out his license plate nummer underneath all that dust and mud. Ah swear ta you on mah houn’ dawg’s grave, he had the ‘dennical same license nummer as me! Then it hit me lak a bad case of beaver fever—that wuz me up thar! Dadgum road wuz so twisty, Ah wuz followin’ mahself!

“T’other day Ah heerd me some young whippersnapper complainin’ about payin’ three hunnert bucks for one of them airyplane tickets, jest ta flah from Fairbanks ta Anchyridge. Tahm wuz, whin a body could flah from Fairbanks to Anchyridge and back agin for a twenny dollar bill or 10 pounda smoke sammin. Course, the commersical airlines got no use for smoke sammin, won’t even open the bag and take a sniff, but no matter.

“Jest about everybody who warn’t a flahboy had a friend that wuz. Ah knowed a few pilots would take a case of beer insteada sammin, but Ah never personally flew with no beer-guzzlers. Got nuthin’ agin beer guzzlin’, mind ya, but beer and airyplanes don’t mix. Scratch that. Did flah with a beer drinker once. Stupidest thang Ah ever done.

“Ah wuz jest a young buck, an’ they wuz this purty young red-headed thang lived in Palmer. Ah thought Ah wuz gonna dah ef Ah didn’t see her that weekend. Don’ recollect the flahboy’s name what offered ta take me ta see ‘er. Don’t even recollect the name of the red-head for that matter. Plumb blocked it out of mah mem’ry. Only thang Ah know, whin that pilot lift off the runway they wuz a six packa Budweiser tucked in behint his seat, an’ whin we landed, they wuz only one can rollin’ around the floor that hadn’t been drunk, an’ Ah didn’t have none.

“In between takeoff and landin’, that Cessna 180 done thangs that would make a Pitts Special biplane jealous! Only good thang ta come outa that ride wuz the fact that Ah lib’rally painted every exposed surface of the insida that feller’s cockpit with the contents of mah belly. Ah feel quite sartin that his airyplane was grounded for refurbishin’ for a good long spell. Sarves ‘im raht!

“Then ya got these whippersnappers whinin’ an’ moanin’ ‘bout the cold weather. Come Septimmer, October, leaves turn colors an’ light a shuck off the trees. Way it’s been happenin’ ever’ year since before the hills got dusty. Short spell later, here come the what stuff. Starts at the top of the mountins. Sifts it’s way on down ta the valley in two, three, fore weeks tops. No sooprise. Fireweed been all seeded out for a good month, leastways. Anybody that got half an eyeball open knows winter comin’.

“Allasudden, this cute little fluffy snowflake lands on some whippersnapper’s nose. You’da thunk ‘twuz a black widder spider, way they wail and carry on. Ah cain’t figger out whar they think they livin’. Last tahm Ah checked, we in Alaska, bah gum! Reckon they don’t teach geography in school no more. Otherwise you’d thank they’d be apprised of what sorta climate to be expectin’ in the arctic. Mebby they hold their atlas upside-down whin they read it. Wunner what they’d do if they had to shovel out their lane in August, lak Ah done more’n once?

“Mebby they wouldn’t get themsilves in such a tizzy if they’d put some clothes on. Ah’d be scarred of winter too, if Ah couldn’t figger out how ta use a parka an’ a set of longhandles an’ a decent pair of mittens. Guess whippersnappers an’ their lady friends, too embarrassed ta wear funny lookin’ clothes lak bunny boots an’ Carharts an’ long johns an’ down mittens an’ parkas with real fur on ‘em that come down ta yer knees.

“Seen some little ole bitty girl in Fairbanks hangin’ onto the arm of ‘er whippersnapper boyfriend at forty below. She wuz wearin’ high heels an’ pansy hose an’ a skirt. Had some kinda itty-bitty pink jacket thang on. Only thing she wearin’ on her head was ice sickles. She was shakin’ like a dawg that jest crawled outa the lake an’ blamin’ the weather for it. Worst part is, the whippersnapper didn’t have sense enough ta tell ‘er she brung it on herself!

“Ain’t got much tahm for whippersnappers. Ain’t lived long enough ta know that what goes around comes around. Thank they gotta have everthang raht now. Thank they gotta be comfurble, or the hole world gonna fall apart. Allus worryin’ what someone else gonna thank about ‘em, an’ payin’ no nevermind how silly they actin’. Come ta thank about it, Ah’m tarred a talkin’ about ‘em.”

That would be it. Gomer would simply spin on his heel and walk away.

I miss Gomer. I hear he’s still alive in an assisted living home somewhere in Anchorage. I’ve thought about taking a trip to visit him sometime, but I hate driving that road, and Airline ticket prices are ridiculous. Maybe next summer. It’s getting too cold to go anywhere before then.
 

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