I found a hobo today and Sam let me keep him! Whooopeeee! A hobo named Tom just for me. Ok, so he's not really a hobo, I just like that word. Say with me; Hoooobooooo. Very good. Tom is a teacher/journalist/carpenter/carny who was in Fairbanks working the rides at the state fair. He's going to make his way south to Palmer for the next round of fair-tastic fun, but in the mean time was looking for some day labour and sleeping in his truck. He's from Haines, Alaska, and my gal pal John knows him quite well. I hired him to help me sand the cabin and told him he could sleep in the Nomad for a few days. (I will stay at our old cabin with Sam, not in the Nomad with said hobo.) There's a voice that keeps on callin' me. Down the road, that's where I'll always be. Every stop I make, I make a new friend. Can't stay for long, just turn around and I'm gone again. That's the theme song from a great, great Canadian TV show called 'the littlest hobo.' It was about a vagabond German shepherd who traveled around Canada saving the day. The Canuck Lassie, if you will.
ANYWAY, he's a damn hard worker and is more than willing to do all the crappy jobs that neither Sam nor I want to do for, get this, ten bucks an hour! Pretty good, I'd say.
If I show up at the new cabin in the morning and everything's gone, I'll admit it was a bad decision. But until then, I'm patting myself on the back.
Today we sanded and sanded and sanded. Our hair, clothes, eyes, ears, everything were covered in dust. I started wearing a mask because sucking that stuff in for eight hours a day sent my lungs into a sputtering rage. (yes, I smoke the occasional ciggy, but the lungs are used to that by now).
I picked up the last three windows today and Olaf will return tomorrow (sans Cim) to install them and collect his last wad of cash from us. For my hobo and me, well, it's more sanding tomorrow.
Sam's making some popcorn. The slop bucket just overflowed and Sam's swearing like a trucker in a snowstorm....ahhh, the perils of living in a waterless cabin. He burned the popcorn. He's making more. Maybe this will be my new blog format. Bull's curled up on the couch. Sam's puttering whilst waiting for the corn to pop. (It doesn't take much time to putter in a 12x20 cabin.) Obviously I have nothing more to say.
WAIT! There is more. I forgot to say more about where Kluane Kennels came from. For a brief stint in his impressionable pre-pubescent years, my father lived in Destruction Bay, Yukon, on the shores of Kluane Lake. My grandfather worked on communications for the Alaska Highway construction and my granny learned how to make bannock (native bread). My dad was just a tyke but remembers fishing in Kluane Lake.
Ok, that's all.