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Originally published in The Nome Nugget, Summer 1995

You just can’t bring everything up here with you on a plane. And a Connex box on a barge sounds like a little too much of a commitment for a small house in Nome for the summer. So, like a most of the soldiers in the seasonal army that descends on Nome every spring. I’ve got all my household goods in storage someplace else. Wooden bedframes, entertainment centers, oak kitchen tables, barbecues, picnic tables and benches, stuffed animal collections, bookshelves–all that stuff has got to go someplace! So we soldiers mooch some space in somebody’s garage or rent a locker or do like we did and stuff everything into six giant plywood vaults and pay rent on them in a giant warehouse 4,000 miles away. We’ll get it back pretty soon. Sure we will!

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Originally published in The Nome Nugget, Summer 1995

I’ve been reading with interest the reports about the Woodstock reunion in New York. I watched some of the TV coverage of the singers and bands that played, especially intrigued by the ones who had also played 25 years ago in the mud of Yasgur’s farm. They were all, like me, a little fatter, hair a little thinner, and not a whole lot wiser. The heavy philosophy about Woodstock’s meaning and contribution to my generation is over my head, though. Woodstock then and now was way back east, after all, and I didn’t even like most of the music. The albums I spent my cash on were not Crosby, Stills, and Nash or Richie Havens or Creedence Clearwater. For me, it was always the blues.

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