Friend cherishes memories

An old friend of mine died near Tok. I don’t know if the wind was howling like it was here in the Valley or if that had anything to do with his swerving into the other lane and hitting head on or not, but I know he is missed.

I first met LeRoi Heaven my freshman year at Palmer High School. LeRoi was a senior and one of those boys mothers would not have been concerned about hanging around their daughters. He had a unique personality, never seemed to be ruffled and was totally without guile. He took it upon himself to teach the freshmen girls how to dance. His mother had made sure he took ballroom dancing.

He had the build for dancing; not muscular, more bendable. His feet were encased in expensive leather dancing slippers and that may have been the first thing I noticed when he came and with a slight bow, asked me to dance. No sliding over with too much show and a sweaty palm to propel us onto the dance floor, laid back cool jerk of the head or shy, hesitant approach or fearful of eye contact and mumbling under the breath, “dance.”

LeRoi was just interested in dancing, and with that ability already trained into his feet he would lead us onto the dance floor taking a three-point stance, his hand in the small of our backs and his arm extended, hands grasped to steer us around the dance floor.

He always started off with the box step, and so we were taken around the floor like a geometry problem, laying out a traceable grid. He then led us in the foxtrot, the waltz, but never ventured into the forbidden territory of the tango, samba or cha cha.

All this instruction was going on as others around us were doing the swing with as much kicking and whirling as could be managed. We box-stepped around them with LeRoi at the helm and in the end he returned us to our folding chairs much in the same condition as we had left.

LeRoi was democratic, making sure every girl was asked, and he never took to heart those who refused or quickly fled at his approach.

His resilience was what made me become his friend. He was one-minded. When an idea entered his head he saw it to the end, and so by Halloween most of the freshman class girls had had a dancing lesson.

Looking back on those dances, I would have to say he taught me how to keep my feet pretty much out of the way of the large farm boys’ stompers, and for that I am thankful.

Many years later when my husband and I returned to Alaska, LeRoi welcomed us as if he had seen us yesterday instead of 30 years before. He brought us up to date on the goings on of our friends and his efforts to save and preserve our past. He made sure we were included in the “old timer” events, although I was not sure we qualified, having left Alaska at the start of the oil boom, unable to deal with the changes I knew lay ahead.

LeRoi, however, made it his life’s work to retain as much as he could of the past and the pioneer spirit.

LeRoi was one-minded politically — conservative. He was an old-style Republican, a gentleman. I am a scruffy, knee-jerk Democrat. We avoided politics as much as possible. However, on one thing we agreed: Ms. Palin was not qualified, lacking ethical standards suitable for public office.

Born in Kodiak, put up for adoption (as was the custom for children of unwed parents), his father nevertheless was known to him; the mayor of Kodiak.I asked him if he had contacted his father, and he would tell me about what he had read in the papers, never really answering my questions. It led me to believe that a connection had not taken place, at least not to the desired extent that LeRoi had wished for.

He sired no children, no boys to teach the young girls how to dance, and for that I am sad. Every young girl needs to know a boy like LeRoi, a boy without guile, anger or airs. We hope those he adopted and reared learned from his gentleness.

Below their home are his children — orphans like himself; old cars, machinery, wood cook stoves and cabins, all lovingly restored, each with a story LeRoi would tell with precision to visitors.

After visiting with LeRoi and his collection I wished that my own childhood cabin had been part of his loving restoration. Built from the leftover tent frames from the Colony project, it had been crushed under the blade of the bulldozer, its sweet disposition and cozy shelter reduced to splintered wood.

The old wood stove had been stolen before the death of the cabin. Thieves had to destroy a wall to remove it. For years I looked for it, wondering who would do such a thing, stealing the heart of our cabin. LeRoi was also on the lookout for that old round, oak cook stove.

Two years ago I spied an ad on Craigslist: cook stove, round, oak. Hidden away in a makeshift cabin up the highway, we went and purchased it, not quite sure it was the same stove or not, but it is close enough.

LeRoi was going to give me advice on restoring that stove. I waited too long. The stove sits in our garage. LeRoi, you lived your life true and leave behind a clear picture of who came before. Their legacy became your legacy. Thank you.

Suzanne McCausland is a resident of the Butte.