To me, Alaska is Christmas

Sometimes Glenny and I ponder leaving Alaska. We are surprised at our own feelings on the matter because we both swore we’d spend out the rest of our days here. Our reasons? Well, that’s another story. But it’s this time of year — Christmas — when I cannot imagine living anywhere else. Even as a child when I divided my time between Alaska and Washington, I always did my best to make sure I was in Alaska during Christmas. To me, Alaska is Christmas, and yes, a lot of it is because of the snow. I just gotta have snow on Christmas! And without fail, every year in snowy Alaska reminds me of the Christmases I got to spend in Concrete, Wash.

But my Mom lives in Port Orchard, Wash., and getting up to Alaska every winter just wasn’t always feasible. And Christmas in Port Orchard wasn’t the same. Oh sure, we had one or two lucky years when we had snow on Christmas — wet, slushy, sloppy western-Washington snow. But for the most part, Christmas in Port Orchard meant cold, damp, foggy drizzle. Yay. Not quite the Norman Rockwell Christmas picture. When a trip to Alaska to spend Christmas with Dad wasn’t in the cards, I was often able to spend it with Grandpa and Grandma up in Concrete. Nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains and up in the northern part of the state, they frequently saw more snow than we did in Port Orchard. And unlike spending Christmas with Mom in Port Orchard, I got to be the “only child” at Grandpa and Grandma’s house (my siblings were all “step” or “half” and not related to my paternal grandparents.) My grandparents loved Christmas and it was always beyond thrilling to walk into their house and see the beautifully decorated tree, lights and, of course, presents.

Funny thing about my grandparents’ house; it was about halfway down a dead end road (now called “Compton Lane”), sitting up on a hill on the outskirts of Concrete. It was the only house on the whole road. Across the street from their house was Grandpa’s field, barns and sheds. As a little kid, I delighted in running all over their farm among the horses, cows, chickens and whatever else they were raising that year. Even in winter it was a paradise for a young boy. Well, almost. At the end of the road was the Concrete cemetery. Hmm. I didn’t run down to the end of the road to often.

The spare bedroom where I stayed was, of course, at the very end of the house closest to the cemetery. At night I would try not to think about the fact that if the dead rose from their graves and decided to tromp into town my grandparents’ house would be their first stop. And, since I was at the end of the house closest to the cemetery…I would be victim No. 1. Later, around the time I had finally come to terms with the fact that there wouldn’t be any monsters rising from the grave, my Dad decided it would be a fun thing to take me to see this “Bigfoot” movie that had come out. Great idea, Dad! It seemed far more “real” than zombies, and where did Bigfoot live? Why, in the Cascade Mountains of course! So no, no, no, no walking corpses to worry about, just a seven-foot tall sasquatch ambling out of the trees to come peek at me through the bedroom window!

But in the winter, at least I would be able to hear him coming since he would have to tromp tromp tromp his way through a foot or so of soppy Washington snow! To help combat the fear, I would call out for Grandpa’s dog, Sara, to come sleep with me in my room. Which she did…on the bed. Sara was a German Shepard/Doberman mix and quite large. She also had this neat trick of lying between me and the wall and then slowly and steadily pushing against the wall so her back would scoot scoot scoot me over and off the bed. If you looked over at her she would (seriously!) look all around, everywhere, except in your eyes as if to say, “What?” Grandpa thought it was the most comical thing in the world. But, anyway, it was worth it. I knew that Sara would hear Bigfoot coming long before I did and would no doubt frighten him away by barking. Nothing like a dog to help you sleep better at night!

Early in the morning I would awaken to the sound and smell of cooking coming from the kitchen. Grandma would get up with Grandpa and cook him breakfast, make him coffee and pack his lunch while he got ready to drive the 20 miles to Sedro Woolley and another day working for the Forest Service. Before he left, he would come give me a hug goodbye, snickering at the ongoing joke of rubbing his grey beard stubble on my face as he did so. I would get up shortly thereafter, stumble down the hallway and have my share of bacon and eggs before rushing outside to play in the snow. And thus would I spend my winter vacation in Concrete. It was heaven to a 5-year-old boy. Even 40 years later I still get that “little kid” feeling this time of year when I see Christmas trees, decorations and snow on the ground. Takes me back.

These days I see many friends retiring, packing up and heading out to Arizona. “You really should think about it, Ben! Christmas in 74 degrees and shorts is the best!” they tell me. Hmm, I dunno. Decorating the cactus, going outside to make sand angels just doesn’t have the same ring to it. So even if Glenny and I do ever make the decision to head out of Alaska, it has to be somewhere with snow on Christmas.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column as “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist. Contact him at bcompton1971@yahoo.com.

e fact that there wouldn’t be any monsters rising from the grave, my Dad decided it would be a fun thing to take me to see this “Bigfoot” movie that had come out. Great idea, Dad! It seemed far more “real”