Uncle Mike is a ‘true Alaskan’

When I first came to Alaska in the 1980s, one of the first people I met was Mike Dennison. “Uncle Mike” was my step-mother’s cousin and had been living in Alaska for a long time, far longer than my dad and step-mom. Right off the bat I loved the guy. He was funny, smart and, best of all, he liked cars!

I always knew when Uncle Mike was coming because he drove a big military surplus rig he called the “War Wagon.” It was big and loud and I loved it. Christmases were often spent at his big house up off Palmer-Fishhook where, one year, he brought in a huge Spruce tree that ran all the way up to the top of the two-story-tall vaulted ceiling in his house. In the summer we could count on Uncle Mike coming along to fish Sheep Creek (long before they made it to darned easy to get down to the river.)/ He was my dad’s hunting partner and was there working alongside my dad as he built homes, additions and whatever other projects that would come along.

Uncle Mike came to Alaska in 1950 and to me, he represents a “true Alaskan.” He’s from that older generation that grew up in Alaska long before chain stores, fast-food restaurants and the ability to “run into town” to get whatever you need. Most of his years were living way out in the smaller communities, not in the valley, and he often tells me stories about adventures and mishaps that amaze me. For example, he recently told me about the time he was with his mother in an old VW bug driving along some Alaska highway way out somewhere, in the dark, in the middle of winter when the car was hit with an avalanche. They had to walk several miles (20 if I remember right) in pitch black, listening to more avalanches coming down and having no idea if they were going to get hit with the next one. Or there was the time it got so cold in Tok that the tires on the Army trucks were literally breaking into pieces as they rolled around.

I think my favorite tale was the one where he was riding with a buddy in a Corvette (a Corvette in Alaska? Back before we had decent roads?) when one of the front tires blew. Uncle Mike had to quickly lean over and help hold the steering wheel lest the car fly off the road or flip. And as he tells these stories he’s laughing. Wow.

Like some of the other older Alaskans I know, Uncle Mike is always on the lookout for material that “might come in handy.” Steel, copper, tires, plywood, cabinets, shelves — you name it and at one time or another Uncle Mike probably pulled it out of the landfill or picked it up off the side of the road.

Younger generations will laugh at this, but we know that there was a time when you couldn’t afford to waste anything in Alaska because who knew when you would see that particular item or material again? So, like other older Alaskans, Uncle Mike can’t stand to see anything go to waste. Somebody throws out a bunch of old bedframes and Uncle Mike can’t believe that they would waste perfectly good angle iron. You name it, he probably has some of it in his shop. In fact, whenever I’m in need of something I just call him up. “Hey, Uncle Mike, I don’t suppose in your travels around the Valley you could keep your eyes open for an old toolbox? I’m looking for one for Justin.” Guaranteed that within a week I’ll come home to find one sitting on my porch.

And Lord knows he can fix just about anything. Again, back in the day there wasn’t a repair shop where you could take your car or truck when it broke, so you had to learn how to do it yourself. Uncle Mike can fix anything from a simple home repair to a complete tear-down and rebuild of a Chevy big-block.

But it’s not the stories or his salvaging ability that really defines Uncle Mike as a “true Alaskan” to me. More than anything, it is his willingness to help.

He’s retired now, yet every day he has his routine; he gets up, drives into town for breakfast and begins his rounds wherein he stops to visit and help friends. He’s still in pretty good shape, but some of his friends are suffering from various medical issues and so Uncle Mike is there each and every day to fix this, replace that, lift this up, move that over there, etc. And he does it without a thought.

Even Glenny and I have been the fortunate recipients of his nature. I will admit that there was a time or two that we came up a bit short and he knew it and offered to “buy” an extra scope, range finder or some such I would have lying around. I don’t think he necessarily needed one, but he knew we could use a few bucks, so he would say he was looking for one and, well, there you go. When we moved back to Alaska and I had a full 40-foot container full of household stuff, there was Uncle Mike helping to unload despite his bad back and getting on in years. As Glenny and the kids tried to adapt to Alaska during that first year, Uncle Mike was always on hand to give advice, pointers and tips. If there’s something I’ve seen in Alaskans, especially the older generations, it’s their willingness to freely help. Uncle Mike is truly a classic example of that.

Since he’s my step-mom’s cousin, I guess somebody could justifiably point out that Uncle Mike isn’t really my “uncle” since he’s not related by blood. Those would be fighting words, because it would be impossible for me to be this proud and care for somebody this much who wasn’t my true uncle. It’s a privilege to just know the man, let alone have him as family.

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.