This is a pictoral history, a story about my parent’s journey from Connecticut to to their new home in Anchorage, Alaska in 1956 and the next 20+ years of their life raising a family in what was known as the Last Frontier. It is more than a story of geography, it is also a journey of the heart….enjoy!
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This is my story. Part remembrance, part fact and a whole lot of my own perspective. Family members will disagree with this aspect or that detail. Some might see it in a completely different light. That’s okay – while we walk the same path, it’s a different journey for each of us.
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p.s. this is more than a story of geography, it is also a journey of the heart. cave, lector…….
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In 2007 Dad wrote a letter to my brothers and me giving a brief three page overview, a condensed version if you will of his life from 1950 up to just before our Mom died. It highlighted important events in his life as a young man; a husband to our mother; and as father to his first family.
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My mother attended school in Ohio before also deciding college wasn’t for her; and moved back home to Connecticut. My father was in Alaska working at the time. In October 1952, traveling from opposite coasts, my future parents met and married in Dixon, Montana at a relative’s home. Here, I’ll let my Dad tell you in his own words…
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Both of my parents were raised in Connecticut. Within a year of getting married they decided to go back to spend time with their families.
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Summer 1954 and the West was calling – with a new baby my parents packed up the car and headed to Spokane, WA…
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Spring of 1956 my parents drove up the ALCAN Highway, a 1,700 mile unpaved road in a 4 door sedan with two toddlers, cloth diapers, a coleman stove and a canvas army tent…
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John – “We arrived in Anchorage the first part of May 1956…we purchased “R” street with its diesel oil burning range in the kitchen, that also heated the water. The source of heat was this stove upstair and a diesel burning space heater in the basement. The hot water tank was in the closet in what became Melissa’s room and provided quite a bit of heat.”
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In looking over the slides I was struck by how often my parents took us camping and picnicking. These weren’t short drives to a local park, often these were hours long treks over dirt roads to far flung parts of the state. They would pack us kids, the coleman stove and the tent for overnights and be off to explore new sights…
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I have a deep seated reluctance admitting to others I’m a writer. The rules of the written English language have bedeviled me most of my life. I’ve always enjoyed writing, but throughout my many years of schooling I was consistently told I lacked the proper writing skills. I couldn’t grasp the rules of punctuation – I just wrote.