Frankly, I'm With Frank
Some years back, when I was living in Hoonah, I became the manager of the L. Kane Store. I always thought that it was a stupid name for a store, until a lady who was a friend of the family who owned the store mentioned that when it was established, back in 1893, women owning businesses was frowned upon. Her name was Louise Kane, and in order to do business with suppliers in Seattle, she shortened the name to L. Kane's.
It was one of three stores in Hoonah at the time, and unfortunately was the one that a local fisherman named Frank preferred to shop at. He lived on his small wooden fishing boat with his Black Lab, appropriately named Blackie, in Spasski Bay. It was a protected harbor, regardless of which way the wind blew or how hard, and provided shelter year round, even during the fierce winter weather that blew in from Icy Strait.
When I first met him he must have been in his seventies. He always seemed to have a few days' growth of beard and wore a dirty felt fedora, a knit, green wool sweater and wool pants which were covered in dog hairs. For the twenty five years or so that I knew Frank, he never varied his wardrobe. I honestly believe that the clothes that he was wearing when I first met him were the same ones he died in so many years later. Obviously he lived alone, with the exception of Blackie, who didn't seem to mind the smell.
I had the misfortune of fishing in my fourteen foot skiff in Icy Strait one June day when a strong wind from out of Glacier Bay started to blow, and in no time the calm water I'd been fishing in became five foot swells with white caps breaking and threatening to swamp the boat. I started the main outboard engine and only got a short distance before it started to sputter and then quit, having sucked up some seaweed or something into the water intake. It overheated and that was all she wrote. Fortunately I was able to get my smaller kicker motor running before I was dashed upon the rocks at Spasski Island and motored my way into the bay.
I made my way over to Frank's float and tied up the best I could, which was a challenge. The float was the only place that Blackie had to relieve himself and there wasn't six inches of space that hadn't been crapped on. He'd been doing it for so many years that grass was growing out of the droppings that were older. Frank probably could have planted a garden if he'd been brave enough to eat what it produced.
Frank came out of his boat and greeted me. I told him what had happened and asked if I could use his radio to let someone know where I was. He mentioned that he didn't have a radio. I was faced with the possibility of spending the night on my skiff or walking the Spasski Trail that connected Hoonah with Spasski Bay, about a four mile hike through bear country. I asked if I could borrow a gun, and he mentioned that he didn't own one. Oh lovely. He was good enough to give me a ride to the shore in his fiberglass punt and pointed out a spot in the woods at the head of the bay where there was a slight opening. I got out of the punt, thanked him and started walking on the beach, whistling and calling out to the bears, letting them know I was there. I found an old Pepsi can and put some pebbles in it to make a rattle and walked into the woods. Obviously I made it.
I suppose Frank would be described as a minimalist now, though at the time, folks just thought of him as a bit of a hermit. He didn't seem to need much of anything. For the first ten years or so that I knew him, he would show up in the spring looking for a particular color of grey paint with which to paint his boat. He was very particular about the color, and nothing else would do. Unfortunately, it never occurred to him that paint companies come and go and there are multiple shades of grey and each company has a different name for their product. I found it a little strange that he was so anal about the color of the boat when he hadn't even bothered to give it a name, something that was almost unheard of. Eventually he stopped asking for the paint because he stopped painting it, which was a death knell to a wooden boat in rain forest country.
About once a month he would come to town with Blackie. He would tie his boat up to the float at the Thompson Fish Company and walk down the dock to the store. If one of the cashiers happened to spot him, they would come to the office and give me a warning and then disappear into the back room on some imaginary mission. There was no way to prepare for the onslaught of stench that was about to assault my olfactory system. If I had known then about rubbing Vicks Vapo-rub under my nose like the folks who have to deal with corpses do, at least according to the TV, I would have tried that. As it was I pondered locking the door before he entered, but never did.
The moment he entered the building, he made a bee line for me, wanting me to round up the usual list, which consisted of a case of Kellogg's Corn Flakes, a case of Carnation evaporated milk and a forty pound bag of Friskies Sauce Cubes. On more than one occasion he asked me to order a case of some particular brand of hot chocolate that he favored. I mentioned that I had checked the order book and it wasn't available anymore, and when I inquired about it found out it hadn't been around since about WWII.
Believe me, if I could have found what he wanted, I would have had it ready so he could buy it and leave. As it was, he wanted to hang around while I made a show of looking up the damned stuff while he looked on. It was all I could do to keep from puking. When I was talking to him, I had to turn my face away and try not to breathe. Frankly, Frank stank. It wasn't just someone who had a little body odor, this was years of accumulated stench. I don't know if he ever washed his clothes or took a bath. There were no facilities in Spasski. There was a small freshwater stream that drained off one of the mountains across from his float, but I don't know if he ever used it for anything.
Eventually, though not soon enough, he would gather his order and leave, walking down the dock to the boat with Blackie alongside, tail wagging. Maxine, one of the cashiers, would come from the back room and grab a can of air freshener off the top shelf and start up and down the aisles, spraying it generously. We opened the front and back doors and prayed for a breeze and hoped that no other customers came to the store in the foreseeable future. It would have been bad for business, as the stench hung in the air as if it were held aloft by its own unearthly powers. I usually found my way to the outside and breathed in blessed fresh air and cursed my working nostrils, knowing that in about a month the whole scene would be repeated again.
It was one of three stores in Hoonah at the time, and unfortunately was the one that a local fisherman named Frank preferred to shop at. He lived on his small wooden fishing boat with his Black Lab, appropriately named Blackie, in Spasski Bay. It was a protected harbor, regardless of which way the wind blew or how hard, and provided shelter year round, even during the fierce winter weather that blew in from Icy Strait.
When I first met him he must have been in his seventies. He always seemed to have a few days' growth of beard and wore a dirty felt fedora, a knit, green wool sweater and wool pants which were covered in dog hairs. For the twenty five years or so that I knew Frank, he never varied his wardrobe. I honestly believe that the clothes that he was wearing when I first met him were the same ones he died in so many years later. Obviously he lived alone, with the exception of Blackie, who didn't seem to mind the smell.
I had the misfortune of fishing in my fourteen foot skiff in Icy Strait one June day when a strong wind from out of Glacier Bay started to blow, and in no time the calm water I'd been fishing in became five foot swells with white caps breaking and threatening to swamp the boat. I started the main outboard engine and only got a short distance before it started to sputter and then quit, having sucked up some seaweed or something into the water intake. It overheated and that was all she wrote. Fortunately I was able to get my smaller kicker motor running before I was dashed upon the rocks at Spasski Island and motored my way into the bay.
I made my way over to Frank's float and tied up the best I could, which was a challenge. The float was the only place that Blackie had to relieve himself and there wasn't six inches of space that hadn't been crapped on. He'd been doing it for so many years that grass was growing out of the droppings that were older. Frank probably could have planted a garden if he'd been brave enough to eat what it produced.
Frank came out of his boat and greeted me. I told him what had happened and asked if I could use his radio to let someone know where I was. He mentioned that he didn't have a radio. I was faced with the possibility of spending the night on my skiff or walking the Spasski Trail that connected Hoonah with Spasski Bay, about a four mile hike through bear country. I asked if I could borrow a gun, and he mentioned that he didn't own one. Oh lovely. He was good enough to give me a ride to the shore in his fiberglass punt and pointed out a spot in the woods at the head of the bay where there was a slight opening. I got out of the punt, thanked him and started walking on the beach, whistling and calling out to the bears, letting them know I was there. I found an old Pepsi can and put some pebbles in it to make a rattle and walked into the woods. Obviously I made it.
I suppose Frank would be described as a minimalist now, though at the time, folks just thought of him as a bit of a hermit. He didn't seem to need much of anything. For the first ten years or so that I knew him, he would show up in the spring looking for a particular color of grey paint with which to paint his boat. He was very particular about the color, and nothing else would do. Unfortunately, it never occurred to him that paint companies come and go and there are multiple shades of grey and each company has a different name for their product. I found it a little strange that he was so anal about the color of the boat when he hadn't even bothered to give it a name, something that was almost unheard of. Eventually he stopped asking for the paint because he stopped painting it, which was a death knell to a wooden boat in rain forest country.
About once a month he would come to town with Blackie. He would tie his boat up to the float at the Thompson Fish Company and walk down the dock to the store. If one of the cashiers happened to spot him, they would come to the office and give me a warning and then disappear into the back room on some imaginary mission. There was no way to prepare for the onslaught of stench that was about to assault my olfactory system. If I had known then about rubbing Vicks Vapo-rub under my nose like the folks who have to deal with corpses do, at least according to the TV, I would have tried that. As it was I pondered locking the door before he entered, but never did.
The moment he entered the building, he made a bee line for me, wanting me to round up the usual list, which consisted of a case of Kellogg's Corn Flakes, a case of Carnation evaporated milk and a forty pound bag of Friskies Sauce Cubes. On more than one occasion he asked me to order a case of some particular brand of hot chocolate that he favored. I mentioned that I had checked the order book and it wasn't available anymore, and when I inquired about it found out it hadn't been around since about WWII.
Believe me, if I could have found what he wanted, I would have had it ready so he could buy it and leave. As it was, he wanted to hang around while I made a show of looking up the damned stuff while he looked on. It was all I could do to keep from puking. When I was talking to him, I had to turn my face away and try not to breathe. Frankly, Frank stank. It wasn't just someone who had a little body odor, this was years of accumulated stench. I don't know if he ever washed his clothes or took a bath. There were no facilities in Spasski. There was a small freshwater stream that drained off one of the mountains across from his float, but I don't know if he ever used it for anything.
Eventually, though not soon enough, he would gather his order and leave, walking down the dock to the boat with Blackie alongside, tail wagging. Maxine, one of the cashiers, would come from the back room and grab a can of air freshener off the top shelf and start up and down the aisles, spraying it generously. We opened the front and back doors and prayed for a breeze and hoped that no other customers came to the store in the foreseeable future. It would have been bad for business, as the stench hung in the air as if it were held aloft by its own unearthly powers. I usually found my way to the outside and breathed in blessed fresh air and cursed my working nostrils, knowing that in about a month the whole scene would be repeated again.
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