The Bench

 It's been awhile since I've written any posts. I haven't been out with the camera much lately. I guess I haven't seen too much that I wanted to photograph. The weather has been foul for weeks, rainy, snowy, windy- typical weather for Southeast Alaska in the late fall/early winter. Who really wants to see pictures of cloud shrouded mountains or rain thick seascapes? I started looking back through the archives of my pictures hoping to find something worth while to write about and I came upon this bench from down at the cannery. I remember asking my friend John Kveum about it some time back, but I can't really recall what he told me. I know it's been around for quite a long time. Back in the days when the cannery processed salmon, many a captain or crew hand or maybe cannery worker sat on this weathered bench, knife or fid in hand and decided to leave his mark. I guess there's something in all of us that wants to make a statement or be remembered. Maybe that's why we have grave markers. We want there to be a record that states we once passed this way. Lately I've been thinking about my own demise a little bit. Unless Jesus comes before then, I suppose my passing on is inevitable. I think I'd like to be cremated and have at least some of my ashes scattered here in Port Frederick, where I've spent so much time fishing. I'd like to have some of them put in a jar or can or urn  or something and maybe hang out with Jan, if I go before her. I've yet to decide if I'd like to have a permanent final resting place, or where I would want it to be. I don't much relish there not being a record of my time on earth. I guess I'll have to think on that some more. Maybe for awhile the kids could pass me around to each other for a few months at a time. I could be the perfect visitor. They wouldn't have to feed me, no one would have to give up a bed for me and there wouldn't be any aggravation at having to wait to get into the bathroom.Plus, if they were doing something they know I wouldn't approve of, they wouldn't have to worry about my giving my opinion, although I think in the back of their mind they would know my feelings and would stop. Something to think about.  I've been re-reading several books by Robert Fulgham lately. He's done time as a minister, cowboy, philosopher, author,folksinger, artist, salesman and teacher. He could look at this bench and see a story behind each mark. The philosopher in him could surmise the boredom or anger or pride that each carving represents. He once looked at a can of tuna in an Albertson's grocery store in Pocatella Idaho and produced several paragraphs describing his thought process concerning that can; that it wasn't just a can of tuna. Someone had to catch and process it. It had to be put in a can. A label was designed for it. It was put in a case with dozens of other cans and shipped to a warehouse and eventually to Albertson's and after that to someones home. Fulgham could look at that bench and find just the right words. Unfortunately they seem to escape me. I look at the bench and I see a work of art. A piece of history. I'm hoping my friend will grab it up when he retires. It belongs here in Hoonah where it's always been.