Crotchety old-timers, squirrels and Metallica

SEWARD — So I'm sitting here at the Resurrect Art Coffee House Gallery, sipping my dark roast at a table where I can soak in the heat of their new soapstone stove. I'm trying to work on my writing when I hear some of those crotchety old-timers who frequent the place (that doesn't include me) talking about squirrels. It's getting interesting so I stop typing and listen.

Apparently, squirrels are a problem in Seward. Some old sourdough at Lowell Point has been trapping them for years and providing them a free ride to Exit Glacier Road, where he frees them. Although he lets them go on the south side of Resurrection River, they end up on the north side on the property of a friend's business. (I think they're still friends.) The Exit Glacier Road curmudgeon now is confronted with the Lowell Point refugee squirrels, who apparently enjoy their new surroundings.

Beware spiked coffee

Now, you've probably noticed I'm not using names. This is not only for the protection of the crotchety old-timers, but for my own security. They know I'm a writer, and they don't mind me eavesdropping. Sometimes I even join in. They'll offer me the most bizarre tales with the caveat that I be discreet. Otherwise, they'll spike my coffee when I'm not looking.

The little squirrel scene reminded me of the old days in Alaska, particularly Seward. As I sit at my table secretly transcribing relevant scraps of the conversation, I think of the hundreds — if not thousands — of hours I've spent poring over copies of the Seward Gateway from 1904 until it burned to the ground in November 1941. I write history, and this squirrel story is the kind of copy one might find in some early newspapers. I write about this in my book, "The Spaces Between: Stories from the Kenai Mountains to the Kenai Fjords" in the chapter titled "Glacier Breezes."

In small-town Alaska, journalists would often spend time at the favorite watering holes to get interesting copy, fillers to insert between the more important stories.

In Seward during the 1920s, it was Smitty's Bakery where caffeine helped solve the world's problems. The group that met there called themselves the Donut Brigade, veterans of the Spanish American War and the Great War.

Today in Seward, it's not only some favored bars where these activities take place, but also the town's two premier caffeine distributors, the Sea Bean Café and the Resurrect Art Coffee House Gallery. Unfortunately, we most don't find these little stories — humorous tidbits — as often in today's newspapers.

Back to the squirrel saga. The crotchety old-timer who lives on Exit Glacier Road tells of trying to get of rid these rodents. He risks life and limb getting up and into his attic. When he gets back on Earth, he watches one of his long-tailed nemeses scamper up a tree, chatter angrily at him, leap to the side of his building, climb up the wall and enter the attic.

The crotchety old-timer from Lowell Point laughs and offers to let the critters loose a bit farther down the road.

"They'd probably beat you back to my place," his friend scowls. He re-offers the use of his traps. The friend has already tried them, and the squirrels recognize the Lowell Point traps. They won't go near them. But he'll try again with the threat that any he traps will be provided with a ride back to Lowell Point.

Rabbit invasions

The conversation reminded me of another story from my book. As Thanksgiving Day in Seward approached in 1922, a rabbit infestation occupied the town.

Everyone is hunting and eating rabbit. The Seward Gateway observes that Thanksgiving will be more than just a turkey day. In the 45 years I've lived here, I've noticed that rabbit invasions still happen occasionally.

Recently while doing some research in the archives of the Resurrection Bay Historical Society and going through the local Chamber of Commerce papers, I found a file from the 1920s entitled "Rabbits." It contained several pamphlets on raising rabbits and several more with recipes.

As the discussion continues by the warm soapstone stove, I interrupt the gossip to suggest the clan consider squirrel recipes.

Some had eaten squirrel before, but one curmudgeon complained that his portions were too small. Appetizers snacks, noshes, I suggested. That didn't go over well. The gang's focus was on ridding the world of these critters, not eating them. Maybe they should import some Midwestern squirrels, say from Ohio. I've heard they are monsters.

For some reason, the idea of importing more squirrels doesn't excite them.

A young employee of the Exit Glacier Road businessman offered him a wacky solution. Although quite unorthodox, she found it on the internet, so it must be true. At this point, however, the businessman was ready to try anything. Why not blast the squirrels out of the attic with Metallica music, his employee suggests. He tried it.

Did it work, I asked? They don't know yet. Sounds viable to me. I'm convinced some squirrels would rather die than listen to Metallica.

The first image that came to my mind was the squirrels responding by blasting back Paul McCartney singing "Let It Be."

Silence permeated the coffee house for a few moments. Then the group finished their lattes and mochas before leaving. I sit here now finishing this story, feeling guilty because it interrupted a more important writing project. My journal is filled with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of stories like this I've heard around coffee and beer. Most don't make it into the newspaper and never will.

On the other hand …

Doug Capra writes from Seward. For a few days after this story is printed, he'll plan to have coffee at home for his own safety.