Concerned reader Chris Tilly contacted the newspaper to wonder what Fairbanks crews were thinking when they set up two blinking electronic boards at the corner of the detour at Airport and Peger to announce the auto impound auction today at 10 a.m.
“It could cause distractions at a busy intersection,” Tilly wrote.
I drove out to the intersection and verified the caller’s claim. The huge blinking signs did take my eyes off the road. I think most drivers would have expected to read a short road report, not an auction advertisement. Later, one of the News-Miner staff said he found the “impound sale” sign at the main arterial section of Old Steese Highway and Johansen Expressway to be an unnecessary distraction, too.
Hmm, if the questionable signs are against city regulations or qualify as a public nuisance, perhaps the city’s impounders might impound the impound signs.
If Fairbanks puts the impound signs up for auction, I’ll open the bidding with $5. That blinking sign might help next time I have cats to give away.
I remember a time when my blue-collar dad after retirement turned to the obituary pages before reading the news. Near his own end, he’d recognize a name and attend a wake in the one good suit my mom put on him when he too passed.
I took note of the obituary of Ron Franklin on Aug. 16. My wife Gosia did make it to his Chatanika Lodge for fish and chips while he was alive, and next time she’ll pin a Poland zloty to the bar’s ceiling.
Even in my brief eight months here as editor I heard several tales of Franklin’s generosity and individualism. What struck me about the Ron Franklin stories was the old cliché about “them not making any more like him.” To me, after hearing about his exploits, he was a sort of rough Picasso in creativity, inspiring an event as nutty as an outhouse race and sponsoring events as heartwarming as toy giveaways for children at holiday time.
One Ron Franklin tale was the time a pickup with out-of-state plates hightailed it from Ron’s Chatanika Lodge with a stack of bar stools. Instead of giving chase, he figured the stool stealer would get thirsty upon arrival in Fox. Sure enough, when Mr. Franklin marched into the Howling Dog Saloon with a scolding loud enough to scorch wallpaper, he got an apology from the miscreant, plus his barstools back.
Now that’s what I call Alaskan sourdough frontier ingenuity.