The Home Run Gold Nugget

By David Thompson

Born and raised in Dawson City, Yukon, Kevin Beals idolized the Lone Ranger ever since he saw the movie Lone Ranger and the Lost City of Gold at the Orpheum theatre. He swore on a stack of Lone Ranger comic books to fight for justice and fairness.

 

A decade later, Kevin leaves his parents' home and his spoilt older sister, Gaylene, behind and starts gold mining on Blanc Raven Creek. After finding enough gold to finance his business, Kevin marries Victoria, the love of his life.

 

Together they work the placer mine and navigate the joys, hardships, and adventures of living in a small northern town. Through it all, Kevin is intent on keeping his promise to do good like the Lone Ranger. This promise is challenged by Victoria's interfering family, sister Gaylene and the rough and tumble members of The Phantoms car club.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Thompson
• Release date: May 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780978429119

Book preview

Chapter One

The Home-Run Gold Nugget

My name is Kevin Ogilvie Beals. I was born and raised in Dawson City, Yukon. I am the second child of hardworking, loving parents Edward and Maggie Beals and the brother of an older sister named Gaylene. I'm sure if I had been an only child, my life would have been much happier.

When I was six, my dad took me to a movie called The Lone Ranger and the Lost City of Gold. The Orpheum Theatre was packed. The kids brought their toy guns to shoot at the screen. A kid dressed like Roy Rogers wore two holsters, two pistols, a hat, boots, and a fringed vest with a picture of Trigger on the back. He looked awesome.

The goodness of the Ranger fascinated me. He fought for justice. At home, I swore on a stack of comic books I would do good all my life.

My dad was born in California. He studied philosophy at the University of California in Berkeley. He was also interested in the writings of Henry David Thoreau. After university, Dad decided to remove himself from society and live in the woods. He was headed for Alaska when he met my mother in Dawson City.

Dad was a thoughtful man who looked at the world through sober eyes. He taught me that actions speak louder than words and the importance of practicing the Golden Rule. My sister Gaylene never learned my father's wisdom, and I think it contributed to her unhappy life, although she would never admit it.

Dad read hundreds of books on geography. He was an armchair traveller, and besides work and the curling club, he stayed pretty close to home.

My mother belonged to more organizations than you could count on one hand. She was a member of Saint Paul's Anglican Church, the Imperial Order Daughters of the Empire, the Dawson City Chamber of Commerce, city council, the Dawson City Hospice Society, the Dawson City Museum and Historical Society, and the Klondike Visitors Association. In the summer, she worked part-time in the mining recorder's office. She loved keeping busy.

Too busy for my liking, Dad said, heading for his shop. I never see her, and I do all the cooking and housework.

It was true. My father cooked dinner every evening, baked on the weekends, and did the laundry, ironing, vacuuming, and dishes. He complained, but I think he enjoyed it. I told him he needed a scarf tied on his head like Aunt Jemima.

My sister Gaylene was pretty. She had green eyes, long blonde hair, and a pale complexion. She never ate and wore lots of makeup. Sometimes I thought Mom should say something when she walked out the door to school.

Why bother? Mom said. It would only start a fight.

I tried to tactfully tell my sister what I thought of her makeup, Nice war paint, Gaylene.

I'm sure the neighbours heard her screams.

My sister was stronger and more athletic than me. She had a temper and fought like a boy. I never fought back because fighting a girl as tough as Gaylene was no fun.

Gaylene had a James-Dean-style rebel boyfriend named Jeb, who worked at repairing the Bear Creek gold dredges. He was twenty-one and had dated her since she was in the ninth grade. He wore Frye's jet boots, had acne, and combed his hair so it looked like a duck's tail. The back of Jeb's jacket was embroidered with an emerald Oriental dragon. Loose threads hung off it like wisps of a spider web. Gaylene would take scissors and snip them off like he was a show dog. Gaylene kept Jeb in line and under her thumb. I don't know what attracted him to her, except that there was a shortage of girls in town. I felt sorry for Jeb because he was a nice guy, but Gaylene turned him mean.

Once, Jeb called me tubby, and if my mom hadn't been standing there, I'd have punched him in the face. But then again, maybe I'd have remembered the Lone Ranger and my dad's advice and done him no harm.

Jeb drove a second-hand yellow Impala convertible—a dumb car to have on a balmy -40℃ day in January. Jeb picked Gaylene up almost every night to hang out with their greaser friends. I know Gaylene talked about me when they were out because her friends hated me. After a few beers, the greasers would start a fight over their girlfriends, who had the fastest car, or other stupid stuff. Once, when Jeb came to pick up Gaylene, he had a scratched face and a black eye.

I asked Gaylene, Did you beat your boyfriend up again?

Shut up! she'd screamed and slammed the door. I wished she talked like a normal person.

I heard later that she had beaten Jeb up at his birthday party. Jeb had said something Gaylene didn't like, and she'd thrown handfuls of birthday cake at him. I wish I had been there to see it.

For as long as I can remember, I'd wanted to be a heavy equipment operator. As a child, I spent hours climbing over bulldozers, front-end loaders, and graders parked for the weekend in the territorial government's compound. I'd sit on the black leather seats of a massive D-8, pulling levers and vibrating my lips to sound like a motor. Sometimes I even rubbed a bit of grease on my hands to be more authentic. Whenever someone asked what I was doing, I said, I'm building the Alaska Highway, damn it! Can't you see?!

What an idiot," Gaylene would say.

I wore G.W.G. green work clothes when I was old enough to fit them. I never laced my boots because I hated bending over and tying them. They floated around on my feet like a pair of oversized slippers. I liked it that way because I could kick them off or on quickly.

They're comfortable, I told Mom.

The laces drag in the mud, and it looks sloppy, Dad said.

You're fat and lazy, Gaylene added.

When we went to California's Disney World, I wore my G.G.W.G.snd laced up my boots.

I didn't zip up my parka or fasten the top four buttons on my shirt at home. Being heavy-set, I sweated at -50℃. My body made heat like a furnace, and if it weren't for the t-shirts, my chest would be bare.

I was nicknamed Copperhead in the fourth grade because I licked pennies and stuck them on my forehead. Then I discovered Crazy Glue, and I glued everything to everything. It started with gluing a penny on the floor of Mr. Cooper's store. Hundreds of people bent over to pick it up, and some broke their nails. Mrs. Popper, our neighbour, broke two and was mad as hell. Then one morning, I stuck eight pennies across my forehead and admired myself in the mirror. I should have read the fine print on the glue box.

The pennies would not come off. My mother tried to soften the glue with warm cooking oil, but the oil ran into my eyes, making everything blurry. I staggered around with my arms outstretched like Boris Karloff in The Mummy.

I read the instructions. The glue will wear off eventually, Mom said.

While I waited for them to fall off, I wore the pennies under bandages. My classmates said they could pull them off quickly and painlessly.

I would let them try because the pennies were so embarrassing.

Tobias Godwit, who loved Western movies, gave me a dirty-smelling gym towel to bite. Sorry, but I don't have a bullet,

Of course, you don't Tobias, why would you bring bullets to school? I asked, sinking my teeth into the clothe.

Tobias was my friend. He wanted to be a journalist and took notes like a detective at a crime scene. I admired his diligence in recording things. He took notes for the pennies.

As a result of my friends' efforts, my screams attracted the school custodian.

You go to first aid, Mr. Wolgeholtzy said. I'll go get a hacksaw.

I went into the teacher's lounge to have salve dabbed on the raw spots. The staff thought it was funny—one teacher choked on her coffee and took a picture that ended up in the Robert Service School yearbook.

A week later, the last penny dropped into my vegetable soup.

Finally, my mom said, scooping the coin out with her fingers. Don't do that again, she said.

There was no chance in a million years that I would do that again.

Shortly after the penny incident, the school sent me home with a note mentioning Crazy Glue's dangers and questioning my mom's competence as a parent. It was pure small-town gossip because of Mom's busyness.

Of all the nerve, Mom said.

The silver lining to this story is that it solidified the nickname Copperhead. I loved having a handle, especially one that sounded like a snake.

My sister had a different opinion about the penny ordeal. She was publicly embarrassed about the pennies. "It was those National Geographic magazines that caused those pennies and glue, Gaylene said. Not only do they show bare-naked women in grass skirts, but they put crazy ideas in kids' heads." (As if the stack of movie magazines on her dresser didn't put visions of glamour in her head).

Now, now Gaylene, Mom said. "It's all educational. If he doesn't see bare-naked ladies in the National Geographic magazine, he and Greg Popper will see them in the Playboy magazines Mr. Popper hides under his bed."

That's sick, Gaylene shouted, doing the classic door slamming act she did when she couldn't get her way.

It was true. Greg and I used to lie under the bed with a flashlight, reading Playboy.

What do you call those? Greg asked once, pointing to Miss July's chest.

Bosoms, I replied, my face burning with shame that I ever said such a word.

Greg asked, Do you know what the Catholic Church says is the greatest sin? At his young age, Greg was already a staunch Catholic. He practiced Lent, went to mass, and participated in the Christmas pageant.

Is it saying bosoms?

No. The worst sin is killing someone.

Well, the Catholic Church supports that sin, don't it, Greg?

Greg lived next door, and our birthdays were two months apart. Greg was thin, wore black thick-framed glasses, spoke in a squeaky voice, and had a cowlick that curled over his forehead.

If it had been at the back of your head, we could have managed it better, Mrs. Popper would say to her son as she licked three fingers and smoothed it out. However, no matter how much his mother tried to keep it down, minutes later, it would pop back up. When long hair came into fashion, the cowlick stuck around.

Greg was a sports fan. He knew everything about everyone who had ever played professional sports. In 1961, Greg skipped school to listen to the Yankees' last game of the season in which Roger Maris had the chance to break Babe Ruth's record of sixty home runs. While his parents were at work, he lay under the covers maneuvering a radio dial that broadcasted more static than words, but Greg deciphered them all.

In the fourth inning, Maris hit his historic sixty-first home run. Greg jumped up with the blankets over his head, stumbled, hit his head on the bedpost, and knocked himself out cold! As Greg lay unconscious, Roger rounded the bases.

When Mrs. Popper came home, he was sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing his eyes out.

I missed it, Mom. I hit my head and missed it.

The next day, Mrs. Popper took Greg to school to apologize for skipping. When the principal saw the bandage on Greg's head, he figured he'd been punished enough and went easy on him.

One week of after-school detention, he said.

You should have heard it, Copperhead. It was magnificent—a crack of the bat and the crowd went wild. It was history in the making.

My mom and Ms. Popper had tea all the time. One day, Mrs. Popper said to my mom, If my husband thinks the whole town doesn't know he subscribes to that magazine, then he needs to think again.

Everyone knew Tony Popper had a subscription to Playboy. In the 1960s, his was one of half a dozen subscriptions in the Yukon. When the mail arrived at the depot, Mr. Popper's Playboy often ended up coming in his mailbox a day late because the post office staff had to get in a look-see.

Just trash, the postmaster would say as he held up the centrefold, turning it from side to side.

I sometimes called myself Tarbox. No one knew why, and for years I kept it a secret to add a bit of a mystery to my life. I had always liked Southern blues music. T-Bone Walker and B.B. King were two of my favourite musicians. Tarbox was a blues guitarist and singer who'd spent most of his life in prison. I'd found Tarbox's story in a National Inquirer that Greg had brought to school.

My mom won't miss it. She has a stack of them, he said.

Alongside a report about a woman giving birth to eight alien babies was the story about Tarbox, who'd shot up a nightclub when he'd discovered his lady was out with another man. The crux of the story was that although he had fired off more than fifty rounds, he hadn't hit anyone in the crowded room.

The judge asked, Why didn't you hit anyone?

Tarbox replied, I wasn't aiming, didn't want to hurt anyone.

I don't believe you, the judge said. I think you were drunk.

Southern justice was harsh and swift on black people, and the court gave Tarbox a life sentence. I felt sorry for him and wrote the Inquirer to get his address, but they never wrote me back. I would have sent him money for toothpaste, soap, and tobacco, all the stuff prisoners need.

In the winter, my mom put food out for the birds and squirrels. When my father complained about the amount, she said, If I don't feed those poor animals, they will perish for sure.

My mother was determined to ignore thousands of years of evolution.

"You're inviting the little rats