William Barber: Billy Barber Comes to Anchorage

I joined the Army in 1953. Up until then I lived in every orphanage in Alaska, but that’s another story. In 1942, when I was eight, I snuck on board the last ship out of Pedro Bay. Fishin’ was done and I was standin’ on the dock when the last barge was leavin’. So I climbed aboard, went down below, and hid.

After we’d been under way for about eight or ten hours, I was startin’ to get hungry. I figured we were too far out to turn back, so I come out. Of course, they asked, “What are you doing here?”

I said, “I don’t know.”

There was nowhere to take me, so we kept goin’ and ended up in Anchorage. We tied up down at the dock, and I climbed up.

I had no extra clothes, no shoes, and I’d never seen a car, a truck, or a bicycle before in my life. A cab driver come along and said, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know, I’m just walkin’.”

“Where are your folks?”

I said I didn’t have any, so he gave me a ride to 4th Avenue.

He let me out and gave me a dollar bill. I was walkin’ around, takin’ in the sights, looking at all the cars and trucks and the big stores when I saw some kids selling newspapers. They were cryin’, “Anchorage Daily Times Paper”.

I went to one of them and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Selling newspapers.”

I’d never seen a newspaper before, never even heard of one.

“Can I sell ‘em too?"

He said sure and took me over to the Anchorage Daily Times office. They said I could sell papers, but I had to give ‘em half the money. I didn’t want to do that. I still had my dollar, so I went over to Hewitt’s Drug Store, and I bought ten newspapers for a dime a piece. Down the street was the Cheechako bar. I went in there and sold my papers. Kids weren’t allowed in bars, but they let me in, and they’d buy papers, give me 25 cents or 50 cents, and tell me go to work, go ahead.

When all the papers were gone, I went back to Hewitt’s and bought some more. I went right back, and the bartender was watching me.

“Kid. Come over here.”

I went over.

“You’re not supposed to come in here.”

I said, “Yeah, but they’re buying my newspapers.”

“I know. I’ve been watching you. Where’s your home?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Hang around here. When I get off work at five, I’ll have a talk with you.” He pointed to a closet and said, “If a policeman comes in, go hide in that.” I said, “OK” (even though I didn’t know what a policeman looked like).

When five o’clock come along, he took me down to Hewitt’s Drug Store.

“You want a Coke?”

I didn’t know what a Coke was.

“Give him a Coke, a large one.”

“You like it?”

“No.”

“Okay, you don’t have to drink it. You want an ice cream?”

I didn’t know what ice cream was, so he told the woman at the fountain, “Give him a large ice cream.” I tasted that and liked it. When I was done, he asked me, “Where are you from?”

“Pedro Bay.”

“Where’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d you get here?”

“On a barge.”

He asked me, “Where’s your folks?”

I said I don’t have any. So he said, “Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know. I just got here.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“No.”

I was so young, a little kid. Kids aren’t afraid of a dog or anything, unless they’ve been bit. I had no reason to be afraid.

“I know a woman,” he said. “Maybe you can stay with her.”

He made a phone call, and we went over to see this woman, and it turned out I knew her. Her name was Julia Flingstead, and she had been a cook at Graveyard. She said, “I know you. You used to sing for us,” which was true. Graveyard was the cannery at Pedro Bay. I would go see her in the kitchen and sing, and after the workers had their meal, she would feed me. My own folks weren’t around, but that’s another story. Mrs. Flingstead was real nice, a waitress who worked nights. The next day she took me out, bought a whole bunch of new clothes, and cleaned me up.

This was August, and come September, school started. We didn’t live far from the school, so I went over there, knocked on the door, and told them I wanted to start school. They asked me if I’d ever been to school before. I said, “Yeah, one week. And I know my ABC’s and how to count to a hundred.” So I started school.

When Mrs. Flingstead was working, I sold newspapers. This was during the war, World War II, so there was a curfew: at nine o’clock, kids had to be off the streets. Of course, I was out after nine selling newspapers.

On 4th and E Streets, right across from Hewitt’s Drug Store, was a Military Police station. When I saw the police comin’, I’d go to Hewitt’s, and they’d hide me. But the MPs caught me a couple times. One time they tried to take me home. 'Course, I’d never been in a car before, and I couldn’t find the way home in a car. So they let me out at the police station, and I found my way back home.

The next day they got ahold of Mrs. Flingstead and told her that if I was caught after curfew again, they were going to take me away and put me in a boarding school. I didn’t know what a boarding school was, but she said she’d keep me home. I still went out to sell my newspapers, and of course they caught me again and took me to a school called Eklutna. But like I said, that’s another story.

William Barber was born near the shores of Bristol Bay in 1933. In 1941 he stowed away on the last barge to Anchorage and for the next ten years lived in every orphanage in Alaska. He served in the Army for four years and attained the rank of Corporal. He has since worked many occupations, including surveyor, bartender, bush pilot, and commercial fisherman. For two winters Barber worked a trapline near Nondalton. In 1994 he earned a three-thousand-ton captain’s license and has worked as ship’s captain. He is the father of four children and currently resides in Anchorage, where he enjoys a view of Cook Inlet and Mt. Susitna.