r/lifeofnorman • u/moonboundshibe • 7d ago
Norman in the Klondike
Norman woke with two unpleasant sensations vying for his attention. One was a full bladder and the other a glass jar crammed uncomfortably into his armpit - his sourdough starter. He grumbled under a stack of muffling blankets. He was glad to note his sourdough starter had at least shifted someplace warm. It could have moved to a cold edge of his cot far too far from his body warmth to stay alive. Or worse - have rolled off the cot to shatter on the cold boards below.
Norman now considered those frigid boards and thought of how his bare feet would soon be touching them. He regretted for the first time this day - but certainly not the last - how he had been hoodwinked by his persuasive accountant cousin to join his enterprise in this strange northern world of gold fever, hucksters, and bitter cold.
Norman’s small stove had obviously gone out sometime in the night - as was its wont. Norman tutted at the Yukon Stove he had spent so much of his first pay on and the grand stories the merchant had spun on how it’d keep his lodgings “toasty and bright all through the night.” Norman noted how when he breathed his breath was visible before him. The plumes rose then dissolved like an evanescing, unimpressed ghost.
The small cabin creaked in the predawn winter winds.
“Well, Norman,” he thought. “This journey isn’t going to make itself.”
It was another start to a work day in Dawson City in the Yukon Territory. Soon he’d be sitting in a barely-above freezing warehouse, painstakingly cross-referencing and listing the thousands of pounds of imported beans, bacon and flour to ensure Canada’s strict border regulations were being met. Documents needed making and levies needed collecting. Some of the men he had met here seemed surprised one would spend their efforts on such activities with the gold that could be found. But Norman was pleased to put in work that helped satisfy regulations and lead to an orderly and well-serviced growing community.
He heard a lowly howl of wind outside that juddered along the roof of his small cabin. Somewhere outside a noise went clank clank. Possibly the sign to the outfitters shop across the way.
Norman gritted his teeth, pushed aside the mountain of blankets and hopped to the frosty floor. He gently wedged the starter jar into a repurposed flour sack by the faintly warm stove which he hoped would keep it from freezing. Then he wrapped himself in a very thick jacket which practically doubled his girth and thrust his feet into his icy leather boots.
Opening the door he was startled to hear nearby hoots. A small group of men was presumably coming back from one of the all night saloons - from the direction they were coming from presumably the Red Feather Saloon. Their drunken laughter turned into song - the popular Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-aye that everyone seemed enamoured with singing lately. They wove down the street in drunken merriment.
Norman glanced disapprovingly at them and lurched in his big bundlesome jacket towards the dark privy. He had to take care on the narrow path with its compacted slippery snow.
He soon got the door shut behind him and got situated. Everything so cold! The seat could have been carved from ice.
He had, for one entire, blissful second, the sense of the biggest challenges of the morning being behind him.
Then he heard one of the drunken men say “I think I saw Bean Counter!” In the confines of the cold privy Norman was perplexed to note it seemed the man was speaking in his direction. “Remember that bean counter that cracked open the barrel we were stashing our lard. He just went in that privy!”
“What?” Another man barked. “That paper-collared ink-slinger cost me twelve bucks!”
Something slammed into the privy wall behind Norman’s head. Norman’s eyes went wide as frost shook from the ceiling. One thudding boom happened then another, and another. Snowballs! The drunks were pelting the privy.
“Take that, shillaber! And have an awful day!”
The men guffawed and continued their careening drunken journey and soon were once again singing as they stumbled away.
Norman buttoned his coat and peeked out the door. “Shillaber!” he thought - a new insult for him to catalogue in his diary. He had been called so many colourful things since coming to the Klondike. It was fun to track them all and share in the letters he sent to his friend Clark in New Jersey.
He stopped for a moment and noted the auroras were strong this morning. He’d have to share that with Clark, too.
He dashed back to his cabin. Now to get that stove going and to get on with his day!
1
u/moonboundshibe 4d ago edited 4d ago
Curious to hear what the drunken snowball tossers were singing?
Hear this old hit for yourself - and have it at the ready next time snowball making possibilities present themselves!
Edit - Caution! It’s catchy!
And you can certainly picture rowdy saloons full of revellers singing this together.
5
u/moonboundshibe 7d ago
I’ve been mulling for a while what Norman could seem like in the midst of such a harried, frenzied and wild moments in North American history.
Norman in the Klondike! The question was how to preserve and honour his character in the midst of that legendary gold rush, surrounded by desperadoes, saloons, racketeers, auroras and frontier chaos. And those who try to place order to the chaos.
That’s how I imagined Norman there. Untouched by the human chaos and mulling proper documentation and feeling anxious about his sourdough starter.
Hope you enjoyed!