A fine and bitter snow by Dana Stabenow Page B

nets and impellers and boat hooks.
     
    When someone had a boat, a truck, a band saw, a refrigerator, or a swing set for sale, or needed to buy a crib, a snow machine, a dogsled, or a sled dog, they came to Bobby, paying him with what they had, which was usually fish or game. The result was that Bobby hadn't had to do any of his own hunting since the first year Park Air had gone on the air, and he fished only for the fun of it.
     
    And then there was the Park Post. Bobby was reading from a fistful of scraps of paper, either hand-delivered or mailed to Bobby's post office box in Niniltna. "Bonnie over in Loon Lake, Bonnie over in Loon Lake, Jake in Anchorage says he'll be out this weekend. Hmm. I don't think I'm reading the rest of what he says here, Bonnie, 'cause you might blush. Not to worry, it can be redeemed for a price, small unmarked bills in a plain brown envelope. And the bidding is open!" Bobby crumbled the scrap he was reading from, tossed it over his shoulder, and read the next. "Old Sam Dementieff in Niniltna, Old Sam in Niniltna, Mary Balashoff says for you to get your butt into town for the gun show. 'Gun show,' that's a good one, Mary. Old Sam'll appreciate that." Next scrap. "Mac Devlin in Nabesna, Mac Devlin in Nabesna, your sister Ellen in Omaha just had her first grandchild, a boy, seven pounds, nine ounces, mother Lisa and boy, named Mackenzie for his great-uncle, both doing fine. Congratulations, Mac, and may I proffer a piece of advice? As a much-married and much-fathered man myself, I suggest that you make plans to visit Omaha in about seven years, when little Mackenzie will have acquired at least the veneer of civilization."
     
    A box of Kleenex hit the back of his head and bounced off. Unperturbed, he said, "Also, you won't have to change any diapers."
     
    This time, it was a disposable diaper—clean, fortunately. It bounced down to join the Kleenex.
     
    "Excuse me, folks, I'm getting a little editorial comment from management. Stand by one." He scooped up the diaper, turned in the same movement, and let it sail right back at Dinah. It fell short, but it was a good effort. He went back to the mike. "Christie in Niniltna, Christie in Niniltna, your lawyer wants to talk to you. He says you know the number. Well, that can't be good. My condolences, Christie."
     
    The Park Post was the Park equivalent of jungle drums, putting the father in touch with the fisherman, the fisherman in touch with his banker, the banker in touch with the deadbeat, the deadbeat in touch with the Brown Jug Liquor Store. During cold snaps, when the mercury hit minus double digits and the wind howled down out of the Quilaks, forcing everyone to huddle inside around the woodstove, they turned on the radio to hear Bobby Clark tell them that George was holding their Costco mail order at the hangar until it warmed up enough to hitch the trailer to the snow machine, or that their husband had been weathered in on a caribou hunt ("a likely story," Bobby's invariable comment), or that their daughter had just become engaged, married, or pregnant.
     
    "And last but not least," Bobby said, tossing another crumpled scrap, "Billy and Annie Mike are throwing a pot-latch at the school gym this Thursday afternoon in honor of their new son, Cale. Everybody come on by and meet him and have something to eat, and there might even be a dance or two. Okay, time for some music, and none of that wishy-washy, weak-kneed, warbly boy band stuff we got going around today, no sir." Bobby flipped open a case and put a CD in the player. "Here's the Temptations' Seventeen Greatest Hits coming at you, except I'm going to skip to the second cut. Why? Because it's my favorite, and because I can! Bye!" He flipped off the mike and punched the play button, and the strains of "My Girl" came out of speakers almost as tall as Jim was, four of them, mounted one to each wall of the room.
     
    "It's enough to make you believe in stereo," Jim said to Dinah.
     
    Bobby