| Summary: | Alaska. Alaska PERHAPS we dwell too much upon our Northern Empire. But here are a few reasons for our insistence: Records of goods exchanged between this problem child and her proud parent are being smashed. Likewise the human freight of tourists. Also, she's to have a great air base to hold the umbrella over her progenitor—the "States." Probably TWO air bases—one near Fairbanks, the other somewhere in the far, curved swing of the Aleutians. This will make the view from our west windows more enjoyable, less tinctured with apprehension. AND here's an item that might ONE DAY mean something to our presently opulent beltline: Potatoes planted in Alaskan soil on May 18 fructified and placed their precious, succulent little spudchildren on the tables of Territorians on July 18—just SIXTY days later. Almost uninterrupted Northern summer sunshine performs the miracle of growth. When Nature is so kind just south of the Arctic Circle, perhaps most of our worries a thousand or fifteen hundred miles nearer the equator are— well, just phantasms conjured by regrets for meals never missed and not likely to be missed, no matter what pressure groundless forebodings exert against our pneumogastric nerves.
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