It was the year 1916, and after a visit to the San Francisco Fair and getting myself married, the Missus and I came to Anchorage, which was headquarters for the Alaska Engineering Commission which was building the new Alaska Railroad.

I got myself a job as a biscuit shooter in the Commission restaurant. That year, in November, our first baby was born and was named after my mother--Elizabeth. We lived in a tent on the mud flats where the Ketchikan Spruce Mills yard is now located [1961].

Alaska, as we know it now, is a land where workers often have only seasonal work. I was laid off in the latter part of November. As there was plenty of driftwood on the beach, we could keep the tent warm at no cost, but when the fire in the little stove goes out, a tent is just like out of doors. That winter the thermometer sometimes read from thirty to thirty-five below zero. My wife made some sort of strait-jacket for the baby which made it impossible for her to get her hands out and protected her from freezing. 

A large box nailed on the pole or upright in the tent was near enough to our bed so we could pick up the baby without stepping onto the cold floor.

The next spring we were able to rent a house--Number 14 on Government Hill--as I was employed as an orderly in the government hospital. It was there that our young daughter had trouble with her stomach. Dr. John B. Beeson said goat milk should be good for her, it being alkaline and not acid like cow’s milk in its reaction.

So, we sent for some goats from Oregon known as Swiss milch goats. The transportation costs were very high because the shipper had sent them express. The mail came on the same boat as freight but the goats came “express.” There were three goats, two lady goats and a gentleman goat. Later, I learned that this be-whiskered “so and so” was far from being a gentleman.

Usually, he lived up to his name of “Buster,” for he sure could “bust,” if you know what I mean. Because nobody on board the ship had milked the goats, they were almost dry when they arrived in Anchorage. When they came fresh, they gave enough milk for the girl and the herd was increased by three--making it six goats.

As a musician, I played cornet in the city band under the direction of Bandmaster Burato. One Fourth of July we were going to play and march in the parade. I left my home on Government Hill earlier than my wife, who was to come later. Before leaving, I said, “Alice, be sure and lock the doors of the house before you leave so the goats can’t come in.” 

“Oh, yes, I won’t forget it -- I’ll do it.”

After the parade, I took the wife and baby out for dinner. By evening we trotted home with me pushing the baby buggy. When we came up the hill, I just glanced towards our home--it seemed to look different. It appeared that the people had moved out and the house stood empty.

Coming closer, we noticed that all the curtains were down.

“Wonder what in the world happened?”

A thought struck me. Turning to the wife, I said, “Alice, did you lock the door to keep the goats out?”

“Oh yah, I did.”

We found out that, indeed, she had locked the doors--but left a window open. You have read about Arkansas cyclones--in our house, six cyclones had been giving the place the works. They were still there when we came, and after we chased them out, we sized up the situation. They had kicked off all the dishes from the pantry table and had broken most of them; they had been in the pantry eating up the sugar, salt, bread and cookies. They devoured part of the Anchorage Times, parts of the curtains, and book covers and walked on our bed in the sleeping room. The place was a terrible mess.

The following year I got a job as section boss and pumpman at Pittman. It took a whole box car to move us from Anchorage, for, besides my family, we brought along the chickens and the goats who had increased to eleven--with Buster reigning as master of ceremonies.

Once I had to make a trip to Anchorage from Pittman. No sooner was I in Anchorage then I met my old friend, Teddy Bedell, editor of the Anchorage Daily Times. We had serviced together in the Anchorage home guards during the first world war. Teddy wanted to know how we were doing. Most interesting to him was what I told him about the goats, living on brush and anything they could find to eat. 

“Why,” he said, “that goes to prove that Alaska is an ideal country in which to raise goats. You know, Heinie, you may have started a new industry.”

When the Anchorage paper came out that evening, it was front page news. “Mr. Gerrit ‘Heinie’ Snider, section foreman from Pittman is in town for business and pleasure. He is one of the best section foremen of the Alaska Engineering Commission. For a hobby, he is raising goats. Starting with a few goats, he now has a large herd. He is known in these parts of Alaska as the ‘Goat King’.”

When I returned home, Mrs. Snider told me what she had read in the paper. Not being able to find the paper, she said she still could remember it. Now the wife, like myself, is Holland-Dutch. The Dutch say many things backward. For example, we say in English, twenty one, the Dutch say one and twenty. They go met the stairs up and come met the stairs down. A Dutchman would say, “Tie the dog loose” or “throw the horse over the fence some hay.”

My wife recalled the Times story by saying, “Gerrit ‘Heinie’ Snider was in Anchorage, he is a first-class section boss, he is raising goats for a hobby--and he is known in Alaska as the “King Goat’.”

The boss goat always got mean in the fall. Sometimes, when I walked towards the barn, he stood hiding behind a building. First, he let me pass, and then coming from behind, let me ‘have it.’ To get even with him, I informed the family that I was going to take a big stick and knock his horns off. 

The next morning when we saw him and his harem coming towards the section house, I was ready for him with a good sized shillelagh. Opening the door, I stepped out and told the wife and the kids to watch and see what I was going to do to “Sultan Buster.” He was leading the way, so I stepped into the middle of the road.

Buster stopped -- stiff legged, he curled up his upper lip as though in contempt of me, stick or no stick. Now he held his head up, looking at me just like a Senator who is trying to balance the budget. 

I held the stick firmly in my hands like a baseball bat. I made a strike for his horns, but the goat ducked and the bat slipped from my hands. I turned around fast -- not trying to make a home-run, but to run home with the goat running behind me.

When I was just about to enter the door, the kids, being inside, slammed the door closed on me. I ran like a snowshoe rabbit around the house with the goat in pursuit. Passing the window, I heard the kids rooting for the goat, “Come on, Buster, get ‘im! Come on, Buster--get ‘im!”

He came mighty close to getting me, but I saved my pants.

Because the growing children had to go to school, I was transferred to Matanuska, taking the goats with me--seventeen of them. We like Matanuska very much. Among the residents was a man very much liked by everyone, Phil Allen, who owned and operated the community center known as the Allen Hotel. 

One Saturday, when the work in the hotel was done, Phil Allen took some friends to see his fine team of horses. That was the time the goats made a visit to the hotel. When Phil came back and found me, he was really mad. 

He said, “You have to get rid of the goats, Heinie! Do you know that your goats have almost ruined my hotel. They wrecked part of the kitchen, walked over all the dining room tables, kicked off all the dishes, ate the sugar and salt. They went upstairs, tearing down and eating up my lace curtains. And, you might not believe it, but when I went upstairs to chase the goats out, that bewhiskered goat you call Buster was fast asleep in the best bed we have in the bridal suite.”

Well, I did what Phil Allen wanted--I sold the goats. And, not only because of my neighbors. For a long time, these goats had really been getting my “goat.”