Bill Wheeler leaps high in the air for a rebound while teammate, Jim Clem looks on.
Not often enough does one realize how high Bill Wheeler once leaped. He’s shown here in the Chuck Smith gym 55 years ago during a game his Enumclaw Hornets basketball team lost to Fife.
But Wheels as he later came to be known kept winning the hearts of those who knew him well. Following graduation, Bill’s talents were bigger than his hometown’s needs and first landed at Big Bend C.C. where he was going to learn to fly, then to Ellensburg to further ground his education. At Central Washington College he studied how to become a wild cat, and succeeded wildly. There he gained the nickname Wheels in a story so fantastic that it can only be told over a cold beer as he brings a smile to your face.
A forever friendship was forged when Bill Wheeler (in plaid pants), Bill Kombol, and Keith Hanson took a week-long road trip to Reno, Disneyland, and Big Sur in Eugene Wheeler’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV. This late November 1975 photo by Pauline Kombol at 1737 Franklin Street, Enumclaw, Washington.
After schooling, ranching, and the passage of time, Wheels returned to his home town to mold the life he sought to build. There in the seat of every imaginable piece of heavy mobile equipment, Bill sculpted the earth, buried utilities, excavated customer’s dreams, and thrived. He soon became the second letter of S & W Construction, learning much from his first letter partner, Sam Schaafsma. But a first-rate man demands his own dominion, and it wasn’t long before Wheeler Construction was born.
Bill Wheeler compares Operating Engineer union cards with 99-year-old Cal Bashaw, left (Oct. 24, 2019). The Wheeler and Bashaw families both moved from Alaska to Enumclaw in 1965, after which Bill became good friends with Cal’s son, Wynn.
Requiring further refinement in the finer arts of life, Bill placed a ring on the finger of a fiery, red-haired, Scots-Irish lass of clever tongue and semi-sweet disposition. Children were born and a fine home built. In time the wheeling wild cat was tamed, but how long it took no one has yet stated with certainty. What skills he lacked on the golf links he more than made up for at job sites moving enough dirt with backhoes, bulldozers, graders, and dumptrucks to build a dozen golf courses. At the poker tables, he’s always a threat, but mostly to his own wallet.
Throughout it all, Bill Wheeler has remained as devoted to friends as he is to his adopted hometown of Enumclaw where he arrived in the 7th grade. Legions number the good deeds and generous gifts of time, labor, equipment, and materials that Bill has donated to his community. Of late he’s even found a new girl in his life and spends hours playing handsome prince to a charming Princess Lucy.
So in a Leap of Faith with hopes that others second this emotion, I hereby declare February 29th as International* Bill Wheeler Appreciation Day, to be celebrated once every four years by people just like you and me who appreciate the finest things in life. As for the other 365 days . . . may God bless Bill Eugene Wheeler.
* International due to his mother, Pat Wheeler’s Canadian heritage.
Bill Wheeler enjoying a cup of black coffee and blackberry cobbler at a Jan. 7, 2023 Pokerque with his longtime Enumclaw pals.
Our team photo appeared in the 1968 Chieftain yearbook.
On Thursday evening of Leap Day, 1968, I played my last game of school sports. It was the greatest team I ever played on. Also my last. There were no epic come-from-behind victories or marquee moments. No half-time speeches to inspired victories with movie-perfect moments that we remember for the rest of our lives. It was just a bunch of 14-year-old boys playing basketball after school. Our team disbanded the following day, yet those 9th grade friendships have lasted over five decades. And Jake Thomas was my favorite coach ever.
There were 16 or 17 boys who turned out, but only 11 survived the two-cut process. A sheet of paper with names was posted to the gym wall upon which mine was written. It wasn’t my basketball skills that saved me from the cut – the coach liked me. Practice began the next day and Coach Thomas had us run ‘lines.’ That meant darting up and down the length of the court, bending to touch the baseline, then back again. We then ran lines and more lines until fully exhausted, and then we ran more. I thought we were here to play basketball, but all we seemed to do was race back and forth along the gym floor.
The Boys’ gym where our 9th grade team ran lines. Our school nickname was the Chieftains.
We called him Coach Thomas to his face, but Jake, behind his back. On the second day of practice, Coach suggested we all buy white, high-top Converse sneakers, but everyone ignored his fashion tips. Jim Clem led a short discussion afterward and the next day we showed up in black, low-top Converse, everyone of course except Del Sonneson.
Each day we worked on fundamentals – dribbling, passing, set shots, jump shots, and rebounding. On defense, we learned man-to-man and zone. Coach taught us how to press and how to avoid it. We had two offensive plays, cleverly disguised by holding up one finger or two.
After drills, strategy, and more drills, we’d play five-on-five. That meant I was playing against much bigger stars like the towering Jims: Clem and Ewalt; sharp-shooters such as Wayne and Lester; and big-butt, box-out rebounders, Rick Barry and Del. With no special skills save a modicum of speed, I delighted in practice, relishing time spent running up and down the court with my pals.
The gym was on the second floor with windows on the south and west walls. The locker room was below in the basement.
Each night before leaving, we shot 25 free throws and posted results to a clipboard hanging from the gym wall. Lester Hall was particularly good – making 21 or 22 shots most nights, and sometimes even 24. I was mediocre, my best was 17. Steve McCarty, our manager kept stats during games, picked up balls after practice, and generally cared for team needs.
Those were the days my friend, I thought they’d never end. We practiced until 5 p.m., then showered for as long as we liked. In the basement locker stalls at the old junior high, we plugged drains creating mini-pools where we sloshed about. After soaking up an excessive amount of hot water, we dried off, got dressed, and then walked home with heads steaming in the cool winter air.
The Boys’ showers with locker baskets in the adjoining room.
On Thanksgiving weekend, Coach Thomas ordered drills for Friday and Saturday, “We’re gonna run off all that turkey.” After morning sessions, Coach left the gym open for the rest of the day. We practiced, goofed off, played pick-up games, talked on the wooden bleachers about what boys talk about, took even longer showers, and walked to Mrs. Lofthus’ store for candy and soda. Could life get any better than this?
Mrs. Lofthus’ little store was one block north of the Junior High on the corner of Porter Street and Wilson Ave.
There was one slight problem with my perfect world – the actual basketball games. While practice was grand, real games were the worst. There I sat at the end of the bench patiently waiting through three and a half quarters, while disparately sneaking glances in Coach’s direction. When games were close, I knew my fate was sealed to the seat. But, if we were winning convincingly or losing badly, I’d be sent in for a couple minutes of ‘rat ball.’ It was pretty much a joke. But opposing coaches entertained the same drill by dispatching their lousy players, meaning both you and your opponents competed for fumbled passes and tossed up awkward shots.
I particularly agonized whenever Mom showed up for a home game. I felt embarrassed as she watched me not play. But she always had kind words at dinner back home. And Monday faithfully rolled around as last week’s game was soon forgotten. We were back doing the things I loved – practice, inter-squad games, 25 free throws, hot showers – the real stuff that builds bonds. Oh, how I loved practice!
I don’t recall how our season ended, but a surviving issue of The Chieftain newsletter told of our 5-2 win-loss record in early January. Our best players were top notch and we no doubt won more games than we lost.
A short report on our basketball team from the Feb. 1968 Chieftain newsletter.
Yet all good things must one day come to pass. As February closed in on March, so did our season. Our last game was played February 29, 1968 against cross-river rival, White River. It was our only night outing, a 7:30 tip-off in Buckley. That day’s school lunch menu read, “Meat in brown gravy on whipped potatoes, vegetable sticks, bread and butter, orange-coconut cookie, and milk.”
Hot lunches were served in the cafeteria, adjacent to the locker rooms.
The final seconds ticked off the clock and our season ended. Spring sports would soon begin. Baseball was my other favorite, but I progressively lacked the required skills to compete at varsity levels. Plus, our family was traveling to Europe for six weeks that spring. We’d leave in early May so I’d miss much of the season. I didn’t turn out that spring and skipped summer league. My sporting career was skidding to a fuzzy conclusion.
As Junior High ended, we left that old three-story brick building on Porter Street and moved on to the modern high school built on the far edge of town. It was my first experience of not walking to school. Though my friends tried to convince me to turn out for sophomore basketball, I knew the gig was up. Short guys with no special skills were sure to be cut, an even greater humiliation than sitting on the bench.
In high school, I found a new team on which to compete and create bonds of camaraderie. But since you didn’t wear a jock strap, Chess was not considered a sport. That is until a fellow player, Kris Galvin and I remade our Hornet school newspaper in the image of chess. Still, no Letters Awards were presented to players on our highly successful chess squad. Yet, by its very nature, a team is a collection of comrades in pursuit of a common goal and Chess Team took us all the way to State for two straight years.
These pleasant memories of that 9th grade basketball season are as precious as those friendships cemented 55 years ago. More than half of these guys are my best friends. Only one of the eleven, Del Sonneson has passed away. Even Coach Thomas is still alive.
So, I say thank you from the bottom of my heart to Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Steve McCarty, Jim Partin, Wayne Podolak, Del Sonneson, Dale Troy, Gary Varney, and Coach Thomas.
Thanks for being part of our greatest team ever.
9th Grade yearbook photos – clockwise from top left: Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Bill Kombol, Steve McCarty, Coach Jake Thomas, Gary Varney, Dale Troy, Del Sonneson, Wayne Podolak, and Jim Partin.
Post Script: In a final act of kindness and respect, Coach Jake Thomas awarded me the precious Letter that was signed by Fred Krueger our principal and the greatest coach ever.
My 9th grade letter award in our Junior High Chieftain team colors – red and white.
Mom snapped my picture a couple of day before I left for the Oregon Coast.
In September 1975, I moved to the Oregon Coast. I was fresh out of college, grew a beard, long hair, and bought a motorcycle. I wasn’t looking for work, just loafing. I collected weekly unemployment checks of $93 from a coal mining job I’d quit six months earlier, then dodged Employment Security rules by only seeking jobs for which I was miserably unqualified. It was a practice upon which my parents rightfully frowned.
The summer crowds had gone home. It was just me, my Honda 360, and a head full of dreams living at the Lincoln City cabin my parents inherited from my grandfather. I walked for miles along empty beaches to out-of-the-way places. On a long hike to the most secluded stretch of beach imaginable, I found a Japanese floating glass ball. I fixed grits for breakfast upon which I slabbed thick slices of butter. I learned to bake cheesecakes and ate them over the next few days. There was no shower at the cabin so I took long, hot baths and contemplated in silence.
The Lincoln City home my grandfather, John H. Morris purchased in 1968, and my parents inherited after his 1973 death.
Some pages of history are best left unturned, but not this one. I was stupid. The third night there I decided to make popcorn the old-fashioned way, so heated cooking oil in a pot and left the lid on. It got hot! When lifting the lid the oil caught fire. I panicked and badly burned the knuckles of my left hand. That night I slept on the sofa with my hand in a gallon-sized jar filled with ice water to stem the pain. By morning the burned skin had filled with liquid and grew to the size of a lemon. Foolishly, I sought no medical treatment but lived with it for days until poking a sterile needle through the skin at the base of the burn to slowly release excess fluid. Months after healing, the skin was still stained a reddish hue that took years to fade to beige.
An organic food co-op had opened a few doors up from the Old Oregon. It was a thrown-together, hippie-type place with barrels, buckets, and jars of grains, nuts, fruits, and vegetables. The co-op was operated by volunteers and after several visits, I offered to help. I joined the staff and one day reorganized shelves to better display the myriad jars of grains. I had grown close to a guy named David who was part of the co-op structure. When mentioning to him my layout improvement, David admonished my boastfulness. The co-op’s ethos was to not take credit for personal accomplishments but to subdue our egos for the advancement of the common good. David was in his early 30s, charismatic, with a kindly wife and daughter. He invited me to join his family at the Taft Tigers high school football game on several Friday nights. It was just like being back home in Enumclaw.
I watched movies at the Lakeside Theater (now the Bijou), but many nights walked to the Old Oregon and hung out with the hippies and long hairs that populated the tavern. There were two pool tables and a jukebox in the corner loaded with good 45s. On some weekends, a local rock band occupied a spot in the corner and patrons danced. Usually, I can recall the times and places by which songs were popular, but the only ones I remember that fall were Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and the Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes.”
One night at the Old Oregon, I made the acquaintance of a pair of carpenters building a home on the Salishan spit. We joined for breakfast the next morning where I drank my first cup of coffee. Even with cream and sugar, I could stomach its bitter taste. Afterward, we drove to the house they were framing where I hung out half the day. Mostly I wanted to access this long spit of land forming Siletz Bay that was only accessible through a private gated community.
In mid-October, I geared up to watch every inning of the 1975 World Series between Boston and Cincinnati. For years World Series games were played during the day when I was in school, so I only watched on weekends. With no obligations, this series would be different. To prepare, I bought copies of Sporting News and Sports Illustrated reading every article. I got lucky because that showdown is often called one of baseball’s greatest. If you’ve forgotten, the Big Red Machine won the seventh games, after Carlton Fisk’s game six walk-off homerun tied the series for Boston. My parents visited for a couple of days during that week, picking up Danica on their way, who was in her first year of college at Lewis & Clark.
Generally alone, I found solace at the Driftwood Library. It was a three-block walk to this ramshackle building of uneven floors and narrow passageways. The library was like an overstuffed bookstore – the kind with a sleeping cat in a window – except this repository observed the Dewey decimal system. I mostly read classics like John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Somerset Maugham, and Isaac Asimov’s science fiction. Bolstered by my recent World Series fascination, I read Roger Kahn’s classic, “The Boys of Summer” joining the author’s love of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I explored the poetry of Robinson Jeffers and wrote a few lines myself. I spent long afternoons reading in front of the cabin’s picture windows with stunning ocean views. I absorbed “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and stared in wonder at the birds on the beach. But that autumn’s most surprising literary leap was Albert Einstein’s “General Theory of Relativity.”
Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity.
It’s not a difficult book to comprehend. Einstein’s genius was to use thought experiments to illustrate scientific principles. There in Bern, he formulated his theory of relativity while employed as an examiner in a Swiss patent office. He simplified the speed of light by conjuring the image of a streetcar rushing away from a clock tower. Einstein surmised that as the streetcar gained velocity, time for the human rider slowed relative to the hands of that clock in Bern. As the tram approached the speed of light, the second hand on the clock would appear to stop – at least to the passenger with telescopic eyes looking back. But, the passenger’s clock in Einstein’s streetcar beat normally.
A storm broke loose in Einstein’s mind after realizing that time elapsed at different rates depending upon how fast the observer moves through space. Upon arriving at his theory, Einstein insisted that he’d tapped into ‘God’s thoughts.’
The Bern clock tower with Einstein’s thought experiment briefly explained.
As for my thoughts, I’d grown lonesome and figured my current life experiment hadn’t produced satisfactory results. Cashing unemployment checks, alone at movies, reading books, and endless beach walks are interesting diversions, but not the foundation of a gainful life. Volunteering at the food co-op for an hour or so, reminded me how much I enjoyed working with others. My months of seclusion needed to end, so I packed my bag and rode my motorcycle home, arriving the week before Thanksgiving.
The best buddy trip of my life soon launched. I’m not quite sure how it came together, but Keith Hanson, then working at Almac-Stroum planned a one-week vacation and invited Bill Wheeler and me to join. Wheels secured his dad’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV with Eugene Wheeler engraved on the dashboard. It was a solid fatherly reminder for three guys in their early 20s, as to whose car we were driving. We left the day after Thanksgiving.
Bill Wheeler, Bill Kombol, Keith Hanson, late November 1975 standing in front of the Lincoln Continental in the Kombol family driveway at 1737 Franklin Street.
On Friday morning, Mom captured our mid-70s fashion with several photos in the driveway. For most of the trip, I sat in the back seat while Keith and Wheels traded driving duties. On that first day, we traveled all night through a snowstorm to Reno, arriving Saturday morning to a cheap breakfast and games of Keno. There we played blackjack and roulette, then tested our luck with dice. Wheels and I stayed out very late only to be awakened abruptly Sunday morning after Keith, a fan since his North Dakota day turned on the Vikings game.
We drove south for L.A., stopping at the Joshua Tree desert on our way to an adventure in Disneyland. After that, we twisted north along Highway 1, admiring Big Sur scenery and listening to the 8-track Beach Boys tapes we’d bought in San Luis Obispo. After picking up my sister, Danica in San Francisco, we toured the Sonoma wine country getting buzzed on Chenin Blanc and other blends, then, lest we wear out our welcome drove north along Highway 101. We continued up the Oregon coast driving all night through rain storms that never stopped arriving back home the following morning. It was a road trip that more than anything solidified the bonds of friendship we’ve shared for five decades.
Back home, I hung out with Wayne Podolak who was similarly out of college and unemployed. That December we played tennis on the Junior High courts during which we hatched a plan for a long trip to Hawaii in spring.
I hadn’t yet digested how my months of solitude added up. I didn’t keep a journal back then, but each day I typed out lists of words and their definitions to improve my vocabulary. I was inspired by Uncle Evan who gave me the handwritten pages of words he memorized thirty years earlier while in college.
At the time poetry seemed the best way to convey thoughts and feelings I couldn’t fully articulate. There in the warmth of my childhood bedroom on a fog-bound day with Christmas fast approaching, I penned the first draft of a poem initially called “Beaming.”
The original poem titled Beaming, rewritten later that day as A Single Moment Captured.
Channeling the Bern tram car of Einstein’s thought experiment I rewrote the poem and gave it a new title:
A Single Moment Captured
Traveling on a beam of light
bound to live until
a single moment captured
motionless and still.
A simple thought now trapped in time
caught within that wave
a glimpse of yesterday revealed
now listlessly engaged.
Light, oh light shine on from here
and never stop to rest
your brightest beam will one day find
its destiny no less.
Bill Kombol – Dec. 18, 1975
I was trying to make sense of the uncertainties of where life was taking me. At the moment, the tram car I was riding had no particular destination. But, I found comfort in believing it had a destiny.
Tony Kombol and Lulu Shircliff, sometime before their 1914 wedding.
Their stories began in 1885. That January, a baby boy was born in Fuzine, Croatia. His name was Anton Kombol, the same as his father. When baby Anton was born, Croatia was a provincial kingdom within the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Fuzine is a village in the Primorje-Gorski-Kotar region about six miles from the coast, but 2,400 feet above sea level, and 30 miles from the largest regional city of Rijeka.
Little is known of Anton’s early life in Fuzine. Though he was Croatian by birth, the Kombol family surname derived from French immigrants who first settled in the region during the Napoleonic era. The earliest recorded birth of a Kombol in Croatia was Ivan born to Martin and Ana Kombol about 1810 in the village of Bribir, around 20 miles southeast of Fuzine and near the coast. Ivan married Matejka Grenko, while his son, Anton married Franciska Mihaljevic, baby Anton’s mother.
A 1968 postcard photo of Fuzine, Croatia.
Through actions at the 1815 Congress of Vienna after the fall of Napoleon, this area of Croatia was absorbed into the Austrian Empire and later the combined empire jointly administered with Hungary. The primary local industries were woodworking and furniture-making. As Anton grew towards adulthood that would be his likely future if the Austrian army didn’t call first.
Over 5,000 miles west, baby Lulu’s prospects seemed bright. The Brown family was well respected and her mother, Jennie Brown at age 17, was noted as “one of our most attractive young ladies.” Walla Walla, with a population of 3,500 was the largest city in Washington Territory. Lulu’s father, William Shircliff had recently returned from expeditionary explorations in Alaska, then secured the respected paymaster position at the nearby Army fort.
The couple married on a Thursday evening in early June at the home of Jennie’s parents, Horace and Sarah Brown. The wedding announcement in the Walla Walla Journal noted that “the groom is clerk to Major D. R. Larned, paymaster, U.S.A., and is one of the finest and most promising young men in existence.” Mr. and Mrs. Shircliff began housekeeping two days later in a house at the corner of Birch and Seventh Streets. Shocking for the time, just 10 weeks later a baby girl was born and christened Lulu Mildred Shircliff.
Jennie Brown and William Shircliff, well before their wedding day when she was nearly seven months pregnant.
William Shircliff left Walla Walla the following March, seven months after his daughter’s birth. He traveled to San Francisco where he was stationed at the army garrison, with promises to soon send for his wife and baby girl – a pledge he never kept. Jennie pleaded with her husband for money so she and Lulu could move south and join him. Shircliff ignored her entreaties, so she filed divorce proceedings upon which he was ordered to pay child support. There’s no record of whether Shircliff paid or not, but within two years he moved to Washington D.C. As far as we know, Lulu never again saw her father.
Lulu Shircliff as a baby in Walla Walla, 1886.
Three years later Lulu’s mother, Jennie remarried and moved onto Ransom Holcomb’s farm on the Cowlitz River south of Toledo, Washington. Lulu remained in Walla Walla with her grandmother until age 11, when she joined her new family and two baby brothers, Ransom and Wyman, 10 and 13 years her junior. Far from the active world of the small town she’d known in Walla Walla, on the farm Lulu experienced an old-fashioned life in a remote but exciting place – a farm filled with cows, pigs, ducks, goats, and chickens. The farm produced eggs, cream, cheese, milk, and hay, all of which were used to sustain the family and farmhands with excess sold to Portland merchants downstream.
Farm life was busy with Lulu assisting her mother in making hearty breakfasts for her stepfather, uncle, and hired men. After breakfast, animals were fed and chores began. Milk was skimmed and the thick cream churned to butter. Crocks and milk pails were meticulously washed in hot soapy water and then placed on slotted shelves to dry. The remaining hours were spent baking bread, making cheese, and doing typical chores like ironing, sewing, and cleaning.
The farm was self-sufficient except for staples such as green-bean coffee which they hand roasted. Most foodstuffs were grown on the farm: potatoes, carrots, turnips, pumpkins, oats, and wheat. The family’s orchards supplied fresh produce in season, with the majority canned to provide fruit for the rest of the year. Bee hives pollinated spring blossoms and provided honey for the family. Evening hours were short and illuminated by oil lamps. Early to bed was only occasionally delayed by card games, reading books, or singing as her mother played guitar.
During the school year, Lulu walked about a mile each way. There in a one-room schoolhouse, 15 or so students of all ages were taught. Later when attending Chehalis High School, Lulu moved away from the farm because the commuting distance was too far. She boarded with different families the first year, then rented an apartment with another farm girl her junior and senior years. The Chehalis Superintendent, Mr. Thompson encouraged her to pursue a teaching career and allowed Lulu to miss classes anytime a substitute was needed.
Lulu Shirclifff sporting a large white bow, 2nd row, 2nd from right with her 1904 graduating class.
After graduation, Lulu’s future brightened. A vacancy in grade school landed her a series of full-time jobs, albeit with limited credentials. In 1906, her stepfather traveled to Alaska where he suddenly died. Ransom Holcomb was always interested in Lulu’s education and had left her money for that purpose. The following September, Lulu enrolled at the Teacher’s College in Bellingham where she earned a teacher’s certificate.
Meanwhile, back in Croatia, Anton was anxious about life. The following year he’d turn 18 and risked being drafted into the Austrian army. Two older brothers, John and Matt had emigrated to Roslyn and found work in coal mines with good wages. So Anton decided to leave his family and village behind to join his brothers in America.
Anton traveled to the port city of Rijeka embarking on a steamer to Le Havre, France. He crossed the English Channel to Southampton where he boarded the St. Louis on a nine-day voyage across the Atlantic that landed him on New York’s Ellis Island. The next day, this 17-year-old boy who spoke no English, boarded a train for a five-day trip across the country. On Christmas Day 1902, Anton rode that train carrying a loaf of bread and a promise of what his future might hold. Within a month, he turned 18 and was working in a coal mine.
Matt, John, and Anton Kombol in the early 1900s, likely in Rosyln.
Both Tony and Lulu move to Ravensdale
Their worlds grew closer in 1908 – a pivotal year for both. After laboring six years in Roslyn’s coal mines Tony, as he came to be known moved to greener pastures in Ravensdale. There he worked for the same company as in Roslyn, the Northwest Improvement Company (NWI). It was owned by the Northern Pacific Railway whose locomotives burned millions of tons of black diamonds every year. That year, Tony also submitted his declaration to become a U.S. citizen.
Deciding a teacher’s pay in Centralia was not sufficient to her tastes, Lulu chose a job in Ravensdale where the best wages were paid. This was probably because it was an unruly mining town, lacking middle-class families and culture, so coal companies needed to pay top wages to attract the young women who increasingly filled the ranks. There she boarded at reduced rates with families who valued the literacy a teacher brought into their homes. Convenient rail access also provided Lulu with opportunities to attend top plays and musicals in Tacoma or Seattle, where she traveled on weekend excursions and stayed with friends.
Lulu Shircliff, with her class of Ravensdale school children, 1913.Tony Kombol, upper right with the Northwest Improvement Company bunker crew, 1913.
How Tony and Lulu met is lost to time. But it wouldn’t be difficult in a town of 725, according to 1913 census figures. In June 1914, Tony purchased a plot of land just north of Kent-Kangley Road and built a home for his soon-to-be bride. They exchanged wedding vows on August 4th. The newlyweds were 29 years of age, gainfully employed, and seemingly settled into a good life.
Tony Kombol in front of the home he built, 1914. The home still stands at 27521 S.E. 271st St., Ravensdale, WA 98051.
A few days before their nuptials, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Then France and Germany declared war against each other setting in motion the start of World War I. Had Tony still lived in Croatia, he would have been drafted as Austria mobilized. By the war’s end, 20 million lay dead with another 21 million wounded. The 1919 Treaty of Versailles created a new country called Yugoslavia, meaning South Slavs, formed from Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Macedonia, and Montenegro.
Fifteen months later, on November 16, 1915, their happy home was shattered by a mine explosion that claimed 31 miners’ lives. The Ravendale tragedy was the third worst coal mine disaster in Washington state history. The mine was utterly destroyed by the deadly blast, and the company had little interest in reopening. Tony might have been lost as well if a blown fuse hadn’t crippled the hoisting machinery that brought coal to the surface, sending 100 miners home that morning.
Ravensdale mine explosion that killed 37 miners, Nov. 16, 1915.
Miners left Ravensdale in droves. With the abrupt termination of over 230 mining jobs, there was little value in the new home Tony had built for his bride. By 1920, Ravensdale’s population fell 75% to 187 residents. Most left town in search of new jobs.
To Arizona and Montana, then back to Washington
Tony left for Arizona the next month and Lulu followed a few months later, probably at the end of the school year, though enrollment had no doubt fallen precipitously. In Ray Arizona, Tony found work in the copper mines. The couple also saw the birth of their first child in June 1916, a baby boy they named Bernell. A year later Montana beckoned with yet another copper mining job and yet another baby this time a girl named Dana born in March 1918.
Looking for new opportunities Tony left for Alaska but stopped in Washington to see William Reese, the Northwest Improvement mine superintendent with whom he was friendly. NWI was the company Tony had worked for since coming to America. It was opening a new mine to be called Hiawatha, located about five miles east of Ravensdale. Tony agreed to join the effort. Since NWI had not yet moved homes to Hiawatha to house their employees, Tony took up residency in Durham. Lulu soon arrived and the following year so did their third child, Nola born in Aug. 1919.
As miners dug the tunnels and built the surface facilities to mine coal, NWI moved or built about 20 company houses in Hiawatha. Tony and Lulu’s fourth and fifth children, Jack and Nadine were born at home in July 1921 and August 1923. One of those Hiawatha dwellings became the family’s home for the next 50 years.
In a strange twist of fate, the Morris Brothers Coal Mining Company incorporated in Dec. 1921 and shortly thereafter purchased the entire town of Durham – the mines, bunkers, houses, and hotels. All of the large and extended Morris family who had lived and mined coal in the Pierce County town of Wilkeson since 1894 moved to Durham. With Durham less than a mile south of Hiawatha, it was inevitable that Morris and Kombol children would attend the same Selleck and Enumclaw schools and romp through the same neighborhoods.
A map of Durham with each Morris family home and the homes of miners identified. Some of the miners followed the Morris family from Wilkeson.
The Kombol family glided along smoothly on Tony’s wages from mining coal while Lulu, who had quit teaching after the Ravensdale disaster tended to five small children. But, 1925 threw the Kombol family a nasty curve ball. An errant dynamite shot exploded in Tony’s face blinding him completely and speckling his skin with tiny bits of coal. Though an operation partially restored his sight, he could no longer work in the coal mines but only perform chores around home. Tony became Mr. Mom to five children under the age of 10, while Lulu went back to work as a school teacher.
Times were tough but the Kombols soldiered on
Their Hiawatha home was small and located on land owned by Northern Pacific Railroad under a 99-year lease. The main floor measured just over 1,000 square feet with two bedrooms and a sleeping porch upstairs accessed through the back bedroom. There was a basement underneath with a barn in a field out back.
The seven family members shared rooms as the children grew to adulthood. They even welcomed relatives, like Rose Kombol who left Roundup, Montana, a small mining community where Tony’s brothers, John and Matt had relocated. Rose moved west at age 16 and worked at the nearby Durham Hotel, managed by Jonas and Maggie Morris, whose only son, George was a year older than Bernell Kombol. Rose later married Woodrow Gauthier, a logger and sawmill operator, whose partnership with his brother, Joe Gauthier employed Jack Kombol on numerous occasions during the 1940s and early 1950s.
Jack Kombol and Rose Kombol, planting a tree, 1939.
Times were tough as both the local coal mines and sawmills were subject to economic downturns when commodity prices fell. The 1929 stock market crash precipitated a Great Depression that persisted through most of the 1930s. Then in 1939, the Pacific States Lumber Company which owned the town of Selleck was unable to meet its financial obligations and saw all of its land, buildings, lumber, and railroad lines seized by the IRS for nonpayment of taxes.
The following year, former mill employees, Lloyd Qually Sr. and Gust Coukas bought the company out of bankruptcy for just $3,000, when no other bids were submitted. Qually and Coukas dismantled the mill buildings and salvaged the equipment. Later Lloyd Qually and his wife, Lucille, who taught school with Lulu, fixed up Selleck’s old company homes and rented them out. One of those Selleck dwellings became Jack and Pauline’s first home soon after their son, Barry was born.
Four of the five Kombol children graduated from high school, except Jack who quit during his junior year. In chronological order, Nola married Chester Fontana, Bernell married Helmie Sandberg, Dana married Frank Zapitul, Nadine married Joe Silversti, and Jack married Pauline Morris.
From which 11 grandchildren were born, all of whom were present when Tony and Lulu celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in early August 1964. Lulu, who went back to teaching after Tony’s mine accident, taught school for 44 years and didn’t retire until 1965, the year she turned 80. Tony passed away on Sept. 21, 1967, the end of a 53-year marriage. Collectively, the six Kombol couples logged 290 years of marriage.
Their 50th wedding anniversary. Seated: Dana, Tony, Lulu. Standing: Jack, Bernell. Kneeling: Nola, Nadine. Sunday, Aug. 2, 1964.
Less than a year after Tony’s death, Jack and Pauline Kombol with Barry, Bill, Jeanmarie, and Danica in tow, traveled to Europe for six weeks, including a six-day stop in Yugoslavia. The Kombols visited Jack’s relatives in Rijeka, Fuzine, and Pula, Croatia. A few weeks later, they traveled to see Pauline’s relatives in Chepstow, Abertillary, and Nant-y-moel, Wales.
Jack Kombol with his cousin, Stefica Roksandic in Pula, June 10, 1968.
Lulu survived Tony by nearly a decade. She moved out of the family home in early 1974, living her remaining years with daughter, Nola whose husband Chester Fontana died in April 1971. Barry and Cathy Kombol moved into that Hiawatha home in May 1975 with their recently born daughter, Meaghan.
To My Family
After moving to the Lake City home where Nola had lived since 1940, Lulu began writing her autobiography. “To My Family” was published on Aug. 27, 1974, her 89th birthday. Lulu passed away on January 19, 1977, at the age of 91.
Thirty-four years later in 2011, her grandson, Bill Kombol obtained the original transcript of the memoir from Nadine. On passages written about her father, Lulu scribbled out everything she’d written after receiving an official government document that William Shircliff completed where he failed to list her as his child.
Bill’s extended version was nearly twice as long as the original. It also included 61 detailed footnotes and 26 photos of Lulu. A nearly identical version (without photos) of Lulu Kombol’s “To My Family – Extended Version” appears on the Washington state history site, HistoryLink.org.
The Kombol family assemble in Renton for Bill & Jennifer’s wedding reception. Front row kneeling, L-R: Angie Beck, Brendan Kombol, Nolan Kombol, Cara Kombol. 2nd row seated: Eric Brough holding Kyle Brough, Jeanene Brough, Pauline Kombol holding Miranda Lewis, Nadine Silvestri, Dan Silvestri, Corre Kombol, Joe Silvestri holding Lindsey Brough. 3rd row standing: Nola Fontana, Meaghan Kombol, Bernell Kombol, Helmie Kombol, Todd Kombol, Karrin Kombol, Bill Kombol, Jennifer Kombol, Darlene Fontana, Jeff Kombol, David Lewis, Danica Kombol in front of Gerry Beck, Cheryl Beck, July 28, 1990.
Tony & Lulu’s Story was adapted from the eulogy I read at Aunt Nadine’s funeral in October 2019. – Bill Kombol, Sept 21, 2023
The first known photo of Billy, with his brother, Barry outside their Selleck Home, July 1953
July 5, 1953 – Baby Billy’s Birth
Seventy years ago today, Pauline Kombol bore her second son. Twelve months earlier, she buried her first daughter. Paula Jean lived for but two days. Paula’s father, Jack was sad. Pauline was devastated.
Paula Jean’s gravestone is in the Enumclaw cemetery about 50 feet from her parents.
Just over a year later, the Kombol family gathered at Lake Retreat for their annual Fourth of July picnic. By late afternoon, Pauline’s father-in-law, Papa Tony Kombol had indigestion that he blamed on the baked beans. The next day after hearing Pauline had her baby, Tony, in his distinct Croatian accent said, “It must have been the beans.”
The boy was delivered on a Sunday at 5:04 pm at Seattle’s Doctor’s Hospital by Dr. Albert Lee with nurse, Anne Green in attendance. A year and one day later, on July 6, 1954, Pauline welcomed his baby sister, Jeanmarie into the world. For Billy and Jeanie Kombol, born on the 5th and 6th of July, Independence Day would always be the kickoff to their birthday celebrations.
As Pauline rested comfortably, her dad, John H. Morris stopped by to ask what she planned to name her son. Pauline had spent so much of her pregnancy praying for a healthy baby, that she’d given little thought to a name, either boy or girl. The boy’s grandfather, John H. Morris provided the answer – his first name would be William, in honor of his own brother, Bill, and the middle name John, after him. In 1982, that baby boy, William John Kombol assumed the same position as head of the family company, that his grandfather held for 30 years following Palmer Coking Coal’s founding in 1933.
As Pauline held her 7-pound, 12-ounce baby, she saw his eyes were blue and his hair was brown. The ‘Kombol, Boy’ record completed by Nurse Green listed his length at 20.5 inches with a head circumference of 13.5 inches. Billy, as he came to be known spent the first week of his life at Doctor’s Hospital, whose original façade and entrance at 9th and University is now a part of the Virginia Mason Medical Center on First Hill. The bill for the delivery, anesthesia, nursery, pharmacy, and lab work, plus a six-day hospital stay came to $193.40.
The hospital invoice shows details of Pauline and Billy’s six-day stay in the hospital.
Letters of congratulations poured in from Aunt Nancy & Uncle Bill Morris (his namesake); Lloyd & Lucile Qually; Palma Weflen, Yvonne & Keith Grennan; Rose & Woodrow Gauthier; Wilfred & Wilma St. Clair; Marian Dahl, and Aunt Ruth Forest. Pauline’s mother, Marie mailed her a letter every day. Pauline kept all of them.
That week’s visitors to the hospital included his Grandma Marie & Grandpa John Morris; Aunt Nancy Morris, Aunt Nola Fontana, Aunt Alice & Uncle Jack Morris; Palma Weflen, Lucile Qually, Grandma Lulu Kombol & Aunt Dana Zaputil; plus Billy Guerrini with his Daddy, Jack. Bill Guerrini was a close childhood friend of Jack back in their Kangley days. Guerrini often told the story that Jack’s son was named after him.
The baby record completed by the hospital nurse with Baby Billy’s footprints. The booklet had several pages.
On July 11, Pauline and baby Billy left the hospital and traveled several miles north to Aunt Nola’s home in Lake City. That Saturday night, Jack picked Pauline and Billy up driving them to the family’s rental home in Selleck. By Monday morning, Jack was back at work as a truck driver for Palmer Coking Coal.
Pauline poured all her love into the baby boy at that small Selleck home. It was built in 1912 to house workers of the long-since-closed sawmill. There she nurtured and cuddled Billy to ward off a repeat tragedy and heal the loss of Paula Jean. So, all the love she hadn’t buried with Paula was invested in Billy.
And that’s how William John Kombol grew up, surrounded by love and affection. As that grown boy writes another chapter in his story of scenes from a charmed life.
Pauline with Billy in the living room of their Selleck home, his milk bottle on the lamp-stand, Sept. 1953.
Who’s who among those named:
Pauline Lucile Morris (1927-2011) – Pauline was born the 4th of four children to John H. Morris and Nina Marie Morris. Both of her parents were children of Welsh coal miners named Morris who immigrated to America. She grew up in Durham, the coal mining town where so many of her Morris uncles and aunts lived, as did dozens of miners and their families. Pauline moved to Enumclaw at age six, graduated from EHS in 1945, and married Jack Kombol in late 1950.
Laverne Shercliffe “Jack” Kombol (1921-1979) – Jack was born the 4th of five children to Tony Kombol and Lulu Shircliff. He was struck with polio at age six so didn’t attend school for two years. Jack dropped out of high school at age 19 and moved to Seattle where he lived with his sister, Nola, and drove trucks for the garbage companies. He bounced around at a number of jobs but mostly worked in the woods driving logging trucks and running equipment. Jack joined Palmer Coking Coal Co. in June 1952, the same month Paula Jean died. He died of pancreatic cancer at age 57.
Paula Jean Kombol (1952-1952) – Paula died two days after birth and is buried in the Enumclaw cemetery about 50 feet from her parent’s grave.
Tony Kombol (1884-1967) – Jack’s father, Tony emigrated from Croatia at age 17 and made his way to Roslyn where he joined two brothers as coal miners. Tony worked at the Ravensdale mine, avoiding the 1915 explosion that claimed 31 lives. The family moved to Arizona and Montana where he worked the copper mines before returning to Washington. A 1925 explosion nearly blinded him and he could no longer work. For the next 42 years, he kept track of their small farm and worked around the home.
Lulu (Shircliff) Kombol (1885-1976) – Jack’s mother, Lulu was born in Walla Walla to Jennie Brown, age 17 who was seven months pregnant. Jennie married William Shircliff, an Army paymaster clerk, who abandoned his wife and daughter after eight months of marriage. Lulu’s mother remarried and she grew up on a Cowlitz River farm. Lulu attended Bellingham Normal School attaining her teacher’s certificate and eventually moved to Ravensdale where teachers were paid more. After bearing five children, she went back to teaching, primarily in Cumberland and Selleck schools after Tony’s mine accident In total, Lulu taught for more than 50 years before retiring at age 80.
John Henry Morris (1894-1973) – Pauline’s father was born in Wilkeson into a large family of coal miners. John’s mother and father emigrated from Wales shortly after their marriage. His father and brothers all worked in the coal mines, eventually rising through the ranks and starting their own coal mining company, then a second named Morris Brothers. John with three brothers and one investor started Palmer Coking Coal Co. in August 1933, during the darkest days of the Great Depression.
Nina Marie (Morris) Morris (1890-1967) – Pauline’s mother was born in the coal mining town of Franklin. Her father, Joshua was a coal miner who in 1880 was on the prospecting party that discovered coal seams in the Green River Gorge that led to the establishment of Black Diamond and Franklin. Shortly after Marie’s birth, the family moved to Osceola where Joshua farmed in the summer and mined coal in the winter. Marie and her two sisters, Lena and Ruth graduated from Buckley H.S. and all three become school teachers. She met John while teaching in Wilkeson where he was working in the coal mines.
Uncle Bill Morris (1897-1979) – William “Bill” Morris was the closest brother to John H. Morris, thus a great uncle to his namesake, Bill Kombol. Bill Morris was a jack-of-all-trades around the coal mines, working primarily on the surface in the preparation plants.
Aunt Nancy (Boots) Morris (1899-1969) – Nancy and her husband Bill lost two children, each of whom died shortly after childbirth. Great Aunt Nancy often babysat the Kombol children in their Four Corners home.
Lloyd & Lucile Qually – Lloyd was the head mechanic for Pacific States Lumber, the company that owned the town of Selleck. He held that job until the mill closed in 1939. Lucile was a school teacher with Lulu Kombol at the old Selleck School that burned down in 1929. Eventually, they lived in the town’s biggest home, once occupied by Frank Selleck. The Quallys were good friends of Jack and Pauline.
Palma Weflen – Census records show she was a 55-year-old widow and nurse living with a family in Seattle. Most likely she was a kind of a midwife to Pauline.
Yvonne (Cross) & Keith Grennan – Yvonne was one of Pauline’s best friends from high school. Her husband Keith was a brother to Dolly (Grennan) Fugate another of Pauline’s good friends.
Rose (Kombol) Gauthier (1920-2001) was Jack’s first cousin who moved from Roundup Montana when she was 16 to live with the Kombol family in Kangley. She went to work at the Durham Hotel, which was managed by Jonas and Maggie Morris, John H., and Bill Morris’ older brother. Rose married Woodrow Gauthier (1913-2001) (pronounced goat-chee), a logger and later a sawmill owner. Jack worked for Gauthier Brothers Lumber & Logging Co. on and off for 10 years.
Wilfred & Wilma St. Clair were next-door neighbors to the home of Tony & Lulu Kombol, and friends with Jack & Pauline. Two of their sons, Bill and Dick St. Clair often played with the Kombol boys.
Marian Dahl(1912-2005) was Pauline’s cousin, though almost a generation older.
Ruth (Morris) Forest (1892-1968) was Pauline’s aunt and Nina Marie Morris’ sister, hence Bill’s great-aunt. She was born on the Fourth of July.
Dana (Kombol) Zaputil (1918-2012) was Jack’s oldest sister, married to Frank Zaputil (1914-1984), hence Bill’s aunt and uncle.
Nola (Kombol) Fontana(1919-2017) was Jack’s older sister, married to Chester Fontana (1916-1971), hence Bill’s aunt and uncle. Chester’s Fontana relatives, who during Prohibition were involved in bootlegging gifted Chester & Nola their Lake City home in 1940. When Jack moved to Seattle to drive garbage trucks during the war years, he stayed at Chester and Nola’s Lake City home paying for his room and board. Twenty-five years later, when Bill took a bank job in Seattle he stayed with his Aunt Nola and paid her for room and board. Nola lived in that home for 77 years before dying there in 2017.
Billy Guerrini, at age 97 is still alive and lives in the family home in Kangley. Jack was best friends with his brother Martin “Fats” Guerrini, but after Fats died during WW-II, Jack and Billy became close friends. When Jack drove to the hospital to see his new baby boy name Billy, Billy Guerrini came in with him.
"Past, Present, and Future" album cover by Al Stewart (1974)
Al Stewart writes songs, many with a historical bent. In 1974, Stewart released his breakout album, “Past, Present, and Future” with two songs that sealed his reputation, “Nostradamus” and “Roads to Moscow.” The tracts were eight and nearly ten minutes long, but FM radio stations were increasingly featuring songs of extended length, so both grew in popularity.
But, it was side one of the album, where Stewart really polished his bona fides in history. There, five songs each tackled a different decade of the 20th century, “Old Admirals,” “Warren Harding,” “SoHo,” “Last Day of June 1934,” and “Post World War Two Blues.” Of the five, “Last Day” is easily the most baffling without historical background.
The song’s first stanzas paint relaxed scenes of summer love in the fields of France and philosophical curiosity in England’s Cambridge, on the last day of June, 1934. Yet trouble was brewing that none could foresee. “On the night that Ernst Röhm died, voices rang out in the rolling Bavarian hills. And swept through the cities and danced in the gutters, grown strong like the joining of wills.”
For on that night of June 30th, Adolph Hitler began his purge of rivals and internal enemies, the so-called “Night of Long Knives” that ended two days later with the execution of Ernst Röhm, his longtime ally and chief rival. Hitler claimed he killed 61 enemies. Historians say it was closer to 500. The elimination of Röhm as an adversary gave Hitler free rein to exert his Nietzschean “Will to power” over all of Germany.
In the final stanzas of the song, Al Stewart inserts himself into the story as he sings, “I sit here now by the banks of the Rhine, dipping my feet in the cold stream of time.” He knows he’s a dreamer and knows he’s out of line, watching couples pass by living their own moments in time. “They don’t care who Ernst Röhm was, no reason they should.” For they can’t understand what Stewart sees – that their futures have forever changed, and soon enough Hitler will assume complete control of Germany and plunge half of the world into a war that will claim the lives of 70 to 85 million people and nearly wipe out the Jewish race from Europe.
So, each June 30th, I make a point of listening to Al Stewart’s lyrics, contemplating which current world-changing, consequential actions might one day be remembered in song.
With my wife, Jennifer and son, Oliver in Reagan Dunn's office shortly after the presentation.
Chair Upthegrove and Members of the Council –
Approaching the lectern to address the King County Council.
Way back in the fall of 1970, before several of our Councilmembers were even born, I was a high school senior in my hometown of Enumclaw. I’d enrolled in the Humanities course taught by Mr. Worthington. He provided a good introduction to higher education.
During our section on ancient Greece, Mr. Worthington suggested that much of Greek philosophy dealt with answering four basic questions:
Who am I?
Where did I come from?
Where am I going?
What is the meaning of life?
He advised that we needn’t write these questions down as we’d be answering them for the rest of our lives. That this particular high school lecture stuck with me is no doubt part of the reason I’m standing before you today – thankful for this award to which I was nominated by Councilmember Dunn, and appreciative of our shared passion for exploring and preserving the historical past.
Studying history is always about asking questions. How did this award come to be named for Martin Luther King? Why am I standing before a council of nine rather than three or 13? When was this Courthouse built? Who owned the land beneath it before 1851?
Did you know that if you go back just 20 generations in your family tree, about 600 years, there will be over one million couples whose actions led to your creation? And if you add the 19 generations in between, your mom and dad, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and so on, the total is 2.1 million humans who unwittingly conspired to see you born.
Ponder that for a moment – an unscripted series of fate and chance, dates and rejections, marriages and divorces, unplanned births and sibling deaths. Yet through it all, those 2.1 million people survived to procreate and punch their DNA ticket to the next generation. How many saints and scoundrels, peasants or princes do we count among our ancestors? Where indeed did we come from?
Malcolm Muggeridge, an English journalist once claimed that “All new news is old news happening to new people.” The teacher in Ecclesiastes put it more simply, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” What both were trying to say is that it’s all happened before. But, what makes current news so fascinating in our lives is that it’s happening to us!
And George Orwell observed that, “Every generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before, and wiser than the one that comes after.” So it is a remarkable time we find ourselves in with Artificial Intelligence threatening to supplant the human brain, while some speak as if they represent the wisest generation humanity’s ever known.
This is why I view the past with a healthy dose of humility. As John Stewart sang, recalling forgotten generations in his song, Mother Country, “They were just a bunch of people doing the best they could.” Maybe that’s who we are.
So, I go forward with thankfulness – for the parents who loved me, the aunts and uncles who guided me, the friends with whom I played, the teachers who taught and inspired, the mentors who encouraged, the jobs that tested me, and for those who corrected my errors. And to my wife, Jennifer for the gift of children, as we now count ourselves among those 2.1 million ancestors who came before our three sons.
And I’m thankful for a previous Council who had the wisdom to rename our county after Martin Luther King, and relegate Rufus to the historical footnote that befalls most vice presidents. And a heartfelt thanks to this body for your support to historical preservation, archive retention, the Association of King County Historical Organizations, local museums, and the 4 Culture funding that benefits them all.
I didn’t realize it when composing my remarks, but the Martin Luther King, Jr. quote I chose to conclude my remarks appeared on the back of my new medal.
In his new biography of Martin Luther King, Jonathan Eig speaks of King’s Radical Christianity upon which his dream was built. So I end with a quote from our county’s namesake, that might be the answer to the queries those ancient Greeks were looking for. Here’s how King put it, “Life’s most persistent and urgent question is this: ‘What are you doing for others?’”
Below is the video of my June 13 speech before the King County Council:
And next is a short broadcast produced by Kimberly Hill and Brian Starr for King County TV, as I showcase Black Diamond, Sherrie Evans, and the rich history preserved at its museum.
And finally, links to an Enumclaw Courier-Herald news story and the column, When Coal Was King:
The brass rubbing from an Oxford cathedral and a photo of me by Anne Biege.
While traveling through Europe that year I’d set a tight budget: $10 per day, excluding travel. In London, this tiny allowance would be tested. The first night I tramped about Kings Cross station looking for economical accommodations. Most were at prices that fully consumed my budget goal. I chose the cheapest of the lot and the next day scoured classifieds looking for something under $5 per day. I avoided hostels, to be free of Americans with Eurorail passes moving about in herds. There were a hundred too many young Yanks, each backpacking through Europe with indeterminate plans to some day attend grad school when back home. They simply didn’t interest me. I wanted to live among locals.
A boarding house in northeast London at Highbury & Islington at £2.50 a night caught my eye. The exchange rate of $1.85 per pound was favorable, so the room came to a frugal $4.65 per night. It also included a full English breakfast, so that would cut down on food costs. I had a private room with a free-standing tub, sink, high ceilings, and water chamber down the hall.
I kept the 1978 map of the London Underground.
The building was a sprawling Victorian affair, a bit shabby and nearly a mile from the tube stop, which meant there were no tourists in sight. In fact, the boarding house only accepted men, mostly tradesmen and laborers. Breakfast was served from 5:30 to 7:30 am in a drab, low-ceiling basement. We sat on benches at heavy wooden tables hunched over our hot breakfasts. It was the same every day: runny baked beans, greasy bacon, stewed tomatoes, bread toasted on one side, butter, marmalade, cornflakes, tea, juice, and coffee, all served cafeteria style. There was little conversation. Men of all ages sat sullenly contemplating another day’s labor. It was fine by me. I rose early, ate the hearty fare, and was out the door for my day’s adventure.
Soon after arriving, I read about a free concert at Victoria Park in east London. There were expected to be 80,000 fans to march from Trafalgar Square to Rock Against Racism, as the event was known. After observing the masses at Trafalgar I’d hopped the tube to the park. In early 1978, punk music was pretty new. I considered England’s biggest act, the Sex Pistols to be dreadful. But, the Clash were different – talented musicians with inventive lyrics, good melodies, and two front-men, Joe Strummer and Mick Jones who rocked with the best of them.
The Clash performing in Victoria Park before 80,000 on April 30, 1978.
I sidled my way up front near the stage. When the Clash performed mobs of young men jumped up and down some with violent intent. From its resemblance to a pogo stick, Pogo-ing soon became a verb. I joined along, but the most rambunctious of the pack swung heads and fists so violently that I beat a quick retreat to safer spaces along the edge. Also on the Rock Against Racism program that day were: the Tom Robinson Band (political rock); Steel Pulse (reggae) and X-ray Spex (punk), with only TRB being any good.
During most days, I’d visit museums, galleries, historical monuments, fashionable squares, parks, and vibrant districts. Hyde Park, Speaker’s Corner was always a hoot, like the half-bearded wit who entertained the crowd for an hour. Towards early evening I’d gravitate to areas with cheap restaurants to peruse menus, looking for the best prix fixe value for a multi-course meal. Those deals were usually found in immigrant districts so I often dined in Indian, Pakistani, or Middle Eastern joints.
This witty, half-bearded guy entertained the crowd at Speaker’s Corner for nearly an hour.
I typically planned an evening’s entertainment and often joined the London Walks around famous neighborhoods. These walks had names like Sherlock Holmes’s Baker Street or the Secret World of Jack the Ripper. You’d meet the guide at a pub. Then a dozen or so tourists followed a well-spoken Brit who guided us through the streets of London relating topical stories with anecdotal stops at key points.
At the end of the typical 90-minute tour, most of the crowd topped off their evening with a pint or two in the pub where we’d first met. Some nights I’d catch a music performance, some freely presented in a club or church. I saw a bit of theater, the one to remember being Agatha Christies’ “Mousetrap,” the world’s longest-running play having been continuously performed since 1952. I’d hope to have seen more theater, like my literary hero, Somerset Maugham did when he was a youth 80 years earlier, but ticket prices were far higher than those days when Maugham paid pennies for a show.
Afterward, I’d catch the tube back to Islington & Highbury station for the long walk home under lamp lights to my boarding house. Sometimes the station was filled with festive, red-garbed Arsenal soccer fans, as the football stadium was a 15-minute walk. Sometimes one’s thoughts conjured dire images of walking home alone at night in a foreign city. But fortunately, this area hadn’t much cause for concern as few people were out late, and the ones that were had work in the morning. Still, I stayed alert as getting jumped was never far from my mind.
One night whilst on a London Walk, I met a young Brit about my age who told me Queen was playing at Empire Pool (now Wembley Arena). The thought of spending a night at the opera with Freddy Mercury and Brian May was enticing so plans were made to meet at a certain time and place outside the arena. The bloke never showed so I bought a ticket (£2.50) and found myself witnessing one of the greatest performing bands of all time. Queen rocked most all their hits, including eight songs from “Night at the Opera” and some lesser-known personal favorites like “39” and “Love of My Life.”
I kept my Queen ticket stub. At then exchange rates, £2.50 came to about $4.65.
My favorite hobby was reading London newspapers. Newsstands were everywhere, and it was easy to find discarded copies at any rail or subway station. I read them all: Daily Telegraph, Guardian, Evening Standard, Daily Mail, London Times (a tad too dry), and page 3 of the Sun (aficionados will understand). There were also the weekly music rags like Melody Maker and New Music Express filled with stories about rock and pop groups of the day with a listing of nightly happenings at hundreds of music venues scattered through town. Rare but welcome was the International Herald-Tribune, a joint-venture daily by the New York Times and Washington Post, bringing news of home, especially U.S. sports which weren’t often covered abroad.
Anne Biege in her Oxford dorm room, May 1978.
I made one brief sojourn from London to Oxford to see a hometown friend, Anne Biege who was studying there. She showed me about the storied campus and we had a pint at the Eagle and Child, the pub made famous by C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and fellow inklings. Anne found me a bed in her friend Tim Gallagher’s room. He was an English major with a fascination for Edmund Spenser’s “The Faerie Queene.” In an ancient cathedral, I made a brass rubbing from an armored knight. I still have it.
My rubbing of a knight in Oxford’s cathedral.
My two-month visa to the United Kingdom was set to expire in a few days. I’d spent a month in Wales (including one week traveling with a rugby team up the Irish coast) and nearly a month in London. Soon it was time to head back to Paris and join my sister, Danica for her birthday, then head for Spain.
Here’s the postcard I wrote home to the folks towards the end of my stay in London.
May 8, 1978
Dear Mom & Dad,
Well, I’m here in London and have been about a week and a half now. It’s a great city though I now have a much different perspective of it than I had 10 years ago. I’ve been trying to go out every night and have so far seen three plays, four movies, five rock groups (all in one day at a free open-air, Anti-Nazi concert in Victoria Park), one classical concert, and innumerable pubs. I’m living in a nice ‘dump’ in the suburb of Highbury, northwest of the city. It’s kind of a working-class boarding house for those single people on the lower end of the economic ladder. Quite comfortable, yet unremarkable, though its cheapness compensates adequately.
I’ve been really active touring and such, having taken in many of the main and not-so-main sights of London. Among the more notable with short descriptions:
House of Commons – where I heard the Rhodesia problem debated.
Old Bailey – where I saw a real live murder trial.
Hyde Park – where the better part of yesterday’s sunny Sunday was spent listening to all sorts of weirdos at Speaker’s Corner.
Tower Hill, a Chelsea pub walk, a Dickens’ Oliver Twist walk, most of the major art museums, the London Stock Exchange, and several assorted churches.
I wrote to Anne Biege and will call her Wednesday in hopes of going to see her in Oxford. Tonight I plan to go to the Marquee Club for a rock concert in the same club the Rolling Stones frequently played in the early Sixties.
Oh, by the way, this postcard represents my favorite picture from today’s visit to the gallery listed below (Edouard Manet, The Bar at the Folies-Bergere, 1881 – Courtauld Institute Galleries, University of London). I’ve been doing that with each visit to a gallery lately. I still haven’t written to Barry. Ahhh . . . tell him I lost his address. I’ve written Jean a couple of times though I just got a letter from Dana the other day. Also, got Scott Hamilton and his English sheepdog, Gretchen off at Heathrow Airport okay.
As they say here, “All the best.” – Bill
My post card to Mom & Dad – I’m still amazed at my tiny cursive script, even more that it was kept legible. Above portrait by Edouard Manet – The Bar at the Folies-Bergere, 1881 – Courtauld Institute Galleries, University of London.
I kept my ticket stub from the hockey game. This 1976 photo is the only one I have of me standing beside my red Ford Mustang II.
This story is from a diary I sporadically kept in 1983. It’s a another Saturday night with friends (Bill Wheeler, Keith Hanson, Jay Carbon, Wayne Podolak, and Mike Hanson), this time at a hockey game.
Lucky me!
Saturday night (Jan. 22, 1983): Wheels and I drove into Dez’s to meet Keith, Jay, Wayne, Mike, and others before the hockey game.
Dez’s 400 was a tavern at 400 Mercer Street on the north edge of Seattle Center. It was also a popular live-music venue.
We parked at Tower records. Went in to buy the new Utopia album but they were all out. Shoot, I usually like to buy an album at Tower, leave the package face up in my car’s window so they know I bought something there.
The Breakers were lousy. Portland cleaned up despite the crowd chants of “Portland sucks.” Real class fans at these hockey games. Rodney Dangerfield said he went to the fights and a hockey game broke out. Keith, Wayne, Wheels, and Mike wanted to split after the 2nd period. We stayed for the 3rd and said, “Jay and I would meet them back at the tavern in Renton.” There were a few more goals scored in the last period but the Breakers still lost.
The Seattle Breakers were a Major Junior hockey team based in Seattle, WA playing in the Western Hockey League from 1977 to 1985. That year the teas was sold and renamed the Thunderbirds.
Jay and I walked back to my car. My car wasn’t where it used to be. Lots of people’s cars weren’t where they used to be. Jay and I made the 10-block walk to Lincoln Towing. I thought and expressed to Jay how a person chooses everything as well as his response to external events beyond his control. I still had to pay $50.58. Got a free Lincoln Towing key-chain out of it.
At the time I was taking Psychodrama classes at GRCC so during our walk to retrieve my towed Mustang II told Jay about my emerging philosophy.
We drove back to the Tav and burned on the way. Listened to Elvis.
Told my stories and Keith, Wayne, Wheels, and I went to dinner at Red Robin. Retold our stories and ate ribs. Told new stories and drank our drinks. Laughed until we could laugh no more. Said goodnight.
Wheels and I dropped off at Caruso’s before we went home. It was 1:30 a.m. Wheels drinks Smith & Kearns. I had a Jack Daniels rocks. Came home, put on the tape, ‘Nobody else’s hand’ and dreamt.
The handwritten story I wrote Sunday morning and stuck in my diary where I also saved the ticket stub.
Jack & Pauline's passport photo and Bill in the Paris Catacombs.
Forty-five years ago, I wrote this letter to Mom & Dad. I was in Paris near the end of my first of five months in Europe. My sister Danica (then known as Dana) was studying at the Sorbonne for a year so my parents decided to visit her during an extended vacation.
I quit my job at Seattle Trust & Savings Bank and decided to start fresh and discover my future. I’d explore Europe – alone, for months, with little direction and no particular plan or focus, and somehow at the end of it all at age 24, find myself.
I came to Paris a few days before my parents arrived. On Feb. 6, 1978, we began a 25-day auto tour of Lyon, Nice, Monte Carlo, Pula, Zagreb, and Vienna, highlighted by visits with several sets of Croatian relatives.
Mom and Dad left for home on March 3rd and several days later I penned this Aerogramme letter.
One of several letters to Mom and Dad written on light-weight, air-mail, self-sealing envelopes.
March 6, 1978
Dear Mom & Dad –
I don’t quite know what to say. I hope you weren’t disappointed that I didn’t express my gratitude as much as I could, but you’ll understand that the ‘thank-yous’ would have been so numerous as to make one thank-you seem inconsequential. So, I guess what I want to say is thank you a thousand times for everything. I hope I was acceptable as a traveling companion as I sure enjoyed your company and now miss it.
Jack & Pauline’s passport photo for their 1978 trip through Europe.
You’ll never guess what we did Saturday. Oh, this was ten times better than the sewer system. Dana and I visited the Catacombs of Paris. I wish I could send you a postcard (I sent one to Clinton) so you could get the visual impact of seeing these millions of human bones stacked like kindling in tunnels several hundred feet below the streets of Paris. They were placed there when several Paris cemeteries were torn up to make room for the city’s expansion in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It’s a bit morbid at first but fascinating nonetheless. Got some good pictures (ha ha).
Bill at the Paris Catacombs, March 4, 1978Danica in the Paris Catacombs, March 4, 1978.
Yesterday, Sunday, Dana and I visited the Rodin museum. Rodin was the famous sculptor who did the “Thinker” – the piece with the man sitting, chin on his head and elbow on his knee in a very thoughtful moment. The gardens were beautiful as was the weather yesterday and today. The skies are now a bright blue and the sun shines hard. The temperature though has dipped and it’s rather cold outside.
Today, I visited the Paris stock exchange which was extremely interesting, particularly after having seen the commodity exchange in Chicago. I almost wish I’d seen the Paris exchange first, as it is so calm compared to the unruly Chicago market. There’s still lots of shouting and such but nothing compared to the screaming in the commodity pits. Here in Paris, I was able to actually walk on the floor of the exchange, though I did get a couple of stares (no doubt due to my casual attire in the midst of a sea of suits). But the amazing thing was that I was walking on the floor of France’s equivalent of the N.Y.S.E.
Their exchange system is quite different from the American counterparts, as prices seemed to be established more by consensus than by the bid-ask system in the U.S. This probably explains the calmer stance as that all-important need to scream your order and acceptance of the other bidder’s order doesn’t really need to exist here. An interesting sidelight was at one point during the bond market when all the men broke into a song they sang humorously for half a minute.
Writing as small and legibly as possible, you could tell a good story on an Aerogramme (plus there was 1/3 of a panel on the back).
I moved into this hostel for Protestant students. It’s a dormitory situation, but I get a bed, breakfast, and hot showers all included for 20 francs a night (about $4). Almost half the people here are French, a quarter English, and the rest Americans. In fact, before I finished the previous sentence I was engaged in an extended conversation with John Leeson, an Irishman who now lives in Oxford and is teaching French here in Paris. And, this letter might begin to sound a bit disjointed as I’m sharing my bottle of Yugoslavian wine with John and Jeff Alford, an American from Newport Beach, California. We’re listening to Radio Luxembourg (Europe’s Top 40 station).
I met Dana’s good (best) friend Carrie, the one whose parents were here over Christmas. She’s red-headed and quite nice, the exact opposite of Jana. Dana even admits that Jana is a bit too much. Much of the time her stories are B.S. and it can even get to Dana at times.
I ate dinner at Dana’s one night and can understand the source of many of her culinary complaints. The food is horrible. I had spinach – not the fresh green vegetable I’m used to, but a dull, sickly green blob of something that if you didn’t know it was food, you wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. The best I can say was that it was barely edible.
Well, say hello to Barry and Cathy for me (and tell Cathy thank you for the Valentine’s card). Also, tell her I’m sorry I didn’t send her one but I actually forgot when I was making a list of everyone I sent one to. Also, if you happen to see Wheels, tell him that his cassette deck is in my room.
Thank you for everything.
Love, Bill
Post Script: I wrote several more letters to Mom and Dad on that trip. Mom kept a keepsake box for each of her four children where after her death I found that letter and many other treasures.
Jack and Bill Kombol, Feb. 8, 1978. I know the date because my efficient Mother kept a detailed travelogue of our journey.
During those four weeks we spent together, I grew closer to my Dad than perhaps I ever been. He worked hard all his life and in later years found numerous ways to give back to the community. He helped the old oddballs to whom he rented tiny apartments on the second-floor above Steve’s Shoe Store at the corner of Griffin and Cole in downtown Enumclaw. He was elected to the school board and as such handed me my diploma when I graduated from high school.
Jack Kombol hands me my diploma, June 2, 1971.
Jack Kombol passed away April 11, 1979, just over a year after coming home from our trip to Europe. He died on a Wednesday, I wrote a poem on Thursday, and read it at his funeral on Saturday. I was 25-years-old, channeling feelings from the 14th year of my life when two grandparents, Dad’s father and Mom’s mother died on the same day:
The last day we expected was the morning that we feared the nights we cried so long ago have come to rest right here.
We gazed in one another’s eyes We prayed that we might cope We stared through nature’s loneliness and filled our days with hope.
Every day brings forth each night from which dawns each new day longings fill the times between with thoughts from yesterday.
We’ll never let our smiles down We’ll never lose our faith We’ll never touch the world beyond or see tomorrow’s face.
The news it comes so suddenly, the sadness travels far raindrops fall from blossomed eyes as we touched who we are.
We realized the sorrow We understood the pain We felt the empty feelings yet prayed no prayers in vain.
And so we’ll cry these tears of pain from sorrow we must store the tears we have are tears we’ve cried a thousand times before.
There wasn’t much that Dad liked more than operating the heavy equipment he did until shortly before his death. Here’s Jack Kombol with a drag-line shovel at the McKay coal seam,on Franklin Hill east of Black Diamond, circa 1977.
