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Tony and Lulu’s Story

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.

Five thousand five hundred 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, June 1885, likely their wedding day.

William Shircliff left Walla Walla the following March, seven months after his daughter was born.  He traveled to San Francisco where he was stationed at the army garrison, with promises to soon send for his wife and baby daughter – 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 stables 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 provided fresh produce in season, with the majority canned for fruit during 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 home on 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 when 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 sailed across 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 company about 20 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 the nastiest of curve balls.  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 two of Tony’s brothers had located.  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 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 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.

Theri 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 for nearly a decade.  She moved out of the family home in early 1974 and lived 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.

After joining Nola in the same Lake City home she’d lived in 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 about him after receiving an official government document that William Shircliff had completed where he failed to list her as his child.

The 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 the 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.

The Tony & Lulu Story was adapted from the eulogy I read at my Aunt Nadine’s funeral in October 2019. – Bill Kombol, Sept 21, 2023

 

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Uncategorized

July 5, 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.

Jack Morris (1918-2007) was Pauline’s brother and Alice (Hanson) Morris (1920-2016) was his wife, hence Bill’s uncle and aunt.

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.

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History

The Last Day of June 1934

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.

 

 

Categories
History

MLK Distinguished Service Award

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:

Bill Kombol honored with county MLK Medal of Distinguished Service

https://voiceofthevalley.com/category/features/when-coal-was-king/

 

MLK Medal of Distinguished Service presented to Bill Kombol, June 13, 2023

 

 

Categories
Musings

Living London’s Life – 1978

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.
Categories
Musings

Another Saturday Night

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.
Categories
Musings

I wrote this letter to Mom & Dad

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, 1978
Danica 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:

Tears We Have

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.

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Postmarked Vietnam

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture *

TWO SONGS – TWO STORIES

Songs evoke memories of times long past, each bearing a story to be told. This is mine.  It’s a tale of two singles; we called them 45s back then. Both were favorites. Both were songs about war. Two soundtracks postmarked in my mind––songs that evoke a time and age.

I played them on a cheap record player in my childhood bedroom. Neither mentioned Vietnam, but everyone knew what they were about. The singles were separated by two years. In the lifespan of a boy, that’s an eternity.

When young I was fascinated with soldiers. Growing up in the fifties and sixties most men of my parent’s generation served in WW II or Korea. Mom gave me a book, “Stories of Great Battles” about the soldiers who fought famous wars throughout history. I must have been eight or nine. I read it time and again.

The book was published in 1960.  It had been read so many times that years later I repaired the spine with duct tape.

JANUARY 1966: “BALLAD OF THE GREEN BERET” RELEASED

A few years later a song embodied the spirit and courage of the brave men featured in “Great Battles.”  Sgt. Barry Sadler released “Ballad of the Green Beret” in January 1966. It rocketed to the top of the charts remaining at No. 1 for five straight weeks and finished as the year’s top song. Mom bought me the record. I hummed the tune and memorized its lyrics. They told the bittersweet story of a father, son, and a shared military culture. I loved everything about that song. I was 12 years old.

The Ballad of the Green Beret by Barry Sadler. I still have the 45 single.

During the 1960s, Vietnam was inescapable––there in newspapers, magazines, television, and endlessly debated. Even its spelling and pronunciation were disputed: Vietnam or Viet Nam? Did the second syllable rhyme with mom or ma’am?

We wrote reports about the war and by 9th grade, it was the debate prompt in Mrs. Gallagher’s speech class: “Resolved that the U.S. should withdraw its troops from Vietnam?” In the style of classic debate, we were expected to successfully argue both sides of the proposition. My debate partner was Jim Clem and together we clipped articles, copied quotes, researched facts, and assembled 3” x 5” index cards supporting and opposing the prompt. In real debates against fellow students staged before the entire room, we demolished our competitors. It was the fall of 1967.

JANUARY 1968: “SKY PILOT” RELEASED

Several months later another war song was released, this time by a blues-rock singer from Newcastle, England who’d moved his reformed band to flowery San Francisco during the Summer of Love. Eric Burdon and the Animals recorded a song quite different than any of their previous offerings – “Sky Pilot.”

How do you explain the feelings of a 14-year-old upon hearing Burdon’s spoken word introduction? “He blesses the boys, as they stand in line. The smell of gun grease and the bayonets they shine.” Or describe the power of bagpipes during the long instrumental interlude preceding the powerful final verse: “A soldier so ill looks at the sky pilot. Remembers the words, ‘Thou shalt not kill’ ”

On January 30, 1968, the Viet Cong launched their Tet Offensive, a military campaign that resulted in a sea change of American attitudes about the war. Four days prior Eric Burdon released “Sky Pilot,” all 7:27 minutes of it.

I purchased the 45 at Stan Boreson’s Music Center on Cole Street in Enumclaw. Side A is the 2:55 single, while Side B concludes the epic by showcasing the glorious sound of Scottish bagpipes. You had to flip the record to hear the entire song. Upstairs in that same bedroom once filled with notes from “The Ballad of the Green Beret,” I played “Sky Pilot” again and again. Two years prior Sadler’s ballad was the No. 1 song and the toast of a grateful country.

Sky Pilot by Eric Burdon & the Animals, which I still own. Side B was part two of the 7:27 song.

Zeitgeist is a German word that literally translates as ‘time-ghost’ but more generally renders it as ‘the spirit of an age.’ Those two records captured the spirit of my age. A 12-year-old smitten with soldiers and the romance of battle versus the 14-year-old touched to his soul by a verse adapted from the sixth Biblical commandment. Inside me two songs played, each battling for a hold of my conscience.

1971: COLLEGE AND THE DRAFT

Throughout high school, ad hoc debates erupted the few times we weren’t talking about ourselves. At family gatherings, U.S. involvement in the war often ended in arguments. When I arrived at college, students marched shutting down the freeway near campus. Eighteen-year-olds, including this one, registered for selective service while others spoke of fleeing to Canada. The Vietnam War would straggle for another three years.

That year’s draft lottery fell on Groundhog Day, 1972. We each saw the shadow of uncertain futures. It was an anxious time. What birth dates would be drawn? Mine drew a safe 139, with official expectations that only the top 50 numbers might be conscripted.

I was never called to serve and never joined the protests.  I remained an observer to the events that unfolded around me.  I generally held nuanced views on the war.  Yet, two songs were buried deep in my heart––pulsating fragments of youth––imprisoned feelings of good and bad, right and wrong, Barry Sadler and Eric Burdon.

More than 30 years later, I assembled a music CD comprised of songs about the Vietnam War. I titled the collection, “Postmarked Vietnam.” It’s a refrain from another Barry Sadler song, “Letters from Vietnam.” The CD included both “Letters” and “Sky Pilot,” plus 20 others. The music therein still echoes through my inconclusive thoughts about a war that changed so many live.

DECEMBER 31, 2017: KARAOKE AND CLOSURE

In late December 2017, our family traveled to Japan to visit my son, Oliver who was teaching English in the small town of Hofu. It’s a small city about 60 miles southwest of Hiroshima. On New Year’s Eve, we booked our party of six into a Karaoke box, a private room in a building with dozens of similar sized rooms. Karaoke is very popular in Japan.

Each of our party selected several songs during an hour of entertaining each other. I chose “Sky Pilot” and Spencer joined me on vocals. Singing Eric Burdon’s masterpiece with my son was another piece in the jigsaw puzzle for processing feelings you can’t otherwise explain.

Spencer and I sing our Karaoke duet of “Sky Pilot.” It was a magical moment for both of us.

And maybe that’s why writing about music goes round and round like a record on a turntable. Always creeping closer to the center, but with no clear idea as to why and what we hear is mostly in the ear of the beholder.

* This quote has been attributed to many, including Martin Mull, Elvis Costello, Frank Zappa, Steve Martin, and others.

The cover of my CD compilation comprised of songs from a variety of musical styles. I’ve included YouTube links to each song.

Postmarked Vietnam – May 2005 – WJK Studios

1.  Nineteen (intro) – Paul Hardcastle  0:40
2.  Summer of ’68 – Charlie Daniels Band   4:31
3.  The War Correspondent – Eric Bogle  3:54
4.  King of the Trail – Chip Dockery  1:42
5.  Letter from Vietnam – Barry Sadler  2:29
6.  White Boots Marching – Phil Ochs  3:31
7.  Tchepone – Toby Hughes  4:14
8.  I-feel-like-I’m-fixin’-to-die-rag – Country Joe  3:03
9.  Cobra Seven – Toby Hughes  3:31
10.  I Gotta Go to Vietnam – John Lee Hooker  4:23
11.  Bring the Boys Home – Freeda Payne  3:31
12.  P.O.W. – Merle Haggard   2:50
13.  Talkin’ Vietnam Blues – Johnny Cash  2:58
14.  Still in Saigon – Charlie Daniels Band  3:57
15.  Vietnam – Jimmy Cliff   4:51
16.  Khe San – Cold Chisel   4:09
17.  Welcome Home – Eric Bogle  4:32
18.  Drive On – Johnny Cash  2:23
19.  My Vietnam – Pink  5:19
20.  Sky Pilot – Eric Burdon  7:27
21.  Will There Be a Tomorrow – Dick Jonas  3:37
22.  Return to Vietnam – Kitaro  2:02

 

Categories
Musings

Some Impressions of Japan

 

Translates to “Some impressions of Japan” (I think).

A short trip to a foreign county is hardly enough exposure to develop a well-informed understanding of the culture.  But impressions require no such universe of knowledge.  Here’s what I found remarkable during our family’s 12-day trip through the land of the rising sun.  My reflections on Japan are based on a limited sample size and special purpose: five cities (Tokyo, Kyoto, Hiroshima, Hofu, and plus Osaka), plus one excursion to the country (Mt. Fuji), all within the context of a family vacation for sight-seeing and pleasure.

Before discussing Japan, first I must confess the most fabulous aspect of our family’s trip – an incredible job undertaken by our travel agent, Jennifer.  My lovely wife not only coordinated travels arrangements for five people from three locales (Seattle, L.A., Hofu), she also booked every hotel, obtained rails passes, secured portable Wi-Fi (a brilliant addition!), planned each day’s events, and saw that we sampled a dozen different styles of Japanese cuisine.

She even mastered some Japanese language and could navigate twisting streets of uncertain names written in characters that no one could decipher.  Jennifer acted as a personal concierge to four semi-competent Kombol males, a herculean task in and of itself.  Every observation I offer is only made possible because I could literally show up for each day’s pleasures.  She must have been a tour guide and booking agent in a prior life . . . because she’s perfected that role in this one.

The Japanese country and its people are busy.  Trains, buses, and subways run on time and with incredible frequency.  Seemingly everyone is working, going somewhere, or engaged in commerce.  Idleness was not apparent.  Efficiency was ubiquitous.  The trains and subways were a wonder.  Polite and uniformed workers were everywhere carrying out their repetitive tasks with attention to detail and great respect for their job.  On station platforms, rail workers bowed to each passing car.  Not once or casually – but each time for every car – with genuine bows of reverence!

To me, the stations seemed a frenzied and impossible labyrinth for a blind or wheelchair-bound person to navigate.  But, whenever I saw someone disabled come off a train or subway, as if by magic a Japan Rail or subway worker appeared, wheeling or walking their challenged passenger through the haze and hyperactivity to their next train or out of the station.

Japanese rail stations were always clean and efficient.

The overall transportation system was a marvel.  There were no fare-jumpers or cheats as watchful station masters kept attentive eyes on turnstiles.  Ticket pricing was an economist’s dream – the further you go the more you pay.  There was no ‘dumbed-down’ one-fare for all nonsense.  It was a bit confusing at first, but soon you figured out the system at easy-to-navigate automated ticket kiosks.  Insert coin, select fare, print, and off you go.

There’s no ‘free lunch’ on Japanese trains, but tourists can get pretty close to one by purchasing a Japan Rail Pass, which of course my economical wife secured.  However, you must purchase them outside the country and then produce a train full of documents (passports, etc.) before they’re validated.  Japanese Rail officials won’t even allow tourists to scam their system.

Everywhere there was economic activity – factories buzzed, shops marketed, restaurants served, street vendors hawked, and entertainment venues entertained.  There was even a mechanized factory in a railway station: a workshop making cheesecakes of the jiggly variety.  Yes, this was a cheesecake factory, but not a chain restaurant of the same name.  A staff of 10 or 12 worked behind glass walls busily producing one cheesecake after another as patrons lined up 30 or 40 deep.  They sold as fast as they were baked, logo-stamped, boxed, and ready to go – about one every 30 seconds.

Putting the finishing logo touch on a jiggly cheesecake, baked in a factory in a busy Osaka rail station.

Outside one of our hotels near a rail station stood a small factory of unknown manufacturing, where each morning scores of employees punched time cards at the street entrance.  I had no idea what they produced but it was a beehive of activity in an area smaller than a city block.  On train rides, you saw literally hundreds of businesses just like that one.  But one could only guess what they were making or creating.

Many stores had stacks of items outside their establishments in streets so busy that hundreds passed every few minutes.  Yet, no shopkeepers or guards were thwarting sticky shoplifting hands.  In fact, there was no evidence of theft even though it would have been impossible to catch even a slow-walking thief on those busy sidewalks.  My son, Oliver said there are very high levels of honesty and trust in Japan.  If you hand a shopkeeper a 10,000 yen note (about $100), there’s no worry about getting back anything except your exact change.  I saw pride in almost every service worker.  You could really feel it.

City streets were almost devoid of litter as were the rail stations and platforms. This has to be the cleanest and tidiest country I’ve ever visited.  Yet garbage cans on street corners were rare.  You were expected to carry your garbage with you until it could be disposed of properly.  There was almost no graffiti anywhere, except for a few instances in the westernizing city of Osaka.  Several times I saw shopkeepers wiping and polishing their garage-style doors that close each night.  In most cities, such doors are uniformly gritty and dust-stained.

A little girl poses at the Hachiko statute in Shibuya district of Tokyo, one of the world’s busiest.

We didn’t see any homeless people and on only one or two occasions saw a ranting crank or psychotic.  Throughout Japan people were well dressed, many exceedingly so.  You’d search in vain for the slovenly clothed dude in cargo shorts and stained hoodie.  In fact, almost no one was poorly dressed.  The vast majority appeared sharp and refined.  There was very little logo sports ware of any kind, the fan uniforms and team colors pervasive in Washington on any blue Friday or Seahawk Sunday.  Many women wore skirts and heels while men, even young ones dressed with style.  Certainly, in smaller cities such as Hofu, the attire was less upscale, but smartly-dress people were still the norm.

Tattoos and facial piercings were almost nowhere to be found.  Pink, purple, or green hair was a rarity.  Students wore uniforms on school days – typically blazers, slacks, sweaters, and ties for boys, and skirt / sweater combos for girls.  Most all restaurant and store workers wore matching uniforms.  Taxi drivers and service workers were outfitted in snappy uniforms.  Every taxi cab driver seemed destined to play the role of English butler – polite, discrete, and reserved –  without exception each was a Japanese man between the age of 50 and 70.

A typical Japanese taxi driver.

The populace looked very healthy.  Skin complexions were generally clear, with abundant examples of beautiful skin.  At the risk of being offensive, almost no one was overweight with trim, svelte figures the order of the day.  It didn’t matter if they were young or old – most everyone favored a trim, lean body.  Wondering if my observations were biased I checked obesity rates by nation and sure enough, Japan had the lowest of any developed country – one-tenth of that in the U.S. (3.7% vs. 38.2%).

Fear of germs is a big deal.  And this was before Covid.  Perhaps one in twelve Japanese sported a surgical face mask, particularly in crowded cities.  I suppose with that many people packed tightly on subways, trains, buses, and shopping centers, it probably makes sense.

Now obviously there’s a cost for everything and Japan is not a cheap date.  Our exchange rate was a little better than 100 yen to the dollar making price calculations and comparisons easy. If you didn’t get your coffee from fast food or convenience stores, prepare to pay $5 for a cup, even in tiny joints, you wouldn’t think to be expensive.  Typical subway fares were $2.50 each way, but the farther you went the more you paid.  Some meals were reasonable, but places such as steakhouses and sushi houses were very expensive. Overall, if one was mindful of your dining budget, there was very good food to be had at $10 to $16 per meal.

One of the more incredible things to an American hooked on credit and debit cards was how many restaurants and independent establishments accepted only cash.  If you’re not packing real cash money, you may not be eating in Japan.  One thing to remember if you ever visit – there’s no tipping, in fact, it’s considered rude and insulting in most situations.

There were some surprises – hotel rooms weren’t that pricey given the excellent quality and service.  In fact, rooms in the smaller city of Hofu were downright cheap at $70 per night in a very pleasant, well-staffed, multistory, APA Hotel.  And Kyoto was less than $115 per night at an inn with river views, kitchens, and washing machines.  Plus, the hotel staff was always neatly dressed and very helpful.  One interesting phenomenon during hotel stays; at each check-in, passports are demanded, processed through a scanner, and returned.  I suppose it isn’t surprising Japan has one of the lowest illegal immigration rates in the industrialized world.

One special treat for travel in Japan is heated toilet seats, almost everywhere, even in public restrooms.  Other bidet pleasures await the clean of bottom, but I’ll refrain from further detail in deference to propriety.  Plus, almost every bathroom we encountered, both public and private was clean, tidy, and well-maintained.  Once again, there was no ugly graffiti defacing stalls or walls.

The temple at Kinkaku-ji near Kyoto called the Golden temple.

They say that Japanese are Shinto at birth, Christian at marriage, and Buddhist at death.  The marriage business is a very big deal with several floors at larger hotels devoted to wedding facilities, reception rooms, and assorted services for brides and grooms.  Throughout the country, there are both Shinto and Buddhist temples, but it’s hard for Westerners to distinguish the differences.  As best I could tell from my limited reading and studies of religion, Shinto is essentially a nationalist form of Buddhism.  But, wherever we went, whether it be Shinto or Buddhist, the temples were well-cared for and revered by large numbers of visitors.

Suffice to say, we loved Japan.  I liked the people, the culture, the beauty, and the experience.  It’s an amazing country that seems to be prospering despite news stories that bemoan its aging population and stagnating economy.  Apparently, the elderly Japanese must live out in the country, because we saw mostly young and middle-aged people, busily going about their lives in every city.  Certainly, there were older Japanese (particularly taxi cab drivers), but it sure seemed like a young and vibrant country from my observations.

My overall impression of Japan is a country of proud people with much to be proud about.  I suspect they’ll keep it that way.

The five Kombols: Spencer, Bill, Jennifer, Oliver, and Henry in Fujiyoshida (near Mt. Fuji) on Christmas Day, 2017.
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Reflections on Tom Landis

Tom Landis died suddenly 13 years ago today.  This is the eulogy I read at his funeral a month later.  A few months before I’d seen Tom Landis at a funeral, never thinking that some weeks hence I’d be speaking at his.

“Everyone has a story to tell.”  That was Tom’s Facebook page motto.  This is how Tom approached life and the way Tom welcomed the people he knew – by listening to their stories.  This is mine.

Tom had an ability to communicate with most every one.  He was as comfortable discussing medieval philosophy as he was pounding nails.  Tom approached each person as a unique individual deserving of his attention and interest.  He interacted as well with a child, a teenager, a woman or a fellow worker.  When Landis spoke, OFTEN LOUDLY, people listened.  I was one of them.

Tom had one of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever known.  In every encounter I learned something: an author, a book, a quote, philosophical insight; more often an approach to life through building or construction; less frequently, but most valuably, an insight into my own shortcomings.

I first met Tom in the early 1980s.  My initial impression was of a bookish intellectual of penetrating eyes with a quick-witted tongue.  The better I learned to know Tom, the more I grew to like him.

Now, I have no intention of painting a false picture of Tom.  He could be loud, crude or boorish.  I don’t believe ‘alcohol’ was his friend.  Tom was no saint, but in his heart he was no sinner.

His dual nature: Tom Landis staining  logs at Shangri-La.

Tom often spoke through a world of ideas.  He was fond of saying that, “small minds talk about people, average minds speak of events, but great minds discuss ideas.”  Tom had this amazing ability to take a complex situation and make it simple.  He also had the frustrating tendency to take the simple and make it complex.  He was at home in words, in poetry, and the appreciation of beauty.

Tom was a religious spirit who sought transcendence in the mundane.  He enjoyed the humdrum of everyday living.  He was at ease in the philosophy of Buddha as he was by quoting Jesus or the Bible.  He believed ‘the journey’ to be more important then ‘the destination’ and that more could be learned through ‘doing’ than from an analysis of how things are done.

Tom loved the movie It’s a Wonderful Life.  He would often end a conversation or an e-mail with a quote from the movie.  If you moved into a new home, Tom would bring you bread, salt, and wine.  “Bread… that this house may never know hunger.  Salt… that life may always have flavor.  And wine… that joy and prosperity may reign forever.”   Tom might even bring you a copy of the novel Tom Sawyer.  “Remember no man is a failure who has friends.”

Do this in remembrance of Tom, go home and watch It’s a Wonderful Life in its entirety.

I remember one particular Labor Day weekend at Shangri-La where amidst the revelry Tom used the scenes at hand to explain the 14th century allegorical poem, Divine Comedy by Dante.  I usually came away from a conversation with Tom impressed by his command of culture and man’s place in the cosmos.  I think of Tom as I quote Dante, “Speaking he said many things, among which I could understand but a few.”

Tom’s experiences at Drake University shaped his world view.  A few years back I sent Tom a commentary on the 1960s in general and the year 1968 in particular.  In response, he told of his days meeting the likes of Abbie Hoffman, Mark Rudd, and Eldridge Cleaver in the Christian coffeehouse he ran at Drake.  Speaking of that ministry, the mayhem, and the madness, Tom wrote:

“In 1968, I was 20.  I wrote poetry, rode a bike, and had small, simple thoughts.  I kept myself sequestered among a small group of friend who were Christian centrists.  We read, went to the movies, listened well, broke bread together.  We argued about things we knew nothing about, such as Heidegger and Nietzsche, but ultimately garnered respect for the simplicity of C.S. Lewis and how he reframed the Christian dialogue . . . During the summer of 1970, I began my carpentry apprenticeship.  I guess this was my attempt at cultivating my own garden.  Four years later, I joined the Seabees.  By then, my garden had gotten bigger although I still enjoyed reading C.S. Lewis.”

Tom recently wrote an auto-biographical novel.  It’s the story of a man who dies suddenly in late middle-age.  He writes, “When a death happens unexpectedly in a family, you see a person’s life through what’s left on the bedroom dresser: a wallet, a wedding ring, a watch, loose change, Tums, golf tees, a half-empty book of matches.  This usually means that the person wasn’t expecting to die suddenly.”   

Tom died unexpectedly in late middle-age on Dec. 15, 2009.

Tom wrote much about life on Diego Garcia, a British-American island outpost in the Indian Ocean, where enduring friendships with his Seabee buddies were made.  They called it ‘The Rock’ and Tom described the experience “as a cross between Gilligan’s Island and Alcatraz.”

As some may know, Tom wrote his own obituary.  In 2007, I received a long email – nothing unusual about that, Tom was the master of long emails.  The subject matter caught my eye.   In my emotions I was somewhere between amused and bewildered, but knew better than to ask “What’s this all about?”

Instead, I sent some editorial corrections and suggestions for improvement.  About three weeks later the finished version arrived.  I said nothing, but printed it out and put it away in a safe place.  His self-penned eulogy wasn’t the morbid act of some mischievous person, for Tom wrote in the present tense and titled it “My Living Funeral” – with an obvious emphasis on the word ‘Living.’   Tom planned to run the race set out before him.

Tom Landis in red floral print with best friends, Mike “Baggy” Palshis (left)
and Phillip Chard (right of Tom in sunglasses).

In many ways Tom was a contradiction.  He was a philosopher in mind, but a carpenter in hand.  He could be ‘fire’ and just as easily a ‘rose.’  Tom was a writer of two volumes of published verse.  Tom enjoyed poetry, so I finish with lines from a poem by T.S. Eliot that he would enjoy.

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;

And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Labor Day Coda:

The late Tom Landis was famously loud.  The more he drank the louder he got—especially on Labor Day weekend at Shangri-La.  There he sat above the volley ball court as the appeals referee, referred to as ‘Buddha’ by those below. There Tom bellowed the phrase, “You’re all idiots!” for which he will always be remembered.

In his loving memory, a bright red, neon sign now hangs each Labor Day weekend at Shangri-La, a place he loved and where everyone loved Tom.  I stood below on the Friday before Labor Day in recognition that Tom was wise and yes, we all are idiots.  We just don’t know the next time we’ll prove him right.

“You’re all idiots” – Tom Landis