Author: Bill Kombol

Selleck born, Enumclaw raised, U.W. educated, PCC trained, happily married to Jenni.

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Lois Olson Remembered

Why we'll always remember Lois Robertson Olson.

“You just lost the best friend you ever had.”  That’s what a friend told me shortly after my own mom died some years ago.  Mrs. Olson, Jon, and Jim joined me at her funeral.  They’ve asked me to speak on their behalf about the memories we’ve shared of Lois Robertson Olson, who passed peacefully at home in Buckley just over a week ago.

My name is Bill Kombol and for half a dozen youthful years I found myself within the orbit of Lois and the Olson family.  I called her Mrs. Olson as was the custom growing up back then.  I’ll refer to her today as Lois, but to me, she will always be Mrs. Olson.

Their home at 2012 Fell Street was built in 1920 and owned by the Olson family for nearly 40 years.  This Jan. 20, 1959 photos is from King County Assessor records.

Lois was the mother of my best friend, Jim.  During those impressionable years, many an hour was spent at the Olson home on Fell Street.  We grew up in the greatest small town one could ever ask for––Enumclaw.  And participated in all that cozy community had to offer: Cub Scouts, kite flying, baseball, tire swings, fishing, Vacation Bible School (co-taught by our Mothers), bicycling, swimming at Pete’s Pool, poker, candy stores, movie hall, parades, and summer fun.  At the Olson homestead Jim typically played piano, Jon hung out, while little Kenny raced about. I soaked it all up.

In Enumclaw, Lois found the ideal neighborhood to raise her family. In her new hometown, she was quick to make friends which allowed her boys to develop lifelong friendships.  Their Fell Street neighborhood was very similar to where she’d been raised in Aberdeen with classmates like Carmen Ainsworth, her best friend forever.   Lois grew up in a close community of neighborhood and school friends – most notably her high school sweetheart, Ron Olson.

BFF – Lois Olson and Carmen Ainsworth.

Lois will always be remembered for her extremely positive attitude, inspiring quick wit, and great sense of humor.  Love, kindness, and patience were the primary means by which she taught her sons.  She avoided punitive aspects of parenting through delegation. “Jim, wait till your father gets home!”  That warning was directed at Jim far more than his brothers. While Jim learned lessons the hard way; Jon, who friends knowingly called “the Good Son,” learned by watching how Jim got into trouble.  All Mom had to do was let Jon see the punishment that fell upon Jim and Jon quickly vowed, “I’ll never do that.”

Lois also had a way of calling Jim out about his propensity for B.S. – that is his ‘Belief System!’ As she patiently listened to Jim share his dreams and goals, Lois sensibly reminded him of his habit for procrastination and declared, “Well, you can certainly talk the talk.”

Lois and Jim at a Seattle Mariners game.  Lois loved the Mariners.

Everyone wanted to be close to Lois and to have her be a part of their lives.  Jim remembers the time when one of Lois’s grandchildren mentioned, “I think the main reason my wife married me was for my Grandma.”  Everybody in the family fully embraced that sentiment.

Lois lost Kenny, her youngest son in 1996.  She lovingly cared for him at home during his final days.  The Olson family had the same opportunity, as they took care of Lois at home in her last days in the exact same way.

Jim, Jon, and Kenny always knew they’d hit the “Mom Lottery” with Lois.  In doing so, they chose the annuity option instead of a lump sum payout and enjoyed her continuing love through all the days of their lives.  Heaven will soon win that Jackpot when Lois Olson arrives!  It’s not a far stretch to imagine Lois telling God, “Just take care of everyone else. I’ll be just fine.”

Sweetness was her countenance and a smile was her charm.  The loss we feel today is great and will never go away.  It will fade in intensity and be replaced by the reflective glow of knowing she was a sacred part of our lives and that her spirit lives within.  So true to her memory, we should each in some way find the better part of ourselves.  Then take what is best and re-channel it, as Lois once did for us.  And by doing so, perhaps some portion of her goodness will be passed along to another.

Allow me to conclude with one of Lois’ favorite sayings:

Good, Better, Best.
Never let it rest;
Till the good is better,
And the better best.

On behalf of Jim, Jon, and the entire Olson family, thank you for honoring the memory of Lois.

Service: December 19, 2018 ~ Calvary Presbyterian Church ~ Enumclaw. 

The Olson family, circa 1987. Clockwise from left: Jon, Jim, Kenny, Ron, Lois.

Lois Olson’s Obituary

Lois Olson passed away peacefully at her home in Buckley with her family beside her on December 11, 2018.  She was 90 years old.  Born in Aberdeen, Washington on November 3, 1928, to James and Edna (Drake) Robertson, Lois was raised in Aberdeen, Washington and graduated from Weatherwax High School. Lois later moved to Enumclaw with high school sweetheart, Ron Olson, to raise their family.

She was a teaching assistant in Enumclaw and a caring homemaker, calling the plateau area home for 64 years. Like a true local she loved the Mariners and was a charter Seahawks ticket holder. Lois was an active member of Calvary Presbyterian Church, a Children’s Orthopedic Guild member, a master gardener, a member of the local quilter’s association, and a friend to all in her bridge, bunco, and canasta groups.

Lois is joined in Heaven with her husband Ron Olson, her son Ken Olson; and her brothers, Donald and James Robertson.  Those who continue loving Lois are her sons, Jim (Lana) Olson of Hoquiam, WA, and Jon (Bari) Olson of Buckley, WA, four beautiful grandchildren, nine treasured great-grandchildren ( who knew her as Grandma Great), along with cousins, nephews, and nieces.

***

Kenneth Olson of Enumclaw died Dec. 14, 1995.  He was 35.

He was born in Enumclaw July 20, 1960, and graduated from Enumclaw High School in 1978.  After graduation, he toured with the America Sings group.  At Central Washington University, he toured with Central Swingers and sang at the World’s Fair in Knoxville, Tennessee.  He graduated from Central in 1983.

He is survived by his parents, Ron and Lois Olson of Enumclaw; brothers James Olson and his wife. Ruth, of Cosmopolis, Washington, and Jon Olson and his wife, Bari of Buckley; and by numerous nephews, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

A memorial service was held Monday at Weeks’ Enumclaw Funeral Home.  The Rev. Charles Lewis of Calvary Presbyterian Church conducted the service. Burial followed at Evergreen Memorial Park.

Memorials may be made to Enumclaw Aid Car, 1330 Wells, Enumclaw, WA  98022; or American Diabetes Association, 557 Roy Street, Seattle, WA  98109.

Kenny’s obituary appeared in the Dec. 20, 1995 Enumclaw Courier-Herald, page D-2.

***

Ronald Richard Olson, a Marine Corps veteran of the Korean War, died March 25, 1997.  He was 68 years old and lived in Enumclaw.

Olson was born Sept. 23, 1928 in Aberdeen.  He worked for Dwight Garrett at the Garrett Enumclaw Company for 43 years, where he sold skidders for use in the logging industry.  He was a member of the VFW and the U.S. Marines Support Group, and was a charter member of the Evergreen Chapter of the First Marine Division Association.

Olson was an avid sports fan, and enjoyed following the Seattle Mariners and Seattle Seahawks.  He and his wife, Lois, were married 47 years.

He was preceded in death by his son Kenneth Olson in 1995.  Ron Olson is survived by his wife, Lois, of Enumclaw; sons James Olson and wife, Ruth Sholes of Cosmopolis, Washington, and Jon Olson and wife, Bari of Buckley; and two grandsons.  He is also survived by a sister, Esther Matthews of Aberdeen.  Funeral services were Saturday at Weeks’ Enumclaw Funeral Home.  Internment was at Evergreen Memorial Park.  Memorials may be made to the Enumclaw Aid Unit.

Ron’s obituary appeared in the April 2, 1997 Enumclaw Courier-Herald, page C-2.

***

Jon Allen Olson passed away in June 6, 2020 at age 64.

Jon Allen Olson passed away peacefully in his home on June 6th. Jon was born December 1st 1955, to Ron and Lois Olson in Enumclaw and graduated in 1974. He married the love of his life Bari Heins and they raised their two sons, Johan Paul and Matthew, in Buckley where Jon was proud to serve his community as a fire fighter for 25 years. He retired from the Army Corps of Engineers after 33 years.

He cherished spending time and making memories with family and friends. He was a devoted Seahawk fan from the beginning. He spent his retirement continuing to create in his woodshop, playing with his six grandchildren, digging clams, flying kites, working in the yard, camping, traveling and relaxing at the beach with his beloved bride of 43 years.

Jon is survived by his wife Bari, son Johan (Mandi), son Matthew (Elizabeth), brother Jim (Lana), his six adored grandchildren and several nephews and nieces. He is preceded in death by his parents Ron and Lois and brother Ken. His determination to always do right, along with his kind heart and sweet smile will be dearly missed. People are encouraged to share stories of Jon in any way possible.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Buckley Firefighters Association 611 S Division St, Buckley, WA 98321

***

 

 

 

Categories
Musings

Your Vote Counts, But It Doesn’t Matter

Cartoons sometimes bring out truths that earnest lectures sometimes miss.

Elections come and go, but one peculiar fact remains – your vote counts, but it doesn’t matter – to the outcome that is.  There it is, I said it.  Leagues of Women Voters, good-government advocates, and the civically virtuous, precious right-to-vote crowd will gasp in horror.  But it’s true – your vote will be counted, but in nearly every election it won’t change the outcome.

Why? Because your vote doesn’t matter for any election decided by more than one vote. That’s an infinitely microscopic set of contests that few have ever experienced. And even if a contest ends in a tie, it will be broken by the flip of a coin.  But please, write avenging letters of rebuttal telling how your vote decided the 7th-grade class president contest or the All-Soiled Sewer District Commissioner position #3.

When election results are tight, lawsuits are filed, and votes challenged.  Some ballots will be deemed eligible despite not clearly complying with existing voting laws.  The real decisions as to which votes matter are made by judges hearing arguments over what improperly cast ballots should be tossed aside and which ones will be accepted.

So, why does every election, whether for school board or president find me completing a ballot and casting it as quickly as the laws of my state allow?  For those who haven’t arrived at the stage where hypocrisy becomes practical, here’s how I’ve squared the circle.  The sooner my ballot is cast, the more swiftly each piece of campaign mail can be recycled, with negative TV commercials and puff profiles ignored in their entirety.

Elections are like any social gathering – everyone comes to the party for a different reason.  There are as many motivations, as voters.  Partisans vote along party lines regardless of candidate competence hoping for impressive margins of victory and compelling mandates. Some are persuaded solely by race, sex, ethnicity, or attractive-sounding names or photos. Single issue voters are most easily motivated by fear. Others carefully review voter pamphlets as if studying the Torah, determined to pick the best from the mediocre by scrutinizing vaguely written policy statements. A few do it to avoid being shamed by their politically active friends.

All the while, the ballots of the least-informed are counted equally against the voter who’s watched every debate, carefully studied each issue, and thoughtfully considered the consequence of their choices.

Knowing all of this, I never miss an election and always follow my own set of biases.  Never vote for a candidate running unopposed.  Always vote against the prohibitive favorite, if for no other reason than to check their ego. Vote No unless presented with a compelling reason to vote Yes, except for confusing referendums when a No vote means Yes.

Here’s the real vote that should concern you – the ones made every day.  Rather than fret about elections whose outcomes you won’t change, why not focus on your most consequential votes – how you spend money.  Every dollar spent is a vote for the products and services you want.   Those votes are counted by the hour and create the economy and culture we collectively choose.  They constitute the key decisions that really shape our lives.

Be the change you want to see by considering what you buy and how you buy it. Those votes matter.

This editorial was originally published in the Oct. 23, 2024 issue of the Enumclaw Courier-Herald, where the author, Bill Kombol worked form 1969-1971 as the high school sports reporter under editor, Robert ‘Bud Olson.

***

In the spirit of presenting both sides of an issue, I asked my schoolmate, long-life friend, and former Assistant Attorney General of New Mexico, Chris Coppin to prepare a spirited rebuttal, which he submitted as a Letter to the Editor at the Courier-Herald.

***

Editor – I read with great interest the recent opinion piece by my long-time friend, Bill Kombol, and found his positions on voting and consumer spending to be short-sighted.

Voter turnout in America is low compared to many other countries and opinions like Mr. Kombol’s can only drive it lower. His position that your vote doesn’t matter because races are not won by a single vote fails to see the emerald forest for the trees.

While the outcome of this year’s presidential race in many states is certain, it is imperative that those supporting the losing candidate turn out to demonstrate the support they do have so future candidates can determine strategies to gather support in future elections. Remember, Ronald Reagan did not win on his first attempt to gain the Republican primary nomination, but his support was substantial and demonstrated his viability as a future candidate.

How close a vote is also sends a message to the winner. If they win by a large margin they may have a mandate to act on proposed policies. If there is insufficient support, compromises should be made. Other reasons to vote send important messages, such as split-ticket voting, voter characteristics, voter turnout, and voting trends.

As to Mr. Kombol’s argument that your economic choices are more important than voting, he cross-dresses economics as politics and it makes little sense to me. For example, I expressed my preferences by buying gas-powered cars but that is not going to stop politicians from forcing me to buy electric vehicles in the future. It does little good for me to buy bottle rockets to support our national defense. I must vote for those candidates who support my positions in the hopes my dreams for the future of this country will come to pass.

Chris Coppin
Fort Worth, Texas

Bill Kombol and Chris Coppin, circa 1983.

Post Script: I wrote in Chris Coppin’s name for President on my 2024 ballot.

Bill Kombol casts his ballot on Oct. 25 for the 2024 election.

 

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Uncategorized

Why is college so expensive?

Author Bill Kombol's Winter 1972 University of Washington tuition statement

Are professors that much smarter?  Are there that many more books in the library?  Have classrooms better acoustics?  Or are seats more comfortable with larger tablet arms?  Does the student union building host more exciting activities?  Or perchance the pool water has a more balanced pH?  Maybe saunas are hotter and soft drinks colder?  Perhaps T.A.s are more brilliant and administrators more caring?  Or do custodians clean more diligently each evening?

By now you’ve examined my University of Washington tuition statement for winter quarter – $165 for 18 credits, so a full year of college at Washington’s most expensive public university cost $495.  My ten week summer job selling Popsicles paid $1,066, allowing me to fully cover tuition plus put a fair dent into room and board charges.

But you’ve no doubt realized it’s measured in 1972 dollars.  Fair enough, the accumulated inflation rate over the past 52 years measures 522%, so 2024 U.W. tuition should equate to $1,240 per quarter or $3,720 per year.  Instead, it’s $12,973 annually for Washington residents – 350% higher than inflation suggests.  Let’s not even look at the stick-it-to-out-of-state rate of $43,209 per annum.  How many ten week summer jobs support those kinds of wages?

So, why is college so expensive?  Every time a federal and state grant or loan program further subsidizes student funding, colleges and universities raise tuition rates.  That in turn results in the need for larger government grants of financial aid, which encourages institutions to boost rates even higher.  The cycle continues with each new attempt to make college more affordable.  This is the oxymoronic nature of government support for students – it only leads to increasingly overpriced tuition rates.

Why’s that?  The more you subsidize buyers (students) to purchase a service (education), the more opportunity suppliers (colleges) discover to elevate prices. And it wouldn’t make a dime’s worth of difference if every student loan was a grant of free money.  That would still drive college administrators to soak up the “free” funds through higher tuition charges.

It is simple economics which even college freshmen can understand . . . if it were ever explained to them.  Sadly it won’t be, for the college gravy train is too lucrative a business model to alert anyone of the need to change.  As long as the fat cow is there for milking, colleges and universities will get richer, while parents and students sink deeper in debt, with taxpayers footing larger and larger bills.

And when someone suggests, why not just write off the student debt, don’t be fooled.  The debt isn’t written off – all that’s changed is who’s going to pay it back.  Taxpayers!

So where do all the billions go? According to NYU Professor Scott Galloway’s essay, “Rot” that documents the golden ornaments characterizing university opulence: “From 1976 to 2018, the number of other professionals employed at colleges increased 452%, while full-time faculty grew just 92%.” (No Mercy, No Malice, Feb. 22, 2024).

Add in armies of high-paid administrators in DEI roles, plus academic programs with no measurable outcomes, and you begin to see the fiscal bloat.  And don’t forget opulent dining halls, top-notch gyms, lazy rivers, and climbing walls.

One can only hope that the 2020-21 COVID-19 shutdown of campuses provides a road map to check tuition’s steep rise.  That year, higher education was exposed as the perfect vehicle for the democratization of opportunity through economies of scale. Hordes of students returned home or stayed safe in dorm rooms with their university education delivered via Zoom, Skype, Microsoft Teams, Google Meet, and WebEx.

In my day, 600 students were crowded into Kane Hall for introductory class lectures. Why not 6,000 on an interactive video network?  And surely the T.A.s that did a crummy job with 30 undergrads could do an equally second-rate job with ten times that number.

Jordan Peterson, the Canadian psychologist, author, and media commentator recently put his money where his often loud mouth is.  Formed in 2024, Peterson Academy is an online educational forum staffed with professors from top-tier colleges and universities who record lectures before live audiences. Peterson claims to have recruited some of the world’s best professors with proven abilities for disciplined and inspirational instruction. The $499 tuition price and no college campus have already attracted 30,000 students.  The Academy courses are not yet accredited, but this and other online systems of learning should prove viable alternatives for less expensive instruction.

The answers to curb the high cost of a college education are available – there just needs to be a willingness to think outside the classroom.  Plus, the courage to put students first and billion-dollar college endowments second.

The author’s U.W. student identification card, 1971.
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My Buddy Keith

Keith Timm Jr. smiling in his pickup

I can’t remember when I first met Keith Timm Jr.  It was likely as a kid at one of the Coal Miners’ picnics typically held at Lake Retreat. They were the highlight of our summers.  Free pop and ice cream, foot races for money, penny hunts, swimming, the Russian horse, baseball games, and watching coal miners and truck drivers drink too much.

And then there’s the vague memory of Keith, waiting for the bus at Enumclaw Jr. High (he was five years older than me) barking, “Hey! Aren’t you a Kombol?”

But we really got to know each other in the early 1980s when I took over as Manager of Palmer and hired Keith.  He began on the picking table, the usual starting job at a coal mine.  At the same time, cousin, Bob Morris was racing boats down the Cedar River, so Keith and I became his crew.  Hanging out together we soon became fast friends.  Maybe it was just driving around together in a pickup truck.  Anyone who rode around with Keith became his friend.

Keith Timm Jr., Rob Krause, Bob Morris, and Bill Kombol, the River Hawk team and boat crew during Cedar River boat races, circa 1980.

A few years later Keith told me he needed a place to stay.  He’d been living with his Mom and stepfather at their Black Diamond home.  Day after day, Keith complained about how much he detested his step-father, Ray. I don’t know the exact circumstances – some say Ray hit Keith’s Mom, Lorraine.  Whatever the cause, Keith proceeded to beat the crap out of Ray.  When the Black Diamond Police arrived they dispensed justice the “old-fashioned” way.  They told Keith to get out of town for a while.

Back then Lake Sawyer wasn’t part of town, so Keith asked if he could move in with Mom and me.  Soon Keith had a new home, but more importantly, someone to wash his clothes and fix his meals.  Several weeks into his stay, Mom asked me, “How do you think things are going?”  I said, “Pretty good, Keith seems fine.”  She replied, “There’s only one thing I can’t figure out – why is my toothbrush always wet?”  “So is mine!” I added.  Mom promptly bought new toothbrushes for all and wrote Keith’s name on his.

Keith Timm, Jr. and Governor Booth Gardner at the Black Diamond Museum, Nov. 1, 1985.

Keith was very proud of his sobriety.  He was an avid A.A. man and could tell you to the day how long he’d been sober.  I was still drinking back. One Friday night we went to a hockey game.  I got pretty drunk and Keith had to drive me home then put me to bed.  For the rest ofmy life, he never let me forget that night.  In time I realized Keith’s wisdom, so joined him in temperance. For me, it’s been 32 years, 21 days.  It was the second-best decision I’ve ever made and if it wasn’t for Keith I may not have made my best.

St. Patrick’s Day, 1985 – Gary Grant, our King County Councilman was running for re-election and held a fundraiser at the Lake Sawyer Community Club.  I asked Keith to be my date.  He was reluctant until I told him there’d be free food and pretty girls.

So we tooled over in my pickup and sure enough a pretty girl checked us in. We sat down and ate some food.  But, I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl at the welcome table.  She looked fairly young.  Being the suave guy I was, I wouldn’t dream of walking up and asking her age.  So, I had Keith do it for me.

Keith plops out of his seat, lumbers over to her table, and bluntly asks, “How old are you?” With answer in hand, Keith shuffles back and tells me.  Well, one political fundraiser led to another, and that to a Fourth of July party, a Volleyball game, and a burning boat.  Four years later I asked this pretty girl named Jennifer to marry me.  It was the best decision I ever made.  And, still happy she didn’t take a fancy to Keith.

Jennifer Grant and Keith Timm Jr. at Cedar River Boat Race day, June 1986.

In 1983, I was best man at Keith’s wedding to Kimberly Vaughan, a small affair in her parents’ home in Burien.  The marriage didn’t survive, but Keith was unfazed and confessed, “It sure was fun while it lasted.”  At times he drove me crazy.  But, like a boomerang, Keith always bounced back usually with a smirk on his face.  I’d ask, “What are you grinning about?”  He’d snicker as his smile grew wider.

Keith smiling broadly in the Palmer Coking Coal mine office after a full day on the picking table, Dec. 1984.  It was a dirty job, but Keith was never afraid of getting dirty.

Keith was famous for borrowing $2 for this or $5 for that, and usually paid you back . . . that is, if you reminded him time and again.  For those of you who haven’t been repaid, we’ve filled this glass bowl with dollar bills.  If Keith still owes you any money, now is your last chance to settle that debt.

There are so many more fond memories of Keith – like the time we toured the art galleries of Pioneer Square accompanied by a certified art snob – Keith in his stained overalls and plaid shirt surrounded by urbane Seattleites in snappy blazers and fashionable frocks.  Or the time I asked him to join me for dinner and a Mariner game at Safeco Field.  “Where do you want to eat?” I asked.  Without missing a beat, Keith replied, “The Metropolitan Grill” (the most expensive steak house in Seattle).  “I’m not taking you to the Metropolitan Grill,” I snarled, “I don’t even take my wife there.” We went to the ball game and out to dinner, but not to the Metropolitan Grill.

Keith kept the ticket stub to our Mariner game. I found it when cleaning out his trailer.

Or how about Keith at Alcoholics Anonymous?  He’d normally attended meetings in Grange halls or church basements, but in time grew more adventuresome.  Like when he started attending nude A.A. meetings held at a Jacuzzi in Bellevue of all places.  Now, that’s a picture to wrap your brain about. “Hello, my name is Keith and I’m an alcoholic” . . . buck-naked in a hot tub.

But, some of my best memories of Keith are just driving around playing old-time music and joining him as we crooned to the stereo. We did it one last time – a few days before he sank into the coma.  Two songs we heard that day are those I chose for his video tribute.

Keith holding my nephew, Carter Grant at our Lake Sawyer home, 2010.  Keith and Carter shared the same birthday, August 6.

We hadn’t seen Keith for a few days which was unusual because he always came by the mine office for something. Shelley Arnold, my secretary of nearly three decades suggested I check up on him.  I drove up to his camp trailer and saw his pickup, so knew he was home.  I banged on the door and yelled his name, then made my way through his collection of everything and found him lying on the bed.

Keith was breathing faintly.  I shook him, but he was unresponsive, so called 911.  The operator took our location and talked me through performing CPR and continued for 10-12 minutes before medics arrived. It wasn’t easy hauling him out of those tight quarters. I followed the aid car to Valley General and checked him into the hospital.

Keith Timm Jr. in coma at Valley General hospital in Renton, May 19, 2017.  Great efforts were made by the hospital staff to save his life.

The doctors and nurses hooked him up to a dozen tubes and devices, but Keith’s days were numbered in single digits.  I knew he wouldn’t mind me taking his picture, and if he recovered would enjoy seeing all the efforts undertaken to save his life.  Oh, what a laugh we would have had over this photo.  And an even bigger laugh when I reported about all the pretty nurses who fawned over him night and day.  Keith’s grin would be sparkling like the morning sun.  Then he was gone.

Keith Byron Timm Jr. was one-of-a-kind and I miss him dearly.  He was my buddy and I was his boss.  We were best friends.

Click on this link for a video of photos set to the songs Keith and I listened to on our last drive-around:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVPbCXxV0yE

A celebration of his life was held Friday, June 16, 2017 at the Black Diamond Community Center, where I delivered the above eulogy. His obituary and two photos appear below. – Bill Kombol

Obituary:

Keith Byron Timm Jr., a lifetime resident of Black Diamond, died on May 27, 2017, at Valley General Hospital. He was 68.

Keith graduated from Enumclaw High School in 1966.

He was born on Aug. 6, 1948, to Keith Timm and Lorraine Gibson. He grew up in Black Diamond and graduated in 1966 from Enumclaw High School. At the height of the Vietnam War, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and entered boot camp before receiving a medical discharge. He worked in the paint shops at Pacific Car and Foundry for a number of years, before joining Palmer Coking Coal Co. and later Pacific Coast Coal. He was married in 1983 to Kimberly Vaughan for a short time. He was a former member of the Black Diamond Fire Department and a Thursday regular at the Black Diamond Historical Museum. He loved antique trucks and was particularly proud of his 35-plus years of sobriety.

He is survived by his sister, Donna Elaine (Timm) Snow.

Remembrances can be made to the Black Diamond Historical Society, P.O. Box 232, Black Diamond, Wash. 98010.

Keith faithfully attended the Black Diamond Museum each Thursday, where Museum’s official photographer, Bob Dobson snapped this picture one time.  Whenever Keith saw him around town, he’d yell, “Hey Bob, take my picture.”

 

Categories
History

Jack and Tony Kombol – Coal Miners

Jack Kombol stands beside the Koehring 405 dragline that he operated for Palmer Coking Coal Co. at their McKay Section 18 surface coal mine, 1977.

In this 1977 photo on Franklin Hill, east of Black Diamond, Jack Kombol stands beside the dragline he operated for Palmer Coking Coal (Palmer) at the McKay-Section 18 surface coal mine.  The Koehring 405 had an excavating shovel bucket to move overburden and extract coal.  The light-colored rock in the background was the sandstone bedrock laying above and below the McKay coal seam that tilted at about 45 degrees to the surface.  This photo comes courtesy of Lou Corsaletti, who authored several articles about the coal industry in southeast King County.

After closing the last underground coal mine in Washington, Palmer began surface mining this seam to supply Washington State with fuel to heat institutions like the Shelton Correction Center, and Monroe Reformatory.

Jack Kombol was born at his family’s rental home in the tiny and short-lived town of Hiawatha.  The homes were provided by Northwest Improvement Company (NWI) to house workers at their Hiawatha coal mine located midway between Kanaskat and Kangley.  The mine was designed to replace the Ravensdale Mine, whose Nov. 16, 1915 explosion claimed the lives of 31 miners.  Jack’s father, Tony Kombol, worked at the Ravensdale mine but was sent home early that dreadful Tuesday.  Like many unemployed coal miners, Tony Kombol left Ravensdale and found work in Arizona and Montana copper mines.  Jack’s mother, Lulu (Shircliff) Kombol, was a Ravensdale school teacher who similarly lost her job.

The growing Kombol family returned to Washington in early 1919, when Tony rejoined NWI at their new Hiawatha mine.  However, the mine was riddled with problems and dangers.  Two miners, Joseph Ripoli, Italian, and John Panotas, Greek, suffered fatal accidents during the mine’s brief five-year history that produced meager amounts of coal.  Tony Kombol, who at age 17 emigrated to the U.S. from Croatia in 1902, soon found work at the nearby Parkin Kangley Coal Company mine.  It was located less than a mile north of the Hiawatha home that the family of seven continued to rent from NWI.

On August 7, 1925, Tony Kombol was severely disabled when an errant dynamite explosion blinded him at the Parkin Kangley mine.  He spent 30 days in the hospital but couldn’t return to work due to a full disability for which he received a $40 monthly pension plus a $35 monthly stipend for five children, all under the age of 10.  Lulu Kombol returned to work as a school teacher in Selleck and Cumberland to support the family.

A year or so later his second son, and fourth child, Jack contracted polio at age six or seven forcing an absence from school that lasted nearly two years.  After recovering, one of Jack’s legs was shorter than the other.  He attended Selleck school through the 8th grade then went to Enumclaw High School.  Being two years older than fellow students and not particularly academic, he dropped out during his junior year.

Because of a polio-shortened leg, Jack was unfit for service during World War II and moved to Seattle where he drove garbage, tanker, and tow trucks.  After the war, he primarily worked in the woods where he drove log trucks and operated equipment for his brother’s logging company, Bernell Kombol & D.L. Holcomb, and at his cousin-in-law’s firm, Woodrow Gauthier of Gauthier Brothers Lumber and Logging.

Kombol found a new logging job in Northern California and relocated there in early 1950.  Pauline Morris, an Enumclaw girl whose father and uncles owned Palmer Coking Coal, soon followed.  The couple married in Crescent City later that year.  Jack joined Palmer in 1952 and worked for the company until his death in April 1979 at age 57.

Jack and Pauline’s son, Bill Kombol began writing “When Coal Was King” in May 2007.  The position evolved after his youngest son’s Cub Scout troop visited the Maple Valley newspaper, Voice of the Valley.  There, Bill learned that the publisher had recently lost a columnist and volunteered for the job.

And the rest, as they say, is History.

This story originally appeared in the July 17, 2023 issue, Voice of the Valley, which would have been Jack Kombol’s 103rd birthday.

 

 

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Summers Selling Popsicles

Oliver Kombol created this montage from my picture in the Cushman scooter taken at Dan's Celebration of Life.

Dan Silvestri gave me my first full-time job during the summers of my junior and senior years. Dan was a cousin and offered the job at a family gathering.  I gladly accepted.

The job was driving a Cushman scooter through the streets of East Hill Kent and Covington—hustling to sell as many Popsicles as you could.  To a driving-obsessed 16-year-old, soon to turn 17, life couldn’t get much better than this.

On the bench seat of that three-wheel wagon, I was the master of my own destiny.  Complete with the freedom to succeed—or fail—depending on my efforts. The hours were long and the commissions scaled to how many confectionaries you moved. Popsicles sold for a dime, Fudgsicles and ice cream bars 12¢, while ice cream sandwiches and Creamsicles were 15¢.

In other words, you had to sell a lot of Popsicles!

Each summer, I started two weeks after school ended.  Following my junior year, I attended Boys State in Spokane, and then after graduation, a senior vacation took me to Lincoln City.

A morning scene at the Silvestri home in the early 1970s. That’s Joe Silvestri in coveralls walking towards the Cushman scooters. My Uncle Joe often worked on the scooters as a mechanic.

I typically worked Tuesday through Saturday.  Each day was generally the same. Drivers showed up at the Silvestri family home on Benson Road around 10 a.m.  There we loaded cartons of frozen treats into an insulated box on the back of our scooters.  To keep them cold, dry ice was placed strategically on top.

We hit the neighborhoods around 10:30 a.m.  Music blared from a loudspeaker atop the scooter giving kids plenty of time to find money or mom.  Each day you’d spend 10 hours listening to the mechanical music box melody of “Do Your Ears Hang Low” or a similar tune at full volume, for maximum effect.

Each driver had their own specific area.  Up and down the streets we drove, turning corners to the next road before stopping for the children chasing from behind.  This was strategic.  You wanted the music bellowing in a new direction to allow fresh customers to get ready.  In the meantime, you served those just catching up.  Surrounded by a herd of kids, I generally pushed Popsicles to the youngest, sold fudge or ice cream bars to tweens and teens, and ice cream sandwiches or Creamsicles to adults.

For those who couldn’t make up their minds, and there were many, I made quick choices for them: orange Popsicles for the youngest; rainbows for 6-year-olds through 9; and for tweens more adventuresome fare, like banana or cherry, though the older kids usually knew what they liked.

Time was money so I collected it quickly, counting sticky coins from outstretched hands.

Around midday, I stopped to eat the paper bag lunch Mom packed each morning.  That’s when you typically filled up with gas, keeping the receipt for reimbursement back at Silvestri HQ. Lunch was supplemented throughout the day by a generous stream of Popsicles, ice cream bars, and Sidewalk Sundaes.

To keep the treats well-frozen, drivers continually rearranged inventory, shifting about the newspaper-wrapped, dry ice, lest there be ‘melties.’ On very hot days you could be forced back to base for more dry ice.  On the biggest-selling days, you might call Dan from a pay phone asking him to bring more ice and product.  But, both involved a precious waste of time.

By late afternoon with parents home, business picked up as entire families enjoyed a frozen treat. After dinner, adults trailed behind children and sometimes bought whole boxes at a 10-cent discount from the single-piece price.  It’s far more time-effective to sell a dozen items to one adult than 12 treats to a dozen kids.

Warm summer evenings were terrific for sales. I kept driving through neighborhoods even as the sun began to set. As twilight skies turned grey, I’d work my way back to base, scouring promising areas, such as trailer parks, where adults usually ordered an ice cream sandwich. It wasn’t until 10 p.m. during the longest days of summer when we arrived back at base to unload.

The unsold boxes were returned to the freezer as Cousin Dan counted how much product was returned—it was a good indicator of daily sales. In the Silvestri basement, a mountain of loose change was stacked in plastic coin separators and assembled into rolls of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.  You rolled your own in this business. Paper bills were added to your coin rolls and the total was tabulated by one of the Silvestri clan.

Dan in the Silvestri family kitchen when serving in the Navy, Dec. 1967. He was deployed to Vietnam.

The money count was reconciled against the number of boxes tallied to your scooter with credit for expenses like gasoline. Some drivers regularly came up short, offering Dan a succession of lame excuses that he belittled in his playful but mocking manner.  He was quite aware of how cash proceeds were pilfered straight into their pockets. My dollar count always matched the boxes checked out.

All of us were guys between 17 and 22, though my cousin, Cheryl Silvestri sometimes drove.  As commissioned salesmen, the pay was based on a sliding percentage scale: 21% of the first $100; 22% from $100 to $110; and so on. I kept a record of my daily earnings that first summer: 52 working days, earning a low of $7.20 (it rained all day) to a high of $30.50 (a prime-time Saturday in early August). My summer total was $1,066.79, for a per diem average of $20.52.  That meant I typically sold between $90 and $110 of product, about 800 individual confectioneries per day!

Dan on his Triumph 650 motorcycle. After my second summer working, Dan and several Popsicle drivers took a motorcycle trip to Eastern Washington, that later inspired me to four years later buy my own motorcycle, a Honda 360.

After getting paid in cash, I headed back to Lake Sawyer arriving home around 11 p.m.  Mom usually saved me a warm dinner plate from the oven. I went straight to bed, slept hard, and was up by 9 a.m. for my next day on the Cushman.

Yet, Cousin Dan did far more than just give me a job.  In conversations before work and after, he encouraged me to invest my earnings, not spend them. Most of the drivers plowed their wages into cars, motorcycles, or the cheap apartments they rented.  Living at home with little time for leisure, I saved all my dough.

Dan spoke glowingly of his investments in land and timbered property. He also regaled me with tales of buying and selling securities on the New York Stock Exchange. This tickled my fancy.  During junior high, I followed penny stocks on the Spokane exchange.  That summer before college Dan convinced me that Pan Am Airways, due to its recurring pattern of ups and downs, was a good stock to buy low and sell high.  I started following it.

In late September 1971, I entered the University of Washington as a freshman taking introductory classes, but not quite sure what to study. The idea of making money intrigued me.  I was particularly inspired by a one-semester high school class in economics taught by Mr. Hanson.

So that October, an impetuous 18-year-old caught a bus from the U-District downtown and marched into the local office of Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner & Smith.  There I opened an account with the money earned from selling Popsicles.  Why Merrill Lynch?  It was the brokerage firm that advertised nightly on the ABC 6 o’clock news.

On Dan’s tip, I bought 100 shares of Pan Am stock at just over $10 per share, plus commission. Each afternoon at my fraternity, I dutifully read the stock tables of the Seattle Times. My heart jumped or sank with each 1/8th or 1/4th point movement up or down. Several months later with Pan Am safely in the mid-$14s, I sold and pocketed a $300+ profit after commissions. Making money in the stock market was a lot easier than working 12-hour days selling Popsicles.  I was hooked on investing.

My job with Dan’s cleverly named business, Recreational Distribution Systems, Inc.* lasted two high school summers, though I returned one day in August 1972 when he was short of drivers.  During college breaks, I worked around the coal mines with my brother, dad, uncles, and cousins. Four years later, I graduated with a degree in Economics. I goofed off for 18 months then joined Seattle Trust & Savings Bank for one year as a management trainee, before more loafing, travel, and adventures.

At Bob Morris’ annual Shangri-La Labor Day party, we bought confectionaries from Dan’s company, Frosty Wholesale and served them out of a push car. That’s me dispensing treats.

Returning to Palmer Coking Coal Company at age 25, I climbed the thin ranks and became manager––my job for the next 44 years of life. If it hadn’t been for Dan Silvestri and his encouragement, I would have been neither the investor nor the company leader I became.

Dan died suddenly on the last day of June 2018, at age 73.  At the Celebration of Life, his brother and business partner, Lanny brought one of their classic Cushman scooters, perhaps the same one I used to drive.  I hopped into the seat and Jennifer snapped a photo.  My son, Oliver added flavorful colors for the banner photo.

July, 2018 – Bill Kombol seated in a three-wheel Cushman ice cream scooter like the one he drove two summers selling Popsicles.

But this story isn’t about Cushman scooters or colorful rainbow confectionaries or long days on the road.  It’s about the debt of gratitude I owe to that cousin and late boss.  So this song of thankfulness is for Dan— in appreciation of the time he invested in me.  My gratitude is just as strong today as it was five decades prior . . . during those summers selling Popsicles.

* later Frosty Wholesale

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Waiting for Charlotte

Raphael Dulcet, aka Jules and I celebrating our brief frienship.

Place de Contrescarpe                                                                              Friday, April 12, 2024, 10 am

In the square below our room, a film company had set up in the early morning hours.  The crew of seven placed cameras and mic booms around a decorated table with a young man seated behind, as if he were holding court.  It was a sun-dappled spring day in Paris.

The view of the film set from our second-floor room on the plaza. Jennifer took the photo while I was being interviewed.

Curious, I wandered around the set near the middle of the plaza.  A young woman approached.  She was part of the crew.  I greeted her with my best “Bon jour,” and she replied likewise, continuing in French.  I apologized, admitting to only speaking English.  She smiled and replied, inviting me to take a seat at the table for an interview – an impromptu, man-on-the-street sort of thing.  I hesitated repeating, “I only speak English.”  She responded quickly, “He does also,” and escorted me to the table where I took a seat.  The handsome, dark-haired host was conversing with an older French lady and after a few moments, turned to me and spoke.

He introduced himself as Jules and asked my name.  Jules explained he was waiting for the love of his life to arrive.  Her name was Charlotte and she lived nearby.  With a penetrating glance, he inquired, “Do you believe there is one true love of your life?”  I offered a fractured version of how I met Jennifer nearly 40 years prior.  I questioned if Charlotte knew he was waiting for her, and where?  Jules replied vaguely but hopeful she would appear.

On the tabletop before us were books, flowers, and various mementos that obviously spoke to Jules and Charlotte’s relationship.  I pressed Jules on the various item’s meanings, and he spoke of poems by Baudelaire, favorite movies, and other keepsakes that filled his folding table.

Jules and assistant, Sara seated at the memento-covered table interviewing another passerby.

Our conversation turned to songs that moved us, philosophies that inspired us, authors we admired and books we were reading.  I explained the rationale behind my current novel, “Sometimes a Great Notion” by Ken Kesey, and how reading it was inspired by the recent death of a good friend.  Jules dug deeper, so I offered my general philosophy of life – that every moment is a choice and one’s life is a compilation of those collected choices.  For example, the choices that landed the two of us together in Paris at the Place de Contrescarpe on a Friday morning in April.  I added, “However, the most important choices we make are how we react to events beyond our control.”

In time, Pasquele, the French woman seated to his right reentered the conversation in English.  Pasquele took exception to a literary point I’d made that, “Men’s reading is comprised of 80% non-fiction and women’s 80% fiction.”  Pasquele countered, “Not in France where men read far more fiction.”

The three of us enjoyed a pleasant discussion of literary habits before Jules re-engaged, asking about life’s meaning and where lies happiness.  I repeated the wisdom passed to me by my high school humanities teacher, Mr. Worthington.  He explained to the class that the rest of our lives would concern answering four fundamental questions: “Who am I?  Where am I going?  Where did I come from? and What is the meaning of life?”  All the while the camera whirled and the crew scurried about moving mic booms and filming our conversation from different angles.  Just feet away, a drunk lay down near a grate where warm air blew, while those passing by paused to observe the happening.

A drunk happened by and laid down near a grate blowing warm air.

I came back to Charlotte and questioned if he was certain she would show.  Jules answered, “It depends on whether our love was meant to be.”  I pressed him about where she lived and whether she knew he was waiting in the square.  Jules replied that she lived nearby and was quite possibly aware.

We’d been speaking for more than 20 minutes, when I apologized for consuming so much of his interview and offered my place to another.  But Jules insisted that I stay so we talked on, heart to heart.   He asked what the components of a happy life were.  So I offered Rod Stewart’s observation that a man needs an occupation, a sport, and a hobby.  Then I continued with Somerset Maugham’s dictum that one must have sufficient resources for a comfortable living, “Money is the sixth sense without which you cannot make complete use of the other five.”  Still, Jules dug deeper wondering, “What is a successful life?”  I offered Tom Stoppard’s declaration: “The secret of life . . . is . . . this is not a drill.”

Part of the film crew which scurried about moving cameras and mic booms for different angles.

By 10:30 the Parisian sun beat down upon the square. Though two days earlier a biting chill filled the air, I began to regret the wool sweater I wore.  Jules and I continued talking like two college kids at midnight.  On my cell phone I played him one of my favorite French songs, “Les Bicyclettes de Belsize,” about two friends riding bicycles all through the day, wheels spinning round and around.  Jules smiled in appreciation.

From the apartment window above came a call from Henry, his third in rapid succession. I’d felt the two prior buzzes, as my iPhone was silenced.  I apologized to Jules, explained it was my son, and took the call.  Henry needed a security code for two-factor authentication to purchase train tickets.  I read back the code and returned to address Jules.  I again apologized that we must soon be going for we had plans to visit the Rodin Sculpture Garden Museum.  We would bicycle there to see Rodin’s masterpiece, The Thinker, and other sculpted art.

Auguste Rodins’ Le Penseur, quite possibly the most famous statute in the world.

I offered Jules one final hope that Charlotte would indeed show and they would be united in love.  Jules finally confessed – he was in fact an actor playing the part of Jules for the experimental film being shot.  His real name is Raphael Dulcet and he’d recently accepted the role.  The production was a staged happening, something like “Waiting for Godot,” an absurdist play by Samuel Beckett.  While Raphael and the film crew knew the set-up, those they interviewed didn’t.  They figured passersby would be more likely to share true thoughts on the nature of love and personal strategies for happiness.

Raphael is 26 and like many young actors, he’s often unemployed.  He answered an online advertisement for the job.  Though he wasn’t paid, this was an opportunity to meet others trying to get into the film industry, and form new connections.  Members of the crew were similarly situated – post-graduates from a nearby film school, all trying to break into the business.  I asked how long they’d be in the plaza and he replied, likely until early evening.  We parted as friends and I promised to drop in when we got back.

After our bike ride and self-guided tour of the Rodin Garden, Jennifer and I enjoyed a late lunch at La Coupole, a famous brasserie in Montparnasse that writers and artists frequented in the 1920s.  Each of us, Henry, Rachel, Jennifer, and I had chosen one special thing to do on the trip, and that was mine.  Forty-six years earlier, during five months of wandering through Europe, I periodically dined at La Coupole and always ordered the same meal – a bowl of French onion soup and a beer.  It came with a demi-baguette and a reasonably cheap price that even a 24-year-old, budget-conscious traveler like me could savor.

A late afternoon lunch at La Coupole in Montparnasse.

Upon returning to the square, we locked our bikes and I spotted Raphael nearby, still playing the part of Jules.  I yelled across the square, “Did Charlotte show?” and he smiled broadly.  We greeted each other like old friends and continued our philosophical ping-pong match.  I felt like Owen Wilson in the fantasy comedy, “Midnight in Paris” cavorting with Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Stein.  It happened to be one of Raphael’s favorite movies too.  He asked about my day, so I repeated the phrase Tom Cerne and I regularly share with each other, “It’s the greatest day of my life . . . so far.”

Raphael Dulcet and Bill Kombol before our final goodbye, hoping to one day meet again.

Before exchanging goodbyes we exchanged our final thoughts.  When all is said and done, I disclosed, the key to a good life is to cultivate thankfulness, and thanked him for coming into my life.  Raphael suggested that fate may one day reunite us.  I hoped so.  Leaving the plaza, I climbed the two flights of stairs to our apartment and rested.  That evening we visited the Arc de Triomphe, scaled the top, and enjoyed the gorgeous sunset.  The day felt complete.

Henry, Jennifer, and I atop the Arc de Triomphe at twilight.
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Musings Uncategorized

International Bill Wheeler Appreciation Day

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.
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Musings

Our Greatest Team Ever

Our team photo appeared in the 1968 Chieftain yearbook.

On a Thursday night, 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 an inspired victory with movie-perfect moments to 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 lasted over five decades.  And Jake Thomas was my best coach ever.

There were 16 or 17 boys who turned out, but only 11 survived the two-cut process. A sheet of paper was posted to the gym wall and my name was written. My basketball skills didn’t save 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 ran lines and more lines until fully exhausted, and then 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. Jim Clem led a short discussion afterward and we all agreed to ignore his fashion tip.  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 formations.  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; sharpshooters like Wayne and Lester; and the 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.

Enumclaw Junior High – the gym was on the second floor with windows on the south and west walls. The locker room was in the basement below.

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, we thought they’d never end.  We practiced until 5 p.m., then showered for as long as we liked.  In the basement shower 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 walked home with heads steaming in the cool winter air.

The Boys’ locker room had communal group shower stalls with benches and 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 girl, music, and life, 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 this 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 sneaking desperate glances in Coach’s direction. If games were close, my fate and butt were sealed to the bench.  But, if the team 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 lousiest 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 to have her watched me not playing.  But she always had kind words back home at dinner. As Monday faithfully rolled around, last week’s game was soon forgotten.  We were back together doing things I loved – practice, inter-squad games, 25 free throws, and 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 end.  As February ended so did our season.  Our last game was played on 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 was done.  Spring sports would soon begin.  Baseball was another of my favorites, but I progressively lacked the required skills to compete at varsity level.  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 for baseball and skipped summer league.  My sporting career skidded to a fuzzy conclusion.

When Junior High ended, we left that old three-story brick building on Porter Street and moved to the modern high school built on the edge of town.  It was my first experience of not walking to school.  Though my buddies tried to convince me to turn out for sophomore basketball, I knew my 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 where I could compete and create bonds of camaraderie.  But since you didn’t wear a jock strap, Chess wasn’t considered a sport.  That is until a fellow player, Kris Galvin and I remade our Hornet school newspaper in the image of chess.

By its very nature, a team is a collection of comrades in pursuit of a common goal and the Chess Team took us all the way to State for two straight years. Still, no Letters Awards were presented to players on our highly successful squad.

Pleasant memories of 9th-grade basketball are as precious as the 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. Coach Thomas is still alive and just turned 90.

So, from the bottom of my heart I say thank you to Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Steve McCarty, Jim Partin, Wayne Podolak, Del Sonneson, Dale Troy, and Gary Varney.

And to 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 9th-grade basketball Letter.  It was signed by th principal, Fred Krueger and my greatest coach ever – Jake Thomas.

 

 

Coach Jake Thomas from the 1968 Ka-Te-Kan yearbook.
My 9th grade letter award in our Enumclaw High School team colors – maroon and gold.

AFTERWORD

On Saturday, March 8, 2025, four players from his 1968 basketball teams joined Coach Jake Thomas at his 90th birthday party.  Tears of joy were shared and stories told at The Claw event center by over 100 family and friends who joined the celebration.

Jake Thomas was raised in Elk Coal and Selleck before moving to Enumclaw.  He earned teaching credentials at Western and returned to Enumclaw to teach, coach, administer, and become a friend and mentor to hundreds.  After building a backyard swimming pool in 1968, Jake, his wife, June, and later their daughters, Jody and Jana taught swim lessons until 2024 to thousands of children spanning multiple generations at the Thomas Family Pool on Lorraine Street.

Clockwise from lower left: Les Hall, Gary Varney, Jim Clem, and Bill Kombol join Jake Thomas on his 90th birthday.

 

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Musings

A Single Moment Captured

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. I 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 slathered 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.

My grandfather, John H. Morris, purchased the Lincoln City home in 1968, and my parents inherited it 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 I heated cooking oil in a pot and left the lid on.  It got hot!  While 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 grown 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 in 1973,  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 Morgan, who was part of the co-op structure.  When I mentioned 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 one’s ego 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.

The food co-op morphed into the Lincoln City Cracker Barrel store that was managed by Harold Christiansen, who assumed ownership in 1993.  The name was later changed to Trillium Natural Foods.  Today’s store is located across the street from the outlet mall, but still sells bulk grains, flours, nuts, and fresh organic produce.  It’s now owned by Harold’s son, Carl Christiansen, who operates the store with hints of the original co-op ethos still lingering in the air.

I watched movies at the Lakeside Theater (now the Bijou), but many nights, I just 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 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.”  Mostly, I listened to old Beatles albums on a record player in the cabin.

One night at the Old Oregon, I made the acquaintance of two carpenters, Dave and Rick, who were 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 for 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 could only watch on weekends.  With no work or school 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, Carlton Fisk’s game-six walk-off homerun tied the series for Boston, but Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine won the seventh game.  My parents visited for a couple of days that week, picking up Danica on their way. She 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, is briefly explained.

As for my thoughts, I’d grown lonesome and figured this current life experiment hadn’t produced satisfactory results.  Cashing unemployment checks, alone at a movie theater, reading books, and endless beach walks are interesting diversions, but not the foundation for 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 was about to launch.  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.  That plaque was a solid fatherly reminder to 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, November 28, 1975, 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 when Keith, a fan since his North Dakota days, 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 rainstorms 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 the 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 Morris, 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 yet 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, was 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

Post Script: I was trying to make sense of the uncertainties as to 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.

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