Bill Wheeler leaps high in the air for a rebound while teammate, Jim Clem looks on.
Not often enough does one realize how high Bill Wheeler once leaped. He’s shown here in the Chuck Smith gym 55 years ago during a game his Enumclaw Hornets basketball team lost to Fife.
But Wheels as he later came to be known kept winning the hearts of those who knew him well. Following graduation, Bill’s talents were bigger than his hometown’s needs and first landed at Big Bend C.C. where he was going to learn to fly, then to Ellensburg to further ground his education. At Central Washington College he studied how to become a wild cat, and succeeded wildly. There he gained the nickname Wheels in a story so fantastic that it can only be told over a cold beer as he brings a smile to your face.
A forever friendship was forged when Bill Wheeler (in plaid pants), Bill Kombol, and Keith Hanson took a week-long road trip to Reno, Disneyland, and Big Sur in Eugene Wheeler’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV. This late November 1975 photo by Pauline Kombol at 1737 Franklin Street, Enumclaw, Washington.
After schooling, ranching, and the passage of time, Wheels returned to his home town to mold the life he sought to build. There in the seat of every imaginable piece of heavy mobile equipment, Bill sculpted the earth, buried utilities, excavated customer’s dreams, and thrived. He soon became the second letter of S & W Construction, learning much from his first letter partner, Sam Schaafsma. But a first-rate man demands his own dominion, and it wasn’t long before Wheeler Construction was born.
Bill Wheeler compares Operating Engineer union cards with 99-year-old Cal Bashaw, left (Oct. 24, 2019). The Wheeler and Bashaw families both moved from Alaska to Enumclaw in 1965, after which Bill became good friends with Cal’s son, Wynn.
Requiring further refinement in the finer arts of life, Bill placed a ring on the finger of a fiery, red-haired, Scots-Irish lass of clever tongue and semi-sweet disposition. Children were born and a fine home built. In time the wheeling wild cat was tamed, but how long it took no one has yet stated with certainty. What skills he lacked on the golf links he more than made up for at job sites moving enough dirt with backhoes, bulldozers, graders, and dumptrucks to build a dozen golf courses. At the poker tables, he’s always a threat, but mostly to his own wallet.
Throughout it all, Bill Wheeler has remained as devoted to friends as he is to his adopted hometown of Enumclaw where he arrived in the 7th grade. Legions number the good deeds and generous gifts of time, labor, equipment, and materials that Bill has donated to his community. Of late he’s even found a new girl in his life and spends hours playing handsome prince to a charming Princess Lucy.
So in a Leap of Faith with hopes that others second this emotion, I hereby declare February 29th as International* Bill Wheeler Appreciation Day, to be celebrated once every four years by people just like you and me who appreciate the finest things in life. As for the other 365 days . . . may God bless Bill Eugene Wheeler.
* International due to his mother, Pat Wheeler’s Canadian heritage.
Bill Wheeler enjoying a cup of black coffee and blackberry cobbler at a Jan. 7, 2023 Pokerque with his longtime Enumclaw pals.
Our team photo appeared in the 1968 Chieftain yearbook.
On Thursday evening of Leap Day, 1968, I played my last game of school sports. It was the greatest team I ever played on. Also my last. There were no epic come-from-behind victories or marquee moments. No half-time speeches to inspired victories with movie-perfect moments that we remember for the rest of our lives. It was just a bunch of 14-year-old boys playing basketball after school. Our team disbanded the following day, yet those 9th grade friendships have lasted over five decades. And Jake Thomas was my favorite coach ever.
There were 16 or 17 boys who turned out, but only 11 survived the two-cut process. A sheet of paper with names was posted to the gym wall upon which mine was written. It wasn’t my basketball skills that saved me from the cut – the coach liked me. Practice began the next day and Coach Thomas had us run ‘lines.’ That meant darting up and down the length of the court, bending to touch the baseline, then back again. We then ran lines and more lines until fully exhausted, and then we ran more. I thought we were here to play basketball, but all we seemed to do was race back and forth along the gym floor.
The Boys’ gym where our 9th grade team ran lines. Our school nickname was the Chieftains.
We called him Coach Thomas to his face, but Jake, behind his back. On the second day of practice, Coach suggested we all buy white, high-top Converse sneakers, but everyone ignored his fashion tips. Jim Clem led a short discussion afterward and the next day we showed up in black, low-top Converse, everyone of course except Del Sonneson.
Each day we worked on fundamentals – dribbling, passing, set shots, jump shots, and rebounding. On defense, we learned man-to-man and zone. Coach taught us how to press and how to avoid it. We had two offensive plays, cleverly disguised by holding up one finger or two.
After drills, strategy, and more drills, we’d play five-on-five. That meant I was playing against much bigger stars like the towering Jims: Clem and Ewalt; sharp-shooters such as Wayne and Lester; and big-butt, box-out rebounders, Rick Barry and Del. With no special skills save a modicum of speed, I delighted in practice, relishing time spent running up and down the court with my pals.
The gym was on the second floor with windows on the south and west walls. The locker room was below in the basement.
Each night before leaving, we shot 25 free throws and posted results to a clipboard hanging from the gym wall. Lester Hall was particularly good – making 21 or 22 shots most nights, and sometimes even 24. I was mediocre, my best was 17. Steve McCarty, our manager kept stats during games, picked up balls after practice, and generally cared for team needs.
Those were the days my friend, I thought they’d never end. We practiced until 5 p.m., then showered for as long as we liked. In the basement locker stalls at the old junior high, we plugged drains creating mini-pools where we sloshed about. After soaking up an excessive amount of hot water, we dried off, got dressed, and then walked home with heads steaming in the cool winter air.
The Boys’ showers with locker baskets in the adjoining room.
On Thanksgiving weekend, Coach Thomas ordered drills for Friday and Saturday, “We’re gonna run off all that turkey.” After morning sessions, Coach left the gym open for the rest of the day. We practiced, goofed off, played pick-up games, talked on the wooden bleachers about what boys talk about, took even longer showers, and walked to Mrs. Lofthus’ store for candy and soda. Could life get any better than this?
Mrs. Lofthus’ little store was one block north of the Junior High on the corner of Porter Street and Wilson Ave.
There was one slight problem with my perfect world – the actual basketball games. While practice was grand, real games were the worst. There I sat at the end of the bench patiently waiting through three and a half quarters, while disparately sneaking glances in Coach’s direction. When games were close, I knew my fate was sealed to the seat. But, if we were winning convincingly or losing badly, I’d be sent in for a couple minutes of ‘rat ball.’ It was pretty much a joke. But opposing coaches entertained the same drill by dispatching their lousy players, meaning both you and your opponents competed for fumbled passes and tossed up awkward shots.
I particularly agonized whenever Mom showed up for a home game. I felt embarrassed as she watched me not play. But she always had kind words at dinner back home. And Monday faithfully rolled around as last week’s game was soon forgotten. We were back doing the things I loved – practice, inter-squad games, 25 free throws, hot showers – the real stuff that builds bonds. Oh, how I loved practice!
I don’t recall how our season ended, but a surviving issue of The Chieftain newsletter told of our 5-2 win-loss record in early January. Our best players were top notch and we no doubt won more games than we lost.
A short report on our basketball team from the Feb. 1968 Chieftain newsletter.
Yet all good things must one day come to pass. As February closed in on March, so did our season. Our last game was played February 29, 1968 against cross-river rival, White River. It was our only night outing, a 7:30 tip-off in Buckley. That day’s school lunch menu read, “Meat in brown gravy on whipped potatoes, vegetable sticks, bread and butter, orange-coconut cookie, and milk.”
Hot lunches were served in the cafeteria, adjacent to the locker rooms.
The final seconds ticked off the clock and our season ended. Spring sports would soon begin. Baseball was my other favorite, but I progressively lacked the required skills to compete at varsity levels. Plus, our family was traveling to Europe for six weeks that spring. We’d leave in early May so I’d miss much of the season. I didn’t turn out that spring and skipped summer league. My sporting career was skidding to a fuzzy conclusion.
As Junior High ended, we left that old three-story brick building on Porter Street and moved on to the modern high school built on the far edge of town. It was my first experience of not walking to school. Though my friends tried to convince me to turn out for sophomore basketball, I knew the gig was up. Short guys with no special skills were sure to be cut, an even greater humiliation than sitting on the bench.
In high school, I found a new team on which to compete and create bonds of camaraderie. But since you didn’t wear a jock strap, Chess was not considered a sport. That is until a fellow player, Kris Galvin and I remade our Hornet school newspaper in the image of chess. Still, no Letters Awards were presented to players on our highly successful chess squad. Yet, by its very nature, a team is a collection of comrades in pursuit of a common goal and Chess Team took us all the way to State for two straight years.
These pleasant memories of that 9th grade basketball season are as precious as those friendships cemented 55 years ago. More than half of these guys are my best friends. Only one of the eleven, Del Sonneson has passed away. Even Coach Thomas is still alive.
So, I say thank you from the bottom of my heart to Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Steve McCarty, Jim Partin, Wayne Podolak, Del Sonneson, Dale Troy, Gary Varney, and Coach Thomas.
Thanks for being part of our greatest team ever.
9th Grade yearbook photos – clockwise from top left: Rick Barry, Jim Clem, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall, Bill Kombol, Steve McCarty, Coach Jake Thomas, Gary Varney, Dale Troy, Del Sonneson, Wayne Podolak, and Jim Partin.
Post Script: In a final act of kindness and respect, Coach Jake Thomas awarded me the precious Letter that was signed by Fred Krueger our principal and the greatest coach ever.
My 9th grade letter award in our Junior High Chieftain team colors – red and white.
Mom snapped my picture a couple of day before I left for the Oregon Coast.
In September 1975, I moved to the Oregon Coast. I was fresh out of college, grew a beard, long hair, and bought a motorcycle. I wasn’t looking for work, just loafing. I collected weekly unemployment checks of $93 from a coal mining job I’d quit six months earlier, then dodged Employment Security rules by only seeking jobs for which I was miserably unqualified. It was a practice upon which my parents rightfully frowned.
The summer crowds had gone home. It was just me, my Honda 360, and a head full of dreams living at the Lincoln City cabin my parents inherited from my grandfather. I walked for miles along empty beaches to out-of-the-way places. On a long hike to the most secluded stretch of beach imaginable, I found a Japanese floating glass ball. I fixed grits for breakfast upon which I slabbed thick slices of butter. I learned to bake cheesecakes and ate them over the next few days. There was no shower at the cabin so I took long, hot baths and contemplated in silence.
The Lincoln City home my grandfather, John H. Morris purchased in 1968, and my parents inherited after his 1973 death.
Some pages of history are best left unturned, but not this one. I was stupid. The third night there I decided to make popcorn the old-fashioned way, so heated cooking oil in a pot and left the lid on. It got hot! When lifting the lid the oil caught fire. I panicked and badly burned the knuckles of my left hand. That night I slept on the sofa with my hand in a gallon-sized jar filled with ice water to stem the pain. By morning the burned skin had filled with liquid and grew to the size of a lemon. Foolishly, I sought no medical treatment but lived with it for days until poking a sterile needle through the skin at the base of the burn to slowly release excess fluid. Months after healing, the skin was still stained a reddish hue that took years to fade to beige.
An organic food co-op had opened a few doors up from the Old Oregon. It was a thrown-together, hippie-type place with barrels, buckets, and jars of grains, nuts, fruits, and vegetables. The co-op was operated by volunteers and after several visits, I offered to help. I joined the staff and one day reorganized shelves to better display the myriad jars of grains. I had grown close to a guy named David who was part of the co-op structure. When mentioning to him my layout improvement, David admonished my boastfulness. The co-op’s ethos was to not take credit for personal accomplishments but to subdue our egos for the advancement of the common good. David was in his early 30s, charismatic, with a kindly wife and daughter. He invited me to join his family at the Taft Tigers high school football game on several Friday nights. It was just like being back home in Enumclaw.
I watched movies at the Lakeside Theater (now the Bijou), but many nights walked to the Old Oregon and hung out with the hippies and long hairs that populated the tavern. There were two pool tables and a jukebox in the corner loaded with good 45s. On some weekends, a local rock band occupied a spot in the corner and patrons danced. Usually, I can recall the times and places by which songs were popular, but the only ones I remember that fall were Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and the Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes.”
One night at the Old Oregon, I made the acquaintance of a pair of carpenters building a home on the Salishan spit. We joined for breakfast the next morning where I drank my first cup of coffee. Even with cream and sugar, I could stomach its bitter taste. Afterward, we drove to the house they were framing where I hung out half the day. Mostly I wanted to access this long spit of land forming Siletz Bay that was only accessible through a private gated community.
In mid-October, I geared up to watch every inning of the 1975 World Series between Boston and Cincinnati. For years World Series games were played during the day when I was in school, so I only watched on weekends. With no obligations, this series would be different. To prepare, I bought copies of Sporting News and Sports Illustrated reading every article. I got lucky because that showdown is often called one of baseball’s greatest. If you’ve forgotten, the Big Red Machine won the seventh games, after Carlton Fisk’s game six walk-off homerun tied the series for Boston. My parents visited for a couple of days during that week, picking up Danica on their way, who was in her first year of college at Lewis & Clark.
Generally alone, I found solace at the Driftwood Library. It was a three-block walk to this ramshackle building of uneven floors and narrow passageways. The library was like an overstuffed bookstore – the kind with a sleeping cat in a window – except this repository observed the Dewey decimal system. I mostly read classics like John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Somerset Maugham, and Isaac Asimov’s science fiction. Bolstered by my recent World Series fascination, I read Roger Kahn’s classic, “The Boys of Summer” joining the author’s love of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I explored the poetry of Robinson Jeffers and wrote a few lines myself. I spent long afternoons reading in front of the cabin’s picture windows with stunning ocean views. I absorbed “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and stared in wonder at the birds on the beach. But that autumn’s most surprising literary leap was Albert Einstein’s “General Theory of Relativity.”
Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity.
It’s not a difficult book to comprehend. Einstein’s genius was to use thought experiments to illustrate scientific principles. There in Bern, he formulated his theory of relativity while employed as an examiner in a Swiss patent office. He simplified the speed of light by conjuring the image of a streetcar rushing away from a clock tower. Einstein surmised that as the streetcar gained velocity, time for the human rider slowed relative to the hands of that clock in Bern. As the tram approached the speed of light, the second hand on the clock would appear to stop – at least to the passenger with telescopic eyes looking back. But, the passenger’s clock in Einstein’s streetcar beat normally.
A storm broke loose in Einstein’s mind after realizing that time elapsed at different rates depending upon how fast the observer moves through space. Upon arriving at his theory, Einstein insisted that he’d tapped into ‘God’s thoughts.’
The Bern clock tower with Einstein’s thought experiment briefly explained.
As for my thoughts, I’d grown lonesome and figured my current life experiment hadn’t produced satisfactory results. Cashing unemployment checks, alone at movies, reading books, and endless beach walks are interesting diversions, but not the foundation of a gainful life. Volunteering at the food co-op for an hour or so, reminded me how much I enjoyed working with others. My months of seclusion needed to end, so I packed my bag and rode my motorcycle home, arriving the week before Thanksgiving.
The best buddy trip of my life soon launched. I’m not quite sure how it came together, but Keith Hanson, then working at Almac-Stroum planned a one-week vacation and invited Bill Wheeler and me to join. Wheels secured his dad’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV with Eugene Wheeler engraved on the dashboard. It was a solid fatherly reminder for three guys in their early 20s, as to whose car we were driving. We left the day after Thanksgiving.
Bill Wheeler, Bill Kombol, Keith Hanson, late November 1975 standing in front of the Lincoln Continental in the Kombol family driveway at 1737 Franklin Street.
On Friday morning, Mom captured our mid-70s fashion with several photos in the driveway. For most of the trip, I sat in the back seat while Keith and Wheels traded driving duties. On that first day, we traveled all night through a snowstorm to Reno, arriving Saturday morning to a cheap breakfast and games of Keno. There we played blackjack and roulette, then tested our luck with dice. Wheels and I stayed out very late only to be awakened abruptly Sunday morning after Keith, a fan since his North Dakota day turned on the Vikings game.
We drove south for L.A., stopping at the Joshua Tree desert on our way to an adventure in Disneyland. After that, we twisted north along Highway 1, admiring Big Sur scenery and listening to the 8-track Beach Boys tapes we’d bought in San Luis Obispo. After picking up my sister, Danica in San Francisco, we toured the Sonoma wine country getting buzzed on Chenin Blanc and other blends, then, lest we wear out our welcome drove north along Highway 101. We continued up the Oregon coast driving all night through rain storms that never stopped arriving back home the following morning. It was a road trip that more than anything solidified the bonds of friendship we’ve shared for five decades.
Back home, I hung out with Wayne Podolak who was similarly out of college and unemployed. That December we played tennis on the Junior High courts during which we hatched a plan for a long trip to Hawaii in spring.
I hadn’t yet digested how my months of solitude added up. I didn’t keep a journal back then, but each day I typed out lists of words and their definitions to improve my vocabulary. I was inspired by Uncle Evan who gave me the handwritten pages of words he memorized thirty years earlier while in college.
At the time poetry seemed the best way to convey thoughts and feelings I couldn’t fully articulate. There in the warmth of my childhood bedroom on a fog-bound day with Christmas fast approaching, I penned the first draft of a poem initially called “Beaming.”
The original poem titled Beaming, rewritten later that day as A Single Moment Captured.
Channeling the Bern tram car of Einstein’s thought experiment I rewrote the poem and gave it a new title:
A Single Moment Captured
Traveling on a beam of light
bound to live until
a single moment captured
motionless and still.
A simple thought now trapped in time
caught within that wave
a glimpse of yesterday revealed
now listlessly engaged.
Light, oh light shine on from here
and never stop to rest
your brightest beam will one day find
its destiny no less.
Bill Kombol – Dec. 18, 1975
I was trying to make sense of the uncertainties of where life was taking me. At the moment, the tram car I was riding had no particular destination. But, I found comfort in believing it had a destiny.
The brass rubbing from an Oxford cathedral and a photo of me by Anne Biege.
While traveling through Europe that year I’d set a tight budget: $10 per day, excluding travel. In London, this tiny allowance would be tested. The first night I tramped about Kings Cross station looking for economical accommodations. Most were at prices that fully consumed my budget goal. I chose the cheapest of the lot and the next day scoured classifieds looking for something under $5 per day. I avoided hostels, to be free of Americans with Eurorail passes moving about in herds. There were a hundred too many young Yanks, each backpacking through Europe with indeterminate plans to some day attend grad school when back home. They simply didn’t interest me. I wanted to live among locals.
A boarding house in northeast London at Highbury & Islington at £2.50 a night caught my eye. The exchange rate of $1.85 per pound was favorable, so the room came to a frugal $4.65 per night. It also included a full English breakfast, so that would cut down on food costs. I had a private room with a free-standing tub, sink, high ceilings, and water chamber down the hall.
I kept the 1978 map of the London Underground.
The building was a sprawling Victorian affair, a bit shabby and nearly a mile from the tube stop, which meant there were no tourists in sight. In fact, the boarding house only accepted men, mostly tradesmen and laborers. Breakfast was served from 5:30 to 7:30 am in a drab, low-ceiling basement. We sat on benches at heavy wooden tables hunched over our hot breakfasts. It was the same every day: runny baked beans, greasy bacon, stewed tomatoes, bread toasted on one side, butter, marmalade, cornflakes, tea, juice, and coffee, all served cafeteria style. There was little conversation. Men of all ages sat sullenly contemplating another day’s labor. It was fine by me. I rose early, ate the hearty fare, and was out the door for my day’s adventure.
Soon after arriving, I read about a free concert at Victoria Park in east London. There were expected to be 80,000 fans to march from Trafalgar Square to Rock Against Racism, as the event was known. After observing the masses at Trafalgar I’d hopped the tube to the park. In early 1978, punk music was pretty new. I considered England’s biggest act, the Sex Pistols to be dreadful. But, the Clash were different – talented musicians with inventive lyrics, good melodies, and two front-men, Joe Strummer and Mick Jones who rocked with the best of them.
The Clash performing in Victoria Park before 80,000 on April 30, 1978.
I sidled my way up front near the stage. When the Clash performed mobs of young men jumped up and down some with violent intent. From its resemblance to a pogo stick, Pogo-ing soon became a verb. I joined along, but the most rambunctious of the pack swung heads and fists so violently that I beat a quick retreat to safer spaces along the edge. Also on the Rock Against Racism program that day were: the Tom Robinson Band (political rock); Steel Pulse (reggae) and X-ray Spex (punk), with only TRB being any good.
During most days, I’d visit museums, galleries, historical monuments, fashionable squares, parks, and vibrant districts. Hyde Park, Speaker’s Corner was always a hoot, like the half-bearded wit who entertained the crowd for an hour. Towards early evening I’d gravitate to areas with cheap restaurants to peruse menus, looking for the best prix fixe value for a multi-course meal. Those deals were usually found in immigrant districts so I often dined in Indian, Pakistani, or Middle Eastern joints.
This witty, half-bearded guy entertained the crowd at Speaker’s Corner for nearly an hour.
I typically planned an evening’s entertainment and often joined the London Walks around famous neighborhoods. These walks had names like Sherlock Holmes’s Baker Street or the Secret World of Jack the Ripper. You’d meet the guide at a pub. Then a dozen or so tourists followed a well-spoken Brit who guided us through the streets of London relating topical stories with anecdotal stops at key points.
At the end of the typical 90-minute tour, most of the crowd topped off their evening with a pint or two in the pub where we’d first met. Some nights I’d catch a music performance, some freely presented in a club or church. I saw a bit of theater, the one to remember being Agatha Christies’ “Mousetrap,” the world’s longest-running play having been continuously performed since 1952. I’d hope to have seen more theater, like my literary hero, Somerset Maugham did when he was a youth 80 years earlier, but ticket prices were far higher than those days when Maugham paid pennies for a show.
Afterward, I’d catch the tube back to Islington & Highbury station for the long walk home under lamp lights to my boarding house. Sometimes the station was filled with festive, red-garbed Arsenal soccer fans, as the football stadium was a 15-minute walk. Sometimes one’s thoughts conjured dire images of walking home alone at night in a foreign city. But fortunately, this area hadn’t much cause for concern as few people were out late, and the ones that were had work in the morning. Still, I stayed alert as getting jumped was never far from my mind.
One night whilst on a London Walk, I met a young Brit about my age who told me Queen was playing at Empire Pool (now Wembley Arena). The thought of spending a night at the opera with Freddy Mercury and Brian May was enticing so plans were made to meet at a certain time and place outside the arena. The bloke never showed so I bought a ticket (£2.50) and found myself witnessing one of the greatest performing bands of all time. Queen rocked most all their hits, including eight songs from “Night at the Opera” and some lesser-known personal favorites like “39” and “Love of My Life.”
I kept my Queen ticket stub. At then exchange rates, £2.50 came to about $4.65.
My favorite hobby was reading London newspapers. Newsstands were everywhere, and it was easy to find discarded copies at any rail or subway station. I read them all: Daily Telegraph, Guardian, Evening Standard, Daily Mail, London Times (a tad too dry), and page 3 of the Sun (aficionados will understand). There were also the weekly music rags like Melody Maker and New Music Express filled with stories about rock and pop groups of the day with a listing of nightly happenings at hundreds of music venues scattered through town. Rare but welcome was the International Herald-Tribune, a joint-venture daily by the New York Times and Washington Post, bringing news of home, especially U.S. sports which weren’t often covered abroad.
Anne Biege in her Oxford dorm room, May 1978.
I made one brief sojourn from London to Oxford to see a hometown friend, Anne Biege who was studying there. She showed me about the storied campus and we had a pint at the Eagle and Child, the pub made famous by C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and fellow inklings. Anne found me a bed in her friend Tim Gallagher’s room. He was an English major with a fascination for Edmund Spenser’s “The Faerie Queene.” In an ancient cathedral, I made a brass rubbing from an armored knight. I still have it.
My rubbing of a knight in Oxford’s cathedral.
My two-month visa to the United Kingdom was set to expire in a few days. I’d spent a month in Wales (including one week traveling with a rugby team up the Irish coast) and nearly a month in London. Soon it was time to head back to Paris and join my sister, Danica for her birthday, then head for Spain.
Here’s the postcard I wrote home to the folks towards the end of my stay in London.
May 8, 1978
Dear Mom & Dad,
Well, I’m here in London and have been about a week and a half now. It’s a great city though I now have a much different perspective of it than I had 10 years ago. I’ve been trying to go out every night and have so far seen three plays, four movies, five rock groups (all in one day at a free open-air, Anti-Nazi concert in Victoria Park), one classical concert, and innumerable pubs. I’m living in a nice ‘dump’ in the suburb of Highbury, northwest of the city. It’s kind of a working-class boarding house for those single people on the lower end of the economic ladder. Quite comfortable, yet unremarkable, though its cheapness compensates adequately.
I’ve been really active touring and such, having taken in many of the main and not-so-main sights of London. Among the more notable with short descriptions:
House of Commons – where I heard the Rhodesia problem debated.
Old Bailey – where I saw a real live murder trial.
Hyde Park – where the better part of yesterday’s sunny Sunday was spent listening to all sorts of weirdos at Speaker’s Corner.
Tower Hill, a Chelsea pub walk, a Dickens’ Oliver Twist walk, most of the major art museums, the London Stock Exchange, and several assorted churches.
I wrote to Anne Biege and will call her Wednesday in hopes of going to see her in Oxford. Tonight I plan to go to the Marquee Club for a rock concert in the same club the Rolling Stones frequently played in the early Sixties.
Oh, by the way, this postcard represents my favorite picture from today’s visit to the gallery listed below (Edouard Manet, The Bar at the Folies-Bergere, 1881 – Courtauld Institute Galleries, University of London). I’ve been doing that with each visit to a gallery lately. I still haven’t written to Barry. Ahhh . . . tell him I lost his address. I’ve written Jean a couple of times though I just got a letter from Dana the other day. Also, got Scott Hamilton and his English sheepdog, Gretchen off at Heathrow Airport okay.
As they say here, “All the best.” – Bill
My post card to Mom & Dad – I’m still amazed at my tiny cursive script, even more that it was kept legible. Above portrait by Edouard Manet – The Bar at the Folies-Bergere, 1881 – Courtauld Institute Galleries, University of London.
I kept my ticket stub from the hockey game. This 1976 photo is the only one I have of me standing beside my red Ford Mustang II.
This story is from a diary I sporadically kept in 1983. It’s a another Saturday night with friends (Bill Wheeler, Keith Hanson, Jay Carbon, Wayne Podolak, and Mike Hanson), this time at a hockey game.
Lucky me!
Saturday night (Jan. 22, 1983): Wheels and I drove into Dez’s to meet Keith, Jay, Wayne, Mike, and others before the hockey game.
Dez’s 400 was a tavern at 400 Mercer Street on the north edge of Seattle Center. It was also a popular live-music venue.
We parked at Tower records. Went in to buy the new Utopia album but they were all out. Shoot, I usually like to buy an album at Tower, leave the package face up in my car’s window so they know I bought something there.
The Breakers were lousy. Portland cleaned up despite the crowd chants of “Portland sucks.” Real class fans at these hockey games. Rodney Dangerfield said he went to the fights and a hockey game broke out. Keith, Wayne, Wheels, and Mike wanted to split after the 2nd period. We stayed for the 3rd and said, “Jay and I would meet them back at the tavern in Renton.” There were a few more goals scored in the last period but the Breakers still lost.
The Seattle Breakers were a Major Junior hockey team based in Seattle, WA playing in the Western Hockey League from 1977 to 1985. That year the teas was sold and renamed the Thunderbirds.
Jay and I walked back to my car. My car wasn’t where it used to be. Lots of people’s cars weren’t where they used to be. Jay and I made the 10-block walk to Lincoln Towing. I thought and expressed to Jay how a person chooses everything as well as his response to external events beyond his control. I still had to pay $50.58. Got a free Lincoln Towing key-chain out of it.
At the time I was taking Psychodrama classes at GRCC so during our walk to retrieve my towed Mustang II told Jay about my emerging philosophy.
We drove back to the Tav and burned on the way. Listened to Elvis.
Told my stories and Keith, Wayne, Wheels, and I went to dinner at Red Robin. Retold our stories and ate ribs. Told new stories and drank our drinks. Laughed until we could laugh no more. Said goodnight.
Wheels and I dropped off at Caruso’s before we went home. It was 1:30 a.m. Wheels drinks Smith & Kearns. I had a Jack Daniels rocks. Came home, put on the tape, ‘Nobody else’s hand’ and dreamt.
The handwritten story I wrote Sunday morning and stuck in my diary where I also saved the ticket stub.
Jack & Pauline's passport photo and Bill in the Paris Catacombs.
Forty-five years ago, I wrote this letter to Mom & Dad. I was in Paris near the end of my first of five months in Europe. My sister Danica (then known as Dana) was studying at the Sorbonne for a year so my parents decided to visit her during an extended vacation.
I quit my job at Seattle Trust & Savings Bank and decided to start fresh and discover my future. I’d explore Europe – alone, for months, with little direction and no particular plan or focus, and somehow at the end of it all at age 24, find myself.
I came to Paris a few days before my parents arrived. On Feb. 6, 1978, we began a 25-day auto tour of Lyon, Nice, Monte Carlo, Pula, Zagreb, and Vienna, highlighted by visits with several sets of Croatian relatives.
Mom and Dad left for home on March 3rd and several days later I penned this Aerogramme letter.
One of several letters to Mom and Dad written on light-weight, air-mail, self-sealing envelopes.
March 6, 1978
Dear Mom & Dad –
I don’t quite know what to say. I hope you weren’t disappointed that I didn’t express my gratitude as much as I could, but you’ll understand that the ‘thank-yous’ would have been so numerous as to make one thank-you seem inconsequential. So, I guess what I want to say is thank you a thousand times for everything. I hope I was acceptable as a traveling companion as I sure enjoyed your company and now miss it.
Jack & Pauline’s passport photo for their 1978 trip through Europe.
You’ll never guess what we did Saturday. Oh, this was ten times better than the sewer system. Dana and I visited the Catacombs of Paris. I wish I could send you a postcard (I sent one to Clinton) so you could get the visual impact of seeing these millions of human bones stacked like kindling in tunnels several hundred feet below the streets of Paris. They were placed there when several Paris cemeteries were torn up to make room for the city’s expansion in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It’s a bit morbid at first but fascinating nonetheless. Got some good pictures (ha ha).
Bill at the Paris Catacombs, March 4, 1978Danica in the Paris Catacombs, March 4, 1978.
Yesterday, Sunday, Dana and I visited the Rodin museum. Rodin was the famous sculptor who did the “Thinker” – the piece with the man sitting, chin on his head and elbow on his knee in a very thoughtful moment. The gardens were beautiful as was the weather yesterday and today. The skies are now a bright blue and the sun shines hard. The temperature though has dipped and it’s rather cold outside.
Today, I visited the Paris stock exchange which was extremely interesting, particularly after having seen the commodity exchange in Chicago. I almost wish I’d seen the Paris exchange first, as it is so calm compared to the unruly Chicago market. There’s still lots of shouting and such but nothing compared to the screaming in the commodity pits. Here in Paris, I was able to actually walk on the floor of the exchange, though I did get a couple of stares (no doubt due to my casual attire in the midst of a sea of suits). But the amazing thing was that I was walking on the floor of France’s equivalent of the N.Y.S.E.
Their exchange system is quite different from the American counterparts, as prices seemed to be established more by consensus than by the bid-ask system in the U.S. This probably explains the calmer stance as that all-important need to scream your order and acceptance of the other bidder’s order doesn’t really need to exist here. An interesting sidelight was at one point during the bond market when all the men broke into a song they sang humorously for half a minute.
Writing as small and legibly as possible, you could tell a good story on an Aerogramme (plus there was 1/3 of a panel on the back).
I moved into this hostel for Protestant students. It’s a dormitory situation, but I get a bed, breakfast, and hot showers all included for 20 francs a night (about $4). Almost half the people here are French, a quarter English, and the rest Americans. In fact, before I finished the previous sentence I was engaged in an extended conversation with John Leeson, an Irishman who now lives in Oxford and is teaching French here in Paris. And, this letter might begin to sound a bit disjointed as I’m sharing my bottle of Yugoslavian wine with John and Jeff Alford, an American from Newport Beach, California. We’re listening to Radio Luxembourg (Europe’s Top 40 station).
I met Dana’s good (best) friend Carrie, the one whose parents were here over Christmas. She’s red-headed and quite nice, the exact opposite of Jana. Dana even admits that Jana is a bit too much. Much of the time her stories are B.S. and it can even get to Dana at times.
I ate dinner at Dana’s one night and can understand the source of many of her culinary complaints. The food is horrible. I had spinach – not the fresh green vegetable I’m used to, but a dull, sickly green blob of something that if you didn’t know it was food, you wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. The best I can say was that it was barely edible.
Well, say hello to Barry and Cathy for me (and tell Cathy thank you for the Valentine’s card). Also, tell her I’m sorry I didn’t send her one but I actually forgot when I was making a list of everyone I sent one to. Also, if you happen to see Wheels, tell him that his cassette deck is in my room.
Thank you for everything.
Love, Bill
Post Script: I wrote several more letters to Mom and Dad on that trip. Mom kept a keepsake box for each of her four children where after her death I found that letter and many other treasures.
Jack and Bill Kombol, Feb. 8, 1978. I know the date because my efficient Mother kept a detailed travelogue of our journey.
During those four weeks we spent together, I grew closer to my Dad than perhaps I ever been. He worked hard all his life and in later years found numerous ways to give back to the community. He helped the old oddballs to whom he rented tiny apartments on the second-floor above Steve’s Shoe Store at the corner of Griffin and Cole in downtown Enumclaw. He was elected to the school board and as such handed me my diploma when I graduated from high school.
Jack Kombol hands me my diploma, June 2, 1971.
Jack Kombol passed away April 11, 1979, just over a year after coming home from our trip to Europe. He died on a Wednesday, I wrote a poem on Thursday, and read it at his funeral on Saturday. I was 25-years-old, channeling feelings from the 14th year of my life when two grandparents, Dad’s father and Mom’s mother died on the same day:
The last day we expected was the morning that we feared the nights we cried so long ago have come to rest right here.
We gazed in one another’s eyes We prayed that we might cope We stared through nature’s loneliness and filled our days with hope.
Every day brings forth each night from which dawns each new day longings fill the times between with thoughts from yesterday.
We’ll never let our smiles down We’ll never lose our faith We’ll never touch the world beyond or see tomorrow’s face.
The news it comes so suddenly, the sadness travels far raindrops fall from blossomed eyes as we touched who we are.
We realized the sorrow We understood the pain We felt the empty feelings yet prayed no prayers in vain.
And so we’ll cry these tears of pain from sorrow we must store the tears we have are tears we’ve cried a thousand times before.
There wasn’t much that Dad liked more than operating the heavy equipment he did until shortly before his death. Here’s Jack Kombol with a drag-line shovel at the McKay coal seam,on Franklin Hill east of Black Diamond, circa 1977.
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.
From The First Family to The Stranger - Ten albums that became turning points.
Who didn’t love album covers?
In Tom Stoppard’s play, “The Real Thing,” the lead character, Henry can’t figure out which songs to pick when he’s slated to appear as the castaway on Desert Island Discs. The problem is Henry likes mindless pop music, but he’s a snob who’s afraid to admit he like pop music, so struggles to find songs and performers those of his intellectual class should like. His wife suggests a more pragmatic approach: pick records associated with turning points in his life.
My list follows the turning point theory–– records that wormed into my ears during special moments experienced early in life. There are plenty of albums I grew to love after these, but none captured my heart and soul like those from my youth.
I compiled my Desert Island Discs during the early days of Covid-19 when the country was shutting down and a bored citizenry sought new ways to amuse themselves by posting lists of favorite albums. April Fools’ Day seemed a fitting day to start, so with thanks to Doug Geiger’s original Facebook invitation and Jim Olson’s posts of musical inspiration, I posted these favorites from April 1-10, 2020.
Day 1 – The First Family (1962): Though it’s April Fools’ Day, this is no joke . . . though Vaughn Meador’s First Family sure traded in them. It was the first record I listened to all the way through time and time again. It was my 9-year-old introduction to political humor, delivered with Kennedy-style Boston accents plus world leaders whose names I still remember: De Gaulle, Khrushchev, Ben-Gurion, and Castro among them. This spoken-word comedy album spent 12 weeks as #1 on the Billboard charts selling over 7.5 million copies. The Kombol family’s copy of the album, listened to so many times, was never played again after Nov. 22, 1963.
Day 2 – Modern Sounds in Country & Western Music (1962): “I Can’t Stop Loving You” was the #1 hit, and Ray Charles’ foray into C&W was what a nation listened to that year. The album spawned four singles and everyone liked it: kids, adults, even grandparents. I listened to it once again this morning. Its soulful, jazzy, easy-listening, country-feel, sounds just as sweet today as it did 58 years ago. This was one of the couple dozen albums our family-owned. My sister, Jeanmarie and I regularly rotated Ray Charles’ “Modern Sounds” with soundtracks from “Oklahoma” and “The Music Man” plus our own personal favorite–– the spoken-word soundtrack to the “Pollyanna” movie starring Hayley Mills.
Day 3 – Meet the Beatles (1964): From the opening notes of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” to the closing bars of “Not a Second Time” every song is a winner. Our family didn’t own the album, but my best friend’s family did. Every day after 5th grade we gathered at Jeff Eldridge’s home across Franklin Street from ours. Jeff’s older brother, Ron was a junior at EHS, and his album; “Meet the Beatles” introduced four lads from Liverpool into our lives. Most afternoons were the same––listen to “Meet the Beatles,” followed by watching “Casper the Friendly Ghost” cartoons and Superman episodes starring George Reeves. When not playing the Beatles, we cued up Roy Orbison.
Day 4 – Sgt. Pepper (1967): It was the perfect time to be 14 years old. The Beatles released Sgt. Pepper the very week I said goodbye to 8th grade. That Summer of Love was our summer of sun. It shined most every day in Seattle, setting a record 67 days without rain. Most days Mom drove us to Lake Sawyer with the radio tuned to AM 950. That June the Beatles held seven of the top ten positions on KJR’s Fabulous Fifty record survey, published Fridays in the Seattle P-I. Each song spawned new mental imagery––from tangerine skies to meter maids.
A month later the Beatles defined the spirit of the era with their follow-up single “All You Need is Love.” It all added up to the best summer of my life; not to mention more than a few hours staring at the album cover or studying the lyrics printed therein. To this day when anyone asks my favorite album of all time – there’s one quick answer: Sgt. Pepper.
Day 5 – Tommy (1969): By the autumn of 1969, most of us had driver’s licenses. Lester Hall drove his parent’s Ford Fairlane with an state-of-the-art stereo. We’d drive around Enumclaw from here to there but mostly nowhere. When doing so we listened to the Who’s “Tommy” so many times I’m surprised the 8-track tape didn’t wear out. We occasionally rotated Creedence, the Beatles, or CSN to give the Who a rest.
“Tommy” is generally considered the first rock musical. In late April 1971, our senior year of high school, the very first theatrical production of “Tommy” was staged at the Moore Theater. This world premiere featured a yet unknown, Bette Midler portraying the Acid Queen with show-stopping ferocity. A bunch of us saw it. I was in heaven.
Forty-five years later I gave the double album a long overdue listen from a remastered copy. How did “Tommy” hold up? It starts great. In fact, the Overture is perhaps my favorite number. At times the album soars with melodies flowing nicely. It’s an album in the best sense of the word. But, the story (book in musical-theater parlance) isn’t convincing. As smart and clever as Pete Townsend was, he’s simply not a great lyricist. The best songs still shine: “I’m Free,” “Pinball Wizard,” and “See Me, Feel Me.” The worst, “Fiddle About,” “Cousin Kevin,” and “Tommy’s Holiday Camp” remain clunkers. I can’t claim it stands the test of time, but back then “Tommy” was the height of musical fashion and evidence of our growing sophistication.
Day 6 – Every Picture Tells a Story (1971): “Maggie May” will forever be embedded as my first song of college. It was late September when I began my freshman year at U.W. Rod Stewart’s hit album was the soundtrack for initiation to college life – the picture of my story. While I’m particularly fond of the “Mandolin Wind,” “Reason to Believe;”; there’s no better song than “Maggie” to put a smile on my face and a song to my lips.
“Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you, It’s late September and I really should be back at school.”
Day 7 – American Pie (1971): Don McLean has a special place in my heart. His performance at the Paramount on March 17, 1972 was the first concert I ever attended. I chose my sister, Jeanmarie Bond to be my date. It was her first concert too. We dined at Clinkerdagger, Bickerstaff & Pettsbeforehand. It was a swank and trendy restaurant on Capitol Hill.
When introducing American Pie, McLean mockingly mimicked some college professor who wrote a detailed analysis of its lyrics. The audience sang the words and chorus we knew by heart. The title song has never loosened its grip. The album’s second hit single, “Vincent” is a hauntingly beautiful musical evocation of artistry focused on the most stunning of paintings: Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. If it’s been some time since you last heard the entire album just say, “Hey Siri (or Alexa), play the album American Pie by Don McLean.” You’ll be rewarded.
Day 8 – Past, Present & Future (1974): My first introduction to Al Stewart came courtesy of FM radio’s penchant for playing extended-length songs like “Nostradamus” and “Roads to Moscow” in the early 1970s. Only later did I buy the album and discover Stewart’s lyrical genius runs through history. In fact, side one of this breakthrough album features a song for each of the first five decades of the 20th century. My love affair with Al Stewart’s music played out nicely over the decades – I’ve seen him in concert five times, more than any other music artist.
Day 9 – All-American Alien Boy (1976): While in college I liked Mott the Hoople. Their lead singer and songwriter, Ian Hunter left the group in 1975, the year I graduated. The following year I was drifting without direction when Hunter released his second solo album. It struck gold in this listener’s ears. There aren’t many who feel the same way, but I stand by Ian Hunter’s “All-American Alien Boy” as an enduring work of musical art. “Irene Wilde” is a beautiful ballad of a true story, bus station rejection that inspired Hunter’s rise to stardom.
BTW, Doug Geiger and I had plans to see the Mott the Hoople reunion tour in November 2019, but sadly Hunter developed a severe case of tinnitus. He was advised by his doctors to discontinue performing until his condition subsides. Will we ever get the chance to see Mott the Hoople? Time may soon run out for the 80-year-old Ian Hunter, who I once saw in concert playing with Mick Ronson.
Day 10 – The Stranger (1977): This record changed the direction of my life. The album spawned four Top 40 hits: “Moving Out,” “Just the Way You Are,” “Only the Good Die Young” and “She’s Always a Woman to Me.” But two lesser-known tunes convinced me to take a giant step outside myself. When working as a management trainee at Seattle Trust & Savings Bank, I grew increasingly frustrated with my chosen direction. Repeated listening to “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” and “Vienna” (waits for you) convinced me I needed a change.
Those two songs fortified my courage to quit the job with a month’s notice dated to the one-year anniversary of when I started. I left for Europe in February 1978 with no set agenda and a budget of $10 a day. I lived and traveled for the next five months and have never forgotten the debt I owe to Billy Joel for drawing out the courage I couldn’t find by myself.
The record sleeve to Gilbert O'Sullivan's 1972 hit song, "Alone Again, Naturally."
Fifty years ago, a schmaltzy song by an Irish balladeer topped the pop charts for six weeks. Gilbert O’Sullivan’s surprise hit, “Alone Again, Naturally” ranked number two on Billboard for the year 1972. Because it doesn’t fit into the classic rock genre, the tune soon faded in popularity and is generally unknown to anyone born after 1980.
On a Saturday night in late October 2015, my Enumclaw high school buddies and I gathered to play poker as we’ve done since our junior high days. We join together several times each year and call our outings Pokerques, with a barbequed meal part of the bargain.
At a 2013 Pokerque, clockwise from lower left: Bill Wheeler, Keith Hanson, Chris Coppin, Jim Clem, Bill Kombol, Gary Varney, Steve McCarty, Wayne Podolak, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall holding a photo of a missing, Dale Troy.
That particular night apropos of nothing, Lester told the story behind the song, “Alone Again, Naturally” which centers on the singer’s plan to commit suicide over a wedding that never happened. Lester assured us this factoid came courtesy of Wikipedia, so we knew it must be true.
At that night’s gathering , I laughed entirely too loud as old friends told stories and we all recounted misspent adventures of youthful revelry. Having stayed out a little too late, I slept in on Sunday morning. After breakfast, Jennifer drove our youngest son Henry to his noon soccer game so I found myself alone and naturally opened the iPad.
I checked out Lester’s story. Clicking on the first Google listing, I cued a YouTube performance with an amazing 27 million views! The video featured O’Sullivan on piano before a large orchestra complete with a dozen strings, piano, organ, drums, and the distinctive guitar solo which nicely cements the melody.
Sure enough, the first stanza of this mega-hit relates the tale of a jilted lover imagining a trip from an empty alter to tower top where he throws himself down, all to the amazement of congregants who concluded there’s no reason for them to wait any longer so they might as well go home – as did the prospective groom, who lived to write this melancholy song.
An alternate cover to O’Sullivan’s mega-hit.
The second stanza adds to the sorrow of the first and subsequent verses examine a contemplative soul, never wishing to hide the tears, relating – first the death of his father and then his broken-hearted mother – all remembered . . . alone again, naturally.
Isn’t it funny how a sentimental song from the summer of your 19th year calls forth buried memories, none specific but together conjuring a formative feeling? I probably heard that ballad a hundred times back when Top 40 radio dominated my listening habits, all while driving around in the 1966 Renault that served my transportation needs. But, I’d never fixated on O’Sullivan’s introductory lyrics, only the concluding verse describing the passing of his father and mother.
O’Sullivan is an Irish singer-songwriter who changed his first name to Gilbert as a play on the names of musical composers, Gilbert & Sullivan the craftsmen behind so many crowd-pleasing operettas from the late 1800s*. Released in June 1972, the song’s popularity stretched from late summer to early fall, proceeded at number one song by Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me” and succeeded by Three Dog Night’s “Black and White” – recounted herein to set the mood and temper of that summer.
O’Sullivan’s follow-up single, “Claire” reached number two on the U.S. charts a few months later. His disc sales exceeded ten million in 1972 and made him the top start of the year. By 1974, O’Sullivan was practically forgotten in America though he continued to enjoy popularity in Great Britain.
From a trip Jenn and I had recently taken to Ireland, I remembered what two Irish musicians who led our Dublin pub crawl told us: Irish songs reflect the nation’s history – they’re either bawdy drinking ditties or sad songs of loss and love.
Having spent the preceding evening playing poker with nine life-long friends; eating, drinking, and laughing so hard my face hurt, I was reminded that we’re all then well into our sixties. One of our buddies was lost to cancer and another to booze, but the rest have aged gracefully and we treasure time spent together. We now resemble our dads and how much longer will it be till we look like our grandfathers?
Most of the Pokerque club traveled to Las Vegas in Oct. 2018 where we saw John Fogerty perform a spirited two-hour set at Wynn’s posh Encore Theater. L-R: Chris Coppin, Steve McCarty, Lester Hall, Jim Ewalt, Wayne Podolak, Keith Hanson, Gary Varney, Bill Kombol, Jim Clem.
All of our fathers are gone, and everyone’s mother save one, has also passed away. One was recently robbed of his daughter, a parent’s worst nightmare. With each fresh loss, we find ourselves looking to our children and families for solace and meaning. And, often we look to each other for comfort. We do so in full recognition that our present health and lives and families cannot be taken for granted.
Yet we still laugh and reminisce and natter and make plans, always looking forward to our next reunion. And come away thankful for the multiplicity of friendships that have stood so many tests of time with rarely a pool cue drawn in anger.
So in hopeful jest, I offer this toast to my friends who’ve been by my side for sixty-plus years: May we all live another three decades; and may I be there to cheer your good fortune when each of us celebrates the centennial of his life.
* If you want to see a spirited and historical account of William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan’s music-making genius, watch the superb 1999 movie, “Topsy-Turvy.”
Banner image by Oliver Kombol - clockwise from upper left: Bob, Corcoran ruler, author's sophomore photo, Woodstock logo, chess board, Mr. Hanson, Henry Gillespie
I didn’t get my first real six-string. And Enumclaw’s five-and-dime was the last place this teenager wanted to be. The allure of candy cigarettes and cheap toys had long since passed. They may have been the best days of Bryan Adams’ life, but for me the Summer of ’69 was a middling byway on a slow road to adulthood.
Summer started off with a bang! Literally! A Fourth of July bag of fireworks exploded on the front hood of my parent’s Ford LTD after an errant firecracker found its way in. The following Monday, the Ltd with tarnished hood traveled three blocks to Enumclaw City Hall for my driver’s test. Scoring 100 on the written and 96 in the car, I went home two days after my 16th birthday with a license to drive.
Woodstock Music Festival logo.
The summer of ’69 sounds so moving in retrospect – astronauts on the moon, hippies at Woodstock, Charles Manson in L.A, Kennedy on Chappaquiddick. That wasn’t my summer. Mine was frankly boring. I didn’t have a full-time job. Well, I actually had two part-time jobs: Office boy at Palmer Coking Coal manning the telephone and scale earning the princely sum of $5 for my five-hour shift. The second gig, as high school sports reporter for the Courier-Herald, I inherited from my brother, Barry.
I worked on July 5th, my 16th birthday earning $5, the cash receipt signed by my dad, Jack Kombol. It would mark the last time I ever worked on my birthday.
In the slow months of July and August, that second job meant little more than tracking down the two Franks of Enumclaw’s summer sports: Manowski and Osborn, for league scores and standings. That took all of a couple hours before Monday’s deadline. During the rest of the week, tedium oozed.
I do remember going to the drive-in movies once at the recently opened Big ‘E” in Enumclaw and another time at Auburn’s Valley 6. We rode in Wayne’s car. I didn’t really see many buddies as most had jobs or played summer baseball, a sport I’d left two years prior. A very special thing did happen – one night Dad and I walked to the Roxy to see the film: “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.” It was likely the only time I went to a movie, just Dad and me.
That summer our family’s traditional vacation of one week in Grayland, and a second at Beacon Point on Hoods Canal ended. The old-fashion cottage resort at Beacon Point shuttered and our joint vacations with the Cerne family were no more. Those trips were the highlight of every summer since I could remember. Barry graduated in June and headed to Alaska seeking his fortune. He returned soon enough finding out, that even in Alaska jobs don’t grow on trees.
Jeanmarie shipped out to Wilsall, Montana with her good friend, Cindy Johnson to help at her aunt’s cattle ranch. Jeanmarie’s stay was cut short when Cindy’s grandpa died suddenly. So the four remaining Kombols packed up and drove to Yellowstone retrieving Jean, coupled with a short tour of the park. It seemed anticlimactic compared to our summer vacations of yesteryear. The times they-were-a-changing.
Bill, Jack, Jeanmarie, Dana at Yellowstone, July 1969. Mom as always was taking the picture.
I clearly remember the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 24th. I remember not watching it. It was an overcast day. I bandied about the neighborhood, over at Jim Olson’s home, then here and there. In the living room, Dad and Henry D. Gillespie, our Australian foreign exchange student sat transfixed on the sofa absorbed for hours.
Popping in that evening, I glanced at the TV then headed back outside. I wasn’t slightly interested and had no appreciation for the magnitude of that moment – to me it seemed little more than a grainy television experience that went on for hours. It turned out that Neil Armstrong’s one small step was viewed by more than 500 million across the globe. In retrospect, my lack of interest was one giant failure to leap.
Henry D. Gillespie was a foreign exchange student from Australia who lived with our family for a year, from Dec. 1968 through Nov. 1969. This photo was featured in the 1969 Enumclaw High School yearbook.
Nationally, the Manson cult murders were a minor headline in the Seattle P.I., the newspaper I studiously read each morning. Kennedy’s Chappaquiddick high-jinx was a much bigger story, which I earnestly followed. I’d become a news junkie, with alternating subscriptions to Time magazine and U.S. News & World Report. But, my perusal of the news was cursory – Woodstock in mid-August? It didn’t register for me. It wasn’t until the following year when Steve McCarty and I saw the movie that I even grasped what a music festival was.
What did register was a peevish, late-night, television personality named Bob Corcoran. He hosted a channel 13 talk show. Corcoran was the prototype for a mad-as-hell-and-not-going-to-take-it-anymore character, later seen in “Network.” Half his audience was bored teenagers listening to drunken adults who called in to converse with Bob. When teens placed a call – you could always tell – they’d make rude remarks, before the inevitable kill button and dial tone. Between callers, Corcoran offered screeds on controversial issues, then ceaselessly promoted Tacoma’s B & I Circus store.
Bob Corcoran, our late-night TV fascination in the Summer of ’69.
That summer, our family friends, the Hamiltons were staying with us, having just moved back from London. Their oldest son, Scott was a year older and we took over Barry’s bedroom in his absence. There Scott and I watched Corcoran, howling at the inanities Bob spewed forth each night. We giggled mindlessly at the mere mention of his name. His show was so bad it made perfect sarcastic sense to our teenage-addled brains. We even tried calling his show once but hung up after waiting on hold too long.
Corcoran later parlayed his quirky television stardom into politics by running for Congress in 1972. His shtick was rabble-rousing, stick-it-in-their-face, populist rant, but in the primary, he was soundly defeated by Julia Butler Hansen. How I ended up with the Elect Bob Corcoran to Congress ruler, I’ve long since forgotten.*
Corcoran used his television notoriety to promote a run for Congress, but failed miserably.
Night after night we tuned into Bob and played chess. I’d taken up the sport during my just-ended sophomore year after reading an article in the Hornet student newspaper announcing formation of a new chess club. My game improved quickly, landing me one of the top five boards.
The student newspaper, Hornet announcement in the Sept. 28, 1968 issue that changed my high school trajectory.
Scott Hamilton was a decent chess player who desperately wanted to win. Late each night, we played game after game, again and again – 49 straight losses before Scott finally won. But playing chess was just a way to pass time. Our real goal was to laugh at Bob Corcoran.
Scott Hamilton in 1967, one-year earlier when our family visited theirs in West Byfleet, a suburb of London
Amazingly, those memories are the most poignant of my summer of ’69. The summer I turned 16, during one of the most dynamic times of the Sixties, when all the world’s charms lay before me – staying up late to watch a goofball TV talk show host and playing chess were my highlights.
All the same, everything turned out fine. Returning to high school as a junior, my driver’s license landed me behind the steering wheel of the family’s second car, a 1965 Renault. Our winning chess team became an important cog in my developing personality. That semester I took an Economics class from Wes Hanson that ultimately directed my life (B.A., Econ, U.W., 1975). Second semester I joined the Hornet staff and learned how to write.
Mr. Hanson at the lectern, a typical pose for the teacher whose Econ class led to my college major.
Another favorite, English lit was taught jointly by Miss Thompson and Mrs. Galvin. Novels like “Catcher in the Rye” and “A Separate Peace” jolted a new sense of existential feelings through my all-to-logical heart. “1984” and “Lord of the Flies” called into question what that heart was made of. We read “Romeo & Juliet” out loud in class. Franco Zeffirelli’s movie version had recently captured the nation’s attention, so our whole class attended a special showing one night at the Roxy.
Life accelerated. The following summer, I worked 12-hour days selling popsicles, fudgesicles, and ice cream sandwiches. High school life gave way to feelings of liberation and control.
Looking back on things, that summer of ‘69 was a quirky way station on the road through life – no longer a boy, but not yet a man.
* One day a few weeks before writing this essay, I ruffled through my desk drawer and grabbed for a straight edge. Out came a Bob Corcoran for Congress ruler. I have little idea how it landed there. It came decades past from a Corcoran campaign booth brimming with swag at the Puyallup Fair. Only serendipity can explain how that ruler appeared while writing this essay.
