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Postmarked Vietnam

Two singles separated by exactly two years: "The Ballad of the Green Beret" and "Sky Pilot."

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture *

TWO SONGS – TWO STORIES

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

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

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

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

JANUARY 1966: “BALLAD OF THE GREEN BERET” RELEASED

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

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

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

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

JANUARY 1968: “SKY PILOT” RELEASED

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

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

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

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

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

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

1971: COLLEGE AND THE DRAFT

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

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

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

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

DECEMBER 31, 2017: KARAOKE AND CLOSURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Postmarked Vietnam – May 2005 – WJK Studios

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

 

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Reflections on Tom Landis

Tom Landis in the 1980s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labor Day Coda:

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

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

“You’re all idiots” – Tom Landis
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Ten Album Turning Points – Desert Island Discs

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 & Petts beforehand. 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.

 

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Alone Again, Naturally

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.”

Link to the “Alone Again, Naturally” video referenced above: https://youtu.be/D_P-v1BVQn8

 

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Back in the Summer of ‘69

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.

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Epistle for Mr. McGreen

Wallace McGreen signs his picture in my 1967 Ka-Te-Kan yearbook.

Have you ever wished you’d said “thank you” but never did?  For me, it wasn’t too late.  This essay was adapted from a letter* sent to my favorite teacher.  I just learned Mr. Wally McGreen passed away on March 19, 2022 at age 83, so share this essay as my parting tribute. 

Dear Mr. McGreen:  It’s a funny thing about life.  It takes time to realize how thankful one should be.  And, so it is with me as this letter is long overdue.  I’ve thought about writing it over the years but always found more pressing needs to consume the moment.  Today seemed perfect: St. Patrick’s Day, snowing, my children off to events, with an unengaged afternoon.

It was a very long time ago, September 1962.  I left the K–3 world of Byron Kibler elementary and began a fresh journey at a new destination, J.J. Smith.  I was one of the fortunate 4th graders to experience our first male teacher, a young man fresh out of college named Mr. McGreen. The other five classes were taught by women, as had been every teacher at Kibler.  Plus, my new best friend, Jeff Eldridge was by my side.  Surprisingly, this new teacher lived on my street in a boarding house of sorts, just a stone’s throw from our home.

Fresh out of college and a newly minted elementary teacher, Mr. McGreen, made a mark on our 4th Grade class at J.J. Smith, Spring 1963.

That fall Mr. McGreen organized the boys of our class into a football team.  Sorry girls, you were stuck playing four-square or jumping rope.  He drilled us daily through simple plays at recess.  Over and over we practiced those few calls.  Mr. McGreen entrusted me with the role of quarterback and Tim Thomasson as halfback.  Most plays were similar––I took the snap and handed the ball to Tim while linemen pulled left or right.  Mr. McGreen then scheduled a series of football games between ours and the other 4th grade classes. Though we lacked the pure talent of other teams, our tightly choreographed snaps and daily drilling resulted in clockwork plays. We crushed every opponent in that ad hoc 4th grade league.

One day, Mr. McGreen invited me to stay after school.  He pulled out a deck of cards and taught me to play cribbage.  It was a great game for improving arithmetic skills and understanding odds.  For weeks we’d play most days after school.  Soon I was good enough to play with my grandpa who also loved the game.  Decades later I taught my own children just as he’d taught me.

The annual 4th grade field trip in spring took us to the Museum of History & Industry, Ballard locks, and Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. What a delight to see a real hydroplane up close and personal.  Or seeing huge gates open and close watching boats magically rise and fall.  Mr. McGreen was our guide.  While eating sack lunches, he sat next to me.  Our last stop was the waterfront where we examined curios in a store with a real mummy of a Wild West origin.  What a thrill for a young boy from Enumclaw, but more important was the affection I felt from my teacher.

Near the last days of school, Mr. McGreen announced a class auction with currency from credits students had earned. We each brought in our trinkets and collectibles for all to admire until the big day, when we bid in a real auction for the items we’d lately grown to cherish.  The excitement and anticipation were no doubt better than the real thing.  I don’t recall what I bought, but my best friend Jeff purchased comic books based on classic tales like King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.  They seemed so sophisticated compared to the Archie and Superboy comics I read.

4th Grade, J.J. Smith (1962-63) – Mr. McGreen’s Class.                                             Row 1 (L-R): Mark Myers, Joe Sharp, Billy Kombol, Tom R., Curtis Barber.
Row 2 (L-R): JoAnne Barret, Denise Alcorn, Gail Gardner, Loralyn Walden, Linda Ralston, Naomi Langsea, Sharlene Johnson. Row 3 (L-R): Danny Stanford, ??, Jack Person, Steve Rex, Sharon Peterson, Laurie Mitchell, Don Krueger, Ken Kurfurst, Karl Uhde. Row 4 (L-R): Cindy Nordyke, Tim Thomasson, Marsha Millarich, Pam Ziltner, Janie Whitbeck, Jeff Eldridge, Diane Jones, Tom DeBolt.

The 9th year of my life was not without its challenges.  On more than one occasion I disrupted class and was banished to the hall for Mr. McGreen’s classic discipline, a primitive form of yoga––sitting with your back against the wall in the shape of a chair, but without one.  This was punishment with a purpose: to improve one’s posture, develop muscle strength, and test your ability to sit uncomfortably for long periods, all the time remembering what had brought you there. My behavior improved decidedly after a few trips to the hall.

I did well in most subjects earning A’s in social studies, spelling, and arithmetic; B’s in most others, and a C in reading.  But Mr. McGreen delivered the only ‘D’ of my school career––in penmanship!  Still, he cared.  Mr. McGreen sent home writing lessons administered by Mom where I spent hour after boring hour practicing better handwriting.  The exercise books contained pages of blank lines to be filled by copying and recopying illustrated samples.  I carefully inscribed print and cursive characters within tight parallel lines over and over––diligently trying to make my penmanship legible, or at least less awful.  Their dedication toward my self-improvement paid dividends a decade later during college finals when scripting readable answers in blue books.

The dreaded D in writing (penmanship), the only one received during my school career.

That school year ended and another began.  Again I was blessed with the only male teacher, Mr. Thornburg in 5th grade.  He too was fresh from college and lived a few blocks away in a garage apartment. It was another wonder-filled year pierced by tragedy that November.  The assassination news came over the intercom that Friday morning with students immediately sent home.

During the 1960 election, Mom supported Nixon while Dad voted for Kennedy.  Thinking the thoughts of a 10-year-old, I asked her, “Are you glad Kennedy was shot?”  She sat me down and gently explained, “Of course not.  Kennedy is our president and after an election, he became my president too.”  I still had a lot to learn.  A few months later the Beatles hit America.  I had a crush on a girl who showed me her Beatle cards and told me everything about four guys from Liverpool.  My affection for that girl never blossomed yet never faded.

She had dozens of Beatles cards, which were almost as she was.

A year and a half later I entered 7th grade at an imposing, three-story brick building on Porter Street.  The first day brought good news, Mr. McGreen now taught junior high and would be my homeroom and social studies teacher.  Life with Mr. McGreen in junior high was a transforming experience.  He entertained us with stories of growing up in West Seattle, his college years, sorority panty raids––all of it filling me with dreams of one day attending college.  Each Saint Patrick’s Day, the very Irish Mr. McGreen came to school decked out in a bright green suit.  In my 7th grade yearbook, he affectionately wrote, “To the little general – from Mr. Wallace McGreen.”  The next year he scrawled, “To little Billy Kombol.”

Mr. McGreen’s signed my 1967 Ka-Te-Kan yearbook in Junior High.

In 7th grade, Coach McGreen guided us through flag football.  It was the last year many of us turned out for that fall sport.  It was also when I first realized my youthful sports prowess would soon be eclipsed by small size.  As I look back at the photo, all my friends were there, in one place. That winter he coached our 7th grade basketball team through drills and inter-squad games played in the girls’ gym. After practice, we took long showers under hot water that lasted forever, then walked home in winter air as steam rose from our still-damp hair.  Could life get any better than this?

7th Grade Football Enumclaw Junior High (Fall 1965) – Mr. McGreen, coach.
Front Row (L-R): unknown, Dale Troy, Gary Varney, Jeff Krull, Kevin Shannon, Billy Kombol, Bill Waldock, Kris Galvin, Bill Fawcett, Tryge Pohlman.
Inset: Lester Hall. Back Row (L-R) Scott Davies, Richard Babic, Rick Barry, Jim Partin, Tim Thomasson, Jim Ewalt, Jim Clem – Captain; Wayne Podolak, Del Sonneson, Jeff Eldridge, Steve McCarty.

The cleverest assignments he ever gave, but only to select students was to create countries of our own imaginations complete with maps, history, and customs.  No extra credit was given.  We worked on our projects for weeks. I regularly compared notes with Les Hall and Wayne Podolak, who were also in on the game.  What a brilliant and inspiring activity for cultivating fantasies.  It was a remarkable way for a teacher to challenge pet pupils.

One of our biggest thrills were the State “A” Basketball Tournaments.  Mr. McGreen invited a few of us (Jim Clem, Gary Varney, Les, and Wayne) to pack into his fastback Mustang, pure status for 12-year-old boys in Enumclaw.  After driving us to the UPS Field House we experienced a menagerie of teams and colors competing for the state title.  Later we stopped at Cubby’s on Auburn Way South for burgers and fries.  Back home I swam in the glory of the evening just spent.  You can’t make this stuff up––an engaged and enthusiastic school teacher expanding his students’ horizons by offering new experiences.  It was an amazing way to grow up!

Mr. McGreen from my 1966 Ka-Te-Kan yearbook.

Time marched on.  I said goodbye to junior high and left Mr. McGreen behind.  New teachers, coaches, friends, and interests arose. High school beckoned and so did a driver’s license, after-game dances, chess team, Boy’s State, Hornet newspaper, Courier-Herald sports writer, summers selling popsicles, Saturdays working at the mine office, water-skiing, movies, malls, graduation, then off to college.  Upon graduating in 1975, I received an unexpected congratulatory card from my 4th and 7th grade mentor.  Mr. McGreen remembered me after all those years.  Being a foolish young man of long hair and little regard, I hadn’t the presence of mind to write a proper thank-you note.  Decades passed and still, I hadn’t.

Many years later, I attended his retirement party where we exchanged pleasantries.  The next time I saw him was at my Mother’s funeral.  His kindly face had aged but it touched me all the same.  I began to consider that I was but one of thousands of students he taught.  Yet he made me feel so important.  Did he know how profoundly he’d impacted my life?  A thank you message was long overdue.  A year later, I sat down and finally wrote my rambling letter much of which is replicated here.

Mr. McGreen was one of the best people in my life.  The seeds he sowed took root and my life became richer for it.  Though eons ago, his mentorship was one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received.  

So I’ll end where I began.  Perhaps there’s a Mr. McGreen in your life who never knew the extent of your gratitude.  Maybe this could be the day your letter is written and that gratefulness acknowledged.

* Adapted from a letter written to Mr. McGreen on Saint Patrick’s Day, 2012, from his former student, Bill Kombol.

 

 

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Poetry by Pauline

Pauline Morris, probably her graduation photo, 1945.

A photo album Pauline assembled during high school years yielded two of her poems.  Her first was brash and bawdy  while the second reflective and self-assured.   “Boyfriends” likely dates to her junior year (1944) judging by who’s mentioned in the poem and her album photos that year.

The second, “This world that we’re livin’ in” dates to after graduation – but it’s hard to say exactly when.  I’ve included the type-written poems plus select photos to illustrate her high school friendships.

This is my poetic tribute to the best Mom I ever had, Pauline Lucile (Morris) Kombol (1927–2011).  Happy Mother’s Day from your historian son, Bill Kombol – May 8, 2022.

Judging by the number of photos in her high school album, Shirley Stergion (right) was probably Pauline’s best friend among many.  In front of Enumclaw High School located at 2222 Porter Street.

Boyfriends

We girls and our boyfriends,
We have quite a time.
But for the ones we like best,
We wouldn’t give a dime.
I chase after everyone I know I can’t get,
But what do you care, it’s no skin off your tit.

Well, JoAnn likes muscles, Erna like chins,
But some like boys with plenty of sins.
And I’ve got one, you all know who,
It’s Howie I’m speaking about to you.
Valera likes to have about six on the string,
And her heart tells her it’s just a fling.
Now Beve likes Renton, and you know why,
Just mention Tony’s name, and listen to her sigh.

But this thing called love, has broken many hearts,
Yet it has only caused others to let a big fart.
What would you do, if there weren’t any boys?
Well, we wouldn’t be so sad and there’d be many more joys.
But as times goes on and variety is the spice,
You’ll probably be at the church getting showered with rice.

I can picture it now, Erna and her hubby,
She’ll love his chin even if he isn’t chubby.
And here comes JoAnnie showing her muscle,
With her butt held in by a big wire bustle.
And look! There’s Lois, the big old fat,
She hasn’t left the church, ‘cause that’s just where she sat.
She’s an old maid and will never get married,
She couldn’t get Howie, so now she’ll be buried.
Next comes Beve, with her big toothy smile,
There’s pompadour Tony at the end of the aisle.

And there stands Valera, all wide eyed and mad,
She couldn’t get married and am I glad.
She and Miss Calahan are figuring out a way,
That they can marry two guys and be happy that day.
But it isn’t possible and she should know,
And I’m afraid if she ever tried it, to jail she’d go.

It’s ten years later and what do you think,
Here comes a bunch of wopes and of garlic they stink.
If you saw their chins and looked at their nose,
You’d know right away they’re Erna Merlino’s.
Here’s a little boar with his hair piled high,
One look at him and you’d know who he was and why.
I said to him, “Where’s your daddy, Tony?”
He said, “Oh, home eating crackers and baloney.”
But now we will pass, through Renton right now,
And there’s a dame, sittin’ milkin’ a cow.

We look at her face and guess who it is,
It’s our own JoAnn milking a cow named Liz.
I asked her what had happened to all her husband’s money,
She gave me a dirty look and said, “Don’t be funny.”

As I started home, I stopped at the lake,
I wanted to see Howie, so I pulled on the brake.
I went to the door and rang the bell,
I heard Howie yell, “I’m out here in the well.”
In the well I thought, now’s my chance,
To corner him into the wedding dance.

I finally married him after this long time,
And after 80 long years
I’m a bride at 89!!!!!

Appearing in the poem:
Erna – Erna Jean Williams
Beve – likely Beverly Boland, but possibly Beve Rocca
JoAnn – JoAnn (Ewell) Clearwater
Howie – Howard Johanson
Valera – Valera Pedersen
Lois – Lois (Buck) Hamilton
Miss Calahan –De Lona Calahan, Tiger Tales Yearbook staff advisor
Tony – presumably Tony Merlino of Renton

Written circa 1944, during her junior year at Enumclaw High School

The final draft of Pauline’s “Boyfriends.” The first draft had typos and was missing the final stanza.
The boy she finally marries (in the poem) at the age of 89 – Howard ‘Howie’ Johanson (photo from Tiger Tales 1945, Enumclaw High School yearbook).
Valera Pedersen, Beve Boland, Pauline Morris, Erna William, and Shirley Stergion, May 1944 on the front lawn of EHS.  Interestingly, Shirley’s name did not appear in the poem, but then again she and Jimmy Puttman were a couple during high school and then married shortly thereafter. 
“Seniors” Spring 1945: Shirley Stergion, Yvonne Cross, Faye Timm, and Pauline Morris on a bicycle ride through the surrounding countryside.
Erna Williams at Enumclaw’s Avalon Theater, May 1944. Both Pauline and Erna worked at the Avalon, then located at the N.E. corner of Cole St. & Myrtle Ave.

This world that we’re livin’ in

This world that we’re livin’ in
Is awful nice and sweet–
You get a thorn with every rose
But ain’t the roses sweet.

I’ve shut the door on yesterday,
Its sorrows and mistakes:
I’ve looked within its gloomy walls
Past failures and mistakes.

And now I throw the key away
To seek another room,
And furnish it with hope and smiles
And every spring–time bloom.

You have to live with yourself, you know,
All your whole life through.
Wherever you stay, or wherever you go,
You will always companion you.

So–it’s just as well to make of yourself
The person you’d like to be,
And spend each day in the pleasantest way,
With the finest of company.

The typed original of Pauline’s “This world that were livin’ in.”
  • By Pauline Lucile Morris

    Pauline Morris, Valera Pedersen, Bev Boland, Shirley Stergion, at Enumclaw High School, May 1944, on the front lawn of EHS.
“Sub-debs” June 1945 – Top: Nancy Bruhn, Yvonne Cross, Faye Timm, Shirley Stergion, Pauline, Morris.  Lower: Jane Smitterlof, Dolly Grennan, Martha Hanthorn , Marice Heiberg.  Photo on the front lawn of EHS looking east across Porter Street to the stile-standing 18-unit apartment built in 1926, in which Pauline lived sometime after high school.

Post Script:   Morris – Stergion  – Puttman – Kombol

Pauline Morris and Shirley Stergion, May 1944 – their children, Lynne Puttman and Bill Kombol, 1968.

Our moms were BFF before there was such a thing.  We’ve been 5-year reunion friends since graduation.  Their names were Shirley Stergion and Ponnie Morris until they married Jim Puttman and Jack Kombol.

Her name is Lynne always misspelled Lynn and I was called Billy the name she still calls me.  They were Tigers from the Class of ’45.  We were Hornets from the Class of ’71.  Their 1944 picture was taken on the front lawn Enumclaw High School on Porter Street.  Our 1968 Ka-Teh-Kan yearbook photo was taken inside the gym of the same building – by then Enumclaw Junior High.

They have both passed to the world beyond ours: Shirley in 2019 and Pauline in 2011. We reached the 9th grade Hall of Fame with our funniest laughs.  Lynne became a stand-up comedienne helping people laugh.  Bill studied Economics which is no laughing matter.

But wherever our lives have rambled, we share the bond our mothers shared – Enumclaw.  Some say it translates as a ‘place of evil spirits’ while others claim it’s a ‘thundering noise.’

Whatsoever Enumclaw may be – where so ever Enumclaw may reside – long may her spirit dwell.

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Musings Uncategorized

My Week in Ireland with a Welsh Rugby Team

Tonna's rugby team on the pitch with their mascot, Yank on the sidelines.

This essay came from a letter written to my parents from Middle Mille, Wales.  It was completed from memories of what I left out.  Back then, I was too embarrassed to tell Mom and Dad the rest of the story. 

April 24, 1978

Dear Mom & Dad:

Well, it’s been some time since I last wrote so I thought to dash off a few lines to keep you up to date.  By the time you receive this letter, Scott (Hamilton) should be back in the States, although not necessarily in Washington.  I’ve been here at Scott’s since my last letter, save for a brief sojourn to Ireland where I met up with a Welsh rugby team and toured around with them.  They were really friendly and a lot of fun.  I got to see my first rugby match and did a heck of a lot of something that Welsh rugby clubs do best – drink beer.

In the pub after the game with the Welsh rugby team.

Actually, it was a very strange week.  I met these guys my first night in a pub after I’d ferried from Fishguard, Wales and made my way to the town of Wexford on the southeast coast of Ireland.  They were staying in a big hotel and one of the mates said, “There’s plenty of room at our hotel, so why not come stay with us and go on tour?”  That sounded fine so I did.

I kind of became their mascot and they all called me “Yank,” never bothering to learn my name.  I endeared myself to the club (guys about my age) after their first match.  We were all sitting in the opposing Irish team’s pub.  We were drinking beer, lots of Irish-made Guinness, and eating sandwiches and drinking more beer and singing songs, and having a cracking good time.

The Tonna boys wore red and white.

The Welsh love to sing and we sang almost every song they knew (no not really, there is no end to the number of songs they know).  So, one of the Tonna boys (as they called themselves being from Tonna, Wales near Neath Port Talbot) challenged me to lead the guys in song.  He was a big, fat, long-haired, red-headed oaf named Daffy, but a heck of a nice guy too.

The Tonna Rugby Football Club emblem.

With cheering and jostling they stood me atop this heavy wooden table.  I had to do something and started singing the one song I was guaranteed to remember all the lyrics.  I led them in a rousing rendition of “If I Had a Hammer,” which they all got the biggest kick out of.  After that, I became “one of the boys,” as they’re fond of saying.

Love, Bill

Note: The letter to Mom and Dad describing my time with the rugby team ended here, leaving out the untold story of the rest of my week.

We continued traveling up the east coast of Ireland stopping at small towns along the way.  They played rugby in the late morning; we drank beer in pubs each afternoon; then back to our hotel for more drinking and some nights playing poker.  I even taught them a game or two.  The pattern continued for several days: big hotel breakfasts, sandwiches and Guinness at pubs, then more frivolity until falling to bed.  By this time everybody liked me so much I was almost one of the team, primarily as ‘Yank’ their lucky charm.

The Tonna Rugby Football Club (RFC) photo after a match.

Our final destination was Dublin where they’d catch a ferry back to Wales and I’d tour the Irish capital.  So far, my sightseeing in Ireland consisted of rugby pitches and public houses.  In Dublin fair city we found ourselves in Temple Bar, a lively district where patrons poured themselves from one pub to the next.  Many have street-side windows which open fully guaranteeing easy camaraderie between those in pubs and those passing by.

We’d been good mates for several days and planted ourselves for a sendoff glass to conclude our camaraderie.  After a couple pints, I begged forgiveness and bid farewell. With travel bag in hand, I said my goodbyes to each and wandered the streets of Dublin in search of lodging for the night.  Temple Bar has a confusing hodgepodge of meandering streets and alleys where it’s easy to circle back around.  After surveying several cheap hotels and B & Bs, I found myself walking past the very pub I’d left an hour before.  Cries of “Hey Yank!” were shouted and I laughingly saluted my old friends.  They waved me in and no sooner seated than a pint appeared.  One led to another, and soon I was thoroughly soused.

Relaxing after a ruby match and an afternoon in a pub.

The hours rolled by as we laughed and drank into the night.  They’d be catching the midnight ferry to Holyhead for the long bus ride back to Tonna.  My mind was a muddle – do I leave the pub, drunk as a skunk to find lodging?  Or cast my lot with this scrum and travel back to Wales?  It was late Saturday night and frankly, I was in no position to walk a straight line let alone find shelter.  Choosing the path of least resistance, I stumbled on the bus for a short ride to the ferry.

The Irish seas were choppy that night.  The ferryboat listed in rhythmic patterns perfectly calibrated to agitate a drunk’s equilibrium.  The details of my seasickness are as shabby as I felt and shan’t be detailed here.  The ferry landed and we were back on the bus for the 200-mile journey south along twisting roads to Tonna.  The all-night trip was gruelingly slow and sleep agonizingly fitful.

Upon arrival, Richard, one of the footballers offered a room in the row house where he lived with his folks.  We hit the rack that morning and slept until 2 pm.  I awoke that afternoon with a monstrous hangover.  I drank plenty of water trying to salve my aching brain.  Richard’s mum was a sweet lady who fixed us tea and biscuits.  It was the finest cup of tea I’ve ever tasted.  Oh, that lovely cup of tea, how it soothed my throbbing skull.

In small Welsh towns, locals gravitate to their clubs for the evening’s entertainment. Richard, his dad, and I wandered along to the Tonna RFC clubhouse.  It’s somewhat akin to an Eagles lodge in the U.S.  The largest room was filled with trophies in display cases surrounding tables where young and old rugby players socialized.  Not just the boys I’d traveled with, but their fathers, uncles, and townsfolk who played the sport a generation before. Another pint of ale was probably the last thing I needed, but being a polite young man I good-naturedly accepted and thus began another evening of drinking.   Being Sunday night we left at a reasonable hour.  Early the next morning I bid adieu to Richard who was off to work.  I then enjoyed a pleasant cup of tea with his mum before heading to the town’s station.

My week with this Welsh rugby team thankfully came to an end.  It was time for me to dry out and find my bearings.  I caught a bus to Haverfordwest and made the one-mile walk to Middle Mille for several more days with Scott before his planned departure and mine.  My next stop was London town.

Scott Hamilton’s home in the tiny village of Middle Mille was once the town’s public house, now called pubs.

Postscript: Seven years later, I realized alcohol was not my friend.  The story of May 26, 1985, the day I quit drinking is still being lived. It was the second-best decision I ever made. 

 

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Giving Thanks to Mr. Hanson

Seated in the front pew of Maple Valley Presbyterian Church on a Sunday in late November, I listened to a sermon delivered by Pastor David Diehl.  It was a good one.  His words were drawn from many sources but grounded in simple lessons.  The Thanksgiving message was focused on the wonder of life’s blessings and how each of us has been enriched by others. 

As the sermon drew to a close, he laid down a challenge – think of a person who’s touched your life, in a small way or large, then write a letter of gratitude to let them know you remember.  Perhaps to a parent, or uncle, aunt, teacher, boss, friend, or some hero who has no idea you still care.  Every good action demands a deadline.  Pastor David suggested this week or better yet why not today?

Meditating upon the homily, I considered my life’s journey in search of a juncture when someone’s action set me on the path I followed.  Several candidates no longer walked the earth, never knowing how they helped me in a time on need.  It felt sad for it was no longer possible to say, “thank you.”  There’s nothing like feelings of guilt as inspiration to be a better person. 

A week later, I’d done little more than imagine the letter that could be written.  Good intentions though admirable, produce few results.  A wise uncle regularly reminded, “The longest journey begins with the first step.” 

My school boy days came to mind.  There were plenty of kind and thoughtful teachers at the four Enumclaw schools I’d attended.  Many were influential.  But which of many made a significant impact on my life?  A decision was made, my letter would be to Mr. Hanson, who taught a one-semester class in economics at Enumclaw High School.  It took some time to compose what I wanted to say but finally mailed it a week before Christmas.

I didn’t hear back from Mr. Hanson.  Unbeknownst to me his health was failing.  A few months later news reached me that Wesley A. Hanson lay dead at age 75.  While golfing with one of his sons, Mike told me how my letter found a treasured place in his desk during the last months of his life.  He’d read it time and again.  It was a bittersweet revelation.

So, here is my sermon – far shorter than Pastor Diehl’s and lacking in eloquence.  Write a letter to someone precious in your life.  Let them know you’re thankful and still think of them.  For this is what Thanksgiving is all about – giving thanks.  Here’s what I wrote:

Mr. Hanson at his lectern listening to a student’s answer (1970 Cascadian).

December 18, 2006

Dear Mr. Hanson:

It was the autumn of 1969.  The previous summer witnessed the moon landing of Apollo 11, the Tate-LaBianca murders by the Charlie Manson family, Woodstock, and my 16th birthday.  I could now drive. Soon the fall semester of my junior year arrived and among my classes were English, advanced Algebra, Chemistry, Spanish 3/4, Typing, and a new offering – Economics. 

The class was taught by a certain Wes Hanson, the father of a friend of my brother.  Word had it that Mr. Hanson convinced the educational powers that be, allowing him to teach an informative one semester class to supplement the usual world history and contemporary problem classes.  Late in my sophomore year, I signed up for Economics on the conviction that it would be a college preparatory class.

My ASB card and photo from Sept. 1969.

The next four and one-half months proved most enlightening.  Mr. Hanson taught in his very likable style peppering instruction with stories from his days dealing with farm products in the great American plains.  Each Friday was a 25 question test in true / false or multiple choice formats.  Each Monday, the test results were returned and my paper was usually found to have 24 or 25 correct answers.  By the end of the semester, not only had I earned an A, but also an enduring respect for the subject and the man who taught us.  It would prove to be a lifetime love. 

Not only did Mr. Hanson teach Economics, I also had him for Government, 2nd semester.

Over the next several years, I read newspapers and magazines, closely following the economic issues of the day, from Milton Friedman’s proposed negative income tax for replacing welfare, to the heady days of August 1971 when President Nixon took the U.S. off the gold standard and imposed wage and price controls. 

During summers after my junior and senior years, I had a job selling Popsicles and ice cream bars from a three-wheel Cushman scooter in the suburban neighborhoods of east hill Kent.  From my cousin, Dan Silvestri (who owned the business), I learned that long hours of selling ice cream and a sliding 20-24% commission scale would net me $25 to $30 per day.  Working almost every day of the week has merit, because you never have time to spend your earnings, especially living at home during high school summers. 

With my bulging bank account of a couple thousand dollars earned during two summers selling ice cream; a daily job filling the coal stoker at my dad’s downtown Enumclaw building; writing weekly newspaper stories for the Courier-Herald; and working at Palmer Coking Coal on Saturdays, I headed off to the University of Washington in September 1971. 

I took typical introductory classes, not quite sure what to study.  I liked the idea of making money and had my one semester background in high school economics to prove it.  I also had a cousin in the Popsicle business who told me stories of his own ups and downs in the stock market. 

So, as any prudent (impudent?) 18-year-old would, one day I rode a bus from the University district to downtown Seattle then marched into the local Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner and Smith office.  There I opened an account with one-half the earnings from my various high school jobs.  Four months earlier, Merrill Lynch became the first New York Stock Exchange brokerage firm to offer its shares to the public.  It was the name I knew.

My cousin Dan provided me with a ‘tip’ so I bought 100 shares of Pan Am stock for about $10 per share.  Each day, I dutifully read the stock tables in the Seattle Times or P-I.  My heart jumped or sank with every 1/8th or 1/4th point movement.  Several months later with Pan Am safely in the mid $14s, I sold and pocketed a nice three hundred dollar profit after commissions.  I was hooked.  Making $300 in the stock market was a lot easier than working 12-hour days selling Popsicles. 

From the 1969 Cascadian, the year Enumclaw students were first introduced to Mr. Hanson.

It was the spring quarter of my first year of college.  Among the several survey courses one took as a freshman, I selected Introduction to Economics.  It was taught to 600 dozing students in a huge auditorium that college administrators called a classroom.  It was a standard course for many (hence the size of the class) and a requirement for a number of majors, mainly business. 

Thanks to my half semester in Mr. Hanson’s class, I excelled in Econ 200.  So, of course I took Econ 201 (Microeconomics), the second of the two-part introduction to what’s often termed ‘the dismal science.’  Again, I did well. 

My pragmatic nature calculated if I found a subject easy, that should be the subject for me.  I continued with classes in economics and sure enough by next year was majoring in Econ.  During one of those classes, students were given cut-rate subscriptions to the Wall Street Journal.  It’s the newspaper I read to this day.  To make a long story short, I studied hard, did well, and graduated with a B.A. in Economics, magna cum laude. 

Mr. Hanson was a winner in the classroom and as coach. Here he tells Bill Wheeler what a winner looks like (from the Nov. 26, 1969 Hornet newspaper).

Some philosophers and historians believe an individual is little more than a floating cork in an ocean of tides and currents too strong to resist. They call this determinism.  Others contend each individual is capable of free will and even small events in a person’s life can have profound affects, not only on one person, but upon history.   Though acknowledging the former, I’ve found life much more interesting by subscribing to the latter. I believe one small event – taking a semester course in economics from a high school teacher I highly respect – had a profound influence on my life. 

Another high school subject that proved fundamental was Mr. Worthington’s humanities class.  There we learned that ancient Greeks thought four questions worth asking: “Who am I?”  “Where did I come from?”  “Where am I going?” and “What is the meaning of life?  I’ve spent most time on the second question. 

In trying to answer “Where I came from,” I’ve written a letter to a person who may not know how big of impact his high school class had on one student.  Mr. Hanson – you are that person; your high school course was that impact; and I was that student. 

Now, I can’t claim one student, taking a class and going to college to major in economics is going to change the course of human history.  But what I can tell you is how very grateful I am to you for that class you taught 37 years ago.  And for the energy and enthusiasm you put into a subject you loved.  And for the difference you’ve made in my life. 

Though, I admit that my preoccupation with all things ‘economic’ wasn’t always my smartest choice.  It too often diverted my attention from more important things in life.  Perhaps I took too long to fall in love.  But when I did, it was with the right girl, at the right time, and our marriage has brought forth three delightful boys who are the apples of my eye.  No one would suggest I owe this all to you. 

But, I want to say thank you for one very small thing you did, a very long time ago.  Because you might not have otherwise realized how you made such a very large impact on this person’s life. 

You are one of my heroes . . . and you probably didn’t even know it!

Yours truly . . . and truly a student of yours,

Bill Kombol