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Lois Olson Remembered

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

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

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

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

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

BFF – Lois Olson and Carmen Ainsworth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lois Olson’s Obituary

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

 

 

 

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Why is college so expensive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obituary:

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

Keith graduated from Enumclaw High School in 1966.

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

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

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

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

 

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Summers Selling Popsicles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* later Frosty Wholesale

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Waiting for Charlotte

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A late afternoon lunch at La Coupole in Montparnasse.

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

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

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

Henry, Jennifer, and I atop the Arc de Triomphe at twilight.
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International Bill Wheeler Appreciation Day

Not often enough does one realize how high Bill Wheeler once leaped.  He’s shown here in the Chuck Smith gym 55 years ago during a game his Enumclaw Hornets basketball team lost to Fife.

But Wheels as he later came to be known kept winning the hearts of those who knew him well.  Following graduation, Bill’s talents were bigger than his hometown’s needs and first landed at Big Bend C.C. where he was going to learn to fly, then to Ellensburg to further ground his education.  At Central Washington College he studied how to become a wild cat, and succeeded wildly.  There he gained the nickname Wheels in a story so fantastic that it can only be told over a cold beer as he brings a smile to your face.

A forever friendship was forged when Bill Wheeler (in plaid pants), Bill Kombol, and Keith Hanson took a week-long road trip to Reno, Disneyland, and Big Sur in Eugene Wheeler’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV.  This late November 1975 photo by Pauline Kombol at 1737 Franklin Street, Enumclaw, Washington.

After schooling, ranching, and the passage of time, Wheels returned to his home town to mold the life he sought to build.  There in the seat of every imaginable piece of heavy mobile equipment, Bill sculpted the earth, buried utilities, excavated customer’s dreams, and thrived.  He soon became the second letter of S & W Construction, learning much from his first letter partner, Sam Schaafsma.  But a first-rate man demands his own dominion, and it wasn’t long before Wheeler Construction was born.

Bill Wheeler compares Operating Engineer union cards with 99-year-old Cal Bashaw, left (Oct. 24, 2019). The Wheeler and Bashaw families both moved from Alaska to Enumclaw in 1965, after which Bill became good friends with Cal’s son, Wynn.

Requiring further refinement in the finer arts of life, Bill placed a ring on the finger of a fiery, red-haired, Scots-Irish lass of clever tongue and semi-sweet disposition.  Children were born and a fine home built.  In time the wheeling wild cat was tamed, but how long it took no one has yet stated with certainty.  What skills he lacked on the golf links he more than made up for at job sites moving enough dirt with backhoes, bulldozers, graders, and dumptrucks to build a dozen golf courses.  At the poker tables, he’s always a threat, but mostly to his own wallet.

Throughout it all, Bill Wheeler has remained as devoted to friends as he is to his adopted hometown of Enumclaw where he arrived in the 7th grade.  Legions number the good deeds and generous gifts of time, labor, equipment, and materials that Bill has donated to his community.  Of late he’s even found a new girl in his life and spends hours playing handsome prince to a charming Princess Lucy.

So in a Leap of Faith with hopes that others second this emotion, I hereby declare February 29th as International* Bill Wheeler Appreciation Day, to be celebrated once every four years by people just like you and me who appreciate the finest things in life.  As for the other 365 days . . .  may God bless Bill Eugene Wheeler.

* International due to his mother, Pat Wheeler’s Canadian heritage.

Bill Wheeler enjoying a cup of black coffee and blackberry cobbler at a Jan. 7, 2023 Pokerque with his longtime Enumclaw pals.
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July 5, 1953

July 5, 1953 – Baby Billy’s Birth

Seventy years ago today, Pauline Kombol bore her second son.  Twelve months earlier, she buried her first daughter.  Paula Jean lived for but two days.  Paula’s father, Jack was sad.  Pauline was devastated.

Paula Jean’s gravestone is in the Enumclaw cemetery 50 feet from her parents.

Just over a year later, the Kombol family gathered at Lake Retreat for their annual Fourth of July picnic.  By late afternoon, Pauline’s father-in-law, Papa Tony Kombol had indigestion that he blamed on the baked beans. The next day after hearing Pauline had her baby, Tony, in his distinct Croatian accent said, “It must have been the beans.”

The boy was delivered on a Sunday at 5:04 pm at Seattle’s Doctor’s Hospital by Dr. Albert Lee with nurse, Anne Green in attendance.  A year and one day later, on July 6, 1954, Pauline welcomed his baby sister, Jeanmarie into the world.  For Billy and Jeanie Kombol, born on the 5th and 6th of July, Independence Day would always be the kickoff to their birthday celebrations.

As Pauline rested comfortably, her dad, John H. Morris stopped by to ask what she planned to name her son.  Pauline had spent so much of her pregnancy praying for a healthy baby, that she’d given little thought to a name, either boy or girl.  The boy’s grandfather, John H. Morris provided the answer – his first name would be William, in honor of his  brother, Bill Morris, and the middle name, John, after him.  In 1982, that baby boy, William John Kombol assumed the same position as head of the family company, that his grandfather held for the first 30 years, following Palmer Coking Coal’s founding in 1933.

As Pauline held her 7-pound, 12-ounce baby, she saw his eyes were blue and his hair was brown.  The ‘Kombol, Boy’ record completed by Nurse Green listed his length at 20.5 inches with a head circumference of 13.5 inches.  Billy, as he came to be known spent the first week of his life at Doctor’s Hospital, whose original façade and entrance at 9th and University is now a part of the Virginia Mason Medical Center on  First Hill.  The bill for the delivery, anesthesia, nursery, pharmacy, and lab work, plus a six-day hospital stay came to $193.40.

The hospital invoice shows details of Pauline and Billy’s six-day stay in the hospital.

Letters of congratulations poured in from Aunt Nancy & Uncle Bill Morris (his namesake); Lloyd & Lucile Qually; Palma Weflen, Yvonne & Keith Grennan; Rose & Woodrow Gauthier; Wilfred & Wilma St. Clair; Marian Dahl, and Aunt Ruth Forest.  Pauline’s mother, Marie mailed her a letter every day.  Pauline kept all of them.

That week’s visitors to the hospital included his Grandma Marie & Grandpa John Morris; Aunt Nancy Morris, Aunt Nola Fontana, Aunt Alice & Uncle Jack Morris; Palma Weflen, Lucile Qually, Grandma Lulu Kombol & Aunt Dana Zaputil; plus Billy Guerrini with his Daddy, Jack.  Bill Guerrini was a close childhood friend of Jack back in their Kangley days.  Guerrini often told the story that Jack’s son was named after him.

The baby record completed by the hospital nurse with Baby Billy’s footprints. The booklet had several pages.

On July 11, Pauline and baby Billy left the hospital and traveled several miles north to Aunt Nola’s home in Lake City.  That Saturday night, Jack picked Pauline and Billy up driving them to the family’s rental home in Selleck.  By Monday morning, Jack was back at work as a truck driver for Palmer Coking Coal.

Pauline poured all her love into the baby boy at that small Selleck home.  It was built in 1912 to house workers of the long-since-closed sawmill. There she nurtured and cuddled Billy to ward off a repeat tragedy and heal the loss of Paula Jean.  So, all the love she hadn’t buried with Paula was invested in Billy.

And that’s how William John Kombol grew up, surrounded by love and affection.  As that grown boy writes another chapter in his story of scenes from a charmed life.

Pauline with Billy in the living room of their Selleck home, his milk bottle on the lamp-stand, Sept. 1953.

Who’s who among those named:

Pauline Lucile Morris (1927-2011) – Pauline was born the 4th of four children to John H. Morris and Nina Marie Morris.  Both of her parents were children of Welsh coal miners named Morris who immigrated to America.  She grew up in Durham, the coal mining town where so many of her Morris uncles and aunts lived, as did dozens of miners and their families.  Pauline moved to Enumclaw at age six, graduated from EHS in 1945, and married Jack Kombol in late 1950.

Laverne Shercliffe “Jack” Kombol (1921-1979) – Jack was born the 4th of five children to Tony Kombol and Lulu Shircliff.  He was struck with polio at age six so didn’t attend school for two years.  Jack dropped out of high school at age 19 and moved to Seattle where he lived with his sister, Nola, and drove trucks for the garbage companies.  He bounced around at a number of jobs but mostly worked in the woods driving logging trucks and running equipment.  Jack joined Palmer Coking Coal Co. in June 1952, the same month Paula Jean died.  He died of pancreatic cancer at age 57.

Paula Jean Kombol (1952-1952) – Paula died two days after birth and is buried in the Enumclaw cemetery about 50 feet from her parent’s grave.

Tony Kombol (1884-1967) – Jack’s father, Tony emigrated from Croatia at age 17 and made his way to Roslyn where he joined two brothers as coal miners. Tony worked at the Ravensdale mine, avoiding the 1915 explosion that claimed 31 lives.  The family moved to Arizona and Montana where he worked the copper mines before returning to Washington.  A 1925 explosion nearly blinded him and he could no longer work.  For the next 42 years, he kept track of their small farm and worked around the home.

Lulu (Shircliff) Kombol (1885-1976) – Jack’s mother, Lulu was born in Walla Walla to Jennie Brown, age 17 who was seven months pregnant.  Jennie married William Shircliff, an Army paymaster clerk, who abandoned his wife and daughter after eight months of marriage.  Lulu’s mother remarried and she grew up on a Cowlitz River farm.  Lulu attended Bellingham Normal School attaining her teacher’s certificate and eventually moved to Ravensdale where teachers were paid more.  After bearing five children, she went back to teaching, primarily in Cumberland and Selleck schools after Tony’s mine accident  In total, Lulu taught for more than 50 years before retiring at age 80.

John Henry Morris (1894-1973) – Pauline’s father was born in Wilkeson into a large family of coal miners.  John’s mother and father emigrated from Wales shortly after their marriage.  His father and brothers all worked in the coal mines, eventually rising through the ranks and starting their own coal mining company, then a second named Morris Brothers. John with three brothers and one investor started Palmer Coking Coal Co. in August 1933, during the darkest days of the Great Depression.

Nina Marie (Morris) Morris (1890-1967) – Pauline’s mother was born in the coal mining town of Franklin.  Her father, Joshua was a coal miner who in 1880 was on the prospecting party that discovered coal seams in the Green River Gorge that led to the establishment of Black Diamond and Franklin.  Shortly after Marie’s birth, the family moved to Osceola where Joshua farmed in the summer and mined coal in the winter.  Marie and her two sisters, Lena and Ruth graduated from Buckley H.S. and all three become school teachers. She met John while teaching in Wilkeson where he was working in the coal mines.

Uncle Bill Morris (1897-1979) – William “Bill” Morris was the closest brother to John H. Morris, thus a great uncle to his namesake, Bill Kombol.  Bill Morris was a jack-of-all-trades around the coal mines, working primarily on the surface in the preparation plants.

Aunt Nancy (Boots) Morris (1899-1969) – Nancy and her husband Bill lost two children, each of whom died shortly after childbirth.  Great Aunt Nancy often babysat the Kombol children in their Four Corners home.

Lloyd & Lucile Qually – Lloyd was the head mechanic for Pacific States Lumber, the company that owned the town of Selleck.  He held that job until the mill closed in 1939.  Lucile was a school teacher with Lulu Kombol at the old Selleck School that burned down in 1929.  Eventually, they lived in the town’s biggest home, once occupied by Frank Selleck.  The Quallys were good friends of Jack and Pauline.

Palma Weflen – Census records show she was a 55-year-old widow and nurse living with a family in Seattle. Most likely she was a kind of a midwife to Pauline.

Yvonne (Cross) & Keith Grennan – Yvonne was one of Pauline’s best friends from high school.  Her husband Keith was a brother to Dolly (Grennan) Fugate another of Pauline’s good friends.

Rose (Kombol) Gauthier (1920-2001) was Jack’s first cousin who moved from Roundup Montana when she was 16 to live with the Kombol family in Kangley.  She went to work at the Durham Hotel, which was managed by Jonas and Maggie Morris, John H., and Bill Morris’ older brother.  Rose married Woodrow Gauthier (1913-2001) (pronounced goat-chee), a logger and later a sawmill owner.  Jack worked for Gauthier Brothers Lumber & Logging Co. on and off for 10 years.

Wilfred & Wilma St. Clair were next-door neighbors to the home of Tony & Lulu Kombol, and friends with Jack & Pauline.  Two of their sons, Bill and Dick St. Clair often played with the Kombol boys.

Marian Dahl (1912-2005) was Pauline’s cousin, though almost a generation older.

Ruth (Morris) Forest (1892-1968) was Pauline’s aunt and Nina Marie Morris’ sister, hence Bill’s great-aunt.  She was born on the Fourth of July.

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

Dana (Kombol) Zaputil (1918-2012) was Jack’s oldest sister, married to Frank Zaputil (1914-1984), hence Bill’s aunt and uncle.

Nola (Kombol) Fontana (1919-2017) was Jack’s older sister, married to Chester Fontana (1916-1971), hence Bill’s aunt and uncle.  Chester’s Fontana relatives, who during Prohibition were involved in bootlegging gifted Chester & Nola their Lake City home in 1940.  When Jack moved to Seattle to drive garbage trucks during the war years, he stayed at Chester and Nola’s Lake City home paying for his room and board.  Twenty-five years later, when Bill took a bank job in Seattle he stayed with his Aunt Nola and paid her for room and board.  Nola lived in that home for 77 years before dying there in 2017.

Billy Guerrini, at age 97 is still alive and lives in the family home in Kangley.  Jack was best friends with his brother Martin “Fats” Guerrini, but after Fats died during WW-II, Jack and Billy became close friends.  When Jack drove to the hospital to see his new baby boy name Billy, Billy Guerrini came in with him.

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Postmarked Vietnam

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture *

TWO SONGS – TWO STORIES

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

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

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

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

JANUARY 1966: “BALLAD OF THE GREEN BERET” RELEASED

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

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

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

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

JANUARY 1968: “SKY PILOT” RELEASED

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

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

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

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

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

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

1971: COLLEGE AND THE DRAFT

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

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

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

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

DECEMBER 31, 2017: KARAOKE AND CLOSURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Postmarked Vietnam – May 2005 – WJK Studios

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

 

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Reflections on Tom Landis

Tom Landis died suddenly 13 years ago today.  This is the eulogy I read at his funeral a month later.  A few months before, I saw 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 the ability to communicate with almost everyone.  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, a philosophical insight; more often, an approach to life through building or construction; less frequently, but most valuably, an insight into my own shortcomings.

The Tom I knew.

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 more I came to know Tom, the better 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 in 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 in quoting Jesus or the Bible.  He believed ‘the journey’ to be more important than ‘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 film.  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.

recall 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, “The 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 worldview.  A few years back, I sent Tom a commentary on the 1960s in general and the year 1968 in particular.  In response, he recounted his days of meeting the likes of Abbie HoffmanMark Rudd, and Eldridge Cleaver at 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 writes his autobiographical novel.

Tom wrote an autobiographical novel, not too many years before his death.  It’s the story of a man who dies suddenly in late middle age.  He wrote, “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 his late middle age on Dec. 15, 2009.

Tom wrote extensively about life on Diego Garcia, a British-American island outpost in the Indian Ocean, where he formed enduring friendships with his Seabee buddies.  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 finished 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 volleyball 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 fail to know the next time we’ll prove him right.

“You’re all idiots.” – Tom Landis (including his eulogist).
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Ten Album Turning Points – Desert Island Discs

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 ClinkerdaggerBickerstaff & 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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