Pauline and Bill Kombol, summer 1972, photo by Barry Kombol
Mom died 15 years ago today. A few days later, a good friend placed his hand on my shoulder and told me, “You just lost the best friend you’ll ever have.” Truer words have rarely been spoken.
We knew it was coming. She had COPD – Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. Like many of her generation, Pauline smoked. For years, make that decades, she tried to quit, and for the most part did, limiting herself to just a few smokes a day. In fact, for the longest time, even I didn’t know she still smoked. She hid it that well.
In her last year, grandchildren from far away came to visit. Thanksgiving weekend 2010, Mom wished to take a ride around Enumclaw and point out her old family homes. And that of her grandfather, Joshua Morris, whom she never really knew, as he died before she was two years old. She packed her oxygen tank, and though experiencing discomfort, we completed the several-hour trip around town and out to Osceola. A few weeks later, she called me at work first thing in the morning. For thirty minutes, she shared her Christian faith journey and how proud she was to have passed it down to her children, in different iterations.
A week before Christmas, she fell. How many times have falls lead to death in older adults? First stop was Enumclaw Hospital, then a Federal Way rehab center, where we visited her on Christmas Day. She seemed to be getting better, but a setback landed her in Swedish Hospital. On New Year’s Day, many of the family visited. Mom convinced the doctors to pump her up on steroids, then put on makeup, so that when we visited, she was sparkling and appeared to be years younger. I was amazed by her remarkable recovery – right before my eyes. She was vibrant, almost perky. She held a great-grandchild in her arms, looking angelic. I imagined she’d somehow been cured. Foolish me, for I didn’t know of the doctor’s trick.
At Swedish Hospital, Pauline and her great-granddaughter, Nina Marie Clooke, age two months, January 1, 2011.
Pauline left Swedish for the Kline Galland nursing home near Seward Park. It’s a lovely place in a forested setting. And for the next three weeks, she slowly proceeded to die, under the gentle care of hospice personnel who calibrated the precise dose of morphine to keep her both conscious and free of pain. On the last few nights, we rotated sleeping beside her.
The fateful call came Monday afternoon, January 24, 2011. We were in Auburn at the Celebration of Life for Jill Alverson, Cal Bashaw’s daughter. Mom and Cal had joined their lives in partnership a decade earlier. Cal and his family became a part of our family. Were two daggers purposely thrown that day?
The following week was a whirlwind. We organized the funeral at Sacred Heart Catholic Church and coordinated with Enumclaw Funeral Home, just like we did for Dad, 32 years earlier. Father Bill Hausmann, one of Mom’s best friends and the priest who married Jennifer and me, came to perform the service. Mom wanted to be buried, so I chose a coffin, the simplest, bare pine box available, like those of earlier generations. Mom was never showy; she always practiced modesty but never pretension.
Our job was made easy as Mom had written down most of what she wanted after life. Father Hausmann graciously guided us through assembling the funeral service. Old family friends filled the pews. “How Great Thou Art” and “Amazing Grace” were sung. The 23rd Psalm was read, as were Corinthians 15:51-57 and Luke 12:48-49. Each of her four children delivered remembrances, as did two grandchildren. Following the Celebration of Life in the Parish Hall, the immediate family journeyed to the cemetery where Pauline was buried next to her husband, Jack. Flowers were tossed on her pinewood coffin. Her gravestone read, ‘Morte in Vitam,’ Latin for ‘death into life.’
Pauline (Morris) Kombol’s funeral program.
Thirty-two years earlier, Dad’s end came fast, dying a little over three weeks after his pancreatic cancer diagnosis. One night before he died, he called me to his bedside and set forth a task: “I want you to take care of your mother.” Both daughters lived far away, while Barry and Cathy had three toddlers and a fourth on the way next year.
That was the easiest job I ever had. There was one simple way to take care of Mom – I let her take care of me. I was single, unattached, and living in their Lake Sawyer summer cabin, a mere 10 miles away. I came frequently for dinner. She hemmed my pants and sewed buttons on my shirts. And always sent me home with food: casseroles, lentil soup, scones, and blackberry pie.
We became pals, going to concerts and plays. With Danica, we drove to Pasadena and attended the 1981 Rose Bowl. I encouraged her to purchase a condo in downtown Seattle and joined as a 20% partner. We jointly managed Dad’s affairs, sharing the bookwork and undertaking investments. Each summer, she joined me at her lake house until I moved out after purchasing a Maple Valley condo. Even then, we accomplished a remodel that doubled the size of her lake home while maintaining its chalet character and style.
Together, we undertook projects. We sorted through piles of family photos, identifying faces whose names I wrote on the back. She guided me through family genealogies, from which I published several Morris and Kombol family histories. Those endeavors inspired me and led to a second-act writing hobby. Mom remained an essential part of my life until the end.
Knowing she was gone, I conjured ways to keep her alive. During the first nine months of my life, in utero, I shared everything with her. After leaving the womb, a baby carries maternal cells for decades, possibly for life. It’s called maternal micro-chimerism. There was my hook, my hold – deep down in the cavity of my soul, a few of Mom’s cells may still reside in me. On a molecular level, she was still with me. Just as during her life, I was still part of her, as mothers continue to carry cells of their infants for years, even decades after birth. Maybe I was grasping at straws, a drowning man trying to save a sense of self by clutching the DNA of flimsy reeds. But it worked.
Memory is a curious sort of history. The past in your head becomes the present. You step through its walls to the days and months of yesteryear – the way it used to be. We conjure snippets of recall from faraway events, hoping to make them real again. And then we’ll see each other and speak as we did before. There’s an element of magic at work. Like the alchemists, trying to change one element into another, we hope against hope that our leaden memories might somehow be turned to gold.
Some questions remain long after their owners have died, lingering like ghosts searching for answers never found in life. On this side of heaven, all we possess is the present. But the present endlessly dissolves into the past. There I am, a little boy of three or four. One of my earliest memories, in Elk Coal, with Barry. We’ve planned a performance to show off our skills to an audience of one – Mom.
On the edge of the yard where the tall trees grow, there’s a vine maple tree with a branch growing horizontally from the ground. Barry, two and one-half years older than me, flips upside down, hanging by his knees, grinning broadly. I jump and grab the branch and hang by my arms. Mom claps wildly, as if it’s the most incredible show she’s ever seen. Barry continues to hang. I drop from the branch and run into her outstretched arms as she squeezes me tightly. I’d never felt so proud.
That’s what Gary Habenicht meant when he advised, I just lost the best friend I’ve ever had.
Grandma Pauline with 13 of her 14 grandchildren on the occasion of her 80th birthday celebration in Arizona, March 31, 2007.
April 1975 – the final quarter of college and the end of 17 years of schooling. My afternoon job at Rogers No. 3 coal mine conveniently came to an end. Six months of 17-hour days driving from Enumclaw to Seattle, attending classes at U.W., studying, then on to Ravensdale for eight hours of grimy work, showering in the washhouse, with a half-hour drive back home, to bed by midnight, only to repeat the process six or seven hours later. It wore me down. I wanted to retire. Spring break was my last week, thankfully on the day shift.
That quarter provided a fresh beginning. Though only one college credit shy of graduating, I took a full schedule of 14 credits, including two finance classes to round out my Economics degree. Expanding my interests, I chose a two-credit Home Ec class in nutrition, one credit for tennis, plus a three-credit class called The Living Theater.
Growing up I had zero interest in theater and never even went to a school play during high school. I did attend one musical my senior year – the Who’s Tommy, presented at the Moore Theater, with a little-known, Bette Midler as the Acid Queen. In May of my freshman year, I saw a touring company’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar.
Program cover from the Who’s Tommy presented at the Moore Theater, 1971.
My true interest in theater grew one Sunday afternoon during the summer of 1973 while reading Rex Reed’s movie reviews in the Seattle P-I. Reed highlighted a just-announced collection of filmed plays to be presented in movie theaters, on a limited basis, and only by subscription. The American Film Theatre, produced by Eli Landau filmed eight stagings of top theatrical works all featuring notable actors. Each film would be shown just four times, and exclusively at 500 select movie theaters across the nation.
I convinced Mom to subscribe and Dad joined, as well as Aunt Betty and Uncle Charlie Falk. The local showings were at the Crossroads Theater, east of Bellevue. I was a junior at the U.W. and each month drove my 1967 Renault across the I-90 floating bridge to meet the folks with an occasional dinner beforehand. In the “don’t trust anyone over 30” atmosphere of the early 1970s, a sentiment, I roundly rejected, it was a thrill to hang with my parents, aunt, and uncle, all comfortably in their late 40s and early 50s. I took pride in having launched this event to see the best of Broadway. The ushers even handed out real playbills!
Among the plays we saw: The Homecoming, A Delicate Balance, Butley, Rhinoceros, and Three Sisters. But, the greatest theatrical event in my estimation was The Iceman Cometh starring Lee Marvin as Hickey, a traveling salesman in an all-star cast of Robert Ryan, Frederick March, Bradford Dillman, and a young Jeff Bridges. The Iceman Cometh was four hours long, three acts, and two intermissions. It showcased Eugene O’Neill’s story of dead-enders with delusional pipe dreams who stayed drunk in Harry Hopes’ last chance saloon and boarding house to avoid facing the world.
That introduction to serious drama couldn’t have come at a better time. We subscribed for the second season that featured Galileo, In Celebration, and The Man in the Glass Booth. Unfortunately, the major Hollywood studios pressured local theaters to cancel American Film Theater screenings and the enterprise thereafter collapsed.
But I was now hooked on stage productions. The Living Theater class, in the engineering department of all places, was my new ticket to more serious drama. In addition to learning about the structure of plays and the various venues where they’re presented, students were required to attend seven live plays at the three theaters on campus, including the revered Showboat, a floating auditorium moored in Portage Bay. In addition, I saw three off-campus productions including Death of a Salesman at Tacoma’s U.P.S. and a pair of Tom Stoppard offerings at Seattle’s Second Stage.
Theater of the Absurd – Which performance?
The Living Theater class really sharpened my prose as we were required to write reviews of the required plays. One performance wasn’t on the syllabus but really piqued my imagination. It was a double-feature of two short plays by Tom Stoppard, After Magritte and The Real Inspector Hound at the Second Stage theatre. The Second Stage was affiliated with the Seattle Repertory Theatre and typically presented more experimental shows.
The Second Stage theatre program for Tom Stoppard’s, “After Magritte” and “The Real Inspector Hound” – April 28, 1975
Both Stoppard offerings were from a dramatic style called the Theatre of the Absurd – plays that reject traditional storytelling by focusing on what happens when narrative communication breaks down. In late April, I took Mom to see the double feature and wrote the following review, trying to capture the surreal and absurd nature of what we saw, both on stage and off.
“Reality”
We come on the sloop John B my dear mother and me.
We entered the Second Stage arena well before show time, found two second-row seats, and proceeded to experience the sights and sounds of the theater.
I pointed out all the Seattle luminaries listed as Second Stage supporters. Behind us, a woman in her middle fifties, whom we were going to encounter frequently as the night progressed, made the same observation. Our eavesdropping skills were in top form so my mother and I proceeded to monitor this woman’s conversations the rest of the night.
“Oh, look here, Christopher Bailey is on the list of supporters. I wonder what night he comes?”
Accompanied by two other women (from their conversations, I assumed the talkative one to be a grandmother with her daughter, and a friend), Mrs. Chatterbox, which my mother appropriately christened her, spoke, “There’s Lori.”
Lori was one of three girls of high school age who were ushers. Lori, it turned out, was also the garrulous grandmother’s granddaughter.
“Now why doesn’t she seat those people over there, plenty of good seats right there. I was shopping today and . . . oh, look, who is that? Isn’t that Jean Enersen?”
The daughter replied, “Yes, that girl on Seattle Today. No, that isn’t Jean Enersen, it’s that Shirley, yes Shirley.”
“Isn’t that Jean Enersen, the blonde one on King Newservice,” the loquacious grandmother butted in.
“Now where is Lori going to seat her? Look, Lori is putting that Jean Enersen in those good seats. I wonder why SHE gets those seats. Just because she’s on TV.”
“That isn’t Jean Enersen. It’s that Shirley.”
“Well, whoever it is, there’s seats over there, Lori,” the grandmother commands as if she’s talking to her granddaughter who must be fifty feet away.
The play begins. After Magritte is a delightfully surrealistic, satirical takeoff on something resembling a mystery or Sherlock Holmes type of script.
At intermission, the fun continues. Lori, the usher comes over to visit with her mother and grandmother. Mrs. Chatterbox asks, “Wasn’t that Jean Enersen you seated, Lori? Why did she get such good seats?”
The mother responds, “That’s Shirley, the girl on Seattle Today, not Jean Enersen.”
Lori tells her tale of what the ‘snobby’ Jean Enersen or Shirley said. In a mock voice, she repeats, “We don’t want THESE seats, I would prefer being seated there.”
“Who does she think she is?” the grandmother retorts. Lori and her two usher friends giggle and tell of their other experiences as ushers.
Mrs. Chatterbox again, “Look now, that Jean Enersen is leaving, what, doesn’t she like the play? I can’t stand her anyway. Did you see her show yesterday when they had that psychologist who talked about symbols? I absolutely detest that show.”
“That’s not Jean Enersen. It’s that Shirley on Seattle Today.”
“Well whatever, look, she’s not coming back. After getting those good seats, she goes and leaves in the middle of the play. I can’t stand her show. That psychologist explained what it means if you like . . . uh, I mean, uh . . . relate to a circle, a square, a triangle, or a Z. I draw circles and that means . . .” as she proceeded to give a lengthy pop-Freudian interpretation to drawing circles.
The Real Inspector Hound was another trip into the fantasy world of the absurd. Eventually, the critics attending the supposed play were involved in the fun, murder, and intrigue as critics became players and the players became critics.
Leaving the theater at the end of the plays, I turned to my mother and asked, “Well, what did you think of those shows? Rather unreal, huh?”
She replied, “Which performance?”
By William Kombol
April 28, 1975
HSS 451, Jack Leahy, Assoc. Professor
Professor Leahy gave me an ‘A’ for the class, writing, “
Great! You ought to be a playwright. This is a funny paper. I don’t quite know why, but the Repertory seems to attract these kinds of audiences – try opening night at a regular Rep presentation – it’s downright awesome, but very much a part of theater. The Elizabethans were the same. And that’s what makes it fun. Very much enjoyed reading this paper.”
The first page of my review, titled “Reality” with the professor’s handwritten comments.
My interest in theater grew.
My interest in theater grew with each new play I saw. I kept programs and playbills from most performances and usually stapled the ticket stub to the cover. While writing this essay I made a quick count of the collection which totals over 300, though some were lost. In the early years, I primarily saw were dramas. Back then only the biggest musicals yielded touring companies. But any musical with Andrew Lloyd Webber’s name attached found me attending.
Through all of them, Tom Stoppard remained my favorite playwright. And with each new play of his I saw, so did my admiration. Stoppard’s plays are first produced in the United Kingdom, and only his most successful make it to the U.S. Still, I’ve been able to see most of his best including the breakout hit, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, The Real Thing, Arcadia, Rock ‘n’ Roll, and Leopoldstadt, his most recent. With the advent of audio plays, I’ve listened to the lion’s share of the rest, including the mesmerizing Darkside, inspired by Pink Floyd’s 1973 album. Stoppard is generally considered the greatest living English language playwright. His most popular film adaptation is Shakespeare in Love.
In addition to seeing live performances, these days I’m more often listening to the likes of L.A. Theater Works or other recordings found on Libby and Audible. It may not be for everyone, but when you’re hooked on live drama, an audio play will do quite nicely.
Below are some of my favorite audio plays:
Broadway Bound– In my estimation, Neil Simon’s concluding comedic drama of an autobiographical trilogy, may be one of the finest works of the 20th century. It mixes humor with pathos and when you’re not laughing you might just find yourself shedding a tear. The L.A. Theater Works audio production is superb.
Copenhagen– This weighty play explores the ethics and morality of developing the atomic bomb. Michael Frayn, one of England’s leading playwrights explores the real-life 1941 meeting between Niels Bohr, the great Danish physicist, and Werner Heisenberg, Germany’s leading nuclear scientist. There are two audio versions – pick the one starring Benedict Cumberbatch as Heisenberg.
The Real Thingis generally considered Tom Stoppard’s best. Its focus is broken marriages, adultery, and the nature of love, more specifically the real thing, interspersed with two plays within the play we’re seeing.
Arcadia, another Stoppard favorite explores the relationship between past and present, order and disorder, certainty and uncertainty, plus the nature of evidence and truth in history, mathematics, and physics. It’s a complex play that requires several listening’s to fully understand.
Darksideis probably Stoppard’s most approachable audio play, as it was written as such to celebrate the 40th anniversary of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon. It’s 45 minutes long with philosophical dialogue interspersed with music from the album. It’s a play you can listen to time and time again and still hear something fresh.
Post script: Ian Hunter’s 1981 song, “Theater of the Absurd” doesn’t really rise to what playwrights of that style are trying to achieve. Still it’s an amusing song and Hunter, former lead singer in Mott the Hoople is one of my favorites, so here’s a video link with lyrics:
Adapted from a 1929 first edition of Ernest Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms."
It was a dark and stormy night. Coastal rains pounded the Oregon Coast. STOP!
Mike Wickre would have ridiculed this opening, but Mike Wickre is gone, so I’ll write it my way, mindful of his dismissive wisecracks from beyond.
With little notice, an old friend passes away. A Facebook message warned of Mike’s imminent demise. Days later, a concluding text informed his life was over. Then silence. Whoosh! Gone!! Only his Facebook page remains – that’s death in the digital world.
Word leaked out, there would be no service. Mike didn’t want one. No gathering of friends to bid adieu to an old pal. No farewells, no sharing of memories, none of those anecdotes and stories that lessen our collective loss. A fading remembrance swallowed by emptiness. As Jeff Lynne poignantly asked in the best ELO song that nobody’s heard, “Is this the way life’s meant to be?”
I regret there being no funeral or Celebration of Life. Rituals are important for saying goodbye. The world is a poorer place, if as it seems they’re going out of fashion. The deceased’s wishes are usually respected, though with Wickre, I’m tempted to disregard his desire – to poke back, as he so often poked others.
Most would agree – Mike was a difficult individual. Kristofferson described him best – a walking contradiction, partly truth, and partly fiction. Need I add: eccentric, bombastic, irreverent, nutty, sarcastic, and cynical, with an over-arching egotistical approach to life.
But he had a charm and charisma that’s hard to ignore. At the end of the day, he made me a better person. But half the time aggravated the hell out of me.
Mike Wickre’s 1973 Enumclaw High School graduation photo.
The obituary nobody else wrote, so I did
Michael Irwin Wickre was born to Marilyn (Smith) and Raymond Wickre in Bremerton, Washington on Oct. 3, 1955. His grandmother was a Lakota Sioux. Mike took pride in his Native American heritage. He said she was “white as china,” and died without a clue. Fittingly the family moved to Lakota Beach in Federal Way where Mike attended Lakota Middle School. There he became close friends with Brad Broberg, who remained one for the rest of his life.
The Wickres moved to Enumclaw in 1969 when Mike was in 8th grade. They lived on S.E. 408th Street in the foothills east of Veazie Valley. Mike’s younger brother, Alan described their small farm as “the last house before the hill. We had cows, horses, ducks, chickens, rabbits, and geese. From the creek, there was a pipe to our man-made pond. It was a great place to be a kid.”
One of Mike’s first Enumclaw friends was Joe Cerne who remembered his dry-witted humor and quick tongue. “Mike was the funniest guy around,” Joe recalled, “I never laughed louder than being with him.” Kevin Rustvold remembered how he loved playing pinball and foosball, but remained a serious germ-a-phobe all of his life. Mike’s class became the first 9th graders to attend high school since the new building opened in 1962.
Mike graduated in 1973 and found work at Weyerhaeuser, saving money to attend a four-year college. He was proud of his time in the woods and shared plenty of stories about planting trees and setting chokers. He also worked at Hygrade’s meat packing plant on the Tacoma tide flats and chronicled the time he shoveled pig guts into the grinder. He remembered the plant as “a five-story pile of filth on a site so toxic it is still uninhabitable for rats,” then added, “It got worse.”
Mike Wickre’s description of his injury while working for Weyerhaeuser: “Got caught in the bite . . . the haul-back was side-washed and stretched out of plumb . . . it snapped and the mainline caught me just below my man stuff. It sent me downhill riding the butt rigging . . . felt like getting my leg caught in a car door. Saved enough money to go back to school. Pretty fun memories and good friends . . . most loggers are very nice men underneath their Copenhagen stains. Loggers chew because it’s too danger to smoke cigs or weed while setting chokers. Plus you need a little ‘something’ out there.”
Mike labored at gritty jobs and took classes at Green River Community College. He hung out with Enumclaw classmates, Tony Pedrini, Kevin Rustvold, John Kochevar, Mike Shook, and Steve Dunning. Most were involved with the Enumclaw Soccer Club and played for the G.R.C.C. Gators. (Mike and Steve are seen photobombing the team in a nearby picture.) Mike had an entrepreneurial spirit. He started a company called Acme Hornet Hunters, whose business was to remove wasp and hornet nests while selling bees to high school biology classes. It wasn’t a stinging success.
Enumclaw Soccer Club 1972-73. 1st Row, L-R: Tony Pedrini, Ted Klahn, Ricky Thompson, unknown. 2nd Row, L-R: Pete Bowman, Kenny Cowells, John Kochevar, Paul Raine, Mike ?, Bobby Remein. 3rd Row, L-R: Kevin Rustvold, Theron ?, Mike Shook, Coach Alf Meubauer, Frank Nichols. Photobombing from behind the fence: Steve Dunning and Mike Wickre.
After earning enough money and Green River credits, Mike enrolled at Western Washington University in Bellingham. He majored in journalism and wrote for the Western Front student newspaper. Mike was always attracted to the bizarre and enjoyed his first big journalistic success with a Feb. 10, 1978 article about human cloning. It was picked up by wire services. He graduated from Western in December 1979 and moved home, throwing himself into the Enumclaw scene.
Mike joined Greg Lovell and Tony Pedrini in renting a house on Griffin Street across from where the new Four Seasons restaurant was being built. They called their bachelor pad the No-Tell Motel. He sang backup in Kevin Rustvold’s band named Sphincter.
The band Sphincter, circa 1977. 1st frame, clockwise: Les Walthers on keyboards, Mike Wickre clapping, Mike Hanson on bass, Kevin Rustvold on guitar, and Mike Shook kneeling with microphone. 2nd frame, L-R: Dave Reynolds, Kevin Rustvold, Mike Hanson, Mike Shook.
With Pedrini and Rustvold, he coached Jack’s Scrappers, an Enumclaw girls’ softball team. After-game parties at the No-Tell Motel featured Rainer beer. They collected the empty bottles until a pickup load generated enough funds to purchase a refrigerated keg tap. Celebrations typically started Thursday night after softball and often extended till Friday. The No-Tell bachelor party ended two years after it began.
Jack’s Scrappers, the women’s softball team that Tony, Kevin, and Mike coached went undefeated that season. From the July 21, 1977 Enumclaw Courier-Herald.L-R: Greg Lovell in blue shirt and white tie, and Mike Wickre pointing to the pickup load of Rainier beer bottles while carrying a BB gun.
In September 1980, he joined the Enumclaw Courier-Herald and worked under its legendary editor, Robert “Bud” Olson. Mike was the paper’s only reporter. Small-town newspapers don’t pay much, so he quit the Courier-Herald in April 1981 and joined a marketing guru who showed him the ropes for selling advertising. The job fit his journalistic background and business initiative. That training propelled Mike to a very successful career selling newspaper, TV, and radio ads.
On Sept. 18, 1982, Mike married Nancy Ann Johnson, a Dakota Indian. She was the adopted daughter of an English author, Emilie Johnson who wrote “My China Odyssey.” Mike and Nancy bought a home in Northshore between Tacoma and Federal Way. With what he learned about selling ads, Mike opened his own marketing firm, AdStrategies, LLC, which he later operated out of a condo just above the Tacoma Dome. He earned bucket loads of money as a one-man advertising agency for auto dealers, car shows, and RV sales firms like Baydo’s.
Mike and Nancy’s marriage fell apart in the 2010s when Mike moved full-time into his Tacoma condo. Nancy died in October 2015. Three years later, Mike met Jacinta Mwihaki Njeri online, a nurse who goes by the name Dee. She was attracted to his humor and found him to be a very funny guy, as almost everyone did.
The couple married on Sept. 19, 2020. Dee told me that Mike liked to cook and was a good one. He also enjoyed watching sports on TV, especially baseball, and also World War II histories. A few months before he died, Mike wrote, “In case I croak, I am on record. Greg Wasell and Steve Bunker were the funniest guys I ever met. Greg was always thinking ahead for a prank. Bunker made planting 800 trees a day fun.”
In early December 2023, Mike fell, hitting his head which caused bleeding in the brain. He lapsed into a coma and died at Tacoma General Hospital on Dec. 29, 2023, at age 68. Michael Irwin Wickre is survived by his wife, Jacinta (known as Dee), his mother, Marilyn, a sister, Marla Wickrefujimoto, and two brothers, Alan Wickre and Ryan Wickre.
Mike’s ashes are buried at the family’s Tokeland cabin with a lilac tree planted above. Really, Mike? Planted beneath a lilac tree? After the last shovel full of dirt was stomped on his remains, Wickre’s ghost whispered a snarky retort, then spit a wad of chew on the grave.
The Wickre I Knew
I first met Mike Wickre in the spring of 1975, the last quarter of my senior year of college. I was living at home and worked afternoons at a coal mining job in Ravensdale. When the job ended I found myself with lots of extra time.
It was good to be back in The Claw. I was taking a tennis class so walked the block to my elementary school, J.J. Smith, to hit balls against a cinder block wall. One day Mike stopped by and struck up a conversation. He remembered me from school. Two of his friends, Scott Veenhuizen and Jeff Wasell shared a small rental a couple blocks away. Mike invited me over to hang out and play Foosball. The evening gatherings typically consisted of beer, pot, Foos, and banter.
We became friends … sort of. With Mike, you never really knew where you stood, except you were standing beside a guy with an engaging smile and captivating personality.
In the mid-1970s, a commune-influenced, all-you-need-is-Love, whole-grain aura still burned astrologically bright within the faux hippy crowd around Enumclaw. But Mike’s bruising personality tolerated no such sentimentality. He was a tough-minded logger who worked in the woods and shoveled pig guts at a packing house. Yet behind his barking bravado lived a literary wannabe. And even deeper lurked a misfit hiding his awkwardness. Mike once confessed, “Yes I know I am socially retarded. Let me know if you can work with me – your friend, Mike.”
A college classmate, Bruce Hyland reflected on the dichotomy, “An interesting thing about Mike … he seemed to have one foot in the hard-scrabble, Enumclaw working man’s life and the other in the civilized world of writer/soccer player/college life. And he didn’t quite fit in either. He always straddled between the workingman and the effete world of journalism.”
I never grew close to Mike because, at some primal level, I feared his explosive outbursts. Still, I liked being around him. Mike was that kind of guy – a cunning sense of humor delivered with a biting tongue. Mike’s favorite quote, one by Winston Churchill captured his antagonistic personality, “He has all the virtues I dislike, and none of the vices I admire.” Wickre loved Monty Python’s skit, “The Argument Clinic.”
Like many great friendships, ours blossomed on the sporting field. Mike invited me to join the Dolezal Chiropractic slow-pitch softball team that Ken Prince captained. By the spring of 1977, I was working as a management trainee at a bank and living in Seattle. I drove an hour to Enumclaw for late afternoon games. We kicked off the season on April 23, playing a double-header on Saturday, one morning game and one in the afternoon.
The Dolezal soft-ball team, circa 1977. Mike is barely visible in the back row with a hat and shaded face. Other are Ken Prince, Tony Pedrini, Bruce Radford, Alan Wicker, Chris Coppin, and Bill Kombol, front row, second from right.
After the second game, we celebrated our loss at the Logger’s Inn in Buckley. It was Wayne Podolak’s 24th birthday which entitled him to a free 72-ounce birthday mug. We all got slowly plowed. Mike, Greg & Jeff Wasell, and I ended up at Lioce’s in Auburn for more beer and pizza. We nearly ended the night in a bar fight. Mike was the kind of guy you wanted by your side in a bar fight. That’s how you built friendships in your twenties.
A few months later I recorded our team’s lineup in a June 13 diary entry:
Catcher –Mike Ackershot and me
Pitcher – Ken Prince
1B – Chris Coppin
2B – Dan Darby
3B – Donnie Robinson
SS – Wayne Podolak
LF – Mike Wickre
LC – Dave
RC – Jeff Wasell
RF – Greg Wasell
Les Hall also played but was absent. That day we lost to the Lee Restaurant roster headed by Keith Fugate, Kim Kuro, and Stan Fornalski.
At the plate, Mike belonged to the “go big or go home” school of thought. Every swing was for the fences. The guy could hit softballs a mile and often did. Win or lose, the real team bonding started afterward at one of many local drinking dives. That night we ended up at the Alcove Tavern. Enumclaw had five or six downtown saloons within a block’s walk, all of the same ilk – neon-lit, smoke-filled, fading posters, pull tabs, pickled eggs.
That summer we waterskied at Lake Sawyer where Mike was witness to a bee flying up my nose and stinging me. As Mom applied meat tenderizer to my nostril, Mike lost control laughing. He never let me forget it. That same afternoon Mike got sick after drinking too much beer and vomited on the deck. Afterward, he marveled at how nice my mother was, “She didn’t even yell at me. She was always smiling.”
A week or so later, I wrote in my diary, “Friendship is nothing more than shared experience.” Mike was a shared experience.
He began joining other events with our gang of friends. We played poker with a longstanding circle of my pals. Here’s how Mike described us:
“I played with you old bastards – Keith Hanson, Jim Clem, Pode, Lester, Wheels – smart guys, smart asses. I don’t know if I ever laughed so hard. I had just started a business, scared stiff, no income, playing poker. And for about three hours, an escape for me, it meant a lot. Old Rugged Cross, high-low split – best game ever. I sure would like a rematch with those guys.”
It was Mike who introduced us to Old Rugged Cross, a card game we still play to this day. In a February 2021 message, Mike continued with memories from high school:
“Nothing but respect for all of them. I had to hit Jim Ewalt in the balls in high school choir, but he respected my authority. In the bass section, those guys were big – Ewalt, good ol’ Bill Tuk, and Randy Verhoeve took turns punching me in the seeds during breathing exercises. And it always hurt. But within a week I had hit them all in their egg bags. I lived to talk about it. That’s why I respect those guys because they respected a coward like me.”
Wickre also joined our last two beer smorgasbords in 1978 and ‘79. What’s a beer smorgasbord? When a bunch of guys bring assigned half racks of beer to a party whose purpose is to blind taste test the most popular brands until everyone’s blind drunk. Mike was proud to be there and later bragged:
“It’s important to note my early successes amongst you old bastards. That night I was ‘Rookie of the Year’ and ‘MVP’ for identifying three of 15 beers. We ate saltines, and Podolak, Copperman, and you danced on the balcony in your underwear to celebrate Dale Troy going ‘In the Navy.’ It was also the night my incredibly rich, hot fiancé left me on the Veazie Flats, and that was that.”
Mike Wickre, left and Lester Hall opposite in yellow shirt at the 1979 Beer Smorgasbord at Lake Sawyer.
He added a concluding coda: “Les Hall drank a pitcher of beer through his jockstrap, which he proudly never washed – for several years judging by the stains.”
In February 1980, Mike called me from the Courier-Herald. The nation was in one of its periodic freak-out moments with 53 Americans held hostage in Iran and energy costs soaring. I worked for Palmer Coking Coal Company in Black Diamond. We were experiencing a surge in demand selling coal for home heating. Wickre came to our sales yard and interviewed my uncle Carl Falk and me. Mike was a sharp reporter who quickly grasped our market position and wrote a fitting article. He even doubled as the Courier-Herald’s photographer and took several photos he used in a story appearing on the front page of their Feb. 28, 1980 issue.
In time Mike joined our golf group, the Duffers’ Golf Association (DGA) winning the four-round summer tournament in 1988. The winner was awarded a passed-along Green Jacket that he kept in the trunk of his car that winter, where it was ruined by battery acid.
A mid-1980s DGA foursome. L-R: Tom Noltenmeyer, Jay Carbon, Tom Cerne, Mike Wickre.
Most of the golfers attended the Mariner home opener. Before carpooling to the Kingdome, we assembled at a convenient south-side tavern for pre-game warm-ups. Mike drove that night, joined by my cousin-in-law, Ron Thompson, and me. Mike proudly wore a new Mariner hat. From the backseat, Ron snatched the cap from his head. Mike sternly asked for its prompt return as a drunken Ron Thompson mocked him. Mistake!
Tensions flared. Ron raced from the car with Mike in fast pursuit. He chased him with a ferocity that scared the living daylights out of me. Wickre’s primal anger gave me the chills. I interceded with a patient pleading and Ron was spared a thrashing. You could give Mike the business, but crossed a line at your own risk. I never came close to crossing it.
Mike’s sporting life
Mike often reminisced about his high school years. In order to tell a coherent story, I’ve parsed through his blather and bluster in various Facebook missives and private messages. Let’s call it Wickre lore.
The school yearbook lists his 9th-grade activities as choir and French club, but he also joined the baseball squad under Coach Ron Miller. Mike told the story of having to give his up uniform mid-season to Mark Vannatter, a classmate and son of school administrator Don Vannatter. Wickre growled, “I like baseball. I just don’t like baseball coaches.”
As a sophomore in 1970, Mike turned out for both basketball and baseball, and continued with choir. On the baseball diamond, he bristled under head coach Frank Osborne’s dictatorial style, but was mesmerized by his instruction. Like most players, Mike called him by his initials, “My mentor, F.O. taught me life lessons, and how to hit. He turned me into a varsity pitcher. But he didn’t understand that I won’t back down. You could have made a movie of me and Frank.”
Mike called Osborne his Oedipal coach, a Freudian reference to jealous feelings a son has towards his father. As a sophomore, Mike was the team’s fourth pitcher which meant Fungo bats and shagging balls. He recalled Coach Osborne’s superstitious nature, “If you shagged infield balls and the team won . . . guess what? Wickre’s shagging balls for the rest of the season.”
One of Mike’s true joys was being around that year’s top pitcher and Hornet team leader, Jim Clem. Wickre called Clem “his all-time mentor.” Mike laid it out in a private message:
“I have a little manic attack going on. I have to tell someone this tale to stop laughing. I was a gangling sophomore. I played baseball in the 4th grade and said ‘No mas.’ So here I am, geekier than geek, and I sit down next to Jim Clem. Like sitting next to one of the Apostles. He talks to me. I think he was wearing an ascot. I am having a legend speak to me – my eyes wider than my ears. When I found out Clem was going to be my coach, I did three somersaults. Then he leans over and lets me in on a secret, ‘F.O. is the biggest prick you’ll ever meet.’”
“My two finest coaches were Doug Baldwin, wrestling at Lakota Jr. High, and Jim Clem, baseball at Enumclaw High. Both encouraged … not a negative word. Blessings to both for turning a boy into a man. I hope I can pass it along. And actually try to be like Clem who told me his simple mantra, ‘Wick, I get better and better every day.’”
His senior year Mike joined the baseball team but didn’t finish the season. Here’s how he described that truncated experience. “Irony is fun when you play along. F.O. kicked me off the Varsity Hornet baseball squad because I had long hair. Now, I have no hair. Karma’s . . . a bitch.”
Which Mike Wickre
Bruce Hyland, a friend from college made a number of acute observations about Mike.
“We met at Western in the journalism program. I had moved from upstate New York after the service and was going to school on the G.I. Bill. Most everybody else seemed young and soft … Wick, on the other hand, was clearly more worldly wise … audacious, witty, with no B.S. We clicked from Day One.”
Three decades and a whole lot of changes passed before Bruce reunited with his college friend.
“When I finally came out for a visit after some 30 years, Mike put me up at his place, gave me a car to use, fed me, and lost to me at Cribbage (just like in college). We went to a college newspaper gang reunion at a Tacoma night spot that some alums organized because I was visiting. We had a great time. Played a round of golf the following day. He was seeing (and I met) an assortment of sketchy women who knew that old saw about God giving men two heads, but only enough blood to run one at a time. A good friend in every way.”
By autumn 2016, some six years later, when he returned for a college newspaper gang reunion, Bruce encountered a changed Wickre:
“He’d been on meds for some kind of operation plus he was taking something to help him sleep. He’s virtually medicated all the time. And weed was legal so he was always tokin’ up. Lives a very isolated life … seems to be getting more irrational. He was wary and even paranoid … accusing me of screwing up his seriously screwed-up car. A very different personality.”
Two of Mike’s favorite Facebook profile pictures. Left – Hunkpapa Lakota Chief Sitting Bull, circa 1885. Right – Mike Ring-a-ling, March 2015.
Mike made me a better writer
I hadn’t seen Mike for over a decade. We last crossed paths around 2010 at Gold Mountain and made plans to connect on the golf course. Instead, we connected on Facebook. Mike discovered my interest in writing, which I practice on that illiterate social medium called Fakebook.
Now I could enjoy the fullness of Mike’s wickedness. As the Prince of putdowns berates me publicly for overusing personal pronouns – I, me, my. And says my sentences are too long. “Keep your sentences short, like Hemingway.” And my paragraphs needed to be shorter. “Let the words breathe,” Mike counseled.
This typical Wickre response came after reading one of my essays:
“As you know, I usually embarrass you worldwide. So this is just us boys. I consider you a great friend, and an easy target. Put Billsie on the tee, and I will give him a proper whack.
“I like tightened copy. Reporters in the type era were paid by the published inch. Copy editors were paid to cut words. See last sentence. So these idiots that worked for newspapers had to get to the point, tout suite (French for immediately).”
Then a few weeks later:
“Look at you improving your writing. Paragraphs are fun, every 30 words, just easier to read. I like when you reach out a bit more in your descriptive – you are on the right track – push the edges and you will get there. I want to see fire … rage … laughter, tears, and resolution … 1,000 words, no plagiarism or misspelled words. Lean into this manifesto … don’t let me down.”
And more encouragement:
“I like your tighter writing. You might enjoy the down-to-bones approach of Hunter Thompson and Mark Twain. Avoid Faulkner, who is verbose. Flowery puff is just not good. Capote wrote tight. Condense. Hemingway wrote some books I am told. Use short sentences with vigorous language. You have the skills but your writing is generally weak and in the passive voice. Your facts can’t be questioned. Use active verbs, and avoid the word ‘I’. You are smart enough to do better. I have hope.”
Plus advice on what to read and why:
“If you haven’t read it, try Ken Kesey’s “Sometimes a Great Notion” – about loggers. Best book I have read outside the Bible. Read both three times. Some of it stuck. You will get lost in it. It’s set in Oregon, but could have been Enumclaw. But, a crappy movie.”
You’re on my bucket list
For the last five years of his life, I tried to set up a dinner to reconnect. My efforts began in 2019 with offers to host a restaurant meal with two close friends, Jim Clem and Tom Cerne. Then came Covid, which tanked plans for nearly two years, much of it due to Mike’s germ-a-phobe consternation. He kept dodging my efforts with outrageous requests and changing demands. By the fall of 2024, we made progress toward our long-planned get-together which I thought was getting close. It didn’t happen – my sad regret.
One of Mike’s last messages to me: “You’re on my bucket list.” Now I’m left with the loneliest words in the English language, “If only.” Our dinner reunion will never be realized. If you have plans to meet an old friend someday, remember John Fogerty’s fateful song, “Someday Never Comes.”
A Farewell to Mike
It was a dark and stormy night. Coastal rains pounded the Oregon Coast. My wife and I made our way to Kyllo’s, a seafood grill in Lincoln City where the D River flows into the ocean. When guided to our table, we passed a nautical display featuring an Ernest Hemingway quote. I snapped this photo knowing Hemingway was Mike’s favorite writer.
The Ernest Hemingway display in Kyllo’s on the D River in Lincoln City.
Later that Saturday night I sent it to Mike via Facebook Messenger. He replied within a minute, “Listen to Ernest …” On Sunday afternoon, Dec. 10, 2023, Mike wrote his final Facebook post, “Thanks to Bill Kombol.” I didn’t see that post until after he died.
Mike Wickre’s last Facebook post, Dec. 10, 2023.
The title photo standing atop this essay came from “A Farewell to Arms.” At our Lincoln City home, we have accumulated a nice collection of decades-old books, among them a first-edition hardcover of Ernest Hemingway’s 1929 novel. Its binding is secured with black tape and the inside cover is stamped ‘Discard.’ The imprint of Enumclaw Public Library is scratched over by a black crayon.
I researched the quote from the restaurant display hoping it might be from “A Farewell to Arms.”
“Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”
Here’s an irony Mike would fully enjoy, it isn’t a Hemingway quote. It’s by William Saroyan, a novelist, playwright, and short story writer of the same era.
Sometimes a Great Notion
On numerous occasions, Mike urged me to read Ken Kesey’s “Sometimes a Great Notion.” I’ll be honest – he practically bludgeoned me. Mike read it three times. The best book he ever read besides the Bible.
Several years before he died, I bought the Audible version of Kesey’s second novel. Many critics consider it his greatest. Tom Wolfe, who later chronicled Kesey’s exploits with the Merry Prankster, took note of its brilliance. After seeing its 28-hour length, I promptly lost interest and the recording collected digital dust. When Mike died, I knew what must be done.
Sometimes a Great Notion, audiobook by Ken Kesey.
“Sometimes a Great Notion” tells the story of an Oregon family of gypo loggers. They are led by a hard-headed patriarch, Henry Stamper who has two sons, Hank the stubborn first-born, and Leland, the sensitive half-brother, from a second and much younger wife. Leland moves east with his mother, attends Yale, but returns to the family logging show to settle scores. Conflicts between father, brothers, workers, and log mills brew in the old-growth forests as union forces seek to stamp out the family’s independent ways.
Upon finishing the book, I began to see why this novel so appealed to Mike. Resistance to authority, the life of loggers, a college man’s struggle against convention, a consciousness-raising literary style – it’s all there.
I finally understood why he so wanted me to read it. I began to glimpse the specter of the boy he was. And perhaps the man he wanted to be. Reading “Sometimes a Great Notion” became my requiem for the repose of Mike’s memory.
Rest in Peace, Mike – under that lilac tree.
Mike and his family: “Sometimes I mind my own snarky business, a hate-filled wretched old P.O.S. Then sometimes the best time of your life sneaks in and makes it all worthwhile. Pictured L-R: Tarzan the chess wizard, my love Jacinta (Dee), my brother Alan, Edith Finley, my lovely mom (Marilyn), and Beth of the beach who is my new B.F.F. I ate four Dungeness crabs, just polished off the last two.” — Mike’s Facebook post Sept. 3, 2018.
“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.
Jack Kombol stands beside the Koehring 405 dragline that he operated for Palmer Coking Coal Co. at their McKay Section 18 surface coal mine, 1977.
In this 1977 photo on Franklin Hill, east of Black Diamond, Jack Kombol stands beside the dragline he operated for Palmer Coking Coal (Palmer) at the McKay-Section 18 surface coal mine. The Koehring 405 had an excavating shovel bucket to move overburden and extract coal. The light-colored rock in the background was the sandstone bedrock laying above and below the McKay coal seam that tilted at about 45 degrees to the surface. This photo comes courtesy of Lou Corsaletti, who authored several articles about the coal industry in southeast King County.
After closing the last underground coal mine in Washington, Palmer began surface mining this seam to supply Washington State with fuel to heat institutions like the Shelton Correction Center, and Monroe Reformatory.
Jack Kombol was born at his family’s rental home in the tiny and short-lived town of Hiawatha. The homes were provided by Northwest Improvement Company (NWI) to house workers at their Hiawatha coal mine located midway between Kanaskat and Kangley. The mine was designed to replace the Ravensdale Mine, whose Nov. 16, 1915 explosion claimed the lives of 31 miners. Jack’s father, Tony Kombol, worked at the Ravensdale mine but was sent home early that dreadful Tuesday. Like many unemployed coal miners, Tony Kombol left Ravensdale and found work in Arizona and Montana copper mines. Jack’s mother, Lulu (Shircliff) Kombol, was a Ravensdale school teacher who similarly lost her job.
The growing Kombol family returned to Washington in early 1919, when Tony rejoined NWI at their new Hiawatha mine. However, the mine was riddled with problems and dangers. Two miners, Joseph Ripoli, Italian, and John Panotas, Greek, suffered fatal accidents during the mine’s brief five-year history that produced meager amounts of coal. Tony Kombol, who at age 17 emigrated to the U.S. from Croatia in 1902, soon found work at the nearby Parkin Kangley Coal Company mine. It was located less than a mile north of the Hiawatha home that the family of seven continued to rent from NWI.
On August 7, 1925, Tony Kombol was severely disabled when an errant dynamite explosion blinded him at the Parkin Kangley mine. He spent 30 days in the hospital but couldn’t return to work due to a full disability for which he received a $40 monthly pension plus a $35 monthly stipend for five children, all under the age of 10. Lulu Kombol returned to work as a school teacher in Selleck and Cumberland to support the family.
A year or so later his second son, and fourth child, Jack contracted polio at age six or seven forcing an absence from school that lasted nearly two years. After recovering, one of Jack’s legs was shorter than the other. He attended Selleck school through the 8th grade then went to Enumclaw High School. Being two years older than fellow students and not particularly academic, he dropped out during his junior year.
Because of a polio-shortened leg, Jack was unfit for service during World War II and moved to Seattle where he drove garbage, tanker, and tow trucks. After the war, he primarily worked in the woods where he drove log trucks and operated equipment for his brother’s logging company, Bernell Kombol & D.L. Holcomb, and at his cousin-in-law’s firm, Woodrow Gauthier of Gauthier Brothers Lumber and Logging.
Kombol found a new logging job in Northern California and relocated there in early 1950. Pauline Morris, an Enumclaw girl whose father and uncles owned Palmer Coking Coal, soon followed. The couple married in Crescent City later that year. Jack joined Palmer in 1952 and worked for the company until his death in April 1979 at age 57.
Jack and Pauline’s son, Bill Kombol began writing “When Coal Was King” in May 2007. The position evolved after his youngest son’s Cub Scout troop visited the Maple Valley newspaper, Voice of the Valley. There, Bill learned that the publisher had recently lost a columnist and volunteered for the job.
And the rest, as they say, is History.
This story originally appeared in the July 17, 2023 issue, Voice of the Valley, which would have been Jack Kombol’s 103rd birthday.
Mom snapped my picture a couple of day before I left for the Oregon Coast.
In September 1975, I moved to the Oregon Coast. I was fresh out of college, grew a beard, long hair, and bought a motorcycle. I wasn’t looking for work, just loafing. I collected weekly unemployment checks of $93 from a coal mining job I’d quit six months earlier. I then dodged Employment Security rules by only seeking jobs for which I was miserably unqualified. It was a practice upon which my parents rightfully frowned.
The summer crowds had gone home. It was just me, my Honda 360, and a head full of dreams living at the Lincoln City cabin my parents inherited from my grandfather. I walked for miles along empty beaches to out-of-the-way places. On a long hike to the most secluded stretch of beach imaginable, I found a Japanese floating glass ball. I fixed grits for breakfast, upon which I slathered thick slices of butter. I learned to bake cheesecakes and ate them over the next few days. There was no shower at the cabin, so I took long, hot baths and contemplated in silence.
My grandfather, John H. Morris, purchased the Lincoln City home in 1968, and my parents inherited it after his 1973 death.
Some pages of history are best left unturned, but not this one. I was stupid. The third night there, I decided to make popcorn the old-fashioned way, so I heated cooking oil in a pot and left the lid on. It got hot! While lifting the lid, the oil caught fire. I panicked and badly burned the knuckles of my left hand. That night, I slept on the sofa with my hand in a gallon-sized jar filled with ice water to stem the pain. By morning, the burned skin had filled with liquid and grown to the size of a lemon. Foolishly, I sought no medical treatment but lived with it for days until poking a sterile needle through the skin at the base of the burn to slowly release excess fluid. Months after healing, the skin was still stained a reddish hue that took years to fade to beige.
An organic food co-op had opened in 1973, a few doors up from the Old Oregon. It was a thrown-together, hippie-type place with barrels, buckets, and jars of grains, nuts, fruits, and vegetables. The co-op was operated by volunteers, and after several visits, I offered to help.
I joined the staff and one day reorganized shelves to better display the myriad jars of grains. I had grown close to a guy named David Morgan, who was part of the co-op structure. When I mentioned to him my layout improvement, David admonished my boastfulness. The co-op’s ethos was to not take credit for personal accomplishments but to subdue one’s ego for the advancement of the common good.
David was in his early 30s, charismatic, with a kindly wife and daughter. He invited me to join his family at the Taft Tigers high school football game on several Friday nights. It was just like being back home in Enumclaw.
The food co-op morphed into the Lincoln City Cracker Barrel store that was managed by Harold Christiansen, who assumed ownership in 1993. The name was later changed to Trillium Natural Foods. Today’s store is located across the street from the outlet mall, but still sells bulk grains, flours, nuts, and fresh organic produce. It’s now owned by Harold’s son, Carl Christiansen, who operates the store with hints of the original co-op ethos still lingering in the air.
I watched movies at the Lakeside Theater (now the Bijou), but many nights, I just walked to the Old Oregon and hung out with the hippies and long hairs that populated the tavern. There were two pool tables and a jukebox loaded with good 45s. On some weekends, a local rock band occupied a spot in the corner and patrons danced. Usually, I can recall the times and places by which songs were popular, but the only ones I remember that fall were Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and the Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes.” Mostly, I listened to old Beatles albums on a record player in the cabin.
One night at the Old Oregon, I made the acquaintance of two carpenters, Dave and Rick, who were building a home on the Salishan spit. We joined for breakfast the next morning, where I drank my first cup of coffee. Even with cream and sugar, I could stomach its bitter taste. Afterward, we drove to the house they were framing, where I hung out for half the day. Mostly, I wanted to access this long spit of land forming Siletz Bay that was only accessible through a private gated community.
In mid-October, I geared up to watch every inning of the 1975 World Series between Boston and Cincinnati. For years, World Series games were played during the day when I was in school, so I could only watch on weekends. With no work or school obligations, this series would be different. To prepare, I bought copies of Sporting News and Sports Illustrated, reading every article. I got lucky because that showdown is often called one of baseball’s greatest. If you’ve forgotten, Carlton Fisk’s game-six walk-off homerun tied the series for Boston, but Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine won the seventh game. My parents visited for a couple of days that week, picking up Danica on their way. She was in her first year of college at Lewis & Clark.
Generally alone, I found solace at the Driftwood Library. It was a three-block walk to this ramshackle building of uneven floors and narrow passageways. The library was like an overstuffed bookstore – the kind with a sleeping cat in a window – except this repository observed the Dewey decimal system. I mostly read classics like John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Somerset Maugham, and Isaac Asimov’s science fiction.
Bolstered by my recent World Series fascination, I read Roger Kahn’s classic, “The Boys of Summer,” joining the author’s love of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I explored the poetry of Robinson Jeffers and wrote a few lines myself. I spent long afternoons reading in front of the cabin’s picture windows with stunning ocean views. I absorbed “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and stared in wonder at the birds on the beach.
But that autumn’s most surprising literary leap was Albert Einstein’s “General Theory of Relativity.”
Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity.
It’s not a difficult book to comprehend. Einstein’s genius was to use thought experiments to illustrate scientific principles. There in Bern, he formulated his theory of relativity while employed as an examiner in a Swiss patent office. He simplified the speed of light by conjuring the image of a streetcar rushing away from a clock tower. Einstein surmised that as the streetcar gained velocity, time for the human rider slowed relative to the hands of that clock in Bern. As the tram approached the speed of light, the second hand on the clock would appear to stop – at least to the passenger with telescopic eyes looking back. But, the passenger’s clock in Einstein’s streetcar beat normally.
A storm broke loose in Einstein’s mind after realizing that time elapsed at different rates depending upon how fast the observer moves through space. Upon arriving at his theory, Einstein insisted that he’d tapped into ‘God’s thoughts.’
The Bern clock tower, with Einstein’s thought experiment, is briefly explained.
As for my thoughts, I’d grown lonesome and figured this current life experiment hadn’t produced satisfactory results. Cashing unemployment checks, alone at a movie theater, reading books, and endless beach walks are interesting diversions, but not the foundation for a gainful life. Volunteering at the food co-op for an hour or so reminded me how much I enjoyed working with others. My months of seclusion needed to end, so I packed my bag and rode my motorcycle home, arriving the week before Thanksgiving.
The best buddy trip of my life was about to launch. I’m not quite sure how it came together, but Keith Hanson, then working at Almac-Stroum planned a one-week vacation and invited Bill Wheeler and me to join. Wheels secured his dad’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV with ‘Eugene Wheeler’ engraved on the dashboard. That plaque was a solid fatherly reminder to three guys in their early 20s as to whose car we were driving. We left the day after Thanksgiving.
Bill Wheeler, Bill Kombol, Keith Hanson, late November 1975 standing in front of the Lincoln Continental in the Kombol family driveway at 1737 Franklin Street.
On Friday morning, November 28, 1975, Mom captured our mid-70s fashion with several photos in the driveway. For most of the trip, I sat in the back seat while Keith and Wheels traded driving duties. On that first day, we traveled all night through a snowstorm to Reno, arriving Saturday morning to a cheap breakfast and games of Keno. There we played blackjack and roulette, then tested our luck with dice. Wheels and I stayed out very late, only to be awakened abruptly Sunday morning when Keith, a fan since his North Dakota days, turned on the Vikings game.
We drove south for L.A., stopping at the Joshua Tree desert on our way to an adventure in Disneyland. After that, we twisted north along Highway 1, admiring Big Sur scenery and listening to the 8-track Beach Boys tapes we’d bought in San Luis Obispo. After picking up my sister, Danica, in San Francisco, we toured the Sonoma wine country, getting buzzed on Chenin Blanc and other blends, then, lest we wear out our welcome, drove north along Highway 101. We continued up the Oregon coast, driving all night through rainstorms that never stopped, arriving back home the following morning. It was a road trip that, more than anything, solidified the bonds of friendship we’ve shared for five decades.
Back home, I hung out with Wayne Podolak, who was similarly out of college and unemployed. That December, we played tennis on the Junior High courts, during which we hatched a plan for a long trip to Hawaii in the spring.
I hadn’t yet digested how my months of solitude added up. I didn’t keep a journal back then, but each day I typed out lists of words and their definitions to improve my vocabulary. I was inspired by Uncle Evan Morris, who gave me the handwritten pages of words he memorized thirty years earlier while in college.
At the time, poetry seemed the best way to convey thoughts and feelings I couldn’t yet fully articulate. There in the warmth of my childhood bedroom on a fog-bound day with Christmas fast approaching, I penned the first draft of a poem initially called “Beaming.”
The original poem, titled Beaming, was rewritten later that day as “A Single Moment Captured.”
Channeling the Bern tram car of Einstein’s thought experiment, I rewrote the poem and gave it a new title:
A Single Moment Captured
Traveling on a beam of light
bound to live until
a single moment captured
motionless and still.
A simple thought now trapped in time
caught within that wave
a glimpse of yesterday revealed
now listlessly engaged.
Light, oh light shine on from here
and never stop to rest
your brightest beam will one day find
its destiny no less.
Bill Kombol – Dec. 18, 1975
Post Script: I was trying to make sense of the uncertainties as to where life was taking me. At the moment, the tram car I was riding had no particular destination. But I found comfort in believing it had a destiny.
Jack & Pauline's passport photo and Bill in the Paris Catacombs.
Forty-five years ago, I wrote this letter to Mom & Dad. I was in Paris near the end of my first of five months in Europe. My sister Danica (then known as Dana) was studying at the Sorbonne for a year so my parents decided to visit her during an extended vacation.
I quit my job at Seattle Trust & Savings Bank and decided to start fresh and discover my future. I’d explore Europe – alone, for months, with little direction and no particular plan or focus, and somehow at the end of it all at age 24, find myself.
I came to Paris a few days before my parents arrived. On Feb. 6, 1978, we began a 25-day auto tour of Lyon, Nice, Monte Carlo, Pula, Zagreb, and Vienna, highlighted by visits with several sets of Croatian relatives.
Mom and Dad left for home on March 3rd and several days later I penned this Aerogramme letter.
One of several letters to Mom and Dad written on light-weight, air-mail, self-sealing envelopes.
March 6, 1978
Dear Mom & Dad –
I don’t quite know what to say. I hope you weren’t disappointed that I didn’t express my gratitude as much as I could, but you’ll understand that the ‘thank-yous’ would have been so numerous as to make one thank-you seem inconsequential. So, I guess what I want to say is thank you a thousand times for everything. I hope I was acceptable as a traveling companion as I sure enjoyed your company and now miss it.
Jack & Pauline’s passport photo for their 1978 trip through Europe.
You’ll never guess what we did Saturday. Oh, this was ten times better than the sewer system. Dana and I visited the Catacombs of Paris. I wish I could send you a postcard (I sent one to Clinton) so you could get the visual impact of seeing these millions of human bones stacked like kindling in tunnels several hundred feet below the streets of Paris. They were placed there when several Paris cemeteries were torn up to make room for the city’s expansion in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It’s a bit morbid at first but fascinating nonetheless. Got some good pictures (ha ha).
Bill at the Paris Catacombs, March 4, 1978Danica in the Paris Catacombs, March 4, 1978.
Yesterday, Sunday, Dana and I visited the Rodin museum. Rodin was the famous sculptor who did the “Thinker” – the piece with the man sitting, chin on his head and elbow on his knee in a very thoughtful moment. The gardens were beautiful as was the weather yesterday and today. The skies are now a bright blue and the sun shines hard. The temperature though has dipped and it’s rather cold outside.
Today, I visited the Paris stock exchange which was extremely interesting, particularly after having seen the commodity exchange in Chicago. I almost wish I’d seen the Paris exchange first, as it is so calm compared to the unruly Chicago market. There’s still lots of shouting and such but nothing compared to the screaming in the commodity pits. Here in Paris, I was able to actually walk on the floor of the exchange, though I did get a couple of stares (no doubt due to my casual attire in the midst of a sea of suits). But the amazing thing was that I was walking on the floor of France’s equivalent of the N.Y.S.E.
Their exchange system is quite different from the American counterparts, as prices seemed to be established more by consensus than by the bid-ask system in the U.S. This probably explains the calmer stance as that all-important need to scream your order and acceptance of the other bidder’s order doesn’t really need to exist here. An interesting sidelight was at one point during the bond market when all the men broke into a song they sang humorously for half a minute.
Writing as small and legibly as possible, you could tell a good story on an Aerogramme (plus there was 1/3 of a panel on the back).
I moved into this hostel for Protestant students. It’s a dormitory situation, but I get a bed, breakfast, and hot showers all included for 20 francs a night (about $4). Almost half the people here are French, a quarter English, and the rest Americans. In fact, before I finished the previous sentence I was engaged in an extended conversation with John Leeson, an Irishman who now lives in Oxford and is teaching French here in Paris. And, this letter might begin to sound a bit disjointed as I’m sharing my bottle of Yugoslavian wine with John and Jeff Alford, an American from Newport Beach, California. We’re listening to Radio Luxembourg (Europe’s Top 40 station).
I met Dana’s good (best) friend Carrie, the one whose parents were here over Christmas. She’s red-headed and quite nice, the exact opposite of Jana. Dana even admits that Jana is a bit too much. Much of the time her stories are B.S. and it can even get to Dana at times.
I ate dinner at Dana’s one night and can understand the source of many of her culinary complaints. The food is horrible. I had spinach – not the fresh green vegetable I’m used to, but a dull, sickly green blob of something that if you didn’t know it was food, you wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. The best I can say was that it was barely edible.
Well, say hello to Barry and Cathy for me (and tell Cathy thank you for the Valentine’s card). Also, tell her I’m sorry I didn’t send her one but I actually forgot when I was making a list of everyone I sent one to. Also, if you happen to see Wheels, tell him that his cassette deck is in my room.
Thank you for everything.
Love, Bill
Post Script: I wrote several more letters to Mom and Dad on that trip. Mom kept a keepsake box for each of her four children where after her death I found that letter and many other treasures.
Jack and Bill Kombol, Feb. 8, 1978. I know the date because my efficient Mother kept a detailed travelogue of our journey.
During those four weeks we spent together, I grew closer to my Dad than perhaps I’d ever been. He worked hard all his life and in later years found numerous ways to give back to the community. He helped the old oddballs to whom he rented tiny apartments on the second-floor above Steve’s Shoe Store at the corner of Griffin and Cole in downtown Enumclaw. He was elected to the school board and as such handed me my diploma when I graduated from high school.
Jack Kombol hands me my diploma, June 2, 1971.
Jack Kombol passed away April 11, 1979, not even a year after coming home from our trip to Europe. He died on a Wednesday, I wrote a poem on Thursday, and read it at his funeral on Saturday. I was 25-years-old, channeling feelings from the 14th year of my life when two grandparents, Dad’s father and Mom’s mother died on the same day:
The last day we expected was the morning that we feared the nights we cried so long ago have come to rest right here.
We gazed in one another’s eyes We prayed that we might cope We stared through nature’s loneliness and filled our days with hope.
Every day brings forth each night from which dawns each new day longings fill the times between with thoughts from yesterday.
We’ll never let our smiles down We’ll never lose our faith We’ll never touch the world beyond or see tomorrow’s face.
The news it comes so suddenly, the sadness travels far raindrops fall from blossomed eyes as we touched who we are.
We realized the sorrow We understood the pain We felt the empty feelings yet prayed no prayers in vain.
And so we’ll cry these tears of pain from sorrow we must store the tears we have are tears we’ve cried a thousand times before.
There wasn’t much that Dad liked more than operating the heavy equipment he did until shortly before his death. Here’s Jack Kombol with a drag-line shovel at the McKay coal seam,on Franklin Hill east of Black Diamond, circa 1977.
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.
From The First Family to The Stranger - Ten albums that became turning points.
Who didn’t love album covers?
In Tom Stoppard’s play, “The Real Thing,” the lead character, Henry can’t figure out which songs to pick when he’s slated to appear as the castaway on Desert Island Discs. The problem is Henry likes mindless pop music, but he’s a snob who’s afraid to admit he like pop music, so struggles to find songs and performers those of his intellectual class should like. His wife suggests a more pragmatic approach: pick records associated with turning points in his life.
My list follows the turning point theory–– records that wormed into my ears during special moments experienced early in life. There are plenty of albums I grew to love after these, but none captured my heart and soul like those from my youth.
I compiled my Desert Island Discs during the early days of Covid-19 when the country was shutting down and a bored citizenry sought new ways to amuse themselves by posting lists of favorite albums. April Fools’ Day seemed a fitting day to start, so with thanks to Doug Geiger’s original Facebook invitation and Jim Olson’s posts of musical inspiration, I posted these favorites from April 1-10, 2020.
Day 1 – The First Family (1962): Though it’s April Fools’ Day, this is no joke . . . though Vaughn Meador’s First Family sure traded in them. It was the first record I listened to all the way through time and time again. It was my 9-year-old introduction to political humor, delivered with Kennedy-style Boston accents plus world leaders whose names I still remember: De Gaulle, Khrushchev, Ben-Gurion, and Castro among them. This spoken-word comedy album spent 12 weeks as #1 on the Billboard charts selling over 7.5 million copies. The Kombol family’s copy of the album, listened to so many times, was never played again after Nov. 22, 1963.
Day 2 – Modern Sounds in Country & Western Music (1962): “I Can’t Stop Loving You” was the #1 hit, and Ray Charles’ foray into C&W was what a nation listened to that year. The album spawned four singles and everyone liked it: kids, adults, even grandparents. I listened to it once again this morning. Its soulful, jazzy, easy-listening, country-feel, sounds just as sweet today as it did 58 years ago. This was one of the couple dozen albums our family-owned. My sister, Jeanmarie and I regularly rotated Ray Charles’ “Modern Sounds” with soundtracks from “Oklahoma” and “The Music Man” plus our own personal favorite–– the spoken-word soundtrack to the “Pollyanna” movie starring Hayley Mills.
Day 3 – Meet the Beatles (1964): From the opening notes of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” to the closing bars of “Not a Second Time” every song is a winner. Our family didn’t own the album, but my best friend’s family did. Every day after 5th grade we gathered at Jeff Eldridge’s home across Franklin Street from ours. Jeff’s older brother, Ron was a junior at EHS, and his album; “Meet the Beatles” introduced four lads from Liverpool into our lives. Most afternoons were the same––listen to “Meet the Beatles,” followed by watching “Casper the Friendly Ghost” cartoons and Superman episodes starring George Reeves. When not playing the Beatles, we cued up Roy Orbison.
Day 4 – Sgt. Pepper (1967): It was the perfect time to be 14 years old. The Beatles released Sgt. Pepper the very week I said goodbye to 8th grade. That Summer of Love was our summer of sun. It shined most every day in Seattle, setting a record 67 days without rain. Most days Mom drove us to Lake Sawyer with the radio tuned to AM 950. That June the Beatles held seven of the top ten positions on KJR’s Fabulous Fifty record survey, published Fridays in the Seattle P-I. Each song spawned new mental imagery––from tangerine skies to meter maids.
A month later the Beatles defined the spirit of the era with their follow-up single “All You Need is Love.” It all added up to the best summer of my life; not to mention more than a few hours staring at the album cover or studying the lyrics printed therein. To this day when anyone asks my favorite album of all time – there’s one quick answer: Sgt. Pepper.
Day 5 – Tommy (1969): By the autumn of 1969, most of us had driver’s licenses. Lester Hall drove his parent’s Ford Fairlane with an state-of-the-art stereo. We’d drive around Enumclaw from here to there but mostly nowhere. When doing so we listened to the Who’s “Tommy” so many times I’m surprised the 8-track tape didn’t wear out. We occasionally rotated Creedence, the Beatles, or CSN to give the Who a rest.
“Tommy” is generally considered the first rock musical. In late April 1971, our senior year of high school, the very first theatrical production of “Tommy” was staged at the Moore Theater. This world premiere featured a yet unknown, Bette Midler portraying the Acid Queen with show-stopping ferocity. A bunch of us saw it. I was in heaven.
Forty-five years later I gave the double album a long overdue listen from a remastered copy. How did “Tommy” hold up? It starts great. In fact, the Overture is perhaps my favorite number. At times the album soars with melodies flowing nicely. It’s an album in the best sense of the word. But, the story (book in musical-theater parlance) isn’t convincing. As smart and clever as Pete Townsend was, he’s simply not a great lyricist. The best songs still shine: “I’m Free,” “Pinball Wizard,” and “See Me, Feel Me.” The worst, “Fiddle About,” “Cousin Kevin,” and “Tommy’s Holiday Camp” remain clunkers. I can’t claim it stands the test of time, but back then “Tommy” was the height of musical fashion and evidence of our growing sophistication.
Day 6 – Every Picture Tells a Story (1971): “Maggie May” will forever be embedded as my first song of college. It was late September when I began my freshman year at U.W. Rod Stewart’s hit album was the soundtrack for initiation to college life – the picture of my story. While I’m particularly fond of the “Mandolin Wind,” “Reason to Believe;”; there’s no better song than “Maggie” to put a smile on my face and a song to my lips.
“Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you, It’s late September and I really should be back at school.”
Day 7 – American Pie (1971): Don McLean has a special place in my heart. His performance at the Paramount on March 17, 1972 was the first concert I ever attended. I chose my sister, Jeanmarie Bond to be my date. It was her first concert too. We dined at Clinkerdagger, Bickerstaff & Pettsbeforehand. It was a swank and trendy restaurant on Capitol Hill.
When introducing American Pie, McLean mockingly mimicked some college professor who wrote a detailed analysis of its lyrics. The audience sang the words and chorus we knew by heart. The title song has never loosened its grip. The album’s second hit single, “Vincent” is a hauntingly beautiful musical evocation of artistry focused on the most stunning of paintings: Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. If it’s been some time since you last heard the entire album just say, “Hey Siri (or Alexa), play the album American Pie by Don McLean.” You’ll be rewarded.
Day 8 – Past, Present & Future (1974): My first introduction to Al Stewart came courtesy of FM radio’s penchant for playing extended-length songs like “Nostradamus” and “Roads to Moscow” in the early 1970s. Only later did I buy the album and discover Stewart’s lyrical genius runs through history. In fact, side one of this breakthrough album features a song for each of the first five decades of the 20th century. My love affair with Al Stewart’s music played out nicely over the decades – I’ve seen him in concert five times, more than any other music artist.
Day 9 – All-American Alien Boy (1976): While in college I liked Mott the Hoople. Their lead singer and songwriter, Ian Hunter left the group in 1975, the year I graduated. The following year I was drifting without direction when Hunter released his second solo album. It struck gold in this listener’s ears. There aren’t many who feel the same way, but I stand by Ian Hunter’s “All-American Alien Boy” as an enduring work of musical art. “Irene Wilde” is a beautiful ballad of a true story, bus station rejection that inspired Hunter’s rise to stardom.
BTW, Doug Geiger and I had plans to see the Mott the Hoople reunion tour in November 2019, but sadly Hunter developed a severe case of tinnitus. He was advised by his doctors to discontinue performing until his condition subsides. Will we ever get the chance to see Mott the Hoople? Time may soon run out for the 80-year-old Ian Hunter, who I once saw in concert playing with Mick Ronson.
Day 10 – The Stranger (1977): This record changed the direction of my life. The album spawned four Top 40 hits: “Moving Out,” “Just the Way You Are,” “Only the Good Die Young” and “She’s Always a Woman to Me.” But two lesser-known tunes convinced me to take a giant step outside myself. When working as a management trainee at Seattle Trust & Savings Bank, I grew increasingly frustrated with my chosen direction. Repeated listening to “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” and “Vienna” (waits for you) convinced me I needed a change.
Those two songs fortified my courage to quit the job with a month’s notice dated to the one-year anniversary of when I started. I left for Europe in February 1978 with no set agenda and a budget of $10 a day. I lived and traveled for the next five months and have never forgotten the debt I owe to Billy Joel for drawing out the courage I couldn’t find by myself.
The record sleeve to Gilbert O'Sullivan's 1972 hit song, "Alone Again, Naturally."
Fifty years ago, a schmaltzy song by an Irish balladeer topped the pop charts for six weeks. Gilbert O’Sullivan’s surprise hit, “Alone Again, Naturally” ranked number two on Billboard for the year 1972. Because it doesn’t fit into the classic rock genre, the tune soon faded in popularity and is generally unknown to anyone born after 1980.
On a Saturday night in late October 2015, my Enumclaw high school buddies and I gathered to play poker as we’ve done since our junior high days. We join together several times each year and call our outings Pokerques, with a barbequed meal part of the bargain.
At a 2013 Pokerque, clockwise from lower left: Bill Wheeler, Keith Hanson, Chris Coppin, Jim Clem, Bill Kombol, Gary Varney, Steve McCarty, Wayne Podolak, Jim Ewalt, Lester Hall holding a photo of a missing, Dale Troy.
That particular night apropos of nothing, Lester told the story behind the song, “Alone Again, Naturally” which centers on the singer’s plan to commit suicide over a wedding that never happened. Lester assured us this factoid came courtesy of Wikipedia, so we knew it must be true.
At that night’s gathering , I laughed entirely too loud as old friends told stories and we all recounted misspent adventures of youthful revelry. Having stayed out a little too late, I slept in on Sunday morning. After breakfast, Jennifer drove our youngest son Henry to his noon soccer game so I found myself alone and naturally opened the iPad.
I checked out Lester’s story. Clicking on the first Google listing, I cued a YouTube performance with an amazing 27 million views! The video featured O’Sullivan on piano before a large orchestra complete with a dozen strings, piano, organ, drums, and the distinctive guitar solo which nicely cements the melody.
Sure enough, the first stanza of this mega-hit relates the tale of a jilted lover imagining a trip from an empty alter to tower top where he throws himself down, all to the amazement of congregants who concluded there’s no reason for them to wait any longer so they might as well go home – as did the prospective groom, who lived to write this melancholy song.
An alternate cover to O’Sullivan’s mega-hit.
The second stanza adds to the sorrow of the first and subsequent verses examine a contemplative soul, never wishing to hide the tears, relating – first the death of his father and then his broken-hearted mother – all remembered . . . alone again, naturally.
Isn’t it funny how a sentimental song from the summer of your 19th year calls forth buried memories, none specific but together conjuring a formative feeling? I probably heard that ballad a hundred times back when Top 40 radio dominated my listening habits, all while driving around in the 1966 Renault that served my transportation needs. But, I’d never fixated on O’Sullivan’s introductory lyrics, only the concluding verse describing the passing of his father and mother.
O’Sullivan is an Irish singer-songwriter who changed his first name to Gilbert as a play on the names of musical composers, Gilbert & Sullivan the craftsmen behind so many crowd-pleasing operettas from the late 1800s*. Released in June 1972, the song’s popularity stretched from late summer to early fall, proceeded at number one song by Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me” and succeeded by Three Dog Night’s “Black and White” – recounted herein to set the mood and temper of that summer.
O’Sullivan’s follow-up single, “Claire” reached number two on the U.S. charts a few months later. His disc sales exceeded ten million in 1972 and made him the top start of the year. By 1974, O’Sullivan was practically forgotten in America though he continued to enjoy popularity in Great Britain.
From a trip Jenn and I had recently taken to Ireland, I remembered what two Irish musicians who led our Dublin pub crawl told us: Irish songs reflect the nation’s history – they’re either bawdy drinking ditties or sad songs of loss and love.
Having spent the preceding evening playing poker with nine life-long friends; eating, drinking, and laughing so hard my face hurt, I was reminded that we’re all then well into our sixties. One of our buddies was lost to cancer and another to booze, but the rest have aged gracefully and we treasure time spent together. We now resemble our dads and how much longer will it be till we look like our grandfathers?
Most of the Pokerque club traveled to Las Vegas in Oct. 2018 where we saw John Fogerty perform a spirited two-hour set at Wynn’s posh Encore Theater. L-R: Chris Coppin, Steve McCarty, Lester Hall, Jim Ewalt, Wayne Podolak, Keith Hanson, Gary Varney, Bill Kombol, Jim Clem.
All of our fathers are gone, and everyone’s mother save one, has also passed away. One was recently robbed of his daughter, a parent’s worst nightmare. With each fresh loss, we find ourselves looking to our children and families for solace and meaning. And, often we look to each other for comfort. We do so in full recognition that our present health and lives and families cannot be taken for granted.
Yet we still laugh and reminisce and natter and make plans, always looking forward to our next reunion. And come away thankful for the multiplicity of friendships that have stood so many tests of time with rarely a pool cue drawn in anger.
So in hopeful jest, I offer this toast to my friends who’ve been by my side for sixty-plus years: May we all live another three decades; and may I be there to cheer your good fortune when each of us celebrates the centennial of his life.
* If you want to see a spirited and historical account of William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan’s music-making genius, watch the superb 1999 movie, “Topsy-Turvy.”
