Tag: Evan Morris

Categories
Uncategorized

Spring Fever, Cedar River Boat Racing, & Bob Morris

Bill Kombol, June 14, 1975 at the start of the annual Cedar River Boat Race. The plastic wrapped around my torso helped keep water out of our boat.

The spring quarter of college, 1975, was upon me. I needed one more credit to graduate.  A new life was opening after 17 years of schooling. I had no interest in grad school, getting a job, or even thinking about one.  My ambition was to embrace a newfound freedom and focus on learning outside the classroom. My immediate goal was to live the good life.  Let’s call it spring fever with one foot in and one foot out.

That spring brightened my life in several ways.  Being discharged from the night shift, picking table job at the coal mine opened up 45 hours each week.  I supercharged my liberation by only scheduling classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, eliminating two travel days between Enumclaw and Seattle.  After being laid off, I applied for unemployment, but the $93 weekly checks wouldn’t start until school ended.

In addition to a new appreciation for live drama detailed in a previous essay, “My Living Theater,” I took up tennis for an easy credit (only three P.E. credits counted toward a degree, and two were in the bag). Two finance classes and one Home Ec rounded out my schedule.

My Spring Quarter, 1975 schedule.

I also aimed to improve my vocabulary by studying the dozens of handwritten pages gifted to me the prior summer by Uncle Evan Morris.  With plenty of extra time plus proficiency on my Olympia portable typewriter, I typed nearly 2,000-word definitions, plus pithy aphorisms and quotations from the notebook Evan kept by his side at Washington State during the early years of World War II.   Whenever he came across an unfamiliar word or catchy phrase, he wrote it down and later looked up and copied a short dictionary definition.  I set forth to assimilate all of them.

I’d been interested in healthy eating, so took a class in nutrition.  During my first years of college, with little awareness of the food sciences, I experimented with different diets.  After convincing myself milk was the closest thing to a perfect food, over four days straight I drank nothing but, until a constipated intestinal system convinced me otherwise.  Next, I dined only on eggs with similarly baleful consequences.  For the most part, I ate well enough, but needed a better understanding of dietetics.

Collaterally, a class in the Home Economics department meant a preponderance of students would be girls.  I hadn’t had a girlfriend during college.  And with so much extra time, I wasn’t averse to finding one.  I didn’t!

The two-credit Home Econ class was right up my alley.  Judging by my notes, I spent an inordinate time focused on all aspects of food – digestion, carbs, fats, proteins, calories, vitamins, minerals, additives, and metabolism.  I became fixated on food quality and ordered all manner of free pamphlets and information from the Department of Agriculture.

One assignment was to record everything we ate for two consecutive days.  Looking back on my food intake for May 13 and 14, 1975, it’s surprisingly similar to my eating habits five decades later – a large breakfast of fruits and cereals, then a light or skipped lunch, concluding with a hearty assortment of meats and vegetables for dinner.  And even back then, I always rewarded myself with dessert.

Cedar River Boat Racing

Outside the classroom, that spring steadily became dominated by boat racing on the Cedar River.  My cousin Bob Morris, whom I’d worked with at the mine for the past nine months, needed a first mate and asked me to join him.

The narrow boats he and others raced looked like two-man canoes on steroids.  I was planted upfront, wielding a double-bladed paddle and scouting downstream waters, while Bob faced backward and pulled oars from a sliding seat that fully engaged his arms and legs in propulsion.

Bill Kombol in front, with paddle, and Bob Morris in back, with oars, Cedar River Boat Race, June 14, 1975.

I chose the route and barked orders back to Bob, “Left – right – steady – pull hard.”  Bob knew the river well and taught me the best lanes. He’d raced the two prior years and practically knew it by heart.  His former partner, Jim Thompson joined a new boat with Jim Bain, so Bob asked me to sign on as a rookie.  I had lots to learn.

The Cedar River Boat Race was the biggest event of the annual Maple Valley Days celebration.  It’s always held on the second Saturday in June.  This year it celebrates its 75th anniversary, marking a milestone that began with its 25th commemoration in 1975.

The festivities’ origins centered around a group of Maple Valley men who built flat-bottom boats and organized a race to determine which team could post the fastest time navigating the wild Cedar River from the Landsburg Bridge to Cedar Grove.  The race was conducted using staggered starts, as many currents were only wide enough for one boat to pass at a time.

This photo is from a different stretch of river and appeared in the Voice of the Valley the following week.  The caption was wrong – Bob and I finished second.  Our boat was sponsored by TRM Wood Products, which is still located at Four Corners.

Spring flows present the perfect challenge. Successful racers need to avoid boulders, log jams, and cross-currents while choosing the fastest navigable waters. Getting caught in the wrong eddy or whirlpool might flip your boat sideways or even capsize it.  Hidden snags beneath the water’s surface are an ever-present danger.  Choosing the fastest rapid is tricky and fraught with error.

Two or three days each week, Bob and I practiced by running the river.  Bob was still working day shift, so our trial runs were in the late afternoon.  Bob kept his boat in the mine office basement at Palmer Coking Coal.  During our spare time, we patched cracks and leaks with fiberglass and applied fresh varnish for a frictionless bottom.

The boat was transported atop a homemade pickup rack.  Bob’s girlfriend, Rafaela Wright rode between us to the Landsburg Bridge.  After setting sail, Rafaela drove to the Cedar Grove finish line to pick us up. After practice, we’d have dinner in their tiny travel trailer off Maxwell Road or at the Four Corner’s E-Z Eatin’ café. Rafaela was one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever known.

The E-Z Eatin’ Cafe at Four Corners, though at the time of this 1973 photo it was called Grace & Eddy’s.

The 11-mile route typically took 70 to 90 minutes to navigate.  It all depended on how much water Seattle Public Utilities released from Chester Morse Lake to fill their Lake Young reservoir.  As water flows changed, so did currents and channels.  Every river day was different.  Last week’s log jam might be this week’s causeway.  If the river were three inches lower, a boulder we previously passed over smoothly might slow us down or hang us up.

Maple Valley’s newspaper, Voice of the Valley provided comprehensive coverage of the race and M.V. Days activities. This photo was taken during the 1976 race.

Race day coincided with Maple Valley’s festival, which included a parade, country fair, and community picnic.  That year’s event was slated for June 14, the same day as U.W. commencement ceremonies.  I skipped graduation. My diploma arrived in the mail four months later.  By then, I was loafing in Lincoln City and wouldn’t see the signed parchment for another month.  It didn’t really interest me – I’d left that world behind.

The race started at 2 p.m., two hours after the women contested a shortened course.  Many families living along the Cedar River threw parties each year to coincide with Maple Valley Days.  As we paddled downstream, cheers arose from the shore as intoxicated revelers raised beers and drinks in salute.

Crowds gathered beneath the old RR trestle across the Cedar River (near SR 169) to watch the boats race by.  One boat is visible. – June 14, 1975.

The 1975 race featured 13 teams. Only nine of the 13 boats crossed the finish line.  The previous year’s winners, Bill Niord and Bill Furlong, broke an oar and pulled out to protect their craft.  The Last Chance, manned by Terry Morris and Ted Turpin, crashed into a rock and sank under the Maple Valley Bridge.  As they made their way safely to shore, chunks of the boat and gear floated haphazardly downstream.

For the 14th time in the past 15 years, brothers Bob and Ben Soushek captured the title.  Bob and I finished second with an elapsed time of 1 hour, 14 minutes, and 12 seconds, a full three minutes behind the perennial winners.  The trophy presentation was at Royal Arch Park at 5 p.m.

Bob Morris, left, and Bill Kombol, right, accept their trophies after the 1976 race.

I raced the following year with Bob, and in 1976, we placed third with a time of 1 hour, 17 minutes, and 21 seconds.  Two weeks later, I fell 25 feet from a Douglas fir tree in front of my parents’ Lake Sawyer cabin while trimming branches.  I landed in Valley General Hospital for eight days with compressed vertebrae and a digestive tract that shut down.

I spent the Bicentennial Fourth of July watching televised coverage of the historic celebration from a hospital bed.  I turned 23 the next day.  My back would never be the same.  I gave up Cedar River boat racing, but not my friendship with Bob.

Bob Morris

If I were to name the most important role models in my life, Bob Morris would undoubtedly be in the mix.  Bob was four years and four days my senior.  I looked up to him.  We worked together for nearly a year at the mine.  During slow nights when no coal was being pulled for me to process, I’d wander down to the hoist room when Bob was working the night shift. During dinner break, we often listened to the CBS Radio Mystery Theater.

On April 30, 1975, Saigon fell, and U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War came to an end.  After graduating from Tahoma in 1967, Bob worked for several months before enlisting in the Marines in January 1968.  He deliberately chose the toughest corps because that’s the kind of guy Bob was and has always been.  After his San Diego boot camp, Bob shipped out to Vietnam in April 1968.

He ended up about 30 miles south of Da Nang.  During the first three months, he was a grunt, but soon rose to corporal and became the platoon radioman, always close to the unit’s lieutenant.  He was later promoted to company radioman and assigned to the captain.  Though generally out of harm’s way, a number of times Bob’s company found themselves under fire.  One battle found them in extreme danger, probably the closest he came to death.

At the end of a 13-month tour of duty, Bob returned to the U.S. in June 1969, just as anti-Vietnam War demonstrations peaked.  Anyone who lived through those days knows that returning servicemen were not treated with respect.

While working at the mine or later during our boat racing days, I frequently spoke with Bob about the war.  When it came to an end, I asked him how he felt.  To Bob, the fall of Saigon didn’t mean much.  He’d served his country, done his job, and for him, “The war was in the rearview mirror.”  To this day, Bob meets annually with his Marine brothers.  There is much to admire about Bob Morris.

Bob Morris, left, and Bill Kombol right during their lunch break, January 1976.  The photo was take in Enumclaw when the two were helping Palmer Coking Coal Co. move Stergion Cement’s storage bins to PCC’s mine yard in Black Diamond.

Three years later, in August 1978, I rejoined Palmer Coking Coal, once again.  I was back at the picking table, the lowest job at the mine.  I worked beside Bob, who taught me most of what I learned about operating equipment, running the mine yard, and getting jobs done.

I liked working under Bob.  He was a good teacher and a practiced taskmaster who imposed a tough workload not only on others but on himself.  Bob was no slouch and expected the same from those who worked with him.  Yet, he usually found ways to make dull tasks competitively fun.

Though I was neither as strong as Bob nor as knowledgeable, I thrived under his exacting foremanship.  He was one of the best teachers a future Manager of the company could have. Seven years later, Bob asked me to be the best man at his July 1985 wedding to Jill Kranz.  For the past six years, I’d worked side-by-side with Jill as she was Palmer’s bookkeeper and all-around office gal.

Bob Morris, left, and Bill Kombol, right, at a retirement party for fellow coal miners, July 21, 1981.

In addition to boat racing, I began writing poetry.  It provided a release from the blue-book blues of college midterms and finals.  I also accepted an invitation from another older cousin, Dave Falk, for a 500-mile summer bicycle ride from Lincoln City north along the Oregon and Washington coasts to Canada.  A few weeks after the boat race, I purchased a 10-speed Motobecane touring bike and began preparations on the backcountry roads between Enumclaw and Selleck for our big ride.

Epilogue

The day I heard news of Saigon’s impending fall, I wrote this poem.  It was an early effort at verse and not particularly good.  But somehow it seemed a fitting way to end this essay about spring fever, Cedar River boat racing, and how Bob Morris helped shape my life.

One Too Many Times – 4-29-1975

The last two young Americans have perished in the war
They’ve lost their lives for nothing, like fifty-six thousand before.
My heart goes out to all the dead and oh so many more.
But then, one too many times is not enough.

I hate to do it to you, but then how can we forget
You’ve almost got to brood and cry about these past events
I hate the war and every minute spent in useless argument
But, one too many times is not enough.

Sometimes I dream of the wonderful creations in this world
Of green plants flowing to the stars in some fantastic mural.
And standing in the middle, uncorrupted boys and girls
I hope, one too many times was quite enough. – WJK

The original poem in pencil from my notebook of poetry.
Categories
Uncategorized

March Fourth With Uncle Joe

A sketch drawing of Joe Silvestri, 1940.

I was blessed with eight fine aunts and uncles. There were no divorces among them.  Collectively the eight couples logged 430 years of marriage.  I was particularly fond of uncles, as a boy often is.  They bore names that belong to the Greatest Generation: Jack, Frank, Charlie, Bernell, Chester, Joe, George, and Evan.  Each influenced my life for the better.  My last surviving uncle, Joe Silvestri died at age 99 three months shy of his 100th birthday.

Like all of them, Joe had a firm handshake that greeted nephews upon arrival at any holiday event or family gathering.  Each had a different banter but Joe’s was unique – inquiring but posed by a man with something to say.  A diehard Roosevelt Democrat, Joe was usually the first to bring up politics, but just as quick to suggest a game of penny-ante poker.  “Just a little fun,” he’d say.  As the youngest nephew, what a thrill it was to play poker with older cousins and uncles on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve poker in the Silvestri basement. Clockwise from left: Barry Kombol, Bill Kombol, Gerry Beck, Lanny Silvestri, Uncle Joe, Dan Silvestri 1977.

In conversation, Uncle Joe often went one step beyond – usually to the supernatural, perhaps faith healing, copper bracelets, or fire walking.  He marveled at their possibilities and curative powers but when pressed added a disclaimer that much is still unknown. He talked politics with a passion, but politely and with a willingness to listen to differing points of view.  Joe was also that uncle with an 8-millimeter motion picture camera – complete with 500-watt lights blinding nephews and nieces who hurtled about the living room concealing our eyes from the glare.

In high school, Joe’s oldest son, Dan offered me a summer job selling popsicles from a 3-wheeled Cushman scooter.  The business was operated from the basement of Uncle Joe and Aunt Nadine’s home on Kent’s East Hill.  Each evening we counted our coins and bills.  Joe often stood watch over the assemblage.  Our tills were expected to match the confectionaries sold. Still, most drivers were short, through neglect or more often petty pilferage.  Mine always balanced perfectly.  For decades Joe bragged that ‘nephew-Bill’ as he called me, was their best Popsicle salesman and never short on his till.  Uncle Joe was a mentor who made me feel proud.

L-R: Joe, Nadine, Cheryl, Dan, and Lanny at Cheryl’s wedding to Gerry Beck, Sept. 14, 1974.

Joe worked much of his life as a highway engineer for the Washington Dept. of Transportation.  He began work on the I-90 project over Snoqualmie Pass in the 1950s.  My Dad and his brothers-in-law needled him about the construction job that never ended.  Uncle Joe graciously accepted their ribbing, offering a spirited defense with a knowing laugh.

One by one, my father and uncles passed away until only Joe remained.   He alone was left to care for the three Kombol sisters, his wife, Nadine, plus sisters-in-law, Dana and Nola, becoming their chauffeur and escort at family functions, marriages, and funerals.  When two more aunts passed on, only Joe and Nadine remained from that generation.  They celebrated their 75th wedding anniversary on a delightful Sunday afternoon joined by family and friends.

Joe’s work ethic befit the greatest generation he exemplified.  He served his family in life and death.  When Aunt Dana Zaputil died in 2012, family members were invited to choose items of remembrance from her home. We strolled through her Fauntleroy home telling stories, recalling good times, and singling out keepsakes. It was a hot summer day with temperatures stretching into the 90s and most kept to the air-conditioned indoors.

Someone asked, “Where’s Uncle Joe?”  Up on the rooftop, my 92-year-old uncle stood pressure-washing accumulated moss and debris to prepare his late sister-in-law’s home for sale.  It took the urging of two nephews and a son to convince him to come down the ladder and off the roof.  He did so only with a promise that one of us would finish the job.

Two years before his death, Joe, age 97, and Nadine showed up at Palmer Coking Coal to purchase a mixed load of sand and gravel.  I walked out to say hello as the loader dumped sand and 7/8” washed gravel into the bed of his small Ford pickup.  After the usual greetings and small talk, I inquired what he was doing with the mix, because it’s a specialty product.  Well, Joe explained, he planned to pour a slab that afternoon so would be hand shoveling the sand, gravel, and powdered cement into his concrete mixer back home.  I about fell over.

After knowing Joe for all of my sixty-plus years, he still managed to surprise me.  At their 75th wedding anniversary, Joe pulled out a harmonica and played a suite of songs to the large gathering of admiring relatives and well-wishers.  I had no idea he even played harmonica!

And just a week before his 99th birthday, Joe drove to my office with a worn suitcase of old photos and keepsake belonging to his stepdad.  Since I write a history column for the local newspaper, Joe gave me the opportunity to scan the contents in the event there was a story to tell. Indeed there was and I wrote it.

Joe & Nadine at their 75th wedding anniversary, Aug. 2018.

The Silvestri family’s proud Italian heritage.

Knowing the end was approaching, Joe hand-wrote his family’s history in a spiral-bound notebook.  His father, Carlo Silvestri grew up in the Emilia-Romagna province of Italy just 12 miles across the Secchia River from the home of his future bride, Clotilde Cavecchi.  They didn’t know each other.  Carlo found work in France eventually joining that country’s attempt to build the Panama Canal.  After the French effort failed, Carlo ventured to Washington where he became acquainted with Annibale Cavecchi whose sister, Clotilde worked as a housemaid in Marseille.

Carlo joined Annibale who was laboring on a farm in the Wabash-Krain area of Enumclaw. But he exchanged letters and photos with his sister, Clotilde, in the days before online dating sites. An arrangement was settled by which Clotilde moved to America and married the farmhand her brother had recommended.  Three decades later, Clotilde acquired that 40-acre farm where her brother and late husband had first found employment. Some of the land is still owned by Silvestri family members.

After the early years, Carlo and Clotilde moved to Black Diamond where Carlo worked as a self-employed lumberman hand splitting 2” x 8” wooden planks called lagging that were used in the coal mines.  He also raised cows, both dairy and beef, selling his meat in the Italian areas of Renton. Clotilde bore a succession of children, Nello, Ricco, Philomena, Fredericco, and Tomosco whose American names became Nick, Rick, Pink, Fred, and Tom.  They named their sixth child Giuseppe, Italian for Joseph.  Following baptism and confirmation, Uncle Joe added Anthony as his middle name.

During Prohibition Carlo joined a bootlegging ring, attending their still located east of Ravensdale. Clotilde’s first cousin, Tullio Cavecchi, and partner Sisto Luccolini sold the Italian brandy called grappa in Seattle.  But Carlo alone was nabbed in a raid and sentenced to a six-month term on a work farm.   Joe’s folks always referred to that farm as the ‘stockade.’  Still, Carlo earned enough money to buy a cow that he named Stocada, an Italian play on words.  Joe milked that cow for years.  Sadly, his father, Carlo died a few years later when Joe was only nine.

In time his widowed wife, Clotilde moved with her remaining children to Kangley where she married Frank Valerio, himself a widower. Joe was equally proud of his stepfather whose dusty suitcase came into Joe’s possession upon his death.  He spoke proudly of Valerio’s life as an Italian immigrant to Ravensdale, then Kangley where he worked as a coal miner.  Kangley is where Joe first met the children of Tony and Lulu Kombol, whose youngest daughter, Nadine he would one day marry.

Joe and Nadine in Kangley, 1942. Behind them is the Kangley Tavern, later operated for decades by Truman Nelson.

Joe delighted in his Italian heritage visiting the old country several times.  For decades he was a fixture in the Black Diamond chapter of the Sons of Italy.  Late in life, Joe paid tribute to the Italian dairy farmers who were active in the Enumclaw area and highlighted their work ethic.  Those family names were Ballestrasse, Capponi, Condotta, Fantello, Giglioni, Malatesta, Marietta, Primton, and Rocca.

A few years back wanting to learn more about his ancestry, Joe took one of the popular DNA tests.  It turns out my proud Italian Uncle Joe was actually 50% French.  Though he groused about the results, Joe chuckled ironically at his genetic heritage.

Joseph Antony Silvestri was born March 4, 1920, in Black Diamond.  Like many of his generation, he joined the Army during World War II. While Joe was stationed in South Carolina,his fiancé Nadine Kombol drove with her mother, Lulu across the country, where Joe and Nadine were joined in marriage on August 21, 1943.

L-R: Lanny, Joe, Dan, Nadine, and Cheryl Silvestri, 1953.

Together they raised three children: Danny, Lanny, and Cheryl.  His oldest son, Dan preceded his parents in death on the last day of June 2018.  Nadine passed away peacefully at their family home on Sept. 25, 2019.  Joe joined her just over two months later on Dec. 12th.  They are buried together in the Enumclaw cemetery right next to my parents, Jack and Pauline Kombol.

All my aunts and uncles are gone and so is most of the generation who guided me growing up.  Joe and Nadine were my last.  I miss them each dearly . . . especially Uncle Joe.

Nadine (Kombol) and Joe Silvestri in Wilmington, South Carolina on their wedding day, Aug. 21, 1943.

 

Categories
Musings

A Single Moment Captured

Mom snapped my picture a couple of day before I left for the Oregon Coast.

In September 1975, I moved to the Oregon Coast. I was fresh out of college, grew a beard, long hair, and bought a motorcycle. I wasn’t looking for work, just loafing. I collected weekly unemployment checks of $93 from a coal mining job I’d quit six months earlier. I then dodged Employment Security rules by only seeking jobs for which I was miserably unqualified. It was a practice upon which my parents rightfully frowned.

The summer crowds had gone home. It was just me, my Honda 360, and a head full of dreams living at the Lincoln City cabin my parents inherited from my grandfather. I walked for miles along empty beaches to out-of-the-way places.  On a long hike to the most secluded stretch of beach imaginable, I found a Japanese floating glass ball. I fixed grits for breakfast, upon which I slathered thick slices of butter.  I learned to bake cheesecakes and ate them over the next few days.  There was no shower at the cabin, so I took long, hot baths and contemplated in silence.

My grandfather, John H. Morris, purchased the Lincoln City home in 1968, and my parents inherited it after his 1973 death.

Some pages of history are best left unturned, but not this one.  I was stupid. The third night there, I decided to make popcorn the old-fashioned way, so I heated cooking oil in a pot and left the lid on.  It got hot!  While lifting the lid, the oil caught fire.  I panicked and badly burned the knuckles of my left hand.  That night, I slept on the sofa with my hand in a gallon-sized jar filled with ice water to stem the pain. By morning, the burned skin had filled with liquid and grown to the size of a lemon.  Foolishly, I sought no medical treatment but lived with it for days until poking a sterile needle through the skin at the base of the burn to slowly release excess fluid.  Months after healing, the skin was still stained a reddish hue that took years to fade to beige.

An organic food co-op had opened in 1973,  a few doors up from the Old Oregon.  It was a thrown-together, hippie-type place with barrels, buckets, and jars of grains, nuts, fruits, and vegetables.  The co-op was operated by volunteers, and after several visits, I offered to help.

I joined the staff and one day reorganized shelves to better display the myriad jars of grains.  I had grown close to a guy named David Morgan, who was part of the co-op structure.  When I mentioned to him my layout improvement, David admonished my boastfulness.  The co-op’s ethos was to not take credit for personal accomplishments but to subdue one’s ego for the advancement of the common good.

David was in his early 30s, charismatic, with a kindly wife and daughter.  He invited me to join his family at the Taft Tigers high school football game on several Friday nights. It was just like being back home in Enumclaw.

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

I watched movies at the Lakeside Theater (now the Bijou), but many nights, I just walked to the Old Oregon and hung out with the hippies and long hairs that populated the tavern. There were two pool tables and a jukebox loaded with good 45s.  On some weekends, a local rock band occupied a spot in the corner and patrons danced. Usually, I  can recall the times and places by which songs were popular, but the only ones I remember that fall were Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and the Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes.”  Mostly, I listened to old Beatles albums on a record player in the cabin.

One night at the Old Oregon, I made the acquaintance of two carpenters, Dave and Rick, who were building a home on the Salishan spit.  We joined for breakfast the next morning, where I drank my first cup of coffee.  Even with cream and sugar, I could stomach its bitter taste.  Afterward, we drove to the house they were framing, where I hung out for half the day. Mostly, I wanted to access this long spit of land forming Siletz Bay that was only accessible through a private gated community.

In mid-October, I geared up to watch every inning of the 1975 World Series between Boston and Cincinnati. For years, World Series games were played during the day when I was in school, so I could only watch on weekends.  With no work or school obligations, this series would be different.  To prepare, I bought copies of Sporting News and Sports Illustrated, reading every article.  I got lucky because that showdown is often called one of baseball’s greatest.  If you’ve forgotten, Carlton Fisk’s game-six walk-off homerun tied the series for Boston, but Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine won the seventh game.  My parents visited for a couple of days that week, picking up Danica on their way. She was in her first year of college at Lewis & Clark.

Generally alone, I found solace at the Driftwood Library. It was a three-block walk to this ramshackle building of uneven floors and narrow passageways.  The library was like an overstuffed bookstore – the kind with a sleeping cat in a window – except this repository observed the Dewey decimal system.  I mostly read classics like John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Somerset Maugham, and Isaac Asimov’s science fiction.

Bolstered by my recent World Series fascination, I read Roger Kahn’s classic, “The Boys of Summer,” joining the author’s love of the Brooklyn Dodgers.  I explored the poetry of Robinson Jeffers and wrote a few lines myself.  I spent long afternoons reading in front of the cabin’s picture windows with stunning ocean views. I absorbed “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and stared in wonder at the birds on the beach.

But that autumn’s most surprising literary leap was Albert Einstein’s “General Theory of Relativity.”

Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity.

It’s not a difficult book to comprehend.  Einstein’s genius was to use thought experiments to illustrate scientific principles. There in Bern, he formulated his theory of relativity while employed as an examiner in a Swiss patent office. He simplified the speed of light by conjuring the image of a streetcar rushing away from a clock tower.  Einstein surmised that as the streetcar gained velocity, time for the human rider slowed relative to the hands of that clock in Bern.  As the tram approached the speed of light, the second hand on the clock would appear to stop – at least to the passenger with telescopic eyes looking back.  But, the passenger’s clock in Einstein’s streetcar beat normally.

A storm broke loose in Einstein’s mind after realizing that time elapsed at different rates depending upon how fast the observer moves through space.  Upon arriving at his theory, Einstein insisted that he’d tapped into ‘God’s thoughts.’

The Bern clock tower, with Einstein’s thought experiment, is briefly explained.

As for my thoughts, I’d grown lonesome and figured this current life experiment hadn’t produced satisfactory results.  Cashing unemployment checks, alone at a movie theater, reading books, and endless beach walks are interesting diversions, but not the foundation for a gainful life.  Volunteering at the food co-op for an hour or so reminded me how much I enjoyed working with others.  My months of seclusion needed to end, so I packed my bag and rode my motorcycle home, arriving the week before Thanksgiving.

The best buddy trip of my life was about to launch.  I’m not quite sure how it came together, but Keith Hanson, then working at Almac-Stroum planned a one-week vacation and invited Bill Wheeler and me to join.  Wheels secured his dad’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV with ‘Eugene Wheeler’ engraved on the dashboard.  That plaque was a solid fatherly reminder to three guys in their early 20s as to whose car we were driving.  We left the day after Thanksgiving.

Bill Wheeler, Bill Kombol, Keith Hanson, late November 1975 standing in front of the Lincoln Continental in the Kombol family driveway at 1737 Franklin Street.

On Friday morning, November 28, 1975, Mom captured our mid-70s fashion with several photos in the driveway. For most of the trip, I sat in the back seat while Keith and Wheels traded driving duties.  On that first day, we traveled all night through a snowstorm to Reno, arriving Saturday morning to a cheap breakfast and games of Keno. There we played blackjack and roulette, then tested our luck with dice. Wheels and I stayed out very late, only to be awakened abruptly Sunday morning when Keith, a fan since his North Dakota days, turned on the Vikings game.

We drove south for L.A., stopping at the Joshua Tree desert on our way to an adventure in Disneyland.  After that, we twisted north along Highway 1, admiring Big Sur scenery and listening to the 8-track Beach Boys tapes we’d bought in San Luis Obispo.  After picking up my sister, Danica, in San Francisco, we toured the Sonoma wine country, getting buzzed on Chenin Blanc and other blends, then, lest we wear out our welcome, drove north along Highway 101.  We continued up the Oregon coast, driving all night through rainstorms that never stopped, arriving back home the following morning.  It was a road trip that, more than anything, solidified the bonds of friendship we’ve shared for five decades.

Back home, I hung out with Wayne Podolak, who was similarly out of college and unemployed.  That December, we played tennis on the Junior High courts, during which we hatched a plan for a long trip to Hawaii in the spring.

I hadn’t yet digested how my months of solitude added up.  I didn’t keep a journal back then, but each day I typed out lists of words and their definitions to improve my vocabulary. I was inspired by Uncle Evan Morris, who gave me the handwritten pages of words he memorized thirty years earlier while in college.

At the time, poetry seemed the best way to convey thoughts and feelings I couldn’t yet fully articulate.  There in the warmth of my childhood bedroom on a fog-bound day with Christmas fast approaching, I penned the first draft of a poem initially called “Beaming.”

The original poem, titled Beaming, was rewritten later that day as “A Single Moment Captured.”

Channeling the Bern tram car of Einstein’s thought experiment, I rewrote the poem and gave it a new title:

A Single Moment Captured

Traveling on a beam of light
bound to live until
a single moment captured
motionless and still.

A simple thought now trapped in time
caught within that wave
a glimpse of yesterday revealed
now listlessly engaged.

Light, oh light shine on from here
and never stop to rest
your brightest beam will one day find
its destiny no less.

Bill Kombol – Dec. 18, 1975

Post Script: I was trying to make sense of the uncertainties as to where life was taking me.  At the moment, the tram car I was riding had no particular destination.  But I found comfort in believing it had a destiny.

Categories
History

Working at a Coal Mine

LR156b- The morning and afternoon shifts of coal miners in the front of the washhouse of the last underground coal mine in the State of Washington: the Rogers #3 Mine located at 26222 S.E. Kent-Kangley Road in Ravensdale. Front Row (L to R): Joe Ozbolt (kneeling), James Bo Williams, John Costanich (kneeling), Tony Basselli, Bill McLoughry. Back Row: Bob Morris, Bill Kombol, Barry Kombol, George Savicke, Bud Simmons, Roy Darby, John Streepy. Photo by Bob Morris, 1975.

My senior year of college was as different as night and day.  It wasn’t my original plan. By day, I inhabited the rarified air of life at a university where young men and women, often preening boys and girls, proffered great thoughts fueled by a steady diet of pot and booze.  At night, I worked in a coal mine with gray-haired men at jobs they’d performed their entire lives.

I was bemused by the attitudes and mindsets of the two cultures.  For me, it was the best and worst of times – the most wonderful and dreadful of any span of my then young life.  I was fully exhilarated and completely exhausted – a caterpillar in search of a butterfly to escape a cocoon of his own making.  For years I’ve struggled to reconcile the feelings and emotions within those discordant worlds I simultaneously ingested.

I’d grown increasingly bored with college phonies fretting over which grad school to attend.  I was steadily drawn to the stoic lives of coal miners.  My fellow undergrads bemoaned petty stresses of their own making.  Each day the miners completed the tasks set before them.  The grad school gang imagined chic careers with grand salaries.  The coal miners were content with life and their position in it.

In early September 1974, I prepared to return for my last year of college.  Over three summers past, I worked for Palmer Coking Coal, a family-owned company.  My jobs were common laboring at the Black Diamond yard and Rogers #3 mine.  That mine was a succession of Rogers #1 and #2, started in 1958 and 1959 respectively.  Located in Ravensdale, Rogers #3 was slated to close in less than a year.  It would be the last underground coal mine in the State of Washington.

That’s me at shift’s end and covered with coal dust on one of my rare day shifts. The Rogers #3 hoist room and mine tipple are up the hill behind me.  Photo by Barry Kombol, April 1975

My uncle, Jack Morris was President of Palmer.  He was navigating the company’s exit from the coal business, as gracefully as possible.  It was a tough time for the firm.  Jack was drinking heavily, and Palmer’s fortunes were not promising.  There were sharp disagreements between three uncles, Jack, Evan Morris, and Charlie Falk, who collectively led the firm.  I was thankfully unaware of building tensions and unresolved rivalries. I just turned 21.  Little did I know that leadership of this company would one day fall to me.

Evan Morris, Sr. on the platform beside the portal entrance into the Rogers #3 mine.  The sloped tunnel descended 800 feet underground.  December 1974.

Federal coal inspectors were bearing down on small mines like Palmer’s.  Our operation didn’t fit the template for a subsurface coal mine.  The Rogers coal seam stood nearly vertical, while most coal mines operate on horizontal planes, the way sedimentary formations containing coal seams are naturally deposited.  The plate tectonic which uplifted the Cascade Mountains altered the local Ravensdale geology to a rare condition – a vein of coal tilted to more than 80º.  Underground mine regulations hadn’t been written for that kind of operation.

Coal seams in this area of Ravensdale stood nearly vertical as seen in this geologic cross section. – Golder Associates.

Most men who worked at Rogers #3 were lifelong coal miners.  All were in their late 50s and early 60s, except for a cousin, Bob Morris; my brother, Barry Kombol, and me.  Two dozen miners had retired over the previous eight years, but enough experienced men remained allowing Palmer to finish its underground mine while honoring contracts supplying coal to State prisons.  Palmer’s management was mindful of the decades those miners had worked in the industry and sensitive to union pensions that hung in the balance.  A few more years would strengthen each miner’s retirement payout.

One day in early September, Jack pulled me aside and asked if I’d work the afternoon shift while attending college.  It was my senior year where an easy slide towards graduation was a natural expectation.  Jack explained I’d earn the wage rate under the United Mine Workers contract to which Palmer was bound.  A Grade 2, Tipple Attendant made $45.93 per day.  That UMW day rate was the equivalent of $32 per hour in today’s currency.  To a money-hungry lad like me, that sounded awfully enticing.  I talked it over with my folks and a decision was made.

Surface facilities at Rogers #3. The tipple to the left and load out bunkers to the right.  Photo by Don Mason, early 1970s.

The afternoon shift was from 3 – 11 pm, so it made sense to live at home.  My first three years of college were spent at Pi Kappa Phi, where I enjoyed the camaraderie of fraternity brothers plus the assorted characters who boarded in spare rooms.  Ours was a frat house with a classical facade, good cooks, and two hot meals a day.  Staying at home would make me a “townie,” so I’d only pay fraternity dues plus the meal rate for lunch, a significant saving over full room and board.  I drove my parent’s 1968 Renault, an unusual car in those days – basically a Volkswagen Bug for cheapskates.  The no-frills Renault got good mileage, had a stick shift on the floor, with an A.M. radio.  What else could I possibly need?

My schedule was grueling.  Monday through Friday, I was up at 6 am, fixing breakfast while Mom packed my evening dinner in a metal lunch bucket.  I loved yogurt and back then little was sold in stores, so Mom cultured her own which I ate from a squat thermos.  She, Pauline (Morris) Kombol was herself, a coal miner’s daughter.

I left Enumclaw every morning at 7 am.  Traffic was light with far less congestion than today’s clogged freeways.  Interstate 5 was a breeze with only occasionally slowdowns.  I arrived at the University of Washington campus about 8 am, parked at the fraternity, then walked to my 8:30 class.  My first break came at 9:30, so for an hour I studied at the Husky Union Building, and then sped off to my 10:30 and 11:30 classes.  By 12:30 pm, I rambled back to the fraternity for lunch, studied for an hour, and left Seattle at 1:45 arriving at the Ravensdale mine by 2:45 pm.

Joe Ozbolt, left and James ‘Bo’ Williams, right inside the Rogers #3 washhouse. Photo by Charlie Falk, February 1975.

In the washhouse, I joined other miners where we changed from street clothes to working gear.  There were only six miners per shift, but I was exclusively night shift so worked with alternating crews each week. We walked up a slight hill to the hoist room and met the day crew coming from the mine.  Our counterparts were greeted and a light banter exchanged.  The afternoon shift started at 3 pm, lasting eight hours including a dinner break.  My job involved standing at a waist-high metal platform, where coal was separated from rock.  It was called the picking table and I was its operator.  The picking table was located in the belly of a triangular wooden structure called the tipple.

A loaded coal car is being dumped from the top of tipple into the chute below. The picking table was behind the silver-colored sheet metal above the dumptruck where waste material was collected before being hauled to the rock dump.  Photo by Bill Kombol, April 1975.

The job was simple – push coal to the right and rock to the left.  There was one primary goal: don’t let rocks smash your fingers, lest you wind up with a throbbing fingernail rapidly turning purple.  Still, it happened, and no matter how long you sucked that pulsing finger, the pain lingered.  Sometimes it hurt so much, you had to heat a sewing needle red hot then drill down through the nail to release the pounding pressure caused when blood rushed to repair the wound.

The picking table was six feet wide and about two feet deep.  The left third featured a hinged trap-door balanced by a pulley and weight.  When 100 pounds or more of rock accumulated on that side, a trap door released the waste material that fell into a dump truck below.  The large chunks of coal which landed on the table were pushed right into a crusher and broken into small pieces.

Barry Kombol, ready at the picking table – notice how clean he is at the start of a shift.  Photo by Bill Kombol, April 1975.  
A Moulden & Sons dump truck filling up with coal to be hauled to Palmer’s Mine #11 yard in Black Diamond for further processing.  Photo by Bill Kombol, April 1975.

Above me was a chute regularly filled with coal and rock brought from the mine and dumped from the tipple above.  A slanted door of thick steel, opened and closed by an electric motor, regulated how much coal came through that chute.  After falling down, the coal mix vibrated over a sloped screen with square openings.  The smaller-sized pieces (less than 4” in diameter) dropped onto a conveyor belt and were carried to the loadout bunker.

The slanted door on the chute had to be set to just the right level.  Opened too much and excessive coal crashed down, blinding the screen, and left the picking table a cluttered mess.  If the avalanche was too large you couldn’t separate the rock from coal fast enough and both ended up discarded.  But when not opened enough, the screening process slowed, and the next coal car to dump was stalled, disrupting the entire operation.  Getting it right was fairly easy when coal was uniform, and rocks were small.  But sometimes, large chunks of sharp-angled sandstone and sedimentary rock jammed between the chute door and vibrating screen.  The rocks wedged together at such awkward angles that none could break through the hatchway.  The bind got so nasty that rocks were stuck even with a fully opened door.

When that happened, I rushed to the hoist room and told the operator to stop pulling cars from the mine.  The hoist-man operated a large spool, six feet across upon which was wound 1,000 feet of 1” thick steel cable.  It resembled a gigantic fishing reel.  The cable spun through a bull-wheel atop the tipple providing leverage needed for pulling five-ton coal cars up from the bottom of the mine.  After the car was dumped, the hoist operator braked against gravity, allowing the car to free-wheel down rails tracks along the 48º slope, through a mine opening called the portal.

A closeup of Bill McLoughry operating the hoist. The drum and steel cable are in the background.  Photo by Barry Kombol, April 1974.

With coal cars stopped, I ran back to the picking table and turned off the vibrating screen.  I climbed up and with a long metal pry bar tried dislodging rocks to coax them through the door.  If that didn’t work, I’d pound repeatedly with a sledgehammer to break the burly rocks into smaller pieces that could fit through.  Sometimes the clog was so bad, the hoist man joined me as we tried to get things moving.  Some nights the work was so grueling my body was drained in sweat.

Hoist operators: Roy Darby, top left; Frank Manowski, top right; and Bob Morris, below.

Other nights the coal was so perfectly sized that 95% of the mix cruised through the screen.  The few melon-sized chunks which dropped to the picking table were easy to handle and my job was a breeze.  After screening five tons, I had plenty of idle time awaiting the next coal car’s arrival at the top of the tipple.

A bucket seat salvaged from an old sports car had been set up in the picking table chamber.  Trips arrived every six to eight minutes, and I usually screened a carload in two to three minutes giving me several minutes between loads.  In between, I read my textbooks perhaps a page or two, until the next car arrived.  Its approach was signaled by the pitch of the whirring cable and sway of the tipple.  When coal and rock crashed into the hopper above, that meant another five tons to screen.

The rail tracks leading to the portal opening, seen mid-photo as the darkest area. This photo of the portal opening into the mine was taken from atop the tipple looking down.  Photo by Bill Kombol, April 1975.

From time to time, I emptied the dump truck parked below.  After 10 to 12 tons of rock dropped through the trap door to the waiting dump box, I scurried down, jumped in the truck, drove to the rock dump, and emptied the load.  The truck was dumped five or six times a night depending on the percentage of rock to coal.  I needed to be fast, as coal cars kept emerging from the mine.

On nights when coal wasn’t hoisted, I rode a coal car 800 feet underground to work with the miners.  There I performed laboring tasks – sometimes drilling coal and loading dynamite.  Other nights I helped set timber props that held up the roof of the mine.  Or cleaned coal spilled on rail tracks.

Bill Kombol handing John Costanich a stick of dynamite ready for loading into a drill hole.  Photo by Barry Kombol, April 1974.
With a long plastic pole Bill Kombol helps John Costanich (on platform above) push the dynamite to the top of the drill hole.  Dummy bags were put in last to plug the hole and ensure a successful blast.  Photo by Barry Kombol, April 1974.

The most mindless job was filling dummy bags with loose clay used for stemming plugs.  After loading a drill hole with a dozen sticks of dynamite, the sausage-sized, clay-filled, paper bags were punched into the end of the hole.  This focused the energy of the explosive force to blast intact coal into thousands of smaller pieces.   Otherwise, the explosion would blow out the bottom of the drill hole, like a firecracker dud.  Dummy bags were in constant use during mining, so I spent hours bagging up a week’s supply or more.

Bill Kombol filling dummy bags and placing the finished sausage-sized bags into an empty dynamite box.  A “dummy bag” was a paper sack filled with clay or shale and used to stem drill holes. The dummy bag was about the same size as a dynamite stick.  After the drill hole was filled with dynamite, several dummy bags were tamped tightly as stemming, so that the dynamite blast would break and loosen the coal rather than simply blow out the end of the hole. “Stemming” means to tamp, plug, or make tight, to ensure a successful shot.  Photo by Barry Kombol, April 1974.

One shift, bored and alone in the crosscut, I turned off my miner’s lamp to see if my eyes could fully adjust to the dark.  It was an experiment.  After 10 minutes, I slowly drew my hand towards my eyes guessing ambient light would illuminate the outline of the appendage, but there was nothing – complete and total darkness.  There was no sound beyond my breathing.  The lack of sight and sound that far below the earth’s surface conjured feelings I’ve never forgotten.

People often asked what it was like working underground.  The best part was a constant temperature somewhere around 50º. There was little air movement except for a slight breeze from fans that ventilated the mine.  We didn’t have to worry about rain, as it was dry except for a stream of underground water that accumulated in a ditch next to the hanging wall.  It flowed to a sump and was pumped outside.  The mine tunnels were supported by a three-piece timber set, consisting of two uprights supporting a cross beam log all tied together by an overhead roof of rugged boards, called lagging.  It was a comfortable working environment, save for the fact everything you touched was black.

At 7 pm, work stopped for our dinner break.  I moseyed down to the hoist room where a pot-bellied coal stove kept the tin shack warm.  On rare occasions, the miners came up from below to warm themselves and join us.  But most nights it was just me and the hoist man, either Roy Darby, Bill McLoughry, my cousin, Bob Morris, or sometimes Frank Manowski.  Pee Wee, the dirty black mine dog hung out in the hoist room.

George Savicke, right eats his lunch while Tony Basselli toasts his sandwich on the pot-bellied coal stove in the hoist room. That night the two miners came out from below for their dinner break.  November 1974.

Dinner break was a time to relax, chat, and eat the meal Mom prepared 12 hours earlier.  Sometimes she packed homemade soup in a thermos, but more often a meat and cheese sandwich, which I toasted atop the hot stove.  I was talkative and conversations with the old coal miners took curious turns.  Almost to a man, they told me to get an education and stay out of the mines.

Following our half-hour pause, it was back to work until 11 pm when our shift ended.  Then I dragged my tired body, covered with sweat and coal dust, down to the wash house where we showered on concrete floors, under three side-by-side spigots.  It was like traveling back to a shoddy version of a junior high locker room.  The hot showers felt good, as did donning clean clothes you’d changed from eight hours earlier.

Pee Wee, the hoist room mine dog carrying a miner’s lunch box ,then seeking attention and perhaps a snack from the miners. Photo by Barry Kombol, April 1974.

Each night, your work clothes were hung from hooks on a wire basket, with gloves and hard hat placed inside.  A chain and pulley hauled the gear to the eve of the wash house where heat naturally accumulated.  If your clothes were wet, they’d be warm and toasty by the following day.  Each Friday, I brought my dirty garments home for Mom to wash.

I was in my car by 11:20 pm for the 20-minute drive back to Enumclaw.  I brushed my teeth and plopped into the same bed I’d slept in since sixth grade.  Falling to sleep each night was the easiest part of my day.  Six hours later, it started all over again – up for breakfast, in my car, and driving to the U.W.

On weekends, I’d sleep till 11 or noon.  I had no life outside of school and work.  All my friends were away so largely I kept to myself.  Some Saturday nights, I walked to the Chalet Theater to see a movie.  But mostly I studied, typed papers, and prepared to face Monday.

After two college quarters and more than seven months of this routine, I was burned out.  Fortunately, the underground coal mine was preparing to shut down.  My night-shift job on the picking table phased out shortly after the start of the spring quarter.  I completed my senior year living in Enumclaw but no longer working at the mine.

When the Rogers #3 mine finally closed, a retirement party was held featuring a cake with all Palmer personnel, who were part of the last underground coal mine in Washington State written in the frosting. 1975.

In addition to my regular Econ classes, I took a one-credit P.E. in tennis and a two-credit course on nutrition.  But my favorite class spring quarter was a three-credit course entitled the Living Theater.  We studied drama, went to plays, and wrote reviews of those we saw.  It was my favorite college class and fittingly my last.

During those days of school and nights of work, my dreams were filled with fears – of papers not completed and exams I didn’t understand.  Remarkably, I scored all A’s, and only one B that year.  Slowly my life recovered as I took pride in a fat bank account.  It’s easy saving money when living at home with no time to spend it.

For more than a year prior, I’d suffered an emotionally embarrassing case of facial acne.  I felt ugly.  But nothing Dr. Homer Harris, a noted dermatologist prescribed seemed to work.  I stopped getting haircuts and grew my hair out.  To hide my pimpled face, I quit shaving.  Perhaps it was the release from stress or maybe shaving irritated my skin.  But the acne lessened and within a few months disappeared.  I began to feel human again.

I graduated that June, with a B.A. in Economics.  I was tired of college. My attachment to fraternity brothers dwindled and I abandoned the academic scene.  I had no interest in attending commencement.  My sister graduated from high school that same year, so the folks wanted to throw a party for the both of us.  I declined their offer and also pointedly skipped graduation ceremonies.  My diploma arrived in the mail four months later.

Four years of study and 195 college credits produced this Bachelor of Arts in Economics, mailed to me several months later, as I had no interest in attending graduation ceremonies.

A few relatives and two high school teachers sent congratulatory cards. My Grandma Kombol, a school teacher for 44 years gave me Webster’s Third International, a 13-pound dictionary I still cherish.  I loafed all summer.  I bought a motorcycle in August and moved to Lincoln City that fall.  There I collected unemployment checks, read books, and walked on the beach.

Working at a coal mine my senior year of college was an experience I’ll never forget.  It was a lonely existence within a beehive of perpetual motion.  My life was a rolling slog in squirrel-cage.  That choice shaped my life, unlike anything before or since.  Perhaps the Stoic philosopher, Seneca said it best, “Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember.”

The mine and the old miners are now all gone.  All that remains of Rogers #3 is the weather-beaten washhouse.  Still to these memories I remain eternally grateful – the miners with whom I worked, the hours spent driving to and fro, the classes attended, and college papers written.  Textbook pages studied, the picking table, cement-floor showers, and the sense of freedom that spring when released from the whirlwind into a world of plays and theater.

Of those days long-ago, this memory I shall never forget – dinnertime in the hoist room, standing beside a hot coal stove, and tasting the melted cheese on the sandwich Mom lovingly packed for me.

I kept my hard hat and lunch bucket and recently photographed them atop a pile of stoker coal.

* * *

After loafing all summer, bumming that fall in Lincoln City and cashing unemployment checks, seven months later, I came back to work for Palmer. My uncle Charlie Falk took this photo of me in January 1976, where I was working in Enumclaw helping PCC relocate the Stergeon cement  bins to Black Diamond for use at the coal mine wash plant there.

 

 

 

Exit mobile version