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Tony and Lulu’s Story

Their stories began in 1885.  That January, a baby boy was born in Fuzine, Croatia.  His name was Anton Kombol, the same as his father. When baby Anton was born, Croatia was a provincial kingdom within the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  Fuzine is a village in the Primorje-Gorski-Kotar region about six miles from the coast, but 2,400 feet above sea level, and 30 miles from the largest regional city of Rijeka.

Little is known of Anton’s early life in Fuzine.  Though he was Croatian by birth, the Kombol family surname derived from French immigrants who first settled in the region during the Napoleonic era.  The earliest recorded birth of a Kombol in Croatia was Ivan born to Martin and Ana Kombol about 1810 in the village of Bribir, around 20 miles southeast of Fuzine and near the coast.  Ivan married Matejka Grenko, while his son, Anton married Franciska Mihaljevic, baby Anton’s mother.

A 1968 postcard photo of Fuzine, Croatia.

Through actions at the 1815 Congress of Vienna after the fall of Napoleon, this area of Croatia was absorbed into the Austrian Empire and later the combined empire jointly administered with Hungary. The primary local industries were woodworking and furniture-making.  As Anton grew towards adulthood that would be his likely future if the Austrian army didn’t call first.

Five thousand five hundred miles west, baby Lulu’s prospects seemed bright.  The Brown family was well respected and her mother, Jennie Brown at age 17, was noted as “one of our most attractive young ladies.”  Walla Walla, with a population of 3,500 was the largest city in Washington Territory.  Lulu’s father, William Shircliff had recently returned from expeditionary explorations in Alaska, then secured the respected paymaster position at the nearby Army fort.

The couple married on a Thursday evening in early June at the home of Jennie’s parents, Horace and Sarah Brown.  The wedding announcement in the Walla Walla Journal noted that “the groom is clerk to Major D. R. Larned, paymaster, U.S.A., and is one of the finest and most promising young men in existence.”  Mr. and Mrs. Shircliff began housekeeping two days later in a house at the corner of Birch and Seventh Streets.  Shocking for the time, just 10 weeks later a baby girl was born and christened Lulu Mildred Shircliff.

Jennie Brown and William Shircliff, June 1885, likely their wedding day.

William Shircliff left Walla Walla the following March, seven months after his daughter was born.  He traveled to San Francisco where he was stationed at the army garrison, with promises to soon send for his wife and baby daughter – a pledge he never kept.  Jennie pleaded with her husband for money so she and Lulu could move south and join him.  Shircliff ignored her entreaties, so she filed divorce proceedings upon which he was ordered to pay child support.  There’s no record of whether Shircliff paid or not, but within two years he moved to Washington D.C.  As far as we know, Lulu never again saw her father.

Lulu Shircliff as a baby in Walla Walla, 1886.

Three years later Lulu’s mother, Jennie remarried and moved onto Ransom Holcomb’s farm on the Cowlitz River south of Toledo, Washington.  Lulu remained in Walla Walla with her grandmother until age 11, when she joined her new family and two baby brothers, Ransom and Wyman, 10 and 13 years her junior.  Far from the active world of the small town she’d known in Walla Walla, on the farm Lulu experienced an old-fashioned life in a remote but exciting place – a farm filled with cows, pigs, ducks, goats, and chickens.  The farm produced eggs, cream, cheese, milk, and hay, all of which were used to sustain the family and farmhands with excess sold to Portland merchants downstream.

Farm life was busy with Lulu assisting her mother in making hearty breakfasts for her stepfather, uncle, and hired men.  After breakfast, animals were fed and chores began.  Milk was skimmed and the thick cream churned to butter.  Crocks and milk pails were meticulously washed in hot soapy water and then placed on slotted shelves to dry.  The remaining hours were spent baking bread, making cheese, and doing typical chores like ironing, sewing, and cleaning.

The farm was self-sufficient except for stables such as green-bean coffee which they hand roasted.  Most foodstuffs were grown on the farm: potatoes, carrots, turnips, pumpkins, oats, and wheat.  The family’s orchards provided fresh produce in season, with the majority canned for fruit during the rest of the year.  Bee hives pollinated spring blossoms and provided honey for the family. Evening hours were short and illuminated by oil lamps.  Early to bed was only occasionally delayed by card games, reading books, or singing as her mother played guitar.

During the school year, Lulu walked about a mile each way.  There in a one-room schoolhouse, 15 or so students of all ages were taught.  Later when attending Chehalis High School, Lulu moved away from home on the farm because the commuting distance was too far.  She boarded with different families the first year, then rented an apartment with another farm girl her junior and senior years.  The Chehalis Superintendent, Mr. Thompson encouraged her to pursue a teaching career and allowed Lulu to miss classes anytime a substitute was needed.

Lulu Shirclifff sporting a large white bow, 2nd row, 2nd from right with her 1904 graduating class.

After graduation, Lulu’s future brightened when a vacancy in grade school landed her a series of full-time jobs, albeit with limited credentials.  In 1906, her stepfather traveled to Alaska where he suddenly died.  Ransom Holcomb was always interested in Lulu’s education and had left her money for that purpose.  The following September, Lulu enrolled at the Teacher’s College in Bellingham where she earned a teacher’s certificate.

Meanwhile, back in Croatia, Anton was anxious about life.  The following year he’d turn 18 and risked being drafted into the Austrian army.  Two older brothers, John and Matt had emigrated to Roslyn and found work in coal mines with good wages.  So Anton decided to leave his family and village behind to join his brothers in America.

Anton traveled to the port city of Rijeka embarking on a steamer to Le Havre, France.  He sailed across the English Channel to Southampton where he boarded the St. Louis on a nine-day voyage across the Atlantic that landed him on New York’s Ellis Island.  The next day, this 17-year-old boy who spoke no English, boarded a train for a five-day trip across the country.  On Christmas Day 1902, Anton rode that train carrying a loaf of bread and a promise of what his future might hold.  Within a month, he turned 18 and was working in a coal mine.

Matt, John, and Anton Kombol in the early 1900s, likely in Rosyln.
Both Tony and Lulu move to Ravensdale

Their worlds grew closer in 1908 – a pivotal year for both.  After laboring six years in Roslyn’s coal mines Tony, as he came to be known moved to greener pastures in Ravensdale.  There he worked for the same company as in Roslyn, the Northwest Improvement Company (NWI).  It was owned by the Northern Pacific Railway whose locomotives burned millions of tons of black diamonds every year.  That year, Tony also submitted his declaration to become a U.S. citizen.

Deciding a teacher’s pay in Centralia was not sufficient to her tastes, Lulu chose a job in Ravensdale where the best wages were paid.  This was probably because it was an unruly mining town, lacking middle-class families and culture, so coal companies needed to pay top wages to attract the young women who increasingly filled the ranks.  There she boarded at reduced rates with families who valued the literacy a teacher brought into their homes.  Convenient rail access also provided Lulu with opportunities to attend top plays and musicals in Tacoma or Seattle, where she traveled on weekend excursions and stayed with friends.

Lulu Shircliff, with her class of Ravensdale school children, 1913.
Tony Kombol, upper right with the Northwest Improvement Company bunker crew, 1913.

How Tony and Lulu met is lost to time.  But it wouldn’t be difficult in a town of 725, according to 1913 census figures.  In June 1914, Tony purchased a plot of land just north of Kent-Kangley Road and built a home for his soon-to-be bride.  They exchanged wedding vows on August 4th.  The newlyweds were 29 years of age, gainfully employed, and seemingly settled into a good life.

Tony Kombol in front of the home he built, 1914. The home still stands at 27521 S.E. 271st St., Ravensdale, WA 98051.

A few days before their nuptials, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia.  Then France and Germany declared war against each other setting in motion the start of World War I.  Had Tony still lived in Croatia, he would have been drafted as Austria mobilized.  By the war’s end, 20 million lay dead with another 21 million wounded.  The 1919 Treaty of Versailles created a new country called Yugoslavia, meaning South Slavs, formed from Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Macedonia, and Montenegro.

Fifteen months later, on November 16, 1915, their happy home was shattered by a mine explosion that claimed 31 miners’ lives.  The Ravendale tragedy was the third worst coal mine disaster in Washington state history. The mine was utterly destroyed by the deadly blast, and the company had little interest in reopening.  Tony might have been lost as well if a blown fuse hadn’t crippled the hoisting machinery that brought coal to the surface, sending 100 miners home that morning.

Ravensdale mine explosion that killed 37 miners, Nov. 16, 1915.

Miners left Ravensdale in droves.  With the abrupt termination of over 230 mining jobs, there was little value in the new home Tony had built for his bride.  By 1920, Ravensdale’s population fell 75% to 187 residents.  Most left town in search of new jobs.

To Arizona and Montana, then back to Washington

Tony left for Arizona the next month and Lulu followed a few months later, probably at the end of the school year, though enrollment had no doubt fallen precipitously.  In Ray Arizona, Tony found work in the copper mines.  The couple also saw the birth of their first child in June 1916, a baby boy they named Bernell.  A year later Montana beckoned with yet another copper mining job and yet another baby this time a girl named Dana born in March 1918.

Looking for new opportunities Tony left for Alaska but stopped in Washington to see William Reese, the Northwest Improvement mine superintendent with whom he was friendly.  NWI was the company Tony had worked for since coming to America.  It was opening a new mine to be called Hiawatha, located about five miles east of Ravensdale.  Tony agreed to join the effort.  Since NWI had not yet moved homes to Hiawatha to house their employees, Tony took up residency in Durham.  Lulu soon arrived and the following year so did their third child, Nola born in Aug. 1919.

As miners dug the tunnels and built the surface facilities to mine coal, NWI moved or built company about 20 houses in Hiawatha.  Tony and Lulu’s fourth and fifth children, Jack and Nadine were born at home in July 1921 and August 1923.  One of those Hiawatha dwellings became the family’s home for the next 50 years.

In a strange twist of fate, the Morris Brothers Coal Mining Company incorporated in Dec. 1921 and shortly thereafter purchased the entire town of Durham – the mines, bunkers, houses, and hotels.  All of the large and extended Morris family who had lived and mined coal in the Pierce County town of Wilkeson since 1894 moved to Durham.  With Durham less than a mile south of Hiawatha, it was inevitable that Morris and Kombol children would attend the same Selleck and Enumclaw schools and romp through the same neighborhoods.

A map of Durham with each Morris family home and the homes of miners identified.  Some of the miners followed the Morris family from Wilkeson.

The Kombol family glided along smoothly on Tony’s wages from mining coal while Lulu, who had quit teaching after the Ravensdale disaster tended to five small children.  But, 1925 threw the Kombol family the nastiest of curve balls.  An errant dynamite shot exploded in Tony’s face blinding him completely and speckling his skin with tiny bits of coal.  Though an operation partially restored his sight, he could no longer work in the coal mines but only perform chores around home.  Tony became Mr. Mom to five children under the age of 10, while Lulu went back to work as a school teacher.

Times were tough but the Kombols soldiered on

Their Hiawatha home was small and located on land owned by Northern Pacific Railroad under a 99-year lease.  The main floor measured just over 1,000 square feet with two bedrooms and a sleeping porch upstairs accessed through the back bedroom.  There was a basement underneath with a barn in a field out back.

The seven family members shared rooms as the children grew to adulthood.  They even welcomed relatives, like Rose Kombol who left Roundup, Montana, a small mining community where two of Tony’s brothers had located.  Rose moved west at age 16 and worked at the nearby Durham Hotel, managed by Jonas and Maggie Morris, whose only son, George was a year older than Bernell Kombol.  Rose later married Woodrow Gauthier, a logger and sawmill operator, whose partnership with his brother, Joe Gauthier employed Jack Kombol on numerous occasions during the 1940s and early 1950s.

Jack Kombol and Rose Kombol, planting a tree, 1939.

Times were tough as both the local coal mines and sawmills were subject to economic downturns when commodity prices fell.  The 1929 stock market crash precipitated a Great Depression that persisted through most of the 1930s.  Then in 1939, the Pacific States Lumber Company which owned the town of Selleck was unable to meet its financial obligations and saw all of its land, buildings, lumber, and railroad lines seized by the IRS for nonpayment of taxes.

The following year, former mill employees, Lloyd Qually Sr. and Gust Coukas bought the company out of bankruptcy for just $3,000, when no other bids were submitted.  Qually and Coukas dismantled the mill buildings and salvaged the equipment.  Later Lloyd Qually and his wife, Lucille, who taught school with Lulu, fixed up Selleck’s old company homes and rented them out.  One of those Selleck dwellings became Jack and Pauline’s first home soon after their son, Barry was born.

Four of the five Kombol children graduated from high school, except Jack who quit during his junior year.  In order, Nola married Chester Fontana, Bernell married Helmie Sandberg, Dana married Frank Zapitul, Nadine married Joe Silversti, and Jack married Pauline Morris.  From which 11 grandchildren were born, all of whom were present when Tony and Lulu celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in early August 1964.  Lulu, who went back to teaching after Tony’s mine accident didn’t retire until 1965, the year she turned 80.  Tony passed away on Sept. 21, 1967, the end of a 53-year marriage.  Collectively, the six Kombol couples logged 290 years of marriage.

Theri 50th wedding anniversary. Seated: Dana, Tony, Lulu. Standing: Jack, Bernell. Kneeling: Nola, Nadine. Sunday, Aug. 2, 1964.

Less than a year after Tony’s death, Jack and Pauline Kombol with Barry, Bill, Jeanmarie, and Danica in tow, traveled to Europe for six weeks, including a six-day stop in Yugoslavia.  The Kombols visited Jack’s relatives in Rijeka, Fuzine, and Pula, Croatia.  A few weeks later, they traveled to see Pauline’s relatives in Chepstow, Abertillary, and Nant-y-moel, Wales.

Jack Kombol with his cousin, Stefica Roksandic in Pula, June 10, 1968.

Lulu survived Tony for nearly a decade.  She moved out of the family home in early 1974 and lived her remaining years with daughter, Nola whose husband Chester Fontana died in April 1971.  Barry and Cathy Kombol moved into that Hiawatha home in May 1975 with their recently born daughter, Meaghan.

After joining Nola in the same Lake City home she’d lived in since 1940, Lulu began writing her autobiography.  “To My Family” was published on Aug. 27, 1974, her 89th birthday.  Lulu passed away on January 19, 1977, at the age of 91.

Thirty-four years later in 2011, her grandson, Bill Kombol obtained the original transcript of the memoir from Nadine.  On passages written about her father, Lulu scribbled out everything about him after receiving an official government document that William Shircliff had completed where he failed to list her as his child.

The extended version was nearly twice as long as the original.  It also included 61 detailed footnotes and 26 photos of Lulu.  A nearly identical version (without the photos) of Lulu Kombol’s “To My Family – Extended Version” appears on the Washington state history site, HistoryLink.org.

The Kombol family assemble in Renton for Bill & Jennifer’s wedding reception. Front row kneeling, L-R: Angie Beck, Brendan Kombol, Nolan Kombol, Cara Kombol.  2nd row seated: Eric Brough holding Kyle Brough, Jeanene Brough, Pauline Kombol holding Miranda Lewis, Nadine Silvestri, Dan Silvestri, Corre Kombol, Joe Silvestri holding Lindsey Brough.  3rd row standing: Nola Fontana, Meaghan Kombol, Bernell Kombol, Helmie Kombol, Todd Kombol, Karrin Kombol, Bill Kombol, Jennifer Kombol, Darlene Fontana, Jeff Kombol, David Lewis, Danica Kombol in front of Gerry Beck, Cheryl Beck, July 28, 1990.

The Tony & Lulu Story was adapted from the eulogy I read at my Aunt Nadine’s funeral in October 2019. – Bill Kombol, Sept 21, 2023

 

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Uncategorized

July 5, 1953

July 5, 1953 – Baby Billy’s Birth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who’s who among those named:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Musings

First Tastes of Mortality

“Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever.” – Tom Stopppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

More than fifty years ago, two grandparents died on the same day.  It was the last day of summer, and the first time anyone close to me had died.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.
                                    – Leonard Lipton / Peter Yarrow

Released in Jan. 1963, Peter, Paul & Mary’s “Puff the Magic Dragon” soon topped the charts.

I remember those first thoughts about dying.  It was the spring of 1963 and I was nine years old.  Grandma and Grandpa Morris lived in a large, white, country home west of Enumclaw on McHugh Street.  The radio played in the background.  The number one song was “Puff the Magic Dragon” by Peter, Paul & Mary.  It’s a children’s song wrapped in fabled lyrics released during the height of the folk era.  I’d heard it before, but never fully absorbed this line: “A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys.”  My tenth birthday would be in a month or so.

Grandma (Nina Marie Morris) was in the early stages of dementia which even a boy could recognize.  She was easily confused.  One day, Billy Hawthorne (the son of Grandma’s part-time caregiver) and I played a cruel trick on her by hiding in the closet.  We watched her search for us in vain.  After frantic calls we reappeared, only to see a vacant look of despair on her bewildered face.  Mom explained she had hardening of the arteries, causing blood to flow slowly to her brain, meaning she couldn’t think as clearly as before.  She was ill and wouldn’t get better.  I felt bad about our trick.

Grandpa and Grandma – Jack and Marie Morris, a night on the town in San Francisco, 1959.

The song ended but a feeling lingered – I wouldn’t be a little boy much longer.  Just like Jackie Paper, my imaginary dragons and toy soldiers would soon be gone.  Those wistful feelings of melancholy floated in the wind like the down of a dandelion.

One evening that summer, I lay in bed.  It was a Friday or Saturday night.  Next to my bed was a cheap AM radio.  Late at night, I spun the dial picking up a distant station in Salt Lake City and listened to the final innings of a baseball game.  It ended and the nightly news was read – “At 12:01 a.m., a convicted murderer on death row will be executed by firing squad.  Growing tired I turned off the radio and saw a blindfolded prisoner led to a brick courtyard.  The moment passed but the memory remained – a boy, the radio, a distant broadcast, the bleakness of death.

Bad posture, Billy at Grandma & Grandpa Morris home, Spring 1967.

In the 14th year of my life, the grim reaper appeared.  It was 1967.  Music defined my world and I delighted in its sounds.  Newspapers called it the “summer of love.”  For me it was a summer of friends, family, fun . . . and Sgt. Pepper.  Each morning brought new sounds and adventures.  The sun shone day after rainless day, for so long it set a record – 67 days without rain.  The bluest skies you’d ever seen were in Seattle.

That September, I entered the final year of junior high as a 9th grader.  Three weeks later that cozy world was disquieted by the death of two grandparents: Grandma Morris and Papa Kombol.  On the same day, my father lost his father, and my mother lost her mother.  In a way, this double death was a tonic for both parents.  They told us kids of feeling like orphans, leaning on each other – weathering funerals and wakes, one after the other.  September 21st was the last day of summer . . . and the autumn of my youth.

Papa Tony Kombol and Grandma Nina Marie Morris died on the same day.

Both grandparents were elderly: 82 and 77, yet important fixtures in life.  Papa (Tony Kombol) babysat me when I was four and five.  Mom dropped me off at their home near Elk Coal where I’d follow Papa doing chores, fixing lunch, then put me down for a nap.  Legally blind from a 1925 coal mining accident, he stayed home while Grandma Lulu taught school in nearby Selleck.  Needing to be near Enumclaw’s medical facilities, Papa stayed at our home the last few weeks of his life.

Grandma Morris was the first person I remember reading to me.  We flipped through “Two Little Miners” so many times I could picture each page.  I boarded an airplane for the first time in late June 1962, a Boeing 707, when she and Grandpa took me to San Francisco.  We braved chilly Candlestick Park and watched my first major league baseball game.  The Giants won the pennant that season.

When in San Francisco Grandpa always stayed at the Maurice, a businessman’s Hotel near Union Square where that day we had our shoes shined, July 1962.

We dined in the Starlight Room of the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, celebrating  great-aunt Ruth’s 75th birthday . . . and my 9th.  I still have the menu dated July 3, 1962.  Two weeks earlier, Tony Bennett released the song, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

Great Aunt Ruth’s birthday was July 4th and mine July 5th, so Grandpa Morris took us to the restaurant at Sir Francis Drake Hotel.  It was a fancy place with the date  printed at the top of the menu.  The waiter gave it to me as a souvenir.

In later years Grandma Morris was confined to the Bethesda Manor nursing home not far from our home, falling deeper into the darkness of dementia.  Mom visited her daily, sometimes twice.  I’d go on occasion, but in time she no longer knew me.

Jack & Pauline Kombol, late 1967.

Over the coming weeks, I began to imagine life without parents.  It was the year Mom stopped tucking me in and saying nighttime prayers together.  Alone in bed, save for a pink teddy bear won at the Puyallup Fair, I thought of the future.  One day Mom and Dad will surely die, just like Grandma and Papa.  A profound sense of sorrow consumed me.  Visualizing their deaths, I cried myself to sleep each night.  I tried to figure a way out – what if they never died?  Maybe I’d die first and be spared the heartache?  Whatever scenario I concocted, the end was always the same – falling asleep to tears.  The end of their lives and my childhood hung in the balance.  But I knew not how or when.

Unbeknownst to me, the thoughts of that 14-year-old boy were long ago known by Stoic philosophers.  The anticipation of hardship softens its eventual blow.  A Stoic prepares for the future by focusing on the worst possible outcome, a Latin principle called premeditation of adversity.  Seneca advised his followers to rehearse ruinous scenarios “in your mind – exile, torture, war, shipwreck,” thereby robbing the future of its awful bite.

By morning, I was awakened by Mom and skipped downstairs to find a hearty breakfast on the kitchen table.  Jean and I walked to the Junior High, a three-story, brick building four blocks away.  There I roamed halls, diagrammed sentences, and played with friends after school.

The male tear ducts shrink as boys become men.  It becomes more difficult for men to cry.  Evolutionary psychologists can no doubt tell you why.  My tears were gone in time.  Ninth grade led to new friendships and adventures.  I turned out for basketball and made the team.  I raised tropical fish in an aquarium.  At semester’s end, I earned my first perfect report card, all A’s.  As a special treat, Dad took me to the Four Seasons in downtown Enumclaw for Chinese food.  I felt pride in the glow of my father’s love.

Twelve years later, I wrote a poem to read at his funeral.  The lines recalled the mournful feelings of that earlier time in life:

The last day we expected was the morning that we feared feared                          the nights we cried so long ago have come to rest right here.                            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.

Father and son, Jack Kombol and Bill, Lyon, France, Feb 1978, a year before he died.

In February 1968, Barry and I picked copper strands from piles of rocks and sticks at the Mine #11 wash plant in Black Diamond.  The wire came from blasting caps used when dynamite dislodged coal at the Rogers #3 mine.  Seven years later I’d work in that mine, learning just how those wires were used.  Over several weekends we collected nearly a pickup load of coiled yellow wire, then burned off the plastic coating.  Dad sold the copper for 40 cents a pound at the recycling yard.  It was souvenir money for us four kids to use during our family’s forthcoming trip to Europe later that spring.

We missed the last few weeks of school.  In Ireland, England, Wales, and the continent we saw historic sights, tasted new foods, and explored a world far removed from our own.  We also visited the embodiment of death – Dachau, the Jewish concentration camp near Munich.  The visitor’s center displayed black and white photos of emaciated bodies, showing all manner of depravity.

Mom kept a journal of our trip so I know the day we visited Dachau – May 31, 1968.

The guide told of Jewish children with tattooed numbers on bony arms – herded from rail cars, not knowing their fate. We walked through the barracks, gas chambers, and crematoriums where thousands died at the hands of their Nazi henchmen. We saw death on an unimaginable scale.  I’ve never forgotten that visit or the sign on the entrance gate: Arbeit macht frei. “Work sets you free.” Mom read its translation from Arthur Frommer’s Europe on $5 a Day,

The sign on the gate as you enter Dachau – Work sets you free.

Three weeks after coming home, I turned 15.  Four days later a boy I’d grown up with died.  John Sherwood attended our Presbyterian church.  His parents, Earl and Isabelle Sherwood were our youth group leaders and taught us Sunday school.  John was a troubled lad who’d just flunked 10th grade.  On a warm summer evening in early July, John went to a party and guzzled 190-proof Everclear from a bottle.  Mr. Sherwood found his son slumped over the front seat of their car just after midnight.  The Enumclaw police never figured out who provided the bottle, though some teens in town surely knew.

He was the first contemporary I’d known who died.  John was 16.  The coroner’s jury attributed his death to “consuming excessive amounts of liquor furnished by a person or persons unknown.”  The Courier-Herald ran articles linking his death to narcotic and alcohol abuse among local youth in 1968.  Glue sniffing was a particular concern that year.

The following spring our Cascadian yearbook printed his photo in remembrance, followed by a short poem:

John Sherwood’s page in our high school yearbook.

He is not dead, this friend not dead,                                                           But in the path we mortals tread                                                              Got some few, trifling steps ahead                                                             And nearer to the end;                                                                             So that you too, once past the bend,                                                         Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend                                                 You fancy dead.     – Robert Louis Stevenson   

Sporting a Nehru jacket on my first day of high school as a sophomore, Sept. 1968

                                                                                                          When you’re young, five years is practically forever.  “Puff the Magic Dragon” was a distant memory.  Heading to high school in September new adventures emerged.  I started a job as the Saturday boy at Palmer’s mine office in Black Diamond.  I joined the chess team and found a new sport calling.  By summer, I’d have a driver’s license plus two more jobs to fill my days.  Papa and Grandma were fading memories.

As boyhood drew to a close, a young man began to emerge.  My horizons broadened.  Ahead of me lay many deaths . . . relatives, classmates, and loved ones.  Those first tastes of mortality would always be with me, but  childhood fears were fading.  A new set of adolescent anxieties gripped me soon enough.  I was growing up and the world was growing bigger.