The Nowell Residence

 On the SW corner of 25^th Ave E and E Boston Street sits a neat and unassuming Colonial Revival Cottage built in 1920.  Its official name with National Register of Historic Places is The Nowell Residence named for it first owners, Frank and Elizabeth Nowell. 

While it’s easy to think of 1920 as “fairly recent” when discussing our historic neighborhood only about 20% of the available Montlake lots had been built on at that time.  The ship canal had opened just a few short years before but we wouldn’t see the opening of the Montlake Bridge for another 5 years.  Montlake School as we have known it wouldn’t open for another 4 years.  By the end of 1920 only 60 homes in Montlake had garages as we weren’t yet an automotive-dominated society and there was no end of convenient street parking available.  The Central Business District between Lynn and McGraw Streets consisted of only two buildings.  This was the Montlake that Frank and Elizabeth moved into at 2021 25^th E.  

1923 - Courtesy of Ron Edge 

Prior to settling down in Seattle Frank had done a lot of traveling and held a number of different jobs in Alaska where he developed an interest in life on the frontier and an appreciation of the indigenous NW cultures.  

1905 - UWDC - NOW132

He became adept at photography and began documenting his travels.  In 1909 he landed a great gig as official photographer for the 1909 Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition and, while there were several notable local photographers, Frank H. Nowell was responsible for some of the most iconic images that we associate with Seattle’s first world’s fair.  

1909 - SPL - AYP304

He opened a storefront at 1212 4^th Ave where he specialized in portraits and photographic services while producing most of the images documenting the building of the Smith Tower completed in 1914.  When the Montlake house was built, 6 years later, he and Elizabeth moved in and lived there through the 1930’s before retiring to their Crystal Lake “ranch” near Maltby.  

c1918 - UWDC - NOW260

In 1950 Frank H. Nowell passed and left us his photographic legacy.  I wonder if there are still any glass plates in the basement?

Frank Hamilton Nowell

1864 - 1950

The Gerrick Residence

 

Google Earth

The Gerrick Residence is located at 2208 E McGraw.  It is somewhat unique for Montlake as it is one of only twelve American Foursquare homes in the entire neighborhood.  Built in 1909 it was the second permanent home constructed in Pikes 2^nd Addition to Union City and it might be the fifth permanent home in Montlake, period, but there were four other houses built that year.  So, it is somewhere between the fifth and nineth house in the Montlake Neighborhood.  The 2 ½ story home is listed at 3690 square feet and has 5 bedrooms. 

Copyright City of Seattle

Imagine what it was like when the house was new and McGraw Street was just a slippery dirt road.  The area was thick with second growth trees and you were living out in the sticks.  At the bottom of the hill was 24^th N where a streetcar ran and the sidewalk was partially in place.  It took you just 15 minutes to walk to the south gate of the Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition.  On the way you crossed the new bridge over the Log Canal and you passed no other homes, only buildings associated with the Log Canal operations or some dilapidated buildings that sat between the canal and where Roanoke would be pressed up against the foot of Montlake Ridge.  By 1912 the only addition was a single brick house at the corner of 22^nd and Roanoke.  Any kids living in Montlake who wanted to play in the woods didn’t have to go to the Ravine or the Arboretum.  They just stepped outside of their front door and they were there.  

1909 - UWDC - SEA1402

When I was in grade school my friend Bennett Minton lived in that house and I was in it a few times.  The front porch ran across the width of the house and around the southeast corner, Under the porch was a root cellar with an earthy smell and dusty wooden shelves holding glass canning jars.  At the top of the stairs on the second floor was a landing with doors leading off in all directions to multiple bedrooms.  It was a really cool house that seemed bright and airy but I only had my own Calhoun Street house to judge by. 

Copyright City of Seattle

In the 1930’s and early 1940’s the house was owned by Ruby Burshia and five bedrooms were more than she needed so she rented them out as room and board.  My favorite ad was in the August 22, 1940 edition of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer where she hoped to attract male tenants with the draw being meals prepared by a French Chef.  Classy.

NewsBank

 

Memorabilia

 

Digging through a junk drawer I found a collection of old stuff that was once important to me.  Each item has a story, of sorts, and tells a tale about some part of my younger life. 

Take the Cub Scout badges, for instance….I don’t remember what each one was for but I did achieve Webelos which meant that I matriculated to the rank of Tenderfoot in Boy Scouts.  I mostly enjoyed Cub Scouts in spite of the uniform requirement.  It was fun with the exception of going door-to-door selling Clamorama tickets.  I hated that.  I was keen about advancing to Boy Scouts but that turned out to be something that I really wasn’t suited for and, though I wasn’t kicked out, I ended up leaving under a cloud due to actions and circumstances that are disagreed upon by all parties to this very day.  That little square silver box holds the Boy Scout ring that I took off my finger on the day I left.

People were always giving me pocket knives.  I have a ton of them and I can’t recall the who or why on most but that red knife is special.  When I was in the first grade I talked my parents into buying it for me at Sears Roebuck in Wichita.  I couldn’t believe that they actually did it.  Being given stuff that we didn’t need was out of the norm.  Look closely and you will see Roy Rogers and Trigger on it.  Dale didn’t make the cut and if she had I wouldn’t have wanted the knife.  I always thought that she was bogus.  In retrospect so was Roy.  I mean that pair dressed like Liberace.  I broke the end of the large blade off carving my name into our chicken coop.

The green things are Heinz Pickle Pins that were featured during the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair at the Heinz exhibit where you could push a little button and a pin or two dropped into a tray.  There was usually a mob of kids waiting their turn and a Pickle Pin Monitor dressed in a green blazer making sure that each kid only got to push the button once.  I went there one day and there was no mob of kids and no pickle monitor.  Out to lunch I guess so I cranked out a whole lot of those pins because I could trade them for gum, candy, a decent used Duncan Imperial, several packs of strings or cigarettes.  As you can see I only have 9 left.  What do you want to trade me?

That brass tag belonged to our dog, Ace.  It’s his rabies tag from Wichita.  Ace was a good dude and my best and only brother. 

That silver thing “north east” of Ace’s tag is one of those tiny cigarette lighters.  They were highly valued by some kids (including me) and came in gumball-type machines in a little clear round plastic case.  Seems like those machines might have cost $25 a try and I spent a few dollars before I finally got one.  It was really exciting when I finally saw it drop but it was very disappointing as a lighter.  Poor performance, no wind protection, leaked in your pocket and that irritated the skin.  Leakage meant that it was always out of fluid and wouldn’t light, you had a scab on your leg and that you always smelled of lighter fluid and Bactine.

The little knife in the scabbard was something that I purchased in a souvenir shop.  I don’t recall where but probably the Roadside Geyser, Estes Park, The Big Well, who can remember?  Some family vacation someplace.  Originally it had a white plastic pearl handle but I thought it looked a bit wussy so I colored it black with a felt pen. 

 That shiny rectangle is my dog tag from Jesse Chisolm Elementary School in Wichita.  All kids were required to wear them to aid in potential body identification after the Russians dropped the bomb.  Note that it lists religion and blood type in case you were still alive.  I wonder if Atheist was an accepted choice in those days?  We lived in fear.

I bet that the Buchan’s Championship patch hangs you up.  There was a bread company in Seattle called the Buchan Bakery and they sponsored an amateur basketball team called the Buchan Bakers.  They won AAU championships in 1956, 1957 and 1960.  Brett Fidler’s Dad refereed AAU games and I got to go to a few of them.  Mr. Fidler gave me that patch and it seemed so cool at the time.

Above the knife are two pins that I think might have been for some school athletic award.  A silver and a bronze.  That would be 2^nd and 3^rd place, right?  The silver pin is actually a bronze pin painted silver.  I don’t remember painting it silver but somebody did so it might have been me.  I may have been out of gold paint.

To the left of those is a pin I got for being on the Junior Safety Patrol.  That pin mattered to me because I was a big shot.  I was an officer and a Second Lieutenant!  Third in command.  At least I was until I was kicked out.  Mr. Aguilera managed the patrol, taught 6^th grade, Spanish and Square Dancing.  He was ill-suited for his job because he seemed to hate kids and had serious anger management issues.  He kicked me off patrol because he didn’t like the way I square danced.  When the call came to swing-your-partner I was paired with Alison Arsove and she swung me hard up against the folded bleachers with a great deal of force.  Aggie went berserk, picked me up, shook me by my shoulders, banged me hard against the wall and stripped me of my commission right there in front of God and everybody.  The bruises didn’t last long but I was totally humiliated and all I had to show for my work ensuring the safety of Montlake crosswalks was that pin.  But wait.  There’s more.  He didn’t just take my silver 2^nd Lt. badge away, he kicked me completely out of patrol.  He found me unsuited to hold a red flag on a stick.  That pin and the school photo of the Safety Patrol is all I have to show for my lack of skills at square dancing.

Some Members of the Junior Safety Patrol

Those little white things are my baby teeth.  None of my baby teeth ever got loose enough to pull.  I would have a permanent tooth coming in somewhere in my mouth and it would have no place to grow so I had to have each of them pulled by a dentist.  My Mom made sure that I had straight, beautiful permanent teeth and she was very proud of them until I got them knocked out in a car wreck.  Oh well.

That little silver and red thing is a West Bend Super Duper 502 fishing lure missing its treble hooks.  It seems that all three barbs got embedded in Chuck Carlson’s thumb and fore finger which is a whole ‘nuther story for a ’nuther time.  Chuck’s fingers were the only thing that either of us caught that day and he had to go to a doctor to have the hooks removed.  I got the lure back sans hooks.  Chuck was grounded and probably beaten for being a dumbass.  Charles Howard Frederick Carlson was one of my closest friends and had a sad and short life.  That lure really is one of my treasured possessions. 

The orange award ribbon was for a Halloween costume party at Montlake Playfield.  I was dressed as a college professor.  Don’t ask.  It was a goofy costume and the ribbon might have been given to me as a mercy award.  It’s hard to understand why I still have that.  

Finally the red and white ribbons were won at a Montlake Playfield track meet.  The red was for the long jump and the white for the hop-step-and-jump.  I only competed in the hop-step-and-jump because it looked silly and seemed to have no practical application in life.  I did the long jump to see if I was ready to make the leap from the roof of the school across the alley onto the lunchroom roof.  It was a personal goal because after so many earlier failures I still thought it might be possible to fly.  I had been working on it for over a year and long jumping everything in sight that I didn’t think would kill me.  I guess I was a pretty strange kid.  The red ribbon told me that I was ready and so I climbed up and did it.  I barely cleared the alley and the impact on the lunchroom room roof would be best described as violent and painful.  

While David Belle may be recognized as the undisputed founder of Parkour I was into it for over a decade before he was born.  It would be a stretch to say that I was a parkour visionary, though, because my young mind didn’t always work through all of the details.  While envisioning the flight I carefully worked on the mechanics of the launch and the flight, itself, but I never gave a second thought to the landing part.  THAT_LANDING_HURT_A LOT.  It was a harsh toke.

Hair Sins and Punishment

 

While some may blame their male pattern baldness on genetics I can say, with a great degree of certainty, that mine is due to some twisted penance that I am serving for some of the various hair-related sins that I committed in my youth.  Perhaps my parents are to blame for being too permissive and allowing me to choose my own style and comb my own hair.  A quick review of grade school class photos suggests that my classmates hair was combed by their Mothers by confirming that nobody else  sported a “Forward-Combed Flat-Top with Fenders Boogie” hairstyle.  It sure isn’t what any Mother would have preferred if choosing.  I remember that there were at least 2 or 3 products involved in the creation of my masterpiece and I recall thinking that I had really gotten the dance started as the girls couldn’t keep their hands out of it. 

Being desperate for attention I maintained that bad idea for far too long and by the time I realized that my individuality was a joke and needed to change I was in Meany Junior High and some guys were lightening their hair with Hydrogen Peroxide.  Not to be outdone or fearing that I would rot in hell for committing another hair-sin I bleached the B-Jezzus out of mine.  Not a few streaks or a bit lighter, no.  I turned myself into a very light-colored towhead.  Just a tiny shade darker than white.  That worked for a while.

Strangely, there were no pictures taken of me during those times.  I wonder why? 

If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound? 
If there are no photos of my blonde hair-sin, did it ever happen? 
My baldness would argue that the answer to both questions is "yes".it did.

The Mark of Cain

 

You often hear folks say that they have a Love-Hate-Relationship with something or someone?  You know what I’m talking about.  Well, all of my life I have never felt the “Love-part” when it came to jockstraps.  Only hate and my hatred runs so deep that I find it difficult to refer to them by their Christian name of Athletic Supporter.  

My hatred started with confusion in the 3^rd grade when we were required to wear them to play organized baseball.  My Mom had to take me to the store to get one and I didn’t really know what we had gone to pick up.  She called it an athletic supporter so I was expecting something cool like a new baseball glove or a hat or something.  I had never heard of an athletic supporter and up until that point in my life “jock strap” was just a derogatory phrase we used when we needed something bad to call someone.  It was akin to calling somebody a butt-wipe.  Just a couple of words that, together, sounded funny and were used to describe somebody you didn’t like.   

 We started at Rhodes Department Store in University Village which was our go-to at the time for most needs but Rhodes wasn’t a giant in team sports.  They didn’t carry serious sporting goods, but they did have a Scouting Department where my Cub Scout Uniform and badges had come from.  Mother must have figured that scouts might find athletic supporters useful for their activities like selling Clamorama tickets, practicing knot tying and making plaques of the scout oath out of alphabet pasta.  Whatever it was it had something to do with playing baseball so I was all in. 

I’m the “little feller” with the tight jockstrap grimacing in the front row

We approached a dowdy sales lady who was folding scarves and Mother asked her if they carried athletic supporters.  The lady looked surprised and smiled down at me and said “Now who would be needing that?  Is this your son?  Is it for him?  How cute.  I don’t think they come that small but I’ll check with Mr. Mosley” and with that she waddled off.  I was really confused now and accustomed to taking the smallest size of everything but I was sensitive to people calling me small.  It was true that I was embarrassingly short and hated being reminded of the fact.  It had been the cause of many fights in my short life and I was toying with the idea of punching that lady out.  

Mrs. Dowdy returned with Mr. Mosley who was a gangly man dressed in brown rumpled slacks, a wrinkled, soup-stained striped shirt and a crooked necktie.  He had used one of those skinny half-knots guaranteed to crook a tie that was favored by those who couldn’t master the Windsor Knot.  I mean, I was just a third grader, but I knew how to tie a Windsor Knot and this was the father of one of my classmates, Howie, who I considered a semi-butt-wipe.  By his appearance and his offspring I took Mr. Mosley as someone who had, no doubt, been called “butt-wipe” many times in his life, but what did I know?  He looked down at me and laughed saying “What does this little feller need a jockstrap for”? 

Now bear in mind that as far as I knew a “jockstrap” was just a derogatory name and he had also called me little.  He considered me a little-jockstrap and he had said it out loud.  That took me right to the boiling point and I was figuring that I could put him down quickly by punching him squarely in his nuts which happened to be at the perfect height for me to administer a kill shot.  With him down I would turn on the “Dowdy Scarf Lady” who was snickering at me and the whole situation.  Neither one had any idea who they were messing with.  Luckily for both of them Mother knew and when I tensed and clenched my fists she put her hand firmly on my shoulder to hold me back.  Then Mr. Ass-wipe said, “Actually we do have one just his size” and with that he disappeared into the back room which saved him from a serious beating. 

When he returned, he had this small flat box with an “Ace” logo and a photo of the contents.  Since I was expecting a glove or a hat this added to my confusion.  Mr. Butt-wipe took it out of the box and held it up for all to see before handing it to me.  Working without any clues my best guess was that it was either supposed to go around my waist or over my head.  Head gear, most likely, a nose guard perhaps, but which way was it worn and for what purpose?  I had never seen a baseball player with one on his head but thought it possible that it attached to the inside of a hat, but why?  By the grace of God, I hesitated before pulling it over my head and when Mr. Mosley told me to just pull it on over my jeans that sort of answered the question about where it was worn.  It was obvious that this thing was going to be too big, but Mother nodded at me signifying that I should put it on so I went into a dressing room and pondered which way it was worn.  Guard to the front or guard to the back?  My life was so complicated.

Finally, I stepped out on the salesfloor to the accompaniment of much snickering.  We had drawn the attention of other shoppers who were now smiling at me as well.  Mr. Mosley laughed out loud.  Picture a tiny third grader with a big floppy jockstrap hanging loosely over his jeans.  At least I had gotten it on with the “guard” facing forward.  I mean, there were no instructions on the box and I really didn’t know.  I had donned it with a 50/50 chance of success and had just gotten lucky.  

When Mrs. Dowdy was finally able to control herself she said: “Here, I found an XXX-Small.  Try this one without your jeans on”.  Oh my God.  A triple extra small and she said it loud enough for everyone on the first floor to hear.  What could possibly be more humiliating?  Those were fighting words and there was going to be blood but before I could spring Mother gripped my shoulder and told me to go into the changing room.  I hesitated but walked in. 

I was equal parts humiliated and furious.  If Mother hadn’t stopped me, I would have committed some horrific and unlawful violent act.  Outside the dressing room the Muzak droned on mingling with the chatter of shoppers as well as with the chuckles of Mr. Butt-wipe and Dowdy Scarf Lady.  I was so lost in pondering homicide while pulling the XXX-Small on over my underwear that I failed to note that the fit was perfect. 

I had a great need to express how I had been made to feel but if I talked in a disrespectful manner to an adult my mother would have grounded me for a week and there was a good chance that I would experience the sting of my Dad’s belt.  Disrespecting your elders was a felony in our family. 

I had to do something to let them know how I felt, and it was Mother’s Navy Bean Soup that gave me my voice for expression and allowed me to force out what may have been the loudest fart that the world had ever heard.  It was so loud, in fact, that I was shocked.  As a grade school boy I knew loud farts and this one did my screaming for me.  The chatter and laughter from outside the dressing room immediately ceased leaving only the numbing drone of the Muzak.  Exiting the dressing room I tossed the jockstrap to the scowling but silent Mrs. Dowdy and kept walking towards the door.  She made a point of not catching it but was not agile enough to get out of its way and it was a perfect headshot.  I heard Mother say “Well, I guess we’ll have to take that one”. 

We didn’t speak on the way home but at least I wasn’t grounded and Howie would never suspect that the regular beatings that I subjected him to through grade school were retaliation for his father’s lack of customer service skills.  Lucky for me that farting loudly in public was only a misdemeanor in our household.

I never did see the point of a jockstrap during my Little League career.  It’s true that when used with a cup it would protect against potential damage caused by a bad-hop grounder or being struck by an inside pitch but my grade school rationale argued that bad-hops were solved with improved fielding skills and anyone who turned to face an inside pitch instead of turning away simply wasn’t cut out for sports.  We were only asked on our first day of the season if we had them on so after that I left it at home in my drawer. As far as I was concerned a third grader needed a jock strap like a dead man needed an overcoat.  

In Junior High they were required for gym class so after a semester of that I found a way to avoid gym class altogether.  Jockstraps weren’t required for playing the French Horn in Orchestra and that replaced gym in my schedule.  Score!

 High School brought them back into my life, though, as they were required to be worn every day in PE.  At the beginning of class our PE coach would have us line up at attention prior to calisthenics and would walk behind us with his paddle in hand.  We were required to pull a leg band from our jock down out of our gym shorts and let it snap back into place when he walked past.  The coaches didn’t have to look, they just listened and if the sound they heard wasn’t crisp enough to make skin sting they would stop and perform an inspection.  They could easily detect the inauthentic sound made by some reprobate attempting to pass off the anemic snap made by the elastic leg band of their tighty-whiteys to that of a tight-fitting jockstrap.  If found without support the offender would be ordered to bend-and-reach and receive a swat. 

There was this one guy I remember, Jack, who was really talented at mimicking voices, imitating animal sounds, ventriloquism, beatboxing, the works.  I don’t know if he practiced it beforehand or just left his jockstrap at home but Jack attempted to mimic the sound of a leg band snapping against skin but his plan broke down when he choked on his chewing gum and made a croaking sound instead of a loud snap.  He might have pulled it off if he hadn’t been chewing gum and that was another thing. 

That stopped Coach Gary in his tracks, and he said “Bend-and-reach, Squirrel.  You get three for that.  One for not wearing protection, one for trying to lie to me and one for chewing gum in class.”  Jack didn’t try that again. 

 It had been 5 ½ decades since I had gotten a swat, thought about Jack or worn a jockstrap.  Things were going along just fine until last Christmas when I had hernia surgery.  Waking up in post-op I was feeling so very, very, very good.  I was covered up with that warm air blanket and the drugs were working just fine, thank you very much. 

I felt my feet being massaged which was something I hadn’t counted on.  It was such a fine sensation.  “Post-op is good!”

Then my ankles and calves.  “Oh!  Post-op is very good!” 

Then my calves and knees.  “I like post-op.  It’s the best!”

When the massage got to my thighs, I had to see what was going on.  I opened my eyes and was shocked to see the unfamiliar eyes of a nurse behind a surgical mask just two feet away.  She stopped abruptly sensing my confusion, I suppose, and said, “I’m sorry”.

Dropping my eyes lower I tried to focus on something around my thighs that she had been busy with.  It didn’t make sense to me.  Damn drugs.  What’s going on?  Finally, the realization of what it was came to me along with the grim memories of childhood that flooded me with anger and resentment. 

 I remember saying to her: “For fucks sake!  A jockstrap?  You are making me wear a jockstrap?” 

With that the nurse stood up, apologized again, and let me manage on my own.  As I laid there looking at that strangely twisted and truncated garment around my legs I thought of the Book of Genesis where “The Lord made Cain a wanderer and a fugitive over the earth, but set a mark upon him,……as wanderers must remain upon the earth, until their countenance be filled with shame.”

Accepting my lot I pulled the Mark of Cain up into place and meekly asked if I could please go home. 

What a way to kill a fine buzz.

The Shortcut

I suppose that it was around 1958 when Pip and Terry introduced me to “The Shortcut”.  None of us knew that the shortcut to the Yacht Club was part of a historic Native canoe portage or the remains of a log canal being reclaimed by the urban jungle.  Speaking of urban jungles, I was fresh out of Wichita and amazed at the neighborhood wilderness that surrounded my new home.  We were just kids interested in shortcuts, swamps and being where, maybe, we shouldn’t have been.  

The shortcut started up at Montlake Blvd. and followed a rugged dirt road down to Portage Bay where a half dozen or so houseboats were moored.  The road was rough as there weren’t many cars associated with the houseboats, hence, it wasn’t maintained.  These houseboat dwellers were typical of the time as many lived a hand-to-mouth existence so cars were a luxury that few could afford.  The road was mostly used as a foot path for the houseboat tenants.  

The dock providing access to the houseboats was adjacent to a small cove that had some wooden refuse poking up out of the water.  We skirted the cove and crossed the water where it was shallow, using wood and steel debris or scrub willows where they allowed us to clamber over.  Once past the cove we came upon a “pond” close to the Fisheries Building and crossed a “dam” that separated the pond from Portage Bay.  The pond was surrounded by Willows that flourished and provided luxurious shade.   I recall the walkway over the “dam” as being no wider than about two feet.  

When SR-520 was built through the Canal Reserve things changed dramatically.  The dirt road, houseboats, pilings, the cove and pond were removed.  Fill was added for the freeway and for additional parking at the Fisheries Building pushing the shoreline about 200 feet out into Portage Bay .  

As decades passed, I often thought about that shortcut, the houseboats, the mysterious debris and the urban Eden surrounding the pond adjacent to the Fisheries Building.  I pondered the origin of the rubble and what it had once been?  I assumed that it had been garbage fill but didn’t really know.  

Then, one day I was reading Don Sherwood’s history of West Montlake Park and it all fell into place.  I could look at old maps and photos with new eyes and parse old memories after I read:

“In 1929 the US Bureau of Commercial Fisheries was permitted to build a laboratory on the Old Canal property adjacent to the Yacht Club.  The Old Canal had never been filled in, except for Montlake Boulevard when the old bridge was removed.  So in 1932 Noble Hoggson, a landscape architect, proposed creation of an aquarium built in the “canyon” of the Old Canal adjacent to the new Fisheries laboratory.  It would have occupied the site of the old locks – by then lost in the jungle of trees and undergrowth.  Though highly endorsed, this plan never materialized”:  

Except, in a sense, I think it did.  The “pond” turned out to be where the locks were.  No need to dig a hole for the pond because the “canyon” was already there.  Just clean up the jungle growth, build a “dam” and you have your “aquarium”. 

1929 - RKE

The Log Canal split near the west end creating a gated log flume to the south and a passageway with locks for allowing boats to negotiate the 9-foot elevation change from Lake Washington to Lake Union.  The path of the canal is obvious in the 1929 aerial image as it had only been filled at Montlake Boulevard.  In the 1936 aerial the canal shows signs of more fill between the now-present Fisheries Building and the Boulevard.  Lots of Willow and Alder growth, 

1936 - RKE - 0684

The log flume was of standard construction supported by large timbers set in an “X” configuration with shorter supports angling out at ~90 degrees.  Note the supports on the flume on the right side of the c1904 photo. 

c1904 - UWDC - SEA1105

Now look at the blown-up crop from the 1936 aerial image.  If you zoom in you can see the remains of the flume cross member sinking beneath surface.  

1936 - RKE - 0684 crop

In 1936 the “canyon” next to the Fisheries Building was yet to be cleared out and dammed so no pond was visible.  Not sure when that happened but the depression already existed as a marsh.  Finally look at the 1962 construction aerial.  The pond and the dam are clearly visible and, according to Don Sherwood, mark the location of the locks.

1962 - SMA - 71028

Thinking back on the “shortcut” and the weird debris that we found and clambered over it is pretty cool to realize that it was the remains of the Log Canal that had dried up in 1916.  I wish I had known what I was climbing over and could go back for another look.

 

Sounds of Summer

Most kids have secret places where they go to disappear and practice being themselves.  Comfortable places shared with a close friend or two but sometimes places to just be alone and take in the night air. 

During the late ‘50’s - early ‘60’s one of my places was the roof of Montlake Elementary School.  The 1924 school design was a typical Floyd Naramore (think NBBJ) design and consisted of a two story main building that housed classrooms, office, nurse’s station, etc., and a long single story western section that housed the Boy’s and Girl’s athletic courts and a large boiler room with coal bunkers.  

Floyd recognized that kids would be kids and that the southern exposure of that roof was low and a no-brainer point of assault for any curious youth.  He also acknowledged that those seriously overbuilt 2” steel pipe downspouts around the western section could be climbed by any halfway adventurous youngster so his design incorporated measures to thwart such assaults.  His drawings called for “Climbing Guards” to be mounted to protect all weak points. 

 

His Climbing Guard design consisted of 5/8” diameter downward angled spikes still visible over the Girl’s Gym.  They are daunting looking but flawed.  The scary-looking spikes were spaced to impale an adult-sized leg but a skinny athletic kid’s leg fit nicely between them.  It seemed easy and I guess that I have Floyd to thank for that or maybe the General Contractor who supplied the part. 

I don’t recall the first time that I defied Floyd’s design but I had probably gone up to retrieve a baseball that had been hit up onto the roof and the south side was the obvious way up.  By that time I had been on top of all of the portables and the lunchroom so I found it was easy and it opened up a new world to me.  In no time that roof became my sanctuary.  

After dinner I would go up to the school grounds to shoot baskets and if none of my buddies were there, I would look around to see if anyone was watching.  If the coast was clear I would throw my basketball up onto the roof creating a need to retrieve it.  Once on the roof I would look into the lower windows and if Bill (the night janitor with the eyepatch) was visible, I would climb back down as though my intent was only to get my basketball.  If the rooms and hallways were clear, I would go to the corner formed by the chimney and the west wall and sit down on my basketball.  I was invisible there and if an adjacent homeowner had seen me climb up and called the police there were a number of unfortified downspouts that allowed me to escape. 

So many Summer evenings were spent up on that warm roof sitting on my basketball, leaning against the warm brick of the chimney and listening to the sounds of the neighborhood.  That west facing wall acted as a collector and amplifier so that I could hear what was going on around me.  I could hear Bobby and Catherine Bidstrip laughing or arguing as they washed the dinner dishes.  Howard Mosler’s voice, croaking though the hormones of puberty while he shot baskets in the darkening alley behind his house.  The sounds of late baseball practices from Montlake Playfield.  The bat striking a ball, the smack of the ball into a mitt and the voices of happy kids playing kick-the-can in the streets before bedtime.  My favorite was the sound of the Night Hawks made as they ate dinner.    

Soon, the sound of another basketball being dribbled up Calhoun Street was heard followed by the rattling of the chain that blocked the alleyway between the school and the lunchroom.  That announced the approach of my friend who shared this rooftop sanctuary with me.  A couple of shots banged against the backboard of the 8 foot rim nearest the boy’s play court and then a Spalding basketball with “Melvin” written on it bounced onto the roof and rolled across stopping between my feet.  The accuracy of that blind shot was typical of his endeavors. 

Bob overcame the Naramore deterrents with the same ease and disdain as I and soon sauntered up around the chimney.  Pleased to see his basketball between my feet he said “Are we playing HORSE or do I win?”  He pulled a pack of Winstons and a Zippo from his pocket and offered me one.  We leaned back against the wall and smoked.  

As we sat there the sound of another bouncing ball approached the playground.  We tried to guess by the sounds who it would be.  The dribbling was awkward and unpracticed, so it wasn’t Ray.  The footwork sounded like nothing produced by basketball shoes so that eliminated most of the usual suspects.  Nobody was creating the cheering sounds of an enthusiastic crowd so it wasn’t Mickey.  Many shots were missing the backboard and being chased to the portables but there was no muttering or speaking in strange voices which meant it wasn’t Danny.  Then I heard the tell.  It was sound that Crutch made clearing his voice and I never saw him wear sneakers.  I told Bob as much so he walked over to where he could see past the edge of the roof and came back smiling.  “You’re right.  It’s Crutch”. 

Soon it became quiet as Crutch left, Howard settled down, Cathy and Bobbie had chilled and it was too dark to field grounders.  We were left sitting on our basketballs and leaning back against the warm brick.  The glow of the sunset provided an orange backdrop behind Capitol Hill and accentuated the outline of Seattle Prep.  The warm brick, tar roof and asphalt playground surrendered their heat and created a thermal glass-off that lifted flying insects up to the waiting Night Hawks who circled overhead crying “Preet!  Preet!  Preet!”  Spotting a juicy winged bug they dove and created a booming sound of air rushing through their feathers as they pulled up sharply from their feeding dive.  If they were low enough we could see the white spots on their wings as they circled back up for another bite.

Sound of the Night Hawk

The drone of the motors on the Goodyear Blimp became audible and long before it came into view.  Finally it was passing slowly overhead its lights flashed “GOODYEAR” and “TIRES”.

Sound of the Goodyear Blimp

To the northwest the running reader board lights on the top of the Safeco Insurance Building announced “SAFECO……….AUTO………INSURANCE………..8:55 PM”.

 

I said, “I gotta get home, Bob.  It’s close to curfew”.

Bob replied “We have time for one more cigarette”. 

The spring hinge on his lighter clanged open as he lit up two and handed one to me, then snapped shut with that signature Zippo sound.  

Zippo Sound

He took a long draw on the Winston and said: “And besides it is so nice up here tonight”. 

And it always was.  Especially on warm summer nights.