James Frederick Dawson and Trouble With the Curve

 

James F. Dawson

The Cultural Landscape Foundation

In 1902 the city contracted with the Olmsted Brothers to have a grand plan drawn up for a system of connected parks and boulevards.  Automobiles had come to Seattle just two years prior but the Olmsted Brothers were sophisticated in their thinking when compared to some others.  Their vision acknowledged that the horse drawn buggy was on its way out and that “pleasure drives” in automobiles were the future for Seattle.  The shoreline of Lake Washington was a great place to build yet-to-be-planned parks and to locate such a grand connecting roadway with its pleasing and complex curves.  In 1904 they sent partner James Frederick Dawson to Seattle to review plans, document progress and ground truth their planned visions for the city. 

1904 - ONHS - Image by J.F. Dawson

Madison Street Trestle Out of View To the Right - Lake Washington Blvd Descending On the Left

In August of 1904 construction began on the first section of roadway before the plans had even been finalized.  That road started at the east end of the Madison Street Trestle and descended north along the hillside that was tightly squeezed between the deep and wooded ravine to the west (today referred to as Washington Park Playfield) and previously platted land between what we refer to today as Washington Park Playfield and Broadmoor. 

During Dawson’s trip he took some photographs of road construction, two of which I find remarkable, as they show the grading of the slope along the east side of the wood-choked ravine that is now Washington Park Playfield.  Both photos show the horse-drawn equipment used for ripping out roots and grading that would be used a few years later in preparing the University of Washington campus for the 1909 Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition. 

1904 - ONHS - Image by J.F. Dawson

Looking down into the ravine in Dawson’s photo you wouldn’t know that there was a creek running there that drained springs and runoff as far away as Cherry Street, nearly a mile and a half to the south.  West beyond the ravine the sparsely occupied east side of Capitol Hill rises up in the background.  What I believe to be Aloha Street is clearly visible. 

2007 - A. Knight

In spite of the hurried start, it would take a year for that first section of macadam-armored roadway to be completed between Madison Street and Interlaken Boulevard.  The wooded ravine would be cleared and eventually become a garbage dump, the trestle would be removed and replaced with fill that remains to this day.  

Looking South Into the Creek Bed (Dewey Place E) Which Ran Beneath the 

Madison Street Trestle

The garbage dump would be smoothed, topped, planted with grass and turned into a really fine athletic venue called Washington Park Playfield. 

During my early baseball days, I played for three years for the Flying A's, the team with the worst win/loss record in the Central Little League.  I was part of one of the two teams out of Montlake Playfield and Montlake was a great park. It’s true that the outfield got a little soft due to being built on a Dahlia field that had flourished on a peat bog, but it was a beautiful place to play ball.  But whenever we played Bert’s IGA or Bryant’s Marina at their home field (Washington Park Playfield) I was stunned by what a perfect baseball park it was.  It was nestled in this little valley, ringed with trees that provided the perfect amount of shade with their emerald beauty.  

We always lost in Washington Park.  Heck, Dale and Jim’s Flying A’s lost everywhere we played but the kids who played for Bert’s and Bryant’s always rubbed it in more than other teams.  Let’s face it; Whether I was whiffing at Emil Giese’s highspeed left-arm, side-arm breaking in and down slider or Too-Tall (Tom) Podall’s ridiculous fast ball that came through the strike zone at an impossibly sharp downward angle the only thing I had to enjoy during my at bats in Washington Park was the scenery. 

2017 - SMA - 191203

Somehow it is pleasing at this stage of my age to learn that their home field was a garbage dump. 

We have to take our victories as we find them.  

 

 

 

 

Backing In at Big Southern Butte

Every year at this time I think about that hang gliding trip that I went on to Utah with Roger (Black Weasel), Dan (Dangerous Dan), Robbie (Mr. Natural) and his dog Kona (Frisbee Scumbag). My moniker was Jon Boy. That trip was full of brotherhood, adventure, chills and thrills. September spurs us to get in touch to reminisce and this year we ask ourselves, “Could it really have been 41 years ago today”? 

So many stories and new acquaintances came out of our time together and many of the pilots we met told us of amazing flights that were being had at Big Southern Butte in the Idaho desert. We had read stories about the place and knew that there had been some fatalities there but we always rationalized that pilots who died had done something stupid that we would avoid. Since Big Southern Butte wasn’t too far out of our way we decided to stop there and fly. 

Driving north beyond Pocatello we turned onto a secondary highway. It was dark and after a while we turned off onto a dirt road and followed it, dodging jack rabbits and potholes. I would guess that it took about an hour on that dirt before we came to Frenchman’s Cabin where we would crash for the night. All we could really see in the headlights was a ragged log cabin, and an even raggedier shelter for livestock, a couple of piles of junk and log fence. It had to be the place and we were beat so we grabbed our sleeping bags and started for the door. 

Wanted: Dead or Alive

 Originally published 9/14/2021

Be on the lookout for Notch Ear.

He is wanted for Criminal Trespass, Burglary, Mayhem, Willful Damage and Destruction.

He was last seen leaving my garage with an empty peanut bag which he blatantly discarded in the street.  The contents of the bag have not been recovered.  Additionally, he tore apart a pile of Styrofoam chunks that had been neatly stacked awaiting recycling and scattered them around the garage.  He is well-known in the Ridgecrest Neighborhood for leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. 

If you see Notch Ear or any members of his gang do not attempt to apprehend him.  He is a cheeky little bastard and should be considered armed and dangerous. 

He is a Vandal, a Hun, a Visigoth, a Barbarian at the gate, clamoring for blood and bent on destruction. 

 

Just waste the mother.

Search for the Good Road Lunch Room

Courtesy of Gordon Macdougall

While Interlaken Blvd may “officially” be just outside of the Montlake Historic District you would be hard pressed to convince any Montlake Free Range Kid that Interlaken, Louisa Boren Park or any part of “The Ravine” was not their turf.  With that mindset I began trying a few years back to find the site where a Montlake icon, the Good Road Lunch Room, had stood. 

It’s well known that Interlaken Blvd follows the general route of the Seattle Bicycle Path that was laid out during the 1890’s.  Many have reported on that so I will leave you to sort through those resources.  The Good Road Lunch Room is mentioned in all of those narratives but the exact location has never been located to my satisfaction.  We know that it was somewhere between Roanoke and 24^th, but where? 

REI - When Hang Gliding Was Mainstream

An abridged version of this narrative first appeared in the January 2003 edition of the Oz Report. You probably didn't know that REI was once a Northwest powerhouse in hang gliding sales and instruction.

REI got into the hang gliding business by purchasing Chandelle Northwest from a gentleman named Ken Greenwald ~1974-1975. Ken had returned from a very profitable season of fishing in Alaska and had some money burning a hole in his pocket so he decided that selling hang gliders would be a fun way to get rich. I’ve never been completely clear on whether he came up with the idea himself or if he had help but in the early ‘70’s hang gliding was exploding. It was being touted as the inexpensive sport that any man or woman could safely engage in to experience the freedom of flight.

It sounded foolproof so Ken started the company and opened up an amazing shop in downtown Seattle. He leased a great showroom in the old Commission District near the ferry terminal. The business was located in the northeast corner of the Maritime Building and had plenty of large plate glass windows to display gliders.

Birthdays, Baseballs and Goose Eggs

 

I celebrated my 9th trip around the sun by gorging on cake and ice cream followed by a roller-skating party at Ridge Roller Rink in Greenwood with my Montlake School buddies Pip M, Scott M, Jeff W, Mike S, Ray B, Marc G, Bobby A and Lester R.  Being fairly new to the neighborhood I didn’t realize how blessed I was to have been accepted by such a solid crew of Montlake kids whose parents had raised them right.  I'm still in touch with two of those "kids" today. 

Lord of the Flies / King of the Carp

 1/1/2006

The Plan

The plan was hatched in Donnie Carlson’s storage area. 

His house sat at the corner of Boyer and Everett Ave. E.  Everett Avenue sloped about 75 yards down to Portage Bay where it dead ended at the remains of a rickety dock surrounded by cattails and Lilly Pads.  The dock had been the sidewalk for a houseboat community that was displaced by the building of the 520 viaduct. 

Donnie’s house was built on the hillside with the main floor at ground level on one side and the exterior basement door at ground level on the opposite.  A deck off of the living room extended over the basement door and the deck supports provided the main framing and footprint for the storage area.  The walls were enclosed using translucent corrugated fiberglass panels.  Access from outside was through a light wooden door that was held shut with a screen door hook.

The area was used for storing outboard motors, oars, life jackets, seat cushions, fishing poles, reels, nets, tackle boxes, lawn mowers, rakes, garden tools, large mysterious olive drab canvas things of unknown purpose.  Interesting artifacts were stacked, slung and hung everywhere in this 8’ x 10’ space and emitted intriguing smells that really got the juices stirring in this young boy.  The mingling scents emitted by jars of salmon eggs, cheese bait, vinyl seat cushions, well-aged fishing creels, air-dried kapok life jackets, motor oil, gasoline, dried grass, army surplus pup tents with just a hint of rodent pee filled me with wonder.  My God, what a magnificent smell.  The light that filtered through the fiberglass paneling played across salmon flashers, trout lures, odd floats and old jackets that were suspended from the rafters.  This was a cathedral and any boy who entered was overwhelmed by the possibilities.  It was in this temple that Donnie unveiled the prize given to him by his Grandpa. 

In his hand he held a green trident spear tip.  Four sharp prongs, each finished with a barb, all set into an elongated cap designed to fit over the end of a shaft.  He held it out to me and smiled.  It was beautiful, dangerous, wicked, perfect!  I was transfixed.  What more could a boy want?  Without any idea of how I would use it I knew that I had to possess one and it had to be soon.

Test Pattern

 

We weren’t the first of families to own a TV set.  They were novelties then and whenever relatives were together, if a TV was available, we would gather and watch.  There wasn’t much in the way of programming at the time.  Whatever the programming was it was in black and white and I don’t recall channel choices during the ‘50’s in Kansas. 

I do recall sitting on the floor in front of the TV before the Saturday broadcasting began staring at the test pattern that featured the Indian Chief and listening to that test tone.  My God, the anticipation of staring at that image while having that unwavering low fidelity tone blast through my head.  It was divine in such an unacceptable way by today’s standards.  In order to distract kids during the pre-programming test pattern period some crafty entrepreneur packaged up a clear vinyl film with a few crayons and sold them to frazzled Mom’s.  We had one.  The film was pressed onto the screen where we would “color” the test pattern.  The crayon could be wiped off of the vinyl with toilet paper so every day the Indian chief could be a different color.  Of course, you couldn’t get too imaginative because there were only 5 color crayons. 

Ole Nissen - Tailor

 

Ole Andreas Nissen was born in Ansager, Denmark in 1887.  Like so many Danes at that time he worked the family farm.  He was a diminutive boy and when he was 14 years old and finished with school his Mother gave him the kind of advice that no boy that age wants to hear. 

“Ole” she said, “I want you to learn to be a tailor.  You have skinny wrists.  You won’t cut it as a farmer”. 

Being smaller than his peers must have been something that he had dealt with for all of his short life and to have his Mom confirm what he had struggled to deny was a harsh toke.  Then, the next thing he knew was that she had swung a deal with a tailor who lived in the next town and so off he went to serve an apprenticeship.  After 3 ½ years he and his skinny wrists came away with a paying profession that he actually liked and excelled at.  It turned out that Mother knew best.  

He saved his money and at age 20 immigrated to the US where he arrived in New York City, boarded a train and headed west.  Everywhere he went, though, tailors were not in demand so he picked up whatever work was available.  Carpentry, cooking, waiting tables, whatever and after a few months he arrived in Seattle.  Nobody was hiring tailors in the Emerald City so he traveled up and down the coast, California to Vancouver, BC picking up piecework sewing and other odd jobs.  Vancouver panned out for him and he was able to get steady work sewing.  At age 27 he was back in Seattle and opened his own shop where he sold his first suit for $29.  

The last Wednesday of each month was his night to play cards at the Danish Brotherhood and one Wednesday he was playing with the VP of Washington Mutual Bank who asked him to make a blue serge suit for his wife.  The suit was a hit and soon the banker’s wealthy friends and their wives were among his clientele. 

Looking to expand and upscale his business he bought a lot at 2805 E. Madison Street in Madison Valley.  The property was long and narrow with a house towards the middle of the lot.  

It had a nice front yard facing Madison Street and a large-ish back yard on E. Arthur Pl.  In 1925 he had the house picked up, turned 180 degrees and set on E Arthur Pl.  On the Madison Street side, he had a storefront built to house his new tailor shop and a tenant who ran a barbershop.  He operated at his Madison Street shop from 1925 until he retired in 1967.  He passed away in 1986 at the ripe age of 99.  

The house that he had picked up and turned around still stands at 2832 E Arthur Pl.  It is the home of “The Music Factory”, a music school that employs professional musicians who work with students of all levels in guitar, piano and voice.  

The storefront that he rented out and where he proudly displayed his own sign is a french restaurant called “Voila! Bistrot”.

You may have eaten there.  I think he would approve.

Accidental Aviation

 

In 1980 I met up with some flying friends out at the Sod Farm next to St. Michele Winery to watch one of them fly his Kasperwing.  The “Kasper” was an ultralight aircraft built by another friend, Steve Grossruck, who I had flown hang gliders with for several years.  His gliders were always heavily modified or self-built and usually of his own design.  He took to motorized-gliders like a duck to water and was soon collaborating with other notables on the design that would incorporate the “Kasper Tip” and become the Kasperwing.  It was a beautiful creation and after a bit I was goaded into sitting in it.  

Gerry, the wing’s owner said: “Go ahead, Jon.  Fly the mother”.  

I had no interest in flying an ultralight and absolutely no intention of taking off in this or any other one but I acquiesced by agreeing to taxi around the huge field.  You know, just drive it around on the grass and make everyone happy.  So, after driving it around for 5 minutes or so I came back to the group and Gerry suggested that I go back out and just add a little speed.  “No big deal” he said.  “Just get the front wheel light and then back off on the throttle and it will settle right back down”.  

Pee Pee

  

September 15, 1971

So, this is a picture of me from 1971 riding a bike at the local “pit” down the street from where I grew up.  I had borrowed the bike from my friend, Gary Cook.  Take note of all of the responsible behaviors that I was modeling.  Helmets were not required so I was clearly following the law.  Skin coverings were a good idea but not required by law.  I didn’t care.  I was wearing my favorite jeans, weighing in at 155 pounds dripping wet, skinny as hell with the closest thing I would ever have resembling a “six-pack”.  But, this is where things start to unravel.  

Rock Critic Lester Bangs once said: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.”  So, it’s time for me to fess up but you gotta promise not to mock me too much as I'm still scarred and sensitive.  

The Belltown Boys

“When you’re a Jet

You’re a Jet all the way

From your first cigarette

To your last dying day.”

 Conceived in the late ‘40’s “West Side Story” told of conflict between racial groups living in segregated neighborhoods of New York City, and like the Jets and the Sharks, the youth of Belltown and Seattle were at odds based on geographical separation. 

After William Bell’s claim grew to become “Belltown” it was its own entity packed up tight against Denny Hill.  Denny Hill, being enough of a topographic feature as to complicate easy northern expansion from Seattle’s core, fostered a sense of community identity and separation.  Two schools, North School and Denny School, were only ½ mile apart but on opposite sides of the hill.  Word has it that they didn’t get along. 

In her book, “When Seattle Was a Village” Sofie Frye Bass tells us of this conflict between the Belltown Gang and the Mill Street Gang who would meet to fight on the sawdust near Yesler’s Mill after the Belltown Boys rowed down to the Mill Street rendezvous.  Sheriff Lewis Wyckoff would show up to break up the fights, put the Belltown Boys back in their rowboats and send them back north beyond The Hill.

 

Flying in the Great Indoors

6/17/1979 

In June 1979 a bunch of us became the first people in the world to fly indoors.  We flew on three occasions.  The first was to see if anyone would die.  The next time we did it for press coverage and the third time to perform for the Annual Paper Airplane Contest.  Pilot and Instructor, Michael Pringle showed up for the third occasion and wrote an article for “Hang Gliding Magazine” which was published in the August 1979 edition.  Michael and the United States Hang Gliding Association have the copyright on the article.  The magazine is no longer available but the article is by buying the electronic copies of every magazine ever published by USGHA and its subsidiaries.  Mike was my buddy and if he were alive today, he would heartily endorse my reformatting, providing my own photos and publishing it on my blog.

Winter Crucifixion

12/15/74 

Sometime in the early to mid-70’s I was skiing on a pair of 170 cm Kneissl Short Comps with Besser bindings.  It was during the market-driven short ski craze when short skis and freestyle encouraged bad technique.  If you were a type III skier you could either ski correctly (because you had a racing background or were from the East Coast) or you could try to emulate the latest freestyle weirdness.  I’m sure that there were things in-between but I wasn’t interested in them.  I was self-taught and too dumb to not be proud of that fact.  I had never raced and wasn’t good enough to overcome or accommodate the design-imposed limitations of conventional skis.  Consequently, I was drawn to the darkside.  The Siren's call included:

Royal Flying Christy

Back Scratcher

Daffy

Space Walk

Jet Turn

Slow Dog Noodle………..bad technique.  

One night at Ski Acres I came face-to-face with the co-mingling of bad gear and bad technique and lived to tell about it. 

What is a Best Friend?

 

Maybe it changes as you age?  Maybe it is the friend that you spend the most time with?  Maybe it’s the friend who makes you feel the best about yourself?  Maybe it’s the friend who you have the most in common with?  Maybe it’s……..What?  

Mine left on February 1st.  We had been together for 60 years.  We hadn’t spent as much time together as some other friends we but always knew where each other were and got in touch as needed.  Sometimes it was me and sometimes it was him.  He was the guy who I could always count on to help me sort something out or let me know that I was so off base as to be totally fucked and he would say it.  “Dude.  You are so totally wrong.  You are fucked.  Think about it”.  Something that you don’t accept or tolerate from normal friends.  Hopefully, he felt the same. 

Most of us have a few key figures in our lives to grieve when they leave this Earth.  Our Parents.  Our Siblings.  Our Spouses.  Our Children.  Our Friends and Acquaintances and our Best Friends.  

 

 

RIP Mel……..

The Government Stairs

 1/13/2006

In 1930 the city of Seattle put in a waterline that came down from Capitol Hill, through Interlaken Park, ran north under 22^nd Street to East Blaine and then up a steep 65’ ridge to the high point of the Montlake Neighborhood.  From there it continued north to serve communities beyond the ship canal.  Once the waterline was completed one of the city’s charming sets of public stairs was thoughtfully installed on that right-of-way. 

As a kid I had never heard them referred to as anything other than the Government Stairs though I guess their official name is the “Howe Street Stairs”  I still return to them and recall a cycling adventure that took place over a half a century prior. 

Kasie and I were out for a Father/Daughter bike ride sometime back when we found ourselves in the Montlake neighborhood.  She had heard most of my “Glory Days” tales before but this was the first time that we had visited this particular site where I had made my bones as a fairly major cycling stud to be reckoned with.  As we stood over our bikes looking down the Government Stairs I proudly related something that happened there about 60 years ago.