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.

Crime, Punishment & Vocabulary

 

I attended Montlake Elementary School in Seattle from 1957 - 1961.  It is a classic mid-1920’s Floyd Narramore design that, back then, served the children from the middle-class neighborhood. 

Third and fourth grade at Montlake were years marked by good classroom behavior on my part.  Being new to the neighborhood and the school I was focused on fitting in and my classmates helped me with that.  My third grade teacher, Mrs. Parsons, doted on me so I was very comfortable and really well behaved in class.  My report cards testified to that fact with notes such as: “Jon is a good citizen in class”.

Fourth grade introduced me to Miss Wolcott who was former WAC or some other branch of the military and she didn’t suffer fools gladly.  “Fear” would best describe my memories of her. She was severe and when someone acted up in class the whole classroom would have to go out on the playground and march military-style.  Girls learned to “dress-right-dress” along with the boys and nobody wanted to be the one whose horsing around caused the whole class to march in the rain. I behaved and while I never fit in to Scouting, I could sure look sharp standing at attention and marching on orders.

Duncan Comes to the Paper Shack

 

As a kid in Wichita it was a treat when the impeccably-dressed Duncan Top guy came to school to announce an upcoming contest and show us his tricks.  There was a concrete pad next to the school that faced out onto the dirt playground and this was where we all gathered to throw our tops.  He would just show up at recess and go through his tricks which were so far beyond what any of us could do.  Whoever could do the neatest trick would get his name engraved on the crown of his top.  The Duncan Guy would pull out his pocketknife and quickly carve the owner’s name in some exotic script.  He would tell us where to meet for the contest after school and it was always either outside of Tompkin’s Drug Store or Yost’s Grocery.  For the last trick he always did a version of “Walk the Tightrope” where the finale was flipping the top high into the air, opening one side of his coat and catching it in his inside pocket.  Sound familiar?   

As my top skills fell somewhere below the middle of the pack, I never got beyond doing more than three tricks without bleeding so I always attended the contests as a spectator.  The winners would get new tops that retailed for $0.25, the runners-up got their names engraved on the crowns of their theirs and Tompkins or Yost’s would make a few bucks selling new units, strings and 5 cent Marshmallow Root-beers.  Tops were available in any drug or grocery store in Wichita.  Nobody sold Yo-yo’s.  I had heard of them but had never seen one in my life.

The Job Interview

 

 

Say what you will about Chris………and if it is outrageous it’s probably true.  When she was hired from outside the company to fill the position of Action Sports Manager folks were wondering WTAF?  What has she got and what is she going to be like to work for?  That was some fairly scary shit right there. 

 

Maybe it was because she was so carefully watched that we picked up some behaviors that were way outside of REI norms.  Even back then there was a modicum of REI-nice that she didn’t get the memo on, but it was clear that she knew her hardgoods and was a promotor, the likes of which, REI had never seen before.  Her mind and mouth moved faster than any internal filters that she may have possessed so they had no shot at moderating her message.  Mind to mouth at the speed of light was how things went and she always spoke at least 25 decibels louder than everyone else so things that she said often raised some eyebrows.  She bent and broke rules, too, but they were always the rules that had stifling, unintended and negative consequences on our Co-op and Member’s wellbeing so everyone learned to go along whenever possible.  She always acted in her team’s best interests which must have pissed off a few people above her pay grade.  Life around Chris was always an adventure.

 

Folly of Youth

 

Sometimes, it’s hard to explain my choices.  Especially some of the bad ones I made when I was young.  I suppose that I can write them off as the folly of youth but I have to wonder why it was important to me to commit such folly in the first place. 

For instance, once when I was in junior high school, I chose to walk through the Battery Street Tunnel.  The same tunnel, relatively new at the time, that was constructed to serve all of the north-south highway traffic through Seattle and it offered no provision for foot traffic.  For some reason it seemed like a good thing to do. 

At the time I sat third-chair French Horn for the semi-talented All City Orchestra which was mostly composed of young nerds who were accepting of their social limitations and resulting societal roles.  Homey didn’t play that, though, and I struggled to ignore my own limitations and chafed against the norms assigned by my relationship with that Horn in F.  I wanted to be cool and be identified as such so I rationalize that some of my poor choices were the result of trying to set myself apart from reality in the eyes of my very critical peers.

Memories From The Mint

 

1968 - Seattle Municipal Archives - 191827

It’s possible that “The Corner Market” building at 1^st Ave and Pike Street has been photographed more than most Seattle landmarks and while it is a respectable place now that wasn’t always the case.  Built in 1912 it featured open storefronts along the 1^st floor perimeter while the interior featured other food specialty businesses including the Pacific Poultry Company on the 2^nd floor.  At that time it was an altogether decent place to conduct business, do your shopping and to see and be seen.  

The Corner Market went into a steep decline during the ‘60’s just as I was coming into the labor market with only 20% of the space was being utilized.  Heck, all of 1^st Ave was pretty seedy and quite sporty then and I chose the Corner Market for my first job that didn’t involve newspapers or lawnmowers.  The open storefronts along 1^st Ave had been closed in to house the “Modern Barber College” (nationally accredited), “The Taco House” (specializing in fish and chips) and “The Mint Restaurant and Dollar Room” where I first started my long climb to retirement. 

Robert Lewis Stevenson ~ Nazi Wolfpacks & the Montlake Cut

 

1934 - SMA - 9239 

On October 17, 1934 an Engineering Department photographer captured this image of the Puget Sound tug boat Equator towing the oil tanker Geo. H. Jones through the Montlake Cut and into Lake Washington.   At 429 feet in length and 59 feet wide the G.H. Jones filled The Cut on its way to the Lake Washington Shipyards for repairs and refitting.  The bustling shipyards at Houghton ensured that large oceangoing ships were not an uncommon sight in the Montlake neighborhood.  Both the Equator and the Geo. H. Jones had interesting histories and met, equally, interesting ends.  Not present that day in The Cut but part of the story was the Nazi submarine U-455 that would put one of them on the bottom of the ocean.

Jumping From the Montlake Bridge

 

1975 – SMA – 179771

Sometime around the 3^rd or 4^th grade I made one of my life’s ambitions to jump off the Montlake Bridge.  I would walk out to the middle of the span and pull myself up on the railing far enough so that I could look straight down and revel in the butterflies that rose in my stomach, the patterns on the water, the toy boats passing below, the sound of the car tires rolling over the metal deck grating.  It seemed impossibly high but doable.  I may have been dumb and reckless, but I knew that swimming would be involved and since that was something I didn’t know how to do I got signed up to take lessons at the YMCA in downtown Seattle.