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.  

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”:  

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. 

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.