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.
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”.
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.
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.