The Oldest House in Montlake ~ NOT!

The Newman Residence located at 2209 E Howe St is named after Everett Newman who resided there in 1928. The house is credited in available records as having been built in 1902. Municipal records, Montlake Historic District documents, realtor websites, the works, all list 1902 as the build date. That makes it the oldest standing residence in Montlake, right? Not so fast! Before computers all records were handwritten and somewhere along the way those records were transcribed to some other media, again and again and again making transcription errors possible.

Consider:

• It stands on the steep hillside above E Blaine Street in a line of four other homes all built in 1912. Seems odd that someone would build the first house in Montlake, in 1902, on a difficult hillside on a street that wouldn't be platted until 1907.
• The house does not show on the Baist's Atlas for the years 1905, 1908 or 1912.
• It doesn't show up on the MOHAI image 1952.146.1 dated December 15, 1911, however, Boyer, Blaine and Howe Streets have been platted for four years and are evident in the photograph.

It doesn't show up until MOHAI image 1952.146.2 dated March 15, 1913

The earliest tax document from 1928 lists the build date as 1910.

Follow up records documenting remodel projects reference 1902 and 1912.  The house received its sewer connection along with the other four adjacent homes in 1912.

It is my opinion that the Newman Residence at 2209 E Howe was built in 1912 along with four adjacent homes.  At some point an entry error substituting a "0" for a "1" was made and it carried over into subsequent records.  That would make it somewhere between the 40th and 83rd oldest standing house in Montlake.  I don't know what the ramifications of not owning the oldest  house in Montlake might be but this ain't it.  

I think that the Reagh Residence at 1872 24th Ave E holds the honors of being the Oldest House in Montlake.  Built in 1904 on the dirt wagon road that would become 24th Ave E this Dutch Colonial Revival house mimicked similar homes being built on North and Central Capitol Hill to the south and west at that time.  

Address: 1872 24th Ave E
Historic Name: Reagh Residence ~ Built: 1904 ~ Site ID#: 45-15
Legal: TURNER H S PARK ADD Block 7 Lot 5 Parcel #: 8712100740
Style: Dutch Colonial Revival
Description: This two-story shingle-clad Dutch Colonial Revival house sits on a relatively flat lot with low retaining wall, dense groundcover and foundation shrubs. It is oriented sideways from the street, and has a side-gambrel roof with full- width shed dormers on the main south façade and on the rear façade. A full-width porch on the west façade has a flat roof, square posts, a wood balustrade and French doors flanking the brick chimney on the gable wall. The central recessed entry on the south facade is not visible. Windows include a mix of paired 6/1 wood sash and 1/1 and fixed replacement windows.  
Cultural Data: The earliest known owners of this house were John D. & Jeanie Reagh in 1928. In 1938, it was owned by a branch manager at Jamieson Drug Stores, Clarence H. Merritt, and his wife, Berenice. From 1948 through 1958, Olive M. Bell, of Bell & Company owned this house.

Flashing Pine Street

 

Part I - Steel

I only hear the sound of those slippery steel wheels in my nightmares. That steel on concrete sound may be a nice memory for those aging seniors who relate it to the feel of metal skates on their feet in the safety of their driveway with a skate key around their neck but for a handful of us that sound is too closely bound to unfulfilled dreams thwarted by our first attempts at building skateboards and the pain and terror they inflicted upon us.  That loud, ragged dangerous ride on the edge of someplace we didn't want to go but were forced to approach by those insistent dreams.  Skittering too fast across worn and ragged concrete, pushed by an outrageous act that we could envision but, inevitably, find out of reach and just across the painful line that our steel technology could only approach. For me the sound of steel wheels conjures up memories of fear, failure, pain and Merthiolate. 

Part II - Clay

The sound of clay wheels on concrete was much more wholesome than steel but still fundamentally wrong.  Muffled compared to metal but still loud and very scary at speed.  On wet concrete?  Death!  They were under you until they weren't and they gave no warning of how close to the threshold of disaster you were.  Still, when I first saw a skateboard with clay wheels I saw a bright future.  I found an affordable board at Woolworth Drugs in University Village and we became one, sort of. 

Skateboards weren't cool then which meant that skateboarders weren't either.  When you were uncool you could either embrace it or keep trying to be cool and if you kept trying that meant that you didn't want to be seen on a skateboard.  The uncool crew that I skated with, well, we kept trying so most of our skating was done after dark.  

Part III - After Dark

We were into big hills and Seattle is full of them.  One of our faves was from Volunteer Park down Galer to Crescent Drive then Crescent Drive to 24th Ave and down into Montlake.  About 350 vertical feet in ~3/4 mile.  To avoid traffic and make a stupid act less dangerous we would make that run around 3:00 AM using traffic spotters at the 5-way next to Stevens School and the sharp bend where Crescent Drive intersects 24th Ave.  It had some very fast sections.  Too fast for clay wheels as they would drift and occasionally disintegrate.  We were not only uncool but also unsmart, it would seem.  When our wheels came apart at speed we were going down hard.  Bruises and road rash were both common and one night there was a broken leg, but it wasn't mine.  

About that time, I came to the conclusion that my quest for coolness, desire to stay alive and love of skate boarding were not mutually compatible so I put away my clay-wheeled death board and focused on the other two.  By 1970, though, the polyurethane wheel came into existence creating new possibilities for skateboarders.  These wheels wouldn't shatter and had very good traction on dry surfaces.  I was tempted to buy a set and fit out my board but I felt like I had finally climbed one rung up from the basement of the Uncool and I was still alive so I passed on the poly wheels.

Part IV - Kryptos

In the mid to late-70's roller skating gained acceptance with adults and I was able to come out of the closet.  I dated a girl who worked in a skate shop and she outfitted me with a pair of Riedell Classics that I retrofitted with Variflex plates and Kryptonic wheels.  A serious skate for a serious skater and that's what I was.  The sound of Kryptos on pavement was low frequency, powerful and menacing.  Still slippery when wet but drifted in a predictable manner and wheels never shattered.  I never got as good as my girlfriend but I became a good street skater.  

One of my favorite routes back then was from my apartment on Capitol Hill to the recently opened Kingdome.  That was an early Sunday morning only route as traffic was light to non-existent and few folks were walking the streets at that time.  The Kingdome had a wide band of fresh blacktop encircling it that was divine.  Deep powder!  The sidewalks downtown were wide and mostly smooth.  Only the walkways around Pioneer Square were a bit ragged and that added interest.  Pine Street was deserted at that time and I could use the entire width of the street.  The stop lights could be mostly ignored but it seemed that they were often in synch with my speed.  Flashing Pine Street on Sunday mornings became my weekend ritual. 

Soon, inlines replaced quads and I went through a pair of mediocre Rollerblades, two pair of excellent Bauer hockey skates, a worthless pair of K2 speed skates with 110mm wheels on clap frames and some other conventional K2 skate before returning to the Bauers.  Inlines presented benefits compared to quads but also some challenges.  Approaching my mid-50's injuries and arthritis had taken a toll forcing the once-talented street skater to acknowledge his mortality and decreasing flexibility by hanging up his skates for good.  But, I could and still can detect that low growl of urethane wheels at a much greater distance than should be possible. 

Part V (Last) - Flashing Pine Street

Fast forward more than a quarter century. 

It was about 10PM when Jean, Kasie, Alejandro and I were about to cross Pine Street at 8th Ave.  It was dark-ish and the stoplight was green for west bound traffic on Pine.  Almost zero traffic.  Kasie started across against the light when I heard a familiar, rhythmic low growl.  I stopped her and looking up Pine, we saw a middle-aged guy on a long board with long hair pulled back that was once dark but now trending towards grey. Matching beard.  Totally relaxed, traveling about 30 mph, hands casually clasped behind his back.  His grey ponytail trailing behind in the vortice of his passing.  Our eyes met and he smiled a “thanks” for understanding.  Using every bit of Pine Street his smooth turns missed the bad cracks and rough sections.  He knew the timing of the lights.  He had done this many times before.  No drama.  The low frequency sound of his wheels faded as he neared 6th Ave 

Damn.  I hadn’t flashed Pine Street for decades.

It really took me back.

Stinking High at Burch Mountain ~ 1979

 

We had heard that some locals were getting good flights at Burch so we went for a look-see.  I was with Black Weasel and Bob Stadshaug.  Light thermals were cycling up launch out of Nahahum Canyon but what sounded like freight trains were rushing up the back from Swakane.  Black Weasel launched first and started circling up fast.  Bob and I were running to clip in when we saw Weasel go over the falls and through a series of scary out of control maneuvers.  He sunk out so fast it was unbelievable but we saw him land safely in an alfalfa field below launch.  We unclipped and went to sit in the shade.  

We waited at least two hours until the freight trains quieted down and the thermals at launch strengthened.  Both Bob and I had thermalled before but neither of us had gotten stinking high.  Consequently Bob was wearing only a t-shirt.  I had my ¾ length sleeve "Lucky" rugby shirt on that I donned whenever I sought divine intervention or thought that I might die.  Bob launched in his 10-Meter and I followed closely in my yellow Oly 160.  Bob skyed immediately while I bumbled around even with launch trying to catch a thermal and a clue. 

It's said that sometimes even a blind squirrel finds a nut and whether I found the nut or the nut found me is still open for debate.  Very soon, though, I was shivering at 9500' and thinking that I had attained stinking high status at last.  I mean, it was a new sensation to be so high and I was certain that I could see the curvature of the earth.  Maybe even the sky was turning from blue to black.  Yeah.  That's the ticket.  I wondered why others who had been stinking high never said anything about seeing the blackness of outer space or the curvature of the earth.  Whatever, I decided that I should fly 11 miles west to Leavenworth.  No telling where Bob had gone as I hadn't seen him since right after launch.  Little did I know he was 2,000' above me.  Along my way west I started to realize how cold I was and how the air seemed freaking rough.  I was physically uncomfortable and having trouble separating paralyzing fear from motivating fear so I turned back and circled down to land at the Cashmere High School.  Bob landed soon thereafter and I learned that he really had gotten stinking high while I had only gotten kinda-smelly high.  Speaking of smells, Black Weasel experienced smells in new and unusual ways. 

Landing in an open alfalfa field had been an adventure as switching winds in the canyon provided guesswork on approach.  Once down safely he noted he was surrounded by a large population of yellow jackets who expressed their displeasure by inflicting numerous stings.  There was no shade so he sat under his baby blue Oly, picked at the stings and tried not to piss them off further.  Dripping sweat he closed his eyes and tried to nod off but soon heard the impossible sound of an irrigation sprinkler starting up.  He could hear the spray approaching as the arm advanced through its cycle and he imagined how great it would feel to get hosed down and lay in wet alfalfa under a wet glider. 

Just before the spray reached him he sensed something unexpected and possibly unpleasant as he got a big nose-hit of manure just before the spray drenched him and his once-baby blue Oly.  That's right.  After a terrifying flight, a pure-luck landing and numerous yellow jacket stings he was covered with poop! 

Getting skyed-out took on a new meaning for me that day. I learned that I had only gotten kinda-smelly high, Bob had gotten stinking high and Black Weasel? Well, he stunk like shit.

A Legend in My Own Mind

 It was July 15, 1984.  I was flying in the Region 1 National Qualifying Competition in Chelan, WA.   The task for the day was a race to goal from Chelan Butte to Simms Corner, a 30-some mile milk-run.  

I had made goal but my time was so slow that the goal keepers had gone home.  When I radioed in from 7,500 feet and seven miles out announcing that I was on final glide to goal they responded from a westbound car (lots of wind noise and laughter drowning them out) "Whatever", they shouted.

What the Leader Board photo shows is who was flying consistently well.  It shows twelve pilots listed and I’m not on the list for good reason.  The photo doesn't show what place I was in.  You would need an electron microscope to read my name on the printed pages below.  Probably something like 30^th place.  I don’t recall but it wasn’t pretty. 

Diving towards the finish line I was expecting a brass band because I had been in the air for hours and it was the first time I had ever made a goal in a competition.........Instead I got laughter.......and zero wind with a very high density altitude in the LZ.  Consequently, I pounded in pretty hard and bent the heck out of my downtubes for which I was awarded a lecture on how to land the Attack Duck by the Wills Wing President, Rob Kells, and a lesson on straightening downtubes (a skill I had already, unfortunately mastered) by Jeff Huey.  I accepted both with appropriate humility.

I console myself thinking that I was light on the 180 Attack Duck and that it was hard to land.  Or maybe it was just me.

A legend in my own mind.