REVISITING THE PARK | Work and reward for dump diligence

In the mid-’50s, Madison Park-ites could be seen on sunny days mowing lawns or cleaning out garages. That meant a trip to the Montlake landfill, north of the university, to cart everything from lawn clippings and weeds to whatever couldn’t be given away.

Families made it a day’s excursion, as they drove cars pulling small trailers filled to the brim and drove through the arboretum to the landfill, which is now a kind of bird sanctuary.

It was a marshy surface that felt like Jell-O to drive on. Attendants motioned to the area where you could park to discard it all.

A husband or wife would usually stand by the family car, while the significant other would gesture how to back up the trailer. Eventually, the directions became louder: “Not that way, stupid! Your other left turn!” In the background, there was tittering from the onlookers.

The trailer was perfectly positioned at cliff’s edge, at which point the contents were shoved over to some 10 to 20 feet below. If the brake were not applied properly, the trailer would hang over the edge, causing the human voice to reach octaves seldom used at home. Luckily, there was always a helping hand nearby.

One husband so frustrated over his wife’s attempt to position the trailer unhinged it and pushed it over the edge. People watching applauded.

Among the debris, people gathered stuff to take home, so as to have a reason to come back, I guess. Others stood by, reading old magazines, as paint-can lids zoomed by from the heat of the fire. Others collected bottles. It wasn’t uncommon to see people trying on discarded clothing.

As refrigerators became popular, the old, wooden ice chests were found at the dump. Today, that old ice chest would bring more than a thousand dollars.

When I worked at Mopar and American Auto Parts, a roster determined who would take the truckloads of office paper, paint cans and anything else deemed garbage to the dump.

Ernie Eccort had the record of mishaps pushing paper off the truck. Once, when Ernie pitchforked the paper, he exerted a little too much muscle and followed the fork and paper to the flames below. Later, with singed eyebrows, he joked he didn’t know he could move that fast. The onlookers actually applauded.

On my turn to the dump, I was motioned by a police motorcycle patrol officer to turn right into traffic, which turned out to be an ongoing funeral procession. Of course, I turned off at the landfill and was glad the procession didn’t follow me.

An attendant yelled at me as most of the office paper I had in tow went over the edge, but some was aflame under the truck. I realized the burning rubber aroma was not only coming from the garbage but from the truck. I moved it back faster than space travel before it heated the fuel tank.

No-dump date

Imagine calling up a date and asking, since it was such a beautiful day, “Do you want to go to the dump?” The answer strangely enough was, “Wow, sure!”

If you weren’t obliged to visit the dump, how about a cruise through Lake City, with its endless car dealerships, which numbered more than what’s there today? There were far fewer drivers, too.

At the beginning of the Bothell city limits was Bob’s Chicken, where the wait for your very own dining tent was seldom long since the area was so unpopulated — Seattle was a just-big-enough city then. Families or a group of friends would sit around a real wood fire as they were served the best chicken anywhere. It was acceptable to bring your favorite alcoholic beverage, as long as it was out of view. Set-ups cost $1.50 and included 7-Up, Collins mix and ice.

Turning south to Juanita Drive West was nothing but greenery, empty road and fresh air, with the occasional fruit and vegetable stand and a few small stores.

Rounding the last corner in the distance was Juanita Beach. There, a slide about three stories high promised a day of fun. The trick to a successful journey down the slide was to make sure there was a full stream of water running down. Forgetting to do so meant hot metal, an abrupt stop and some four-letter words.

Face forward on your stomach or feet-first were the two options. I chose the former because, when you hit the water, it left a wake behind you. The depth of the water was only thigh-high, so with people watching, it was no time to lose your suit.

It happened to me once. Someone on the dock yelled, “It’s over here! It’s blue, right?”

Juanita Bay was shallow and very warm. In the evenings, as the sun set, the schottische and the polka played in the gazebo. Most of the kids danced.

Completely exhausted, we’d head south to Interstate 90, then take the Leschi turnoff, visiting a tavern or two on the way home — the whole day a reward for dump diligence.

RICHARD CARL LEHMAN is a longtime Madison Park resident. To comment on this column, write to MPTimes@nwlink.com.