My favorite decade was the 1950s, when life seemed strife-less. We found there were no real hangouts for the 21-year-old group, however. We would just hit the local bars: the Red Onion; The Attic (half the length it is now, with a much lower ceiling), previously the Quality Café; and the Broadmoor (known then as the “old folks’ home,” as the clientele were in their 40s).
On Saturdays, we sometimes hit Pike Place Market and patronized a small tavern at the farthest point west on Pike Street, overlooking the sound: Place Pigalle. The windows opened to the fresh, salt air, and a gentleman played an accordion, while a young girl sang.
Once, we met an older lady standing by a birthday cake, who showed us a picture of herself and 1920s movie star Sophie Tucker, who was her cousin.
The regulars were a friendly group who poured us some beer, and we all engaged in throwing peanut shells on the floor. It was obvious by their appearance they were “beats,” personalities not widely seen in Madison Park. They gathered regularly to debate many subjects. It was a microcosm of what was going on in the world: a world of political upheaval.
When a few of us moved into a houseboat on Lake Union, we met neighbors who were of the bohemian influence. These folks were precursors to the beatniks.
Seattle’s Skid Row was morphing into Pioneer Square. Rentals were cheap, and new taverns were opening. One was called “The No Name,” where the restroom was no place for men or women. Taverns like the Blue Moon Tavern in the University District and Red Robin by the University Bridge were where the “beats” hung out.
Since no meat was sold in Washington state on Sundays, we ventured to Juanita, where an opinionated man cut some “righteous” steaks inside his home. We felt obliged to listen as he went on a tangent about socialism. At the time, he seemed like a wacko, but the more we visited him, the more he made sense.
At this time, the poets, artists and political expounders of the beatnik set were slowly transforming into the hip generation.
The long-hairs
I joined a group of draftees at Fort Ord, Calif., where I met some long-hairs from San Francisco. The next morning, attired in ill-fitting uniforms, we were given white-wall haircuts and shaves. Our fatigue caps fell down and rested on our ears. Everyone had this look, except for a dude who resided three barracks away. His name: Elvis!
After some 10 to 12 weeks, we headed to the previously long-haired friends’ neighborhood in Haight-Ashbury, where we all laughed at our altered facades. It was quite the weekend when we found ourselves smack-dab in the nucleus of a rebellion.
The M.P.s were on the lookout for military personnel who were not allowed in this area. There were rumors of draft-card burning, dropping out, even moving to Canada and joining communes. I had enough time left that I could be sent overseas to Vietnam, but I was close to Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel and Haight-Ashbury, where we lived fairly well despite the lowly $110 monthly income, so AWOL was never an option.
I was discharged with honors on Aug. 1, 1959, so I bid farewell to many good friends and aimed my ‘55 Olds 88 northward to Seattle.
Things had changed in Madison Park, as now there were a few long hairs. It became apparent that hippie-dom was not going away. The taverns were always popular, but now more so.
I worked for an engineering firm and felt this was my time to grow a beard. I suffered crop failure on top; in fact, my ID card in the Army said, “Color of hair: flesh.” It’s funny how hair roots could not find their way to the top of my head but could grow into a thick, full, dark beard, which was not clearly defined in the company’s standards manual.
When Dr. Cal Patterson, an engineer and CEO from company headquarters, visited, he entered the room, stopped by my desk and said, “Nice beard!” I felt vindicated as he, too, had a full beard.
The beard actually caused concern in the neighborhood. Knowing me from childhood, most didn’t expect it of me: Little Dicky Lehman with a beard?
In the ‘60s, I visited friends in Sacramento. We were having lunch at a Mexican restaurant in Berkeley, Calif., on the Fourth of July when a riot started. The owner ordered us out, so we joined the masses, running. We dodged tear gas and rubber bullets that broke windows and bounced off walls. This was no way to digest Mexican food!
Dropping back in
The difference between the beats and the hippies was that the beats were more artistic and had a stronger agenda about the ills of the day. Hippies were all about free love and escapism, except when the Vietnam War was inescapable.
I got mail from a physiologist friend from Seattle who dropped out of society. He moved to a commune in California, where he wrote that the lifestyle was refreshing. He needed the change, met good people and, every once in a while, went to “The Ranch,” where they ate great steaks. At one point, some weird dude spoke about radical change — that short, bearded guy was Charlie Manson. My friend eventually moved on.
Chaos and demonstrations will always be a part of life. Never mind that a schooner is no longer 25 cents — we made it out alive!
RICHARD CARL LEHMAN is a longtime Madison Park resident.
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