REVISITING THE PARK | Taking the No. 11 to the Orpheum
One of my fond memories has to do with our small group of childhood friends. The parents of each were somewhat stern. One set of parents included a teacher and an architect. One friend was the last of five who was not really loved. Another kid’s parents owned a wheat ranch in Eastern Washington. A divorced father of another gave his son too much freedom. Then there was me, who lost my dad to the war (as so many other schoolmates had). I was governed by my mom, who was doing her best to get over losing Dad.
The blackouts, food rationing and living each day hoping the war would stay over there made for a pretty stressful life. We only got glimpses of the world’s misery, but when word of Double Bubble gum was being sold in Madison Valley for 1 cent per kid, we joined the line two blocks long, full of happy kids excited to get a piece. It had been a year since we saw bubble gum!
When news went through school of a movie coming to the Orpheum Theatre, we counted the days. Movies were few and far between in the 1940s. Back then, a black-and-white movie filled us with anticipation and drowned out any negativity about world events.
The bus downtown
A Saturday matinee was planned well in advance. Many phone calls were made to time the bus so as to get there early enough to avoid the long line. After picking a specific time to start, Michael Thim picked up the No. 11 bus at the Edgewater stop. Then at the Madison Park Pharmacy, Dick Turner and I joined him, followed by Kim Mattsen at the 33rd Avenue stop. Last was Jack Zinc, at the Madison Valley stop. We were lucky to get parental permission for this day of freedom.
We climbed the stairs of the bus and dropped any combination of coins to make the 12-cent fare. Sometimes, we used tokens previously made aluminum but now made of plastic — three of them equaling 1 cent. Bus drivers hated tokens because they took forever to count. The coins hit the bottom of the coin box loudly, making the driver stare sternly at us: The tokens could only be used during school days.
We ran with exuberance to the rear of the bus, with the driver yelling, “No running!” Most of the drivers were old as the younger ones were serving in the war.
The old, metal-smelling electric bus rumbled over the old rail tracks up Madison Street, passing many neighborhoods, where we observed all kinds of people going about life. Buzz and Doug’s Hobby Store, just a block past Broadway, prompted us to point and jump in our seats with the thought of stopping there to buy a project.
When we got to our stop at Fifth Avenue and Union Street, we pulled the cord, and the driver yelled, “Feet off the seats!”
Breaking from reality
Leaping off, we walked north to the Orpheum, through all the sights and smells of the city and passed Weisfield Jewelers, where headlines and photos of the war were displayed in the windows. It was difficult to decipher the news with our young eyes. The movie featured Abbot and Costello, and it was a comedy — we needed one.
The line was already getting long, so we stood in the dark, early morning wondering if it would be sold-out by the time we got our tickets. Never fear, the Orpheum was a huge theater. Our only hassle was the big kid who pushed us. I could hardly wait until I was that big.
Ticket stubs in hand, we ran to the refreshment stand and ordered hot popcorn in a paper bag and a Coke in a wax paper cup, which usually leaked.
Once seated, we could feel the excitement building and began stamping our feet along with everyone else. The house lights dimmed, and the huge curtains opened. Our wet clothes and hair steamed in the growing-warm theater.
Two features showed: newsreels, mostly local stuff. One feature hit lightly on the war, and another portrayed animals with voiceovers, making us believe the animals talked.
The coming attractions looked good but could not compare to the serial “Captain Marvel,” which often left our hero tied to railroad ties and ended just as the train roared toward him.
Along with the double-features and coming attractions was the cartoon “Mike and Joe” — it was our favorite.
There in the dark, we were transported by the thrill of the black-and-white movie, laughing most of the way through it. It filled our heads with happy thoughts — not the loss of loved ones in the war and the many changes too difficult to comprehend.
A glimpse of the war
Outside the theater, we rubbed our eyes from the bright morning sun and noticed a 7-foot-tall policeman and service personnel everywhere, some obviously recovering from war wounds. It was difficult not to stare. We had been sheltered from the negatives of the war and life. All we could do was wonder what it must have been like over there, as we had little to compare it to.
On our way to catch the No. 11 bus back home, the big department stores invited us to smell the newness and watch pretty girls hand out samples of perfume.
Those days were much more satisfying in its simplicity than these days.
RICHARD CARL LEHMAN is a longtime Madison Park resident.
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