REVISITING THE PARK | A tribute to best friends

Making friends with kids living in Madison Park in the ‘40s was easy. In those days, we were all outside playing war in the woods (Canterbury), baseball on 41st Avenue using manhole covers as bases, tag football in the park and sledding down Madison Street in the winter.

There were four of us who really bonded. Kim Matson was brought up very strictly, as his mother was a teacher, and his father was John I. Matson, a famous architect.

Mike Thim was known then as “Little Mike” (he grew up to be 6 feet, 4 inches tall). His mother was a waitress and divorced from his dad, who owned a restaurant in Pendleton, Ore. Mike’s mom and my mom, Clara, both worked long hours during the war.

And then there was Dick Turner. He was the last of five kids and received little, if any, love from home. His dad was generous with bruises.

I was a transplant from Riverton Heights, where I left a lot of friends when we followed Dad to his Army Air Forces stints. Mom and I returned to Madison Park after he passed, and we had a lot of freedom, compared to my friends.

The four of us always found time to meet at the Broadmoor drugstore (Pharmaca) to plan a viewing of a new movie — there were very few.

We seldom had arguments, but there was one good one while crowding each other in the lunch line at J.J. McGilvra Elementary School. To our dismay, we had to meet the paddle in the boiler room, courtesy of Mr. Chechester, the principal.

Sometime in our preteens, we began to fight over girls, of all things! No one ever won as we’d fight till exhaustion, fall to the ground and ask, “You had enough?” We’d shake hands, laugh and partake of a group hug.

Into our early teens, one of us four skillfully found the family car keys, pried open the garage door and coasted down the alley. We all snuck out of our homes to join him, and there before us was the means to explore anything and everything in a four- to six-hour timeframe.

Points for bravery

In the early ‘50s, roller skating rinks were popular. The Renton Rink was really big — a huge Wurlitzer organ played music. It was cool to don the rented skates and feel taller, more adult-like. We would spot girls and skate alongside, eventually stopping to sit and talk with them.

Everything was looking up until some big dudes with cigarettes rolled in their T-shirt sleeves (these guys were known as Rinks) put the heavy lean on us and said something about remodeling our faces. Outnumbered and only a foot shorter, we chose to evacuate the area.

Our driver turned in his skates and brought the car up front. We were relieved to leave the possible ensuing altercation that promised us a strong second place.

We redeemed ourselves for our lack of bravery by driving to Ivar’s at the foot of Madison Street. After a family-sized clam chowder, we ran along freight trains and jumped aboard, riding past Sears on Fourth Avenue, then hopped off and rode the flatbeds back. That was part bravery but mostly lacking smarts.

Eventually, Dick was caught borrowing the car, and his dad did a number on him with the belt.

Kim’s mom called my mom, saying that Dick started Kim smoking and that he was a bad kid. My mom said, “There must be some good in him if he’s my son’s friend!”

Back together again

We grew up to draft age, and one day, we met at The Attic and committed to meeting there again after our stint in the service.

Two years later, we did so, over beer at The Attic and the Red Onion, reconnecting, reminiscing and laughing about growing up in Madison Park. We noted the area never seemed to change.

Three of the four had gotten married; I stayed single. Dick had five kids, Kim two and Mike just one.

One year later, Dick was living on 43rd Avenue and had gotten divorced. Kim lived in a new home in West Seattle. Big Mike divorced and lived alone in a cottage on the lake in Kirkland.

It was tough returning to ironwork — walking the clouds was difficult after two years in the Army. Bartending at The Attic was a smooth segue back to civilian life.

Dick called, saying he had gotten a job writing for the Atlas Missile Program and wondered if, with my experience in the Army drafting and illustrating, I’d be interested in illustrating at Atlas. “Hell, yes!” I said.

Shortly after that, Kim, a draftsman and just divorced, was hired, so we three carpooled from Madison Park to Renton and back, working 110 hours a week — a cost-plus contract with the time restraints during the missile race.

This seven-day-a-week job left little time for anything like Army Reserve meetings. It was during the Korean and Vietnam wars, and I had missed five Reserve meetings ordered by Major Hall at Sand Point.

Since I had been in radio communications, I reported in a wrinkled class-A uniform, with a letter stating I had a 2nd high-security clearance rating to work on missile drawings. Major Hall read it and shook my hand, saying, “Keep up the good work!” I returned to work a happy man.

Moving on

Eventually, the missile race slowed, and we found other jobs. I worked for Wonder Bread as a driver/salesman. Kim sold hearing aids. Dick became a flight instructor at night and worked during the day installing instrumentation in airplanes; later, he became an assistant in cardiovascular medicine, monitoring blood flow and writing procedures in medical journals.

Big Mike went to work for Mike Santos of construction acclaim and later ran a section of Martin Selig’s Columbia Tower.

When I inherited my grandparents’ home, Dick, Kim, my cousin Louie Salois (home from Vietnam) and I became roommates. Who’d of thunk?

After a while, it was time for everyone to move on. Kim and Dick moved just a few blocks away. Mike always joined us for get-togethers.

In 1980, Karen (my wife of almost 36 years) moved in with a co-worker who was renting the very house Dick Turner grew up in.

Years later, good friends bought Kim’s childhood home. When we were invited to see it, the memories came flooding back, of spending nights there listening to Kim fight with his parents.

Driving along the lake in Kirkland, I envisioned where Mike Thim’s house was that we rented for $25 a month — it was roughly where the Third Floor Fish Café was but is now the Chaffey Building.

All three of my very best friends are gone now. I hope they are toasting to our lives together somewhere up there. A tear in my eye, I toast back to good friends, good times and great memories.

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