Larry Newman, Jeanette McDonald and Dick Lehman.
Richard Carl Lehman
We rarely visited my grandparents in Madison Park in the late ’30s, but when we did, it was always an all-day if not overnight adventure with Dad, Mom and me.
Walter was my step-grandfather — we called him Uncle Walter — who was married to my mom’s mother, Esther-- she didn’t want to be called Grandma. Their house, the one Karen and I live in now, was the first stop. It was very exciting to see the beach and all the kids swimming in Lake Washington. Even though the Depression was fresh in people’s minds, the stores on the avenue were “big city” compared to Riverton Heights, where we lived out in the sticks. Our second stop was to take the ferry to Kirkland to see Dad’s parents who had a farm on Little Finn Hill.
About seven years later, when Dad became a casualty of the war, we moved back to Seattle and into Walter and Esther’s garage. The Park was quieter as the war was ongoing and there were persistent impacts. A few stores had closed, and the days were short and dark due to air raids, which made it gloomier. I made friends at J. J. McGilvra Elementary as well as folks along the dirt-filled alley between 42nd and 43rd. During the winter months, water froze in pools, which we ran and slid on. Many families lived in the alley; garages were converted into living quarters or spare rooms. It was common for kids to get a meal here and there as the parents were working.
One friend named Larry Newman lived south of us in a houseboat that was pulled to shore and converted into a home for three. Larry’s dad was a baker and his mom, Virginia, was a checker at Croshaw's (Bert’s Red Apple). That little house stands to this day. When I walk by it, I think of the many nights spent there for meals and sleepovers. Larry and I slept on bunk beds — just the right size.
Across the alley and the next street over was Roger Kelly’s house, and he was our age. His dad worked in window coverings and drove a truck that said on the side of it, “The driver of this truck is a blind man!”
Humor was essential then and truly is the same now. Roger’s mom, Mary, also worked at Croshaw's. His sister was a couple of years younger and went to JJM Elementary, also. His grandfather lived in the same house in an extra room on the porch and built stick model airplanes. With the war shortages, engines were on the short list.
Larry and I were fixated on the same girl for some reason in the fifth grade, Jeanette McDonald. With her parents’ permission, Larry and I accompanied her to a Saturday matinee movie. We had to drink our 5 cent cokes quickly as the paper cups turned to mush. Prior to this date, when we went to the movies, popcorn was uppermost in our minds and was always consumed at a rapid pace. It was normal to add extra salt and then wipe our hands on our trousers after each mouthful. Now with butter in the picture and fully engulfed in the picture, this habit of ours meant we left the theater with oil slicks on our pants. Not that that was the reason, but neither one of us won Jeanette’s heart. Her family moved to Portland. Not that the butter was the reason.
Roger became a manager at the Ford Motor Company and married young. I was a groomsman at the wedding and waved to them as he and his wife drove away in a new Ford. The officiates had to chase them down because they forgot to sign the wedding papers. Roger later became a helicopter pilot and Larry hired on as a Secret Service agent during the JFK presidency. Larry stopped to visit occasionally and would ask me about my art. When I asked him about his profession he just smiled, turned the question around and asked if I was still drawing cartoons.
Another memorable schoolmate was Tom Hulett who lived on the alley north of us with his brother and parents. He joined Pat O’Day, a local disc jockey in 1967 in a business called Concerts West Enterprises, which promoted concerts and found musical talent for the Seattle area.
Tom Hulett had an especially close working relationship with two of Concert West's most important clients, Jimi Hendrix and Elvis Presley.
A famous person in my mind was Shirley Williams who lived on 41st and was a classmate at Edmund Meany Jr. High. She was tall, and I found myself standing on tiptoes with her. Later, she became a dancer in movies. We would walk home from school and share a sundae at the soda fountain. One day, I got a call from a guy at Queen Anne High School. Chuck Bolch wanted to know if I was dating Shirley. I answered that we were just friends, and he replied, “I’ll see you after school, tomorrow — get ready!” Then, he hung up. Hey, wait a minute, I’m in the ninth grade; he’s a sophomore! Next day, I found out he played football and was a lineman! On a good day, I was 140 pounds. The next day his friends and most of the students at my school gathered on the playground around 3:15. “Fight! Fight,” they yelled. “Wow, you’re gonna get it!”
Really, you shouldn’t have, you’re all here for me? Yah, he was big, but you know what they say, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. May I ask who said that? I had boxed a bit with the son of a middle-weight boxer my mom was dating. My lips got bloodied up a bit before I learned to study the other guy’s style, but who had time for that now? Chuck had an edge, his weight. While most of the school was watching, he pummeled me, but I got him in a head lock. Suddenly Mr. Burrows, the algebra teacher pulled me off, and Chuck turned and got a clear shot. Thanks, Teach! I walked to the No. 11 bus feeling fairly proud. Not backing down surely gave me a few points.
I had a few fights in school and at the most three in my 45 years of single life. Most schoolmates married and moved away but some returned to visit the park. Over schooners, we have relived the many tales of old and gave ourselves a good laugh.