Those first couple of years 1958-59 at Sealth High School were, per usual, eventful for me. There were several humorous incidents connected to those years. Most of them occured before the entrance into my life of a young hellraiser by the name of Doug "Mercer" Palmer:
BUTCH'S GREAT ADVENTURE P A R T VII
While living in that house in White Center, Art horse-traded for a bulky homemade cabin cruiser,that we christened the "Toot" . He did not know much about boats, but he had us recondition that little ugly monstrosity to the the best of our ability. As a machinest, he had made a boat trailer for it. It sat there in the back yard that Spring, probably in 1958.
It was about 20 feet long and 20 feet high, looking top heavy and odd. It looked more like a cartoon boat than anything else. Art had us hand sand all the wood on the hull, railings, and cabin, and deep varnish everything. We caulked it and rubbed it for months. It had a flathead Ford V-8 engine in it, with marine heads. Art tuned that up, and he would start it often, and razz the twin manifolds, scaring the neighbors and their pets. He painted the Toot a God-awful green, some paint he had pilfered where he worked.
By early summer, the Toot was ready for its maiden voyage. Art decided to drive out to the south end of Lake Washington, to the boat launch near the Renton Boeing plant. Pop and Dick came with us, so that they could drive Art's car back to Seattle, to Lake Union, where Pop and Mom-Mom had a houseboat. Art's master plan was to launch there on the south end of the lake, and motor north, up under the floating bridge, and then through the University Cut, and into Lake Union, and just putter right up to the floating porch on Pop's houseboat. [Ironically, where Doug and Meredith live, on the west side of Lake Washington, in Meredith's childhood home, she or some of her family might have seen the Toot that day on its maiden voyage.]
We, as a family, were all excited. Mother had fixed up a picnic lunch, and there were two thermos' of coffee for Art. With eyes shining we started north into the deep water of the famous lake. Art started kind of slow, and a hundred yards out he slammed the controls hard astern, and that Ford V-8 roared to life. But we soon discovered, like ten minutes out, that the homemade craft was not very well designed. It plowed through the water like a pregnant tug boat, kicking up a ten foot wake, and only averaging about 10 knots of speed.
The V-8 rumbled and roared, eating up gas like a starving dog, and we had a rooster tail behind us like the Miss Bardahl. Several fishermen in small boats were nearly swamped by the passage of the Toot that morning. It seemed to take forever to make it to the Cut, and over into Lake Union. We arrived at the Carpenter house boat, and our cheers were geniune.
But who knew what a travesty that trip had been? Certainly not the rest of the family. So my grandmother, my great aunt, and my great grandmother, Mom-Mom, Ardy, and Nana, all wanted their ride in Art's fine new boat. He obliged them, loading them aboard, and plowed our way out into mid Lake Union, just as he swung it hard to port, to turn around, that great flathead V-8 began to sputter. He had no gas gauge. He just ran things off gas cans. It had not occured to him to get more gas. We ran out of gas five minutes later, a half mile from the houseboat, dead in the water. I was aboard, Mother, Clys, and Bud had stayed behind.
The ladies were trying not to titter or giggle too much. Art was sweating buckets, and his brow were furrowed up like petrified wood.
"God Dammit!" he screamed, and tore on of the galley doors off the the cabin. It was plywood, like two feet wide, and four feet tall. He handed it to me. Then he tore the other door off.
"Start paddling, Butch!" he said simply.
We "paddled" for an hour, and finally got near enough to the houseboat to alert Pop, who got one of his houseboat neighbors to come out in his boat, and throw us a line, and tow us up to Pop's houseboat. We tied the Toot to the porch, and Art sulked for an hour before announced that we were leaving. The Toot stayed tied up to Pop's porch for a couple weeks until Art traded it off for two shotguns, and some machinist tools.
Art used to go through several cars a year. He pushed them hard, and they broke down regularly. He bought a 1951 black Ford two-door sedan, flathead V-8, stick-shift, at one point, and he and I drove it over to Kettle Falls for the family annual hunting trip. Dick and Pop always got there a couple of weeks early, and set up the huge tents in base camp, and scouted the hills looking for sign.
I was always envious of Dick and Pop, who somehow were able to get away from their jobs for a month each year during deer hunting season. Pop usually shot the deer for Art, and for me. We would put our tags on them, and take them home triumphantly.That year, there were several other guest hunters at base camp; a couple of friends of Dick's, and some sons of Ted Ellis, an old friend of Pop's.
One day, Art decided to show off the new Ford hot rod to the other guys. He would rev up the V-8, and then pop the clutch, and burn rubber, and throw gravel all over the place. He would spin the car in circles. He would drive fast, and then slam on the brakes, and speedshift to reverse, and spin the tires going backward; a real trick driver in his mind.
On the day we were going to start home, Art was showing off again, and he blew up the transmission, and the car could not be put in reverse. Pop looked at Art, which he did regularly, like Art was an idiot. Art shrugged it off, and we started home from Northport, south along the Columbia, over the Okanogan. Right in the middle of the wheat country, the Ford gave up the ghost, and the clutch burned out. We left the car at a local garage, and took a Greyhound bus home. A week later, Art and Mother came back on the bus, and retrieved the Ford.
Another time, Art owned a 1949 Plymouth station wagon, flathead six cylinder, four door. He had split the exhaust manifolds, and put dual glass pack mufflers on it, and welded twin stacks up the side of the vehicle diagonally; then at the roof, he straightened out the stacks, and shot them vertically up, like a mini-semi large truck. He called that Plymouth, the "ToonervilleTrolly".
He hand painted the car a crappy lime green, and he had Pop paint the name of the car on both sides, with a cartoon alongside it. Pop, who used to do this for a job, did a magnificent cartoon and bright white lettering.
Art and I were returning from yet another deer hunting trip, without a deer that time, and the car's engine threw a rod, or maybe it broke a piston. Those Chrysler flathead engines had really strong lower ends; great bearings.
"As long as I don't turn the engine off, we'll be okay!" Art exclaimed.
Engine oil was beginning to spurt out hot and smoky under the hood. We stopped in Moses Lake, and bought a five gallon can of reprocessed oil; a kind of inexpensive recycled engine oil that one used to buy and put in cars that burned too much oil, having bad rings or whatever. We limped along, and with every mile, we seemed to lose more power. Climbing up theVantage grade east of Ellensburg, the oil began to spurt up on the windshield, so we had to use thewindshield wipers.
What a wonderful greasy oily smear that made on the windshield. Somehow, Art saw through it, and we continued on our trek for White Center, and home. But the engine had very little power. We pulled the Vantage grade at about 25 mph. At every rest stop, and sometimes just along the road, we would pause and pour another gallon of oil into that steaming engine, and we would try and wipe off some of the smear on the windshield, using every rag, and extra shirt we had in the car.
Everything in the car, including us, reeked of hot burning engine oil. Moving slowly, and making a terrible racket, the Plymouth was masked in the blue haze. Other cars gave us a wide berth, and sped around us. We fully expected to get pulled over by the State Patrol, but ironically none of them ever detected our blue-green inferno.
Somehow, almost getting out and pushing to help, we limped over Snoqualamie Pass at 5 mph. At North Bend, on the west side, we purchased five more gallons of oil. Hours later we limped, crawled, and wheezed into the yard at White Center.This was on a Friday.
We pulled the vehicle into the garage, and finally turned off the engine. It had been making such a clatter for that last 30 miles, that we were positive that it was going to cease up. Art was quite a mechanic. He immediately went to a wrecking yard, purchased a used Plymouth flathead six engine, and over that weekend exchanged engines. He actually drove the Plymouth to work on Monday morning.
When Bud was about nine years old, in 1959, Art built him a kiddy-car, and gave it to him for his birthday. It had a Briggs & Stratton go-cart lawnmower engine. He could weld heliarc, so he had fabricated an aluminum body over a channel iron frame. It had a steering wheel, a gas pedal of sorts, and functional brakes. Art and Dick drove it a lot that day. Poor Bud, like the kid waiting for Dad to quit playing with the new train set, he had to stand there with Mother, Clys, and myself, and wait for his turn to drive his new "car". We took 8mm home movies of him driving it. He had a short-billed motorcycle hat on, and a black jacket. He was hot stuff.
I don't remember whatever happened to the kiddy car. I guess after a few months it broke, and sat out in the garage for a few more months, and then Art horse-traded it off for some garden tools and rifle ammunition.
That house on 15th was so small, that even though Clys and I were in high school, we three kids all shared one bedroom. Ever the fixer, Art built another bedroom out in the garage. I was the oldest, and I was designated as the lucky child who would receive it. I loved it out there, what bliss, what joy; actual privacy. The room was heated by an old wood stove that Art put up in the garage. In the winter one needed it. I always liked the smell of wood burning. Often the wood was damp, or even wet, and no one, especially me, liked to chop and store kindling. So Art left a can of coal oil in a large can near the stove. Coal oil is thick, and slow to ignite. One must sprinkle it liberally, and then lean near it so as to drop the lit stickmatch directly into the puddle.
One fine Winter's day, I decided it was cold enough, so that I needed to start a fire. I stuffed in some wood, and newspaper, sprinkled the ignitor, leaned over, and struck a match. It exploded violently in my face. I was wearing glasses, so my eyes were spared, but it did burn off my eyebrows and eyelashes and part of my hairline. It turned out, I found out, Art had run out of coal oil and had filled the can with gasoline. He figured that no one would have been dumb enough to do what I did, be reading a paperback book in one hand, load the stove, pour on the gasoline, which of course smelled differently than coal oil-if one was paying attention, and then drop a match, thus igniting the gas fumes; and as a capper, lean in close so that one could sustain second and third degree burns on the face.
Mother and Art rushed me down to Burien General Hospital, where we went for all family emergencies, where I believe years later our Mother died. As we drove, Mom applied wet washcloths on my burned face. It would give me a modicum of relief for two seconds, and then it would hurt like hell again. I stayed at the hospital overnight, and was sent home with most of my head wrapped in bandages. I looked like the Son of the Mummy. I could not wear my glasses, and there were holes for my eyes, nose, and mouth.
When you have your whole head wrapped up, I discovered, one can only see straight ahead. So I had to learn to bring food to my mouth without seeing the fork as it ascended toward my pie hole. After being home for a few days, I begged Mom to let me go back to school. I loved school; always did, right up through 8 years of college. So mid-week, I returned to my classes at Denny Junior High. Coming around corners in the hallways, I received several gasps from girls, and a couple of screams; a nightmare was loose on campus! But after the word quickly got around that Buttkus was the Mummy who was prowling the halls, things calmed down to hushed whispers and giggles and finger-pointing.
I hadthis pair of white levis at the time, that Mom had ruined while washing them with a red load of clothes.They came out passionate pink. During those times, those less tolerant and not politically correct times,Thursdays at school were designated as "Queer Day." So just to piss off the homophiles and rednecks, I would often wear those pink levis, along with likewise ruined white socks that were now dyed pink, onThursdays. It helped to create my adolescent reputation as a risk taker and a hell raiser; someone rude, crude, and outrageous.
To this day, those traits are still part of my emotional lexicon, much to the chagrin of my lovely wife, my children, and close friends. For that week at school that I got to portray the Mummy, I wore those pink levis proudly. During the1950's, all the young studs would roll up the short sleeves on their shirts high up onto the shoulder, so as to show off their manly biceps. I had a healthy set of bullets to show off, so I practiced that sleeve-rolling all the way up to 1980, when I was approaching 50 years of age; and then I finally gave up childish things, and made an effort to grow up.
Glenn
No comments:
Post a Comment