Showing posts with label Kent Washington. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kent Washington. Show all posts

Thursday, December 31, 2009

Seattle may have let pro basketball go to Oklahoma City, but in their stead, we got pro soccer and the Lingerie League's Seattle Mist


click to enlarge

Seattle may have allowed/enabled the SuperSonics to depart for Oklahoma City (!), but in their stead, we do have the pro soccer Seattle Sounders, and, of course, the Seattle Mist of the Lingerie League. The Mist play in the suburbs of Seattle, in Kent--a few blocks from where I grew up. Unlike the departed SuperSonics, the resident Seahawks and Mariners, and the UW's Husky football team, the Seattle Mist actually win!
---o0o---

Monday, September 21, 2009

Rock Shows in Kent, Washington at Tiffany's Skate-In



I went to see my earliest rock shows (after seeing The Beatles at Seattle's Coliseum) at Tiffany's Skate-inn in Kent, Washington. Barney Armstrong, a local Kent boy, always seemed totally cool, since he was fronting rock bands like Aftermath, and Ralph. I think I saw them both at Tiffany's. I also saw Fragile Lime there, as well as Merilee Rush and the Turnabouts (who had a national hit later with "Angel of the morning"), who Barney had also played with. Around this time I also saw Them with Van Morrison (Gloria, Mystic Eyes, Brown Eyed Girl), but I can't remember if it was at Tiffany's or elsewhere.
According to PNWbands.com, "The Barney Armstrong Aftermath played the club circuit in the Pacific Northwest. This was the first band Barney formed after leaving Merrilee. Barney and the band gained notoriety with a "Mister Bojangles" tap dance routine that Barney would do. Adding to their uniqueness was a pedal steel guitar and a five-foot grand piano in a rock band. Bob "Boom Boom" Bennett, formerly with the Sonics banged the skins for the Barney Armstrong Aftermath."

Some other bands that played at Tiffany's:
The Archies
The Bards
Borrowed Time
City Zu
The Box Tops (Alex Chilton's first band...Soul Deep, etc.)
Fragile Lime
The Pied Pipers
Sundae Funnies
The Sunn
Merrilee and the Turnabouts
---o0o---

Monday, May 18, 2009

All This Is That Reheated: Square Dance At Kent Elementary



Valley Elementary held two or three square dances a year and they were the coolest thing in town, but the Lettuce Festival, Puyallup Fair (for which we got half a day off school), Kris Kringle Days, and Hydroplane Races were all right up there.

A semi-pro called the steps over a record player or Wollensak tape recorder. Kent was a natural for square dancing; the town was still full of Okies, Clodhoppers, Tarheels, Hayseeds, Rednecks, Yokels, and Hillbillies: my people.

One of the vocals sounded like Tommy Duncan singing. I haven't heard the tune in 40 years. Its lyrics are seared into my brain:

Now you all join hands as you circle the ring
Stop where you are, give your partner a swing.

Now swing that girl behind you.
Swing your own, if you have time to.

Allemande left with the sweet corner maid.
Do-si-do your own.

They we'll all promenade with the sweet corner maid
Singing Oh Johnny Oh Johnny Oh.


Girls wore floofy dresses and boys wore button down shirts with cords or jeans. The adults wore bolo ties and gingham dresses. A couple bales of hay and some other countrified accoutrements were scattered around the gym, along with "refreshments" of soda pop, doughnuts and maple bars.

You got to dance with girls without the potential psychic trauma of actually asking one to dance. They arranged us in a group of partners that changed frequently. However, even those chaste touches and do si dos scrambled our brains with thoughts of girls! The fleeting moments allemanding left, whirling skirts, and whiffs of dime-store perfume all fueled our overheated pre- and mid-pubescent psyches.

I remember square dancing in 3rd and 4th grades, but not so much the 5th and 6th. I do remember seeing The Beatles that year on The Ed Sullivan Show show. I don't know if The Beatles killed square dancing, but after their arrival, square dancing was never quite the same.
---o0o---

Friday, March 20, 2009

The Greyhound Bus Depot in Kent, Washington: Going To Red's


This photo of Kent's Meeker Street, about three blocks west of the Bus Depot,
was taken in 1945, about 15 years before the events described here. Meeker

Street didn't look much different at all, except the cars were newer.

[Ed's note: I have had this story half-written for a year now. I wanted to find photos of the Bus Depot. None seem to exist. I had always hoped for more details...more information on what it was like...what actually transpired there. Unfortunately, neither my 85 year old mother, or 75 year old mother and father in law--who were denizens of the joint--have been able to further illuminate the story. Maybe they will when they see this in print.]

Before rural and suburban areas around Seattle had a metropolitan bus and train system; before they created the Howard Hansen Dam that would prevent the Green, Black, and White Rivers from flooding the valley in which I grew up, we had The Greyhound and Red's Bus Depot. After my father died in 1964, the Greyhound was how we got around. . .if we got around. Getting around was going to Seattle on the bus at Christmas to window-shop and have a sandwich or sundae at The Copper Kettle, or the Paul Bunyan Room at one of the now defunct Seattle department stores.

Red's Kent Bus Depot, located on Meeker Street, two doors in from Central Avenue, was a magical, male, perfect small town place. Being the bus depot in a 3,000 person [ed's note: in later decades, it would become an 85,000 person city] town meant that you were a hub of activity.

Red (a/k/a Gordon Mageness) ran the cafe and Bubbins sold tickets and managed the Greyhound side of the operation. Bubbins even wore a green eyeshade, a vest, and a garter on his crisp, white long-sleeved shirt with a perfectly double-knotted Windsor tie. I don't have a picture of Bubbins, but he looked like an older, shorter (!) Harry Truman, well-haberdashed, a little cranky, and very business-like.


A chocolate malt served in a glass identical to those used at Red's Bus Depot Cafe

Red was unusual in Kent for being a life-long bachelor. He had been married early (to whom????), and I remember often visiting our relatives in the Hillcrest Cemetary and we would stop at the joint grave of his children, who either died at birth, or early in life. I remember the elaborate gravestone, in bronze, with lambs on it. [Were they twins? How did they die? Who was his wife??]. No one ever talked about his wife. I don't know what happened with their marriage. Red was the only man we knew who was a bachelor. All I could figure out about being a bachelor was it meant you could own a speedboat, belong to the Elks' club, and go to the barbershop every day for a trim and a shave. He was surrounded by friends at work, ate dinner at the Elks, and even owned a chunk of a racing filly. . .bachelorhood looked OK.



From the time I was about eight years old, Red would frequently have me run over two blocks to Dunham's for iceberg lettuce, tomatoes or onions, or to have Ray Dunham grind 12 more pounds of sirloin. These missions were always good for a quarter and a vanilla malt.

Red's cafe menu listed hamburgers, cheeseburgers, tuna-fish and toasted cheese sandwiches, soup, chips (regular and barbecue), cottage cheese and canned pineapple wheels nestled in fronds of iceberg lettuce, floats and sodas, ice cream cones, sundaes, hot fudge sundaes, banana splits, milkshakes (served in a tall glass along with the "extra" in the metal container), Boyd's coffee, tea, grapefruit, orange, and tomato juice, milk, bottled soda pop (only beer came in cans), and Green River on tap [ed's note: Green River was developed in 1919 by the Schoenhofen Brewery of Chicago as a non-alcoholic product for the Prohibition era. It was popular for many decades as a soda fountain syrup, and for many years, trailed only Coca Cola in popularity].

Watching Red make milkshakes was a sensuous experience. He slapped a spotless and gleaming stainless steel container on the counter and used a polished scoop (that sat in a container under a trickle of warm water) to dig three generous scoops of vanilla ice cream from a three gallon tub, pumped in a stream of chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry syrup, followed by a righteous pour of whole Smith Brothers milk (the dairy my friends Jim, Kathleen and Frances's extended family owned) and a scoop of malt, if you sprang for an extra nickel. He walked over and snapped the metal container into the pale green shake machine with a decisive click, flipped the switch and the medium-pitched whirring began. After an indeterminate, but always perfect, period of mixing, he poured it into a tall glass, and left the rest on the counter.

If you fancied soup, he opened a single-serving size of Campbell's and dumped it into a proprietary Campbell's soup heater. There were usually a few cheeseburgers and grilled cheese sandwiches cooking on the flat steel grill, along with a pile of onions sizzling in a pool of golden fat. Next to the ancient (even then) manual cash register, were candy bars, cigars, snoose, combs, rain bonnets, nail clippers, aspirin, cigarettes, mints, Callard and Bowser's butterscotch, Cadbury's chocolate, Big Hunks, Dots, Junior Mints, Three Musketeers, Baby Ruths, Butterfingers, Almond Joys, Mountain Bars (made in Tacoma), and gum. Across the floor was a rack of newspapers and magazines: Time, Life, Post, Detective Magazines, the women's magazines (Family Circle, Good Housekeeping, and the like), tabloids, Popular Science and Popular Mechanics. I don't think he carried any skin magazines. Playboy had recently debuted in the 60's, but this was more or less a family cafe. He probably kept the Playboys in the mysterious back room).

The bus depot's decor was minimal: a few tattered travel and bus posters, a black and white television, and a large portrait of F.D.R. My father-in-law Pete acquired the FDR poster when the depot closed down. It now resides in his den. There was a black and white TV on the wall (I never saw a color TV until I was in 11th grade at a friend's house).

The place was a fascinating mix of blue collar and white collar. Lawyers, merchants, dentists, and judges sat side by side with furnace repairmen, framers, sheetrockers, roofers, and like my Dad and Norm Peterson, Bill Cavanaugh, Al Corkins, Al Simms, and Al Conwell. I remember seeing my future father-in-law--Pete Curran-- there, along with his brother and some of their law partners. They were the guys wearing suits. My dad and his brethren wore overalls, or blue work shirts and jeans. . .usually spattered with paint, mud, or engine grease.

The mayor of the town showed up on occasion--Alex Thorton, who owned a car repair shop a few blocks down Central Avenue. I remember seeing Lou Kerhiaty, who owned the town's Ben Franklin (a/k/a Dime Store), and the Yahns, who owned Edline-Yahn funeral parlor. Kenny Iverson. a friend of my dad's, was the shortest man I knew. He was the only one of our friends who wore a suit. He was a salesman. Of course, the lawyers and funeral directors also wore suits, and some of the businessmen and druggists, and bankers. But most our our family's friends were strictly blue collar. Red presided over a fascinating amalgam of blue and white collar folks.

Although United Parcel Service was founded in Seattle in 1907, I never remember seeing a UPS truck. In those days, Greyhound was what UPS later became. Every bus coming from Seattle and elsewhere carried packages destined for Kent. Auto parts, chemicals, mail order clothes, gifts, and tools all arrived in the Greyhound cargo holds. If you needed a package sent or delivered, you either used the Post Office (as it was then called) or you used Greyhound. They didn't deliver, however. You went to the Bus Depot to pick up your packages: carburetors, bolts of muslin, cartons of books, seeds, and farm implements.

I remember being in the Bus Depot on November 22, 1963. . .and the fellas asking me who would be President now. There were no tears at the bus depot that day, but there was a stunned sort of hush as people watched events unfold on the black and white TV hung on the wall. I knew the name Lyndon Johnson somehow. The bus house gang were Democrats, but Scoop Jackson/JFK defense/blue-dog Democrats. I was awarded a soda for knowing LBJ's name.

The dark oak back-bar was even by the early 1960's looking ancient, with dark heavily-veined, and probably smoke-encrusted wood. The glass-fronted cabinets lining the back bar were filled with soda bottles that looked like they hailed from the 19th century. There was Nehi Soda, NuGrape, Honey Dew (made in the Seattle area), a brand of Sarsparilla, Orange Crush, RC, Dr. Pepper, Shasta soda (another northwest brand), Bubble-Up, Kickapoo Joy Juice, YooHoo chocolate, Seven-up, Pepsi, Coca-Cola, and Schweppes Ginger Ale and Bitter Lemon.

Three beautiful leather dice cups with yellowed ivory dice sat on the bar for low-key gambling. If you wanted to roll the dice for lunch, Red was always game. You got a free lunch, or paid double if you lost. I think the odds were pretty even if you were a regular; it was something to do.

If you were friends with Red (and who wasn't?) in the back room there was a jug. He just might invite you in the back for a "snort." The jug was a half gallon of Canadian Club, or Jim Beam. I can't remember how it was dispensed--did they mix it into the standard drink I remember all adults I knew dranik (the 7 & 7)? Among my people, hillbillies one generation removed from the hills, a drink meant a Seven & Seven, a/k/a, a Seagram's Seven mixed with Seven-up. Or beer. But beer was not really considered an alcoholic beverage. Some of my friends fathers left for work with a six pack in their pickup. When they came home, it was gone, replaced by a fresh "sixer." And they had probably also stopped into the Pastime, The Blinker, The Club, The Moonlite Inn, or The Virginia, to snort one or two on their way home.
____________________________

The closing of the bus depot - In the late 1960's, The Bus Depot closed. Seattle and King County had passed "Metro," a sort of latter day WPA project that finally cleaned up Lake Washington (and did it very well), helped build the dam, and fund a comprehensive King County bus system (and tried to get a subway system passed...the failure of which is one of Seattle/King County's great mistakes). With the coming of Metro buses to Kent, there was no longer a need for a Greyhound bus stop there. If you were taking a bus to a distant place (I took the bus to NYC three times), you took Metro to Seattle and connected at the Greyhound Bus Terminal on Stewart Street. Metro offered Red a job at the Metro offices in downtown Seattle, and he took the job. In later years, I often stopped into their office (I think it was around 3rd and Marion) to say hi to Red, who sold monthly bus passes from a window in the lobby.

That's about all I can recall. There is only so much a ten year old's memory can dredge up through a forty-five year old filter.

Other stories about Kent, Washington that have appeared here:

Square Dance At Valley Elementary
Foot Washing Baptists & The Catholic Devils
Cruising the Renton loop with a keg of nails
My Pathetic Political Career
Growing Up In Kent, Washington: Tarheels, Hayseeds, Hillbillies, and Crackers
Uncle Guy, more hillbilly cred, and living a good life
Fishing With The Old Man
Uncle Romey
It Can Happen Here: Japanese Relocation Camps, 1942-1946
More on the El Rancho Drive-in in Kent, Washington
Snack bar ads, intermission countdowns, and the El Rancho drive-in
Four more images of Kent, Washington in the 40's and 50's
Kent, Washington's Meeker Street 1946
Too good to leave in the comments: Scooter and the Hell's Angel Heavy chug-a-lugScooter and $2 all you can drink beer day at the Sundowner circa 1973
My Grandma's tavern in Carnation, Wash.
My Dog Slugger
Hucking Eggs in Kent, Washington
Home-made Hillbilly Toys
Square Dance At Valley ElementaryFoot Washing Baptists & The Catholic Devils
Hillbilly Cred
"Chicken Thieves Busy in Kent And Vicinity"
---o0o---

Monday, June 09, 2008

Growing up: Hillbilly home-made toys


click young John/Jack to enlarge

If you've read any of these growing up stories, you remember I grew up poor. That didn't necessarily mean we didn't get toys (which my parent's generation would call "store-bought"). We did get toys for birthdays and Christmas, and in between, we played with toys my dad made (he also built boats, bikes, and even campers). There are a few he made I can't quite remember, but I know they involved bobbins, and wooden thread spools. He could create dozens of objects from rope. His Navy days had left him a master knotsman, and some of my favorite toys were his ropework. Here are some of the toys he made, and we played with. This is only a small part of his toys--the others are lost somewhere in the haze floating over the Green & White River Valley.

The Paper Hat. He could fold several styles of paper hats from newspapers. One was the one below--almost a Papal hat; another was a skull-cap sort of affair; and he could also create an excellent Pirate Hat as well. E-how tells you how to make your own, if you'd like to take a crack at it.



Dad also made several varieties of bathtub or pond motorboats. The illustration below shows one of his standards.


This was no work of genius, but he also made us tin can telephones (and tin can puddle jumpers):

One of my favorites was the Monkey Fist. It wasn't that useful if you weren't climbing mountains or tossing a rope from a ship, but it had this heft and symmetrical coolness that made you want one. We always had one tied to the dinner bell on our back porch (how tarheel is that? How many of you had a "dinner bell?").





There was a very simple toy called a Buzz-toy, that John, Sr. called a "zippo." This was possibly my most beloved toy. I could even make one myself when he showed me where to find the cord. He always used a kind of hybrid thread, with cotton and some sort of synthetic like nylon. You could really get these zippos zipping! If you had a strong cord, you could really get these things moving, and it generated a great low, rumbling whirring sound:





Other growing up stories on All This Is That:

--o0o---

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

"Chicken Thieves Busy in Kent And Vicinity"


Painting "Chickenthief" by Key West artist Mario Sanchez
click to enlarge

Every once in a while, I like to dig into the history of Kent, Washington, where I was born and lived for 19 years. This article comes from a microfiche of The Kent Advertiser-Journal, dated July 25, 1929). Interestingly, I worked for a year at a chicken hatchery in Kent--Westland Hatchery, which was torn down at least 20 years ago. This story, charmingly, uses the word "weenies" for hot dogs, and treats the use of sulphur--however it was used--as something a contemporary reader would immediately grasp. I still don't know how the sulphur was used. What I liked best were the number of grammatical howlers piled on top of the stylistic lapses.

On June 20th, Deputies Seidel and Latimer answered a call at the A.C. Frye & Co. at the foot of Pike St. and Railroad Avenue and arrested Joe Metland and W. H. Tulip. [Ed's note: I grew up near Railroad Avenue, where both sides of the tracks were "the wrong side." However, there is no Pike Street in downtown Kent. The name must have been changed sometime between 1929 and 1960].

Joe Metland was selling at the time to A. C. Frye & Co. 27 Rhode Island Red pullets and 5 Rhode Island hens that were taken the night before from Mr. Robert Wooding. R.F. D. 1, Auburn.

Metland admitted taking the chickens and showed the place where he had taken them.

He also admitted taking chickens from H. J. Hart, July 15th, 1929. They took 44 springers. They took 29 colored hens and nine light hens from Mr.s George C. Clark July 18th at night or the morning of the 16th.

Metland showed all three of these places and admitted that he and Tulip together stole the chickens. Tulip does not admit it.

The man that weighed in the chickens and bought them at Frye's from Metland and Tulip is Steven Elson, at the intersection of Railroad Avenue and Pike Street. The bookkeeper is L. Magerstrom at the same place.

On July 15, 1929, Deputies Frank Seidel and Latimer answered a call on Ninth Ave So. between King and Weller
[Ed's note: This seems to refer to a Seattle address]
to a Mr. shoemaker's Poultry House. They found two men, one giving his name as C. H. Brandon, which is not his true name.

His true name they learned is Lawrence Frisco. The other man gave his name as Dae Hodgins. They had a Dodge truck and a crate of chickens with about twenty Rhode Island Reds and one or two speckled chickens in the bunch.

These chickens, we learned later, belonged to a Mr. Farnscomb, Route 11 Box 526. They arrested the two men and took Frisco to jail: and took Hodgins with them in the car.

Hodgins took them to Mr. Farnscombs place and showed where they had gotten the chickens the night before and poisoned two dogs. One of the dogs belonged to a Mr. Gills and the other one to Mr. Harber -- both across the street from Mr. Farnscombs. They used weenies with arsenic to poison the dogs and have some of the weenies as evidence. They are kept in the county morgue ice box. . . .

On July 10th they went to Wid Evans and stole eight chickens and poisoned the dog. Evans lives at Rt 3 Box 195, Kent.

About June 17th they stole 26 Rhode Island Reds and used sulphur to take the chickens from Mrs. M. C. Smith. Rt 1 Box 133, Auburn, Washington.

On June 19th they took 35 chickens and used sulphur in this case from Al Glenn, Auburn Fish Hatchery, Auburn, Washington.

On the 6th of July, they entered Mr. C. G. Hunter's Rt. 3, Kent and took 30 chickens the first time. On July 8th they got 15 chickens and cut the fence and poisoned three dogs using hamburgers and strychnine.

One June 24th they went to John De Leo's place, Rt 2 Box 92, Renton, Wash., and took 43 mixed chickens and drained the gas tank of his car.

A day or two after that they poisoned a dog in Coalfied of Mrs. L. E. Peterson and drained their gas tank and also poisoned a dog there belonging to Louise Meramakos.

Mr. H. Tuttle, Rt. 11 box 525, Seattle, had a pet rooster that he gave to Mr. Farnscomb and this rooster was stolen with the fifty hens, July 15th, from Farnscomb's and was identified by Mr. Tuttle and Mr. Farnscomb at Mr. Shoemaker's Poultry House in Seattle on july 15th. mr. and Mrs. Farnscomb identified the chickens. The man that bought the chickens from them or weighed them in is Leo Haverty, 508 9th Ave. So. and the bookkeepers name, who reported by phone to Mr. Latimer, is C. A. Toppenfus, 508 9th Ave So.

On the 16th day of May, Eugene Johnson and Jack Powell and Lawrence Frisco went to Samuel Stewarts, Rt. 2, Bothell, and took 3 white Leghorns and a kit of tools from a new Ford car, a grease gun and crank with 25 cents worth of potatoes and a new spare tire.

On July 15th, when Deputies Seidel and Latimer arrested Laurence Frisco and Dave Hodgins, they searched their car and found in the right hand side pocket two thirds of a bottle of strychnine which Hodgins told the deputies was the strychnine that was used to poison Farnscomb's dog. He told them that he rented a house form Mrs. Johnson at Coalfield Washington. They proceeded to this place and he showed them the remainder of Mr. Farnscomb's chickens and also thirteen chickens that belonged to Mr. H. H. Hunter, Kent.

___________________
Other stories from All This Is That about Kent, Washington (red=best of All This Is That)

Kent, Washington
It Can Happen Here: Japanese Relocation Camps, 1942-1946
More on the El Rancho Drive-in in Kent, Washington
snack bar ads, intermission countdowns, and the El Rancho drive-in
All This Is That reheated: Hucking eggs in Kent, Washington
A Blog for Phil Kendall
Four more images of Kent, Washington in the 40's and 50's
Kent, Washington's Meeker Street 1946
Too good to leave in the comments: Scooter and the Hell's Angel Heavy chug-a-lug
Scooter and $2 all you can drink beer day at the Sundowner circa 1973
Fishing With The Old Man
Uncle Romey
Uncle Guy, more hillbilly cred, and living a good life
My Grandma's tavern in Carnation, Wash.
My Dog Slugger
Hucking Eggs in Kent, Washington
Square Dance At Valley Elementary
Foot Washing Baptists & The Catholic Devils
Hillbilly Cred
Growing Up In Kent, Washington: Tarheels, Hayseeds, Hillbillies, and Crackers
Cruising the Renton loop with a keg of nails
The Time I Got Drunk With Roy Rogers
My Worst Jobs: 50 Tons of Sand
My Pathetic Political Career
Defensive Daydreaming (the second poem in these links, and one of my favorites)
---o0o---

Monday, December 17, 2007

It Can Happen Here: Japanese Relocation Camps, 1942-1946

Almost immediately after the attack on Pearl Harbor in December, 1941, most Japanese-Americans were rounded up and transported to concentration camps across the United States. Nearly every Japanese family in my home town of Kent, Washington was removed. Less than half returned following World War II. I am not proud to say that one of the most famous images of Japanese relocation was this photo, taken in Kent, in January, 1942:



In our war hysteria, we didn't want any Japanese Americans near the west coast. They would form cells and assist soldiers and pilots from the motherland in attacking The Pacific Coast. The number of Germans and Italians placed in the camps is only a fraction of their total population compared with the Japanese, virtually all of whom were locked up.

After the war only about thirty families returned to the valley area. I remember the Miyoshis, Yamadas, Nakaharas, Koyamatsus, Hiranakas, and Okimotos. Some of them got back into farming (not on their old farms, which had been confiscated and sold). I worked on the Yamada's farm a couple of springs, cutting and boxing rhubarb, and I worked for a couple of weeks on Kart Funai's farm one summer, bunching radishes and scallions.

Sinclair Lewis wrote a well-known novel "It Can't Happen Here," and Frank Zappa penned a song by the same title. As you can see, and as you just read, it can 't happen here. This is the map of the Japanese-American concentration camps run by the W.R.A.:




click to enlarge

Link to an earlier, and far more detailed, post on the internment camps, and the story of the Japanese-Americans in Kent, Washington. A link to an article here explaining how this might have happened (Growing Up In Kent, Washington: Tarheels, Hayseeds, Hicks, Hillbillies, and Crackers).
---o0o---

Monday, September 10, 2007

Four more images of Kent, Washington in the 40's and 50's


This is perhaps the most ignominious picture of Kent, Washington to have ever appeared. The photo was taken days after the Pearl Harbor bombing, and shortly before the entire Japanese population of Kent was rounded up and shipped off to concentration camps (a/k/a relocation centers) in Idaho and California. I do not know who the moron pointing to the sign is, but I suspect he was still around when I was young and roaming the streets of Kent. I have seen this photo on more than one blog and web site. It is often used on sites about the internment camps, and about discrimination against the Japanese.

Click to enlarge this photograph of a pond and house 24804 128th Place SE in the middle 1950s. This site is very close to where my Uncle Romey's doomed "farm" was, and not far from my Great Aunt Ruth's place (about which I remember little except for her amazing fields of blueberries). It is also close to where my fabulous friends Dave Hokit and Maureen Roberts live, near Lake Meridian (which was ringed with one room cabins and fishing shacks when I was young). In his memoir of growing up in West Seattle, the poet Richard Hugo wrote about going on vacation to Lake Meridian every year, renting a cabin, and fishing for trout.

This is what the area surrounding Kent proper looked like when I was growing up. It does not look like this now, even as far out as Cumberland, Black Diamond, Ravensdale, Enumclaw, Lester, Four Corners, or Hobart. Those are the Cascade Mountains in the distance. One thing that hasn't changed: the pale grey to leaden nimbostratus clouds that have hung over my head most of my life.


Another flood in the Green River Valley. When I saw growing up, we had floods in the Valley every year. The valley was fed by several rivers. The White River and the Green River flowed out of the Cascade foothills to the east, and joined in a confluence near downtown Auburn. From there, the river traveled north and was met by the Black River (an outflow from Lake Washington) near what is now Tukwila. The combined rivers formed the Duwamish River which flowed (and still does) north into Elliott Bay.

South of the White/Green river confluence, was the Stuck River which flowed to Commencement Bay in South Puget Sound. The Stuck and the White rivers flowed so near to each other that during spring floods, the two rivers would sometimes merge, spilling water far to the north and south.

I grew up two blocks from the Green River. The floods never reached our house, but usually came right up to the block before ours. I do remember seeing moving vans roll up and haul people's furniture away when a flood was about to strike. That would be for people who could afford it. Most of us poor folk couldn't. We hung in, got out our prams and dinghies, and crossed our fingers. The floods ended in 1962 when the Howard Hanson dam was built upstream:

The Howard Hanson dam. The dam was built to save the farmers, and us, the hapless lowland residents of Kent. What really happened was that the valley was now safe for industry. And the rest, as they say, is history.
---o0o---

Friday, September 07, 2007

Kent, Washington's Meeker Street 1946




This photograph shows Kent, Washington's Meeker Street, in 1946. . .seven years before I was born. I lived in the same house at 534-4th Avenue S. (at Crow Street), six blocks south of Meeker Street from the day I was born until 1971. Meeker Street didn't look much different in my youth, except the cars were about ten years newer (1953 Packards, 1957 Chevies, and Mercury Monterey squad cars). Even today in 2007, most of the same buildings exist on Meeker Street. Meeker Street was home to Shoff's Sporting Goods, Blessing's Jewelers, Dave Leonard's (R.I.P. -- he died a couple of months ago) Rexall Drugs; Grunstead's cafe; The White Spot Tavern, Red's Greyhound Bus Depot and Grill, the Big Bear Grocery store, the Cohen's hardware store, the Kent Barber Shop, J.C. Penney's, the Bible books store, the Club Tavern, The Pastime Tavern, Don Bell's Insurance. and the Ben Franklin five and dime store.
--o0o---

Monday, February 26, 2007

More Memories Of Kent, Washington: The Internment Of The Japanese Families




The first wave of immigrants to the Kent, Washington area happened shortly before 1900. The immigrants were mostly European. There were, even as I was growing up, several Italian families still farming the valley. The 1900 census count shows 13 Japanese families in and around Kent.

The number of Japanese immigrants rose steeply over the next few years until 1907, when the US Government put the brakes on the number of Japanese allowed to immigrate. Eventually, in the 1920's, they were banned altogether. The Anti-Alien Land Law in 1923 barred these immigrants from owning land, and even from becoming citizens. Those with a child born in America could put land in the child's name. Some of the Japanese worked for established farmers and some cleared land and began their own farms in Kent, Auburn, and the nearby villages O'Brien, Orillia, and Thomas.

Many Japanese farmers had dairy farms until the price of milk plummeted after the Great War. Those farmers jumped into vegetable and berry farming, and their truck farms were profitable. They sold produce in Seattle, at farm stands, and shipped lettuce and cabbage to the east coast.



In 1930 there were about 200 Japanese families farming in the White/Green River valley. In 1942 during WW II all Japanese people in the White/Green River Valley were ordered evacuated from this area and were detained at the War Relocation Camp at Tule Lake, California. They lost their businesses, farms and personal belongings. They lost everything in the war hysteria.
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President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered them jailed with Executive Order 9066, a law designating certain "military areas" as zones from which "any or all persons may be excluded." Thus, in one of our more shameful national acts of jingoistic racism, all people of Japanese ancestry were removed from the entire Pacific coast--all of California, Oregon and Washington (except for those already in internment camps). In 1944, the Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of this law, saying it is permissible to curtail the civil rights of a racial group when there is a "pressing public necessity." I don't know if that decision still stands or not. Perhaps this is the precedent we use for locking up various Muslims and people of middle-eastern extraction.

The forced removal encompassed about 120,000 Japanese and Japanese Americans--3/5 of them U.S. citizens. They were sent to quickly and shoddily constructed camps called "War Relocation Centers" in remote portions of the nation's interior. . .far away from where they might have, say, used a flashlight to guide a fleet of Japanese bombers toward the Boeing warplane plant.
My mother, Betty Brummet, remembers Japanese American kids being marched from Ballard High School one day. Some of the students lined up and booed.
The phrase "shikata ga nai" (loosely translated as "it cannot be helped") summarized the interned families' resignation to their helplessness. This was even noticed by the children, as mentioned in Farewell to Manzanar. The Japanese people tended not to make waves, and complied with the government to prove themselves "loyal citizens."

Dust storm at an internment camp a/k/a relocation center

In our war hysteria, we didn't want any Japanese Americans near the west coast. They would form cells and assist soldiers and pilots from the motherland in attacking The Pacific Coast. The number of Germans and Italians placed in the camps is only a fraction of their total population compared with the Japanese, virtually all of whom were locked up.
After the war only about thirty families returned to the valley area. I remember the Miyoshis, Yamadas, Nakaharas, Koyamatsus, Hiranakas, and Okimotos. Some of them got back into farming (not on their old farms, which had been confiscated and sold). I worked on the Yamada's farm a couple of springs, cutting and boxing rhubarb, and I worked for a couple of weeks on Kart Funai's farm one summer, bunching radishes and scallions.

In 1988, the U.S. Congress passed legislation awarding formal payments of $20,000 each to the surviving internees—60,000 in all. This same year, formal apologies were also issued by the government of Canada to Japanese Canadian survivors, who were each repaid the sum of $21,000 Canadian dollars. President Ronald Reagan even apologized on behalf of the United States. $21,000 would buy a fraction of the hundreds of acres of stolen land. Sure, it's better than the reparations paid to the families of slaves (zero, to date), but a pittance compared to losing everything you owned, and the farms you nurtured. If they held on until now, they'd all be rich.

Through the 1950's the Green River continued to flood the valley floor in late spring. This is what made the valley floor some of the richest soil in the world. . .but, alas, flooding prevented big business from locating there. In 1963 the Army Corps of Engineers built the Howard Hansen Dam (an earthen dam, still protecting the valley from floods) to regulate the river waters. The danger of uncontrolled flooding ended. The flat, treeless land on the valley floor now was an attractive area for business. And build they did.
Boeing built an aerospace lab, and the floodgates were opened. Farming was over, and dwindled rapidly, although there are a few pockets left. One of my old high school mates, Danny Carpinito has in fact become a wealthy vegetable farmer. Of the Japanese kids I knew in school, virtually none remained in Kent after high school. Of course, neither did I nor most of my friends, although some of our familes still live there.

Sources:
The History of Kent, Washington: http://www.kent.k12.wa.us/curriculum/vtours/kent/
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Monday, December 20, 2004

Hucking Eggs in Kent, Washington



For a couple of years, one of our favorite pastimes was hucking eggs at cars. Not that we were particularly destructive, but we were boys, and destruction was part of our makeup...whether it was instilled by nature, or nurture. Eggs were the perfect vehicle--a dozen cost fifty-three cents, they wouldn't kill anyone, didn't dent sheet metal, and did no real damage to the finish of those 50's and 60's behemoths with leaded, toxic, permanent paint.

 
Eggs were peripheral to the fun; they were the catalyst. Eggs triggered behaviors in drivers that tapped into our fight or flight response. The egged driver had one of three responses:

 
  • They drove on obliviously, or tapped their brakes and kept moving.
  • They stopped and maybe got out, checked the egged fender, and drove off.
  • They went completely ballistic; crazy as a s**those rat; or went for their shotgun.
We aimed for Response Number 3. It was about the adrenaline. Ours and theirs.

 
Those most likely to respond were also the most likely to inflict serious damage if they actually caught you. They were big and they were dumb. The men who gave chase were brain-damaged palookas who fly off the handle, berating clerks and starting fights in taverns; the dolts who bullied anyone that bisected their arc. These knuckleheads were chronically pissed-off guys with quarter-inch fuses and were always ready for-- and, indeed, welcomed--a fight. After all, we weren't exactly innocent bystanders. This would be a righteous stomping of The Guilty.

 
We could have saved a lot of eggs if we had figured out a way to profile these guys. Any of the victims could be turned, or converted into a Number 3 if they departed the relative safety of their car. As they walked around the car, inspecting the egg on the windshield or fender, a second fusillade of eggs flew from the bushes. If you hucked five or six eggs at a stationary target at least a few would make the target...perhaps splattering on their coat, or hitting the car and doing peripheral damage when they splattered. If they actually stopped or slowed down, we always launched a second volley. A driver who was willing to turn the other cheek was suddenly pushed to the brink.

 
It was all about the chase, and the resultant adrenaline rush. When you hit the the right guy's car, he came after you. The best ones slammed on their brakes and immediately began driving around in circles, revving their V8s, screeching around corners, trying to find the perpetrators. It added an aural element to the rush.

 
We always had proximate hiding spots and a loose escape plan. There was always a vacant garage, a boxcar, an abandoned car, or a hedge to hide behind. Once in a while, 'though, we'd be walking along the street, and someone--usually Lonnie Edwards--would attack a house or car as we were walking around. With no plan, and no cover, there was chaos as we scrambled for shelter anywhere. It was almost more scary to hit a house, because you were out in the open, and you never knew when someone would open the door, jacking shells into a ten gauge shotgun. Back in the 60's, not a lot of people were packing heat in their cars. These days egg hucking could very well be fatal.

 
Some victims would comb the neighborhood relentlessly for half an hour, racing up and down the streets. Sometimes we would would end up exposed. As the car rushed up and slammed on its brakes, we played innocent. They hadn't actually seen us, after all. "We did see four, five guys were running right over there..."

 
The Police would frequently be called of course, and we'd give them a blast of eggs too. Answering a complaint, or after having an egg tossed at their prowl car, they would drive around the neighborood too, sometimes cruising with their lights off, hoping we would show our faces. If they'd pursued us on foot, they might have found us, but on foot just wasn't real big in 1965. After the police showed, we would, naturally, switch locations.

 
One night, we stumbled on a fresh delivery of eggs, sitting on the loading dock of Westland Hatchery [1]. Each case contained a gross (a dozen dozen), or 144 eggs. We spirited away several boxes, and suddenly had 600 eggs to toss. Our first attack came as we hid to the side of the hatchery in overgrown bushes. The first hundred eggs were fired as cars passed the hatchery, as if the hatchery itself were waging war on the berr-fogged drivers. Central Avenue was littered with hundreds of eggshells before the night was over.

 
We lobbed all 600 eggs that night and the beast was sated. We took the sport as far as it could go. We never hucked eggs again, and retired at the top of our game, just barely unbeaten and unarrested.

 
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