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The summer I graduated from college, I had been taking a lot of photos and was trying to make it professionally by getting on with the Associated Press (AP) and/or United Press International (UPI). One day, the photo editor for Sports Northwest Magazine called (I’d been shooting for them that summer as well), and said that UPI had called. He said I should give them a call back, because they had an assignment for me. I’d been so used to hunting for photo assignments that I couldn’t believe that someone was actually calling me out of the blue. I wondered if we were heading into ‘lucky break’ territory.
Well, it turned out it wasn’t UPI, though. It was some little newspaper out of Boston called the Christian Science Monitor, which I soon learned wasn’t so little after all, and getting a call from them wasn’t a bad feather in the cap of a 24-year-old.
Turns out they were doing a story about Puget Sound, and all the wonderful things that the Sound (a rather large body of saltwater) was good for. They wanted to illustrate three aspects: industrial, military, and recreational.
Okay, I thought. That shouldn’t be too hard.
To start with, I went to Gasworks Park on Lake Union (freshwater, but connected to Puget Sound via canals and locks), and got photos of people with sea kayaks. Then, I called a sailboat place out at Shilshole Bay Marina and talked them into letting me borrow a couple of sailboats, (yes, a couple of sailboats) complete with crews.
We went out, sailed the two, and got some nice images under full sail and wispy clouds. It was nice. I was absolutely ecstatic until I found out later that there was a problem. A water drop had dried on the negative in the middle of that wonderful wispy sky, resulting in a dark outline that covered about a quarter of the sky in the image. Retouching the negative was out of the question, and though I tried to retouch the print, it was no good. The only way to use the shot would be so small that it would rival a postage stamp, and the folks I’d borrowed the boats from wouldn’t be available again until after the deadline was past. So, I had to move on to plan B.
My ultimate goal became to try to tell the story (industrial, military, and recreational) of Puget Sound in one photo, and I kept my eyes peeled for that kind of situation. I just needed two ships and a boat.
Thing is, as much fun as I had with that sailboat shot, and really wanted to roll with it, I couldn’t because of that water drop on the negative. That bad thing is what ended up making the entire shoot special. Plan B entailed getting industrial, military, and recreational vessels together, and involved finding out who would be in charge of those three types of ships. After some research, I ended up calling the Port of Seattle, talked to the harbormaster, and explained that I was doing a photo shoot for the Christian Science Monitor, and would it be okay if…
…actually, that’s just about how I started every introduction. It’s unbelievable how many doors that sentence or one like it opened up over the following years. I asked the harbormaster if I could get onto one of the ships, or the cranes, or something that would enable me to get some photos to tell that story.
He said, sure, not a problem, all I had to do was tell anyone on the ship that the harbormaster said it was okay, and I should be set.
It felt like I was talking to a man with the authority of God himself. He had no questions about what I’d be doing, and no questions about whether anyone on any ship in his harbor would obey him. “If anyone asks questions, tell them the harbormaster said it was okay, and they should let you go anywhere you need to go.”
“Anywhere?”
“Anywhere.”
Wow – this was the greenest of green lights I’d ever seen.
His word, clearly, was law.
He expected no questions.
From anyone.
I was cool with that.
So, I made it out to the first dock in the harbor, found a rather large container ship called the Manu Lani, and climbed on board, and like a kid in a candy store, started exploring. It was in the process of being unloaded, so I carefully wandered around the containers, trying to get into a position that would produce a decent shot. The image I had in my head was one that would have me at almost eye level to the top of the containers the cranes were unloading, looking over the top of them, with the Seattle skyline in the background, but that meant climbing up somewhere to get to that height. Eventually, just in front of the superstructure at the back of the ship, the one with the smokestack, I found a huge mast that I could climb, so I slung the camera bag as far over my shoulder as I could, flung the cameras over that, and started climbing.
This was a little easier said than done, because the mast was welded to multiple levels of deck, which were vibrating ever-so-slightly. You know how you can swing a baseball bat, and the tip of the bat moves way farther and way faster than the part in your hand? Same idea with this mast, only it started about 30 feet from the deck, and I was climbing about 20 feet higher than that.
As long as I kept moving, I was fine. I was facing the back of the ship, so all I saw in front of me was the smoke stack, and as I got to the top of it, I could suddenly hear the “foof, foof, foof” of the exhaust coming out of the stack and filling my ears. I took a quick look around to get my bearings, and realized things were going to get a little interesting. Though I’d stopped moving, it was obvious that the mast hadn’t. In fact, the mast, at that height, was actually moving more. The “foof, foof, foof” was being produced by an engine many feet below decks. Tons of spinning steel caused a surprising amount of ultra-low-frequency vibration, transmitting and amplifying all the way up the mast that I was hanging onto for dear life.
The camera bag and the cameras were swinging uncomfortably around at a frequency that was a bit off from that of the mast, which made them a little hard to hang on.
I’m glad I didn’t have to open and dig through the camera bag for a camera and lens – that would have made things a little more exciting than I’d planned on. I used the lens that I’d put on the Nikon F-3 (the 24/2.8) and the lens I had on the FM-2 (the 180/2.8) and got a couple of photos of the cranes and their operators from almost their level. It was an interesting view, but didn’t really tell much of the story I was trying to tell, so I did the best I could, trying to get shots of the cranes that very few people would have the opportunity to get and, if nothing else, at least proved I’d been there.
By this time, my movements and the shaking of the mast had swung the camera bag back and forth enough to tangle it up on the rungs a bit, so I decided to get down to deck level before things got a little more complicated. I untangled the camera from the rung and got down the mast to the superstructure as carefully and quickly as I could.
I stood there, leaning on the rail for a little bit, realizing and appreciating how much less it was moving, and realized that getting a little lower might actually help steady me bit more. So, I went down to the deck where the containers were. Now, being below the ones I’d been above before, it looked more like a canyon than anything else, and if you’ve ever been in a canyon, you’d imagine it to be fairly quiet. But it wasn’t. It seems a huge number of the containers were loaded with pineapples and needed refrigeration, so each had a small diesel-powered refrigeration unit mounted in one end.
Not only was it loud in those canyons, it was quite warm that morning, even in the shade.
I got a few photos, but again, none that helped me tell the story I was trying to tell. So, I headed forward through the maze, timing my dashes between the swinging containers above, which the crane operators deftly lifted off and settled onto waiting trucks below. With each dash, I worked my way a little closer to the front of the ship.
Eventually, I came to the back of another superstructure and turned right, getting into sunlight and air that smelled more like the tide and less like diesel exhaust. I was still looking for something that would tell the story I was being asked to illustrate, so I kept my eyes out for anything, and as I turned the various corners and walked around the superstructure, I found what was apparently the first mate’s cabin, tucked away behind some heavy sheet metal, out of the wind. There was a surprisingly big window into it, and as I walked by, my eyes were drawn away from the industrial white painted exterior of the ship and into the warm embrace of the first mate’s little cabin.
I made it one step further to discover, in the blink of an eye that, oh my.
He had company.
Who was wearing a necklace.
And a hairbrush.
She’d clearly just gotten out of the shower and saw me in the mirror. Her eyes got so wide that I figured right then might be a good time to head toward the back of the ship. I blinked and was gone, but not fast enough to avoid the first mate striding righteously out in his full white uniform.
“Can I help you, sir?”
(Now, where had I heard those words before?)
“Hi,” I said, sticking my hand out, figuring that acting more confident than I felt would be a good idea. “My name’s Tom Roush, I’m on assignment for the Christian Science Monitor, illustrating a story on shipping in Puget Sound. I was getting some photos of your ship, here, and was told that if anyone had any questions to have them talk to the harbormaster. He said I could be here.”
“Hmmm. Okay, well, okay then, as long as you’re not with the insurance company. If you have any questions, let me know,” he said as he wiped a stray bit of shaving cream off his cheek.
I said I would, but I had no idea how I’d find him if I did have questions – and was completely willing to let that go.
I headed toward the back of the ship as casually as I could and wandered into a partially enclosed walkway in the back superstructure, looking out over the water toward the city and the Kingdome. I was down to my last roll of film, wondering if I had a story to tell yet, and then, the sound of an outboard motor drew my attention. I saw the picture I was looking for develop before my eyes. I already had the pleasure craft the Monitor was looking for, but there, with Seattle in the background, were the two ships I was missing: an industrial one, a Navy cruiser, and that little boat with the outboard, all coming together into one perfect image. I brought the F-3 with the 24/2.8 up and squeezed off five shots as it went through the scene, and of the five shots, the third is below.
I sent the Christian Science Monitor the copies they wanted. They made me smile. In fact, they made them smile.
The photos told them the story they wanted told.
They just didn’t tell them the whole story.
And – strangely – it got me thinking. Since then, many times in life I’ve had situations where whatever Plan A was suddenly came crashing down – and a Plan B had to be pulled out of thin air and made to work. Understand, that doesn’t make it easy, or simple or anything like that – in fact, I still get frustrated like anyone else does. But then I remember this photo shoot, and the other adventures that have happened over the years and get really curious to see what’s in store.
A Japan Lines freighter on the left, the USS Bunker Hill on the right if my research is correct, and a small pleasure craft, taken from the Matson container ship, the Manu Lani, at the Port of Seattle with the Kingdome in the background
—
I’d occasionally see the Manu Lani in port as she ran the Seattle-Honolulu-Pacific route for a number of years after that – eventually, as I was able to research, she ran into engine trouble and a fire a bit over 400 miles southeast of Tokyo.
She was later sent to China where she was scrapped, and another ship was built to take her place, but with her name.
You can click here for more details and a larger view of the ship. There, you’ll see on the left, the superstructure that contained the first mate and his guest, and on the right, the mast I was on, just left of the smoke stack.
Many years ago, I went to SPU, a liberal arts college in Seattle that’s affiliated with the Free Methodist church, which was socially conservative enough to forbid dancing.
Dances (large groups of people gyrating in a dark room with lots of loud music playing) were not allowed.
Strangely, “functions” (large groups of people gyrating in a dark room with lots of loud music playing) were.
Sort of.
As long as they were off campus.
And the school didn’t “officially” know about them.
But the school let people form bands (as long as no one danced to the music) and, at one point, it held a contest. At the time, the mission of the school was to turn us into “Christian Scholar Servants.” So, a few of us, who happened to like a particular style of music that involved sand, sea, and surfboards, came up with a musical group called the “Christian Scholar Surfers.”
There were several people in the group: Larry and Dave were at the core, and there were others who came and went as they were available. Dave was the lead and used his dorm room curtain rod as a microphone, Larry played keyboards, which were two electric typewriters on ironing boards, and I played bass – which was either a hockey or a lacrosse stick.
Oh – wait – I said it was a musical group.
The music, you see, came from huge speakers that were way, way louder than we could ever be, and they were fed by a cassette player playing, in this case, a song called “Motor Mania” by a group called Roman Holiday. Larry, all six feet eight of him, did that deep, deep bass at the beginning, then Dave and I came in. We practiced and practiced, and frankly, we got so good at it that it was hard to believe that Larry’s voice and keyboards weren’t making the music, or that my hockey stick, Dave’s curtain rod, and our voices weren’t making the actual notes. Timing was pretty critical at some points, and – well, here, have a listen while you’re reading the rest of the story.
One day, when we were out of school, Dave called Larry and told him there was a lip sync contest at a place called Chevy’s in Beaverton, Oregon. Did we want to come down for it?
We’d never heard of Chevy’s, but Dave explained that it was a ‘50s style diner where the food was free a couple of hours a night, but you had to pay for drinks.
Wait.
Free food?
We were so there.
Larry and I didn’t need much convincing. We packed up our stuff, drove down to Dave’s place, rehearsed a bit, piled into Larry’s car, and then went to Chevy’s.
We got everything ready, and they told us we’d be on the schedule around 8:00 or so.
It turned out that they made their money on alcohol, which none of us drank (even though Larry’s folks owned a bar), so we had water or soda, listened to ‘50s music, and just hung out.
It was a fun place to go, and for us, my gosh, it was cheap. We went to the free buffet, got some pretty decent food, ordered cokes, and listened to fun music.
I’d been in a car accident some weeks earlier, injured my back pretty bad, and had to wear a TENS unit to numb the pain to a bearable level, so even though there was a dance floor there, and people were on it, we all knew I wouldn’t be dancing.
One of the more entertaining aspects of the evening was a group of what appeared to be aerobics instructors from a local gym. They were celebrating something with what later amounted to at least 11 bottles of champagne – to the point where, even as far away from them as we were sitting, we could actually smell it. They were laughing, joking, drinking, and in general, really having a good time.
I had never seen more than one bottle of champagne consumed, but they had the table loaded like they were ordering them by the case.
Now, remember the bit about how these folks made money?
Right.
Alcohol.
And as long as they were serving it, and people were buying, they had no reason to hurry the schedule along – so 8:00 (or so) came and went.
In fact, so did 9:00 (or so).
By about 9:45, they were well into cleaning up the free buffet, and things changed a bit, because while the quantity of food was diminishing, the quantity of alcohol being served to the table over by the wall just kept increasing. It was by far the noisiest table, and by this time, you could actually feel the heat they were putting off warming up the whole place. In fact, my glasses were slipping off my nose, and as I was reaching up to straighten them and clean a smudge off a bit, someone grabbed my arm.
My glasses cartoonishly hung in the air for a split second before clattering to the table.
I was spun out of the chair only to find my hand attached, rather firmly, to the hand of one of the aerobics instructors.
About the time I caught my balance, we were on the dance floor, and they had some very danceable ‘50s music playing just about as loud as it really needed to be played.
I looked around for help, saw blurry outlines of Larry and Dave holding up my glasses and frantically looking for me everywhere but the dance floor. Because, with my back still hurting as bad as it was, the last place I’d be would have been…
…where I was.
With limited options, I did the only thing that made sense. I cranked the TENS unit up as high as it would go until my back literally quivered, and I danced.
Three dances.
With an attractive, yet totally drunken aerobics instructor.
It was fun.
After three songs, the music stopped, and we headed back to our tables.
I collapsed into my chair, picked up my glasses, and put them on to see Larry and Dave’s faces swim into focus, their eyes as big as the little plates the buffet food was on, their jaws struggling to get off the table and at least meet their faces halfway.
All Dave could get out was, “She… you…how?” While Larry sounded like an idling outboard, “But… but… but.”
And so, I had to explain what had happened, all the while wishing I could do a “Spinal Tap” on the TENS unit and turn it up to 11. Eventually, they believed me (by this time, my shoulder was starting to hurt because she’d yanked my arm so hard), and then they both wondered if we’d actually be able to do our set. My part involved very little more than making that hockey stick look like a bass guitar, so I was good. Sure enough, at 11:00, after a lot of buildup, they called us to the stage, where Larry, Dave and I, three college students from Seattle and the Portland area, managed to knock the socks off a crowd of people enjoying music, including a few drunk aerobics instructors who wouldn’t remember a bit of it the next day.
We, on the other hand, can remember every minor detail of this epic adventure, since the strongest thing in our drinks were the bubbles in our Cokes.
Oh, the money in our hands? $75. $25 for each of us: We came in second.
Dave, Larry & Tom, of the Christian Scholar Surfers with our winnings
I was taking my friend Beth out for a camera lesson a few years ago and we ended up at Sunset Hill Park in Seattle, and this image just happened in front of us. The light was pretty nice, the boat looked like it was trying to head to the bright spot there, so I set the exposure so it’d show what I wanted to show, and then took the picture.
And it got me thinking…
You know the old story about the fellow wandering down the street at night and sees another fellow on his hands and knees looking for something under a streetlight? The conversation goes something like this…
“What are you looking for?”
“My wallet.”
So they both start looking for awhile and neither finds anything.
Eventually the second fellow says, “So where’d you actually lose the thing? did you lose it here?”
“Oh no, I lost it over there…” (pointing to a dark section of the street)
“You… Lost… it… over there??? – then why are you searching over here?”
“Well… the light’s better here…”
And so… when I saw this image… I found myself thinking about light – and about where we should be looking for things…
And it got me thinking, as it often does, of the flip side of that story… What if there *were* light over there?
See, sometimes we might be in a spot where everything seems to be okay…
And then, sometimes, just sometimes, the Heavens will open up, and God will say, “Hey, Look over there… I have something for you… I’ll light the way – you take the first step…”
And that’s what I thought when I took this photo…
(they say a picture’s worth 1000 words, in this case, it’s around 300)
Here’s the picture – enjoy…
Sometimes you have to go to the bright spots…
I’ve had a number of Saabs over the years, and one of the things that surprises me is that they’re a lot like potato chips.
You can’t have just one.
Why?
Well, there’s the fact that the company that made them doesn’t really exist anymore, and so getting parts for them can be a challenge. So you have a spare where you can get parts from.
Understand, this is something that can turn from a hobby into an obsession, and there are stories of people who’ve collected hundreds of the things.
But I came across a realization awhile back.
So, in order, my Saabs went like this:
1966 Saab Sport (the one dad bought in Illinois in about 1970)
1965 Saab 95 ($531.26) That’s the one in the back in the photo below.
1967 Saab 96 ($300.00)
1968 Saab 96 Deluxe V4 ($100.00)
1968 Saab 96 Deluxe V4 (Free, I just had to come and get it)
1965 Saab 96 (This is the one in this story, it was free, and was delivered to me)
1968 Saab 96 Deluxe V4 (This one cost some money, and was made 6 cars after the one I had to go pick up, for free.
The three 1968 ones are a story in and of themselves here)
…and one lonely 1972 Saab 95 that came as a parts car and departed in pieces.
Two 1965 Saabs. The Model 96 here in the story is in front, the Model 95 is in the back.
So you can see, there were a few Saabs running around, and to say they were in my blood would be an understatement. Over time, I moved on, and some of the Saabs didn’t, and just sat there.
That became a problem, and it became obvious that that the question, “If you have to ask how much it costs, you can’t afford it.” doesn’t just apply to things financially, it applies to time as well. See, each of these cars had its own quirks, personalities, and so on, but each car also required time on weekends to maintain, to pay attention to, in ways that modern cars simply don’t ask for.
And so the long transition from keeping something physically to keeping something in my memory started. See, the 1965 Saab 96, the one that was free (in the photo above), was starting to cost, both in time and in money. My dream was to restore it and in the end, it’d look and sound a lot like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3W2OeizGzw but being honest with myself, there was no way I was going to be able to have the combination of time and money to get that particular car both roadworthy and restored the way I wanted it to be restored. Understand, it would have been fun to see it, smell it, and to hear that “massive” 46 cubic inch 3 cylinder two stroke engine make the sound of Stihl chainsaw crossed with a Sherman tank, but it had to be stripped down to bare metal for all that to happen, and hard as it was to admit, there were other things more pressing in my life, and just like you have to prune a tree to help it grow, there are times you have to get rid of things to either help you grow or allow you to grow.
So it went.
The valuable parts were removed, and the moth-eaten woolen seat covers and rusted-through fenders were left. Someone came and took the rest of it away for scrap, paying a small amount of money for it.
I took that money, folded it up, and put it in a hidden pocket in the wallet I’d made in the 4th grade (and still carry) and kept it there, for many years.
I vowed I would spend it on something worthwhile, and so, one Sunday afternoon some time back, I was able to do just that.
My friend Greg and I met at the quiet, grass airfield near Enumclaw, and I discovered, given that this was October, that there is a wonderfully different way to see the fall colors I’d seen on the trip there, in a way you don’t ordinarily see them, and that was from a sailplane.
The plane this time was a Blanik, and the flight was higher than I’d flown before, and it was a little longer than I’d flown before. My other friend, also named Greg, was doing the piloting from the back, and this time I didn’t touch the controls, I was able to simply enjoy the view, which I needed.
Mount Rainier out the left side of the Blanik
We flew along the ridge and got a little lift from the updrafts, and got just a touch more altitude from them. I learned, just by watching how Greg flew, that up to a point, the closer you got to the ridge, the stronger the updraft would be, so we flew quite a bit closer to the side of a mountain than you might ordinarily fly. Because Greg knew what he was doing, flying close like that was safe. After some exploring of the sky near the ridge, the altimeter needle had wound down to where it was time to land…
You could almost reach out and touch the cliff
I’d wanted to share what it was like in ways I couldn’t before, so I held the camera up as we were on the approach, and made a little video of our approach and landing, including majestic Mount Rainier in the distance. You can see it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWwJ7sIRroc
We got out, and sat at the picnic table there at the field, and I fished out that money that had been hiding in my wallet for those years, and amidst the paperwork, the sectionals, and the air traffic control tower (the radio) gave it to Greg for the cost of the flight.
There’s always paperwork
And in that moment, it got me thinking…
You see, I’d really, really wanted that Saab I had to run, but it had been sitting there for quite a number of years, and it was clear there was no way I would restore it. The moths had eaten at the woolen seat covers, and the rust was definitely making inroads on the rest of the car.
Like my uncle once said, anything you have, when it is first a part of your life, will give to you, whether it’s happiness, health, money, whatever. But at some time, this thing that you have will start to take those things away. If it’s a thing, it will wear out, or it will require more maintenance than you have time for, or it will cost money to store, or restore… At some point, this thing that once gave you joy will start costing. It will cost time, it will cost money, or both… You will find yourself thinking about it and trying to figure out how to keep it functional.
Where it gets challenging is knowing when to quit. When to realize that you will not get anything out of your relationship with this object other than memories of what could have been, but never will be, that is the challenge, and that is the time to give it up. To let it go.
And so, when it came time to let go of that 1965 Saab I’d wanted to restore, it was with some sadness, but also with an understanding that the options were narrowing, and it needed to go.
And I traded something that moths and rust were destroying for a treasure in the heavens…
Wait – where had I heard that before? Oh – it turns out that the reason this was hitting me so hard wasn’t because it was a new lesson – it was an old one – taught by a fellow sitting on the side of a mountain, written down by his friend named Levi, and in chapter 6 was a very short verse, part of which said simply this:
“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt…”
…and so – without knowing it, and not exactly as Levi intended – I realized that in some small way – I’d done just that.
Spoiler Alert: There’s a potentially gross photo at the bottom of this story, but everyone ends up living happily ever after.
K, ready?
Here goes…
Many years ago – where I grew up, Garter Snakes were pretty common, and one time, as I was cleaning up the tools one day behind the garage my dad and I were building, I heard a rather strange noise rustling in the grass.
I looked around and saw a familiar, though large, garter snake, but there was something a bit different about this one, and I stepped down off the scaffolding and took a closer look.
What I saw made me look quickly at the fading light, run inside, grab the camera, and get a photo before I did what needed to be done next.
See, the snake was stuck… and in a bit of a bind.
And the newt (or salamander, or whatever it is there) was also stuck… and in a bit of a bind…
And neither of them was giving up.
The newt was, in its last act of defiance, not going to die, plain and simple.
So I put the camera down, and pulled the dazed newt out of the snake’s mouth, being careful to not injure either of them more than they were already were – well – worse for wear…
The newt for its part, spent awhile catching its breath.
The snake spent that time eyeing its former dinner and working the kinks out of its jaw.
After some time, they both took a look at each other and each slithered their own way back to their burrow, or nest, or whatever it called home.
And it got me thinking…
There are times when we’re the snake – and we’re just doing what we do, and we get stuck, and can’t figure out how to get out of the situation we’ve gotten ourselves into.
And there are times when we’re the newt – and we’re just minding our own business and find ourselves being eaten alive and have no idea how to get out of the situation, but giving up without a heck of a fight isn’t even an option.
And then there are times – when you’ve got the rare privilege of being able to be in a position to help someone – or more than some “one” – get out of the situation they’re in – and by your position, your experience, your perspective, whatever it is – you’re able to help one – or all of the characters in our little story – the newt and the snake – go on and live happy lives – and without you – without that friend with perspective, with wisdom, with understanding, and with patience – they might just not be here today.
Think about that a bit.
So – for those of you who’ve been the newt, or the snake, or the big guy with the camera he tried to keep from getting newt slime on, allow me to thank you on behalf of newt and snake.
Oh, understand – this is not fiction – this is a true story – the photo below is my proof – but it’s also an allegory – in which many of you reading this may have played one of those parts at some point in someone’s life.
Keep doing that – because somehow – somewhere, you might find yourself smiling when you hear that newt be able to say, because of you, “I got better…”
Take care out there, folks – and don’t forget to take care of each other.
Oh – and here’s the picture…
Snake and Newt
Hey all,
I was out in the back yard some time ago and I noticed the Burley bicycle trailer (something like this) cowering from the weather underneath the little tree house I’d made for Michael years ago. He and I used to go all over the place with that thing… We found that we could pop the wheels off, fold it up and put it in the trunk, then pop the bike on the back of the car, then go someplace fun and go for a long bike ride without having to actually ride *there* to do the ride… It made for a lot more fun (and energy) during the ride itself.
One time, we went to the zoo, just riding from the house – it wasn’t far, but it was up a pretty steep hill – and it seemed a lot harder to get there that time. He was fine, but I found out that I’d accidentally left our daughter’s french horn in the ‘trunk’ of the trailer behind Michael. Turns out dragging random brass musical instruments around behind you slows you down when you’re going uphill. We begged the person at the gate to store it for us while we were at the zoo that day with the animals, and I made sure not to go too fast down the hills on the way home.
Other than the zoo, we went so many places with that bike and trailer…. to the Ballard Locks for picnics, to playgrounds for him to meet people and play, to Discovery Park to ride the trails and pick blackberries.
Michael picking some of the blackberriesa
We always had a tall flag on the trailer with a little spinning wind sock on it, and it would flutter in the breeze as we went down the road or the trails. Because that made us stand out a bit, one time a lady saw us in the morning on our way to the playground, and in the afternoon out at Discovery Park (a few miles apart) – and stopped me, wondering, “Do you take him EVERYWHERE in that thing?”
I had to answer both yes and no, and explained how I did ride the bike everywhere, but sometimes used the car to get to ‘everywhere’. She seemed to appreciate that.
The time that stands out the most is one time when Cindy and Alyssa were out of town… I’m not exactly sure where, but I had no car to get to church in, and so Michael and I decided we’d go to church – well, me to church and him to Sunday School, and we did it on the bike.
From our house, it’s about a mile and a half down hill – which is fun and fast, and then it’s the Burke Gilman trail, which is flat, then we cross the Fremont Bridge (lowest drawbridge in the US, and therefore the busiest). Then it was up a gentle hill (Florentia Street) for a bit, and then left up a very steep hill (First Avenue) to go on a bicycle, much less a bicycle pulling a trailer with a little boy in it (wisely, we left the French horn at home this time)
What was interesting is that it was so steep that I was in first gear, and each time I pedaled, the front wheel would pop off the ground just a little, so clearly I couldn’t steer with the wheel off the ground, but when the wheel wasn’t on the ground was the only time I had power. I got going slower and slower until I was making S-turns up the road – going from side to side to build up a little speed, then u-turning up the hill and doing it over again, until I got to an entrance to a parking lot where First Avenue was level.
At that point I was huffing and puffing, and just rode in circles on that level bit of ground for a bit to catch my breath, only to hear a small voice behind me say, “Papa! You Made it!”
I’d completely missed the fact that he was sitting back there watching me.
I’d completely missed the fact that I was being an example to him, just by doing what I was doing.
As hard as I was working, as much as I was struggling to keep us moving – I was unaware that little eyes were on me.
I completely lost whatever lesson there was at church and realized the lesson was right there…
And of course, it got me thinking.
How many times does that happen to us?
How many times are people watching us, silently cheering us on?
And how many times would we keep going just that one extra step if we knew that?
So I’m going to put this out there for you, because there have been times where I’ve been the one cheering people on privately, but there have been other times when I’ve been the one quietly, no, silently cheering someone on…
Without actually telling them.
I’d be quietly watching, hoping for them to succeed in whatever battle they’re fighting.
And I’d want them to win.
I want them to climb that mountain.
I want them to find the balance between powering when they need to move forward, and steering when they need to change direction.
I. Want. Them. To. Win.
So… for me – for you… respond to this. It can be at the end of this blog, but it doesn’t have to be. But respond to that someone you’re quietly cheering on, and put in it a note about someone you’re cheering on and why… Doesn’t have to include their name – in fact, it’d be better if you didn’t here… That’d protect their privacy, which would be good, because so many of these battles, climbs, challenges are so private – and then share this with them to actually let them know what you mean.
But be bold and let them know.
You have no idea how much a little bit of encouragement can mean to them in their battle.
Take care, God bless, and thanks.
Tom
This visit to the time machine was hard.
A number of years ago, just after our son was born, my parents came to visit and see the new member of the family. My dad wanted to see what we’d made. My wife handed our son to me, and as I put my dad’s grandson into his arms, I could feel how he’d held me when I was that age. I could sense the love, the care, the overwhelming urge to protect this little bundle of life with every fiber of his being – and see he knew that he would not be able to do that, all while he struggled, in that moment, to understand the balance of holding on and letting go.
And then – as if to put that to rest, just as that thought crossed dad’s mind, my son reached up and held onto dad’s finger, the one that still had the scar from the table saw incident a few years earlier.
Michael holding Dad’s hand
And dad loved it, and let his grandson hold his finger at the beginning of his life, long before he taught him what pulling it did (and the giggles that followed)
And my memories flashed on another image tacked up on the scuffed walls of the time machine.
It was a similar situation, 9 years later – as I stood at my dad’s hospital bed, and saw my son again holding my father’s hand…
Dad holding Michael’s hand
Well, actually – they were holding each others hands. In this case, my dad held onto his grandson’s hand one last time.
And I’m glad he had those 9 years – though that last year was so hard.
Tomorrow it’ll have been 16 years that he’s been gone, living on in our memories, in our laughter, in our tears.
And… and I still miss him…
Take care, folks – oh – just a reminder – love the folks you’ve got while you’ve got them.
I stepped into the time machine again the other day.
The funny thing about time machines is that they never really look the same, and you’re never, ever sure where they’ll take you. I have one that looks for all the world like a box of black and white photos. Another that is just a hunk of metal, but it’s magical, and most people would just think of it as a car. The time machine the other day looked a lot like a UH-1 “Huey” Helicopter.
I saw it in the museum of flight in Seattle, I saw the seat I’d sat in, in the side of a Huey, and it took me back to September of 1974.
I’d just gotten a paper route, and my best friend took the time to ride along with me every day, and we chatted and talked about the kinds of things young boys talk about (generally young girls) when they’re riding bicycles and delivering newspapers.
At one point, at a fellow named Mike’s house, we’d just delivered his paper, and the next one was across the two lane state highway that went through town. We had to wait for traffic to clear, and since I’d done this route now for almost three weeks, and my friend had done it with me a good number of those days, we knew this was a hard spot to cross, so I shifted my dad’s old Raleigh three speed bike into first gear and my friend shifted the pedals of his orange sting ray bicycle so he’d be able to accelerate quickly as soon as we found a hole in the traffic..
This next little bit happens in about 5 seconds, but it will take a lot longer to actually read.
I remember looking right, seeing a black car coming north, and looking left and seeing two empty Weyerhaeuser logging trucks coming south heading back up to the mountains from the Port of Tacoma where they’d emptied their logs. I remember looking right again, and then hearing an engine roaring like I’d never heard before coming from the left, the direction of the logging trucks. I followed the sound to see a large blue sedan passing the trucks and heading straight for us. We were sitting at the apex of a gentle curve, so the blue car roaring south would have to follow the curve to the left, but it was still in the left (wrong) lane, and that little black car coming north was just getting to the turn and its driver saw the blue car just as I did.
The driver of the blue car, a fellow by the name of Frank Lane, swerved right, back into his own lane, just as the road swung left. A police officer by the name of Roy was following him. Frank noticed, much too late, that the road was curving left as he was going right, back into his lane, and he over-corrected, badly.
It’s at this point that things go into slow motion for me.
My friend was sitting low in the saddle of his small wheeled stingray bicycle, and hadn’t turned his head yet to see what was going on. (remember, we’re still inside of about 5 seconds here). Frank’s front tires caught, and stayed on the road, but his back ones lost their grip, and his car started to go sideways. The right rear door of the car hit my friend, knocking him and the bike to his right. His left leg got caught under the car, and I saw his head – well, let’s be more accurate – I saw the window hit his head, and shatter. About then Frank hit the gas, and part of my friend’s leg, being under the car at that time, kind of got erased by the spinning right rear tire. The car then shoved my friend into me, he ricocheted off me and went up into the air, while I was spun around. I remember everything going gray, not black, and sound stopped for a moment, while I found myself rather distractedly having the thought, “Well, if I’m going to die, there’s not much I can do about it right now…”
I came to facing Mike’s house, away from the road, on my side, in a rose bush.
The impact had thrown my friend up into the air – one of the logging truck drivers later said he went as high as the telephone wires, came down, landed on me, and rolled through the same rosebush I was in. I remember seeing both trucks stop hard, with the tires shuddering, and then seeing Mike run out of the house toward me. I looked at my watch. It was 5:10. I don’t know why I remember that, I just do.
I looked around for my friend, didn’t see him, and saw Mike tearing out of the house toward me. Then I saw the truck drivers had found my friend and were focused on him. He wouldn’t be riding a bike again for a long time. I saw one of the drivers using a huge knife to slash at the rose branches that had wrapped around my friend’s neck as he came to a stop.
I didn’t know what to do right then, but Mike wanted to make sure I was okay. He couldn’t see my friend, who was hidden behind the truck drivers. I heard sirens, and somehow, saw Frank had gotten his car parked across the street. The right rear window had been obliterated.
I heard talk of getting a helicopter to take us to the hospital. I didn’t think I was hurt badly enough to need a helicopter, much less an ambulance. Nobody said anything about my friend, but it was soon very clear that he was the reason for the helicopter.
I saw medics, saw the logging truck drivers helping some more, then heard and saw the Huey come in, circling low and fast, the pilot landing in a horse pasture across the road, scaring the horses and flattening the grass as he touched down. Traffic was blocked completely off as my friend was carried over there… Fence posts were knocked down and I walked over what remained of the fence with everyone else as my friend was put into the helicopter.
There were medics in flight gear and helmets and visors. I was ushered into the seat just behind the ammo box for the machine gun in the picture below – a seat I hadn’t seen in a Huey since 1974… My friend was strapped in across the fuselage of the helicopter and the medics sat in webbed seats like you see below.
I remember peeking around and seeing the pilot with his helmet looking back to be sure my friend and the medics were ready to go. I kept thinking I should be excited because I loved anything having to do with flying, and this was my first helicopter ride – and yet somehow I knew my friend was fighting for his life just a few feet away.
It was clear that someone realized that if we didn’t get my friend to the hospital, and get him there soon, he might not make it – so Roy, the police officer, had called Madigan, the Army Hospital – and they had sent that Huey. That pilot must have had more flying hours in Viet Nam than he had in the states – he had flown in like there was no tomorrow.
The nurse saw me peeking around trying to see what was happening to my friend, and she handed me a roll of gauze and said, “I need you to hold this for me, can you do that?”
I nodded, and was the best gauze holder on the planet for the next 10 minutes or so.
The door slid closed and latched shut, and I looked out to see people were backing away from the helicopter, and up to this point, no one had really told me what was happening, I was literally along for the ride. I peeked right again, couldn’t see much, but heard the engine spin faster, and the rotor spun faster as well.
Suddenly the pitch got deeper, and the grass flattened out as if squashed by an invisible hand. The ground fell away from us – and the pilot pulled on the collective, shoved the stick forward, and stomped on the right pedal, corkscrewing us into the air as if he were checking for enemy gunners – or, in the case of the field we were in, stray and curious livestock.
He straightened out and headed northwest, over town, and I remember trying to see my house from the air, and couldn’t find it because I’d never seen the town that way before.
I remember wondering what was going to happen to my dad’s bicycle that he’d let me borrow to do the paper route.
I remember having flown before, and being used to seeing huge wings holding me up, not what seemed to be an occasional thwip thwip thwip of rotor blades going by overhead. I didn’t understand how we could be flying, but we were.
In short order, we were landing at Madigan, and were escorted past everyone in the emergency room. We were most definitely first in line. My friend went ahead of me, and went immediately into surgery. I didn’t see him for days. I found out later that his mom had gone over to our house and asked if my mom knew we’d been in an accident. No one had told my mom yet, but somehow she and my friend’s mom made it to the hospital shortly after the helicopter dropped us off there.
My friend spent about six months there, slowly healing enough to get out of the hospital. In the end, it took about a thousand stitches, and many skin grafts, among other things to put my friend back together again.
For better or worse, we each have scars from that September afternoon to this day. Some healed quickly, some healed slowly, some are visible, some are not, and some will never completely heal for either of us.
Frank was arraigned for driving under the influence, and I remember a few years later, this time I had my driver’s license – being behind a familiar looking car driving a few miles up the same highway. It was swerving literally from shoulder to shoulder. I stayed back and wished there had been cell phones back then so I could get a police officer out there, but there weren’t, and I couldn’t.
I’ve done some research, and it looks like Frank lived about a year after that incident, and died in Tacoma somewhere.
My only hope is that he didn’t take anyone with him when he went.
I blinked – and stepped out of the time machine, back from 1974 into yesterday, standing next to a Huey Helicopter in the Museum of Flight, and was astonished that the memory of a 12 year old boy was not only still there, but was there so vividly.
The bike and me – after I got home from the hospital, and the bike came back from the police station
I’d spent years being angry at Frank, for changing our lives forever in what wasn’t a moment, but a lifetime of drinking himself stupid. I remember he claimed, in his defense, that he’d been painting (he was a painter), and the paint fumes got to him. He didn’t mention that he’d been sitting at a bar getting plastered into oblivion for the better part of the afternoon.
Like I said, we each have our scars. My friend’s were outside with a lot inside. Mine, you couldn’t tell from the outside, and I didn’t know it at the time, but that moment changed the direction my life forever as most of my scars are inside. There is anger there, but anger won’t heal the scars, and anger won’t undo what he did. He’s gone now, to whatever eternal reward he’s earned.
I haven’t been in touch with my friend in a long time. For years after the accident, I felt guilty because I thought in some way that his injuries were my fault. I mean, if I hadn’t asked my friend to come with me that day, he wouldn’t have been hurt.
Then again, if Frank hadn’t been getting drunk, we wouldn’t have gotten hurt.
So…
To my friend from decades ago, who’s out there, somewhere.
I hope you’re well.
I hope the years have been kind to you.
I hope the scars have healed.
I wish you a level of success you can be proud of, and a level of happiness that will bring you joy.
Tom Roush's Blog 