Opinion

Boulevard Park plane crash in 1955 is recalled

cmenges — Tue, 21 May 2013 17:24:28 +0000

Editor’s note: Harland Eastwood substitutes for Jerry Robinson this week.

By Harland Eastwood
SPECIAL TO THE HIGHLINE TIMES

During the afternoon of November 17, 1955, a heavy, wet snow started to fall all over the Seattle area. The snow continued throughout the evening and ended around 11 p.m. During that time perhaps 5 or 6 inches of snow had accumulated, making driving difficult.

I do not recall just when I became aware of the plane crash and resulting fire, but it was very shortly after the accident had occurred. I do remember hearing lots of sirens on police cars and ambulances that were going by our house shortly after midnight. My dad had heard them too, and was up and looking out our front room window.

The next thing I remember was seeing a very large truck-like vehicle going by our house. My recollection is that it was too big for one lane and it was going down the middle of the road. I am sure that the thick blanket of snow covering the roads may have contributed to their driving down the middle of the road, too. I was sure I had never seen a vehicle like this and was about to ask dad what it was, but he had anticipated my question and announced that it was a “Crash Truck” from the Seattle-Tacoma Airport.

That was all he had to see. He was sure that a plane had crashed nearby and put on his heavy work coat, said goodbye, and followed the steady stream of police cars and other emergency vehicles that continued by our house.

About this time, Mom and I looked out our back door to see if we could see anything. Sure enough, we couldn’t miss the huge red flames that filled the cold night sky. It was impossible to tell just how far away the fire was, but my first thought was that it was much closer than it turned out to be. Mom and I said very little during this anxious time, but I am sure we both wondered if dad would be OK.

I have very little concept of how much time had passed since dad left to help in whatever way he could, but my recollection is that it was a very short time, perhaps twenty minutes or less. I was surprised and relieved when he returned, but my relief was short lived when I found out that he was in a tremendous hurry to return. As he barked out orders to my mom about needing the big coffee pots in the basement, he continued a non-stop dialog about what had happened.

Yes, a large plane had crashed at Boulevard Park, and there were many men injured and/or killed. He told about he and another volunteer finding a man on fire. Together the two volunteers got the man to roll in the snow, which put the flames out. Dad related that the man was a soldier and was badly burned. When they helped the victim to his feet, dad noticed that all of the man’s hair had come off in his hand.

This vivid account was very terrifying to me, as I had never heard these things discussed before. As soon as mom returned from the basement with the two antique coffee pots, Dad was off again. Many hours passed before my dad returned from the scene of the crash. My recollection is that it may have been around 4:30 a.m. or later.

Neither mom nor I had slept a wink as we continued watching the flames from the back door and wondered what was happening. In my mind I can still see the huge orange-white flames rising high in the sky. To me, I could not see how anyone could have survived and I continued to fear that I would never see my dad again.

The night was indeed a long one. When dad finally returned, he was totally exhausted—both mentally and physically. After changing into some dry clothes he sank slowly into his favorite chair. As tired as he was, his mind continued to race as he continued recounting the night’s grizzly work. He told of the badly burned men wandering around in a daze and helping guide them safely to a house close by where they could wait in safety for the first available ambulance.

While I was anxious to hear all of the details, they were so grizzly that I was traumatized even more than I had been earlier. I remember trying to get to sleep as the pale gray light of the following day was starting to come through my bedroom window. Since our house was right on the flight path of the Seattle-Tacoma Airport, I could hear the planes as they were taking off or landing.

I cannot forget thinking they were going to crash into our house and we would all be burned up. This terror was to stay with me for many months afterwards. I am thinking it may have been close to a year. All during that time I had trouble sleeping and wondered if I would ever get over the fear that one of the many planes was going to crash into our house and we would all die in an uncontrollable fiery inferno.

Don’t miss the exciting conclusion of our story, including the official cause of the crash, in the next issue.

Problems remain, but Patterson was proud to serve

cmenges — Tue, 07 May 2013 21:12:47 +0000

SeaTac’s Julia Patterson has been a major force in Highline and South King County as an elected official on the municipal, state and county levels for almost a quarter of a century.

King County Council vice chair Patterson announced on April 26 that she is will not seek re-election to the county council.

She was a founding member of the SeaTac City Council when the city incorporated in 1989. Patterson was then appointed to the state Legislature where she served in both the House and Senate for nearly a decade.

She left the Legislature in 2001 to join the King County Council and was re-elected in 2005 and 2009.

In an interview last week, Patterson told me she is proud of her accomplishments at all three governmental levels.

But Patterson admits there is at least one area where she wishes she had been more successful.

“I am sad that we are without a dedicated, adequate long-term source for human services,” Patterson said. “I won’t see that day but I have faith that day will come.

“We find funding for transit, levees on the river, new jails, arts, but when it comes to serving the poor, regionally we have no resources.”

As the county council’s budget committee chair during the economic downturn, Patterson says she is proud that she guided the county forward with balanced budgets while facing a combined shortfall of over $59 million.

But to accomplish that the county cut all human services funding, except for domestic violence and sexual abuse, Patterson noted.

Patterson says there is ample evidence that programs such as drug treatment and job training work to keep people out of jail and into productive jobs that lift up a community.

“But we continue to put a band aid on the problems,” Patterson said. “Jails and emergency rooms are where we see the problems.”

Patterson started her career in local SeaTac politics. Ironically, that’s where she now faces some of her harshest critics.

They say she has created a personal political machine by getting some of her Angle Lake neighbors elected to the city council. Those local lawmakers are then beholden to Patterson and special interests that push human services spending over policies that would help local businesses spur economic development in the city, according to Patterson’s critics.

It’s the argument that you can get poor people to work harder if you give them less money and you can get the more well-off to work harder if you give them more money.

Patterson said she realizes that she can’t always speak for all her constituents.

“That’s the dance; how do you speak for most of the people? Usually it is clear-cut, but sometimes not. “There will always be some that are unhappy.”

After 23 years in public office, Patterson says she knows why our area doesn’t get the services it should.

“We are fractured politically and we don’t have the political power that comes from money,” Patterson declared.

South King County has about the same population as the city of Seattle but Seattle is much better organized, Patterson noted. East King County is also well organized and, in addition, has lots of money.

“The state reacts to those voices,” Patterson observed.

On the other hand, working-class south King County is chopped up into different political jurisdictions, not unified and not heard by the powers that be, according to Patterson.

While Seattle has one Chamber of Commerce, south county has five or six.

“It is difficult to get everyone on the same page,” Patterson added.

For almost a quarter of a century, she represented the area where she grew up.

Patterson attended Sunnydale Elementary in Burien until her parents moved to what is now SeaTac. She then attended Bow Lake Elementary, Chinook Junior High and Tyee High School before going to college at Washington State University in eastern Washington. She moved back to the area after college.

“It been an extraordinary personal experience and responsibility,” Patterson declared. “I’ve needed to advocate for, protect, and speak on behalf of the area for quite a while.”

As a stay-at-home mom back in the 1980s she attended a neighborhood meeting in a someone’s living room.

“I started at a minimal level but it grew,” Patterson explained.

Patterson joined the campaign to incorporate SeaTac and ended up being elected twice to the council.

Her current position on the county council is ironic because her initial activism grew from her and her SeaTac neighbors’ unhappiness with county services,

Police protection on Highway 99, the Port of Seattle’s treatment of the community, the county’s level of services and zoning under the airport flight path were among incorporation advocates complaints, according to Patterson.

Patterson insists there is no other big job waiting for her.

“There are many ways to view life and I want to look through other lenses,” Patterson said. “I want to spend time to spoil my family and do things I love.”

She lists nature, hiking, being on the water and pursuing her spiritual life as things she wants to do more of.

Would she run for office again?

“I am not ruling anything out. I’m going to keep my eyes wide open and be aware of doors opening so I can step through them,” Patterson noted.

As for her south county constituents, Patterson concluded, “I want to thank all those who shared their hopes for the community. I want to thank them for their honesty when they disagreed with me. I appreciated it and learned from it.

“I consider it a great honor to represent them.”

Jerry's View: I love you, Mom

cmenges — Tue, 07 May 2013 21:18:29 +0000

I know that Mother's Day is this Sunday so I need to write about the World's Champion Mother... my mom.

What was so great about her? Let me count the ways.

She had ten kids. With the help of my dad, of course. I was number eight. He was a traveling salesman and came home ten times.

I grew up in Portland and we lived in a dilapidated old four-bedroom house with a wood burning furnace and a leaking roof. Every time it rained we put buckets and pots on the floor. Rent was cheap if we paid it at all, sometimes needing to move in the middle of the night to a new place to avoid paying for the old place.

Dad wasn’t much of a provider because he had a drinking problem. We loved him though.

Mom was the rock. She read to the four of us in the afternoons before she took her daily nap. I still have her well thumbed copy of Anderson's Fairy Tales.

Like many moms during the depression she had her pride. She did not like being poor but had no alternative but to seek relief. She and I went every week to a welfare office and got some cans of Argentine beef, a bag of flour and a tin of Rumford baking powder. She turned the cans of beef around in the cupboard so the label “not to be sold” would not be seen. Like the neighbors might take a tour of our house?

Mom had a big wash tub in the basement. She washed our clothes in it each week and used her hand crank wringer nearby to squeeze out the last bit of water before she hung them on the lines out in the back yard. The smell of air dried laundry was a treat for me.

It was a glorious day for Mom when we got our electric Maytag, which had rollers that squeezed the water out so she did not have to turn the crank. That was a good thing because I did not want her to get stronger than me.

We were a rough and tumble bunch. Our clothing certainly looked like we had fun. Mom had an old, foot pedal Singer sewing machine that she used to patch our pants. It was exciting when Dad found her a slightly used Singer electric. But it would not work when the electric company shut us down. My clever dad would go out and start the meter again.

Every so often the Singer man came to the house to fix it. He stuttered pretty bad and she would patiently listen to him. She never complained but she did nickname him “Painful.”

Mom was a faithful member of the Mallory Avenue Christian Church and dragged some of us along every Sunday. When I was seven I was not too interested in listening to the sermon but when they brought out a tray of small silver cups of grape juice and some crackers, I was so glad. Then they dunked me in a tank of cold water.

Our house of worship had no roof. It was in a basement where everything took place. The plan was to build it higher but they never got around to it until years later after I moved to Seattle. One year I surprised Mom by driving down and taking her to a Mother's Day service.

She looked glorious in her new pink coat and white purse. I got all spiffed up in a suit and wore a red carnation.

I get a little teary when I think about it.

Jerry's View: Meet Annie Genzale, true Burienite

cmenges — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 22:55:36 +0000

Antoinette "Annie" Genzale

Annie Genzale is a true Burienite. For more than 70 years she has lived, worked and shopped in Burien.

She is such a long time resident she still refers to her telephone prefix as "CHerry-two," the old Pacific NW Bell designation.

As an inveterate shopper Annie spent many hours at "Bells of Burien which later became Lamont's prior to the entire area being replaced by the six-story condos now on that spot.

Well, Annie turned 90 in February when a party was held in her honor. The party celebrated her long career as a wife, mom, cook, farmer, and parishioner at St. Francis of Assisi in Seahurst.

This gentle lady was born in Salerno Italy, arriving in the Seattle area as a tiny 3-year-old with her parents. She grew up in the Rainier Valley, met and married Antonio "Tony" Genzale in 1942. The happy couple moved out to Burien/Sunnydale to begin their family and raise crops for sale at Pike Place Market.

For several years they toiled in the soil. By 1951 they had opened a small store near Lora Lake called The Garden Patch. It was on Des Moines Way South.

That blossomed into Cushing's Grocery, which she and Tony operated for more than 20 years. You could find her inside the store most hours of the day but at night she was a star on the company bowling team at Olympic Bowl next door.

Progress at Sea-Tac Airport pretty much changed the Genzale family life as the runway project swallowed up their land. Annie does not farm any longer. Her passion is her family and her church where you're likely to see her each Sunday in the fourth pew on the left where many significant family events have taken place over the years.

To Antoinette "Annie' Genzale, we salute your love of life and your loyalty to Burien and wish you many more birthdays in our fine community.

Jerry's View: Hapless whale

cmenges — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 16:11:21 +0000

A hapless half a whale was towed away from Seahurst Park beach up near us today. I never heard it but the crows and gulls who rob our sparrow feeder went AWOL and that is good.

I never heard any noise or saw any super tugboat as I was sunning myself so I can only guess that the oily birds got the wormy fish for lunch. Maybe they will escape with a beak full.

If I find chunks of whale belly on my roof I will know how it got there and call Burien city hall to belly ache.

They blew up a whale once near Florence, Oregon. It stank up the whole community and they did a lot of belly aching then as large pieces of the whale carcass landed on people and cars up to a 1/4 mile away from the blast. It was such poor execution the tractors still had to bury the poor thing in the sand anyway. At least Burien leaders know what "not" to do.

I wanted to see the 5000 gawkers watching today but the Burien half a whale was dragged half a way to nowhere. The intent was to let it decay on a remote beach. I think they should just fill it with rocks and sink it. No stink.
A few years ago a full grown dead whale washed up on the beach near White Center and they thought about dragging it to deep water, securing it to the bottom and letting hungry salt water creatures eat it away.

Instead, Highline college leaders, led by President Jack Bermingham had it buried for several months where worms and other dirty little creatures could devour it. Then they dug it up and brought it home to Redondo at the college science lab. The bones still had quite a bit of flesh requiring student volunteers to scrape and remove the stinky residue. Now the skeleton hangs from the ceiling at the MAST aquarium next to Salty's. Nobody has blubbered about that.

I was impressed by how the Highline college students spent a jillion hours at the tedious task of stripping that smelly carcass. Sounds like real fun.

All the public hue and cry about Boston is an object lesson.

cmenges — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 22:28:47 +0000

(Editors note:) I got this email from son Mike, letting me know how he felt about the tragedy in Boston. I asked if it was OK to share it . I said it might help someone else who feels the same way. -Jerry Robinson

By Mike Robinson

Hearing the news about Boston last week I felt punched by deep sadness, then relieved that nobody I love was harmed.

Gradually after that, I felt grim anger at the readiness of a demented or politically twisted mind to injure others to teach some moral or ideological lesson.

What came to mind were conspiracy theories, like

a) Someone who loves guns wants to scare us into protecting our constitutional guarantee to carry weapons.

b) Someone who sympathizes with Al Qaeda wants to show we face a risk similar to what citizens of Iraq and Afghanistan face daily.

c) In Boston, with its deep Irish ties, someone wanted to show solidarity with his radical Irish history.

d) A foreign student went over the edge in resentment for our military presence in his homeland.

e) A messed up veteran decided to express his pain over the loss of pals in the Middle East.

Then I thought of the practical impact: more security imposed in cities all over the nation: 2 hour waits at airports; heightened surveillance of all of us by those who believe we can only protect democracy by limiting it.

Could our own CIA or FBI have prevented it? Doubtful, unless it was orchestrated by a team. More likely it is the work of a single dissident who believes Americans need to wake from our moral slumber, or pay for cruelties at places like the torture chambers of Baghdad.

So --even if they take him off the streets, the germ of his vehemence lives. It moves in the blood of some Irishmen, almost 400 years after Cromwell. It thrives in the tension in Kenya, where tribal rivalries still rumble, in Venezuela, in the Gaza Strip. In some pockets of America, racism lingers.

30 years ago we came home to find our house a mess, pictures axed, food strewn, personal items stolen: a jar of pennies and a tai chi book. The vandals' car, stranded in our driveway, led police to them. Our items were returned. That humble incident --not forgotten-- is the closest we have come to being random victims of random rage.

That's my tiny final theory: shrinks call it "free-floating hostility," associated with Type A's who have short fuses, get impatient with group process, and often express suppressed rage by pinning the blame on others. They thrive on revenge fantasies. If you need a personal image: think of a husband who beats his wife or kids for disagreeing on just about anything.

So (if we tolerate the bombers) are we like victims of domestic violence who divorce the bum, then marry another guy just like him? If we punish the bum and shrink our own sense of safety by increasing surveillance, are we losing the war in another way, letting his madness rule our lives? Shall we all surrender and become Type A? Finally, if we just get on with our mellow lives, are we naive?

I'm with that guy in Kentucky, who said, 50 years ago when Neil Armstrong walked the moon, "It's all a sham. Just cardboard rockets and a cartoon moon." I treat fanatics the way I treat bad dreams.

They are real enough--so is my dream. It scares me, then I return to my senses. This is not resilience or a resolve to ignore the hazards of inhumanity. It's human nature to move toward the light.

That's how we found our way out of the dark...how we learned to drop the spears, build campfires, trust our brothers. There was nothing to be gained. Hostility toward strangers is as old as our hypothalamus. Fear of invasion filled us when we hid in caves.

I like it better out here in the open...where (as NW poet Ted Roethke once wrote) I live like other creatures,

"...Under the eye of the great owl watching from the elm-tree,
To live by courtesy of the shrike, the snake, the tom-cat.
I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass,
The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway,
The paralytic stunned in the tub, and the water rising,--
All things innocent, hapless, forsaken."

(Editors update :) We now know the bombers came from Chechnya, not the usual suspects. We still favor hope over despair.)

LETTER: Writer recommends new Des Moines restaurant

cmenges — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 22:04:03 +0000

Was it only yesterday that we had a “Ships Log” and a Des Moines Chamber of Commerce and was it such fun to do a monthly article entitled “Business of the Month”?

Did there prevail a feeling of joy at heralding the merits of a new or established small business venture in Des Moines and has that joy dissipated?

Until a few days ago the answer to the “joy” part might have been absolutely no; that is until the new restaurant, “Prima Margherita” was honored by a grand opening with Mayor Dave Kaplan and other dignitaries on Wednesday April 3.

It was a good day for such an event and there were so many treats on the counter of the bar for all to be tempted by. There were even two uniformed police there bending a pizza and smiling. I explained that there were no doughnuts today and, wisely stepped out of their way.

As many restaurants as we have enjoyed in Italy, it was a given, we thought, that we would never have such a rewarding experience once we returned to America; especially, we thought, so far west from our roots in the New England states.

Well it turns out that we were astonishingly wrong in that our new friends Vince (Vincenzo) and Peppe (Giuseppe) have brought Italian cuisine here for us all to enjoy and rave over without ever leaving Des Moines. You are in Italy once you walk in their door!

Since the opening, we have been there, just us or with friends, all leaving with satisfied appetites and smiling a wish to return soon. You are not just a customer in this Prima Margherita but part of a quickly growing family.

The service is as great as the menu offerings and it is not possible to just try one entrée. You are driven to come back and relish the next item down until you will enter on a favorite or favorites. Here, for once, I felt like a kid in a spaghetti store!

The whole experience is enhanced and magnified by the interior décor of this restaurant as you look around the walls at photographs, nostalgic hangng baskets, and even the array of beverages behind the bar beckon, “Commonnamyhousa”!

Add Prima Margherita’s dining to the already wonderful dining venues that we have in Des Moines and you may never need to go miles again for the best appetite pleasers.

May I say, joyfully, “Welcome Prima Margherita”? Alora Mangiamo! ( c’mon Let’s Eat)

Pat Nardo
Des Moines

Downtown Des Moines QFC will be missed

cmenges — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 21:51:04 +0000

If you are a city of Des Moines community resident and feel like you’re missing something –- guess what-- you will be and pronto!

It’s a sad day when the Des Moines community loses it’s one and only downtown grocery store that so many people have come to depend upon.

At the turn of a key, this major longtime business in downtown Des Moines at 220th and Marine View Drive, (QFC) Quality Food Centers, will close their doors here for the last time May 25th.

With the click of a lock those doors will close to thousands of this city’s people. And it won’t take long for most people, who have depended on that food store for decades, to feel the negative impact of this very personal loss to a community that needs them.

Gone will be the days of zipping down to QFC at the north entrance of town and shopping on a whim or sudden need.

Des Moines store manager Tina Stunns said she has no knowledge of any future business tenant for the building.

Present employees will be offered other available company jobs.

Des Moines has lost an anchor business that every city needs, a well-stocked grocery store within a short distance from residential properties.

Businesses as a whole are still challenged due to financial loss of recession income. Big or small, they scramble to maintain profit knowing cost increase can tip profit over.

After May 25th no more store, no easy shopping access, excellent services or store visits with friends. Reluctantly, we bid farewell to the fine employees of DMQFC. You will be kindly remembered.

Yes, we can shop elsewhere – but how far away? Will we find friendly staff? The Des Moines store location has been so right and the quality of QFC maintained.

We’ll miss roasted chicken, deli salads, bakery goodies, fresh produce, cold beverages, hot soup, cup of coffee at the dandy deli, and my favorite (throw calories to the wind item) maple bars.

For now, its mind boggling to be told all the good will QFC Corporation has done helping others. They donated $3 million to the Salvation Army, hired 17,000 veterans since 2009, donated $3 million to local food banks, donated to “Meals on Wheels” weekly, and accommodated holiday bell ringers raising funds for the needy.

Annually, the QFC representative said, they donated equivalent of 3 million meals a week. They also provide storefront space at the entry for Boys and Girls Scouts fund-raising organizations.

Who knew! QFC, can we convince you to stay?

City officials do not deal with private businesses actions, I’m told. Still, we wonder, can’t elected community leaders lend a hand of help to support getting another grocery store and keeping our businesses drawing in more growth – rather than losing them?

What does it cost to keep a business profitable? The same thing that it takes to keep jobs paying--keep the company making a profit that justifies the investments of everyday operation costs.

Businesses pay city taxes so lack of business income could lead to loss of city income.

Why QFC is leaving Des Moines is largely unknown although it’s interesting to note QFC Auburn and Covington stores have either closed or are in process. To close a business is based on MONEY – lack of profit.

And it’s a sad state of affairs when residents can’t buy groceries in the heart of their own city. We live in a world ruled more by money than humanity.

So the questions are what will replace QFC? How many miles do we need to drive to do our grocery shopping? How many people don’t have transportation to a store? How many groceries can you carry home on the bus? How do we get groceries from the bus stop to home?

Choices are QFC at Normandy Park (for how long we now wonder) Safeway at both 216th and 272nd Pacific Highway or nearby Fred Meyers.

Making that trip can be difficult or impossible for disabled and elderly as well as young families with small children and no car. It’s unbelievable to picture no large grocery store in downtown Des Moines.

History recognizes one remarkable Des Moines gentleman who brought grocery stores to this small town and even today results of his dedication live on.

John A. Somers, (now deceased) husband to the lovely lady, Norma Somers, started Johnny’s Food Center chain by building his first store at Des Moines in 1945, and he did it with his own hands. Although John Somers passed away June 30th, 1988 at age 70, Norma skillfully managed their local properties to best benefit today’s citizens. Red Robin Restaurant is one of them.

There is much to be done to preserve and promote this beautiful city. Meantime, let’s look for the best grocery store available and transplant it here. We can do that – together!

Thank you QFC staff – it’s been lovely living with you!

(Editor’s Note: Click on ‘News’ for story)

Jerry's View: Russell was tough on bullies

cmenges — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 21:58:58 +0000

This week I celebrated my dear departed brother Russell's birthday. I will grieve alone. His wife lives in California. I will send a message to her. Russ would have been 95.

He used to pound me a bit but never anything fatal. I was two years younger and 30 pounds skinnier but I was his private punching bag--a lot.

I was actually quite proud of his impatience with me and it was okay that he soothed it by knocking me around. He also protected me.

He was skinny too but spent many hours trying to overcome his shameful biceps and skeleton rib cage. He kept his store bought barbell set in the garage and worked out everyday all by himself.

I kept my bony body out of there and peered at him silently through the window.

Russ loved to fight but never picked one. He got pretty good with his fists. I had a large, red carbuncle on my back in grade school. A bully heard about it and pulled my shirt up to smack it. I howled and he grinned. His name was Rupert Reedy.

I told brother Russ about it but he did nothing. Years later, when Russ was doing his stint in the Navy, he entered the Mid-Pacific elimination bouts on board ship at Pearl Harbor. Maybe it was fate.

Russ was matched against that bully Rupert. Russ pounded the peas out of that school bully and wrote me a letter about it. He also won his weight division.

Russ once rassled Alfred Lavagetto for ten minutes in a vacant field owned by a farmer and won when he managed to push Alfred's head into a fresh cow pie. We called Alfred pie-face after that.

Dirty Nick Telemchuck was a reform school kid. He was really mean and tough. He followed us home and offered to whomp Russ and me both.

We knew Nick was dangerous so we climbed out our sister Bernice's window and stood on the porch roof and yelled at him and called him names. He had a serious overbite, which made him look even meaner. Russ thumbed his nose, which was really bad because it meant kiss my foot or something like that. Nick gave up and never bothered us after that. Maybe he got arrested.

In high school Russ was running down the hall. The hall monitor stuck out his arm striking Russ in the nose, making it bleed. They had some angry words and agreed to meet after school to duke it out. His name was Sylvester Durkee, a boy with a hot temper.

Somehow word of a rumble got out. I went to watch like a whole bunch of other kids. A fight was always exciting.

Durkee was tough but led with his face. Russ knocked both of his front teeth out and I really felt bad because I couldn't see how he could ever bite an apple. Maybe his dad would have to buy him some new teeth that you can take out and put in like my mom did.

Russ had a real sore fist for a while.

I never ran in the hall myself.

Happy Birthday, Russ.

News that should not make the news

cmenges — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 21:34:18 +0000

Some things in the news lately can really make a guy's blood boil. Here are some examples:

The former police chief of Medina, Washington, an enclave of wealthy business people, was recently awarded $2 million by a jury for a perceived affront. The chief, of Chinese extraction, had been fired by the mayor of that rich little burg on Lake Washington. He was fired by the female mayor for reasons not connected to the jury award, but because of alleged malfeasance.

He was awarded the two million bucks because someone on the staff at Medina characterized him as "a real Charlie Chan" for his police work and because on another occasion in his presence someone asked if Chinese people ate turkey on Thanksgiving.

These are not politically correct comments by any means. And to come up in a civil suit against the city shows that the chief remembered the comments well. Then he got fired.

He was mad. He probably figured he would have a hard time getting a job like the one he had if other cities knew he had been axed. And he was humiliated. And may have figured that had hadn't done anything wrong in his performance as a top cop in Medina (although his personnel record did not support that).

So he sued, not for wrongful dismissal, but because someone uttered a slur and he felt aggrieved. He sued for the only reason he had left to fight back, to sting the little city that had stung him.
And he won. Two million.

This seems way outsized to me for the affront. I get that his feeling might have been hurt because someone reminded him that he is Chinese and that that reminder was taken as an insult to him because it was delivered in a way that was belittling. But it two million dollars worth of hurt?

Don't tell me I have no grounds for understanding this because I am a member of the white majority. I get that he was insulted. What I don't get is why the insult should have a value of two million dollars. How about $2 thousand? And a letter of apology from the person who made the remark.

Then there is the weird aspect of the law that puts the onus for the award on the city, when the comment was made by an individual. I find this particular nuance of the law to be absurd and wrong. Shouldn’t the affronted person be allowed to sue only the one who affronts him? Instead, the law allows the jury to punish the citizens of the city where the idiot who made the remark works.

Had the remark been made off-hand and off premise by a stranger, there would be not grounds for suit. This would not make the slur any less biting to the who at whom it is leveled, but it would disappear in the wind.
To compound the ridiculous award, the attorney for the chief has now asked the city to give him an additional $400,000 to cover the tax bill he will get on the original award. (And, of course, the attorney will dredge her fee from the original award too and that is likely the inspiration for the request).

What was already over the top has now put the icing on it. I hope the city challenges the original award, never pays it and settles for a very modest smaller amount.

Note to public and private employees: If you are going to make a stupid comment to someone from a minority race, don't do t in the office where there are witnesses.

***

And now, why we still need newspaper reporters:

There is the story about the small town of Bell, California where city council members and the mayor figured out how to turn $1,800 in part-time stipends as public officials into $100,000 a year jobs. The Los Angeles Times investigated this nasty little conspiracy and now those same public officials are on trial. The Times stories set in motion a recall of these crooks and refund for residents.

Could it happen here? Yes. And if we do not continue the watchdog function that is the classic role of the press, it will. There are honest and forthright individuals who are elected to public office. There are also those who have private agendas that lead to lining their own pockets and there probably always will be.

Focus lost on what 4th fireworks really about

cmenges — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 21:30:44 +0000

(Editor’s Note: Although th Seattle show has apparently been cancelled, Independence Day fireworks displays are set for the marina in Des Moines, Angle Lake in SeaTac and Fort Dent Park in Tukwila.)

Why is it such a surprise that Seattle businesses don’t want to cough up thousands of dollars for fireworks that last just a few seconds each?

Our nation is in serious financial do-do, right now. Although the people might still feel a deep patriotism for the country, they are not too thrilled with the government.

And it’s not just these things that might affect the reasons that businesses are stepping away from sponsoring the Seattle fireworks display. Personally, I think we’ve lost focus on what those fireworks were about in the first place.

Most of us have never been to war. We haven’t seen real bombs exploding or experienced the devastating aftermath. So fireworks, to us, are just exciting and pretty and all of that fluff.

I remember when I watched the 1976 fireworks display in Philadelphia. I’d never seen anything like it, before, and probably never will again. However, it wasn’t just the fireworks that touched my heart.

About ten yards away, an elderly man was standing at full attention. With his right hand, he was holding a pole with the American flag. His left hand was held in a salute, as tears streamed down his face. After the fireworks were over, he carefully removed the flag from the pole and folded it up, just as I remembered from Girl Scouts.

I decided to wander over and talk with him. The right side of his face was quite disfigured and his right hand was also missing a couple fingers. It was obvious that he knew what those fireworks were about.

I said that it was obvious how much this meant to him. He searched my face for sincerity, and then said, “It took me 20 years to be able to leave the house on the 4th of July. I used to stay locked up in the house with earplugs. But I wanted to remember my buddies, so I forced myself to come out.”

I don’t remember his name, but I remember him ending our conversation with, “I love this country. God bless America. I’m so glad to be back home. Most of my brothers never made it.”

He finished folding his flag and tucked it in his jacket, over heart, and zipped it up. Before he walked away, he turned back and said, “I hope you know the price that was paid for your freedom. Please don’t ever lose it.”

Ever since then, I haven’t had an interest in fireworks. I guess I didn’t feel that I had a right to. I never saw the real thing. I never paid the price and never experienced the price that was paid by others.

There was a time that families would gather and solemnly sing patriotic songs, as they watched fireworks. It was a time to remember and be grateful. Now, it’s little more than another excuse to flip out the tailgates, tap the kegs and howl at the “light show”.

It could be and should be so much more; when it is, I’ll come back out of the house on the 4th of July, too.

Teeth brushing incredibly powerful for pet care

cmenges — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 21:14:10 +0000

By Dr. Jonathan Cullom
Marine View Veterinary Hospital

Does your pet seem to have “morning breath” all day long?

Have you looked in their mouth lately? It has been estimated that up to 75 percent of dogs and cats have some form of dental disease by the age of three.

Chronic neglect, dietary choices and the simple passage of time can all conspire to create a painful, debilitating condition in the mouths of pets which can have consequences beyond the mouth itself. Pets who are asked to live with this condition will often present to their veterinarians with symptoms such as a decreased appetite, mild weight loss, or a perceived discomfort associated with the head.

Yearly oral exams are vital to grade the dental status of all pets. The accumulation of unsightly tartar is the most obvious observation made by most owners.

Yet it is often the more subtle inflammation of the gum tissue (known as gingivitis) that provides a glimpse into what may be occurring below the gum line. As bacteria in the mouth grow in numbers, so does the severity of the gingivitis.

As this condition progresses it causes the tooth itself to lose its attachment to the gums, which can ultimately lead to a tooth not having enough tissue to keep it adequately anchored into the jaw. In these situations the most likely course of action is to extract the tooth.

In addition, it is a widely accepted belief that the bacteria associated with infected teeth can travel throughout the blood stream and have an adverse effect on major organs such as the heart, liver and kidneys. For example, diabetes in a cat or a dog can be more difficult to control as the infection in the mouth interferes with the body’s ability to sense and use insulin.

With so many of our pets now living to advanced ages thanks to an increased ability to detect and manage chronic disease, it is vital that we do not undermine this progress by ignoring disease in the mouth.

Prevention is the very best form of medicine. Getting a pet used to idea of a toothbrush and fluoride free pet toothpaste at a young age is the single greatest thing that can be done to improve a pet’s oral health in the long run.

The act of brushing does not need to be an invasive task but needs to occur every day for the best results. If a brush could just be applied to the outside surfaces of all teeth for 1 to 2 minutes a day, the incidence of dental disease in our pet population would decrease dramatically.

There are few things, which are as cost effective, but incredibly powerful as daily teeth brushing. Dental chews containing antiseptics and dental diets used on a daily basis are also options for those who do not have the ability to brush.

A pet whose mouth exhibits any degree of gum inflammation is a candidate for a dental cleaning. This is best done by trained veterinary personnel under a general anesthetic.

Many owners are intrigued by the possibility of dentals performed while their pet is awake on the grounds that it is “less invasive” and as a way to avoid anesthesia and minimize cost.

Although it is easy to see the appeal of such a strategy, it ultimately fails for numerous reasons. First, conscious dental cleanings do not properly clean beneath the gum line, leaving behind the bacteria that ultimately are causing the dental disease. Up to 66 percent of all dental lesions are found below the gum line. Ignoring this part of a tooth is not an acceptable way to care for a mouth.

Second, when teeth are hand scaled but not polished afterwards (a common practice during non veterinary dentals), grooves in the enamel of the teeth are left behind which actually lead to a faster accumulation of plaque and tartar. Any money that is saved and risks that are avoided during procedures such as this will ultimately be cancelled out when the patient’s tartar returns again and problems ignored the first time around are forced to be dealt with.

Finally, it should be noted that “anesthetic free” dentals are not subject to any form of oversight in the way that veterinary procedures are by the Department of Health. Back in the days of the Wild West, there was a reason that all the cowboys had terrible teeth--their dentist was also their barber!

Most of us have experienced some form of tooth discomfort at some point in our life. Our pets are much tougher than any of us when it comes to pain so talk to your veterinarian today and make sure that your furry friend is not suffering in silence.

(Truth about Cats & Dogs is a monthly column written by local veterinarians. Participating hospitals are Marine View Veterinary Hospital in Des Moines, Des Moines Veterinary Hospital and Burien Veterinary Hospital.)

Jerry's View: He coulda been a contenda!

cmenges — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 16:43:15 +0000

In early April of 1980 some of my friends threw a 60th birthday party for me at Kingston Village. It was a thrill to see so many friendly faces.

As a surprise my kids arranged to have King County Executive John Spellman come to the party. About mid point of the event John gave a nice speech about how important community newspapers were to the lives of the residents and presented me with a plaque honoring my service to White Center.

He called it “Jerry Robinson Day.” John was a candidate for governor to replace Dixie Lee Ray. He succeeded and thanked me personally "for not running for governor" as he believed my popularity might have threatened his candidacy. I was flattered.

What he did not know was that I was a big fan of his and had no intention of seeking political office.

Yes, I have opinions and I used them in my newspapers, but living in Olympia would have been quite a commute for me because I loved living and working in White Center. It is where I got my start as a newspaperman. And it was a mile from my house.

Now that I'm almost 93 I can look back on those years and say I am glad I did not run for governor. I had too much to do with eight kids and the governor's mansion does not have enough room for them.

Oh, I know there are plenty of chairs in the Capitol building and a lot of the folks in them don't get much done it seems. I would have sent them home when I got there and hired my kids. Yes, it is favoritism but if you think that does not already happen, let me tell you...

After my kids were running the state, I would ask for a vacation because raising all that brood was tough. A guy needs a break. January to March would be about right. If needed, I could ask for an extension just in case I was playing golf and had a good round going.

By summer time things would be humming along. I could settle in. I love work. I can sit and watch it for hours.

Once we resolved all the disputes, which you can guess rarely happens in Olympia, we would likely franchise our system. It is the American way!

I was already a granddad at 60 so the legacy of Robinsons in government would continue.

So much for daydreaming. I guess I'll have to live with the accolades from John Spellman and go back to watching movies.

I coulda been a contenda!

Transform into Super Ciscoe with a community garden plot

cmenges — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:25:32 +0000

I love vegetable gardening….and trees.

Trouble is, they are incompatible.

Trying to turn over the soil just got me a shovelful of roots. And with all that shade, forget about growing big, juicy vegetables that resemble the ones on the seed packets.

I’ve been lucky to live in several homes with beautiful tree-filled lots. But I’ve always struggled mightily to produce more than puny produce from the cold, rocky ground.

In 2011, Marge and I moved to a unique cedar house surrounded by cedar trees in Burien’s Gregory Heights neighborhood. I decided I was no longer up for the challenge of starting up another garden under adverse conditions.

But then last spring I signed up for a Burien Community Garden plot on a gloriously tree-free, sunny spot next to the Burien Annex.

I was transformed into “Super Ciscoe.”

Devotees of gardening guru Ciscoe Morris will have their chance to emulate their hero when the city of Burien Parks Department opens up the co-op plots for new applicants on Monday morning, March 25. Set your speed dial to 206-988-3700.

Not wanting to wait on snail mail, I drove my re-application and $25 check over to the community center at 14700 6th Ave. S.W. (the old library) the day after I received my notice. The front-counter staff said they had already received a lot of renewals.

Returning gardeners have first priority on one of the 31 garden plots so it’s hard to say how many openings will be left on March 25. One plot went unclaimed last year so you never know.

Burien lawmakers are talking about opening up more community gardens around the city so a big response will demonstrate a strong demand.

Each plot is 75 square feet (6 feet by 12.5 feet) It’s amazing how much the dedicated gardeners manage to squeeze onto the plots.

All gardeners must provide eight hours of service to the garden common areas. But with community work parties and potlucks, the work can be fun. Some just clean up around the area after gardening.

A five-member garden board represents the gardener’s interests and communicates with the city. It’s all very informal. Gardeners can do their own thing as long as they comply with a few rules and use common sense.

Gardeners tend to be nice people. You can pick up gardening advice from the grizzled veterans. That was important to me after gardening alone for so many years.

It’s one plot per household but you can be added to a wait list if additional spots become available. Parks staff promises to let people know about extra plots by April 16. There’s also a mandatory orientation meeting on April 12.

The city supplies compost (black gold!), wood chips and water.

Freed from gardening under the shadows of trees, I grew an astoundingly abundant cool-weather crop of lettuce and carrots that had me beating a steady path to the food bank with the overflow.

I also got a great crop of warm-weather tomatoes,

So, do I recommend that you call Monday and reserve a spot? Heck, no. I have my eye on an extra plot.

Jerry's View: The Agony of De Feet

cmenges — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:29:40 +0000

I admit I am lazy.

So lazy that I need some goading to get me to exercise. When my friendly housekeeper, Dorothy, reminded me that I had not done my 20 minutes on the "dreadmill" I tried to make up some excuse like the agony of de feet or that it is "save electricity week" and I want to do my part!

She would have none of that. She's so smart. She could see through me like plastic wrap.

I use a wheeled cart now to move about the house on my aging legs. I don't like it but I know the exercise will help me discard my wheels.

I use a mental trick to get me through the ordeal each morning. I time myself walking through town hunting for an ice cream store and ordering a triple-decker cone of vanilla.

Dorothy is a dreamer. She does not have any red slippers and the dreadmill is not exactly the yellow brick road but she has high hopes for me. If I try my best I can avoid going to the Land of Oz too soon.

Since only one of us can use the dreadmill at a time, Dorothy uses a recumbent bicycle right next to me. She has put enough miles on that bike to get as far as Spokane.

I was so impressed that she could keep up with me (she's just a kid) that I wanted to take her picture to show my friends that having an exercise partner is an important aspect of Olympic training.

Dorothy is as shy as new butterfly and said I could only take a picture of her feet to prove that she and I walk together.

So here is proof that walking and riding together can be done. Her size 6 tennis shoes look smaller next to my 13-EEE’s, which you can imagine, makes my workout much harder.

I don't complain though. She'll be there when I have my tryout for the 2016 Games in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.

I'll only be 96. I can already feel the thrill of victory.

Jerry's View: Why he celebrates St. Patrick’s Day

cmenges — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 02:23:37 +0000

I was fishing with my brother Russell in the Columbia River Slough one summer day in 1928. I was eight, he was ten.

The murky, slow moving river had lots of crappies, perch, catfish, carp and chubs and hundreds of logs next to a shingle mill. There were some abandoned houseboats scattered along the shoreline or half submerged in the slough.

Russell could swim and was fishing off the logs. I was inside one of the half-sunk houseboats and fishing out of a glassless window because I could not swim.

Inside there was a three-foot square hole in the floor where a coal chute might have been. It was full of water.

I knew the river was dangerous because one of my chums had fallen off the logs and drowned the year before.

I was lucky and hooked a small fish right away but my willow branch fishing pole had no reel so I just backed up and kerplunk! I fell into the water-filled hole in the floor. My bare feet just hit mud and by holding my chin high I could holler like mad for help.

Russell heard me and dove into the river to swim to my aid. He climbed through the open window and grabbed me by the hair. With one hand he pulled me to safety. I was lucky.

I was still holding my willow tree rod as I stood on the wood floor, soaking wet. I lifted the line. The fish was there. I had caught my first fish. I walked home feeling like a wet mop. I showed my silvery prized scrap fish to my mom. She had some words of praise before getting back to preparing dinner. I was so excited. My mouth watered with the idea of dining in style.

When we only had macaroni and cheese that night I wondered why. I did not ask. Later that spring I noticed the flowers along the house seemed unusually colorful.

More Luck
How do you explain the accident on Portland’s Columbia Boulevard--as busy a road then as Highway 99 is today?

Russell and I were taking our steel-wheeled cart down to the Humane Society at dusk, facing traffic. Back then it was managed out of a private residence. I had a school buddy in the 5th grade whose dad was manager of the society. In the backyard they had a cow and Clair told me that if I brought an empty milk bottle down to his house his dad would fill it with milk for free. We liked milk so we pushed and rode our cart there as often as permitted.

That night Russell was pushing and I was steering. A car was coming towards us. The driver carelessly swerved onto the shoulder and hit us. Pow! He clipped our front wheel knocking us sideways. It was a miracle. Neither of us got a scratch. We Irish boys were very lucky!

The axle of our cart--not so much. It got a small bend but the steel wheel still turned.

We went to the barn and got our bottle filled. Clair’s dad even pointed one of the cow's teats at me, said "open your mouth and shut your eyes, I will give you something to make you wise." Then he squirted me a mouthful of what he called "Jersey Juice.” As luck would have it I enjoy milk to this day but I’m not all that wise.

Luck continues
One summer weekend I was climbing Mt Hood with some high school buddies. We had never climbed a mountain before but had been warned not to make any noise as the voice vibrates and could set loose boulders on the mountainside.

We parked on the precarious north side by the Cloud Cap Inn to begin our start up Cooper Spur at about one in the morning on a cloudless August day. We were as quiet as teenagers can be. After several tedious hours we were trudging quietly up the steep snowfield when we spotted a soccer ball sized rock bounding our way like a crazed jackrabbit. I was second in line and we all waited, paralyzed, to see which direction the huge rock would take.

It was on us and speeding directly toward my frozen head when my pal and leader, Clay Abraham threw his leg up, diverting the speeding boulder over my head to allow it to go bouncing on down harmlessly.

Clay's upper leg had a huge gash, which was bleeding badly. He took off his belt and made a tourniquet that seemed to work.

I was in favor of going back to the car but my hero would not turn back and we decided to keep on going.

At this point I remembered a poem from my Dad. "He climbs highest who has dared to keep on climbing when most scared." I was pretty scared. Clay’s brother Dan kept poking me in the butt all the way to the top.

At the top was a wobbly little windswept shack with a notebook and pencil where we could record our names. I proudly signed the book and announced that I was going back down to drive the Model A Ford around to Timberline Lodge where we could get dinner. Clay, bloody leg and all, vetoed that idea and insisted on making the trek by himself and took off while the rest of us descended the gentler south side without peril.

St. Patrick must have been watching. Clay made it safely to the car and met us at the lodge. I was so lucky Clay had stuck his leg out to save my life.

Several years later he lost his own life when the B-26 plane he was flying was shot down over Frankfurt, Germany. Hit by anti-aircraft. Clay kept his plane in control till his crew managed to parachute to safety. He went to the earth and heaven.

My Irish heritage is not the only reason I celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. For Russell, Clair and Clay I was lucky to have them in my life.

Thank you for not tailgating

cmenges — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 00:11:55 +0000

(Editor’s Note: Scott Anthony is substituting for Jerry Robinson this week.)

Is it me or are people on the road becoming more aggressive all the time?

Maybe it's full moon syndrome or spring fever. Tax time is nearing and that tends to make people cranky.

Or maybe it's gas prices. But whatever the reason, I think I've had more tailgaters and rude, abrupt lane changers lately than ever before.

Typically for me, it goes like this; I'm on the freeway in the far left, fast lane when somebody in my rear view mirror appears moving well above the limit. I can see that they will be on my bumper in mere seconds, and I'm already nudging the speed limit by five mph myself.

Now my new friend is so close to my van that I can see he's alone and so he cannot go to the left for the HOV lane. Also, he's on the phone.

As I slow to the exact speed limit, my mind naturally tries to make sense of the situation:

They have a loved one in the hospital and must get there before the afflicted one expires.

They're having a bad day and their anger is seeping into their gas pedal foot.

They're late for work, again.

None of the above reasons is worth a car crash, however, so if the lane is clear to my right, I move over and let them pass.

If it's not, and I am forced to stay put because there is also a car in front of me, I lightly tap the brakes to let them know that they're too close.

Sometimes this works and the jet pilot backs off, but other times they don't seem to get the clue.

Either they will zoom into the HOV lane and glare at me as they roar past, illegally, or they will just stick to my tail like Richard Petty on the last lap of a NASCAR race.

What can we do about this annoyance? Most of us have been in both seats on this issue.

I know I've annoyed cars in front of me when I've been late for an appointment, shouting through the windshield words that are not nice.

I know I'm doing it, and that it is patently silly, but I still do it.

If Mrs. Anthony is with me, she will say, 'What's the big hurry', or 'Not a good idea...you don't know if that guy has a gun.'

This is sad, of course, that we as a society have to fear each other this much.

A common occurrence on highways and autobahns in Europe when a driver wishes to pass is to flash one's lights.

At least, this way, the driver in front understands that the person behind them needs to get through in a hurry.

But here in the land of the unsynchronized traffic light, if someone flashes their headlights, you could get shot.

One way we might be able to mitigate the situation is to communicate better. We're all familiar with the hand signals that usually follow a rude encounter on the highway, but I think maybe a more subtle solution is to have an appropriate bumper sticker to nip the problem in the bud.

Here are some suggestions:

'Don't Rush Me--I'm Saving Gas Here!'
'If you are in that much of a hurry, you should have left earlier.'
'Do Not Tailgate--No Insurance.'
and the simple 'Thank You for Not Tailgating.'

I'm open to suggestion here, as long as it's not rude or dangerous.

Go ahead, make my day.

Scott Anthony can be reached care of kenr@robinsonnews.com

Family pet had great life

cmenges — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 18:31:34 +0000

For some years the image of losing him flashed across my mind. How would I handle his death. Would a hawk swoop down and grab him out of the yard. Would he fight a raccoon under the deck? Would the vet tell me his quality of life was so impaired that prolonging his pain was cruel?

Sure, he had arthritis in his hip. They get that in their teens (human years make it 90+). He had a failing kidney and there were some thyroid issues according to Dr. Driscoll. Her tender manner assured me Climber could be treated with meds and even improve but it would take time. He was almost 18. His teeth and gums were okay but needed some extra care. She gave me a toothbrush.

The medicine is tricky. Just the right dose is critical. Too little and he won't improve. Too much and we get other problems. His exams were good following the prescribed regimen.

"Clymo", a nickname for Climber because he was the only cat in the litter box to make it out into the waiting hands of my seven-year old that day in 1993. "Can we keep him dad", my son asked. My instincts said no but my heart and that little kid look he gave me said yes. We drove home with a family pet. The first and yet today, the only pet we've ever had .

Odd or even. With two sons it was difficult for them to decide who would get to cuddle with the kitty each night. They fought over the "dibs" and "first call" rights.

It usually ended in one child trying to strangle the other. Our oldest son was 10 or so and pretty good at math. He was also perceptive. He knew that his birthday landed on an even numbered date and that his younger brother's birthday was odd numbered. So it was. Each kid would get to have Climber in their room on the even or odd numbered nights.

What a concept. Except it did not work after about two months. There were sleep-over's and times away at a camp. Oldest son figured that it was unfair because younger brother would get the cat on the days he was gone. Those even numbered days. It would create an imbalance in sharing. He went further. He noted that the calendar has more odd numbered days than even except on Leap Year. The point being the first day of the year is odd as is the last day of the year. Add that to the four months with only 30 days and you've created a mathematical nightmare of record keeping.

Maybe it was common sense and maybe it was the cat himself. Once either kid was asleep Climber was free to roam around the house. After all, he was a cat and cats do much better at night.

I thought about the nine lives from time to time. Clymo was four months old. He went missing for a week. We did the usual things. Posted flyers with his picture on the neighborhood mail stands. Asked around and prayed he would show up. 10 nervous days later a neighbor noticed our flyer. It was a chance occurrence. He thought he saw some kids up around the block cuddling an orange tabby like it was new to them.

I visited the house and inquired about a new cat. "yes", they said they were surprised to find him in the woods two days previous. I politely explained it was our family pet and thanked them. They graciously handed Clymo to me, though I could tell they were disappointed not to be able to keep him.

My thought? How did a four month old cat survive in the woods for eight days? He had to fend off raccoons and other varmints. Not yet fully grown or wise to the ways of the wilderness, he somehow managed to make it through. We were delighted with his return.

At Christmas, as a gift we think, Clymo presented us with a crow on our porch. The bird was bigger than he was at six months of age. We would have asked him how he accomplished this but we did not speak "cat" at the time.

Early on I learned that Tom Cats can be difficult to manage. That neutering was an option to keep them home more. The advice was to neuter a cat at 8 months of age. Late enough in maturity and early enough to prevent Tom Catting.

It seemed to work. Clymo, already a pretty mellow kitty, remained that way throughout his life. His natural fear of dogs did not cross over to humans. Any person who visited was greeted by Clymo. He could be picked up and cuddled without a struggle. No claws, no hiss, no fleas, just a beautiful trusting feline.

The usual mice, shrews, small birds and assorted animal life appeared on our porch over the ensuing years. Clymo even cornered a Hedgehog. It may have been someone's pet. We did not know. We let it go in the woods.

More and more Clymo endeared himself to us. His nocturnal path through the house usually ended with some scratching at our bedroom door. Mostly to drink water from a small cup. He wasn't all that thirsty. It was just more his routine. A safety net of access for survival. Two minutes later he was drinking from another bowl in a different room.

He may have been the most quiet cat. Rarely did he meow until he began aging. At 17 he learned a new trick. No scratching at the bottom of the door. He began vocalizing he needs. A fairly consistent cry for action.

Otherwise he remained quiet and contented. Oh, he did shred a few newspapers from time to time. Maybe he was bored. We would find yesterday's news and once in awhile the kids' homework nicely chewed and shredded on the rug in the morning. The kids were delighted as it gave them a perfect excuse.

For years I would walk from my car to the mail box. Clymo followed as if there was something for him. He needed little coaxing to come with me. Often I would carry him on my shoulders, place him on the wood shakes that covered the mail boxes. He seemed to like that, digging his claws into the soft cedar. He would walk the 9 feet to the end of the row and allow me to pick him up for the shoulder ride back to the house, never once attempting to jump down.

We never measured but we think he was an indoor cat with outdoor privileges. We did have a cat box. The one in the garage was simply never used. At least not until he was close to 17. Like many other cats on our block , he used the garden beds, politely covering his business. He sprayed his territory each daily outing, noting when other cats had been present during his absence.

At 18 we noticed the change. Rather a friend noticed Clymo could use a medical check. A cat lover herself, she volunteered to have Clymo seen by a vet. I had been pretty good about annual checkups and shots but Clymo had never had a complete physical evaluation. We learned he had the kidney issue many older cats get. He needed a tooth extracted and maybe some breath freshener. That did not surprise me since he ate a lot fish; I just expected him to have bad breath.

We had Dr. Driscoll pull a tooth. He was good to go. He just needed those meds to keep his thyroid in check. At 19 yrs we had celebrated each year with delight over how he enriched our lives.

He was due for his annual exam in two weeks. He no longer jumped in our laps, often needed to be picked up to get to his night bed on the window sill. He never complained.

Other times he napped in our laps or on the rug. He struggled with his arthritis. He hips would dip down if you touched his tail. His back legs were a bit unsteady when he circled his nap zone. He did not run but moved okay once he got moving. Dr. Driscoll said he was almost 100 in human years and doing pretty good.

Each night we opened the front door when we came home. Clymo stood near the door. He'd recognize the purr of the engine as we pulled in. He was ready to go out. Looking out the window all day can be frustrating with so many chances to chase mice or minutiae, even if it was only in his mind by then.

Clymo's routine was the same. He wandered from car to car, lamp post to lamp post, inspecting, sniffing and sometimes spraying to assure the other cats he was still master of his domain.

Tuesday night was like any other night. Dry and cool though it had rained earlier in the day.

I came through the door, looking for him. I checked the garage and moved his food dish for easy access. I guess I figured he was downstairs, asleep by the fireplace. I didn't worry. That was common too.

A neighbor came to the door a bit later. He announced that he thought he's run over Clymo with his car. I simply did not believe him as I had not seen him go out. But it was true.

Like other cats, Clymo liked to hunker down under cars, sometimes for warmth but mostly, I think, for cover. He liked paper bags for the same reason.
I found him suffering on the street. Legs outstretched, trying to get up. He did not last long, maybe a minute at most. I petted him, told him I was sorry and watched him shudder and give up.

I was devastated and in shock. I picked him up and walked back to the house. I consoled the neighbor explaining it was not his fault and thanked him for coming to our door.

I surmised that Clymo had camped under his car for the previous reasons that he has camped under cars. He had probably done it a thousand times and escaped when the engine started. Only this time he simply could not move fast enough. He likely made it half way, getting clipped by the tires of the car as it rolled into the street.

My own grief came with the need to tell my two sons and my wife that the only pet they've ever known was gone at 19 yrs and 8 months.
There is no remedy to salve our wounds except time. He was old, we told ourselves. He might have needed euthanasia in a year or he might have wandered back into the woods as some animals do when they get sick.

We might have lost him years before to a car or truck or to some malady. We loved him. It will take time, we know. What we do now is use the time to recall fondly those moments when he showed us he loved us too.

Tim Robinson can be reached at timr@robinsonnews.com

Jerry's View: ‘We create displays that sell’

cmenges — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 20:31:53 +0000

Right after the big war, which I had won nearly single handed, I left Boeing in spite of their pleas and my promise to never drive my fork lift truck on the soft asphalt portion of the airport runway near the hangar.

And I was looking around for an occupation.

I had three little kids and had once worked after high school at a big department store helping a crew dress windows.

I figured I knew how to do that and printed up some business cards that read “Window Dresser: We Create Displays That Sell."

I handed them out when I walked door to door in downtown Renton, White Center, Des Moines and Burien. I did not go to West Seattle because I was driving a 1928 DeSoto with a leaking radiator and that was a long way from home in case I had to walk.

Wonder of wonders, one day I got a call. This man needed someone to glaze the big windows on the street level floor of Seattle's Smith Tower. He also asked me to cover some tables with crepe paper. He was going to sell some things, I guess.

I bought a roll of crepe paper, some thumb tacks and figured a clever way to frost the windows was to rub some canned beer on them and when it dried they would be opaque. Sounded reasonable to me.

So I did it. The place smelled like a Skid Row tavern but I figured it would smell okay by morning.

At nine ayem the phone rang. It was my customer. He was shouting. He accused me of having a wild party. The place stank of beer. I had ruined him financially and lots of luck and prepare for a lawsuit.

He was so angry I just put my pillow over my head and prepared for a visit from some police with big dogs.

I waited for three days. I considered leaping off a bridge and then the mailman came with an envelope. It was from my former customer.

Wallaah!, there was a check for $15. Wow! Wow! Wow!

There was also one of my business cards. He had changed some words. Now it read in capital letters--"WE CREATE DISPLAYS THAT SMELL."

Someone may get a boot out of this

cmenges — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 17:56:47 +0000

By Charley Ganong
HIGHLINE TIMES
(Editor’s Note: Jerry Robinson is taking a break. Charley Ganong provides a bit of family humor this week.)

It's not for lack of effort (or footwork.) Lord knows my bride, Linda, one of Elsbeth and Jerry's daughters, has dragged me through every shoe store around in search of the "Golden Calf"--that pair of boots that have the perfect look, feel and fit.

"Well, how about this pair?" I say, tentatively waving before her, hoping beyond hope, what look like suitable contenders for the princess' magic slippers.
"No, not those!” she says, hurriedly trying on and discarding what look like a perfectly good pair to me. "Those will never work." Don't you know anything?! Let's go!"

And off we march to the next store, a mountain of overturned shoeboxes, bewildered clerks and dashed dreams tottering in our frenzied wake.

Still, like a would-be prince looking for the foot that fits the glass slipper, I keep hoping that somehow, somewhere, she will find her dream boots.

It must be a powerful subconscious urge--fanned by the flames of crafty advertising--this desire of millions of modern-day women to sheath themselves in knee-high footwear.

Or else it's a bout of nostalgia from the sixties, which started it all, giving birth to the wildly popular Go-Go Boot, its masculine equivalent, the Beatle Boot, and, of course, the official theme song and marching tune of Bootville, “These Boots Are Made For Walkin',” by Nancy Sinatra.

In any event, I hope that BusyBee continues to graciously tolerate my ineptitude in trying to help her find her dream boots.

Someday we'll find a pair with just the right mix of buttons, zippers, shape, color, style, and, most importantly, pizzazz. And when she finally dons those magic boots; music will start to play, light will shine down from above, the waters will part, and she will step briskly and elegantly onto the sidewalk, dazzling and electrifying the streets of Burien--or wherever she chooses to wear her dream boots.

Just be sure not to get in her way--she might be headed for a shoe store near you.

Jerry's View: Evergreen High name change a question of tradition

cmenges — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 18:37:04 +0000

There was talk among some Highline School District staff and students at Evergreen High School last week about changing the designation from (EHS) to maybe an acronym like TEC, HS3 and AAA. That stands for Technology, Engineering & Communications High School (TEC), Health Sciences and Human Services High School (HS3), and Arts and Academics Academy (AAA).

Some students apparently do not agree with the idea of changing, even going as far as chanting "EHS, EHS" at a recent basketball game where the EHS logo had been covered up. The three separate entities of the "Evergreen Campus" were formed in the last few years as part of the district's focus on education through some help from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. The stir on campus is over tradition vs. ideological change.

Whether this happens or not I have some fond memories of Evergreen. Nearly all my kids went through the school. As the owner of the White Center News, I printed the school newspaper (Timberlines). I had to. A few of my kids were on the staff of that paper. Virginia Nerheim was the newspaper advisor. She ran a tight ship.

We were a busy family. There were games and concerts to attend. I made as many as I could and nearly always found a way to get to Highline Stadium to attend the football games. As a member of the working press I carried a card I did not have to show to the gate attendant, Mr. Fred Lapasin. Fred was my #4 son Patrick's elementary school teacher at Hazel Valley. Fred is a great guy (now 75). He would always recognize me as I approached the gate. His warm smile and friendly greeting made me feel honored to be there.

We cheered for the home team, bought some hotdogs and hot chocolate at halftime and generally stayed in the spirit of the season.

Oh, there was one occasion that is memorable for the angst we suffered. It was not exactly a homecoming loss, but close. Our car was broken into sometime during a game. Elsbeth lost her purse. I lost a beautiful Battenkill Fly Rod I had in the trunk. The police never caught the guy. I hope he used the money to buy fishing lessons.

Evergreen produced some great athletes and students during the years we were close to the school. Chuck Brigham, a former University of Washington star, was the track coach. It seemed that the Wolverines were always near the top of the league with their performance. Howard Dowdell set a state record in the 440 yd run in 1959.

John LeCompte was a star pitcher in baseball in those years. John Leslie wowed the crowd with his all around athleticism in three sports. Dick Sample and John Gambill were terrific basketball players. In 1965 Larry Almberg became a near world-class distance runner, competing against the likes of high schooler Jim Ryan (world record holder in the mile run in those days).

We mentioned in an earlier article how our current governor, Jay Inslee, attended and played basketball at Cascade Middle School. Jay left before he got to Evergreen where he would have played on the state title contender in 1968 with John Aumann, Jack Steadman, Wes Clingan, Rick Reed and Jay Hambly.

Maybe one of the finest football players in the state lived in little old White Center. The "Throwin Samoan," Jack Thompson, thrilled the crowds taking his team to the state playoffs two out of his three years as QB.

Our own family member, Charlie Ganong, was a lineman on Jack's team, later attending Harvard University. More recently Senio Kelemete made his mark with the U.W. Huskies and is now with the Arizona Cardinals in the NFL.

Most of those kids lived in or near White Center. They likely munched down on hamburgers at Lou's Drive-In, owned by Lou Dapas. Dapas came from a long-time White Center family.

The history of Evergreen athletes can be celebrated like some beautiful contestants for Miss Washington. Lynda Kilp and Diana Cindrich are two that come to mind. Lynda went on to win the state crown before she became a touring professional singer with former Evergreen alum Bobby Williams.

Since the fall of 1956 the Wolverines have truly made their mark on the community. Will the school with a new name be able to carry on that tradition? Will alumni attend homecoming games for the Technology, Engineering & Communications High School (TEC), Health Sciences and Human Services High School (HS3), and Arts and Academics Academy (AAA) Wolverines? It does not have the flair and simplicity of EVERGREEN.

Besides, how can they possibly get all those letters on the jerseys?

Pass the love to special ones with lots of appreciation

cmenges — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 18:38:53 +0000

Blazing life’s various love trails is an adventure to always be remembered. Love is among the most intangible, yet precious gifts we give or receive. The indescribable joy and sometimes miserable pain of love can be both breathtaking and heartbreaking.

Does love find us--or do we find love? Haven’t we all kissed a few frogs before finding the prince or princess of our life? Or maybe you’re still in love’s process of transition. If so, may Cupid soon appear with a perfect Valentine designed just for you. For some, love is just a memory.

Author and poet Robert Frost wrote, “Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.”

Parents who fondly, or not so fondly, recall their kid’s teen-age “love-crush” years can appreciate Author Jules Renard words, “Love is like an hourglass with the heart filling up -– as the brain empties.”

John Ciardi wrote, “Love is the word used to label the sexual excitement of the young, the habituation of the middle-aged and the mutual dependence of the old.”

Regardless of one’s age, sweethearts agree Valentine’s Day is a day not to be forgotten. It’s said, “Love grows best in a fertile field of humor.”

If you forget your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day, the laugh may well be on you and it will not be funny.

Gifts are tokens of love that inspire us. Partners for life relationships are built wisely on a foundation of love and not primarily material things. The only winner in a not well thought-out marriage is the divorce attorney’s bank account.

Oscar Wilde observed, “Men as a rule love with their eyes. Women love with their ears.”

My Valentine guy, Gordy Byers, to whom I gave my heart in marriage, made sure there was daily time for us to sit at the dining table in the evenings sharing ups and downs of that day. Often laughing at dumb things we’ve done in life, sometimes applauding wise decisions made, such as marrying each other.

Gordy and I met the first time, surprisingly, at Butler’s Gas Station that was located next to Des Moines Theater. Days later we unexpectedly saw each other at the then Four Winds restaurant, now Mandarin Kitchen.

He was great in conversation with a life history filled with interesting worldwide traveling. One year later in 1973, we married.

It didn’t take long to find I missed him lots when he was gone. A precious memory of our life together lives forever.

Our love was a Valentine’s story that sadly took Gordy away suddenly with a brain hemorrhage in 1990, five days before Christmas.

I’m no expert about love, although I am a graduate of enough life experience to say such love does exist and it’s a very happy place to be.

Have you noticed how behavior of pets in some ways is quite like human feelings when it comes to love and trust?

Animals love caring owners. Watch big horses nuzzle up to their caregivers, huge elephants swing their long trunk over the shoulder of an animal keeper or dogs and cats having fun at play. My little dog, Miss Katrina’s innocent love is clear when she runs to greet friends.

Gifts of candy, flowers, dinner out and special love greeting cards are the stronghold of Valentine’s Day in our century.

Still, it’s kind of thorny to celebrate good things about love when America’s loved ones are fighting a bitter war. If only there was a strong, healthy true love that could drown out blazing fires of hates and war. Everyday we live in America and other war-free countries is the perfect day to celebrate love.

It’s said: “Recognizing love is the compelling oasis for all human need and existence, the balance that makes everything worthwhile, the catapult that energizes desires to create a better world.”

Love is a precious gift to protect, preserve, treasure and watch it grow.

When we celebrate the ultimate decision of love and marriage, we also open the miracle of clear, loving, trusting little faces of our children and grandchildren. That is where the power of love will long live in Valentine hearts of tender care.

There is no finer, sincere, demonstration of treasured love than an unsolicited, spontaneous, hug from our children and grandchildren.

Yes, true love can be found. So on this special day, pass that love to your special people with hugs, kisses, chocolates, flowers, memories, dinner by candlelight and lots of appreciation!

And if you’re driving home without a Valentine remembrance, catch the next off-ramp pronto!

Isn’t LOVE Grand! Happy Valentine’s Day!

Today’s Thought: All people still smile in the same language. (Proverb)

The raw facts on feeding your pets uncooked food

cmenges — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 18:41:29 +0000

By Tram Le, DVM
Burien Veterinary Hospital
SPECIAL TO THE HIGHLINE TIMES

In recent years, feeding raw food diets to dogs and cats has become common practice.

Companies that make these diets claim the pros outweigh the cons of feeding raw. The main concern for feeding raw is infectious diseases for pets and owners.

If you want to feed raw food diets these are the facts you need to know to make sure you are not at high risk.

Home prepared, as well as commercially available products, have been evaluated for bacteria contamination. Salmonella spp was found in 80 percent of home-prepared diets containing chicken.

Other investigations found most commercial products to be contaminated with Escherichia coli and 6-20 percent contaminated with Salmonella spp. A highly drug-resistant strain of E. coli, Toxoplasma gondii and Cryptosporidium spp were also detected.

People living in the same household as the pet eating the raw diet are also at risk from the food itself, the mouth, and fecal shedding of these bacteria. Pets can be asymptomatic (no symptoms) shedders, but if either owners or pets are immunocomprised they are at even higher risk.

How to reduce the risks:
1. Raw meat should be purchased from reputable suppliers. Do not feed condemned meat or any meat unfit for human consumption.
2. Any raw meat should be kept frozen if not used immediately. Freezing meat does not kill bacteria, but stops growth until thawed.
3. Frozen meat should be thawed in the refrigerator, ideally in a sealed container on the bottom shelf.
4. Thawed meat should be used within 48 hours.
5. Prevent contamination of kitchen surfaces when handling raw meat.
6. Wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water after handling raw foods.
7. Uneaten raw meat should not be left in food bowls. Harmful bacteria can grow quickly in the meat at room temperature. Discard disposable containers. Wash and disinfect food bowls every time used.
8. Stainless steel food and water bowls are best for disinfection. Water bowls need to be cleaned and disinfected from oral contamination.
9. Restrict young children from food and water bowls.
10. Since a large amount of bacteria is shed in pets’ stools, be sure to pick up and clean areas of fecal deposits.
11. If your pet has diarrhea, consult your veterinarian. Diarrhea is not normal in animals fed raw meat.

On a risk scale of 1-10, with 10 being the highest risk, healthy adults and older children are about a 4, young children or immunocompromised persons 9 or higher.

Many people believe that raw food diet has its benefits, but know your risks. Wild dogs and cats do survive on raw, but their average lifespan is shorter. The domestic dog and cat is far removed from their wild cousins with potentially weaker immune systems and any physical traits that make them susceptible to problems.

Wild animals usually eat their prey right away and do not rely on butchers, grocery stores and refrigeration. People eat rare steaks, raw meat and fish, but we minimize our risk by buying high-grade items and not eating when our stomach feels a little off.

Humans at one point ate all raw until the discovery of fire. Since that discovery, we live longer and healthier lives and so do our pets. Many of our pets will thrive on raw diets, but be aware of potential risks.

Our goal is to help both us and our pets to have healthier lives.

Cities can never have enough Citizens of the Year

cmenges — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 02:05:21 +0000

Right on the heels of Hollywood’s Golden Globes and Oscars came Burien’s awards season.

Discover Burien and the city of Burien used to jointly give out annual awards but now they present dueling honors.

The Highline Times presents its own “Robby Award.” The 7th annual award this year went to Sterling Bank Burien branch manager Lynda Isernio for her outstanding professionalism and community service.

That’s OK. You can never have too many citizens of the year. Volunteers are the lifeblood of a community.

My mom did lots of community service in her time. She often volunteered to find volunteers.

Listening in on her phone conversations as a kid, I learned the fine art of volunteer procurement.

I discovered that in fishing for volunteers, the most important thing is “the ask.” But it can’t come right away:
‘How’s Bob?
“Oh, I’m sorry.
“And how’s little Bobby?
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Eric finally outgrew it.”

After about 15 minutes of this softening up, Mom moved in for the kill.

Burien’s Lance and Laurie Haslund persuaded Marge and me to volunteer for Burien Arts at last Saturday’s Highline Classic Jazz Festival. Lanceandlaurie, as they are called, have discovered Marge apparently has a knack for selling raffle tickets.

Municipal staffers have figured out that volunteers can save a city time and money.

For instance, Maureen Hoffmann. Maureen had a terrific idea. Wouldn’t it be great if residents got together once month on a Sunday to walk around Burien? It would it be wonderful exercise and a way to enjoy new neighborhoods. Also it would get people together to chat and they might even stop for coffee at a Burien business on a slow Sunday afternoon.

Normally, an idea like this would go to the city and be routed to the parks department. They would need to study it, see if it fits their mission and find funds in the budget. They’d have to run it past the Parks Commission, the City Manager and maybe the City Council. And, of course, they would have to staff it on a weekend. And what about the city’s liability issues?

Instead, Maureen just sends out a notice once a month with a map that usually printed in the local media and people gather to for a Walk n’ Talk.

Michael Noakes’ database of Burien marine shoreline properties also could save the city a lot on consulting fees. He also appears to have an almost encyclopedic memory of each Puget Sound property between Shorewood and Three Tree Point.

Noakes was just named as the city of Burien’s co-citizen of the year.

He was recognized for his prodigious work helping to forge a compromise between the city and the state Department of Ecology on Burien’s Shoreline Master Plan update. Noakes first started working on the proposed plan as chair of the Burien Marine Property Owners Association.

When DOE staffers rejected Burien’s 20-foot setback requirement for Puget Sound homeowners as too lenient, instead of threatening to lawyer up, Noakes and other ad hoc committee members found a compromise. It acknowledges that not all marine properties are alike. The deal has not been formally accepted but chances of a deal look good.

Burien’s other top citizen is Diana DiFiore, who has served on the arts commission since 2007. DiFiore hosted artist Augustina Droze last summer for the painting of the colorful mural across from the library/city hall.

On some days, Droze, DiFiore and other volunteers spent 14 hours creating the mural.

Discover Burien also gave out yearly awards. Highline High student body president Sierra Flanagan was named student leader, Denise Ferguson was named Discover Burien volunteer and Alestaire Echavia received Team Clean Sweep recognition.

Navos CEO David Johnson accepted the non-profit of the year award on behalf of his organization. That comes right after Johnson’s national “Visionary Leader” award.

Named business leader of the year was Scott Schaefer, who runs a local media company and blog. Having run into him around town while covering events I know he works really hard and genuinely deserves the award.

He’s had his blog for a few years now. In 2012, Burien commissioned a scientific survey of residents and asked them where they get their local news. All blogs, including our highlinetimes.com, the Burien Daily and Schaefer’s blog, came in number seven as a news source named by 10 percent. Overwhelmingly number one at 31 percent was the local paper/Highline Times.

So, as we’ve been doing for more than 60 years, we will continue to be your prime source for local news and to spotlight the volunteers who do so much for our community.