Mr. Sensitivity, the Early Years

Without a lot of explanation as to what brings about these self-reflective and "converstions with" thoughts it's clear to me now that my approach to trouble is pretty clinical. Figure it out; be useful; leave that touch-freely crap to the girls.

It knew me early. Mrs. Crotts lived in what is now the Robbins place and when I was 5 or 6 I used to visit over there, scurrying through the hedge almost daily. My mother worked at Longacres Cafe in Renton in those late 40's days so Mrs. Crotts also babysat us at our house from time to time. Mrs. Crotts had three sons: Boo, Kenny (who was my uncle, married to my dad's sister Ruby) and a soldier son who had been killed in WWII. One day, after I and some friends had been enthusiastically conducting mock battles as US Marines, complete with Army surplus canteens and helmets I visited Mrs. Crotts and noticed and asked about the portrait of the uniformed fellow on a shelf above her dining room table.

Who was he ? Her son. Where was he? He died in the war. Was he shot? Yes. WHERE was he shot? Oh, in the heart, I suppose.

My mother was appalled when she heard about this "conversation with Mikey", the early Mr. Sensitivity.

Talk is Cheap

Stuff my father used to say:

- "If you've got 'em, bet 'em; if you don't, bluff."

- "You get busy and find that hammer (pliers, screwdriver, whatever)."

- "Well, I'm gonna have to call you a liar, then."

- "Eat your mush first; THEN you can have some bacon and eggs."

- "No use going out 'til you can see; can't see 'em, can't shoot 'em" (this was probably so for the kind of hunting he did, but not for most of that I've been exposed to since).

- "Shoot them between the eyes or in the neck!"

- "Stop that WHINING!"

- "You're good when you can do the job with bad tools."

- "A little shock never hurt anyone."

- "You go find your switch."

Things Jim and Tiny used to say:

"Ow, Ow, Owwww!

Age Crimination

When you're 67, 3 or 4 years difference in age between friends and relatives is a yawn, but when you're 6 or 7 it's a yawning class gulf. Caste lines are obvious and sometimes rigid when you're a kid. My social environment was like that and consisted of same age peers, mostly schoolmates; slightly elder mentors; younger mentorees and "the big kids." You might want to read "The Body", aka "Stand By Me", to get Stephen King's take on "big kids." This is part of mine.

The most relevant big kids in my life were my older brothers, Jim and Tiny. In many ways we lived completely separate lives both at home and out in the world. Some of the older fellows all over Kennydale, for whatever reason, seemed to devolve into a rougher crowd in the mid-fifties, the era that invented "juvenile delinquency", and Jim, Tiny, Jack Rogers, Paul Stark, Dick Madsen and others around here were caught up in that. Several of them even became semi-career criminals with multiple stays in various institutions. Our local guys were getting busted for shoplifting, car theft, bank robbery, various scams (including one having to do with ripping off paper route customers) and burglary. No murder, though. As far as you know. There was a boatload of criminal activity. It almost seemed like someone was getting caught for something new every week. Though most of them grew out of this errant behavior as they grew older, some didn't live long enough;others suffered opportunity lost in their lives.

My reaction to this state of affairs was very like the epiphany I had re smoking. It just seemed stupid and was causing a lot of grief and I decided I wasn't gonna do any of that. Pretty much became a goody two shoes, if you can imagine. No. I know you can't . Forget I said that.

Playing in Traffic Planning

Reading in the paper this morning about various coming "improvements" to I-405 (looks like some of them will be in place to show Lloyd new jams next time he visits) it occurred to me that the big highway back there has always been a concern and a routine topic for local conversations. Initially, as soon as it was a confirmed project in the early 50's, folks in the neighborhood wondered where it was going to go; whether they would have to move or not; what it would do to property values; etc. One alternative route pretty much followed 104th Ave. SE, now Park Ave. No. Mostly we just talked and worried about it. Once, however, we decided to DO something.

In those days 104th was a gravel road with all that goes with that - flying rocks; mud and puddles in the winter and dust in summer. We felt we had to pour used motor oil out front to control the dust and enrich Lake Washington. The County grader came through a couple times a year as our road maintenance and there was talk of much desired paving, but until the new highway alignment was set planners understandably didn't want to spend for current 104th improvements. They conducted some studies , though. One of them involved a rubber traffic counting hose across the street in front of the Nimtz place. We kids were in the garage there when the study crew set up the apparatus. Mr. Nimtz was working there , too, and having a beer. Or two. After the technicians left we kids went out and started jumping on the hose. We couldn't tell and didn't care if we were "counting" or not. We were just messing around. After awhile, apparently on the theory that more data was good data and a strong step in the direction of getting our street paved, Mr. Nimtz came out and gave us ball peen hammers. So, one kid on each side of the road, under Oan's dad's encouraging watchfulness, we enhanced the data collection process for traffic planners. You could say we "beat 'em daddy; four beats to the car!"

And that's how I, after putting Kennydale on the map with Clint Eastwood, collaborated with King county to get our street paved.

B...B...but I didn't mean to!

I've been communicating with a "retention specialist" at Nationwide, our homeowners and auto insurer, to review our policies and see if we need to revise anything. In their marketing materials describing liability coverage they specifically use the example of a child or guest breaking a neighbor's window as being covered. Takes me back.

When we were kids BB guns were a big deal and we had a lot of fun with them, target shooting and even playing William Tell type games (shooting tin cans off one another's legs or arms). Local birds and mothers weren't as enthralled ("you could put someones's eyes out!"). For several years I wasn't allowed to have one and had to rely on Oan and other slightly older kids for my BB fixes.

When I was about 11, my Snoqualamie cousins, Benny and Gary Duvall (also slightly older) got an upgrade of their airgun arsenal to a Daisy lever action, so at the end of a family hunting trip to Teanaway they gave me their outmoded pump type. My mother reluctantly, with lots of warnings and cautions, unfortunately allowed me to keep the thing. Alas, the VERY FIRST day of being a gun totin' dude became probably the worst in my life to that point and is still a Hall of Famer.

Home alone while the folks were at work, I invited Jimmy Spencer up to try out my new weapon. From the upstairs bedroom by the fireplace we decided to see if we could hit a bird in the pear tree next door (Swan Vue now). We missed, but that didn't mean we couldn't do serious damage anyway. After a couple of shots at the bird we noticed Mrs. Held way across in the house at the southeast corner of Park AVe. No. and 38th No. - you, know, the one with the huge picture window? - come out into her yard and start looking around. Well, who woulda thought the thing could send a BB that far and still have enough steam to put a hole in what must have been their cheap flimsy window? Two holes, actually.

The wait for Pa to come home to tell on myself was worse than the telling. It cost the astronomical sum of $45 to replace the window. Really a lot, then. Shortly after Pa and Mr. Spencer worked something out with the Helds (they tried to keep the holed glass to cut for other uses, but broke it in the process) he upgraded the homeowners policy to cover such things. Thus, I'm happy now to relate that the NEXT time, a couple years later, some buddies and I accidentally smashed a huge window in a slightly less stupid manner (my part was just "being a McNeely") he actually came out ahead by taking full responsibilty, making an insurance claim and collecting a few bucks from my collaborators' parents.

I guess I should relate this true story to the Nationwide "retention specialist". It seems like they ought to know what they're getting into.

Basebawling

Today, returning from a morning jaunt at Newcastle Park with Ranger, I noticed a flyer on the pole by Connor's Bar B Homes. City of Renton Recreation Dept. is advertising for participants in a softball league. "Hmmm...", I thought. "Hey! They have a senior's league. But am I (heh, heh) old enough? Oh, yeah. Should I hurry and enlist? Let's see"

We played a lot of ball in Kennydale from my grade school years all the way through Jr. High. "Softball" wasn't in our vocabulary but "hardball" was; that was the organized game operated by the Little League. Some local neighborhood stars did go on to LL and, later, Renton High School teams but I never did. Even though I was a fair to middling player I chose to do fishing and paper routing for after school and weekend activity. Whatever we chose later, though, on the block almost everyone got involved in what we called "baseball" and today would probably be known as pick-up softball.

We played two places: the Budd's (aka Chapman's) vacant lot at the northeast corner of 36th No. and Park Ave. No. - this property is still vacant, overseen now by the huge ivy-covered original old growth timber stump; and our back field, across Meadow Ave. No. from the Rogers and Vergello properties. Both places had their challenges with rough terrain (also, cow pies at our place), foul ball trajectories, no backstops and acute (or obstuse) base line angles, but we were able to overcome those with little hassle. What brought our games to an end was our own growth. The fields became too small to contain our Jr. High strengths. Everyone started hitting homeruns onto adjacent properties every time up.

Our get togethers were co-ed and spontaneous with a constant revolving cast of characters fitting the game into their familial and chore schedule as best they could. Often, a game was on all day with different characters or the same ones twice or thrice at in am and pm time slots. Equipment was varied. Some of us had real mitts and a good bat or two; others, nothing. We friction taped a lot of balls to keep them intact.
Rules were always evolving and we played pretty rough. A couple of times there were broken bones and barbwire cuts. Hey, it was all for fun and learning social skills, right?

So, I'm thinking about all this and considering whether to rush right down and sign up for a senior softball team. "They probably have regulation fields, effective fences, real baselines with infield dirt, excellent equipment, and (gulp!) umpires", I say to myself. "Probably limited opportunity for 'just being a McNeely' in that kind of environment!" That's the 'decider' right there, alright. I'll pass this time and wish them well.

Pretty Purple Legs

Things my mother used to say:

"You get home from school; you get a pan of potatoes peeled and started."

"I have to do lots of things I don't want to, too."

"Everybody's got problems."

"Ohhh... look at my pretty purple legs!"

"It's not cornbread; it's Johnnycake."

"....'s just being a McNeely."

" You just get out there right now and....!"