A Pitcher of Bud and a Bucket of Peanuts

August is a beautiful time of year in Seattle.  Judy and I just spent a weeklong “staycation” in town, mostly in our home neighborhood of Ballard. 

One evening last week we were wandering down Ballard Avenue reminiscing about the days when we first moved here back in 1980.  We were in our 20s then.  I remember Judy saying that Ballard could be really cool if it wasn’t for all the old people. 

The old people jokes about Ballard were unending. From the chronically slow drivers with their seatbelts dragging out their doors, to Sven and Ole (Ballard has a Norwegian heritage).  A local comic we went to see, though, noted that the old people did NOT live in Ballard; the old people lived in Magnolia.  Then with perfect comedic timing added: "their parents live in Ballard!"

Now, in August 2014, Ballard is the coolest place in Seattle…unfortunately, we’re the old people.  

Despite that, we dropped into the very hip Sexton, which is actually pretty raw (at least compared to the increasingly chiqué Ballard scene) and the place sent me reeling down memory lane. 

On a hot August afternoon in 1980, after three months of working odd construction jobs while looking for a “real” job, I finally landed a part time copywriter / photographer gig in the PR department of a big downtown retailer headquartered on Sixth and Pike.

At the time, we were living in a funky little apartment in Freemont—a far cry from our big old log roadhouse in Gallatin Canyon, Montana.  Judy was working at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center on Pill Hill and I took her to and from work every day in our old Willys pickup.  So we're in the truck headed home--all dolled up in our best business attire--when we spot a banner over the Fremont Tavern proclaiming “Free Peanuts and Dollar Pitchers—It’s Jimmy Carter’s Birthday!”

We pulled a Montana turnabout in the middle of Fremont Avenue, parked the Jeep right in front amidst a bunch of motorcycles, and strode on in.   Judy spotted the only open table, but it still had a half dozen long-neck Budweiser empties on it surrounded by a mound of spent peanut shells.  There was a big guy in the back playing pinball and I was about to ask him if the table was his.  But before I could,  he stopped his game, came up to us, and said, “here, let me clear that for ya.”  With one sweep of his arm he indeed cleared the table . . . onto the floor with a crash.  The tough old bar bottles didn’t break on the peanut-shell cushioned floor, but they did make quite a racket.  No one seemed to notice, though, and I thought, "hey, this is my kind of place."  I wasn't sure what to expect next, when the guy says, “What can I get ya?”  Without missing a beat, Judy says, “A pitcher of Bud and a bucket of peanuts.” 

That was that--no drama.  We drank our pitcher, ate our peanuts, discussed our future and have never looked back.  What a great life we have . . . and it seems to only be getting better.

The Sexton turned out to be somewhat more tame than the old Freemont Tavern.  But I couldn't resist ordering some locally distilled whiskey called Come At Me.  After a couple of those, it felt just like Montana. 

Techno Amish

It's been so long since I've written a "Gleaning" I've not only forgotten how to post, but it took me a good half hour to figure how to even get here.   Like many of us paper-era dinosaurs, I’m somewhat technically challenged. 

This morning I was telling a fellow dinaosaur about my formative years in Utah and how the social fabric of the region demands that you are either Mormon or anti-Mormon. I said there was no middle ground for a misfit like me, and that's how I ended up in techno Seattle.  He said he was “Technophobic” and that triggered a more recent story inspired by a woman I work closely with in Montreal:

When she and I first met several years ago, she was quick to diminish her computer skills, saying she was "TechnoAmish."  I love that term and have to give credit where credit is due.  Anyway, shortly after that conversation, I was having some stone work done at our home and a contractor dropped by to give us an estimate. As he was leaving, I asked him for a couple of references. He pulled a stub of a pencil from behind his ear and began patting his pockets for something to write on. I said, “Don’t worry about it now; just shoot me an e-mail.” He said he didn’t use e-mail, providing me with what I thought was a perfect opening: “Oh, you’re TechnoAmish,” I joked. After a pause, he replied without humor, “I was raised Mennonite.” I never did hear back from him—apparently another case of "no middle ground."

He Went to Paris Lookin' for Answers...

Off to France tomorrow for the Paris Air Show. I haven't written any Gleanings since I sold my truck. I tended to relate the Geezerness to the Willys. But it was brought to my attention recently that I'm the Geezer not the truck, so I guess I'll have to dig up more stories. Stay tuned...

I Found a Good New Home for my Willys

Bittersweet comes to mind. It was really hard to see the old guy drive away but I think the couple who bought it will take good care of him. In response to my very occasional low key add on Craig's list I got an e-mail from a young helicopter pilot stationed in Iraq. We corresponded and when he got home he brought his fiance by to look at it. Despite not running in over a year, the old Willys started eagerly and we took it around the block. And that was pretty much it. They've been busy making the truck road worthy again and seem to be enjoying it. They sent me this picture:

Greener Pastures

The Willys saved our bacon more than once during three of the coldest winters on the Montana record books. With the help of external oil and coolant heaters, the old guy always fired up when few others would. I remember some pretty rough rides into Bozeman on frozen "square" tires.

The winter of 1979/1980 proved too much for us--the truck was about the only thing we had that worked. In the spring we packed our earthly belongings into our brokedown Saab, hitched it to the Willys and headed for greener pastures in Seattle. Lookout Pass was the first big challenge, but rolling into Seattle at rush hour trailing 3,000 pounds of stuff in a rain squall with vacuum wipers was no party.

Until we could get the Saab fixed, the Willys was our daily driver. Once we got on our feet, the old guy once again proved invaluable to our numerous home remodeling projects over the years. Fifteen years ago we even built a garage for the old guy. For the last decade, however, that's pretty much where it just sits. As I recollect all the adventures my old Jeep has provided in the last nearly 35 years, I'm amazed that it all took place in just a little over 20,000 miles--when I bought it the odometer showed just over 39,000 miles, backed up by all of the oil change stickers pasted on the door jamb; the current reading is 57,359. It still fires right up and purrs like the proverbial kitten, but it's in need of some tender loving care that I just can't provide. So I'm currently searching for a good home for the old guy.

Adventures in Canyonlands

Sometime between the Mineral Fork incident and heading for Montana in the Willys, I managed to wreck the tranmission rocking my way out of a snow bank--an unsuccessful attempt to get over Guardsman Pass to Park City in the middle of January. I sold the Meyer plow to cover the expense of a brand new tranny and had enough left over to add a new Warn overdrive. The overdrive enabled true highway speeds from the 488 gear set and extended my reach for adventure. I made several trips to southern Utah's red rock canyon country. The first trip included the Flint Trail into the Maze and the Doll House. Other trips took us through Bobby's Hole and up Elephant Hill. This was back before there was any traffic, much less traffic control, so you could still go up Elephant Hill from the east as long as you were willing to back down if you met someone coming down. (One of these days I'll get around to posting the half-hour-long, 8mm epic "Adventures in Canyonlands"--stay tuned...as if anyone is reading this.)

Welcome to Montana

Judy and I were married in November 1977, and moved to our new place in Gallatin Canyon, Montana a month later. Our first Christmas was pretty raw. Judy got frost bite in a toe while we were out killing our first Christmas tree—an act that turned into a family tradition—the tree killing, not the frostbite. We barely had two nickels to rub together, having put everything we had into the down payment on the Gallatin property (this, of course, was back when you actually had to put real money down).

Following the frostbite thing, I decided a great Christmas gift for Judy would be a custom-made pair of gators to keep the snow out of her boots—what a romantic. The guy in Bozeman who made them promised to have them for me on Christmas Eve, but when I got to town to pick them up, his shop was closed, along with everything else in town. I handmade Judy a lame card that was no substitute for a gift.

Judy and I decorated the tree with paper chains and popcorn, and succeeded in burning half the popcorn and ruining one of our nice wedding present Revere Ware pots in the process. Needless to say, Christmas morning was a bit of a downer, especially for Judy—away from her folks for the first time in her life. I was determined to cheer her up and devised a plan to make this a day to remember.

As evening fell, the Big Sky was beginning to turn pink, and I predicted a fabulous sunset—if we could only get to a vantage point to see it. A Jeep ride up to the Spanish Peak overlook behind our place would be perfect. We bundled up and set off up Hell Roaring Creek Trail. About a mile into the trip, our way was blocked by a snow drift about 20 feet across. Judy was skeptical but I had pushed my way through plenty of snow drifts before. I got up a little momentum and we managed to churn our way about three quarters of the way through before bogging down. I shoved it in reverse and churned my way back out. I figured that on a second pass, I could easily punch through the last five or so feet now that I had “plowed” a track through most of the drift. But as I backed out of the drift I found I had no brakes. (It turned out that with all the churning snow, I had torn the brake line off of the brake master cylinder.) Having lost my brakes on a previous occasion (see Mineral Fork), I knew that turning the key off worked just as well as brakes when you’re in low range. So, with the sunset still beckoning, I insisted on pressing onward. On the second try, we successfully plowed through the drift and continued on our way—the sunset was going to be just what Judy needed!

The final run to the overlook was quite spectacular. The road climbed the ridge back for about a half mile, with Gallatin Canyon and the fiery, sunset-lit Storm Castle looming to our left, and through the trees to our right was Hell Roaring Canyon. Our final destination was the staging area for a horseback trail that stabbed back into the Spanish Peak Wilderness area. From the trailhead we would be able to look straight up Hell Roaring Canyon to watch the sun set over Spanish Peak, the highest point in the Gallatin Range.

Just below the trailhead, the road made a fairly steep 90 degree right turn. I was already visualizing a romantic panorama when I became aware that under a light dusting of new snow, the road had turned to shear ice. Earlier in the season, debris had plugged a little stream and diverted it down the road. Since it hadn’t been above 20 degrees for the last month, the road was frozen solid for a good fifty foot stretch. Despite my best efforts, I could not maintain forward progress. After about 40 feet I lost traction completely and began sliding back down the road. Unfortunately, the ice flow didn’t make the 90 degree turn at the bottom of the slope. Instead, it proceeded over a lodge pole pine-covered 100-foot embankment.

By turning the key on/and off without depressing the clutch while keeping it in first gear, I was able to maintain a semblance of control and slow our descent. I had a patch of dry ground in my sites, but poor Judy was coming unglued. She frantically yanked on the passenger door handle trying to get out of the truck. Fortunately (and I say fortunately because she was probably safer in the cab than trying to jump from a moving vehicle) the inside passenger handle didn’t work. I’m sure Judy thought she was in the middle of a nightmare; certainly not the romantic dream I had intended.

After some very tense maneuvering, I hit the dry patch with the left rear wheel, flipped the key off and we jerked to a stop. The only thing Judy wanted for Christmas now was OUT OF THE JEEP! I intended to jump out and open the passenger door for her, but when I went to step out of the cab on my side, I was so close to the embankment there was nothing but air beneath me. I scrambled over the side-mounted spare tire, onto the rear fender and across the bed in order to get to Judy. We spent a few minutes calming our nerves, but the sun was now down and it was getting even colder. Soon we both set to work lugging big rocks to put behind the rear wheels so we couldn’t slip back any further. I climbed back into the driver’s seat and carefully moved diagonally forward a foot at a time while Judy shoved rocks behind the rear wheels on the embankment side. A half hour of this repositioning and we were headed for home.

Needless to say, we missed the sunset, but the day certainly was memorable.