Raindrop Memories
Memories are like a cloud of thoughts that fall gently from the mind. Sometimes the drops are large and clear, other times there is just the smallest drip that you can add a little imagination to. I’m not saying they are all made up or created as a new thing, but maybe expressed as a drop falling into the bucket of life. Each drop affecting the others to make a total vision of this thing we call life. These short stories are a amalgam of those drips meshed together, and put down in an inadequate, but sincere, attempt at sharing what has formed me to this day, realizing that no one gets out alive, having to only put that in the Lord’s hands, thru the Grace of God.
The memories will hop around in time, but will be centered in the Seattle Washington area because I have lived here all my 60 some years.
Martha Lake Fire
It was around 1957 and I was about 12 years old. Mom and Dad had purchased a two acre lot, not on Martha Lake but just across the street, with the plan to build a house there, will were still living on 57th street in Ballard and it was time for the Kennedy’s to upgrade. We were outgrowing the house, Jim and I were sharing a bedroom, and he was way too cool to be doing that.. At 17 he was playing on the Ballard High School football team and basking in the glory of the popularity of his classmates.
Martha Lake in those days was way out of town. We live now not too far from there and, of course, it’s urbanized these days.
Dad decided that he, Jim, and I were going to go to the lot and clean up the bushes and small trees in preparation for building a home there.
It was the weekend and a hotter than usual day as we piled into the Ford station wagon and drove the 20 miles or so, north to Martha Lake. We went past one of my favorite places, Playland, on the way and I eyed the rollercoaster with true hopes that the car might run out of gas so we would stop just in time for the park to open. Continuing on up hwy 99 we turned right at a small gas station (Mobil if I remember: the flying horse was their graphic in those days.) I don’t believe we ever stopped for gas there, but the old building sat there for years on unoccupied for many years.
The road wound around for a mile or two until you hit the perimeter road. Heading north where a gravel road dead-ended, we were there. During the winter months, the drainage ditch that passed in front of the lot was occupied by some run off, but this day it was dry as a bone. There was however a small creek that ran just 100 or so feet, farther on where the road didn’t go. Apparently there was some flow. I never did see it, but believed my brother was not on drugs at the time so it must be true.
The gathering of branches began and other flora was pulled out of the ground to clear at least some of the land. A rather large pile of highly flammable materials was ready for-for NO not that-
to be burned. !!
It was the tradition of the head of household (Dad) to precede each fire ritual with the ceremonial sprinkling of the materials with a accelerant that would greatly enhance the speed at which the said material would be consumed and become something other than what it was.
Time to add a liberal dose of gasoline : Oh No !!
As the flames grew and then grew, an area of consumption of combustible materials also increased in proportion to the need of the fire for more, more of anything. Flames leaped from one thing to another, soon beyond 5-10-15 feet. Dad: “Quick we need some water- take anything, get some water and put the fire out ! “ Unfortunately words will not do the job. Dad yells “Run to the stream and get water quick !”
By this time, my natural ability as a fire fighter proved to be false. Somewhere in my mind though it occurred to me that what was needed was professional help.
So as fast as I could, I ran to a house on the lake and knocked vigorously on the door almost unable to contain the panic welling up inside me. :”Can you call the fire department there’s a fire across the street. !!”
I will never forget the look on the elderly ladie’s face. It was as if an alien had landed on her porch and was asking for a cookie and milk. Eventually she grasped the meaning of the words and called the fire department.
The fire department in those days was volunteer, so it took them some time to arrive. They did manage to put the fire out after a good effort to quench the flames, and we left the seen with the words of the fire chief still ringing in Dad’s ears.
No, that was not the whole story. A few hours later, we received a phone call from the fire district telling us the fire had started up again and their dissatisfaction with the development.
I can only assume there was some kind of fine/penalty for unauthorized burning that was designed to discourage such activity in the future. Although I never had that information shared with me, perhaps there were good reasons.
Later, I would learn it’s best not to dwell on the mistakes you make, but learn from them, and chalk it up to experience to build character and learn not to play with fire.
