For my friends and me, the curious age of being too young to have a driver license and too short of coin to buy a car meant life was limited to Madison Park and points along the No. 11 bus route.
Daytime activities were few, but in the evenings (with TV being brand new in our area), we caught the only shows on at that time. "Crusader Rabbit" was a 15-minute cartoon, followed by "Boston Blackie," about a detective sleuth who hung around a tobacco stand. There were occasional plugs for a tobacco product as well. "What's My Line" aired next.
While enduring this over-the-top evening of excitement, a horn honked outside. We peered through the blinds and saw our friend Dick driving a car! Wheels! We were busting out of Madison Park!
THE BIG GETAWAY
The 1949 Chevy two-door was the family car that had been locked in their garage. His dad usually went to bed at 9, so Dick was able to slip outside, unscrew the lock's hasp, coast the car down the alley and quietly start it.
My mother worked some Friday nights and had social engagements on other nights so, in a way, I had permission to do most anything that didn't get me in trouble. None of us ever had a "sitter" so we learned about life on our own.
Singing along with the radio or whenever the mood struck was the thing then. We piled into the car and, as we turned into the arboretum, sang along to Les Paul and Mary Ford's "How High the Moon." This thrilling beginning opened up several options for the rest of the evening: The Ridgemont roller-skating rink, the Civic Arena for ice skating, the Aurora Speedway for modified stock-car racing or Playland were all possibilities.
Pooling our allowance and paper-route money - at 25 cents a ride or $2 for 10 rides in a book of tickets - we focused on having our fill of fun at Playland, located about three blocks off Highway 99 around 90th Street.
The freak shows, the cotton candy and the rides ate up our funds in little time. We had just enough left to bring the fuel gauge back to its original mark.
DARING FEATS
With the windows rolled down, we sang along to Frankie Lane's "Rose, Rose, I Love You" and drove south on Elliott Avenue on the waterfront, toward a new restaurant called Ivar's.
We shared a quart of clam chowder, to which we added Tabasco, garlic juice, cider vinegar and pepper.
We parked right in front and talked with Bob, who had been a barker at Ivar's since day one until he retired in 1992. Watching us consume the thick, chunky bisque so heartily, he seemed to enjoy giving us another scoop.
Devouring the last few bites, we scanned across Elliott at a long freight train heading south. We all agreed this warranted a dare, so we walked across the street and started running alongside and finally climbed aboard the slow-moving train. It was more difficult than what actors did in the movies.
We hung on tight and waved to each other just cars apart. Around Sears, on First Avenue, the sluggish train was beginning to pick up speed.
The ever-increasing clanking noises were making us nervous so we leapt off and landed on our feet in a forward motion 5 mph faster than our legs could carry us and tumbled into the gravel. We just laid there laughing, amazed at our feat (and feet).
A few tracks east of there we caught a ride on some flatbed cars going north. The artful maneuver of jumping and standing upright did not pan out like in the movies, either.
Some guy with a flashlight came toward us from the caboose so we de-trained and walked innocently to our car.
PIE HEAVEN
Next, it was off to see our favorite disc jockey, Bill Apple. He spun the vinyl and read dedications from his KRSC studio (which later became KAYO, the first country-western station) on Fourth Avenue.
Bill lived in Madrona, and we had previously met him at the Madison Park Bakery so he recognized us and invited us in to read some of the dedications.
With an already-excellent evening behind us, we headed up 14th Avenue to just this side of Pike Street, where the wafting aroma of fresh-baked pies affected us like bears to honey.
We parked near the bakery and made our way in the darkness to an area where the racks of berry pies fresh-out-of-the-oven cooled.
No one was in sight by any cash register, so this presented us with a couple of options. Perhaps leaving a note would suffice.
The only option was to pull our shirtsleeves down over our hands, grab a hot berry pie and nonchalantly return to the car.
Ever try to share a berry pie with three friends with only a pocketknife? In a word: messy. But we cared not as the heavenly treat was beyond scrumptious.
Finally wheeling into Madison Park, we returned the family car to the garage, helped push it into place, replaced the lock and said our goodbyes.
KIDS WILL BE KIDS
Some weeks after that, Dick came over with a bruised eye and a fat lip. His dad had caught him, but while he was being worked over, all he could think about was what a perfect evening we'd had.
Dick and I had a couple of fights, usually over girls, but it was just a thing between friends, never throwing any combinations and always shaking hands afterwards.
Laughing over all the stuff we went through, we cherish the memories and realize we actually turned out to be pretty good specimens.
I certainly don't condone what we did back then, but as they say, "Kids will be kids."
Richard Carl Lehman, a longtime Madison Park resident, can be reached at mptimes@nwlink.com.
