The year was 1965. It was the end of
June, the very beginning of the most cherished part of the year, summer break.
We had until the beginning of September to make the most of it.
Until he got a little older, and didn’t want to hang with his sister anymore, most of the time it was me, 15, and brother, 12, who buddied up and went out into our world of woods, streams, lakes, and dirt roads together. We rode very mundane bikes. Nothing special about them.
Next youngest sister didn’t want to go, and the littlest was too young, and besides, she never learned to ride a bike.
Many times our destination was Martha Lake, on a spur of dirt road off of 164th. Back then, there weren’t any houses ringing the lake like there are now. It was remote. To get there we rode to the end of our street, made the hard right onto 4th, and then to Cypress Way, finally making our way to the Old North Rd. It was about five miles.
At the end, the Old North Road butted into 164th and we were nearly there. We just had to go a bit to the west. These are real places, real street names. I remember them well.
Martha Lake had a muddy bottom, and lots of stuff like cattails and other water plants growing all around the shore. But there was a bit of a boat ramp, a short graveled one. That’s where we usually entered the water after dumping our bikes off to the side and out of the way.
In a way it was a little creepy, even in bright sunlight. That muddy bottom really got to me. I tried to never touch it. I had notions of what might be living in there, or of being sucked down somehow. What did I know? If I could imagine it, it might be true. I stayed in deep water.
My brother, who was getting perilously close to puberty, thought of himself as a vocalist. I will admit that he was enthusiastic about it. He had a little transistor radio that went everywhere with him. He sang the songs the radio station played. KJR, Seattle channel 95.
He was fond of Woolly Bully, Little Red Riding Hood, Stop In The Name of Love, I kid you not, and What’s New Pussycat. It was actually embarrassing, even out there on that muddy lake with nobody around. At least that’s what I had hoped.
So, he sang with the radio until I got him to shut up. He tucked his little treasure nearby into some grass and kinda pulled some stuff over it and we went swimming. But it doesn’t take long to get tired of swimming and get a little chilled. No body of water in the PNW is warm. They are differing levels of chilly.
On that particular day, when we walked up the ramp out of the water, things were not as we had left them. Somebody must have seen him hide his radio, because it was gone. Someone had gone to the trouble to pull it out of its grassy hiding spot. We hadn’t seen anybody. But somebody must have seen us.
Big boys don’t cry, but not very big boys might. He tried not to, but he had to rub his eyes a little anyhow.
I stood there looking around to see if I could figure out who was out there spying on us. Then something very odd happened. I could hear Tom Jones’ tune coming out of the bushes near the boat ramp. The tune was approximately right, but the lyrics were like nothing I had ever heard. It sounded like somebody trying to sing What’s New Pussycat with a mouthful of hot oatmeal onboard.
Brother made a charge in the direction of the sound, I grabbed his shirt in back, and at the same time something like a big hairy kid, shoved the bushes aside, started laughing and threw the little transistor radio way out into the lake.
This bush kid, big and with a lousy sense of humor, gargled out a mangled version of the line, “what’s new pussycat?” like he thought he was the funniest thing on two giant feet with an all over hairdo! Personally, I wasn’t scared, I was pissed off and a little bit disgusted. You should have seen the big dope! He smelled pretty funky too, like swamp muck, with skunk cabbage laid on over dirty dog. If you’ve ever smelled a rotten crab, there was a hint of that too.
Little brother made another run at the hairball lout, but I grabbed him by his swim trunks, because I knew he didn’t want those to come off, so he stayed put.
“That was mean!,” he yelled at the big lummox in the bushes, who continued to laugh it up.
“Nah, come on, let’s go home,” I said as firmly as I could in the circumstances.
“Do you think we could swim out and find it?” he said earnestly.
“Even if we found it, it wouldn’t work anymore,” I said. “Not even with new batteries.”
While this conversation was going on, Hairy let the bushes snap back into place and beat a leisurely retreat, leaving nothing behind but his signature funk.
Until he got a little older, and didn’t want to hang with his sister anymore, most of the time it was me, 15, and brother, 12, who buddied up and went out into our world of woods, streams, lakes, and dirt roads together. We rode very mundane bikes. Nothing special about them.
Next youngest sister didn’t want to go, and the littlest was too young, and besides, she never learned to ride a bike.
Many times our destination was Martha Lake, on a spur of dirt road off of 164th. Back then, there weren’t any houses ringing the lake like there are now. It was remote. To get there we rode to the end of our street, made the hard right onto 4th, and then to Cypress Way, finally making our way to the Old North Rd. It was about five miles.
At the end, the Old North Road butted into 164th and we were nearly there. We just had to go a bit to the west. These are real places, real street names. I remember them well.
Martha Lake had a muddy bottom, and lots of stuff like cattails and other water plants growing all around the shore. But there was a bit of a boat ramp, a short graveled one. That’s where we usually entered the water after dumping our bikes off to the side and out of the way.
In a way it was a little creepy, even in bright sunlight. That muddy bottom really got to me. I tried to never touch it. I had notions of what might be living in there, or of being sucked down somehow. What did I know? If I could imagine it, it might be true. I stayed in deep water.
My brother, who was getting perilously close to puberty, thought of himself as a vocalist. I will admit that he was enthusiastic about it. He had a little transistor radio that went everywhere with him. He sang the songs the radio station played. KJR, Seattle channel 95.
He was fond of Woolly Bully, Little Red Riding Hood, Stop In The Name of Love, I kid you not, and What’s New Pussycat. It was actually embarrassing, even out there on that muddy lake with nobody around. At least that’s what I had hoped.
So, he sang with the radio until I got him to shut up. He tucked his little treasure nearby into some grass and kinda pulled some stuff over it and we went swimming. But it doesn’t take long to get tired of swimming and get a little chilled. No body of water in the PNW is warm. They are differing levels of chilly.
On that particular day, when we walked up the ramp out of the water, things were not as we had left them. Somebody must have seen him hide his radio, because it was gone. Someone had gone to the trouble to pull it out of its grassy hiding spot. We hadn’t seen anybody. But somebody must have seen us.
Big boys don’t cry, but not very big boys might. He tried not to, but he had to rub his eyes a little anyhow.
I stood there looking around to see if I could figure out who was out there spying on us. Then something very odd happened. I could hear Tom Jones’ tune coming out of the bushes near the boat ramp. The tune was approximately right, but the lyrics were like nothing I had ever heard. It sounded like somebody trying to sing What’s New Pussycat with a mouthful of hot oatmeal onboard.
Brother made a charge in the direction of the sound, I grabbed his shirt in back, and at the same time something like a big hairy kid, shoved the bushes aside, started laughing and threw the little transistor radio way out into the lake.
This bush kid, big and with a lousy sense of humor, gargled out a mangled version of the line, “what’s new pussycat?” like he thought he was the funniest thing on two giant feet with an all over hairdo! Personally, I wasn’t scared, I was pissed off and a little bit disgusted. You should have seen the big dope! He smelled pretty funky too, like swamp muck, with skunk cabbage laid on over dirty dog. If you’ve ever smelled a rotten crab, there was a hint of that too.
Little brother made another run at the hairball lout, but I grabbed him by his swim trunks, because I knew he didn’t want those to come off, so he stayed put.
“That was mean!,” he yelled at the big lummox in the bushes, who continued to laugh it up.
“Nah, come on, let’s go home,” I said as firmly as I could in the circumstances.
“Do you think we could swim out and find it?” he said earnestly.
“Even if we found it, it wouldn’t work anymore,” I said. “Not even with new batteries.”
While this conversation was going on, Hairy let the bushes snap back into place and beat a leisurely retreat, leaving nothing behind but his signature funk.
I had to admit that he hadn't done anything to hurt us. I was rather relieved to see him leave like he did.
Bro was starting to shiver. A cool little wind was sliding around over the surface of the water and the sun had changed position. It was time to go home.
“Come on, Dan,” I said. “You can have my radio. It’s better than yours was anyhow.”
“OK,” he said through chattering teeth and climbed onto his bike.
I figured that the ride home would warm him up.
Bro was starting to shiver. A cool little wind was sliding around over the surface of the water and the sun had changed position. It was time to go home.
“Come on, Dan,” I said. “You can have my radio. It’s better than yours was anyhow.”
“OK,” he said through chattering teeth and climbed onto his bike.
I figured that the ride home would warm him up.
📻
Don't forget to butter your cat today!
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