Category: Writing

Last I knew, Ralph was still living in his parent’s basement—weak, wan and wary.

It began when we were students in the 7th grade. Ralph was a classmate of mine back in the days when parents still occasionally named a kid Ralph—back before the word had become a slang synonym for regurgitation.

Our science teacher that day had just said something so startling, that Ralph looked up in alarm from the spit-wad he’d been carefully crafting at his desk. He stared transfixed at the teacher—Mr. Rood. (Presciently, we called him Mr. Rood the Science Dude.)
“In 1908, an asteroid crashed into Siberia,” said Mr. Rood. “It wiped out hundreds of miles of forest land—and if there were any humans around, they would have been toast.”

Ralph gulped hard as the teacher narrowed his eyes and looked straight at him. “And when I say toast, Ralph—I don’t mean French or Melba.”

We all knew exactly the kind of toast the Science Dude did mean: charcoal black with rising curls of acrid smoke. It was the kind that Ralph’s mom (who was not gifted in the kitchen) made for him and his dad each morning.

As soon as the school ending-bell rang that day, most of our class quickly forgot Mr. Rood’s asteroid lesson. But not Ralph.

As he and a couple of the rest of us walked home from school, he kept looking nervously up at the sky—his eyes darting. He began ducking beneath store awnings and tree branches whenever possible.
Then Ralph made a life-changing declaration.

“Once I get home today—if I get home—I’m not coming back outdoors again! Ever!”
We asked him why. He elaborated. “I don’t want to get hit by an asteroid, that’s why! And I’ll bet a comet would hurt even more.”

I reminded him that a fiery rock plunging toward our planet at blinding speed wouldn’t have any trouble crashing through the roof of a house—especially one like his with composition shingles and skylights.
Ralph was unconvinced. ‘My bedroom is in the basement,” he said. “Maybe the asteroid would be going slower by then.”

I’d been in Ralph’s bedroom. It was dirtier and smellier than most open latrines.
The risk of an asteroid slamming into it? Zero.

The risk of infectious disease? At least 90%.

True to his word, Ralph didn’t show up for school the next three days heading into the weekend. His mom called in reporting that he was in his bed with a mysterious ailment. In fact, he was probably under his bed.
The whole thing happened so long ago that I can’t quite recall if Ralph ever emerged—or was ever seen again. I do remember that his parents moved out of town the next spring—so either Ralph hid in the car trunk—or he came with the house when his parents sold it.

I think of him every time I hear news about yet another asteroid making a close pass to our planet. Reporters call such an incident a ‘near miss.’ But as the comedian George Carlin rightly pointed out, it would be more correct to say ‘near hit.’ A near miss wouldn’t be a miss at all.

But even those harrowingly close asteroid skims of our planet usually miss earth by millions of miles. Still, in galactic scale—that would be the equivalent of a flying golf ball just grazing the top of a man’s hairline. And that’s assuming the man didn’t have a pompadour.

A bunch of scientists once announced that a long-ago asteroid wiped out the dinosaurs when it triggered fires and earthquakes worldwide.
However, there is a small group of contrarians that insist the dinosaurs actually died from a combination of spicy foods and poor posture.

Regardless, many dinosaurs are named after the locations in which their skeletal remains have been found—such as the Afrovenator (Africa), Californosaurus (California) and Dallasaurus (Dallas).

Lesser-known are the dinosaur remains found in our very own area. These include the once-feared Sea-Tacasaurus, Des Moinesaraptor—and the king of all, the Whitecenterasaurus Rex.
They are all long extinct.

Except for those that may be hiding in Ralph’s bedroom.

West Seattle is quite lovely this summery time of year. Lawns that were once green are now brown as a UPS truck—and the grass crunches under your feet as if walking on a blanket of shredded wheat.

The sidewalks are not only hot enough to fry eggs, but excellent for tempura too.

As Yogi Berra once said, “It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.”
Hot, humble nights make for lousy sleep. And some of us are having trouble with both. From Ambaum Boulevard to Beach Drive; Des Moines to Allentown; White Center to Normandy Park—people are tossing and turning. The exception is Burien where there is only turning. Sleep researchers are at a loss to explain why this is so.

After all, it’s said we spend one-third of our lives sleeping. Another third is spent working, eating—the remaining third for car keys and remotes.

Nobody finds a way to get in trouble when they’re sleeping. Slumbering robbers don’t threaten banks.
A bald-faced lie told in one’s sleep does little harm to the person—or the bald face.
The worst that can happen while sleeping is facing the fury of a bed partner whose blankets you’ve hogged during the night.

So sleep is a very good thing—and if we all spent more time doing it, the world would be a nicer and quieter place. Except for the snoring.

That’s why not sleeping can be a problem—and it turns out that sleeplessness is epidemic around the nation. It’s even keeping sleep experts up at night.

Beyond the warm temps—and when more serious concerns like sleep apnea are ruled out—experts say it’s mostly our modern lifestyles—early rising, late nights, quadruple lattes’—that are causing all the open eyelids.
Recently, the rumor goes, a West Seattle man slept-walked out of his house, wandered around for several blocks, caught a bus for downtown, got off at City Hall and then sat through a city council meeting—which put him into an even deeper sleep for a full week.

Later, after examining him, a doctor said, “You are a somnambulist.” The man then proceeded to punch the physician in the nose, saying, “You can’t talk about my mother like that.”
Luckily, sleepwalking is relatively rare. Same with sleep ambling,
sauntering, strutting, traipsing and gallivanting.

My flamboyant cousin Enoch often sleep promenades.

Occasional insomnia is not so rare—but fortunately there are lots of tips you can try to fall asleep. The main idea is to think and do things so boring, that you just naturally nod off.
Perhaps reading this column will do the trick.

Otherwise, the time-honored practice of counting sheep works well for some people. It naturally begs the age-old question: What do sheep count?

Personally, I substitute rabbits for sheep. Rabbits jump better—and I prefer angora to wool.

Doctors say you should also make sure you have a good mattress. Such mattresses are available for a very nice price at certain places—if you’re not picky about color.

In fact, some people fall asleep at night by counting their sleep number bed settings.

The ancient Romans ate onions to induce sleep. Ancient Romans often found themselves sleeping alone.
A friend of mine invented a technique that he says always works for him. In alphabetical order, think of people whose first and last names begin with the same letter—for example, Alan Alda, Barbara Bush, Charlie Chaplin and so on. He says it so boring, he usually falls asleep by the time he gets to F.
Unfortunately, rather than boredom, some of us find the practice so interesting that they wind up more awake than ever. And it’s why we consider Woodrow Wilson our favorite president, along with Coolidge, Hoover and Reagan.

By the way—if you ever do try the technique—keep the name of motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar in mind should you ever get that far.

I always get stuck at ‘Q.’ (Perhaps Don Quixote had a brother named Quincy?)

Visualizing something joyful works for some people also. For women, it might be an unlimited gift card at Nordstrom—for men, maybe a Samsung 110 inch TV.

If nothing else seems to work, here’s yet another idea that’s making the rounds: Sleep with your head facing north. This aligns your body with the magnetic fields of the earth. For West Seattle residents it means your head should be pointed toward Ballard—with feet aimed in the general direction of Fife.
People who have tried the “head pointed north” technique don’t report much improvement in sleep. But some do notice increased moss on their heads—which offers some welcome green this time of year.

The professional FOX-TV sports announcer was setting the scene at the U.S. Open the other day:
“We are looking over magnificent Chambers Bay golf course—alongside the waters of Puget Sound.” He pronounced the word ‘Sound’ perfectly. But ‘Puget’ was not so good. Instead of PYOO-jit, it was more like ‘Pug It.”
Fortunately, the announcer did not attempt ‘Juan de Fuca.’

There is no surer way for an out-of-towner to engender a Pug It Sound person’s ire than to screw up the name of a local place. You may be a nice person and a humanitarian, but if you call Sequim ‘SEE-kwim’—you might as well pack up.

In the revolving door of local TV news reporters arriving from other markets, eager newbie’s are immediately exposed as frauds if they pronounce ‘geoduck’ based on the way it looks.

It behooves every new arrival to learn how to correctly pronounce every place—from Aberdeen (Gray Harbor County) to Zumwalt (Garfield County). After all, it’s the places in between A and Z that will trip you up.

First of all, a rookie Washingtonian should know we have lots of towns and places with tribal names—and they are pronounced much differently than they might appear at first blush. Words like Wahkiakum, Kittitas, Copalis and Asotin are just waiting to trip someone up.

People who know how to pronounce Skagway, Alaska will think they’ve got Skagit figured out when they first see it—but they’d be wrong.

And when people discover how ‘Pysht’ is pronounced, they sometimes get… well… perturbed.

Yet some names—notably Humptulips—are pronounced exactly the way they look. Unfortunately.
My cousin from Chicago has a penchant for mispronouncing virtually every Washington state name. Puyallup is ‘PEW-al-loop’ to him. Nooksak is ‘NUKES-ack.’ And Guemes is ‘GYOOMES.’ He even pronounces Butte as Butt.

At first, I thought it was all just a regional misunderstanding. But when he called
Bothell “Bought Hell”, I knew I was being played.

Just when a person thinks they’ve got the tribal names figured out—here comes an army of French names like Beaux Arts, Pend Oreille and Roche Harbor. The Chicago cousin insists on pronouncing that last one as Roach Harbor. If he ever comes out to visit, I’ll try to book him in a Roche Motel.

Even French names are not always pronounced like French names. The city of Des Moines is a case in point—pronounced one way in Ohio, another here. At least you can count on Kent to be consistent.

Bryn Mawr is Welsh, but it’s still a head-scratcher for some. It means ‘Big Hill.’ But I guess someone figured why name a place built on a big hill “Big Hill’—when you can call it something more complicated?
There’s a Lincoln county town named Sprague—which I once heard a local news guy call SPRAY-GOO—rhyming it with a brand name for spaghetti sauce. I wonder how he pronounces Prague?

That’s why I like places that tell you exactly what they are—easy to pronounce, no guesswork required. There’s no pretense to Washington towns like Gravel Pit, State Hospital, Apple Yard—and, my favorite, Log Dump.
Gotta love Bacon, Washington too. Who doesn’t?
The small towns of Climax, Relief and Joy would get a lot more state visitors if they traded on their names.

And wouldn’t it be easy to make a quick stop at the Chelan county town of Brief?
Echo Lake is a nice place. Nice place. Nice place.
Our state has a spot called Ben Hur that seems ripe for summer chariot races.
And there’s a place called Cashup just aching for a hot dog stand.
Hempfest ought to think about moving their operations to the Whitman county town of Stoner. Assuming Potlatch isn’t available.

There’s a town in eastern Washington called Plain. So why no Peanut?
And wouldn’t Moclips be a fine name for a haircut place?
I’m afraid I’ve gone off on a tangent—which reminds me there’s a town named Tangent in Oregon. I went off there one time during a car trip.

At least my Chicago cousin does pronounce Skamania correctly. But he defines the word as “a period of euphoria or delusions about ska.”

I really hope he doesn’t move out here.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
—Franklin Delano Roosevelt

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. And, of course, the boogieman.”
—Pat Paulsen
My car was wearing more dirt than a pitcher’s mound the other day, so I decided the time was apt to run it through a car wash. After selecting the $8.99 Super-Duper, Bubbler-Scrubber, Master-Blaster—with wax—I began to inch the car forward.

Suddenly my passenger—a guy named Joe—spoke up and grabbed for the car door. “I’m getting out,” he said shakily. “I’ll meet you on the other end.” He leapt out and left me to ride solo through the car wash.
Climbing back in afterward, Joe sheepishly apologized. “I’ve always been freaked out by automatic car washes,” he said. “I’m not all that crazy about the Great Wolf Lodge either.”

Joe can’t remember when he first became phobic about such things, but he thinks it may have stemmed from childhood when his older brother stuffed him into a washing machine and turned it on. “I guess you could say I became quite agitated.”

Joe’s fear has a name: Amaxohydraclaustrophia. (The condition sometimes also triggers a fear of long words—which is an actual phobia called sesquipedalophobia.)

Joe’s phobia breaks down like this: Amaxo—fear of being inside a car; hydra—fear of water; and claustro—fear of being in a confined or small space.

I’ve got that one: Claustrophobia. At least I think I do. I remember as a kid trying to crawl through the opening of a narrow drainpipe after my playmates had preceded me. But something stopped me from getting through. Was it claustrophobia? Or was it my large rear-end? I never knew for sure.

The technical definition of a phobia is “an overwhelming and unreasonable fear of particular objects or situations.” Of course a healthy fear of certain things make sense.

Like if a wild dog attacked you. Or a lion. Or consumer TV reporter Jesse Jones.

It’s when a fear seriously disrupts your life that it becomes a full-fledged phobia.

Like an enochlophobic person that never can go to a Seahawks game because of their fear of crowds. And perhaps they also have the fear of loud noise: ligyrophobia. Not to mention the fear of high-priced stadium food: gouge-o-phobia.

There’s the ichthyophobic fellow whose fear of fish forces him to steer clear of Ivar’s.

And the ablutophobiac—who has a fear of washing and bathing. This is particularly common in eight-year old boys.

But true phobias are not funny. Especially to people with geliophobia—the fear of laughter. This is just the opposite of a comedian’s fear: sedatephobia, the fear of silence.

My aunt had a life-long fear of frogs (batrachophobia)—and was so freaked about every frog from bull to green—that she couldn’t stand anything remotely connected to them. That included toads, salamanders and newts. (She couldn’t bear hearing the name of former house speaker Gingrich. Plus she had a strong dislike for the French.)

My mom’s fear of snakes was so great that she couldn’t even watch a TV show that featured one. Her dislike of everything wiggly even extended to caterpillars and earthworms. And I can never remember her fixing a meal of spaghetti.

I remember once taking my dad to a pro basketball game late in his life. As we made ourselves to seats up high in the stands, he suddenly froze and announced he could go no farther. That’s when I discovered that he had a crippling fear of heights (acrophobia). He stood 6 feet 6 inches tall—so I couldn’t help wondering how he could even bear to stand up.

Turns out it all stemmed from an incident from his childhood when he nearly fell off a waterfall—and hung 100 feet by one hand until his dad came along to rescue him. He was afraid of heights ever since. Still, it never kept him from repeatedly telling a silly joke: “I have a fear of giant ogres,” he would say. “I have Fee-fi-phobia.”

As for me, I tell my kids I’m afraid of eating artificial Vietnamese noodle soup: Faux-pho-phobia.
They like Grandpa’s joke better, I fear.

Small towns come in all sizes: Teeny to teeny-weeny; bitty to itty-bitty; eentsy-weentsy to itsy-witsy.
The one I grew up in was more on the dinky side—and while it gained some population through the years, it never became much above piddling.

But that just made it easier for Pat Cashman to know everybody in town. Not me—my dad, Pat Cashman, Sr. He knew them all.
I never called him the “old man” because I could never really tell his age—at least not without carbon dating.

Sometimes he seemed like he was a bit slow and shuffling—so I guessed him to be in his 30’s.
But then, he’d slip from his apparent dotage—and suddenly shoot a basketball swisher in our driveway from 40 feet away, grab his own rebound—and then drop another on my brothers and me.

However old he may have been, he was tall for his age: at least 6 foot 6—and he really did seem to know everyone in our pint-sized, sawed-off, one-horse town. He loomed like Gulliver in Lilliput.
Maybe that’s why he was our town’s go-to guy when it came to pall bearing. Whenever there was a funeral, chances are Dad would be one of the heavy-lifters.

In fact, if pall bearing were an actual profession, he would have been a Rockefeller; the Babe Ruth of the last journey; the Beethoven of life’s final symphony.

Each Memorial Day, our family would make a pilgrimage to our town’s old cemetery. After leaving flowers at the graves of some of our long gone relatives—most of whom we kids had never known—Dad would take us on a wider tour of the dead and gone.

Even though he was talking about deceased people, he always packed his dissertations with humor. “Life doesn’t become any less funny when you exit from it,” he would say.

And since he knew most everyone in town when they were alive, he knew most of them that weren’t too.
“There’s Wilson Wilson,” Dad would observe. “They buried him twice.” He loved to point out the more odd and ironic tombstones—and before long, it became a game.

One of my brothers spotted two markers—nearly side by side. One was inscribed with the name “Cummings.” The other read “Gowings.” Together they formed a concise summation of life and death.
There were names like “Incognito”, “Silence”—and the entirely redundant “Graves.”
“There’s old Martin Malloy,” Dad said once, pointing to a new grave. “We just planted him last week.” I guess my dad was also the Ciscoe Morris of mortal remains.

I hadn’t realized that Mr. Malloy had recently passed away—and it bothered me because I actually had known who he was.

Malloy was a cantankerous old Irishman who lived by himself in a small house directly across the street from a neighborhood supermarket where I worked as a teenager.
He seemed like a genial enough guy except when he—as my dad put it—spent time with Jack Daniels. Then Malloy would transform into a belligerent, booze-fueled and often profane firebrand.
One day while I was walking groceries out with a woman customer to her car, I spotted Malloy standing unsteadily on his porch looking our way. I could tell he was primed and ready.

“Hey Lady!” he yelled across the parking lot. “Are you getting groceries?”
The woman replied sweetly, “Yes, I am!”
Then came Malloy’s follow-up question. “Do you like fruit?”
Again, the woman called back amiably. “Why, yes! Yes, I do!”
Malloy let it fly.

“Then take a bite of my (rhymes with ‘crass’), ‘cause it’s a peach!”
I apologized for Malloy’s insolence as the woman embarrassedly hopped in her car and sped away. I’m certain she made a point of never parking on that side of the store again.
A couple of years later, when Malloy shuffled off his mortal porch, my dad—of course—was among his pallbearers.
“Martin had been such a pill, we had trouble finding six guys willing to do it,” Dad said. “So we had to make do with four. It was tough.“
It seems the prickly old Irishman had become just as big a load after he died as when he was alive.
Today, you’ll find Martin Malloy buried on the far side of that old cemetery, a mere fifteen feet…from a fruit orchard.
It’s a peach of a spot.