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Well, if you go back far enough, there was a stable and/or blacksmith shop at the corner of Cole Street and Initial Avenue. Then along came retired flight attendant, Marilyn Nelson. She bought the building and planned to open another antique mall after, she said, “a little remodeling,” which was a slight understatement to be sure.
You may have seen him walking along state Route 410 between Buckley and Bonney Lake or on SR 169 between McHugh Avenue and the Stop an’ Shop corner.
I never met Gene Emry and knew absolutely nothing about the barbecue catering service he opened around 1955 behind Herald’s Restaurant and Lounge (currently, a strip mall). In fact, I didn’t even realize the business was there until the mid-1960s. In 1990, Gene sold his enterprise to Frank Mickelson and, in 2005, Frank sold to Gary Shaw, who operates the place today.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve examined various generations of American youth; i.e., the “Lost Generation,” the “Beat Generation” and the “Now Generation.” Today, the process whereby new generations are labeled and promoted may be over. Since the mid-1970s, the process has become rather muddled and transient in part because the mass media has become more diffused, especially owing to the Internet, so now it’s more difficult to dictate and control public opinion.
Make no mistake, in America you can do anything and become anything you want, even it it's illegal. All you have to do is work at it.
Today I find myself in a philosophical mood. When this has happened in the past, it's frequently resulted in a philosophical column. This is no exception.
Liz Reynolds is an energetic, bright-eyed, middle-age, “young” lady who’s a friend of mine.
Throughout much of my life, I’ve been apolitical. I was either too busy chasing ladies to pay any attention to politics or else I didn’t perceive any difference between the candidates: they were all a bunch of crooks. I didn’t bother to vote, though there was one exception. In the late 1960s, during my more wild and rebellious days, I took the advise of pop-subversive Abbie Hoffman and I voted for his pig.
With M.L. King’s birthday yesterday, I found myself in an introspective mood. And after considerable self-criticism and analysis, I still feel I’m a relatively unprejudiced fellow. (I say “relatively” because I’m sure some can detect biases I’m not aware of.)
You may have noticed that little store called Top Smoke across Stevenson Avenue from Starbucks but, if you were like me, you never went inside to see what it’s all about. Well, the other day I walked in the place and, believe me, owner Paul Kim operates an interesting shop.
Last week I offered a capsule review of three generations of the Morris family in Black Diamond. The patriarch, Jack Morris, beget Evan Morris who, along with his other business enterprises, founded TRM Lumber with his nephew in 1969. Today, TRM is owned and operated by Evan’s son, John Morris.
There was a time in the not too distant past – say, the 1930s, ‘40s and ‘50s – when our Southern states possessed a distinct, separate culture, setting them apart from the rest of the United States.
The other day a lady stopped me in Safeway and said her 17-year-old son had started fooling around with booze, as kids are prone to do.
Gene Groesbeck was Enumclaw’s premier movie tycoon from the early days of motion pictures until the mid-1950s.
Way back in the 1920s, Enumclaw had an informal, intimate kind of up-front, small-town personal charm. The line between right and wrong was sharply and easily drawn, social intimacy promoted more trust and crime of a felonious nature – except for bootlegging – was almost nonexistent.
Through the years, especially during the holiday season, this column has offered many attractive and flavorful recipes.
If you’ve lived here most of your life and you’re older than 40, you probably remember Sonny Bellack’s auto repair shop. Back in the day, Sonny was an excellent mechanic who worked in a dilapidated lean-to garage that, 30 years after his death, remained a rather picturesque, photographic junk pile until architect and engineer Carl Sanders came along, cleared the site, and erect an attractive brick building where the “Suburban Soul” used to be located.
As you may realize, the roots of Halloween are planted in pagan society, apparently in the Celtic festival of Samhain.
So, I found myself sitting in the office of ophthalmologist Robert Tester, M.D., while he held a model of the human eye in his lap and clarified my rather foreboding situation. He said my vision was going to hell because I had cataracts.
Continued from last week.My previous column dealt with astronomy and the universe. Mainly, it described the gigantic numbers and distances necessary when considering the subject… Continue reading