McCrohan/Lomen Timeline

Everybody talks about writing a family history and everybody has boxes of family documents, photographs, letters and scrapbooks that are in no particular order. The boxes are sitting in the garage, basement or attic getting mustier every year as all the good intentions are talked and thought about but on which are rarely acted. During the holidays and family get-togethers we all talk about getting all of that family stuff organized before next year but suddenly it is a year later and the boxes haven't moved.

In 1990 Gwynne called me at work and told me a lady named Dawn Arrowsmith had just called and identified herself as my half-sister and that she was a twin to a sister named Dianne. Gwynne was giving me a "heads up" and wanted to know if I wanted to call the lady back. I thought back to 1987 when my cousin Margot Hill had arranged a meeting between my half-brother Chris Lomen and me. Born in 1960 Chris and I shared the same father (Jerry Lomen) but it was from a marriage of which I wasn't aware since my mother and father had divorced in 1953. My mother gained custody of my brother Terry and me and I hadn't laid eyes on my father since. My father had had a reputation of a guy who "got around", had a wicked smile and a way with the ladies. Chris is a good guy and we hit it off. It was interesting to hear things about my father although there wasn't anything that made me fell like I had missed much my not having him around as my brother and I grew up. 

Our mother Rosanne took us to our first Little League baseball and football practices, encouraged us to go to camp, read to us at night, took us to church, volunteered for the P.T.A., helped us with our homework, played catch with us, swatted us on the butt now and then, taught us how to drive a stick-shift 1951 four-door Studebaker and didn't encourage any guys to be hanging around the house checking out her good looks and direct charm. In other words Terry and I didn't much miss not having a dad around. True, mom "threw like a girl", we couldn't tackle her and I don't ever remember her giving me the "birds and the bees" talk but she was there for all of the important stuff. She never missed a football or baseball game or a cross country or track and field meet from when we were in grade school to seniors at Garfield High School. One summer I remember her being nailed at least three times by foul balls and wild pitches and she had the black and blue bruises to prove it. It was comforting being on a field or a track and looking up into the stands and seeing her there lending support for our next play or before the start of a race.

Knowing my father's reputation I wasn't surprised that I might have other siblings and I automatically believed that Dawn and Dianne were my sisters. Finding out I had two sisters was exciting and the conversation I had with Dawn a few minutes later started out with her answering the phone and me saying, "Hey sis' it's your little brother Will. Where have you been all these years?" She told me about a relationship my father and her mother Irene May had had in Alaska that resulted in the birth of she and her sister Dianne on July 23, 1941. Dawn and I had a nice chat and shortly after, she and Dianne visited Gwynne, Caitlin, Charlotte and I at our house in Seattle along with Chris and his wife Vicky and we had a good time sharing stories and getting to know each other. Over the years we have traded birthday and Christmas cards, organized a family reunion at Hood Canal and just generally kept in touch talking about our families and other normal brother and sister stuff. Dawn is married to a great fellow named Roland Reiss, they live in Los Angeles and have grown children and grandchildren and Dianne lives in Vancouver, Wa. with another great husband Rod Keely and they also have children and grand kids. Another person at that Hood Canal reunion was Geri (Gerene) Shafer another half-sister who tracked me down in 2000 and guess what, she's married to a terrific guy named Roger, they live in Dubuque, Iowa and they also have kids and grand kids. Geri's mother Muriel and my father Jerry married May 12, 1943 in Fairbanks, Alaska and Geri was born October 10, 1944 and were diviorced a few years later. So in the space of ten years I gained one younger brother and three older sisters and a whole bunch of extra in-laws, cousins, nephews and nieces. 

It's comforting knowing there are good people out there who share at least one of the same parents with you. I've wondered what it would have been like to grow up with brothers and sisters in a larger family. Along with my brother Terry who was two years younger than me there would have been Dawn and Dianne who are six years older, Geri who is three years older and Chris who is thirteen years younger. I'm sure it would been very interesting and exciting. It would have been cool having all the older guys hanging around the house visiting our older sisters.

I mentioned my cousin Margot earlier and she and her sister Maryel (Mary Elizabeth) are the daughters of my dad's older sister Rosemary. Margot is nine years older than me and Maryel is five years older. They both have families in Seattle, with whom we stay in regular contact, and we all get together every Easter at one of their homes. That yearly event has graduated from a group numbering in the teens to an event with grandpas, grandmas, mothers, fathers, kids, nieces, nephews, husbands, wives and cousins now numbering in the high twenties.

When we have the Easter potluck at Margot's some of the adults inevitably end up in her back hall asking questions about all of her relatives photographs hanging on the wall. They include her husband Tim Hill's relatives also and she pauses as she remembers each name along with some pertinent information as to how they connect with the Lomen's, David's, Hill's or Weaver's (my paternal grandmother Vella's maiden name). At some point I may mention or maybe I've always kept it to myself but I've often thought, "There should be some McCrohan's up here too." Who are the McCrohan's you may wonder? Well if the 1918 national flu epidemic hadn't killed Frank J. McCrohan on December 19, 1918 in Nelson, B.C., Canada then the Lomen name would never have been connected to his wife Vella Vernell Weaver McCrohan, daughter Rosemary McCrohan and son Francis (Jerry) McCrohan. Frank's death certificate indicates that he died at the age of 33 of an "Embolism in the Main" which is a blockage of the main artery of the lung by something such as a blood clot. Apparently his father, Eugene McCrohan who lived in Whitby, Ontario outside Toronto either was with him when he died or handled the identification and the burial of his son in Nelson, B.C. which is 150 miles north of Spokane, Wa. on the extreme West Arm of Kootenay Lake in southern British Columbia.

After her husband Frank McCrohan died it was understood that Vella would move from Nelson, B.C. to Whitby, Ontario and live with the McCrohan family. I don't know the family relationship as to if she felt comfortable with that arrangement or being an American citizen she definitely wanted to get back to her roots in Pendleton, Oregon or what, but soon after Frank's death she received a letter from a former suitor Ralph Lomen. Family lore says that in the letter Ralph sympathized with her husband's death then told her that if she was interested she could use the enclosed train ticket for Spokane, Washington and meet him at the Davenport Hotel. I don't know if Rosemary and Jerry went with her but Vella met Ralph in Spokane and they must have rekindled their former relationship because they were married March 12, 1919.

I know my briefly recounted history is getting confusing and that is usually what happens as we all stand in Margot's back hall trying to connect dates and names and faces as each year everything gets a little hazier and harder to remember. Last Easter someone mentioned that we needed a family Timeline to keep track of where everyone came from and where they have been. That idea stuck in my brain when an event that I had hoped for for many years crystallized into a reality; Margot and Maryel wanted to meet my sisters Dawn, Dianne and Geri. They had already met Chris but my cousins wanted us all to get together so that we could share all the names, dates, photographs and memories we had accumulated over the years. The date was set for December 4, 2010 for lunch at Margot's and I knew that I now had the motivation for a family Timeline.

At that point I started taking notes, organizing family memorabilia and planning how to set up and create the Timeline. Finally Dawn and Dianne came to town staying at the Foxglove Bed and Breakfast on Capitol Hill, Chris arrived at our house from Spokane but Geri was unable to attend because of previous family commitments.She wanted to be here very much and stayed in touch by phone to get all the details. The lunch with Chris, Dawn, Dianne, Margot, Maryel and myself was also attended by Margot's husband Tim and my wife Gwynne. Gwynne was there because she has been with me for the entire family adventure and has a terrific memory for names and dates and Tim was our official photographer who recorded the event.

After eating a terrific meal, highlighted by a unique and very tasty soup Margot adapted from the 1982 edition of "The Silver Palate Cookbook". (Recipe included below:) we all just sat around the Hill's dining room table and got to know each other. We shared the photographs we had brought and the memories we had of the man with whom we all had something in common: Francis (Jerry) Lomen. To Margot and Maryel he was the favorite uncle who would show up unannounced from some exotic location with stories and laughter; to Chris he was a gruff father who grew sick and died when he was thirteen; to Dawn and Dianne he was a name in their mother's Baby Book; and to Will he was a man who was a shadowy figure standing on a hill at Evergreen-Washelli Cemetery overlooking his youngest son Terry's funeral.

As we laughed and talked I marveled at the normalcy of the get-together; brothers, sisters and cousins just chatting away as if we had all known each other for our whole lives. We all have physical and personality similarities and looking at the old black and white photographs those similarities are also apparent: mouths, eyes, noses, smiles and stature. A photograph of Vella who looked to be in her twenties could be Dianne except for the sepia colors, high button shoes, ankle length woolen skirt and the high-necked lace blouse. I took a lot of notes and began to form my plan for the Timeline.

One of my prime inspirations for a record of our family was a book of which I had been aware since I was a teenager. Written by Judge Gudbrand J. Lomen and titled: Genealogies of the Lomen, Brandt and Joys Families the book was an exhaustive 361 page record of three families who had roots in Norway going back to the 1600's and their subsequent lives in Norway to their immigration to America. The Lomen family travelled to Minnesota and put down roots in St. Paul with Judge Lomen, identified in the book as G.J., eventually moving his family to Nome, Alaska to pursue business interests. Judge Lomen had started the family project before his family moved to Nome but he stayed in contact with principals at the Mohn Printing Company in Northfield, Minnesota who eventually published the family history in 1929.

The book is filled with black and white photographs of stolid looking, unsmiling men some of whom are in uniform and women with medium cut hair and pearl necklaces resting on formal dresses and children in sleeveless blouses and Sunday formal wear and bow ties. Last names like: Hjelle, Botne, Evenson, Fauske, Berentsen, Odegaard and Andersen serve to remind me of one thing; I am related to none of them. All of these fine looking people have only one connection to me: my step-grandfather Ralph Lomen. A man who married my father's mother, Vella Vernell Weaver McCrohan, and never adopted her children Rosemary and Francis (Jerry) McCrohan. I don't know if they were given his name for convenience sake, but it was probably to avoid confusion and the embarrassing questions that result from parents and children with different names. I am no more a Lomen than I am one of those Scandinavian names in Judge G.J.'s amazing and detailed record of his ancestors. I'm an Irish McCrohan on my absent father's side with some English from the Weaver's side and Irish and English from the Coyle's and the Dalby's on my mother Rosanne's side.

Before I found out about my original grandfather, Frank Jeremiah McCrohan, people would ask, "So Lomen, what nationality is that?" After I would say Norwegian people would look closer at me with my black hair, fair skin and green eyes and say, "Norwegian? You look Irish." Sometimes I would say, "Yah I guess it was the Irish visiting Leif Erickson in Norway or the Vikings making a stop in Ireland on the way to "The New World." That usually didn't answer any questions and nothing against the Norwegians but I feel more like an Irishman than a Scandinavian.

As I got started on my Timeline I envisioned having my first chapter end in 1973 when I started working for Dick Vaughan in the commercial furnishings business, moved into the family house in Madison Park and met Gwynne. Those were all notable events in my life but as I waded into the fourth week of my project I realized that I was going to have to revise my expectations or my Timeline was going to grown into book form. A new date made sense; September 2, 1969, the day I left the Marine Corps for civilian life. This gave me a much more realistic chance at finishing my project and I sprinted toward the finish.

Now I have finished my Timeline and have forwarded it by email to Dawn, Dianne, Geri, Margot and Maryel and have mailed an original to Chris in Spokane. They will all read it but Dawn will be the first one to add her branch to it then she will forward it to Dianne who will forward it to Geri, then to Margot and then on to Maryel. Chris will add his branch, mail it to me and I will meld it into the final copy. This way we will have one original that will be added to consecutively instead of me receiving six different branches and  having to add each branch separately.

That's the plan anyway, so at least the family Timeline has been started. I think when my brother, sisters and cousins have read my branch they will be inspired to add their memories. Hopefully next year in the back hallway we will have something to add to the black and white photographs.

Carrot and Orange Soup

4 Tablespoons sweet butter
2 cups finely chopped yellow onions
12 large carrots, 1 ½-2#, peeled and chopped
4 cups Chicken Stock
1 cup fresh orange juice
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
grated fresh orange zest to taste

1. Melt the butter in a pot. Add the onions cover and cook over low heat until tender
and lightly colored, about 25 minutes

2. Add carrots and stock and bring to boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer until carrots are very tender, about 30 minutes.

3. Pour the soup through a strainer and transfer the solids to the bowl of the food processor fitted with a steel blade. (I just drained the liquid into a separate bowl and ran the carrots through the food processor in batches and put everything back in the soup pot.)

4.Add the orange juice, salt, pepper and zest then reheat. (The original recipe said to add more stock for “desired consistency”. Since I had no more stock, I served it thick rather than add water.)

Says 4-6 portions but it made 8.

With the proper guidance I think I can make these photos clearer but for the moment "what you see is what you get". Also I am considering providing a link to the TIMELINE.


Left to right, Dawn, Dianne, Chris, Maryel, Will and Margot



Margot



Maryel



Left to right, Dianne, Chris, Dawn and Will



GLADIATOR

One of the benefits of the internet is that it is easier to find a "kindred spirit" who has the same interests as you or maybe enjoyed the same book as you did when you were a kid. It used to be that one had to hang out at the nearest Star Trek convention and dress up as a Klingon to meet an equal who shared your affection for a subject that wasn't "mainstream". We're not talking about people who flock to the latest "trendy author" book signing or mindlessly fork over $15 for the latest "hot director's" movie without even reading a review. No, we're talking about people who have affection for a novel that was written in the 30's, with "cutting edge" science fiction, that wasn't written by H.G. Welles or Jules Verne and that ended up with the main character being vaporized by a lightning bolt from the heavens. Yes, a narrow subject for specialization or interest but still unforgettable.

The novel GLADIATOR written by Philip Wylie and published in 1930 is about a doctor who is trying to invent a serum that will turn a man into a superman. Don't laugh, the book was written before Superman was invented and is credited for giving Superman's authors Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster the idea for their comic book in the mid-thirties. While still in his mother's womb, Hugo Danner (a unique and cool name) is inoculated with a special formula by his father who is a scientist with a mad dream. Born with inhuman strength and invulnerability like Clark Kent, Hugo must promise his parents to not reveal his incredible powers. This frustration at being different adds to the angst of what a typical teenager would experience.

Although I was a childhood fan of Superman, Batman, The Green Lantern and every other comic book superhero, the idea of a man with super powers and not being able to fit into society was foreign and unbelievable to me. I mean isn't that all any young boy would ever want; to be incredibly strong and invulnerable and to help people against the bad guys? When Hugo, frustrated and confused by his inability to connect with kids his own age and unable to reveal his powers, rampages goes through the forest and begins uprooting enormous trees and hurling them into the air I had an empathy for his rage. Not because I was so frustrated or confused as a teenage boy but because it was so surprising. In a comic book that frustration was never addressed but in GLADIATOR it was taken a step further and translated into a teenager who could kill anything he wanted but was held back by a slim thread of humanity.

One of the most dramatic events I have ever read was when, as a World War I French Foreign Legion soldier, Hugo infiltrates the German lines at night and, with his bare hands, lays waste to an entire enemy unit in hand to hand combat. The idea of one man being able to turn the tide of history to defeat a regime that wanted to enslave the world was incredibly bold and exciting. With his inborn sympathy and respect for humans it was understandable that he would find himself sickened by his actions. Then his amazing plan to fly a plane to the German leader's lair and kill him and his henchmen was dazzling in its nerve and exhilarating in its audacity! That he couldn't follow through on his mission because of the Armistice prevented Wylie's readers from experiencing an event that would have been courageously classic; a hero who is going to save the human race singlehandedly! That was his one shot at glory and if he had been allowed to accomplish that daring mission could he have revealed himself to the human race and if so how would he have been received? A hero or the ultimate villain?

At one point in his life he was incredibly frustrated that the only work he could find was as a circus freak, a strongman who amazed the masses but couldn't help them or protect them or be their savior. All he was ever really good at was being a fighter, a killer, a gladiator who had been hired out as a soldier to stop a madman. He wanted to be so much more and it seemed that the only logical step was to wear a costume, hide his identity and appear monthly in a flimsy magazine that only kids read; but those people didn't exist then and he wouldn't have fit in there because he had too much dignity. Somewhere deep inside of himself he thought that he was special not in a conceited way but in a manner that was beneficial to the real humans who would never accept him. The book ends years later as Hugo, still unable to fit in with normal humans, climbs to the top of a mountain in South America during a raging storm. With his hands stretched over his head he screams to the heavens that if he is not a God then for God to strike him down where he stands. After a moment a lightning bolt rockets from the sky and strikes Hugo dead. Very emotional for a teenage boy.

I read GLADIATOR in the sixties as a teenage boy and unlike the hundreds of books I have read since then it is one of the few for which I have genuine affection and one that I can still remember a series of specific and dramatic events. There are a couple of other books that have also been occupying a special part of my brain for all those years: The Terrible Game by Dan Tyler Moore and The Second Son by Charles Sailor, and I think that these three books are memorable because they all featured memorable heroes. We can talk about those years as being when a young boy is impressionable, vulnerable, excitable, physical etc. etc. etc. but one thing I think that a boy is looking for is a hero. Hugo Danner of GLADIATOR may not have been a superhero but I remember he had some heroic qualities. And granted my recollection of this unique story is hazy and maybe I've glamorized Hugo and his memory but everything you remember as a boy seems bigger; especially your heroes

PURSUIT OF PERFECTION by Lynn Borland

I sent this email to a fellow named Lynn Borland who had just published a book titled, Gilmour Dobie: Pursuit of Perfection which covered the coaching career of legendary University of Washington football coach Gilmour "Gil" Dobie. It was Sunday morning November 21, 2010 and suddenly I was reading an article in The Seattle Times about the coach my grandfather William Jennings "Wee" Coyle used to tell my brother and me stories about when we were kids. As a high school quarterback at Seattle High School (later to be renamed Broadway High School) they beat North Division High School of Chicago for the National Championship and as the starting signal caller for four years at the U of W my grandfather's teams never lost a game. Along with the stories about Gil Dobie and his undefeated career at The University of Washington this was very heady stuff for young boys to process. Never losing? How could that happen? And then while his team's are still undefeated Dobie is suddenly forced from his "pursuit of perfection" after a confrontation with the school's president Henry Suzzallo.

This book will be on my Christmas "wish list" and it is available at the University of Washington Book Store to fill other people's lists.

Dear Lynn,

What a great way to start a Sunday morning! Instead of more depressing news about the Mariners, the Seahawks or the Huskies, although they whipped U.C.L.A. Thursday night, here was an article about someone whom I knew was a genuine Seattle hero and who cares if what he accomplished was over a hundred years ago.

As a kid growing up in Seattle my grandfather, Will Coyle, regaled my brother Terry and me with stories of Gil Dobie as we paged through his University of Washington athletic scrapbooks. As your article in The Times confirms Mr. Dobie was a man to be feared and respected. The tone and the manner in which my grandfather spoke of his former coach suggested that those days were very special to him. Days where you worked your butt off for a man who was tough but fair, grudging in his praise but in the process instilling in a young man the certainty that if you did what he said without complaint, that he would take you to accomplishments that you would never forget.

I remember a story my grandfather told me about when he had gone to visit his girlfriend the night before his last home game of his college career. Minnie Dalby was a fellow University of Washington student and they would eventually marry and raise their two daughters Mary and Rosanne in Seattle. Knowing staying out late with the opposite sex was not part of Coach Dobie’s recommended training regimen but being a senior and the starting quarterback gave my grandfather a young man’s cocky confidence that he would not get caught. After a night of platonic courting my grandfather boarded the street car for the trip home and found himself staring at the dour face of Gil Dobie. Without hesitating young Will found a seat and stared straight ahead contemplating his fate. After a few stops my grandfather, using every bit of his peripheral vision, saw his coach silently disembark and disappear into the night. To make a long story short my grandfather slept poorly, played well in a Husky victory and was joined in the post-game shower with his fully dressed, smiling, cigar smoking coach who said, “You know Coyle I saw a fellow who looked just like you last night on the street car. That couldn’t have been you could it?” Will Coyle never disagreed with his coach so he said, “No sir!”

Remembering a book I had downstairs I dug it out and dusted off a copy of The History of American Football by Allison Danzig 1956. Opening the front cover a small packet slid out. Wrapped in thin, transparent paper were two photographs: one titled Coach Gilmour Dobie 1908 (the same photo in your article) written in my grandfather’s distinctive handwriting and the other titled Assistant Coach Joe Cutting. Where the photo of Dobie was taken on a grass surface the assistant coach’s photo was taken on a muddy field with a small grandstand of what may have been Denny Field in the background.

I paged through the book recalling as a boy the amazement at seeing my grandfather’s name in print (Bill Coyle) and the confirmation of my grandfather’s stories about the legendary Gil Dobie in not only sentences but paragraphs and pages as he continued his success after leaving the University of Washington. “Why did he leave the Huskies?” my brother and I asked. I don’t recall my grandfather’s answer or what role, if any, he played in Dobie’s departure and I don’t recall ever being aware of the Machiavellian struggles going on at the time. As you suggest, “My, how times have not changed”.

I also remember specifically the name Gil Dobie being applied to the Seattle youth football division that had formerly been called Little League. Both my brother and I played for six years with the beginning division being called Pee Wee, the middle division Gil Dobie and the older division was called Bantams. Our grandfather came to most of our games.

Thank you for your carrying the torch for Husky football and your remembrances of a man whose success rivaled any coach in the history of college football. Now let’s get this year’s Huskies to a bowl game and rebuild the University of Washington tradition for football excellence.

Sincerely,


Will Lomen

Letter to Rush Limbaugh

Dear Rush,
Back in the days before I was enlightened by your wisdom I was a typical working stiff who had "feel good" opinions about busing kids all over town for racial diversity,  that rich people were greedy, that unions protected the workers against evil corporations and Reagan was a failed actor who didn't know what he was talking about.

Initially I started listening to you as I traveled around my territory during the Iran-Contra hearings. Being an ex-Marine I inherently sympathized with Lieutenant Colonel North and respected his "stand up" bearing and directness with his questioners. I lost interest because I felt I had no connection to the issue and was more interested in KJR sports radio.

One day I turned back to your show and had a great time listening to your "red neck" jokes and I pulled over and wrote down as many of the sayings as I could remember. That weekend we had some friends over for dinner and after we had eaten and were diving into the post-dinner liqueurs I pulled out my red neck list and announced I would read one of the "you know you're a red neck if...." lines. To make a long story short we passed the list around the table reading the wisdom individually, then some of us stood up and roared them together. It was a great evening and the people who were there still bring up the classic "red neck" evening.

From that point, for twenty-some years, I have been an avid listener and a true believer. I now find it an honor to consider myself a conservative and I admire your commitment to your beliefs and the eloquent way you express them. I know you have a lot of listeners and I'm sure you gain new listeners every day. However I think at this time in our Nation's history you can gain even more.

As you say most Americans live their lives in a conservative manner but have a desire to help their fellow countrymen who need a helping hand; not with government handouts with strings attached but with a genuine love for their neighbors. Some of those people might consider themselves Liberals or Democrats but only in a reflexive manner not ideologically. I used to be like that because it felt good to be someone who looked out for the little guy and I believed that the "all benevolent" government was looking out for them too. Now I realize "big brother" wants the "have nots" to be beholden to him and never wants them to get ahead and off the "dole". Not to mention the Americans who drive our engine of democracy, the thousands of small businesses of the free-market system who just want to be left alone without being taxed into bankruptcy.

I think you need to offer a RUSH LIMBAUGH GUARANTEE to anyone who will listen to you for a month. You will warranty that that person will become a "ditto head" or "a believer" or "a Conservative" or a "Truthster" after 30 days of listening to your show. You could offer to donate $100 to the charity of your choice if they do not become a "Truthster". I know it is a sucker's bet because I think that anyone who is honest with you about their beliefs (as in not being "a mind numbed robot") and is willing to give you a shot will be a dedicated convert in a month (probably less).

The reason you separate yourself from the rest of your conservative brothers and sisters is your sense of humor, your positive attitude, your ability to talk and listen to your callers and your skill in turning a negative caller into someone who is an ally. You have a way of defusing an angry person who doesn't believe in you into someone who may be a little embarrassed about their hostility and willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. It is a rare skill and one that will convert many more "Doubtsters" into "Truthsters".

Stay healthy, Will

Letter about Doc

One of my friends from the Marine Corps, Mike Newton, contacted me recently about a fellow we both knew in Vietnam. He was a Navy Hospital Corpsman named Richard "Doc" Pinsonnault and a good guy who didn't make it back from Vietnam.

A Hospital Corpsman or just Corpsman is the Army's version of a Medic. He's the guy who ranges around a battlefield finding wounded men and trying to save their lives. All a Corpsman carries for protection is a .45 caliber pistol and very rarely does he use it because he is too involved in treating stricken Marines. It's hard to imagine the courage it takes to go forward in a hostile environment, with bullets flying all over the place and mortars landing near you to save a buddy. "Doc" was that kind of guy and he did it many times.

Mike had been contacted by a fellow name Ray King who was from "Doc's" home town of North Attleboro, Massachusetts and had grown curious about a World War I monument located in front of St. Mary's Catholic Church. Ray noted the thirteen names and asked around to see if anyone knew who they were. No one did. At that moment Ray, a "mill right" in a local factory who says he is "not a writer", started his quest. After a year he finished his research on who the men were and how they died and arranged with The Free Press, the local paper, to publish the stories. In a letter from Ray he said, "I feel it's a terrible sin to have perished in the service of the country and to be forgotten".

As the stories were published there was a favorable response from the townsfolk and Ray continued his journey through World War II, Korea and then finally reached Vietnam and Hospital Corpsman Third Class Richard Pinsonnault. Apparently Doc's parents are gone but through the internet and some dogged searching Ray King found my friend Mike Newton. Mike came off the chopper on Hill 689 the night of June 6, 1968 was wounded, treated by Doc Pinsonnault and med-evaced shortly after. He wasn't with us the night Doc was killed but he knew I was so now it's my job to remember Doc's sacrifices and make sure he is nover forgotten.

Attached is the letter I sent to Ray King. It and other remembrances of Doc will be published in the North Attleboro Free Press on Veteran's Day 2011.

Dear Ray,
I am Will Lomen and I was with Doc Pinsonnault when he died on Hill 689 July 7, 1968. My great friend Mike Newton forwarded your email to me and asked me to write something for you about Doc. That was a couple of months ago and every time I tried to get started on my reply for some reason I had to stop. My brother Terry, who was also a Marine, was killed in Vietnam close to a year later in June of 1969 and his loss is something I deal with every day of my life. He and three of his best friends joined the Marine Corps because I did and they all made it back and in one piece except Terry. I have sworn I will finish this letter to honor the courage, steadfastness to duty and expertise that Doc exhibited in the field and under fire on many occasions.

I wasn't assigned to Charlie Company's 2nd Platoon until sometime in April of 1968 so I didn't know Doc as well as Mike and the other Marines on Hill 881 South. My memories of him were of a guy who was cocky but professional with his duties. To be a corpsman you had to be supremely confident in your abilities and able to handle the inevitable sarcastic banter lobbed at you daily by equally cocky but respectful Marines. We all knew that it took a special kind of man to range about a battlefield packing only a medical kit and a .45 caliber pistol that most likely would never be fired.

The night of July 6, 1968 Charlie Company of the First Battalion, First Marine Regiment was choppered onto Hill 689 in support of Delta Company who, the night before, had been hit by a fusillade of mortars followed by a suicide ground attack. They were in dire straits and undermanned but they couldn't be pushed off that hill. As soon as we landed we were hit by another mortar barrage resulting in two of my friends, Mike Newton and John Keeling being wounded. Mike with wounds to an arm and both legs; John hit in the face with shrapnel that miraculously curved down his forehead and over his nose, missing both eyes. Doc treated them both, and then in the dead of night and under fire our chopper returned, backed up to the hill, lowered the ramp and rescued all of our wounded.

That night we were re-enforced by Alpha Company then the next day Charlie Company was given the mission of retrieving marines from Delta Company who had been killed outside the perimeter the day before. Shortly after we went through the barbed wire to search for our comrades we were again hit by mortars and a lethal sniper whom we could not pinpoint. When our progress stalled we were ordered to pull back and once again Doc came to the front and treated his troops; specifically Waco Stroud and Sergeant Rowe both of whom died, but not because of Doc's actions. I watched him comfort them in their final moments.

After we returned to the top of the hill and were inside our lines again Doc treated more wounded men; specifically our company commander Captain Trautwein and two other Marines, Pat Caldwell and a fellow named Riley. I can't remember the other names. Once again the gutsy Marine pilots brought their CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters back to the hill and, in the face of nagging mortar attacks that were targeting our landing zone, recovered our casualties.

Suddenly as a former fire team leader I was informed that I was now the commander of second platoon and as darkness fell we came under attack again. Before I could ponder my new responsibilities the new company commander, Lieutenant Perry, ordered our platoon to a position on the west side of the hill. With my radio man Lance Corporal John Antonace and platoon corpsman Richard Pinsonnault following in my footsteps, I lead our small group of Marines out onto a small finger of land and dove into a trench. We tried to make out attacking soldiers in the dark on the other side of the barbed wire but couldn't see anything; our platoon laid down a wall of M-16 rounds anyway.

In the confusion of the moment we assumed another platoon from Charlie Company was to our left with Alpha Company to our right but we were wrong. For some reason I looked to my left and saw a group of men standing on a bunker and firing back inside our lines. They were shouting "We friendlies, we friendlies", but it was in a foreign accent. Before we had time to react two explosions detonated directly behind me, something lit up the area and Antonace landed on top of me, driving me into the bottom of the trench. The explosions turned out to be enemy hand grenades and the bright light was an illumination round that was strapped to the side of Antonace's radio. The illumination round was triggered by the exploding hand grenades and it fluttered into the air, landed on the side of the trench and rolled underneath me. Thinking it was some kind of time bomb I dragged myself out from underneath Antonace and dove out of the trench, falling into a bomb crater.

Not sure what was happening, my platoon regrouped and confirmed that somehow enemy troops were to our left and were attacking our position. We fired back, inside our lines, and eventually took out the men on the bunker. We killed most of them with their wounded succumbing to their wounds the next day. Still not sure about the security of our position we rushed back to the trench to find Antonace and Doc. They were gone. Doc had taken the force of the two exploding hand grenades to his front and John was killed when the igniting illumination round hit him in the side of the head as it detonated.

I am sorry to hear that Doc's parents aren't alive to remember him but maybe you have made contact with the cousin and he will carry on the memories. The important thing is that you are doing what you have set out to do. It is a noble effort and you represent a chosen group who has selflessly taken on the task of making sure nobody forgets the ones who have paid the ultimate price for their country. You say you are not a writer but you are wrong. A writer is someone who sets a goal to tell a story and gets it done. There are a lot of people who may have better writing skills and know how to use fancy words and have big dreams about writing a story but never quite get around to it. That's what separates the talkers from the doers, like you. Congratulations on the dream you have chosen and good luck on your quest.

Semper Fi, Will Lomen

The Red and Black are back!

As a guest of the McGilvra Soccer Club at a recent board meeting, it was terrific to see it was business as usual. In the comforting confines of John McCormick's Park Deli, we sipped cool beverages as President Bruce Clarkson and six other volunteers conducted club affairs as has been done for the past thirty-eight years. Covering such basic issues as player registration, team practice schedules, uniform and equipment purchases, budget updates and the expansion of the club website, the volunteers readied McGilvra's "association" and "mod" teams for the upcoming 2010 season in September. "Association" meaning boy and girl teams with players under ten (U-10) to under nineteen years of age (U-19) and "Mod" being boy and girl teams for under six (U-6) to under nine (U-9) who play under modified rules. These modifications for the younger soccer players include: reduced rosters, shorter fields, fewer on-field players, shorter games and a smaller ball. The "Mod" idea is that the kids will get more touches on the ball and be more involved in the game.

Back in 1973 when all players played eleven-a-side on a regulation field the McGilvra club provided approximately three hundred kids the opportunity to play soccer in the Seattle Youth Soccer Association. Over the years the Club has experienced steady growth and in 2010 the club now stands at more than five hundred players who are coached by over fifty volunteer coaches.


The McGilvra club is defined by the geographical boundaries of: North at the Ship Canal, East along Lake Washington to Yesler and west to MLK then along MLK until it runs into Madison then down Madison to the west side of Washington Park and along the Arboretum to 26th Ave. E. and back north to the ship canal. These borders are similar to the Madison Park, Washington Park, Denny-Blaine and Madrona boudries with the Mt.Baker/Lakewood Soccer Club to the south, the Capitol Hill Soccer Club to the east and the Woodland Soccer Club to the North.

Over the years one characteristic of the Club has been the outstanding volunteers who have kept the McGilvra Soccer organization (mcgilvrasoccer.org) running efficiently. Some years a few individuals have done most of the work and in other years a new generation of enthusiastic parents have filled every position covering such varied job titles as: President, Seattle Youth Soccer Association Commissioner, Mod Coordinator, Photo Day Coordinator and Coaching Director. Each team will then assign parents with providing such essentials as game day snacks and the end-of-the-year party.

After five years, Kendall Culwell the lady who has held the Club's most important position of Head Registrar, will step aside and is moving to California. Culwell, who swears that the reason she is moving has nothing to do with intensity of the job, will facilitate the registration for the 2010 season then will be available train her successor. As the Club searches for her replacement Culwell is enthusiastic about the job's rewards. She has enjoyed the energy of organizing each team and interacting with all of the coaches and many of the parents. She says that the May to August registration period can be hectic but also very satisfying as existing and new teams come together into units of kid-friendly teams with names like: Go Girls, Sparklers, Lasers, Stampede, Green Hornets, Superfriends, Speedy Cats and Hotshots. It is a testament to Culwell's efficiency and dedication that during her five years she has twice been designated the Seattle Youth Soccer Association volunteer of the month which includes the SYSA's (sysa.org) sixteen clubs and over thirteen thousand soccer players under their umbrella.

Although one of the smallest clubs in the city the McGilvra red and black are competitive with any of the larger clubs and have many City Championships to show for it. Last year in weather not fit for a polar bear, four of it's teams fought through the marathon rounds of the City Tournament and made it to the finals. On that cold and rainy of December 19th at the Nathan Hale and Summit field complexes, the GU11 Sparklers coached by Bruce Clarkson and the GU12 Chargers coached by Mike Riley won their respective City Championships in heart-stopping performances. The GU13 Go Girls coached by Scott MacIntire and the BU11 NIghthawks coached by Joe Nickerson finished as the gutsy runner-ups in their classifications.

As I sat listening to Bruce Clarkson, Kendall Culwell, Scott MacIntire, Jonathan Stark, Darren Gray and Ken Gladden give their various reports you could feel the anticipation for the upcoming season. As dates were set, assignments were delegated and questions were answered it was comforting to know that the Club, which has been passed down through the years, was in good hands.



             2009 CITY CHAMPS! GU12 McGILVRA CHARGERS





              2009 CITY CHAMPS! GU11 McGILVRA SPARKLERS




 

Guess who just visited the neighborhood?

The pieces to the puzzle were there, it was just a matter of fitting them in their proper places.

Over the past week Madison Parkers may have noticed City of Seattle traffic signs appearing along south McGilvra Boulevard and south along Lake Washington Boulevard. If had they looked closely at the typically sloppy hand writing they would have been informed that certain curbs would not be available for parking  south to the Madrona bus turnaround from 6am to 6pm on August 17th. Those of us who have been benumbed to the continuous home construction projects in our neighborhood and their inherent impact probably skimmed the dates and times and promptly wrote it off to just more pickup trucks, cement mixers, yawning traffic directors and another delivery of port-a-potties. That would have been a mistake.

As they lay in the sun at Madrona Beach today around 2pm on August 17th another group would have noticed the very strange sight of at least six distinctive boats with high powered outboard engines enblazened with large letters spelling POLICE jockeying for position off the shore from the Madrona bus turnaround. Their first thought would be, "Weren't the Blue Angels last week?" then they would have rolled over and reached for the sun screen.

About a half a mile north on the Boulevard another more adventurous group would be searching in vain for parking at the nudie beach hidden on a secretive street off Lake Washington Boulevard. "I mean what's the problem with these lunch board signs telling me I can't hang out at my favorite Lake Washington beach in my birthday suit?"

As you continued north along the Boulevard toward Madison Park suddenly it would become obvious that something different was happening in the neighborhood. There were vans and a whole lot of police officers and your first thought may have been: "They're filming a movie somewhere around here so they need the police for security and the vans for all the actors and support staff etc. etc." But then you realized that that didn't make sense because why would they be serving meals out of a police van? I mean can you eat donuts all day long?

Then there are the people who would have recalled articles about the President being in town to show the flag for Patty Murray and some of them may have been excited for a few seconds about attending the fundraiser until they realized that ponying up $10,000 would put a serious dent in this month's entertainment and mortgage budget so they decided to watch it on the news. But what was this about the President hanging out at Rob Glazer's lakefront estate and didn't he just move from a hot condo downtown to a neighborhood more user-friendly to his new kid-friendly family?

So guess what? Yup you're right that was the President hustling along Lake Washington Boulevard between 2pm and 4pm today encompassed in a secure entourage of Seattle Police personnel, automobiles, motorcycles, vans, State sheriffs and Secret Service agents along with the President's Beige Suburban with the tiny American flags followed by more vans and more motorcycles.

Next time pay attention to those street signs, you never know who's going to be visiting.