Make an effort to remember good times

Years back, my health dictated that I could no longer work at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard (PSNS). I had to find work, and quickly. So, when a building plans examiner job was offered in Kittitas County, Wash., I took it. It meant moving about 200 miles east to central Washington, but after scouting out the area my family agreed it looked like a good move.

For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Washington state, the eastern side of the state is nothing like the western side. When you think of Washington, you think of towering Douglas fir trees, green everywhere and the scenic Puget Sound with a ferry cutting through its waters. Personally, I think of algae growing on cars that have been parked too long, slugs and endless days of cold rain, but that’s just me.

But the other side of the state where we were moving is so much like Afghanistan that the U.S. Army actually uses it as a training area for soldiers headed there. It has rolling brown and golden hills, tumbleweeds, rocky mesas and even the occasional rattlesnake.

The county seat of Kittitas is Ellensburg where we would make our new home. Ellensburg was like an oasis in the middle of this dry country. Generations ago, it had been crisscrossed with canals for watering crops and the entire city was full of oak, willow and mountain ash trees and beautiful lawns. It is the home of Central Washington University, the Ellensburg Rodeo (one of the top five rodeos in the country) and was a seemingly odd amalgam of college town, farmers and cowboys. But it blended well and the result was one of the nicest, most pleasant places I have ever lived. The town is very old and many of the original buildings still stand. When people jokingly refer to a town as being “Mayberry,” I immediately think of Ellensburg. People drove politely. I rarely saw anybody lock their car’s doors after parking. One time, I realized in horror that I had forgotten my wallet on the dashboard of my car several hours after arriving at work. It was summer and the windows were down. I ran outside expecting to see it gone. Nope, there it was, still sitting on the dash where I had left it.

With five kids (Glenny was pregnant with Benjy at the time), I had to hurry and find a house. The one I got was a large, almost-new house on the edge of town facing the mountains. It was in a high-class developed neighborhood with manicured lawns, six-foot cedar fences and such. Ellensburg had recently seen several fields subdivided and turned into these neighborhoods for the recent migration of retirees and wealthy folks who were willing to live there while working in Seattle, 120 miles away (I kid you not).

We had never lived in a place like that and I felt rather sheepish wondering what they were thinking as they saw the moving truck back up and begin unloading all our stuff. I remember standing in the driveway and looking at the other driveways. More often than not, there would be a BMW or Mercedes parked next to a brand new $50,000 truck. The truck’s purpose was to try and fit in with the locals, we later learned. I turned around and looked at my transportation; a 1989 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser (with the fake wood on the sides) and a lifted 1984 Ford Bronco with the top off. Hmm.

About a month after moving in, while we were still settling in and getting to know our neighbors, Jim Groat called one morning to say that he and some other friends were a few miles up the road. Seems they had decided to ride their motorcycles over the pass and wanted to see us. Now, these friends were some of the hardest-working, respectable and pleasant people I have ever known and had the pleasure of meeting at PSNS. Jim was an excellent shipwright and had taught me the basics of building scaffolding around ships. With him were Jim Minaker, another shipwright, and his wife, Kelly Jo.

Then there was Randy Kadlecek. Randy was the only person I have ever met who woke up and went to bed with a smile on his face. Perpetually happy and always the first to laugh, he was incapable of being in a bad mood. He was also a very devoted father to a very pretty little girl.

Anyway, I went and found them in town and had them follow me back to the house. As we drove through the housing development, their Harley-Davidson motorcycles rumbled from their modified exhaust pipes like the inside of a thunderstorm as it bounced and rolled off the cedar fences.

Curtains parted as curious faces peeked out, eyes peeped over the top of fences as people stood up from their gardening to see what was going on. No doubt they thought the Hells Angels had arrived. I’m quite certain to this day that their arrival is what guaranteed my family and I so much quiet and respect from our neighbors during our time there.

They stayed overnight and we went to the famous Ellensburg Rodeo. After a big breakfast we said goodbye as they continued their lap of the state and it was truly sad to see them go. I didn’t know at the time that it would be the last time I saw Randy. A few months later, Randy lost control of his motorcycle and didn’t survive. I miss him. When we made a brief trip to Washington a few weeks ago and had dinner with the gang, Glenny and I felt his absence.

Life brings changes and it was sad times when nine employees, including myself, were let go from Kittitas County. It’s a tough place to try and find work, and my family and I finally — begrudgingly — moved back to western Washington. I guess the argument could be made that if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to finally come back to Alaska, but I frequently think of Ellensburg. I remember it as a great little town.

If you ever get the chance to travel through Washington, stop by. Go to Campus Burger and get a fresh blackberry shake, sit down on the picnic table outside and look around. Maybe stroll into the Ranch and Home store, walk around on the weathered old hardwood floor and look at all the cool stuff they sell there. There aren’t too many places left like that anymore.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.