CHRISTMAS 1998 A number of years ago brother Jerry and I rented our best apartment to a pair of brothers who were college freshmen. The unit had a fireplace. In the Christmas season the brothers decided to burn a Yule log. The problem was that the log at hand was a bit oversize: about 4 inches in diameter and 10 feet long. Rather than borrow a saw and cut the log to reasonable lengths they remembered their childhood accounts of Santa going down the chimney. They climbed on the roof and dropped the log down the chimney. They thought that it would stop at the floor of the firebox. Their idea was to start it burning at its base, expecting that it would then burn continuously until it was completely consumed. In the medieval and in the frontier era fireplaces were built with chimneys rising directly from the firebox, without an intervening smoke shelf, and I expect the idea must have occurred a thousand times before them. They were happy with their invention until they returned to the living room. The pole was nowhere in sight. It had wedged solidly in the space between the back of the firebox and the outside wall of the fireplace. Now they feared that we would be forced to break up the fireplace to extract the log, and charge them for an expensive repair. Jerry and I had to do a lot of head scratching to figure out how to remove their Yule log. We finally succeeded by putting a hook on the end of a rope and while Jerry directed the rope from the chimney top I crawled into the firebox and felt for the rope and the log. With the tips of my fingers I finally succeeded in getting a couple of wraps around it and slipping the hook over the rope. When I got out of the firebox I looked like Santa sans white beard and red clothes; I was covered with soot. With both of us pulling we finally succeeded in extracting it.
Wherever I lived I have always had a workshop well stocked with tools and enjoyed making and repairing toys for the neighborhood children. At one time we lived next to a family of 15 delightful children, about a year apart in age. Many times I would return from work to find several waiting for me on the front steps with an assortment of broken bicycles, tricycles and other toys. One time there were 4 or 5 waiting without the usual broken toys. They explained that they wanted me to build them a helicopter, one that they could ride in. I agreed, but told them that they would have to help me by gathering some of the materials while I changed into some work clothes. A half an hour later they returned with a broken baby carriage, an old one with large wheels, and an old wind-up phonograph. I mounted two of the wheels at the rear of a long board and the other two on a short piece, pivoting this at the other end of the board for steering. Part way back I nailed a tall box and screwed the phonograph on top of this. On the turntable I screwed 4 light, thin boards from an orange crate, in the form of a cross, to simulate a helicopter propeller. When it was completed the younger ones jumped on with delight but the oldest, about 8 years old, was disappointed. He said, "But it won't fly in the air". I'll never forget the sight: one in front of the box, steering; 3 riding in back; the blades turning slowly above them; one pushing and several running along side shouting encouragement and making helicopter sounds.
I remember Wendy, a rather exuberant child. She was the same age as Lois, my younger daughter, and they frequently played together. My earliest recollection of her was when she was about 6 years old. She had been playing with Lois at our house and we asked her if she would stay for dinner. She said that she would have to check home first. After dialing home I heard her say to her mother, "Mom, what are we having for dinner?" There was a long silence on our end while her mother apparently gave a detailed description of the coming evening meal. At length Wendy responded, "Mom, I want to eat with the Jedlickas today." When she was about 8 her family bought a huge, elderly stallion. The first time she rode over to our house the horse left a deposit on our driveway. Wendy turned to me and said, "Sorry for that." I responded, "That's ok, I will spread the material around some shrubs that need fertilizer." She replied, "Oh, we have tons of the stuff. When I get home I'll ask my father to dump a trailer load on your driveway."
When she was 11 or 12 Wendy and a male school friend of about the same age came up our driveway, each carrying what looked like half of a very small motorcycle. The boy was sobbing and Wendy was trying to quiet him, saying, "It'll be alright. Mr. Jedlicka will fix it as good as new, maybe better than new." It seemed that the lad had just had a birthday and had received his fondest wish, a junior motorcycle. He had taken his new possession over to Wendy's house to show her and she asked if she could try it out. She ran it down the nearby hill to get up a good speed and jumped it over a small hill. The jump must have been a substantial one, because on landing the motorcycle frame broke completely into two pieces, about half way between the handlebars and the seat. While I was restoring the frame the boy was incredulous that it would be as good as new. When I had finished paint had burned off in the vicinity of the welds so it certainly did not look new. I told them to wheel it back to Wendy's house and ask one of her parents to go to the hardware store and buy a can of matching spray paint and paint it before he rode it home.
I noticed that children become more reticent as they grow older. Next to us at one time was a family with two boys, ages about 10 and 17. The older boy got a well-used car. Shortly thereafter the 10 year-old appeared on my steps carrying a generator bracket which had broken in two. He started to tell me what he wanted but forgot the words, finally handing me a note written by his brother. It was written in first person, and emphasized that this had to be a first class job. The older brother had written out exactly what he wanted the younger brother to say to me, but the 10 year-old was not able to memorize his exact words before he arrived at my house.
Jim (aka "Fat") p.s. After living in the Belden Drive, Los Altos house for 23-1/2 years we moved to Whidbey Island, Washington in May of this year. Around 4 years ago we bought 5 acres of forest in Freeland, on which to have a house built. The idea was to clear a minimum of trees, only enough for a house with sunlight around it and the usual area for a drain field. The land does not border on a road so we have a long driveway. How long? If we walk from the house to the road and back to see if the mail had arrived we will have walked 1/3 mile. The new house construction will start when we have money in hand from the sale of our Los Altos house. We are currently living in a house in Langley, about 7 miles from our house site in Freeland. Langley is a delightful town of about 1,000 population and the house we're living in, which we bought as rental property three years ago, is in a modern subdivision about a half mile from (and about 600 feet above) the small business district. We frequently walk to town for breakfast or dinner and I usually walk around the populated area of town every day, about 2 miles. Our new address is:
752 Suzanne Court
Langley, WA 98260
jedlicka@whidbey.com