Last week’s post reminded me how much I miss that crazy neighborhood where our kids spent most of the growing-up years during the 1950s and 1960s.  

In Saint Joseph’s parish on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, none of the moms “worked”, unless you count their 16 hour days tending to their share of the 99 kids who lived on both sides of our street, plus their other assignments such as the grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, diapering, first aid, trying to make ends meet, volunteering for Mothers Club, and praying for sanity. I was among those hardy women, – my best friends, – fighting the good fight for survival of the fittest.

And so were the kids. The 99 kids were in every age group from about 18 years old on down, and the older ones all shared an odd attribute. They actually tolerated the younger kids. Unlike most teenagers, they not only kept a vigilant eye on their younger siblings and their cohorts, but sometimes, when they weren’t yelling at them, I think they kind of enjoyed their company.

I was reminded of this the other day when I was decluttering some old files. In some of son Matthew Ford’s old college papers, I found an essay he’d written. It was titled

“THE UNSUNG HERO”.

“During my twelfth year, I learned that courage often goes unrecognized and unrewarded because the action of a hero often illuminates the timidity of the coward.

“My family lived on Capitol Hill in Seattle in a large Catholic neighborhood affectionately called “Rabbit Hill” due to the large families dwelling there. If we recruited a few kids from adjacent streets, we could easily field one hundred players for a game of Capture the Flag”.

“However, we usually kept to our own block and, inevitably, we would clash with gangs from other streets. A strange kind of territorial imperative prevailed. Singly, or in pairs, boys could freely roam the entire neighborhood, but three or more boys venturing off familiar turf invited trouble. Most altercations began in alleys out of sight of mothers.

“One particular hot summer day, four of my 20th Street gang members and I congregated in my back yard and were busily engaged in one of our favorite activities –  making dirt bombs.  We proudly produced the finest dirt clods ever fashioned by human hands. We experimented with dozens of variations. Some would explode on contact, while others would hit with a thud. We “employed many different ingredients in ever-changing recipes to ensure a proper variety of weapons in our arsenal, ranging from still-wet mud balls to sun-dried hand grenades.

“We built our most potent missile around a core of fresh dog manure. Only the most experienced and physically coordinated boys dared to use this biological weapon. In the heat of battle, whoever gripped this dirt bomb too tightly before launching, suffered a fate worse than death.

“As we toiled single-mindedly at our task, none of us noticed that boys from a rival 21st street gang were stealthily filtering into the alley. On the far side of the fence separating my backyard from the alley, they quietly assembled. Suddenly, they unleashed an enormous fusillade of rocks that rained down mercilessly upon us. Initially, we put up a spirited defense, but our adversaries in the alley outnumbered us three or four to one. We turned around and scrambled over the 6 foot fence to the safety of the front yard.

“Several minutes later, as we sat on the grass in the shade of a large oak tree about 50 yards down the street, we quickly forgot our recent harrowing skirmish and entered into a heated discussion over who had the fastest bike.

“Just then, someone inquired, “What happened to Paul?”

“A dead silence ensued.“Paul was an odd character, socially awkward but doggedly determined. Only nine years old, he didn’t care for the company of children his own age. He tagged around with us. I had befriended him even though the three year age difference between us brought disdainful looks from my peers. We enjoyed playing chess and carefully recorded each game. He beat me only one time, and that was on our two hundred twenty-second game; Paul never backed down from a challenge.

“After we discovered Paul’s absence, the four of us quickly but quietly ran back to my house. We approached the fence we had recently scaled and peered between the boards. Little Paul still stood his ground. Fewer objects flew through the air, as the context had been transformed chiefly into one of verbal insults.

“We listened silently as Paul traded taunt for taunt while occasionally lobbing a poorly-aimed dirt bomb. Inspired by Paul’s bravery, we leaped over the fence and rejoined the fray. In a few glorious moments, we drove our humiliated foes from the alley. Jubilant, we heartily congratulated one another.

“While we did compliment Paul, we actually tried to minimize his role in the victory. Shame had fallen on us because, in our moment of trial, we had bolted, while a mere nine year-old stood fast against our enemies. Unlike us, this nine-year-old had faced his Goliath and had suffered no loss of honor.

“After my family moved from Capitol Hill, I never saw Paul again, but I have often wondered what hand of cards life had handed him. I saw him repeatedly display steadfast determination and courage, but quietly without seeking glory. I suppose today that he is still an unsung hero, but a hero nonetheless.”

That was the end of Matt’s essay, and he got an A+ for his story of this quiet little hero, Paul. Today, though, Paul isn’t little anymore. I saw him a few years ago and he towered over me.  

He still must be going about his life quietly though.  Except for the fact that he works as a tax preparer, I couldn’t find any other nuggets of info about him on the internet except for two items. Paul did nicely at the 2015 World Series of Poker, so it seems he may be doing better at the card table than the chessboard.

The other item was a news story. According to KOMO-TV News in 2019, a man named Paul Fawthrop from Renton, Washington helped pull an elderly woman from her burning house.  https://komonews.com/news/local/woman-pulled-from-her-burning-home-in-renton Matthew thinks it was predictable … Just another day in the life of an unsung hero.

… last night as I stood
On the same corner back in that old neighborhood
I couldn’t help brushing a tear from my eye
For I knew not a face in the crowds that went by
Gone forever are the pals that I love
There isn’t a trace or a sign
Of that regular honest-to-goodness old bunch
That I call that old gang of mine. (From the old song “That Old Gang of Mine”.)