Ditching Cab Drivers

A comment I made on a previous post about a story Philip told me about a wildly risky "ride-and-dash" from a cab triggered a memory Kevin had of a similar occurrence. Here is his story:

Ditching taxi drivers, hmmm? I remember at least one instance where Philip "rode and ran" in Bellingham. It occurred after a visit to a girl friend he was seeing during spring quarter 1973, toward the end of our first year at Western. I don't know the young woman's name. Phil never revealed it to Jerry or me. He only allowed that she lived alone in a studio at The Belvedere Apartments on Holly Street, just north of campus. We learned very little about her. In fact, I never knew how or where they met. She may have been a student at Western though I am not sure. In any case, she was a few years older than Phil. He liked that she was older and he spoke of her fondly with a kind of protective admiration that seemed mysterious to me then. I remember that she didn't insist that he take her out on dates and that he felt relief that he didn't have to go through that conventional ritual with her. They spent intense periods of time with one another. Sometimes he would disappear from our Humboldt Street house for a few days at a time. This was unusual because during that first year we almost never ventured outside of our close circle alone. He said that she was interested in literature and that they would talk, drink wine, and prepare meals together, among other things. Jerry and I began to refer to her as "Belvedere", so when Philip would return after a night or so away from home we would ask "how's Belvedere?" He never got worked up over our kidding. He even took to using our moniker for her whenever he would announce that he was going over to see Belvedere.

One rainy night he called a cab from Belvedere’s place to take him home. He told the driver to drop him off about a block from our Humboldt Street house and then ditched the cabbie before settling up. This was becoming a fairly common practice among students living off-campus in 1970's Bellingham. The cabbie wasn't having it and he didn't give up easy. Phil ran down the street but couldn't shake the guy so he tore through some side yards to the alley that ran behind our house. He was huffing and puffing when he got to our back porch. Oh, and he was laughing that manic thrilled but slightly scared laugh.

Kevin Curran

Phil and the Paramount Plastics Lighters

Kevin Curran recently emailed me:

"Gianni, I have two jpegs of the orange/amber plexi lighter that Phil was trying to sell by the car trunk during our B'ham days. I hope that you can post them to the site. I should probably write something about them but I am drawing a blank. Any ideas?"

He told me it is the only thing of Phil's aside from letters he still possesses. He sent along a couple of photos...

As it turns out, when I first met Phil, he was hawking these plastic lighters. . .he had literally cases of them. He would sell them to you for a buck (I think it was) and you could easily sell them again for $2.50 or $3. I bought a bunch from him, sold them, and then bought more. . .but I had saturated my market. No one I knew needed another Paramount Plastics lighter. Over the years, the couple dozen I had drifted away. And now, Kevin turns up with one he got from Phil. And it sounds like Phil was still trying to unload them at college four or five years later!

I'm sure the K sisters can fill in this part of the story--but I vaguely remember this. Phil's dad designed, or bought the design, for a lucite lighter. This was probably about 1968. Lucite was still a mysterious and kind of weird material. The lighters looked cool. . .you could see the entire works inside. I seem to recall, however, they weren't exactly stellar performers in the flamethrowing arena. They emitted a pretty anemic little flare of light, and since they had no chimney, the faintest riffle of a wind would blow it out. But they made up for all that in cool.

Unfortunately, I believe the lighter was a commercial flop (?), and lord knows how many were left in boxes or crates at Paramount Plastics. In any case, for a period of at least five years, I remember Phil having tons of these around. After I hadn't thought about them for thirty years, here they are once again. I wouldn't be surprised if someone in the family doesn't have a box or two squirreled away somewhere. . .

---o0o---

Remembering Phil Kendall
by Jann Placentia

I remember:

I accompanied Phil many times after school in the spring of our senior year in high school, when he’d play a few holes of golf. One time, he hit a great shot that we knew had landed close to the green. We both searched and searched around the green but could not find the ball. At last, we gave up and looked in the cup --- and there it was, a Hole in One!

Phil would often call me late at night, filled with excitement, (I had my own personal phone line, so didn’t have to worry about disturbing the household) and read me his latest wonderful metaphor or poem.

Phil loved “Night Gallery “, “The Twilight Zone” and “A Clockwork Orange” – some of his stories reflected that fascination with sort of a “film noir/sci fi” essence.

Phil had a cool green Mustang for which someone he knew offered to trade him a cute, little, bright red Austin Healy Sprite. We had such fun zipping around in that Sprite, wearing our matching white racing hats --- I know it might sound silly or ridiculous from the vantage point of maturity, but the sight of us in those matching hats was amusing!

My brother, Chris, decided to enter a “Smoker” at his jr high and asked Phil to be his coach --- what an ironic thing: Phil was not a fighter, (neither was my brother) he was the guy everyone liked.

Phil was a wonderful person….I’m so blessed to have known him so well…..I miss him.

The one and only prank I ever pulled on Phil (it was for his own good)
by Claudia

Philip was getting ready to go to a party – by going through our mom’s medicine cabinet! I was astounded and thought I’d teach him a lesson. My mom at one time had back problems and was taking Soma for the pain. I’m sure that’s what he was looking for.

I took an empty prescription bottle and filled it with saccharin pills. Back then they came in pill form. I gave them to Phil and told him that Mom said they made her feel really good. “Okay,
great.”

The next morning, he just shook his finger at me – with a slight smile on his face. Then he proceeded to describe the experience of having saccharin dissolve in his mouth. He didn’t get mad. In fact, I don’t remember him ever getting angry with anyone. Only himself.

The day Phil saved our lives
by Claudia

Our family used to rent cabins at Lake Meridian before we moved to Kent. I was about six when the incident happened one summer day at the lake. I had been practicing jumping into the lake from the dock all afternoon. Our dad was enjoying the day from the shore and when I thought I could catch his attention, I yelled, "Watch!" and jumped in where the water was deep, just like I had been doing all day. But as soon as my head went under water, I realized I didn't have my life jacket on anymore. I frantically tried to keep myself from going under. Becky was swimming nearby and had seen me jump in, so she swam over to try to keep me afloat. She didn't have a life jacket on either, so all I did was pull her under. She remembers feeling like we were both going to drown.

Philip was also swimming nearby—but he was wearing his life jacket—and calmly paddled over to us and heroically saved both of us.



Phil was my hero. He was tough enough for me. It’s true, he was not a fighter. But he was no wimp either.

We were at a party – I don’t remember whose party it was, but it was in Kent -- before Phil went traveling. I remember my sister Beverly was there and Phil. I didn’t know anyone else. Bev and I were sitting on the couch in the living room and some guy came and sat between us. He was a stocky guy. Bev got up and sat down on a chair next to the couch. I tried to stand up and this bonehead grabbed me by the waist of my jeans and pulled me back down. I looked at Bev and said, “Get Philip!” Beverly left the room to find Phil while I tried to fight this guy off. I looked around the room and everyone was in polite conversation, so screaming seemed inappropriate. I was a quiet person, and I didn't like drawing attention to myself. Besides, I knew help was on the way.

It didn’t take long for Phil to show up to save me. He didn't say anything; he just took my hand and pulled me up while this guy again tried to pull me back down. Phil just kept pulling me up until I was able to get loose. The guy said to Phil, “She wants it,” to which Phil said adamantly, “No. She doesn’t.” It didn’t matter that this guy was bigger and seemingly stronger. I knew Phil wasn’t a fighter, but he could talk his way out of most situations. I walked a few steps away while he talked to the guy. I’m not sure what he said to him, but he was able to avoid a fight.

The next morning, at the family home in Kent, Phil matter-of-factly announced, “I had to save Claudia last night.” Once again.

Philip's cure for hiccups

I had the hiccups tonight, and I resorted to a hiccup cure I have been using ever since Philip Kendall taught it to me in 1973.

You put a standard issue table-knife in a glass of water and drink all the water leaving the knife in place. The knife somehow forces you to hold your throat in the right way to cure the hiccups. Since Phil taught me the cure, I have learned over the last 30 years or so, that you don't actually need the knife, but you have to drink the water as if the knife were there. . .you do a sort of chugging action on the water, and drink it in one fell swoop.

I don't know if this was a Kendall Home Remedy, or if he learned it in college, but it works (for me at least) 100% of the time. As it turns out, the knife cure is not unknown, or just a Kendall family home remedy.
---o0o---

The Love of Baseball

by Becky

Baseball was one of Philip's early passions. Many of my memories of him revolve around baseball-related events. My own passion for the game was re-ignited during the Mariner's 2001 season, when I started watching them on television, something I hadn't done more than a few times in the past. I was surprised how quickly I got caught up in the game and its penchant for statistics, and how it brought back a flood of family memories of its place in our lives.

My dad used to take us to the Seattle Rainier's games at Sick's Stadium in the early 1960's. I remember Philip always brought a baseball with him, and would stand at the chain link fence that protected the fans from getting clobbered with foul balls, and hold his ball up against one of the small diamond-shaped openings in the fence while a player signed it for him. He also always had his mitt with him, hoping for a foul ball into the stands that he could catch. I don't remember a ball ever coming over the fence into our favorite seating area, left of home plate.

In Little League Philip found that he had a talent for accurate throwing, and was chosen to pitch. He used to practice at home in the front yard with me or Claudia. I would also pitch to him when he wanted to practice his swing, and remember vividly when he hit a line drive smack at my nose, causing it to bleed profusely. You would think I would have learned my lesson and never pitch again, but years later I was hit in the face by my own husband when he hit one straight at me and I barely had time to turn my face to have it hit squarely on my cheek bone, and flatten me to the ground. Visions of practicing in the front yard with Philip danced in my starry head.

In the summer of 1965 my mother took all of us on a trip to Boston to visit her family. We had planned on being gone 2 weeks, meaning that Philip would have to miss a crucial championship game back home. They would have to use a substitute pitcher, and were counting on losing that one. As it turned out, my mother and dad missed each other so much that she cut our stay short and we headed home on the plane the day of the crucial game. With a quick trip home to gather his baseball mitt and clothing, we rushed to the field so he could play. Philip's teammates were so excited to have him back in time to kill the opposition, that it was as if he had ridden in on a white horse into town. They won the game, and we all went to the Shamrock Dairy in South Seattle to celebrate. We just happen to have a short video of him (captured from VHS via movie reels, and then captured again to computer) playing ball in LL (both pitching and hitting) that you can watch here. It's small and grainy, but you may recognize that distinctive walk and hand-on-hip stance of his.


The statistics of baseball were very important to Philip. He studied them, memorized them, and did his own calculations while waiting for the officials to publish them. One of my fondest memories of Philip was his endearing habit of figuring baseball averages in the air with his index finger held up to an imaginary blackboard.

The 1962 major league baseball season was one that would become Every Boy's Dream for Phil. He was an avid San Francisco Giants fan, and as they struggled through the season, my dad casually promised Philip that if they got into the World Series he would take him to see them play. As the season progressed, and the Giants came roaring back, my dad realized he might have to make good on his promise. And he did. The Giants got into the series, and my dad purchased tickets for him and Philip to go to San Francisco to see them play. It was probably the most exciting event of his life. They camped out the night before the opening game at the doors of Candlestick Park, and the next day they could be seen rushing in with a crowd of other dedicated fans on the front page of the sports section of the newspaper. Even though the Giants eventually lost the title to the (Damn) Yankees, Philip got to see his Giants' heroes Willie McCovey and Willie Mays -- and from the Yankees, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, and Mickey Mantle play.

In high school he abandoned baseball for football and basketball. I found out recently, after going through his letters home while he was in college, that he had signed up to play with a softball team and that they were heading into the championships. Philip had come back to his first sports love. (read Kevin's comment for more on that)

And that is why I still love baseball. I feel connected to Philip and my dad while I'm watching. It is in the blood.

The Big Party & the only time I saw Philip fight

[contributor's note: I realize this tale has limited appearances by Philip, however it is a story he would have enjoyed in the retelling, and it does show one slice of his life that 1973-74 school year (for better or worse)].


by Jack Brummet

I only remember seeing Philip fight once, although I do not believe he was a complete stranger to fisticuffs. He was no shrinking violet, certainly. I don't think he was averse to fighting, but thought along the same lines as I did. What could ever be the point of duking it out with some brain-damaged moron? To teach him a lesson he would forget the instant he awoke from his beer-fogged stupor the next morning? To have another great tale to toss in when the fellas were chewing the fat? To gain credibility among the gang of knuckleheads we chose as our virtual family?

The one time I did see him fight was not so much a fight as him coming to the defense of a friend who was being pummeled on the ground by a nearly-retarded ex-football player from Kent, Washington. I remember watching some fights with him and I believe we also discussed the omniscient satisfaction of watching others pummel it out from a comfortable perch, beer in hand, on the sidelines. And we did indeed have several opportunities to watch memorable dust ups outside parties, and most often, outside bars and taverns.

I don't know if Philip and I were on the same page on fights or not, but my feeling was similar to how some of the lesser animals probably felt as they watched a couple of Tyrannosaurus Rex decimate each other. If they actually did succeed in seriously injuring themselves, well, then, the world would be just a little bit safer.

Within a few weeks of when Phil, Kevin, Jerry, and I moved in together at 1721 Iron Street, we decided to have a party to inaugurate the place. We wanted to meet more people. People, as used here, specifically refers to girls. We also wanted to have a good excuse to entice our old pals back in Kent, Washington make the 80 mile trek up to Bellingham. And what was better enticement than two kegs of Rainier beer, college girls, and the various sundries that people brought along to enhance the merrymaking? As a side note, the party also occurred at the height of the Psilocybe semilanceata mushroom season.

We saved our money to buy plenty of beer. I also recall putting out some sorts of snacks--we did not create canapes, but did put out bowls of potato chips. Maybe even some clam dip. And salt peanuts. Ah, but we're moving ahead too quickly.

A couple of weeks before the party, we contacted everyone we knew in Bellingham and Kent. A lot of our old gang were still around the old home town and most agreed to make the trek north. We chatted up everyone we knew in Bellingham (alas, I knew about eight people there, since I'd only arrived at WWU a few weeks ago). It was looking good. Everyone we knew or had met was coming to the party.

That Friday, we broke out the Pine Sol™, mops, Windex™, and rags, and swabbed out 1721 Iron Street in the first and last serious cleaning she underwent that year. We didn't place vases of flowers around the house or put up candles and streamers, but the place was modestly respectable for a houseful of grungy bohos.

Also on Friday, unbeknown to us, Jerry made a run to campus and around town with dozens of Xeroxed™ fliers, to insure full attendance.
_____________________________

3 KEGS ● 3 KEGS ● 3 KEGS
Beer on ice, food,
rock and roll, dates, etc.,
BIG FUN!
1721 Iron Street 8:00 October 8, 1973
Bring friends, leaf, and your thirst
_____________________________

Jerry stapled fliers to bulletin boards, on the doors of bathroom stalls, outside classrooms at college, in the hallways of dormitories, at the student union building, in the cafeteria, around the music listening room, in the gym, near the bars and taverns of State Street, and even on the telephone poles lining the streets of downtown Bellingham and Fairhaven. He papered every square inch of town where people were not likely to have previous plans, and it worked. They all began arriving at our crib promptly at 8:00.

There is nothing more nerve-racking, as you know, than waiting for your own party to start. Those kegs were singing out to us from the back porch. By 7:00, pre-party jitters prompted us to tap the first keg, and by the time of the first arrivals, we felt no pain.

By 10:00, 1721 Iron Street was throbbing wall to wall with hundreds of people. The rented sound system pumped out Led Zeppelin, The Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Humble Pie, Nils Lofgren, and The Beatles at about 120 decibels. It was fantastic! A dozen cars arrived from Kent, filled with old friends, friends of friends, and people who didn't know any of us but were providing transport, or other sundries. The house was elbow to elbow, the backyard was full of people, the front yard was full of people smoking, chugging beer, groping each other, laughing hysterically, firing up bongs, and drinking shots of Jack Daniels, Mescal, and Hennessey's. The party was better than we'd ever imagined. We were cooking with gas! There were hordes of women from the dorms, and every girl we'd ever met who succumbed to our invitation. High school girls from Kent rolled in. Dozens of dormies showed up, on their first foray off campus.

Around 11:00, one of the visitors from Kent drove his Road Runner through the fence in our front yard and parked inches from our front door. In the backyard, one of our old classmates was crawling across the lawn, in the throes of an angel dust (a/k/a PCP) vision. Inside the house, things began to go awry. People were getting in snits over perceived and imaginary affronts. The ex-jocks and red-doggers (red-doggers: folks who enjoyed losing all control under the influence of barbiturates or Quaalude) from Kent, frustrated by a lack of success scoring with the college girls, and compounded with massive brewski intake, an unending succession of pipes and joints, and other comestibles, began to get surly. I remember Mort having a heated discussion regarding literacy with one of the knuckleheads from Kent. "He's literate. I'm literate. She's literate. You're illiterate." His name was Ace. Of course it was.

The best party ever suddenly pivoted and it was like the Sword of Damocles was hanging over the entire gathering. The vibe shifted dramatically following the demolition of our fence and events just ran downhill from there. Some of the more sensible folk began to sense violence in Pepperland--like the animals sense an incipient earthquake--and began easing toward the doors.

By midnight, the first fight erupted. The fights, naturally, were initiated by or mainly involved the attendees from our home town, and most of the culprits were friends of friends or friends of friends of friends. In any case, by the witching hour the beer, drugs, xenophobia, romantic frustration, noise, and even the long work week had taken their toll. A few preliminary dust-ups occurred, mostly settled before any serious damage was done. Twin brothers from Kent made it a mission to peg someone. They did. Mostly the attacked walked away, and were allowed to walk away.

Ace, with whom Mort was discussing literacy, soon decided to even the score for Mort's accusation of illiteracy ("whatever the f*** that is!"). And the first all out fight began.

They were rolling on the ground and Ace somehow got the advantage despite the barbiturates roiling his melon. He was about to bang on Mort's head with some object when Phil came charging from across the yard yelling. He put a workboot to the head of Ace, and ended the fight by dragging Ace off and leaving him in a heap on the lawn (Ace had a nice shiner the next morning...incredibly, he stayed overnight at our house). Other fights broke out now that the taste of blood was in the water. One departing car from Kent dug a doughnut in our front yard as they left, and hurled a wine bottle against the house. By the time the police arrived, there was no one to arrest and the minors were either gone, or safely hidden away.

Keelin remembers the party as being absolutely frightening and mortifying "scary and weird." Between Jerry's fliers and the belligerent out-of-towners, the party was doomed from the start.

The wreckage the next morning was, of course, considerable. We angrily swabbed out the place just as we had lovingly cleaned it the day before. We drank tomato juice and the leftover beer and the boys relived their moments of combat the night before. Either Phil or Kevin had a shiner (although nothing like Ace's). Mostly we were stunned. For a couple hours, our planned for party triumph actually looked like it would succeed. We would become the party masters of Western Washington University--a band of convivial Hugh Hefners who hosted the best parties in town. By the end of the party, virtually every guest fled in hopes of saving their own skins.

We had a party the next month. Mort recalled that party in an email to me. By nine o'clock about four guests had shown up. We sat huddled with the keg of beer around the wretched oil burner in our front room that supplied all the heat for the house. And four people showed! Thinking this was an anomaly, we threw another party a month later. If anything, even less people showed up. There was Phil, Mort, Jerry, me, and a couple of our most die-hard friends staring dejectedly at a door that never opened. More people would have shown up to an open house at a Leper Colony.

We now had a reputation even worse than that of the rugby player's house at 1000 Indian Street. The word was out. If you want to take your life into your hands, go to a party at 1721 Iron Street. Thus ended our days as party hosts extraordinaire. We were scarred for life, or at least as long as we remained in that house.
---o0o---

Another nickname

While going through one of Philip's junior high yearbooks, I came across this photo of Philip and Jerry Melin in the group picture of Honor Society students. It appears from the inscription that Jerry had a nickname even back then. "Scrode".

Phil wrote about his dad


I first mentioned playing golf to my dad about seven years ago. He was 49 at the time, a hard-working man with his own business, one that he had built from a dream in youth. But his dreams always seemed to be more than mine because they were working dreams that he believed in even when he wasn't drunk.

He went broke twice en route to becoming a successful businessman but persevered to the point where work was always on his mind and took up almost all his time. My mom was a great help. She taught school and was his secretary when he needed one. My dad always used to say, "Behind every good man is a great woman." So he must have thought he was a good man and so did I. And I figured a good man needed some relaxation, which he had neglected for himself. That's not the only reason I wanted him to take up golf, though. I had a passion for…[unfinished]

Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.

Dad's Odd Job
by Philip Andrew Kendall

The cold concrete shop riveted
Me to a corner.
But he swept like heat
Bringing warmth to machines.

By the blaring bell at eight
He was unrelated to time.
The morning paper had slipped
Into his coffee and golf balls
Were lost in a cave of bone.

He rubbed his hands on knobs and wheels,
Stood barefaced in a blur
Of dust or metal,
Then slipped behind doors,
Grinding fiberglass for hours.

Limping out golf-baggy,
Covered in a thick skin of itching dust,
He checked production like
The workers checked the clock.

The last bell popped all but us
Loose from the mold.
He might tuck himself
Into a jet wing on a blueprint
While I wait, thumbing
Through a Plastics World magazine,
Looking for girls.

Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.

This poem was written by Philip at the age of 16. He used to work with his dad at Paramount Plastics from the age of nine during summer vacations and sometimes on weekends.

A letter from a friend Phil made in London

March 19, 1975

Dear Mrs. Kendall,

It is impossible for me to express the shock and deep sorrow that Phil's many friends in London felt upon hearing of his tragic death in Amsterdam. We were all a bit apprehensive about not hearing from him, especially since he was such a dedicated writer. We just presumed he had made a lot of new friends and was just too busy having a good time. When we were informed of his death, we couldn't believe it; it was so horrible and so unfair. I know it can be of only small consolation to you, but we all developed a strong affection for your son. He had such an infectiously happy personality that anyone who met him couldn't help but like him.

I can assure you that Phil loved his family very much and spoke of you often and the wonderful times he'd shared with you. We have some conception of the pain and sadness you must feel and our heartfelt sympathies go out to you and all of Phil's friends who were fortunate to have known him longer than us. None of us will ever forget Phil and the happy times we were lucky enough to share with him.

As for Patrice Dubois, he is a guy, not a girl, who stayed in the same place as Phil and myself for several days. I never got to know him, but Phil struck up a friendship with him and kept in touch with him after Patrice left London. All I know about him was that he studied English at a school in Bournemouth. From what I saw of him, he appeared to be just a nice, average chap and I believe Phil stayed with him in Bournemouth when he traveled around southern England. I think the note Phil wrote refers to a phone call he was expecting from Patrice to make definite arrangements for the trip to Brussels. I think Phil was going to spend some time with him in Belgium, as he was returning home for New Year's, and that Phil then intended to go to Holland by himself.

The copy of the postcard you enclosed seems a bit curious to me. I can't explain why Phil would send you a postcard written while he had presumably just arrived in Belgium and then mailed from Amsterdam on January 13th when he had already spent eight days in Holland. I always thought Phil was a regular writer; he seemed to be forever writing cards or letters. The only way I can account for Phil's not writing is that he liked to write about something substantive and not about all the mundane events of traveling just in order to take up space.

You state that Phil went to a club called the Milky Way. I can assure you that this type of place wasn't Phil's scene at all. He had an insatiable curiosity about all facets of life and we went to all sorts of places, but if he went to a place like that, it would be more to observe than to participate. As a stranger to the city, he could hardly be expected to know the nature of such a place. I don't feel that Phil's views on drugs underwent any transformation during his stay here. We spent a lot of time talking together, and drugs was one of the topics we discussed. Phil was too mature and rational to believe that one could find happiness in such an artificial and dangerous way. He hadn't gone to all the bother and expense to come over 6,000 miles to lose himself in drugs, something he more readily could have become involved in at home. It's true that we probably drank too much, but we drank for the fun and companionship and not because of any problems. Phil knew when he'd had enough and I never saw him behaving stupid or doing anything foolhardy.

Despite the comparatively short time I knew Phil, I think I can honestly say I got to know him as well as anyone. We were both strangers here and shared a similar background and many common experiences. We talked frankly with one another about everything and if Phil had anything that was seriously bothering him, I'm sure he would have mentioned it to me, or one of his other friends. Even if he hadn't, I'm sure we knew him well enough to tell if he was disturbed or depressed. One of the reasons Phil was so well-liked, by even casual acquaintances, was because of his easygoing, open nature. I never saw him in a gloomy mood. When things got dull, Phil could always be relied upon to enliven everyone.

Phil always seemed to be able to keep himself amused. While in London, he visited all the art galleries, museums and historical points of interest. Being an English student, he was especially interested in things to do with literature, such as the homes of famous writers and Shakespeare's Will. He particularly enjoyed the theatre and frequently went to the library to reread a play and then went to see it live. He also spent time going to the cinema or to rock concerts. Sometimes all we did was go to a pub, play darts and chat with the locals or visit friends and listen to records.

I'm pretty sure Phil spent his 21st birthday in Bath and he told me he'd met some fellow travelers there and had a great time. Phil did have a girlfriend here in London whom he met at a club called the Marquee. I only met her once and that was at a party on Christmas Eve, and I can't recollect her name but it might have been Debby. I do remember she was quite pretty and had a lively personality. She and Phil seemed fond of one another. I remember him phoning her to say goodbye, telling her he would call in three weeks when he returned to London.

Phil appreciated the trouble and expense you went to in sending him his gear, especially his fur-lined leather jacket. Phil gave his jeans away to a poor, simple-minded chap who had taken a real fancy to them and Phil thought they were a bit flashy for his needs. I can't remember Phil ever having a camera here in England. I think he once mentioned leaving it with his uncle in Boston.

I'm sorry I can't provide you with any insight into what possibly could have happened to Phil. We knew him here much as you described him while he was at home. The last time I saw him was on Boxing Day night and he was in a buoyant, cheerful mood, looking forward to going abroad. Everyone I've spoken to who knew him seems to share this opinion and I can't conceive of how his emotional state could have altered so drastically in such a short period of time, if indeed it did.

I'm sorry I've taken so long to reply to your letters, but writing about Phil doesn't come easy. If I can be of any help to you or if you have any further questions, please don't hesitate to ask.

Yours sincerely,
G. Simpson

Phil and Jann

Jann Placentia was Philip's high school sweetheart. They dated for a couple of years, then went their separate ways after he went off to college. I always liked Jann. She was cute and sweet and adored Philip, as he did her. We heard from her just after his death when she called to confirm the tragic news, but have not been in touch with her since. I recently located her online, through her interior design company website. She is an award winning Seattle designer, and in her photos looks just the same as she did back then. I am hoping she will be willing to share her own memories of Philip with all of us.

The bike-riding lesson

by Claudia

I will never forget the day Phil taught me to ride a bike. It was at the Bow Lake house. I was in third grade, so he was in fourth. I recently found a note he had jotted down during his college days in Bellingham: teaching Claudia to ride a bike, along with some other subjects he wanted to write about, and it prodded me to write something down. But then I found the story he had written so many years ago...

Teaching Claudia to Ride a Bike
by Phil Kendall

I used to ride my bike in the front yard, zigzagging around the clumps of weeds that distinguished our lawn from the neighbor's. It was an old bike. I got it from a guy who had taken pretty good care of it, though, and it only cost twenty dollars.

I remember one day in summer when my sister Claudia was watching me from the front porch. She was sitting with her chin resting in her hands and her elbows poking into her dimpled knees and I was getting pretty bored myself 'cause by then I could easily ride the course without my tires rubbing any of the clumps. I asked her if she wanted to learn how to ride a bike and she didn't say a thing, but she jumped right up and ran over to me, grabbing one of the handle bars. "Okay, Claudia, let me get off first. I'll just walk alongside you until I think you've got control."

Her legs were not long enough to reach both pedals at the same time so it looked, when she started, like she was always just getting on. The bike wobbled down the sidewalk, then straightened out in a slow, steady roll. I took my hand off the rear fender and watched her with confidence as the bike headed for the soft grass.

Just as she was about to reach the grass, the front tire jolted a small rock and swung sharply to the left. "Put on the brakes," I yelled. I had forgotten to show her how to use the brakes. She was about twenty yards from me now and I ran after her, but the gap between her and the rockery was closing too fast. The runaway bike hit the rocks just before I got there, then toppled over the edge.

The drop-off was about four feet to the driveway. When I went to school the next day, my teacher asked me what happened to my chin. I very softly said: I fell down the driveway.

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Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.

Ruminations on seeing Philip's face again

By Jack Brummet

I have been enjoying the slow accumulation of writings, and letters and photos on this blog, a site dedicated to the memory of our late, great friend and brother. The three gents pictured in a photo a couple posts below this were one of my strongest impetuses for going to college. As I explained here earlier (or maybe it was there), Mort drew me in, and soon enough, Jerry a/k/a Bart, and Philip a/k/a Pomeroy (later Root), were my brothers. We knew we would be friends for life. I think we even talked about that sometimes.

We talked frequently about our good fortune, how "this is the life," and how studying, reading, drawing, drinking wine, talking and telling whoppers and jokes all night, partying, scheming for girls, and immersing ourselves in music was as good as life would ever be. We knew--despite our relative poverty, living on food stamps, and just barely scraping by--that our friendships and the life we were leading was as good as it gets. As it turns out, as life goes on, and other things come to fill the vacuum. But nothing has ever taken the place of Phil and he is memorialized as a special case, because he is fixed in time. When he died in early 1975, Richard Nixon was still President, the Vietnam war still raging, and Elvis Costello, CDs, bottled water, global warming, and PCs were still years away. When you look back in time, there is the young face of Philip, fixed in that distant, analog world.

I have about five poems and stories about Phil in germination, but I've been struggling with them. It's difficult to make connections and to trace the heartline across this vast lacuna of 33 years. Jerry Melin also died long before his time. But his time was to last 25 years longer. Jerry died before he was fifty, and in those years there were countless letters and later, emails; drawings and doggerel; dinners and drinks; a shared vacation; road trips, children, visits, and phone calls. Philip is fixed in time as a fresh-faced 21 year old, and I can't even really think of him as an adult because he just barely got there.

Kevin Curran and I were remarking that as big a part of our lives as Phil became, the time we knew him was only a few short years. In those few short years we developed a bond that was stronger than most of the friendships I've had since. And it has now come back to haunt me. The haunting is not the regrets and the slow missing of those many years; I am haunted by not being able to remember everything he ever said and did because in such a short transit and eclipse every action and every word takes on a far greater import than it would had he been able to live the last 3/4 of his life.

Seeing his face again re-opens the wounds of his death, but also the joy we had in knowing him. The pain of his death only slowly waned, and never entirely went away. His death has always been painful to remember. We just didn't have enough time.

Whenever I look at that face, it reminds me of everything that has passed these last 33 years, and how he would be horrified and amused to see all that has transpired. What would he think of the war, genital grooming, tattoos and hardware, computers, punk rock, indy music, iPods, digital cameras, situational ethics, modern literature. Would he still love Dylan Thomas and Shakespeare? Would he have followed us down the path of Miles Davis, Charlie Mingus, and John Coltrane or Buck Owens and Lucinda Williams? Would he still love The Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan? Pieter Brueghel? Tuna fish sandwiches? William Blake? I'll never know.
---o0o---

Phil had typical boyish tendencies
by Claudia

One of the earliest memories I have of Philip was at the house we lived in by Sea-Tac Airport, in the area referred to as Bow Lake. He must have been about six or seven years old, which means I was about four or five. We were playing on the east side of the house by the garage when he asked me if I wanted to start a fire. He had gathered up some small sticks and leaves and various material and put them in a pile.

Philip lit a match, and we stood back and watched as the small fire began to grow. We were in plain view of the driveway, and this was right before our dad was expected to arrive home from work. At the time I thought his timing couldn't have been worse.

When Dad pulled up, he didn't bother to park the car in the garage or even close the car door. I don't think he shut the engine off. He just ran towards us yelling and began stomping out the fire. We started to run into the house but we didn't get very far. I still remember the look on Dad's face; it was pure panic. And then came the lecture. Philip and I both stood there, stiff as boards, and just listened until he got it out of his system.

He never asked me if I wanted to start a fire again. But he did teach me to ride a bike.
[to be continued]

Letter to Mom



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Jerry Melin, Kevin Curran, Phil Kendall
1636 Humboldt St house, 1973
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