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".