Growing up Spaulding: life in the early days of Kennewick

BY GENE SPAULDING SR. (written in 1989)

I remember his name, but I have no idea of what the first friend I ever had looked like. He did something he didn’t have to do and of course I’ll never know why, but it set itself in my memory—forever.

I was three and a half years old and in tow with my Mother and Father who came to Kennewick for what turned out to be a long stay. Several years out of Medical School and having practiced in two other towns, I think my Father hoped this would be the last stop. It was.

The big 1906 fire in San Francisco meant he missed a formal graduation from the College of Physicians and Surgeons and it meant the City by the Bay held no more attractions for my Mother. Coming to Washington State, mainly because of the glowing tales from his parents in Pullman, they settled in nearby St. John for a few years. To meet young “Doc” Spaulding was to feel an instant affection for him. He held that quality all his life and I have heard dozens of people describe him. Describe the various facets of his personality. Sadly, it was probably best done by Courier-Reporter owner and editor, Ralph Reed, when he wrote the Doctor’s obituary, in 1940. Anyway, in his day of practice, one didn’t have to wade through a receptionist or two, pay cash in advance and fill out a two-page form of your life history including some data on how you were going to pay for services rendered. When you came to a country doctor in the early part of this century, you got your medicine, your advice, and a comfortable feeling that you were going to make it. You talked about the bill later. But in St. John, the area was poor, there was another good doctor in St. John, and if a green spot appeared in the distance, you gave it more than a casual glance. In 1911, Pasco was getting lively publicity and we moved there. Six months later, the agriculture of Kennewick looked a little better and we made our last move. November 1911.

And that is where my friend comes in. His name was Verl Thorp and I am guessing that he was maybe six or seven years old. He didn’t know any of us. We were just two old people (age 37) and a three-year-old kid getting off a train from Pasco on a bitter cold and snowy day. He had a sled and he hauled me and some luggage the four or five blocks to the house we were to live in. He just offered to do it and gained the thanks of some very grateful people. The friendliness continued. His frequent visits to “come and play”, his errand running and willingness to help in any way eared the accolade of “such a nice boy” from Mother.

In 1914, Dr. Spaulding bought a new Buick. I remember it, and Verl about lost his mind from the pure beauty of it. 

In 1915, Verl Thorp died of a ruptured appendix. I remember only the solemnity of the graveside services and the very deep grief of my parents. I remember also that on many occasions through the years, I have purposely gone to his gravesite and stared for long moments at the burial marker bearing his name. I am not capable of describing my thoughts.

Let’s interject at this point that I shall not make much of an effort to place my thoughts and memories in good chronological order. I have on the gentle hope that this will make acceptable reading.

In those days, ice was delivered to your house to replace what had melted. If you wanted ice, you put a sign in the window that said ICE. No sign, no ice. But the ice man came every summer day in his dilapidated wagon because someone always needed ice. A highlight of a dull summer day would be to snitch a few pieces of ice off the back of the wagon, little pieces that is. If you got greedy and tried for a big piece, the ice man would snap a horse whip in your general direction, and you had all the ice you were going to get that day. 

This was an era when you just went out and played. No planning, no instruction. You just played. What you played depended on the season of the year, who you ran into, and what kind of ball showed up. No adults included in boys play in a small town. If one DID show up and wanted to direct us into some kind of game, his style, we would tolerate him for a while and then slowly disappear, like maybe we would pretend we were looking for the ice man. Usually, we would lend up playing Indian until we were alone again and the adult either lost interest or else could take a hint. I don’t imagine we were paragons of tact or diplomacy. Dr. Spaulding seemed to be an exception to this rule. On occasion he enjoyed being around but never interfered, never told us how to do things, and was an excellent ditch watcher. That was about the only time we would willingly abide an adult—to let them watch at the ditch. The ditch, as it does today, ran through the whole town and was as wide, dangerous, and dirty as it is today. The irrigation ditch made an average of claiming a kid a year and we knew it so in the case of the ditch, an adult was acceptable, like oatmeal—necessary.

In 1912, the streets of Kennewick were dirt in the summertime and mud in the winter. This was a great inconvenience to a fastidious lady, a bother to the men, and an absolute delight to the kid who had an insatiable impulse to kick up a dust storm when it was dry and unable to resist a slap of the foot into the middle of a puddle when it was wet.

In about 1915, Bill Morain tarred the main street, and being one of the insatiable ones, I remember burning my bare feet so bad it took medical attention. That was the same year that Elmer Crosby, Glenn Johnson, and I took (stole?) Frank Maupin’s canvas canoe and took off for Clover Island. Our departure was about from about where the Blue Bridge is now and using board for paddles, it didn’t seem any more than an afternoon adventure. It was called Clover Island then as now, but it was a different island. And the Columbia was a different river. She was no Lake Wallula, Late that afternoon, we came back and couldn’t figure out why so many people were watching us from the shore. When we got close enough to shore to see our parents, and dozens of others, waiting we knew why. My dad only got mad once or twice in a decade and I guess he decided this was as good as any. 

By 1915 we had moved to the house on Kennewick Ave., presently numbered 418. I don’t remember much about the house we first lived in, located on the property where Washington Mutual Bank now sits, and the house is long since destroyed. But I remember the house at 418. At this writing, it is owned by Thomas Moak, librarian and devoted worker volunteer at the East Benton County Historical Society. He has done extensive remodeling, and I visit it quite frequently. Lovely old home. In 1917, it was equipped with all the then modern necessities. Indoor bathroom, wood and coal range stove with hot water coils for the whole house wrapped up in the kitchen range fire box. Pretty fancy. I remember a heat gauge on the oven door which didn’t work very well. Getting kindling to start the fire and keeping the coal bucket full was one of my daily chores. But we had no sewer or septic tank, just a cesspool. We couldn’t play over it as it was always quite soft and spongy. It was spongy when we moved in and spongy when we moved out in 1917.

Centrally located for our side of town, it was always a collection spot for lots of kids and lots of fun. Names like Virginia Graham, Don Dunlap, Roy Warnock, Eloise Craver, and of course Louie Huntington and Bob Mattecheck come to mind. Other than Crosby (son of Dr. Crosby), all the above are pictured in the 1964 album. (the year of the big High School Reunion.) Many memories flood my mind of the things we did in those days. We went to school and then fooled around on Saturdays and Sundays. Mostly we amused ourselves, as 7-year-olds do today, though as told above we didn’t have organized play. If we scrounged up a nickel or dime, we would go down to the Vibber-Gifford Drug Store and buy one of those new-fangled chocolate-covered ice cream bars. Called Eskimo Pies.

I had a dog named Punk and we used to hunt. Once you got south of Kennewick High School, it was wide open sagebrush. Further south were vineyards, orchards, houses with families and always attached to five or forty acres of something on which all could make a living. The Fraziers, Yosts, Greens, Withers, Washburns, Olivers, Stulls are names that come to mind and there was Riverview Cemetery which I could visit with my friend, Verl Thorp. During those years I became closer to the friend with whom I kept in touch with all these years, Louie Huntington.

On the then unpaved Washington Street was the aptly name Washington Grade School. It was here that I met another friend and benefactor, Miss Membach, my first-grade teacher. (They were all “Miss” then as married women were not allowed to teach school.) Miss Membach had an affliction that my Dad called “double congenital dislocation of the hips”. She waddled when she walked. You don’t see it anymore because the medical profession has learned how to fix it whe noted at an early age. I remember we used to make fun of her, but not for long. We quickly fell in love with her and even at our tender years, we knew she had something she was giving us. After one year with Miss Membach, every kid of us could read at an astonishing level. I’ve never had another teacher her equal. Our playfield was located where the present PUD building stands. It was of clay and rock and about the consistency of concrete. Great place for marble, stick ball, and other activities, including breaking an arm or leg, which some of us did.

In 1916, Dr. Spaulding was driving Chalmers cars. They really weren’t very good automobiles, but we drove them because Fuzz Reser sold them. Something like broken axles or leaky radiators always seemed to affect them. I remember one time we drove to Seattle, an arduous two-day trip. With an early start, you made it to Ellensburg the first day, with an overnight stay at the Antlers Hotel. The second day was the real test. An all dirt and gravel road that would test the devil, but somehow you made it and when you came to a paved road, you were almost to Seattle. A welcome sight. It was on a paved road in Seattle that an axle broke. The trip was made in company with the L. E. Johnsons, for in those days you traveled the “buddy” system, if possible. On an occasion or two we drove to Portland. Though the roads were better, it was a tortuous and twisty route, and it took time. Try the Memaloose Loops or Vista Point on your next trip to Portland and you will wonder how those vintage cars ever made it. Though off the freeway, those roads are still kept up and are there to be traveled and enjoyed.

I don’t think as growing kids, our lives were any different than others in comparable sized towns. You made your own fun. You had to, for there was no alternative if you were going to do anything but sit. We threw rocks at any thing that moved, played marbles, dug holes and caves, broke windows if they got in the way, played baseball with a stick and tennis ball, pulled legs off bugs, went to the bathroom outside when we could get away with it, went to school because it was fun to learn something and I don’t remember any “peer pressure”. Our play was not organized by the city or any organization or our parents, and they—the parents—asked only that we keep out of trouble, go to school, and come home for dinner. At night with no TV or radio, you had only to read or study or do nothing.

My Dad seemed to enjoy my company and I certainly enjoyed his, so I went with him on his calls, where and when I could. It is interesting to look at his daily records and see where he was paid $2.00 for office calls, $3.00 for house calls, and four bucks if it was “out in the country”. $35.00 for a baby (full nine months care), $10.00 for helping another M.D. with an anesthetic. Those records are here and available to any who might be interested. (the foregoing circa 1920) 

Some of those trips to the Horse Heaven were real hairy. Spike and Tack Ferrell had a livery stable on what is now Albany Ave. directly south of the Tri-City Herald building and this is where he used to rent a horse and buggy for rugged winter trips. Some of those trips were beautiful. Snow on the ground, clear, cold, and with an unlimited view from about where the Washington State Patrol is now located, the Kennewick Valley was an overwhelming sight even to an 8 or 9-year-old kid who is usually not overcome with viewing. All this with black smoke coming out of some of the chimneys with a sight no artist would dare try to paint. My mind still runs faster than my fingers and I tend to tell stories out of sequence.

Let’s go back to 1915 or 16 on one of our trips to Seattle. Being as rugged as automobile trips were, we made most of our trips by train--the good old Northern Pacific, now non-existent. On one such trip during the years above-mentioned I found out I had a sister named Evoril. In truth, she was a half-sister and here is another wild chapter in this writer’s history. 

My mother, Adelaide Jordan, was born in Red Bluff, California in 1874, same year as my Father, however she married when she was 18 or 19 years old. She married a military man, name of Marshall, who was an officer in the infantry. Evoril was born to them in 1895 or 1896. I always thought that Evoril was an uncommon and very pretty name. My mother was later divorced from Marshall and getting a divorce in those days was well, frowned upon by one and all. When she married Dr. Spaulding in 1900, the Spaulding family was not all that enthusiastic over the matter. A lot of things happened during that era on which I was never informed and of course will never be. Who raised Evoril? Her maternal grandmother, I think. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

In 1917, the Dr. joined the Army and became 1st Lt. L. G. Spaulding after a period of training at Fort Riley, Kansas. It was World War I, and everybody was mad at the Germans. For lack of knowing what else to do, my Mother and I stayed in Kennewick until the Dr. was permanently stationed at Savanna, Illinois. He had good officer housing and in 1918 we joined him. Those were the days when trains were one the finest methods of travel. The other was by luxury “steam ships”. (We traveled to San Francisco by boat in 1915. Pan American Exposition. All I remember was the boat.) The trains were clean, on time, great to ride and sleep, and the dining cars were the equal of today’s best restaurants in service, attention, cleanliness, and fine cuisine.

I had a number of new and exciting experiences at the Savanna Proving Grounds. Primary purpose was to test and experiment with the big cannons and guns before they were sent overseas. We stayed there a year or more, returning to, of all places, Walla Walla, where the Dr. hoped to practice when he got out of the Army. His longtime and good friend Dr. Keylor was instrumental in this decision and wanted Dr. Spaulding to practice with him. The war was over and he thought his discharge was a matter of weeks. It didn’t turn out that way, for he was not released until April or May of 1919. One of the last and nicest things that happened to him when he was discharged was that the personnel of the proving grounds gave him a beautiful and expensive watch with glowing and sincere words of praise inside. It was a very meaningful thing and can you imagine a bunch of soldiers giving an officer such a gift and send off. Gene Spaulding Jr. has the watch now and I hope he will see to it that it stays in the family for generations to come. Priceless item in this family history. For many months prior to his coming to Walla Walla, I had been hearing my Mother complain of being ill. It frightened me and I remember lying awake nights wondering what to do. For the more than a year we lived in Walla Walla, just the two of us, our housing was at the Dacres Hotel. One room, bathroom down the hall, $1.00 per day rent and all of our meals were at nearby restaurants. It is 1919 and to an 11-year-old, that wasn’t such a hardship. To her, an attractive 45-year-old, it must have been unbearable, even if she hadn’t been ill. Though I didn’t know it, it had to be a miserable time for both my parents. So, when the Dr. got back, he found a sick and distraught woman who desperately needed some pretty intensive medical attention.

He started his practice in the Drumheller building, found a home to rent, and the situation started to ease a little. In November, she entered the hospital for surgery, and on December 12, 1919 Adelaide Jordan Spaulding died from post-operative peritoneal infection. I didn’t realize until years later how terribly stricken he was. They were very fond of each other and 19 brief years of marriage was simply not enough. Eleven-yearold me was about all he had to cling to. I shall always remember every detail of that period of travail. The phone call to come to the hospital. I ran for blocks from where we were living. The nurse’s words to me of my Mother’s death. The undertaker—the body “on view”—the color of the casket—all too awful for further description. We buried her on the 15th of December with a temperature that day of 30 degrees below zero. My father and I did not get out of the car. We simply watched the proceedings from inside the “family car”.

Well, you take it one day at a time after something like that and things did not get better. The Dr. didn’t have a thriving practice, and he was getting letters and phone calls urging

him to come back to Kennewick. Fo a few months we commuted, and then in the summer of 1920 the two of us moved back to Kennewick. It was our last move from

these stakes. And what a providential move it was. His grief was such that I question he could have continued practicing or even living if we had not come back to the helping hands of his friends in Kennewick. The Giffords, the Vibbers, the Sherks, and others all helped to bring a smile back to his face, and I settled down to get an education.

Eight grade, ninth grade on—I can’t think of a single thing that would be of interest to tell—or to read. I learned about girls, had my escapades with wine and beer, learned to smoke when I was fourteen, and did a lot of hunting with my friends Lou Huntington and Bob Mattecheck. Bob was the only one of us who could borrow his Dad’s car. Those were the days when you could drive halfway to Finley and have lots of water to hunt duck and farms to hunt pheasants, quail, etc. We always got our share. We had an orchestra (not a very good one) and I played a saxophone (not very well). Kennewick girls seemed like sisters, so I dated Pasco girls, which in those days was a despicable thing to do. Even got in an occasional fight over it. My goodness, as I look back, every girl I dated and had a big crush on is gone now. Mary, Viola, Irene, Peggy, Katie and some names I am sure I have forgotten.

In 1923, the Mattechecks decided to move to Seattle, and it was thought it would be a great idea for me to go live with them, and I attended Lincoln High for one year. And then it was back to graduate from Kennewick High School in 1926. But all this is as dull to write as it is to read. The years 1920-21-22-23-24-25-26 WERE dull and though I may make reference to them as I think of them, I would be better off to relate more family history. Maybe I should tell you of the burden of being the only child of Dr. Le Grand Spaulding.

Here was a truly rare and fine man who in his community led the field in matters of medicine, community volunteer work, his Masonic Lodge, and was father confessor to all who knew him. To be his son was not as easy task mainly because people expected too much of me, this regardless of age, whether I was 10 or 30. I was never a ”chip off the old block” and while he was alive, people too often were not hesitant to tell me just that.

Le Grand Spaulding was born in Petaluma, California on June 25, 1874. There were brothers George, Roy, and Frank, and sister Della. They all grew up in Petaluma,

Healdsburg, and Point Arena, California. As a boy of 17 or 18 years old, Le Grand

migrated to Santa Barbara to be sheltered and helped by his Uncle Horace Lamb. (his

Mother’s brother) Horace Lamb was an M.D. and was the one who got him started in

Medical School, the School of Physicians and Surgeons in San Francisco.

Roy was killed in a lumber yard accident at a young age. He was fooling around the

piles of lumber and it tumbled, crushing him to death. He is buried in Point Arena.

George became an accountant and was studying law in Pullman in the early 1900s, and

from the letters we have, was the best correspondent Le Grand had. George and Le

Grand worked and sent money to Frank, enabling him to get through Dental School. I

have no further record of George except to know he married and died sometime

between 1910 and 1925. Frank married Floy, had Frances (1906--) and practiced

dentistry in Portland until he died in 1949. Della married Adolf Chenoweth and had four

boys and as of this writing, 1988, three are alive, scattered from California to Spokane,

WA. The father of the Spaulding clan was Francis Marion. He was a wagon maker, an

honorable profession of that day but somehow, neither Le Grand nor Frank cared much

about him. Maybe Della didn’t either, I don’t know. The thing that bothered his kids the

most was that he refused to help with the education of any of them. He had some

unfortunate facets to his personality. My Dad told me that he loved to stand on a street

corner in Walla Walla (where they retired), jingle the coins in his pocket, and brag about

“my boys”. He died in 1916. The Mother, Sophia, was an angel. The two boys and Della

took turns caring for her and I well remember her stays with us. In the early 20’s, with no

Mother in our home she was with us a great deal as companion, cook, and homemaker. A sweet, tiny, and dear person, she died in 1929 and is buried in Walla Walla beside her

husband. I think it is of interest to note that Sophia Augusta Lamb was born in 1850 and

came across the plains to California in a covered wagon in 1852. She didn’t remember

much of childhood but met her husband-to-be in California and was married in 1870?

Francis Marion Spaulding was born in 1847 in Illinois, went to New York, and the came

to San Francisco by boat. I know little else about his life until I knew him as a

Grandfather.

In 1926, the Doctor married Elizabeth McGahey. It was a marriage of convenience for

both of them. He needed someone to cook, keep house, etc. for the two of us and she

needed help with her two children. Though he educated both of her children, it was not

a successful union, and they were divorced in 1936. One of the better ones with

everyone mad at everyone else. Marjorie, the daughter, lives in Seattle today, and Bill,

the son, lives in Richland, retired from one of the companies that operated the nuclear

plants.

1926. I entered Whitman and managed two years there. Today I am of the opinion there

are too many counselors, at least not enough good ones to service the schools in which

they work. In my day, they had no such thing and I wish they had. I needed a counselor

because I was on the wrong track. My Dad’s great hope was that I, too, would become

a Dr. But it was not to be for a number of reasons. Basically, I didn’t want to be, but

more important, I lacked proper foundation in the sciences. Physics, chemistry, biology

etc. were total mysteries to me. On the other hand, because of Miss Membach, I was

very competent in reading comprehension and loved to do it. I truly needed some help

and advice and would have probably made a good teacher, history, or maybe a lawyer.

It is 1930 and I was out of school and out of work, so my Dad gave me $125.00 (that’s

the right figure) and I took out for San Francisco. Fooled around for several months with

Lou Huntington, and by then my cousin Harold Butler found me a job. Harold was the

husband of my cousin Vivian, who in turn was the daughter of my Mother’s sister, Edith.

They were all lovely people, but I knew them for six months, had not seen them before

nor since. Finis. (If some genealogist should happen on this and wish to inquire further, Harold Butler was a prominent citizen in San Francisco. Owner of several concessions

in the Ferry Bldg. home address 35 Aptos Way, San Francisco. No Zip Codes in 1930.)

In 1930, many of the trains on the Santa Fe railroad did not have dining cars. The

people who rode the train stopped to eat in restaurants which were located strategically

along the route from Chicago to Los Angeles. They were known as Harvey Houses,

being owned by one Fred Harvey. They were hotels and restaurants, and Harold got me

a job with the Harvey Houses. First stop—Barstow, California. They were very

respectable establishments, and you could give most of them a 7 rating out of 10. From

Barstow I went to Mojave, then Ashfork, Seligman, and the lovely Fray Marcos at

Williams, Arizona. Next Winslow, the best one on the line and designed by the

distinguished Mary Jane Colter. Read about her in the book named after her, in our

library. Arrived on a day in April 1934 and some friends set me up with a blind date that

night. Not a bad date. I married the girl on Mar 17th, 1935. It is still going on as of this

date in 1989.

From here on in I am talking to Scott and Elisabeth who may, I hope, be interested in

some of the pretty specific details of the lefe and time of there grandparent, Gene le

Grand Spaulding and Gertrude Rhyan Spaulding.

We left Winslow and came to Kennewick, (something I had never planned on doing),

primarily because Dr. Spaulding wanted us. He was ill, knew it, and needed someone

he loved nearby. He was a doctor and he knew about dying. His desire for our coming

to Kennewick was simply his wish to be with those he loved the most for the years that

were to come. But as said in Genesis, in the beginning, in my formative years there is

little doubt that I acted as all kids, age one to eighteen, act. Pretty much self-centered,

prone to be polite and considerate to the extent we were taught. It wasn’t until one is in

the range of 25, give or take a few, that you begin to comprehend and appreciate the

good things with which you are surrounded. Sure as hell I didn’t nor did I respond to,

this kind and gentle man as I now wish I had. It is easy to regret for a lifetime about the

things you wish you had done.

Suggested title: Growing up Spaulding: life in the early days of Kennewick

Gene Spaulding, Sr., writing in 1989, tells stories of growing up in early 20th century

Kennewick and of the Spaulding family. This story basically ends in 1940, when his

father Dr. Le Grand Spaulding died. After World War II, Gene ran a successful

insurance and real estate business in Kennewick. He was also known for his community

involvement being chosen as both Kennewick Man of the Year and Tri-Citian of the

Year. He was one of the key people who made our Museum at Keewaydin possible as

he led the fundraising efforts and served as President over 40 years ago. Gene was the

longest-serving commissioner of the Port of Kennewick (1963-1998) and died in 1999 at

the age of 90.