By Seán Malone and John Sweetman We never actually set out to do wrong, but occasionally small, impulsive actions led to doing the wrong thing, and for small lads this outcome was as natural as paint on a fence. Gene Amondson and I were wandering around a construction site, and as young boys do, we picked…
Gene Amundson and I came up with the first rendition of “concealed carry” long before the National Rifle Association had it as a policy. We found we could make a “zip” gun out of a clothespin, using just a pocket knife and something to bend the spring. We used these at first to shoot spitwads at…
Seán and I were sitting out on his deck a few years back, looking out at our crab traps set in our secret spot, the Trench, just offshore. We noticed a boat approaching and suspected it was a “crab pot poacher.” Waving the boat off seemed to get no answer, so Seán, after a false…
This story began on Seán’s fireplace mantel. There is an old Plymouth master brake cylinder filled with either a mouse nest or some of Seán’s cigar ashes. Some years back, after Seán returned to Vashon, he told me that his first car had been sold to an Island friend, and that somehow it had come…
Last month’s issue of The Loop described Sean’s early experiences at earning money as a youngster by rubbing finish onto Skippercraft boats. Even though Sean is a few years older than I, our early experiences had a certain parallel. We had some good laughs together as we compared our young entry into the world of…
I hired a crew to reroof the cabin. After 60 years, the leaks and weight of the moss had compromised the roof. There are just some things that have to be done, whether you need to or not. John and I were watching the workmen, and were grateful we were not up on the…
It’s just not nice to be hit with a snowball with a rock in it. At Cove, we forbade the use of rocks. They took the fun out of a good snowball fight. We hid behind the walls of our forts, a wall of giant snowballs that could be four or five feet high. Behind the wall, we…
I was down on the floor on my hands and knees when John Sweetman walked in the door. “What are you doing,” he asked? “I have lost a gold crown while biting into a Winter apple,” I replied. John got right down on the floor to help me look. My little Jack Russell Terrier was hunting the floor with…
By Seán Malone and John Sweetman As kids, we seemed to start out on a rather low rung of the evolutionary ladder. Pretty much all our activity – not strictly devoted to mere troublemaking – was of the “hunter/gatherer” nature. We were always on the lookout for useful items: driftwood, food plants, clams, stinky dead…
By Seán Malone and John Sweetman John Sweetman and I were sipping beer in front of a roaring fire in the cozy confines of my log cabin overlooking outer Quartermaster Harbor. “Why don’t you write about that thieving raven you had in Republic,” John suggested. I laughed like hell when the raven tore out of…