In an ancient time (circa 1952), between the sinking of Atlantis and the rise of Seattle's University District, wa-a-a-a-ay back when I still had hair, I became acquainted with a group of people who lived, or at least frequented, a very large, very old house on 15^th Avenue N. E., right across for the University of Washington campus. One of these was a fellow named Ric Higlin. Another was a name familiar to many Mudcatters:   Sandy Paton. This was before he picked up his guitar case, hung his thumb out, and headed East. Who all lived there, I'm not sure, because, as I said, there was a great deal of coming to and fro. There was Dick Landberg, Pat Cassidy, the sisters Liz and Freddy (Alfreda).   Plus a few others. Freddy and Ric soon married. Contrary to popular belief, sometimes people actually did that back then. From time to time, Walt Robertson lived at this house as well, and in October of 1954, Pete Seeger stayed there for a couple of nights.

Not everyone there was into folk music, but there was a fair amount of guitar picking and folk song singing going on there. This was well before the Kinston Trio had even met, and Bob Dylan was probably still in rompers. Most people had copies of Lomax's Folk Song U. S. A. and Sandburg's American Song Bag. Leadbelly was big. There were also a few records around (10" LPs) of Susan Reed, Burl Ives, Cynthia Gooding, a very few others. . . .

Those who lived at this domicile, those who visited there, and those who just generally hung out there, referred to the place as "Cockroach Manor." It has since been demolished. It used to be at the north end of where the A. S. U. W. Bookstore is now. Save in the memories of those who have been there, there is no evidence of its ever having existed, not even a commemorative plaque.

But during the heyday of Cockroach Manor, there was a fair amount of communal living going on there, sharing of resources, and whatnot. Let those of a conservative bent make of that what they wish, but I detected no particular ideology there. They eschewed the word "Beatnik." They might have been referred to as "Bohemians" (Smile when you say that!). But the word "hippy" hadn't been invented yet, or at least had little currency, and just didn't apply. They were mostly students, artists, writers, and musicians and didn't have a lot of money, so they found that sharing and helping each other out was a matter of practicality rather than ideology. Perhaps there's a lesson there.

Anyway, one of these intrepid souls managed to come up with a large quantity of lentils. So someone who had a few culinary skills and had a general reputation for cooking meals without too many people toppling over with ptomaine poisoning or botulism assembled a few more ingredients and cooked up a great cauldron of lentil soup. When someone experienced hunger pangs and couldn't afford, or did not want to go a block west to one of the many restaurants or coffee shops that lined University Way N. E., they could wander into the kitchen and ladle out a nutritious and delicious bowl of lentil soup.   It may have assisted in the survival of several members of the crew.

At any time, if one ever wondered about possible bacteria content, because there was a lot of soup and it often sat there on the stove in its cauldron for long periods of time, one could turn on the heat and, given sufficient time, bring it to a rolling boil. But, of course, as weeks passed into months, the quantity began to diminish. As it did so, people would add things to it:   various kinds of meat, produce, and God knows what all, altering its flavor in interesting and mysterious ways and bringing the level back up to where one had little fear (or hope) of it ever running out.

This, as I understand it, went on for several months. And although it had started with a large quantity of lentils and a few other things such as a couple of diced onions, a bunch or two of sliced carrots, and a few condiments that the original chef had added to the brew, by now, nobody had a clue as to what the hell it really was. Although no one ever got sick on it, and it still tasted pretty good (a most mysterious bouquet of flavors and aromas), some of those who partook began to experience a certain apprehension.

Finally, someone announced to the multitudes with a note of regret in his voice—or it may have been her voice, as those of the feminine gender are often more cognizant of such concerns as the possibility of death by food:   "Sorry, there is no more lentil soup—or whatever it was. I dumped it out. When I went to get a bowl of the stuff, I lifted the lid, looked inside, and something looked back at me!"

Don Firth

P. S. Next time someone sees Sandy, ask him if he remembers Cockroach Manor and the lentil soup.