By STAN STAPP

THE RECENT DEATH of Fritz Massart, 83, brings about memories of a Wallingford neighborhood gant of which he and I were members. This was about 60 years ago, when 10 of us guys, average age 20, and all living within a few blocks of each other, found it enjoyable to do things together.

Of the 10, I believe three survive today: Omar Johnson (that is, if he's still around), Johnnie Chellin, who lives in Florida, and myself.

Those who have died, besides Fritz, are: John F. Betancourt Jr., Bill Finlay, Walt (Bud) Johnson, Phil Johnson, Harold Moffet, and Al Whalen.

We weren't a "gang" as that term is often applied today. We didn't hurt people, or war on other gangs, didn't carry guns, drank very little if at all, didn't spray-paint graffiti around the neighborhood, nor do drugs. We were just a bunch of nice young men who enjoyed doing things together. There were no membership requirements, one only had to show up to participate.

We all had jobs during the week and couldn't wait until Friday nights when the fun would begin. Generally, we got together at Al's house, where his parents always made us feel welcome. First, we might play a little poker around their dining table, then go downtown to shoot some pool, ending up at Seattle Bowling Recreation (Seattle's first large bowling alley).

Fritz was by far our best bowler. He not only was accurate, but threw the smoothest ball I'd ever seen - so s-m-o-o-t-h it was hard to tell when the ball met the alley. In those days, before mechanical pinsetters, each lane was manned by a pinboy who did the resetting. They were all aware of Fritz's speed - ready to jump out of the way when he was up - for he threw real hard. Sometimes with enough impact to knock a pin into the next-door pit.

On Saturdays, we might walk or bike around Green Lake. Or start the evening at Johnnie's, singing songs around the piano with Fritz at the keyboard. Although he'd never had a piano lesson, Fritz could play any popular piece by ear, and it was a lot of fun.

Later, we might take in a double-header movie downtown. But if it was at the old Embassy Theatre, it would be a triple-bill (each film interspersed with boy ushers walking down the aisles pedaling ice cream bars). At about 3 or 4 a.m. (half asleep), we'd struggle out - swearing: "Never Again!"

On good-weather Sundays, we might golf, or hike in the woods; and in the winter, ski. Sometimes we went swimming at Green Lake, discovering (the first time) that Fritz thought nothing of climbing up the raft tower and diving off the top rail. And on occasional weekends, we might take off on Friday night and backpack in the mountains.

On warm summer evenings, we'd hang around Bessie Ware's front porch if her granddaughter, Jeanne Turley (who lived in Auburn), had thoughtfully brought along several of her girlfriends for a weekend in the Big City.

One Saturday, a half-dozen of us took the ferry to Whidbey Island, sleeping overnight in a small rustic cabin belonging to the father of Omar and Bud. Several of us intended to hunt rabbits or birds. That Sunday morning, after breakfast, all except Al went outside. He remained inside doing the dishes and listening to the radio. The date was Dec. 7, 1941.

Bill, upon learning I'd never held a gun in my life, was showing me how to shoot a tin can off a fence post. Ironically, this was not only my first experience with a gun, but my last. For that Sunday morning, just as I was lining up the gun sight with the tin can, Al came running out of the cabin shouting that Pearl Harbor was under attack. For a few moments, we didn't know whether he was kidding, or not. Then we ran into the kitchen, gathered around the radio, and found out the reports were true.

We knew then that our way of life was about to change - that "this old gang of ours" would soon be broken up. For we all were just the right age to enter the military. Our choice: (1) volunteer or (2) be drafted.

Seven of us were soon accepted for duty in the various services, including John Betancourt (who was killed in the battle for Okinawa). Two of us were rejected: Fritz because he'd previously been injured in an accident while working with a rock crusher in the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps.); and myself, seven pounds underweight. (Earlier, Harold Moffet had died of a ruptured appendix.)

Fritz first came to Seattle in 1937 from Merrill, Wis., and lived with an uncle, Austin Massart, at 4026 Ashworth N. A plumber by trade, Fritz worked for Massart Plumbing Co., 4401 Wallingford N., owned by another uncle, Clarence F. Massart. Eventually, Fritz managed the operation. (The building now houses Julia's restaurant.)

Fritz was an active member of Blessed Sacrament Parish, the Knights of Columbus, and served on the Facilities Committee of Blanchet High School. He is survived by his wife, Elaine, four children and seven grandchildren.

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FOR 12 YEARS I've been writing my column on an IBM computer, and probably will continue for awhile before changing to my new iMac. It's just that I'd like to become a little more comfortable with the iMac's method of operation. Although I've not kept up with all the latest computer developments over the years, when I got my IBM with Wordstar it was state of the art. Now I'm on the Internet and have an e-mail address and have been in contact with several friends and readers.

SCOTT FARRAR, of Mukilteo, was one of the first: "I am the Coon Chicken Inn Grandson you wrote about recently. You may be interested in what I know about the tunnel rumored to run under Bothell Way between the Jolly Roger and the Coon Chicken Inn more than a half-century ago. There was NO tunnel to the Inn. The distance between what is there now, the Everred Chevron gas station and Ying's Drive-In, is quite a stretch. (We still own the Coon Chicken property, now Ying's Drive-In, the current owner of the business being Jimmy and Elsie Poon.) However, I do know that there WAS a tunnel at the Jolly Roger that went across the street to either a hotel or motel that was just across from it."

STAN: About a block and a half away at the time were the Lew-Al Auto Cabins, and the Shady Glen Auto Camp. Scott suggested that I ought to talk to Alan Stein of HistoryLink. Which I did. Alan told me there MIGHT have been such a tunnel from the Jolly Roger, ending up at a motel. Maybe

. GIL NORDQUIST: "I enjoyed your roadhouse article. I once knew a character, Bert Trudeau, who lived at about NE 103rd and Sand Point Way. He told me that the 'red brick road,' which you mentioned, was actually the first highway in the USA that was built specifically for automobiles. All the others started as horse and buggy roads."

STAN: The last of that red brick road is just to the east of Aurora at about N. 175th. Incidentally, did you know that Stone Way was once paved with red brick - and maybe still is - under the asphalt?

PETER LIPPMAN is my most distant e-mail correspondent, presently residing in Sarajevo (Bosnia-Herzegovina), next-door to Serbia. I've known Peter and his family for some 40 years. He has been in Sarajevo since late 1977, currently working on a research and writing project about the problem of refugee return. I wrote a column about him last summer, after he and five other Americans were arrested by Serbian authorities for "failing to register" their presence in Kosovo. Pressure from the American Embassy secured their release from jail.

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MEANWHILE, I've been busy trying to keep up with other news events, such as: the battle being waged by friends of Matthews Red Apple grocery to continue the store in its present ownership in Wedgwood rather than to lose it to QFC; a big barbecue attended by hundreds was held June 15, (the day the store was to close down); petition signatures now number more than 20,000; the store has been restocked and open for business; and apparently the final decision will be by arbitration ... and I took in the annual Fremont Solstice Parade where the bare-naked bicyclists (despite suggestions that they should be arrested) were darting around more than ever, at least a dozen and drawing a bigger hand than anyone else; George Heideman was there, a parade monitor in costume, and Scotty Sapiro and Joe Corvi were hanging out in front of History House, and Rainbow and parsol, were as resplendent as ever; on the parade route, the girl on stilts and I passed each other, she above me (with room to spare) and me under ... a little earlier I stopped by the Fremont Public Association Community Resource Center at N. 45th and Woodlawn, to see the new screen-printed tile mural by Fremont artist Laura Brodax, honoring donors to the capital campaign (one of the photos being from my collection) ... Dorothy and I took in a program at Decatur Alternative Elementary School, "The Presentation of Great Depression Quilts," created by students from oral histories of people like us; my next-door neighbor, Alan Beem, and Kit Rood, like the others, dug up information about the Great Depression from our experiences, ending up with a booklet, a quilt square, and a program of acting, dancing, singing ... The Green Lake Aqua Theatre, of which only a remnant remains today, will be reactivated for three days (July 9-11) for the Aqua Follies; I attended several programs there in the '50s, and the pool dedication by Olympic swimming star Helene Madison.

Stan Stapp is the retired publisher of the old Outlook, a family-owned community newspaper that covered North Seattle for several decades up until its sale in 1974. He and his wife, Dorothy, now reside in the Wedgwood neighborhood. Stan can be reached via e-mail at: stapp@w-link.net.