'Hi, I'm Larry': Ravenna Park's unofficial greeter adds a personal touch
Maybe no one takes his job more seriously than Larry Jorgenson. Four days a week, he's at work by 9:30, fresh off a city bus and armed with his signature greeting:
"Hi, I'm Larry."
Maybe you've seen him, dressed in what you might call his uniform — not just because he's wearing it today, but because he wears it every day. Yellow cap, blue jeans, white T-shirt. Dog-tired work boots with masking tape patching up the holes.
Nobody else was doing the job, so Larry stepped in and made it his own. People might not expect much from a guy like him, but here was something he could do. Fourteen years later, you can still pick him out at Seattle's Ravenna Park, lanky and purposeful, striding the grounds like a giraffe on an urban savanna.
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'Hi, I'm Larry' (:02) - "Hi I'm Larry."
That's how it sounds, the words dished up quick, like a basket of tortilla chips at a Mexican restaurant. He says it to anyone he sees — passing pedestrians, joggers, anyone who'll stop and listen. He says it like it's the most important thing in the world. He's on the front lines, after all, in the park's sphere of public information — the equivalent of a sparkly-toothed valet, a traffic cop, or maybe more exactly, a weatherman.
There's a new baseball field comin' in, he tells people. Or: We gon' get lotsa snow in th' mountains tonight.
Sometimes people aren't sure what to make of him. Seeing a middle-aged woman with a wide-brimmed hat saunter by on a park path, he charges over, taking her slightly aback.
"Hi I'm Larry," he says. "They're gon' change the park aroun' next spring."
"Good," she blurts. "That's good." But you can tell she's in a hurry to move on.
To two joggers just finishing a run: "Hi I'm Larry. I work for th' Seattle Parks Departmen'."
He doesn't, you see. Officially, his job doesn't exist at all. But over the years, 49-year-old Larry Jorgenson has faithfully reported for duty, even as he's moved on to homes as farflung as Lake City and Rainier Valley. In the process, he's become the unofficial greeter of the Ravenna community.
Disability has new label
Cognitive disability is how social workers describe what distinguishes people like Larry. It's the phrase slowly replacing the stigma-laden term "mental retardation." Accordingly, the 126-year-old American Association for Mental Retardation has even been mulling a name change, to the American Association for Intellectual Disabilities.
The 2000 U.S. Census noted 12.4 million people with mental disabilities nationwide, nearly 277,500 in Washington state. Larry Jorgenson is one of them, born in Renton in 1953. "Bone Rent nin't-fif-three," is how he says it. About school, he doesn't say much except to imply the experience was not much of a memory. Unable to hold a traditional job, he's still independent enough to live on his own, with the help of The Arc of King County, a nonprofit.
The agency helps Larry budget his money and makes sure his rent is paid. Other than that, Larry's his own man, a coupon clipper keen on routine, shopping and, especially, the weather. "He's a forward thinker," says Tom Haupt, Arc's direct-services coordinator.
'He reaches out to people'
Every day, after he gets home, Larry waits for Jeff Renner's weather report on the radio. For long-term forecasts, there's always the Farmer's Almanac. "It gon' snow Janafebbaymahch," he reports.
His role as park greeter was his doing. The folks at The Arc had no idea he'd taken on the role until he was well into it. "That's something he kind of did on his own," Haupt says. "He's somebody whose spirit is such that he reaches out to people. He's very open and gregarious."
When the weather turns cold, Larry relocates to a lobby bench in the nearby Ravenna-Eckstein Community Center, a gathering spot for parents with toddlers and a youth basketball site.
"He feels like this is his job," says recreation coordinator Mike Domingo. "Usually he comes before we open. He'll wait. Then, once we open the doors, he'll resume his position."
Larry usually packs his own lunch and stays until 3 o'clock, but neighborhood regulars who know him sometimes bring him goodies, too.
"He's been here as long as I can remember, and I've been here 12 years," says Carol Rasp, who teaches preschool and coaches kids' sports for the center. "He's just eager to help. He says hi to all my kids — I think he knows them all by name."
Domingo says Larry doesn't involve himself much in the goings-on behind the counter. If he does, it's to tell staffers about the weather.
"He'll tell us what the winters are gonna be like, that he's seen it on the news," Domingo says. "He'll point to his T-shirt and say, `We're gonna have a white winter, just like this.' "
For Larry, Christmas actually is the most wonderful time of the year. All year long, he stocks up on Christmas music and in the process has amassed an impressive collection of seasonal cassettes and records. You name it — it's there, everything from Bing Crosby and Ray Charles to Reba McEntire and Abbott & Costello.
Late last year, Larry moved to a Rainier Valley house built for people like him. For a time his roommate was 46-year-old Pat Kolbeson, whose sister hosted them for Thanksgiving. "I greeted people there," Larry says.
Larry sweeps the floors at his new home, the way he used to help his mother when he was a kid, and stockpiles multiples of items he's partial to, usable or not — headphones, boomboxes, flashlights, telephones, blue jeans, even generic food.
"He collects things," Haupt says. "He always wears the same clothes, but he has duplicates. I think he has 20 pairs of jeans. If there were ever an earthquake, the first place I'd go is to Larry's house for a pair of jeans and some dried goods."
But it's more likely you'll see Larry at the park or community center, rocking pronouncedly to the music booming through his headphones. That is, until he sees you.
One typical morning, a woman approached the door with a pair of young kids. Off came the headphones, and Larry sprang into action. "Hi I'm Larry," he said.
"Hi," she said. "I'm looking for the toddler room?"
Larry pointed her in the right direction, then smiled broadly. Happy to help. Part of the team.
Marc Ramirez: mramirez@seattletimes.com