In an effort to pack his namesake Taylor’s Castle Garden for opening night, Charles A. Taylor, Seattle’s then popular producer of farce and melodrama, paused to boast before the local press. Taylor explained that the seven days required to transform the recent home for the Methodist Protestant Church into his “amusement resort” as well as rehearse the new acts for his show and advertise them too, “that no such time record has hitherto been made in the country.” With his claim the popular playwright-performer added theatre statistician to his by then sixteen years with the Third Ave. Theatre. Whatever, the promoter’s figures worked. The Times review of the Dec. 1, 1906 opening revealed that for Taylor’s program of “extravaganza and vaudeville, with few exceptions every seat in the big playhouse was filled.” [Although not easy to read we will attach a clipping of this review at the bottom of this feature.]
The opportunity of turning the church at the southeast corner of Pine Street and Third Avenue into a sensational stage first opened to Taylor’s company when Seattle’s second oldest congregation moved out. Facing a street regrade that would leave the Gothic-arched entrance into their sanctuary no longer at the sidewalk but rather one floor up, the Methodists moved to a new stone church – still Gothic – on Capitol Hill.
For opening night the opportunist Taylor staged exhibits and sideshows in the new street-level first floor, while about 12 feet up he directed the “spectacular ‘Children’s Fairyland’ with a chorus of singers and dancers numbering more than 100”, all of it supported by the “difficult dancing” of Linnie Love, a “well-known Seattle girl” with her own stage name.
The corner’s rapid conversion from Gothic-sacred to Castle-secular was both ironic and short-lived. First the irony: Taylor and his players had been earlier forced into their 6-block move up Third Ave from Madison to Pine, when their long-accustomed venue, the Third Avenue Theatre at the northeast corner of Madison Street, was schedule for conversion into kindling by another regrade on Third Avenue. The return to melodrama – after some managerial squabbling with one of his supporters, Taylor’s Castle at 3rd and Pine closed, and flipped to being a stage for farce and melodrama. The name it had abandoned months earlier with the splinters at the northeast corner of Madison and Third was then moved north to Pine Street and used again.
For two years more, it was as the Third Ave. Theatre that shows were put up in the not-so-old church (1891), while north across Pine Street, Denny Hill came down, and another “castle,” the landmark Washington Hotel, revealed here (on top) in part far left, with it.
Anything to add, Paul?
Sure Jean 1, 2, 3.
1. I just returned from a Salmon House dinner with our blog’s distinguished anatomist, John Sundsten. (With a KEY WORD search on Sundsten the reader may visit again a few of John’s instructions in the coincidences of human anatomy, Green Lake morphology and walkers.) It is now 8 pm on Sat. Sept 28th, I’m listening to a Swedish male chorus singing all Schubert with the soprano Malena Ernman (a search for her on YouTube may surprise.) It is a mere month from another passage that may have numerological resonance for almost anyone. It will be my 75th birthday. [Here’s the proof – perhaps. Subtract 66 from 75 for 9, divide 9 by 3 for 3.] With different knees, and a new left hip, I might close my eyes and with the singing of Schubert and Marlena imagine myself 25. [Subtract 16 from 25 for 9, divide 9 by 3 and so on.]
2. Ron Edge has gathered the past blog features that are most relevant to this Seattle block on 3rd Ave. between Pike and Pine streets. It turns out that it has been a popular popular with us. He has put up three links – the first three photos to follow – that will take the reader to his choices.
3. Finally below Ron’s trio, I’ll enter a few more related pieces of ephemera and their stories. [Shucks! I am up and it is Sunday, but all that I did for the blog under this “no. 3″ is not there. It did not take. Before reviving or restoring it we will need to figures out what sent it packing. Later then.]
FOLLOWS NOW FOUR LOOKS to the SOUTHEAST and “Our Block” on THIRD between Pike and Pine. The first two were taken from Denny Hill. The second two from the Washington Hotel.
Pacific’s “now and then” is but one of many such heritage features that have appeared in this paper and others through the years. For instance, The Times first used the subject shown here on Sunday March 14, 1934 for its then popular pictorial series titled “Way Back When.” The photo was submitted by Times reader Mrs. Loretta Wakefield and was but one of ten historical scenes sharing a full page. We assume that the photo captions were also first drafted by those who first entrusted the photographs. And for this each contributor received from The Times the thankful prize of one dollar.
The caption for this subject concentrates on its line up of carriages, teams, pedestrians, employees and clapboard storefronts posing and/or standing on the far southwest corner of First Ave. and Bell Street. It reads, “A buggy show during 1875 – Louis S. Rowe was the manufacturer whose carriage display enticed Seattleites sixty years ago.” Not quite. 1875 was the year that the 40-year old Lewis (not Louis) Solomon Rowe first arrived in Seattle to stay.
Rowe’s way with carriages began in 1848 when as the youngest of nine children he left the family farm at the age of fourteen and bound himself for two years to a carriage maker in Bangor Maine. He was paid $30 dollars the first year. By 1861 Rowe was in San Francisco and still employed by a carriage manufacturer. However, by also running the shop and working by the piece he made $60 to $70 a week.
Next – and last – in Seattle Rowe first turned to selling groceries from a shop built for him by Henry Yesler on First Avenue at the foot of Cherry Street. With the cash got from cauliflower and candy sales, Rowe bought land and lots of it, including this southwest corner of First and Bell. Here in the mid 1880s he built his “Rowe’s Block” and soon started both selling and caring for carriages at his corner.
By the evidence of his neighbors – his renters included a drug store; the Watson and Higgens grocery; the Burns Barber Shop; and the Saginaw House, a small hotel – this photo of Rowe’s row was recorded late in 1888 or early in 1889. On March 30, 1889 electric trollies first took the place of horse cars on these tracks running through Belltown to Lower Queen Anne. Trolley wires do not as yet seem to be in evidence.
Anything to add, Paul? We will begin with a few snapshots taken during the preparation of the Apex Coop in 1983-4 followed by few features from the neighbor as these late hours allow.
A QUESTIONABLE CORNER
SEATTLE FROM NORTH SEATTLE, ca. 1884
(First appeared in Pacific, July 4, 1999)
For many years I puzzled over this scene’s foreground. The distant part is familiar. Beacon Hill holds the horizon; below it protrudes the darker forms of what was then the central waterfront. It extends south from Yesler’s Wharf (center) to the King Street coal wharf, which reaches farthest west into Elliott Bay. Two tall ships are tied to either side and another (far right) holds just beyond it.
The boardwalk, homes and fresh excavation are more difficult to place. The Museum of History and Industry print reads “Seattle from vicinity of First and Pine, ca. 1882.” The date is closer to circa 1884. Magnification reveals structures that were not completed until 1883 was itself completed.And this is surely not First and Pine, but more likely five blocks north at First and Bell. The 1884 birds-eye view of the city and the Sanborn real-estate map of the same year show a home at the southwest corner of Bell and Front (First Avenue) with a shape similar to the one here, far left. In both, a small extension is attached to the rear of the house.
In September 1884, the territory’s first street railway began its horse-car service as far north as Battery Street (less than a block behind the photographer, if my identification is correct). Although we cannot see the street beyond the boardwalk, far left, we can speculate that the fresh dirt spread across the foreground was placed during the first regrade of First Avenue, undertaken, in part, to give horses an easier grade reaching Belltown.
Topographical maps from as early as the 1870s show a “Belltown Ravine” extending from the waterfront to just beyond First Avenue – hence the bridge, far left (again, if I am correct.) This, then, is evidence of the first fill into a ravine now covered.
Finally, an 1882 view (above) by the visiting Californian Watkins, looks into Belltown from the west side of Denny Hill and shows a fence at the southwest corner of First and Bell that looks (to me with reserve) like the fence running nearly the width of this scene behind the freshly excavated dirt.
BELLTOWN PAN, ca. 1887 by MUMFORD
(First appears in Pacific, Feb. 27, 1983)
In 1883 the transcontinental Northern Pacific Railroad at last reached Portland and Puget Sound. Seattle, and the rest of the Northwest, had been yearning for this invasion. Arthur Denny and William Bell, two of the Midwestem farmers who years earlier had come to this wilderness to start a city, waited with subdivided real estate for the coming tide of settlers.
Only 32 years after they landed at AIki Point, their city of close to 7,000 residents was the largest In the territory, and their contiguous claims were next in line for serious development. The border between their claims ran diagonally across Denny Hill. A view from the top looked south over Denny’s land toward the center of town. Turning around one looked north toward Belltown. Here, In November 1883, William Bell completed his namesake hotel: a four-story landmark with a showy mansard roof and central tower.
It was the 66-year-old pioneer’s last promotion. Within the year, Bell’s depressing symptoms of fits and confusion would confine him to his home two doors south of his hotel. There, on Wednesday, Sept. 6, 1887, he died of what then was called “softening of the brain: dementia.Bell’s only son, Austin, then living In California rushed home to his father’s funeral and a Belltown inheritance that appeared much as it does in the above panorama (above the Bell home.). This 1887 (or perhaps 1888) subject looks north from near Second Avenue and Blanchard Street.That’s Blanchard at the lower right. .
William Bell’s hotel is the centerpiece of both this picture and the neighborhood, and his home is the house with the white picket fence and the cheery white smoke streaming to the east from its chimney.
The intersection of Front Street (now First Avenue) and Bell Street is seen with a posing pedestrian standing at its northeast corner, center left. Front Street is lined with a few frontier facades and down its center runs the railway for the horse-drawn trolley, which in 1884 began its somewhat leisurely 17-block service between Battery and Mill (now Yesler Way) Streets.
Belltown was first a forest into which William carved a small clearing for a garden and log cabin. There, Jan. 9, 1854, Austin Americus Bell was born. When the 1856 native attack on Seattle destroyed the first Bell home, William moved the family to California. At David Denny’s urging, he tentatively returned in the early 1860s to subdivide his claim, but not until the early 1870s did William Bell come home to stay.
In 1875 the family moved back to Belltown and into the home with the picket fence. One year later, as a member of the City Council, Bell voted with the majority for Seattle’s first public-works ordinance, which paid for the regrading of Front Street from Mill to Pike Streets. When a boardwalk was added for the additional six blocks out to Belltown, this long and relatively mud-free walk became Seattle’s favorite Sunday and sunset promenade.
For the decade preceding his father’s death, Austin Bell spent most of his time in California. Returning in 1887, he and his wife, Eva moved into their home at Second and Blanchard (Just right and out of frame of our subject.) Now Austin began to act like a promoter, and by 1889 when he moved his offices to 2222 Front St. (Just left of our scene), he had more than doubled his inheritance to an estimated quarter million.
On the afternoon of April 23 of that year he took a nephew for a buggyride through the streets of Belltown. Stopping on Front Street between his father’s old home and namesake hotel (the Bellevue House), he enthusiastically outlined with dancing hands the five-story heights to which his own planned monumental brick building would soon reach.
That night Austin Bell slept fitfully but arose at 8 o’clock to a “hearty breakfast.'” At 9:30 he walked one block to his office, locked the door and, after writing an endearing but shaky note to his wife, shot himself through the head. He was dead at 35, his father’s age when he first carved a clearing in the forest that would be Belltown.
Among the crowd of hundreds that gathered outside the office was Arthur Denny who recalled for reporters the history of both William and Austin Bell. He indicated that “the symptoms of his father’s disease also had begun to manifest themselves in Austin . . . This he fully recognized himself and the fact played on his mind so that he finally killed himself.”
Eva Bell completed Austin ‘s decorative five-story brick monument and fittingly named and dated it, “Austin A. Bell, 1889.” However, the rebuilding of Seattle’s center after the Great Fire of that year diverted attention from Belltown and Bell’s new building, which even before the 1893 international money crash was popularly called “Bell’s folly.” After this, a series of reversals, including the early-century Denny Hill Regrade, the elections failure of the 1912 Bogue Plan, which included a
proposed new civic center in Belltown, prohibition and the Great Depression all conspired to keep Belltown more or less chronically depressed.
Today the neighborhood is inflating with high-rises all much taller than five stories, but so far none of them quite monumental. However, now one also can choose a window seat in the Belltown Cafe, order an Austin A. Bell Salad and gaze across First Avenue to the depressingly empty but still grandly standing red brick Austin Americus Bell Building.
(Reminder: this was composed 30 years ago.The Austin Americus Bell Building has since been gutted – except for its front façade.A new structure has been built behind it.The Belltown Café folded many years ago, but while it lasted this early and arty attraction was much enjoyed by many.)
The LEADER BUILDING, Across First Ave. from the Austin Bell Building.
The CAMERON HOTEL
The PRESTON HOTEL
PRES. HARDING, JULY 27, 1923, MANITOBA HOTEL, 2124 FIRST AVE.
LOOKING NORTH From the BACK of the BELL HOTEL ca. 1887
Click Twice to Enlarge
Keep CLICKING to Enlarge – to read. Or find the entire book under this blog’s books-button.
TWO 1926 CLIPPINGS on PUBLIC WORKS DELIBERATIONS that Eventually Led to Both the ALASKAN WAY VIADUCT and the BATTERY STREET TUNNEL
The PAUPS at the NORTH END of the BLOCK (The Northwest Corner of First and Blanchard)
The PAUPS of BELLTOWN
(First appeared in Pacific, Jan. 25, 1987.It also appears as Feature No. 35, in Seattle Now and Then Vol. 3, which can be opened on this blog – with some searching of the front page.)
There is a remarkable continuity to the northwest comer of First and Blanchard street. Martin Paup bought it in the late 1880 & when Belltown was still part of North Seattle and Martin Paup still owns it today_
Some of the character of this comer has also held. Until it closed three years ago [in 1987] the Queen City Tavern was, according to the contemporary Martin Paup, the longest continuously operating union bar in the city. Consequently, that watering hole shows up in the older view as does the historical Martin Paup posing with his wife Ellen and their three children to the right of the sign reading “General Store.” Paup is the one with the mustache, but without the hat. By the time this Martin Paup died here in 1938 he’d become a cherished pioneer. Born in 1846 to poverty and as a child indentured by his parents to an abusive farmer, he eventually escaped to the Civil War as a boy cavalryman for the Union side. Years later, as old as 86, he marched the entire route in local parades as color bearer for the remaining Civil War veterans.
The still young Paup came west after the war and soon settled on Bainbridge Island, working for many years as an engineer for the Port Blakely Mill Company on the famous pioneer steamer Politofsky. Married in 1877, Ellen and Martin began to raise a family and save their money, investing it in real estate and rental homes mostly in Belltown.
Interviewed by the Post-Intelligencer in 1888, Paup explained, “A number of years ago 1 came to the conclusion that Seattle would someday become a great city. 1 talked the matter over with my wife and we both agreed to live as economically as possible and lay by a few dollars every month to put into property. It does not take any shrewdness to get ahead in this county, barring sickness. All that is necessary is to layout a plan and then follow it . . .1 think about five years more of hard work will let me out of steam-boating and 1 will come to Seattle and settle down.”
And so he did, moving with his family to Belltown in 1895 to a home at Western Avenue and Blanchard Street, one block west of where Ellen and he soon built this two-story commercial building with the tavern, a general store, bakery and modest hotel upstairs for “traveling men” (two of whom may be posing on the roof).
When this short-lived clapboard was razed in 1910 for the brick property in the “now,”  its basic commercial uses as a bar downstairs and a hotel upstairs were retained. And in this there is yet another continuity, for the contemporary Martin Paup (grandson of the Civil War veteran) has, with the help of the city, renovated the old Lewiston Hotel to retain its service to low-and-fixed-income tenants. The average rent for the Lewiston’s 48 units is only $113 a month . When this good work was done in 1980 it was the nation’s first federally-supported SRO (Single Room Occupancy) project. Today the Lewiston is managed for Paup by the nonprofit Plymouth Housing, an agency of Plymouth Congregational Church, an institution with a long record of inner-city social activism.
In 1987 the comer regained its Queen City name when Peter Lamb, owner of the Pike Place Market’s popular II Bistro restaurant, opened the Queen City Grill here, next door to the Frontier restaurant and cocktail lounge.
In our last Sunday feature I shared with Berangere and Jean the hope that some reader would respond with explanations for the largely mysterious – for us – submarines that we included there. We were blessed with just such from Bill Hoeller. Now we will print out his explanations beneath the subs they apply to. And we will introduce this with the introduction to his first letter to us. Thanks much Bill.
Having been born and raised in Seattle I always look forward to your Seattle Now & Then feature every Sunday. In 1940 when I was born I lived in the Rainier Valley. My wife and I currently live in Wallingford. I saw you had some questions concerning submarines, which I know a little about, so I thought I would respond. I’m also anxious to see additional posts about submarines.
All the best,
HOPEFULLY – if we can find it – we intend to return to this SUBMARINE SECTION of our blog with something on THE PRINCESS ANGELINE, the “first atomic submarine built for Puget Sound commuter service.” We doubt that it was ever built.Were we not quoting we would have preferred to write “planned for Puget Sound commuter service.” Please check for it later.
Since the beginning of the year 2013, Marseille became the European capital of culture. Six millions of visitors came to see the new museum MuCEM (Museum for Europe and Mediterranean) and enjoy the exhibitions, concerts taking place throughout the year.
First French cruise port, Marseille is also a melting pot.
At three hours from Paris by train, Marseille has become one of the favourite destination to find the sun, the sea, creeks : gate of the Mediterranean, it is the crossroads of cultures, of the art of living in the sun.
New architectures, including Mucem Rudy Ricciotti and Norman Foster ‘s shelter give a new spirit to the old city.
Escale à Marseille
Depuis le début de l’année 2013, Marseille est devenue la capitale européenne de la culture. Six millions de visiteurs sont venus découvrir le nouveau musée du MuCEM (des civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée ) et apprécier les expositions, concerts qui continueront a se dérouler toute l’année.
Premier port de croisière français, Marseille est aussi un melting pot , à trois heures de Paris en train, Marseille est devenue une destination privilégiée pour trouver le soleil, la mer, les calanques : porte sur la Méditerranée , elle est le croisement des cultures, de l’art de vivre au soleil.
Les nouvelles architectures , notamment le MuCEM de Rudy Ricciotti et l’ombriere de M. Foster au bout du Vieux Port apportent de nouvelles perspectives à la ville.
Here is the old port of Marseille, with the emblematic basilica “Notre Dame de la Garde”at the top of the hill
In old Port, Dali’s sculpture and on the right Norman Foster ‘s shelter
At the entrance of the old port, the MuCEM
The architect defines its creation as a “vertical casbah, a perfect square of 72 meters on each side, run by tree structures slender Protected by shading as a latticework. Mineral, while fiber-reinforced concrete, dust matt this is an architecture of thinness, stretched as tight muscles of a runner, armed with a powerful and feminine delicacy. it refers to the metaphor of the Mediterranean. “
L’architecte définit sa création comme “une casbah verticale, un carré parfait de 72 mètres de côté, tenu par des structures arborescentes élancées, protégé par une enveloppe brise-soleil tel un moucharabieh. Minérale, tout en béton fibré, de couleur poussière mate, c’est une architecture de la maigreur, étirée comme les muscles tendus d’un coureur de fond, armée d’une délicatesse puissante et féminine. Elle renvoie à la métaphore de l’espace méditerranéen.”
Fort Saint Jean represent a melting point between the city and the museum, between history and contemporary setting
The cathedral de la Mayor in style Romano-Byzantin in the perspective of MuCEM
At 5 o-clock on the afternoon of July 4, 1913, Miss Helen McEwan, the daughter of a proud and watching VIP, christened the bow of the H-3, then the Navy’s “new under water fighting machine.” The Times sensitive reporter saw it “slide gracefully into the waters of Elliot Bay.”
In the next day’s Times a hopeful editor added, “May the new vessel sink as successfully as she floats!” And the H-3 did both sink and swim but not always in order. For instance, in Dec. 1916 with three other navy vessels examining coastwise harbors, the H-3 – in a fog – ran on a sand spit at Humboldt Bay in Northern California. A year earlier in Southern California waters while “forging ahead” of another navy flotilla this time heading up the coast from San Diego for an Independence Day celebration in San Francisco, the H-3 ran on the rocks at Point Sur. First saved by a high tide and then patched at the navy year in Vallejo, on leaving the navy yard the sub managed to first graze the cruiser Cleveland and then run afoul of a dike at the Vallejo lighthouse. In 1930 the H-3 was, perhaps, mercifully decommissioned.
Two more vessels half hide here behind the H-3. Built in Ballard in 1902, the four-mast schooner Willis A Holden is held for overhaul in one of the Seattle Construction and Drydock Company’s three floating dry-docks after a punishing 63-day sail north from Iquique Chile.
Half hidden behind the flags on the sub and with its stern nearly touching the schooner, we may glimpse the sporty steam tug, the Tempest. Perhaps she waits to nudge the submarine if needed. As described in the McCurdy Maritime History of the Pacific Northwest, the tug’s productive last years in warmer waters were a gift of the Great Depression and a bottle of spirits. With the 65-foot-long tug in debt and under guard, its captain “provided a bottle for the Tempest’s watchman.” Then slipping the tug “quietly from her moorings and out to sea” she was seen “heading south down the coast under a full head of steam.” The Tempest reached San Blas, Mexico safely and ended her days as a shrimp trawler.”
Reviewing the these maritime stories, Ron Edge, who provided the historical photograph, is of the opinion that the lives of vessels may sometimes be of greater interest than our own. In the “now” caption, Jean Sherrard describes the contemporary task required to record his repeat.
Anything to add, Paul?
Acting under the inhibitions of the little time left now before “nighty-bears” I will plop into the feature a few related features, and then with what is left add an addendum later in the week.
First the two tips that Ron Edge sent us on what he figured was the target for your “now” or “repeat” of the 1913 sub shot. One is an early 20th Century Sanborn real estate map and the other a detail pulled from a recent Google-earth shot from space. In both instances Ron has circled the environs with a red circle.
NEXT, and in order, we will illustrate a few activities that have held the waterfront at or near the Sub’s launch site, and starting with a subject that looks east ca. 1885 to the ridge that before the Jackson Street Regrade (1907-09) and the Dearborn Cut (1909-1912) ran between First and Beacon Hills. The closest railroad trestles crossing the tideflats are constructions of the 1880s. The The knoll above the red arrow near the horizon right-of-center was removed in the early part of 20th Century for fill for the laying of tracks free of worm-endangered wooden trestles like those showing here. Dearborn Street crossed the knoll.
MORITZ THOMSEN’S CENTENNIAL MILL
[Click TWICE to enlarge for reading]
HOOVERVILLE BURN – 1940
(First appeared in Pacific,Feb. 23, 1997)
First in the fall of 1940 at “Hooverville” and other shack communities spread along the beaches and tideflats of Elliott Bay were a squatter’s Armageddon. The residents got a posted warning.The mostly single men who lived in these well-packed, rent-free communities were told the day of the coming conflagration, so there was time for a few to arrange for the shacks to be carefully trucked away to other sites not market for wartime manufacturing.
This was very different from the old Hooverville ritual of farewell – a kind of potlatch.When a resident found a job (a rare event), he was expected to ceremoniously give his house, bed and stove to others still out of work.In 1939 this gift-giving became a commonplace; the war in Europe had begun to create jobs here, and among the residents of Hooverville were many skill hands.
Squatters’ shacks had been common in Seattle since at least the economic Panic of 1893.Miles of waterfront were dappled with minimal houses constructed mostly of whatever building materials the tides or junk heaps of nearby industries offered.For the most part, these free-landers were not bothered by officials or their more conventional neighbors.Swelling during the 1930s to communities of more than 1,000 residents, these self-policing enclaves were an obvious and creative solution to some of the worst effects of the Great Depression.
Hooverville was the biggest of them all.It sprawled along the waterfront west of East Marginal Way, roughly between Dearborn Street and Royal Brougham Way.The scene of prodigious shipbuilding during World War 1, the site had been increasingly neglected and then abandoned after the war.In 1997 when this feature was first published these acres were crowed with Port of Seattle containers.Since then the size of this service has diminished.Among the visions of what might become of this container field are residential uses: condos – perhaps stacked something like containers beside the bay and near to downtown.
SUBMARINES IN NEED OF HELP
Berangere and Jean, perhaps one of another of our readers will give us some help in identifying the submarines below. They were plucked from our archive.
Naval sub No. 268, above, lying along the water end of the Naval Armory at the south end of Lake Union. The Armory, you know, was recently converted into a new home for the Museum of History and Industry. In the mid-1960s I lived for a time in one of the homes in the rows of house boats that held to the shore. My architect friend Bob lived at the far (western) end of one row of those floating homes along Fairview Ave. and at the very southern end of the house boat community. His then was the last (most westerly) floating home on the last (most southerly) dock which was still more than half a mile northwest of the armory. One morning he was awakened by a sturdy bump at his bedroom window. Sitting up in bed Bob discovered the cause. The submarine normally tied to the end of the armory had broken loose in that night’s storm and drifted across the lake in the dark in order to, it seemed, firmly but gently nudge Bob awake. Bob said that it was “startling but not upsetting.” So Bob went back to sleep expecting that once the navy determined that its missing submarine was not resting on the bottom would easily find it in the morning at his bedroom window, waiting there for a tow back to the armory.
We will ad more subs, this time with rhymes, later in the week.
Here relaxes star Wallace Reid, “the silent screen’s most perfect lover,” in a Stutz Bearcat. The racer was borrowed – with promotional considerations – out of Jim Parson’s Stutz showroom on Broadway Ave., which with Pike Street was Seattle’s “auto row” then. We learned the date of this subject, when we found a captioned second record of the sporty car and handsome ham posing together here on the sidewalk at the pointed western end of The Times Building at 4th and Olive Way. It appeared in The Times on July 20, 1919. Reid is described there as “a Stutz admirer and a lover of automobiles.”
For his “now” Jean Sherrard considered asking the driver of the Seafair stage coach heading south on Fourth Avenue to pull on to the sidewalk and pause there for a pose, but the moving pressures of this year’s torchlight parade convinced Jean to record his “repeat” from afar – across Fourth. It is also a prospect that shows more of the architectural splendor of the Beau Arts Times Building, which was home for this newspaper from 1916, when the flatiron structure was built, until 1930 when the paper moved north a few blocks to its present plant in the Cascade neighborhood.
Born in 1891 into a show business family – his dad was a playwright-actor – Wallace Reid was still in his teens when he appeared in his first film. Here in 1919 he began playing the racer-hero in a string of sports car dramas including the Roaring Road (1919), Double Speed (1920), Excuse my Dust (1920) and Too Much Speed. (1921). Roaring Road was released a few weeks before Reid and the borrowed Bearcat took this pose. In its promotional pulp, Reid is described as pursuing actress Dorothy Ward “with the same energy he applied to his other obsession in life, auto racing.” (For your invigoration Roaring Road – all of it! – can be watched on YouTube.)
Also in 1919 while doing his own stunt work for the production of The Valley of the Giants, in Southern Oregon, Reid was seriously injured. So that the filming could continue, the star was prescribed morphine for the pain. By the time of the film’s release on August 31, Reid had developed an addiction. While attempting recovery he died of pneumonia – and perhaps a failed heart as well – in a California sanitarium, on Jan. 18, 1923. He was 31 and left his wife, two children, and many films.
I have a few Seafair snaps I’ll drop in to provide extra spice.
Anything to add, Paul? Only a sample of nearby subjects, including more parading, beginning with a Potlatch Parade scene from 1911, taken from the same corner, with the Waverly Hotel still in place and the Times offices still at the northeast corner of Second and Union.
CLOSING WITH our featured flat-iron block in the 1890s looking northwest and thru it from the intersection of Olive and 5th Avenue. St. Marks Church has been rented to a printing company, which by now it seems has abandoned the place. The sign on the corner indicates that it is to be “Sold at Auction,” or perhaps it has been recently sold. Denny Hotel holds the summit of Denny Hill. (That is the lesser summit straddling 3rd Ave – if it was there – between Virginia and Pine Streets. This front/south summit was about five feet lower than the north or greater summit between Lenora and Blanchard and mid-block between 3rd and 4th Avenues.)
We were not very good about getting every issue of Helix properly noted for its number and date. This was the first issue printed after the first (of 3) Sky River Rock Festivals gathered together over Labor Day. So this is from 1968. Without any confidence in the internal evidence of this tabloid itself, we have dated it above “early September, 1968. It occurs to me that this negligence or uncertainly is, in part or from one prospect, a sign that we were then living in eternity. (This week – for the next Helix and hopefully within a week or two – we will look for other photos taken at the first Sky River. An google search will certainly show others.)