Lower Roosevelt Way is an arterial that aside from the bascule bridge it is attached to, was, it seems, developed without distinguished landmarks. For the fetured photograph above, it was recorded on the afternoon of March 14, 1940, a year remembered, perhaps, by many of us, myself included. I was born in 1938 – late ’38.
The featured view at the top looks north on Roosevelt Way (10th Avenue N.E.) from its northeast corner with NE 41st Street. Seventy-seven years later, hardly anything survives for Jean Sherrard to repeat except the nearby utility pole and the fire hydrant at the bottom-right corner. They are, at least, nearly the same. A temporary seven feet-or-so of whitewash has been applied below the street sign on the 1940 pole. The sign reads “E. 41st St.” but not yet “Northeast.” Actually, transcending our prejudice, we notice a string of landmarks here in 1940: the syncopated clutter of the long line of tall power poles competing and/or cooperating for our attention above the narrow parking strip on the east side of Roosevelt Way.
When the bascule bridge that crossed the narrow passage between Lake Union and Portage Bay was first opened in 1919, it briefly held to its forebear’s name, The Latona Birdge, but was also called the Eastlake Bridge after its south end tie, and other times the Brooklyn Bridge for the name of its north end Brooklyn Addition, but most often, and perhaps inevitably, the University Bridge for its nearby and dominant campus landmark. By the time its north feed, Tenth Avenue Northeast, was renamed in 1933 for two popular presidents, one passed and one brand new, Roosevelt Way was well along with its development into one of Seattle’s auto rows, with several dealerships, garages, used car lots and full-service filling stations.
Here follows a few more Roosevelts.
Checking The Seattle Times archive for March 14, 1940, (the day for the featured photo at the top) we find that while celebrating his 61st birthday in Princeton with the press, Albert Einstein was asked if he had any plans in the “immediate future” to go public with any new discoveries for his “unified theory.” The cosmologist answered “No, no. I’m having difficulty there.” Meanwhile that afternoon with a
less cosmic attitude, the deliberating Seattle City Council voted to revoke the license of the Rialto Theatre after sampling the theatre’s rum-flavored toffee and peeking into its “view-boxes.” For the politicians’ edification and distraction, the Rialto’s manager projected into its ordinarily bawdy boxes lush transparencies of Far
East pagodas and exotic stone monuments, and not “nudes in a variety of poses,” or other First Amendment-testing titillations that the theater’s late night customers – mostly older men – paid tens cents to watch and/or sleep the night through from the comforts of the heated theatre’s cushioned seats.
Upon reflection, I must correct the introductory point about a lack of landmarks on lower Roosevelt Way. There is, at least, one grand exception. At the northeast corner of NE 42nd Street and Roosevelt Way, which is one long block north of the historical photographer’s prospect, spreads the creative clutter of Hardwick’s Swapshot, “Seattle’s coolest emporium since 1932.” It is hidden here behind the clutter of the parking strip. This helpful stockpile of long aisles is packed with both new and used hardware that can be enjoyed, studied and procured. On top of it all, original framed art is arranged salon-style in the spaces that climb the walls above the tools. Much of it is “forsaken art” found in estate sales and the rummage market. Forsaken, and yet precious, it is NOT for sale.
ON THE SAME DAY – MILDRED DODGE – MARCH 15, 1940
Anything to add, fellahs?
THREE MORE BILLBOARD SHOTS FROM THE FEATURED CORNER – ALL LOOKING NORTH
WE INTERRUPT THIS FEATURE WITH A LOOK AROUND THE CORNER & NORTHEAST TO THE INTERSECTION OF JEFFERSON STREET & THIRD AVENUE. THE CITY HALL – AKA KATTZENJAMMBER CASTLE – IS ON THE RIGHT, AND THE YESLER HOME – (a domestic castle with 27 rooms) – ON THE LEFT.
The reader will easily note that with few exceptions the featured photo’s line-up of Seattle Police on the north side (left) of Yesler Way, between Second and Third Avenues, are looking east at the long parade float that is either crossing Yesler Way or standing in its intersection with Third Avenue. The rooftop banner that runs the length of the float names the sponsor, the “National Brotherhood of Electrical Workers.” The flip side for at least one of the four MOHAI prints covering this Independence Day scene, holds a type-written sticker that reads “taken July 4, 1898, before the Spanish American War veterans returned. Picture made in front of police headquarters.” A hand-written addition to the sticker reads “3rd and Yesler,” and the gray-blue back of the print itself concludes the captioning with “Called ‘Electric Float’ Taken by W.T. Milholland.”
The inscribed date, 1898, is very inviting. The Independence Day weekend that year included the sensational news that America’s revenge for the February 15th unexplained sinking of the USS Battleship Main – “Remember the Maine!!!” – in the Havana harbor was at hand. On the third of July, with the American navy in pursuit, the Spanish Caribbean fleet fled the Santiago, Cuba harbor. In the days that followed the Spanish dreadnaughts that were not destroyed, surrendered. Certainly this waxing war news was on the minds of nearly every one among the estimated 75,000 citizens and visitors that crowded downtown Seattle on the 4th for 1898. One year later this patriotic party was remembered by The Times reporter covering the 1899 Independence Day festivities as “the biggest celebration that the city ever had.” However, and almost certainly, this Yesler Way scene was not part of that record-setting event. The caption was incorrect by one year. The float named “Electric” won second place in the 1899 – not 1898 – parade competition.
In The Times 3 O’clock Edition for July 5, 1899, [SEE ABOVE] the float is described as a “dynamo in full operation.” The electricity was generated by steam from a boiler flaunted on the float. It powered a “call system of the Postal Telegraph Company, a phonograph and a telephone” and was also wired to a printing press carried on the Metropolitan Printing and Binding Company float was next in line. On the far-right end of the float a tower of steam shoots from its roof. Most likely the hissing noise of escaping steam also attracted the attentive white-gloved police.
Independence Day for 1899 was a wet one, and many outdoor events were either canceled or avoided. The fireworks, however, were not expunged but rather admired for their reflections off the low clouds. In the featured historical photo, the gray sky offers little contrast with the scene’s two famous towers, both of them serving for part of their careers, as King County Court Houses. In 1890, the top-heady tower on the First Hill horizon, replaced the frame one rising far left on Third Avenue. With King County moved up the hill, its abandoned home at Third Avenue and Jefferson Street served as Seattle’s City Hall from 1890 to 1909, and was famously nicknamed the Katzenjammer Kastle for its Rube Goldberg collection of additions, which included the police department.
Below: ANOTHER TIMELY INTERRUPTION with PALMISTRY from in-with-and-under the Late-19th Century (the clip is from July 5, 1898) and its claim to have broken or penetrated the barriers between the PAST, PRESENT and FUTURE and so ALSO of or between NOW and THEN, or if your prefer THEN and NOW. (Note that scheduled sittings with a “reader” are required.)
Anything to add, boyos? Yes Jean the kids on the block have a few past features to adjoin. Some of these will be like growing chestnuts to some of the reders. (Note: a careful or curious eye will find blog contributor Ron Edge posing in one of them, but only after clicking) May we ask that the mother of all learning is what? May our mothers answer, “REPETITION.”)
Here’s looking south and a little east to the Queen City Florist Co.’s verdant nursery at the southwest corner of Union Street and 13th Avenue. The Florist’s names were John and Sophia Holze. Most likely they are standing at the gate, bottom-center, posing for the unnamed photographer. (We speculate on whom the photographer might be in the “then” caption.)
The couple – John, 36 and Sophia, 21 – had a June 22 wedding in Seattle 1898. John was thirty-six and Sophia twenty, which was John’s age when he first immigrated to the U.S.A. in 1883. It is, I think, probable that the German couple’s nuptials were conducted in German. Sophia’s parents emigrated from Germany, although she was born and raised in Wilson, Kansas, a railroad town with its own enclave of Pennsylvania Dutch, and so also a German-speaking community. The mid-west was then well stocked with them. (Leaning on the analogy and evidence of the Dorpats and my mother’s family, the Christiansens, all my mid-western grandparents spoke German and/or Danish more comfortably than English.)
In 1909, about seven years after they opened their nursery, the Holze’s ran a classified in The Times seeking “Girl for General Housework; two in family; German preferred, 1223 E. Union.” In the 1910 federal census, Emily L. Taylor is listed as living with the Holze’s, but at age 57, the “cook and servant” Emily was hardly a girl. Herman Andrews, the 63-year-od “laborer, gardener,” also living with them, was also born in Germany. Keeping track of the Germans on Union Street, the “wage worker” Ernestine Mohr, age 62, and listed in the 1920 federal census, was born in Germany and naturalized here. Like the widower Andrews, Mohr was a widow.
In 1912 the Holze’s added a store to their nursery: a “nicely fitted glass structure.” The Florist’s Review for Nov. 14, 1912 reported, “The company has the satisfaction of knowing that the place is now thoroughly up-to-date. The stock is all looking first-class … and everything is in condition for a large business.” And as it grew the couple and their flora did well. In 1905, soon after they moved into their Union Street quarters, John served as assistant secretary for the Seattle Florist Association’s flower show, which, the Times reported, was not only an artistic success, but paid for itself.” It was Seattle’s first big flower show, and The Times concluded that it went a long ways towards proving something “not to be so … the flippant saying that the men and women of Seattle are so busy making money that they have no time for the finer things.” Meanwhile Sophia did the accounting.
For their first adventure after retiring the Union Street enterprise in 1927, the German-American couple vacationed in Germany. Sophia was 49 and John an appropriate 65. They stayed involved. From the 1929 Northwest Florist Association Show they won first prize for Maroon Carnations.
ACROSS THIRTEENTH AVENUE
WEB EXTRAS – Anything to add, lads? Yup Jean. Thirty-four featured links from the neighborhood loosely conceived, and whatever they hold of other links. Surely many of these will be familiar to our most dedicated readers, who I imagine accept my mother’s wisdom – which we repeat again and again – that “Repetition is the Mother of All Learning.”
While surely formidable, the Armour and Co. building at the northeast corner of Third Avenue and Jackson Street was not designed to be admired on the merits of its east façade, as seen here looking west from the sidewalk on the west side of Fourth Avenue South. Instead the building’s show-front looked south over Jackson Street to the railroad depots. The railroad tracks showing here connect the Great Northern Depot with the tunnel that still passes north under the business district to the foot of Belltown’s Virginia Street. The tunnel, first opened in 1905, was the best reason why J. Ogden Armour, the “millionaire Chicago packer,” chose this location for his refrigerated distribution center for the Pacific Northwest, as well as Alaska, which was then still paying for some of its meat with nuggets. Seattle was also nearer than either California or Portland to the hoped-for meat eaters of the Far East.
Among Armour’s nationally distributed offerings were Star, “The Ham What Am,” and “Simon Pure” leaf lard. Billboards for those once popular brands stand on the roof built over the reinforced concrete delivery apron that was for the ready use of trucks and teams off Jackson Street, where the Armour Building climbed to its crown without interruption. The height of this building was six -, or seven -, or even eight – stories, depending upon one’s prospect and also upon how one counts floors.
In the Armour’s featured photo put at the top of this little essay and above the tracks, the building’s cornice reveals a shortage of symmetry. Above the sidewalk on Jackson Street the building’s crown is larger [see the photo directly above] than that turned out atop the windowless brick wall on the north, or right, side. The east side also makes another construction confession, of sorts. In 1908 the company lost in its efforts to convince the Seattle City Council that it be permitted to eliminate an exterior fire escape and standpipe on the grounds that its sturdy new northwest headquarters would have both inside. And, besides, the owners reasoned, the building was fire proof. Instead, the two unwanted fire apparatus climb the east façade together. Given the short life of the Armour Building, they were most likely never used.
On November 2, 1909, Armour’s Northwest manager Thomas Kleinogle introduced the plant to 20,000 visitors. Kleinogle also served sandwiches, pickles and coffee throughout the day, accompanied by an orchestra. The Times faint review (above) had the musicians playing an “interesting program.” The engine room in the basement was a steady draw. It ran the plant’s refrigerating machines, coolers, and a steam-heating plant. It also controlled the atmosphere for six smokehouses, the sweet pickling of meats, and the churning room for the company’s butter (ultimately two-thousand pounds a day). And the Armour Building soon had tenants, including the first home for Seattle’s Sears and Roebuck, electrical equipment manufacturers NePage McKenny, Waak-Killen Piano Co. and the Seattle Branch for the Pennsylvania Oilproof Vacuum Cup Tires, which were understandably popular on Seattle’s perilously slippery hills.
A decade more and the doors were again opened, on May 4, 1919, to the public for inspection, including what The Times complimented as a “splendid new beef cooling room.” Armour had spent $100,000 on its newest improvements. Just eight years later the company was paid, by court order, $400,000 for the building, the most valuable property razed during the course of the 1928-29 Second Avenue Extension.
A couple more shots in the vicinity:
And in answer to Eric Adman’s query – here’s a detail from the historic photo:
Anything to add, amigos? Yes, and germane Jean: Edge Links and a few more relevant and more ancient features.
It was a delightful surprise to come – but not stumble –upon this week’s “then.” In the mid-1970s I lived on the second floor of this big box at the southeast corner of Broadway and Republican Street. I shared the space with other instructors and students connected with the nearby Cornish School of the Arts. (Seattle’s by now celebrated empresario Norm Langill [of both One Real and Teatro ZinZanni] had the attic – and the steep stairway to it.)
The featured photo at the top is another of the several 5×7 inch negatives included in a study of billboards and their settings photographed during the years of the Great Depression, from 1929 into the early 1940s. Many of the billboard negatives come with a full day-month-year date, but not our featured photo. For guidance we turned next to the property record cards from the 1937 W.P.A. photo-survey.
The cards show that the narrow vacant lot seen here to the south of our corner lot was developed in 1935 by a jeweler named William Cobb. So our “then” dates from before 1935. (See the right side of t he ca. 1937 tax photo five cards up.) Coming with his own sidewalk clock, Cobb lent some class to the block-long collection of often-typical retailers on this east side of Broadway between Harrison and Republican Streets. The strip included a G.O. Guy Drugs, a Diamond 5c to $1.00 Store, a Brehms Delicatessen, the Yoshihard Laundry, Sam Tanneff’s Shoe Repair, John Jone’s Meats and three greengrocers, including the long-time tenant Queen City Grocery here at 434 Broadway. Whatever their age, there is something fresh about the retailers here, both brick and frame. Between Harrison and Roy Streets they were all – including the big box – dragged east in 1930-31 for the widening and somewhat fussy straightening of Broadway.
This week’s featured “then” was probably photographed soon after the move. Behind the signed windows upstairs are the offices of a chiropractor and the dentist Dr. J. Marvin Brown. A mention about Brown from The Times in 1931 is not an advertisement for painless extractions, but news that he was part of the Reception Committee for a Capitol Club Banquet at Pilgrim Congregational Church, located across Republican Street from his office. The impressive line-up of speakers included the governor, the mayor and the president of the Seattle Chamber of Commerce.
The dentist was probably as well known for his trigger-finger as for his drill. Brown’s hunting and fishing feats often made the news. He appeared on the front cover of the Seattle Sunday Times color rotogravure Pictorial for November 7, 1954. (Check out the Times archive, if you will.) In that precursor of this magazine, Brown cuddles in a still life, with his Springer Spaniel, shotgun and bagged pheasant, beside a rustic barn near the Whitman County village of Hay.
But, of course, at least for the “then” photographer, the intended celebrity here is the billboard for the corn product Karo, a table syrup introduced in 1902 and soon advertised nation-wide as “The Great Spread for Daily Bread.”
Anything to add, les mecs? Yes Jean, Ron has gathered a sweet collection of relevant features and will attached them below. I’m quitting, however, off to nighty-bears. It’s 5:15am. I’ll add a few more features and bon-bons after my mid-afternoon breakfast later today. And if time encourages me I’ll put up a few of the thousands of Broadway Bus Stop portraits I snapped in 1976-77 from the Kitchen Window on the second floor of our rental-box above Peters on Broadway. I am fond of them.
[below] BROADWAY & REPUBLICAN BUS STOP AS SEEN LOOKING WEST ACROSS BROADWAY FROM OUR KITCHEN WINDOW IN 1976-77 (at the the bottom of these few examples pulled from hundred of snaps we have put a link to a past feature that also included a few of these Broadway candors.)
Without shadows or a sidewalk clock we cannot tell the time of day in our feat ured photo at the top, but we do know the date. It is printed on the negative: September 21, 1938. We may easily imagine what the drivers and passengers in these vehicles feel as they percuss across the red brick paving of East Olive Way as it intersects with Melrose Avenue on the west slope of Capitol Hill. Seattle’s first ‘ways’ – Broadway, Yesler Way, Denny Way – were distinguished for acting as borders between the city’s large sections: i.e., northeast, north, northwest and so on. The sections also eased the sorting and delivery of mail. ‘Way’ was later used for roads requiring more eccentric work, such as for cutting a diagonal through a neighborhood. (I’ve counted about 25 of them north of Denny Way.) The diagonals Olive Way and Bothell Way were both supported by ordinances in 1920, followed by bulldozers
in 1922-23. The Olive cut was first proposed in 1907 by what the press –The Times included – identified as a few “real estate boomers.” The speculators were stopped by a neighborhood protest of over one-hundred “prominent men and women (living in) the Harvard Avenue and Broadway districts.”
The later slicing for Olive Way began at Bellevue Avenue, where we see it make its turn to the left at the center of the featured photograph, below the Edwards Coffee billboard. From there, it swoops through five blocks to where it joins with a widened John Street at Harvard Avenue. The original 1920 proposal to speed the traffic with an arterial underpass beneath both Harvard Avenue and Broadway was dropped. And so was a new name proposed.
Originating in Belltown, Olive Street was first named for Olive Julia Bell (1846-1921), daughter of pioneers Sarah and William Bell. President Warren G. Harding’s death, which followed soon after his 1923 visit to Seattle, inspired a variety of panegyric proposals, including one to City Council for a name change of Olive Way to Harding Way. The sentiment was, however, denied when the local forces of heritage beat it back. One City Councilman rationalized the defeat by observing that Olive Way was not really long enough for a president.
By reading The Seattle Times archives for September 21, 1938, we can also speculate about what many – probably most – drivers and passengers would be thinking before the day was out. This was the day when Czechoslovakia accepted the British-French plan of a compromise capitulation (aka the Munich Agreement) for restraining the Czech’s maniacal neighbor, Adolf Hitler, from inciting greater chaos. The Germans were allowed to annex much of the Sudetenland, the Czech borderlands with Germany inhabited primarily by ethnic German speakers. A summary of this World War II kindling began on the front page of this issue of the Wednesday afternoon Times. (We will remind you that The Times archive can be accessed with a library card, computer, and some help from a Seattle Public Library librarian.)
Anything to add, boys? SURELY Jean, with Ron’s relevant neighborhood and thematic past blog features first introduced with a full-page clipping from The Seattle Times for January 6, 1907, which puts Olive Way within the border of what some North End Optimists professed was fast developing into “The Heart of Greater Seattle” in – or by – 1910. (You may have a chance of also reading the presentations prophetic rationale if you click this scan and then click it again.)
We continue last week’s feature about the friendly pioneer priest Father Francis Xavier Prefontaine and his Our Lady of Good Help parish. On October 12, 1904, The Times published what was most likely the last contemporary photograph of the first Our Lady, although the caption, “Old Catholic Church is Being Torn Down” was premature. Nearly one month later, the ladies of Our Lady held a one-day bazaar on November 22 in the “parlors of the church,” where beside serving a “hot home cooked dinner, ” they sold their own “fancy (needle) work … at moderate prices.”
The bazaar was a benefit for Our Lady, but which one? Certainly not for the little Lady first built by Prefontaine’s own hands at the northeast corner of Third Avenue and Washington Street in the late 1860s. It was enlarged in 1882 for the growing congregation. (Shown directly above.) The archdiocese, anxious to build its new cathedral, sold the Our Lady corner lot to the Great Northern Railroad for construction of the south portal of its railroad tunnel beneath the city. At that time a new and nearby Our Lady was in the planning for the southwest corner of Main Street and Fifth Avenue. However, a month before the benefit bazaar, the city’s building department discovered that James Stevens, architect of the new Our Lady, had drawn outside walls for the church that were higher than the thirty-six feet allowed by the fire code. Following the process of what the city’s inspector termed “wrestling with the problem,” the new Our Lady of Good Help wound up not on Main Street but here where it is photographed at the southeast corner of Fifth Avenue and Jefferson Street. It was close to the old corner, but not as close.
A more comely version of the featured photo first appeared in The Times May 13, 1905, with the header “New Church of Our Lady of Good Help Completed.” (The sizeable power standard on the right was cropped.) The article also noted that “The new edifice will be opened tomorrow with a grand sacred concert … Right Rev. Bishop O’Dea will deliver an address of welcome. The church will be ready for service on Sunday May 21.” By then the two painters in the featured photo at the top working at the corner beside the small gothic window with the curvilinear wooden tracery would surely have completed their brushwork. Weeks later, June 16, 1905, The Times reported that Prefontaine was present for the silver anniversary of Holy Names Academy, noting that he “made a brief address,” for he had “aided in founding the school in 1880.”
Most of his remaining years were spent with his niece Miss Marie Pauze and her piano in their home overlooking Volunteer Park. She later recalled that when the archdiocese moved from Vancouver, WA to Seattle in 1903, the original Our Lady of Good Help at Third and Washington was used for three years as a procathedral while St. James was being built on First Hill. “My uncle didn’t want to leave, but he was the little dog, as we say. He wouldn’t fight, he simply quit.”
Father Prefontaine died in the spring of 1909 of “heart trouble,” a few months after Pope Pius X made him a Monsignor and five years after Seattle’s mayor R.A. Ballinger named Prefontaine Place for him on Christmas Day 1904.
Anything to add, fellahs? Certainly Jean but dawdling. Following Ron’s faithful clip collecting just below, we will not just now add more of our discovering until tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon. It is 5am and time to climb the stairs in remembrance of Bill Burden’s nighty-bears. Thanks Ron and thanks bill.