THEN1: Climbing to the roof of the nearby Masin Building (1902), photographer Earl Depue recorded this north-facing portrait of a nearly completed Smith Tower in spring 1914. Local wits occasionally called its conical top “a dunce cap.” (PHOTO BY EARL DEPUE, COURTESY RON EDGE)NOW: On Second Avenue South, this view is captured with the aid of a 20-foot extension pole. Smith Tower remained the tallest building in Seattle until eclipsed by the Space Needle in 1962. Today’s Seattle City Hall at Fourth and James is only a stone’s throw from the tower. (Jean Sherrard)
Published in The Seattle Times on-line on July 25, 2024
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on July 28, 2024
We still can get ‘stretchitis’ from beholding the tippy-top of the 1914 Smith Tower
By Jean Sherrard
Oh, to have been a fly on that wall in 1909 when firearm and typewriter magnate Lyman Cornelius Smith of Syracuse, N.Y., proposed building a 14-story skyscraper in Seattle. His son Burns, 29, must have nodded patiently before dropping an inspired bombshell.
THEN: A portrait of gun and typewriter magnate Lyman C. Smith, whose canny 1890 Seattle realty purchase, including the future Smith Tower site, was one of the largest of its time. (Paul Dorpat collection)
“Let’s supersize it,” urged the younger Smith (here, of course, we paraphrase). What better promotion for a maker of office machines, he reportedly said, than a record-breaking office building? Rivaling Manhattan’s Singer, Metropolitan and Woolworth buildings — then the world’s tallest — would be front-page news nationwide.
What’s more, Burns reminded his father that speculator John Hoge already had begun planning his own 18-story high-rise. A significantly taller Smith column might thumb its nose at Hoge’s lesser stack for years to come. Fiercely competitive, Lyman Smith gave a hearty thumbs up.
From the get-go, the Smiths applied their powers of persuasion, Lyman dazzling the Seattle City Council with grand visions. The council formally resolved that city government buildings would remain within a four-block radius of the Smith property, clinching its central location and future relevance. A supportive Mayor Hiram Gill made sure that building permits were quickly granted.
A Syracuse architectural firm, Gaggins and Gaggins, completed plans for the $1.5 million steel and concrete edifice — a 21-floor base topped by a 14-floor tower and pyramidal cone that contained, claimed its builders, seven additional (if improbable) floors, for a fish-tale total of 42 stories.
The lower floors of the Smith building, festooned with promotional banners.
On Nov. 5, 1910, before construction began, the 60-year-old elder Smith died unexpectedly after a short illness. A Seattle Times obituary lauded his “quick insight into the heart of things” and investment of a third of his fortune in “the future possibilities and present desirability of this city.”
THEN: Here’s an alarming detail from our main “Then” photo. “Cowboys of the air” fearlessly traverse the surface of the Smith Tower’s cone without visible safety harnesses. Remarkably, no deaths and few injuries were reported during construction. (Courtesy Ron Edge)
His structure climbed to the sky. Crowds of admiring Seattleites (dubbed “sidewalk superintendents”) gaped upward, marveling at “cowboys of the air” who attached glazed terra-cotta panels. A local doctor warned that neck injuries might increase. Wags competed to name potential ailments. Top contenders: “crickitus,” “stretchitis” and “rubberosis.”
Come dedication day, July 4, 1914, Burns Smith welcomed thousands to his “cloud cleaver,” at 522 feet, the tallest in the West. The “gleaming white pile,” said the Times, represented “the confidence … which typifies Seattle spirit and growth.”
Another zoom in on fearless workers high above 2nd Avenue (Courtesy Ron Edge)
At its crest, an 8-foot-wide globe of glass and bronze “flashed the hour and quarter hour in red, white and blue.” Mariners approaching across Puget Sound proclaimed the newly minted icon “a beacon to the world.”
Although it’s dwarfed today by modern giants, can anyone say that the Smith Tower, having just marked its 110th anniversary, has lost any of its opening luster?
WEB EXTRAS
For a narrated 360 degree video of this column, please click here!
THEN: In May 1924, Orre Nobles (center right, hand on stone pillar) and others at Olympus Manor “appear in their costumes in the recent Kit-Kat Frolic and annual colony affair,” according to the June 1, 1924, Seattle Times. Behind them and in front of a Japanese-style torii gate runs the predecessor of State Route 106 east of Union. (Seattle Times, courtesy Michael Fredson)NOW: Near an abandoned and shaded stone pillar on property now owned by Blue Heron Resort, author Michael Fredson stands along an overgrown path near what was Olympus Manor, which burned down in 1952. For more info, visit MichaelFredson.com. (Clay Eals)
Published in The Seattle Times online on July 18, 2024
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on July 21, 2024
Orre Nobles’ artist colony once blossomed along Hood Canal
By Clay Eals
THEN: This south-facing aerial view from July 4, 1948 shows waterborne Japanese-style torii gates pointing to Orre Nobles’ Olympus Manor on the land. (Sam Spiegle, courtesy Michael Fredson)
Beauty and stories abound here. We’re near Union, a wisp of a logging town formerly called Union City that once sought to be our state’s capital.
On a sunny drive, just west of Alderbrook Resort near the southwest corner of Hood Canal, this spot sparkles.
THEN: Stone pillars surround Orre Nobles’ Olympus Manor, circa 1920s. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)
The scene overflows with deep-blue water, countless trees and snow-kissed Olympic mountains, a genuine Washington state paradise. But abandoned beneath the natural splendor is evidence of a century-old center of civilization, tiny but potent, a coterie of urban expatriates calling itself an artist colony.
THEN: Late-life portrait of Orre Nobles. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)
The evidence stands on a bluff, dwarfed by greenery and just a stone’s throw from State Route 106. In fact, it was made of stones, shaped into human-sized pillars that once bounded Olympus Manor, a compound created by an irrepressible Danish renaissance man, Orre Nelson Nobles.
Beloved as a longtime art teacher at Ballard High School, Nobles (1894-1967) lived in Seattle during the school year in a unique, self-embellished “doll house” that eventually was moved from the path of Interstate 5 to 1623 S. King St., where it stands today.
THEN: August 1959 portrait of world boxing champ Gene Tunney (left) and Orre Nobles. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)
Summertimes, however, east of Union, the painter, carver and musician convened what was considered an elite retreat starting in the 1920s. His adherents included local teepee-living woodblock printmaker Waldo Chase and a variety of visitors, including poet Don Blanding and world boxing champ Gene Tunney.
Fueling the gatherings were art pieces and clothing that Nobles collected during extensive travels to China, along with land- and water-anchored, Japanese-style torii gates. His 16-room manor succumbed to fire in 1952.
NOW: The cover of Michael Fredson’s 2011 book, “The Artist Colony of Hood Canal.” For more info, visit MichaelFredson.com. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)
This and much more is documented in “The Artist Colony on Hood Canal,” a 2011 book by fifth-generation Union native Michael Fredson, who marvels at Nobles’ influence: “His motto was ‘Live rich. Don’t be rich.’ He was really the voice, the imagination, the joy of Hood Canal.”
Elizabeth Arbaugh, executive director of the Mason County Historical Society, whose museum in Shelton holds colorful artifacts from Nobles’ vision, confirms his charismatic role.
NOW: Elizabeth Arbaugh, Mason County Historical Society executive director, displays Orre Nobles’ colorful plan to rebuild Olympus Manor after it was destroyed by a 1952 fire. It was never rebuilt. For more info, visit MasonCountyHistoricalSociety.org. (Clay Eals)
“He brought a little bit of class to Mason County,” Arbaugh says. “With artists and creative celebrities and others from all over the world, it was very exotic for the time.”
Fitting right in, Fredson himself might be called an artist of bygone storytelling. A lifelong homebuilder, the loquacious former historical-society leader has penned nine locally flavored books.
NOW: Author Michael Fredson leans on one of several abandoned pillars that bounded Olympus Manor. At rear is the Blue Heron Resort. (Clay Eals)
After an early-1970s service stint in Vietnam, Fredson returned to his home community, devoting himself to unearthing nuggets from Mason County’s yesteryears.
In a typically emphatic utterance, he says, “I just had to know everything about where I live. Otherwise you don’t know anything.”
WEB EXTRAS
Big thanks to Michael Fredson, Elizabeth Arbaugh and especially Mike Munson for their invaluable help with this installment!
NOW: Mike Munson (left), a retired West Seattle communications professional with roots in Mason County, leans with Union author Michael Fredson on one of the stone pillars marking what once was Orre Nobles’ artist colony. (Clay Eals)THEN: An alternate view of the main building of Orre Nobles’ Olympus Manor, circa 1920s. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)THEN: Artist James Martin created this linoleum cut for Orre Nobles. The envelope was mailed in 1958 and indicates Nobles’ hope to rebuild Olympus Manor, which burned down in 1952. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)THEN: Created by Orre Nobles, this 1928 map directs Puget Sound residents to Olympus Manor. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)NOW: Orre Noble’s hand-carved marker for Olympus Manor is displayed at the Mason County Historical Society museum in Shelton. For more info, visit MasonCountyHistoricalSociety.org. (Clay Eals)An undated view of Orre Nobles’ artist colony building (left), and, across what became State Route 106, a Japanese-style torii guilding the way to Hood Canal. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)Orre Nobles plays the pipe organ at Olympus Manor. (Courtesy Michael Fredson)Orre Nobles’ 1952 plan to rebuild Olympus Manor. At bottom, center right, Nobles wrote, “Let us dream!! Why not!!!?” (Mason County Historical Society)Stonework marking the site of the former Olympus Manor. (Clay Eals)Cover of “The Lavender Palette” (2020) by David Martin (courtesy Alex Kostelnik)Page from “The Lavender Palette” (2020) by David Martin (courtesy Alex Kostelnik)Page from “The Lavender Palette” (2020) by David Martin (courtesy Alex Kostelnik)Page from “The Lavender Palette” (2020) by David Martin (courtesy Alex Kostelnik)June 1, 1924, Seattle Times.Feb. 14, 1926, Seattle Times.July 30, 1952, Seattle Times, p7.March 26, 1967, Seattle Times, p151.Dec. 16, 1967, Seattle Times, p4.Dec. 21, 1967, Seattle Times, p39.Dec. 7, 1969, Seattle Times, p191.Dec. 7, 1969, Seattle Times, p193.Dec. 7, 1969, Seattle Times, p194.
THEN: Autos mostly owned by the Seattle Health Department line Fifth Avenue South and its hillside “housekeeping” hotels in 1937, while a billboard promises low used-car prices. (Puget Sound Regional Branch, Washington State Archives)THEN: Twenty years later, it’s the same hillside, same buildings and a similar line of cars, with the billboard pitching a “masterpiece” that our automotive informant, Bob Carney, suggests may have been too big for some garages. (Puget Sound Regional Branch, Washington State Archives)NOW: The Tobira condominium complex dominates the scene today. (Clay Eals)
Published in The Seattle Times online on July 11, 2024
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on July 14, 2024
Billboards in 1937 and 1957 pitch alluring automotive emotions
By Clay Eals
If you’re guessing that this week’s first “Then” photo evokes the tense emotions of the Great Depression, your instincts are right-on.
A multi-floor mass of dirt rises next to a set of side-by-side hotels offering “housekeeping rooms” at a nightly rate of “25 cents and up.” Even more prominent — and perhaps poignant — is a lineup of nine parked cars, seemingly spiffed up and ready to roll. Driverless, as if on display, they’re backed by the imposing symbolism of an unrelated billboard boasting commercial bliss: “Drive a Bargain / Nation-Wide Clearance Sale.”
It was an auto row on a street of dreams. So exactly where is this setting?
We’re looking southeast along Fifth Avenue, just south of downtown Seattle. Out of our view, above and behind the photographer, are the still-present 1910 Yesler Way overpass and elegant 1891 Yesler Building. But elegant this scene is not.
THEN: A Seattle Times classified ad for R&G Used Cars on June 1, 1937, promises “real buys.” (Seattle Times online archive)
The year is likely 1937. The cars, pointing north, are (from left) a 1926 Chevrolet, 1929 Chevrolet, 1936 Ford, 1929 Chevrolet, 1927 Chrysler, 1928 Chevrolet, 1936 Chevrolet, 1929 Chevrolet and 1934 Plymouth. Most are not owned by adjacent residents. Instead, labels on seven of the driver-side doors indicate they are property of the nearby Seattle Health Department, which was busy that year addressing water sanitation, smallpox vaccinations and infant medical crises.
The West Coast-based Foster & Kleiser billboard promotes R&G Used Cars, located six miles northwest in Ballard. “R&G,” according to a 1937 Seattle Times ad, stood for renewed and guaranteed. “An R&G used car is one which HAS TO BE a real buy because it is guaranteed. … Prices on all makes and models are lowest in years. … Terms to suit your own budget.”
Perhaps the final sentence of that pitch rang truer in a more prosperous time 20 years later, as seen in our second “Then” image from Dec. 29, 1957. Same block, same buildings, similar lineup of cars, this time pointing south: (from left) a 1948 Oldsmobile, 1950 Ford, 1955 Chevrolet, 1946-48 Plymouth, 1950 Plymouth, 1951 Kaiser, 1950 Chevrolet, and 1950-52 Plymouth.
And yes, the same billboard. This time, however, its spiel is not for used vehicles. Instead, it’s a new car with fashionable fins: “Cadillac — Motordom’s Masterpiece for 1958!” The backing buildings eventually were razed, a spectacular fire destroying the one behind the billboard in February 1970.
Today, the mound and billboard also are gone. The modern 7-floor, 88-unit Tobira complex (built as the Empress Apartments in 2001 and converted in 2007 to condos) anchors the scene. Southbound cars whiz along the arterial, their drivers likely focused only on what’s ahead.
WEB EXTRAS
Big thanks to Bob Carney, automotive informant extraordinaire, for his invaluable help with this installment!
To see Clay Eals’ 360-degree video of the “Now” prospect and compare it with the “Then” photos, and to hear this column read aloud by Clay, check out our Seattle Now & Then 360 version of the column.
THEN1: As a flotilla of military planes passes overhead on July 9, 1949 (dubbed “Conqueror’s Day”), SeaTac’s combined terminal, administration building and central control tower was hailed as a triumph of modern design. (Paul Dorpat collection)NOW1: From the top floor of today’s parking garage, departure and arrival lanes already are crowded on a late-spring midday, as a Delta Airlines jet climbs behind the original control tower. At upper right, a crane’s yellow arm confirms ongoing construction. (Jean Sherrard)
Published in The Seattle Times on-line on July 4, 2024
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on July 7, 2024
Constant change marks SeaTac as its 75th anniversary takes off
By Jean Sherrard
If there were birthday candles for our premiere regional airport, winds of perpetual change would blow them out.
On July 9, 1949, 30,000 people gathered to dedicate the gleaming $3 million terminal and administration building of Seattle Tacoma (long nicknamed SeaTac) International Airport. Its six stories and 243,000 square feet included eight loading gates and a state-of-the-art control tower. What’s more, its main 6,100-foot-long runway was expected to accommodate the then-burgeoning needs of aviation travel.
“Today we become a dynamic world center,” proclaimed Gov. Arthur Langlie, “and we are justly proud.”
Providing emphasis for the crowd, choreographed swooshes of jets, roaring bombers and lumbering troop carriers soared overhead.
An aerial photo reveals the footprint of the gleaming terminal/administration building as well as open-air parking for thousands of automobiles, wide runways and room to expand. Eager crowds can be seen touring the facility and parked airliners. (Paul Dorpat collection)
That day, Northwest Airlines christened its first Boeing Stratocruiser, a long-range luxury airliner adapted from the C-97 military transport, using a champagne bucket filled with “mingled waters from distant Pacific ports brought close by air.” Appropriately enough, the plane was named “Seattle Tacoma.”
Throughout the sweltering summer’s day, “ice cream and soft-drink salesmen did a land-office business,” said The Seattle Times, while “thousands … formed lines to inspect United Air Lines, Western Airlines, Pan American World Airways and Northwest planes parked on the loading ramp.”
A super-size airport had been proposed more than a decade earlier, given the limits of then-crowded Boeing Field. County officials originally favored a location east of Lake Sammamish, but Pierce County and Tacoma officials lobbied hard for its eventual site, the Bow Lake plateau midway between Seattle and Tacoma.
A 2018 aerial view illustrates SeaTac’s exponential growth. The boomerang-shaped modern terminal, completed in 1973, was superimposed over the original building. Its 12,000-space parking facility is reputedly the largest covered garage in the world. (Courtesy Port of Seattle)
“Interestingly, SeaTac gets the most fog of anywhere in the Northwest,” notes longtime aviation consultant Oris Dunham. SeaTac’s director of aviation until 1983, Dunham was on hand for its ambitious remodel throughout the 1970s. (In 1971, then in training, he was on duty when D.B. Cooper infamously hijacked and bailed out of a SeaTac-bound 727.)
Consultant Oris Dunham, SeaTac’s former aviation director, also has served two other international airports, as deputy general manager in Los Angeles and executive director in Dallas/Fort Worth.
During Dunham’s tenure, the terminal expanded, a parking garage materialized, and runways doubled in length. “We hoped our refurbishment would last through 2030,” he says. “But we were a couple decades off. Now it’s like stuffing 50 pounds in a five-pound bag.”
He points to planes’ increased passenger capacity and longer range as one culprit. A post-pandemic surge in travel has only added to the pressure. And it’s not just SeaTac. Airports across the country – and the world – continually strive to meet ever-increasing demand.
“Here’s my definition of an airport,” Dunham says with a wry twinkle. “A permanent construction site you happen to land airplanes at.”
On July 13, to celebrate SeaTac’s 75th anniversary, the Museum of Flight will set up a fusillade of figurative candles with a lively panel discussion — including Dunham!
WEB EXTRAS
For our narrated 360 video of this column, click here!
Also, a late-breaking contribution from our state archives – thanks for the head’s up, Midori Okazaki! Click through to explore an engineer’s scrapbook featuring photos of the construction of SeaTac!
