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Published in The Seattle Times online on Oct. 30, 2025
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on Nov. 2, 2025

 In new ‘secret’ book, dancing maidens sweeten Tacoma’s stature

By Clay Eals

Modeled on Grecian nymphs, two French-cast statues of dancing maidens have welcomed visitors at downtown Tacoma’s showcase Wright Park for an astounding 133 years.

Their pale patina glows against the rich green of the 27-acre park’s abundant woods. Yet the maidens also hide, says Chris Staudinger, within the persistent persona of a city of 228,000 that’s shadowed by its Space Needled northern neighbor.

Tacoma, dubbed the City of Destiny when it was named the Northern Pacific Railroad’s western terminus in 1873, is “close to my heart,” says the 40-year-old ex-journalist. In the past nine years, Staudinger’s guided-tour business, Pretty Gritty Tours, has grown to 26 employees who mount a busy slate of excursions around the state, especially in Tacoma.

“It is such an incredibly important and historically rich city that gets passed over by a modern lens all the time,” he says. “There’s so many firsts or huge achievements that took place here. But the City of Destiny is still better known as the ‘Tacoma aroma.’ And I aim to fix that.”

In his 190-page book, “Secret Tacoma: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful, and Obscure” (2025, Reedy Press), Staudinger transforms the odiferous paper-mill/smelter reputation into a fragrant, fun collection of 94 unique, quirky spots that anyone would want to visit or revisit.

Notably, they include Tacoma’s oldest existing building, the 1873 Old St. Peter’s Church, which still operates in the city’s Old Town, and, not far away, the 1907 Engine House No. 9, now a pub.

Back at Wright Park, the maiden statues, like many of Staudinger’s entries, bear a colorful backstory. They arrived with Clinton P. Ferry (1830-1909), a booster known as the “Duke of Tacoma.” Ferry acquired them and other pieces, intending them for a new marital home, during a late-1880s European trip with his second wife.

One day on that trip, as recounted in Murray Morgan’s Tacoma-centered tome “Puget’s Sound,” Ferry returned early to their Parisian suite and caught his wife and her French tutor in flagrante delicto. Heartbroken, Ferry ended the marriage and gave his collected art to the city of Tacoma.

Over the years, the sculptures acquired nicknames — “Annie” (for her Annie Wright Seminary, now Schools, and for the wife of park donor Charles Wright) and “Fannie” (for nearby Fannie C. Paddock Memorial Hospital, now Tacoma General Hospital) — as well as a few bruises. Fannie’s right hand once reached her chin but now crosses her midsection. And today her right foot is missing.

Each mini-chapter in “Secret Tacoma” ends with a “Pro Tip.” The one for the maidens is “Be good to your loved ones.”

Short and, yes, sweet.

WEB EXTRAS

Big thanks to Boo Billstein and Chris Staudinger for their 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.

Below, you will find a video interview, 2 documents, 4 additional photos and 5 historical clips from The Seattle Times and Seattle Post-Intelligencer online archive (available via Seattle Public Library), Newspapers.com, Washington Digital Newspapers and other sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column.

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Published in The Seattle Times online on Oct. 23, 2025
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on Oct. 26, 2025

‘Secret Sauce’ saves island’s special gathering place, the Nordland General Store

By Jean Sherrard

Just east of Port Townsend, Marrowstone Island — so dubbed by Capt. George Vancouver on May 8, 1792, the same day he affixed “Mount Rainier” to a conical volcano southeast — harbors a bucolic sanctuary.

With a population of just under 1,000 that swells with vacationers each summer, the island’s unincorporated town of Nordland was founded by Norwegian immigrant Peter Nordby (1862-1919) who bought and platted its 187 acres in 1892.

Four years later, in 1896, Congress approved construction of Fort Flagler, a U.S. Army coastal artillery post at the island’s north end.

For more than a century, the Nordland General Store, built circa 1922, has stood at the island’s heart, selling groceries and supplies to locals and visitors alike.

Early records also illustrate a flip side to the business — its centrality to the community as a gathering place. The annual Strawberry Festival, first held a century ago, continues to draw celebrants peninsula-wide.

In recent decades, a lively Tractor Days parade has drawn farmers and lawn jockeys, rumbling their heavy machinery past the store every Memorial Day weekend. Other festivities include a pumpkin-weight guessing contest held before Halloween, a Christmas tree-lighting ceremony in which Santa arrives by boat, and a Polar Bear Dip at noon on New Year’s Day.

In the early hours of Nov. 5, 2020, the store was sustained major damage from an electrical fire. The building was declared a total loss. “A little piece of

Marrowstone Island died when the Nordland Store was destroyed by fire,” reported the Peninsula Daily News.

Then-owners Tom and Sue Rose, nearing retirement, made the painful decision to put the business on hold. Townsfolk were unnerved, faced with the prospect of losing the island’s soul.

Longtime Marrowstoner Barcy Fisher and a more recent arrival, Patti Buckland, friends for more than 30

years, collaborated on an audacious business plan. To save this touchstone, why not convert the store to community ownership?

Cue huzzahs and applause. Inspired investors stepped up with nearly $400,000. 592 neighbors and friends chipped in $250 each for lifetime memberships to the co-op. What’s more, dozens of volunteers stepped up to help rebuild. Within 10 months, on May 25, 2024, the Nordland General Store staged its grand reopening. Rain notwithstanding, Buckland says, the event was attended by hundreds of exuberant neighbors.

“At the end of the day,” she says, “what we’re all about is serving our community. It’s not just about groceries. It’s about connection. That’s our secret sauce.”

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Published in The Seattle Times online on Oct. 9, 2025
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on Oct. 12, 2025

Explosive legacy underlies Rainier Valley’s serene hilltop park

By Clay Eals

In this age of political pyrotechnics, what could be more welcome than a compact, peaceful park with a trail that winds through tall trees and native plants?

Inside this blufftop preserve we find no evidence, other than its namesake, that it once hosted an anything-but-tranquil fireworks factory that produced flares and explosions seen, heard and renowned the world over.

We are in the Columbia City neighborhood at Hitt’s Hill Park, named for Thomas Gabriel (T.G.) Hitt (1874-1958). An immigrant chemist from London by way of Victoria, B.C., he parlayed a childhood fascination for things that go boom into an international business based atop Rainier Valley’s highest slope.

In 1905, two years before Columbia City joined Seattle, Hitt Fireworks Co. took shape in what became 26 tarpapered shacks, each hand-numbered in red on galvanized grey signs, and spaced several yards from each other to prevent manufacturing accidents from obliterating the whole lot.

A frequent overseas traveler to negotiate deals, Hitt employed up to 200 people on his hill.

Products ranged from panoramic set pieces for the 1909 Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition and other prominent fetes around the country to extra-loud “Flashcrackas” and other novelties that fit in the palm of a hand.

His craftsmanship also bolstered Oscar-winning Hollywood films, in the war scenes of “All Quiet on the Western Front” (1930) and the burning-of-Atlanta sequence of “Gone with the Wind” (1939).

Not all was safe and sane, however.

Fiery onsite calamities occasionally made banner news, especially when on May 8, 1922, exploding powder killed 17-year-old employee Nora Bailey. One day later, the suicide of a same-aged female friend was attributed to her demise. Angry locals demanded the plant be banned from the city, but the city resisted, providing that Hitt obey fire-marshal regulations.

The heyday of Hitt, also a perfumer and inkmaker, started fading after his accidental arsenic poisoning in the 1930s, says great-grandson Ray Akers, but family continued the enterprise past his death into the 1970s. The company’s arc paralleled society’s love-hate relationship with fireworks, eventually resulting in Seattle banning their manufacture (and, later, their private use) and business moving abroad.

By century’s end, invasive ivy, blackberries and rats flourished onsite. Locals including Akers fought back plans for dozens of houses to be built on the 3.2-acre parcel. Open-space advocates successfully lobbied the city to make it a park and volunteered muscle and money to transform it into a natural refuge.

Today, the only major noise in the sanctuary comes from periodic jet overflights. The uninitiated would never suspect it once had been home to big bangs and fabricated flash.

WEB EXTRAS

Big thanks to Katie McClure and John Bennett for their 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.

Below, you will find 6 additional photos and 30 historical clips from The Seattle Times and Seattle Post-Intelligencer online archive (available via Seattle Public Library), Newspapers.com, Washington Digital Newspapers and other sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column.

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Published in The Seattle Times online on Oct. 2, 2025
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on Oct. 5, 2025

Ready for 50 years of riveting riddles? Game on in Woodinville!

By Jean Sherrard

Fans of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” may recall a scene featuring youthful protagonist Bilbo Baggins exchanging riddles with the gruesome, elder Gollum who threatens to eat him if he fails to answer.

The historical questions we pose here may be playful and seemingly of local import only. But I would argue the stakes are high. Every place matters, every story counts, especially when history itself is on the line.

In its century and a half, Woodinville — just east of the north end of I-405 — contains more than a whiff of rural wizardry. Bounded by gentle rivers and lakes, and now a town known for dozens of picturesque wineries, its earliest brain-teasers are well worth exploring.

“Why was it named Woodinville?” asks a smiling Cherry Jarvis, co-founder of the Woodinville Heritage Society, celebrating its 50^th anniversary.

“So much timber maybe?” co-founder Phyllis Keller answers with a chuckle.

For those who don’t know the forest from the trees, the giveaway: Ira and Susan Woodin fled “urban” Seattle in 1871 and rowed up Sammamish Slough in search of new beginnings.

OK, that was easy. But the next sticklers may require attending an event. For details, read on.

Those following the Woodins found work in the village’s surrounding forest and farmland. They included lumber magnate Frederick Stimson, who built a baronial mansion in 1911 and opened a prize-winning dairy. He named it Hollywood Farm. Why? Were holly bushes abundant? Did Charlie Chaplin pay a visit?

A Woodinville blacksmith, born Johann Koch in Germany’s Baden-Baden, set up shop near the town cemetery. Why did he change his name to John Cook?

Tools of Cook/Koch’s trade (anvil, forge, hammer and tongs) pose even more mysteries. Why does his anvil anchor his grave?

Popular Norm’s Resort on bucolic Cottage Lake became nationally famous. Was owner Norm Fragner an early PR genius?

When one of our state’s largest wineries, Chateau Ste. Michelle, sought land to fulfill world-class aspirations, why did Woodinville stand out?

Such queries are enough to create enduring ties that bind.

“When we founded the heritage society in 1975,” recalls co-founder Jarvis, “Woodinville was small enough that we all knew each other.” Today, the town population approaches 14,000. “Together, we can honor the past,” says Kevin Stadler, the society’s president, “while inspiring connections for generations to come.”

Want to catch the inspiration?

Join “Now & Then” co-columnist Clay Eals and me at 10:50 a.m. (doors open at 10:15 a.m.) Saturday, Oct. 18, 2025, at Brightwater Environmental Community Center, where Woodinville Heritage Society will host a gathering of passionate, crackerjack history buffs who will supply “pocketses” of answers to all these riddles, and much more.

WEB EXTRA

So we return after a delightful program featuring the Woodinville Heritage Society historians to answer a few of the questions posed in the column.

A video of the hour-long program should be forthcoming with further solutions – we’ll post it as soon as it becomes available.

• Why did Frederick Stimson, lumberman, name his estate Hollywood? Most likely, says direct descendant MaryAnn Feczko, because of family connection to Southern California, specifically Los Angeles. Two Stimson brothers ended up living there and Frederick visited them often. So Charlie Chaplin never visited the farm, although President William Howard Taft put in an appearance!
• Woodinville blacksmith Johann Koch changed his name to John Cook to avoid anti-German sentiment during World War I. In future decades, he reverted to Johann Koch, which appears on his unique anvil tombstone. He requested that the anvil be inscribed “The Woodinville Blacksmith” but as he was not the only smithy in town, the inscription was altered, depriving him of a solo act.
• Norm Fragner of Norm’s Resort was, by all accounts, a genius of PR. His unique logo spread across the country on signs and post cards — bringing to mind the somewhat earlier Wall Drug marketing campaign in the 1930s promoting Wall, S.D., as a destination. Reportedly, signs for Norm’s Resort could be found from Alaska to the Mexican border.
• Finally, the reasons Chateau Ste Michelle chose Woodinville were various, if somewhat obvious. The already bucolic setting of the the Stimson estate combined with proximity to a major urban center provided the ideal environment to replicate a traditional French winery. Over the decades, dozens of winemakers have followed suit.

When the video presentation is completed, we’ll post it here with some fanfare. Congrats again to the Heritage Society on its 50th anniversary!

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Published in The Seattle Times online on Sept. 26, 2025
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on Sept. 28, 2025

For 36 wayward metal-art panels, let there be (city) light!

By Clay Eals

An exquisite set of 36 long-unseen city art treasures has come to light, at least most of it. A few panels are still missing. Was the set misplaced, lost, stolen? As with previous mysteries, we at “Now & Then” ask you, dear readers, to be detectives.

Ninety years ago, their owner, Seattle City Light, named the set “The Evolution of Lighting.” The silver-sheened panels trace an inspiring story, from ancient (“Primitive man’s first source of light, a forest fire caused by lightning”) to modern-day (“Edison’s First Incandescent Lamp, Perfected 1879”).

The wafer-thin panels are made of Britannia metal, a pewter alloy. Each 3-by-2-foot panel exemplifies a French relief art crafted by hammering the metal’s reverse side, a technique called repoussé (reh-poo-SAY), meaning “pushed back.”

The first 34 panels were designed by Albert E. Booth and hammered out by John W. Elliott, both Seattleites, in 1935 for the just-opened City Light building at 1015 Third Ave., encircling the lobby from above. Elliott — whose elaborate art adorns three-dozen prominent Northwest edifices — added two panels to update the exhibition for the expanded and remodeled City Light building in 1958. The aggregation was rearranged into a 27-by-8-foot wall, nine panels wide by four panels high.

The mystery? When City Light moved to the Seattle Municipal Tower at Sixth & Cherry in 1996, the panels were to follow.

“That never happened,” says Tom Parks, a 1979-2015 City Light employee who heads the Retired City Light Employees Association. “I think it was a task that fell through the cracks.” He says it’s possible they were filched, that someone thought, “They’re pretty cool, they’re old, and we can get some money for them.”

The evidence? In May, West Seattle antique dealer Mike Shaughnessy purchased four of the panels, each in a wooden frame, from a fellow “picker.” In August, after seeing a 1960 City Light booklet depicting all 36 panels, he doubled down, discovered 28 more and snapped them up. He is four shy of the whole set.

He envisions selling the set back to the city for the $12,000 he’s invested. But first he contemplates a downtown gallery display, including mockups of the missing panels, hoping to scare up the real ones.

Parks applauds the quest. “They were unique,” he says. “It was a key feature in the old lobby. It was the first thing that people noticed when they came in.”

How did the panels get into private hands? Where are the outliers? Shaughnessy’s trail has run dry. Our own inquiries and dives into local archives turn up nothing.

Clues, dear readers?

WEB EXTRAS

Big thanks to Gary Zarker, Tom Parks, Mike Wong, Jeanie Fisher of Seattle Municipal Archives, Laura Spess of University of Washington Special Collections and especially Mike Shaughnessy and Bradi Jones for their 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.

Here is other local coverage of this “history mystery”:

• West Seattle Blog, Sept. 27, 2025
• SPACE 101.5 FM, Sept. 28, 2025

Below, you will find Seattle City Light’s two booklets that display “The Evolution of Light” panels. The 1935 booklet shows 34 panels, and the 1960 booklet shows 36. Also there is the Jan. 30, 1996, program for the ceremony noting closure of the City Light building at 1015 Third Ave.

You also will find 3 additional photos and  8  historical clips from The Seattle Times and Seattle Post-Intelligencer online archive (available via Seattle Public Library), Newspapers.com, Washington Digital Newspapers and other sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column.

 

 

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Published in The Seattle Times online on Sept. 18, 2025
and in Pacific NW Magazine of the printed Times on Sept. 21, 2025

Kirkland historian brings web close-ups to Seattle’s silent-film era

By Clay Eals

When was the last time you saw a movie in a theater? Today, many stream movies from anywhere but theaters. No surprise, given society’s embrace of the convenience and selectivity of the internet.

So maybe it fits that a comprehensive new history of our region’s early movie exhibition is virtual, not physical.  The fledgling but voluminous website “Northwest Picture Show” supplies chronologies and anecdotes aiming to lure movie-maven Alices into a rewarding rabbit hole.

It’s the creation of Eric Flom, by day a benefits writer but at all other times a deep documenter of local theater lore. The 57-year-old Kirkland resident has devoured vintage trade magazines, newspapers and theater programs for the past 25 years.

With 236,000 words posted on his illustrated site (and 128,000 more coming this fall), Flom admits, “Brevity is not my strong suit.”

A fan of the pre-sound era, Flom isn’t averse to the limiting yet tangible medium of books to tell its stories. His 300-page tome “Silent Film Stars on the Stages of Seattle” (2009, McFarland) appraised our city’s turn-of-the-20th-century stage performances by scores of future celluloid luminaries, from Theda Bara to Buster Keaton.

But today the internet is Flom’s vehicle. Arguably his most significant narrative examines the Clemmer Theatre, which opened April 10, 1912, at 1414 Second Ave. downtown.

Capitalizing on widespread film fervor, James Q. Clemmer, the theater’s dream-big owner, became the first to construct an enduring palace in Seattle expressly designed for movies, not stage shows. The $100,000 project featured interior Roman columns and murals, 1,200 seats and a $10,000 pipe organ.

The alternate claim to fame, or infamy, for Clemmer is that he outflanked other local operators to mount lavish screenings of “The Birth of a Nation,” D.W. Griffith’s cinematically innovative but racist 1915 epic about the Civil War and its aftermath.

Clemmer, who thrived in the Seattle theater business until his 1942 death at age 61, was a lifelong pitchman. In 1915 for Moving Picture World, a Seattle financier illuminated Clemmer’s aggressive approach:

“He came rushing into my office, pulled off his coat, unrolled a set of plans and started to talk. I excused myself, rushed into the next room and locked the safe. I was afraid he would grab my money, push me into the safe and run. Before he was through talking, I began to tremble in my boots for fear that I could not remember the combination to the safe in time to grab some of the stock of the Clemmer [Theatre] before it was all gone.”

Just one of myriad in-person, scene-stealing stories that Flom brings alive online.

WEB EXTRAS

Big thanks to Tom Blackwell and David Jeffers of the Puget Sound Theatre Organ Society, Lisa Oberg of University of Washington Special Collections, Bob Carney, Gavin MacDougall and especially Eric Flom for their 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.

Below, you also will find a link to “The Birth of a Nation” plus 1 additional photo and 19  historical clips (including two Paul Dorpat “Now & Then” columns) from The Seattle Times and Seattle Post-Intelligencer online archive (available via Seattle Public Library), Newspapers.com, Washington Digital Newspapers and other sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column.

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Free all-day history conference Saturday, Oct. 11, downtown

If you’re enjoying “Now & Then” every week, you may want to immerse yourself in local history for a full day — and for free, no less.

The Pacific Northwest Historian Guild ‘s 32nd regional history conference will take place all day on Saturday, Oct. 11, 2025,  at the Seattle Public Library downtown.

With the theme “Challenging History,” the conference features a keynote address by local historian Lorraine McConaghy, as well as sessions covering a wide range of topics, from research challenges and waterscapes to labor politics and historic preservation.

The conference also includes a special lunch presentation by yours trulies Clay Eals and Jean Sherrard, and it will conclude with a wrap-up session.

In addition to the presentations, attendees can visit a book table with works by conference presenters and displays from sponsors.

Financial support comes from the Washington State Historical Society, 4Culture, Seattle Department of Neighborhoods, and HistoryLink.org.

Registration is required but is free. You can register and find the full schedule here. Day-of check-in begins at 8:15 a.m., and the program starts at 9 a.m. The wrap-up runs from 4:45 to 6 p.m.

In addition, a night-before reception and annual meeting will be held at 7 p.m. Friday, Oct. 10, 2025, at the Mountaineers Seattle Program Center. Admission is $15 for Guild members, $25 for others.

Hope to see you there!

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Published in The Seattle Times on-line on Sept. 11, 2025
and in PacificNW Magazine of the printed Times on Sept. 14, 2025

Seattle’s waterfront past can illuminate its future, new book says

By Jean Sherrard

“No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv’d only to discover sights of woe…”

— John Milton, “Paradise Lost“

Had English poet John Milton toured the shadowy underbelly of Seattle’s waterfront — as seen in our 1934 “Then” photo — he might have found his own words apt. Rotting pilings, crumbling fill and the stench of decaying waste lay mostly hidden from public view.

In “Where the City Meets the Sound: The Story of Seattle’s Waterfront” (HistoryLink, 2025), author Jennifer Ott, HistoryLink’s executive director, traces this shifting edge between land and water.

HistoryLink’s 30th book charts the transformation from a Lushootseed crossing-over place, where a tidal lagoon met the Duwamish River’s mouth, to the parks, overlooks, boat tours and civic gathering spaces we know today. In the

1850s, the lagoon’s disappearance, Ott notes, “made it harder for Native people to claim space. Effectively, they were made invisible — a tension that still goes on today.”

While celebrating the waterfront’s feats of engineering, Ott also recovers overlooked stories of marginalized people and events. “Seattle’s urban history,” she says, “is about how the city was built and the choices that were made involving massive transformations of the landscape.”

She cites the many communities — from Native peoples, immigrants, dockworkers, fishers and more —without whom the waterfront would not exist and thrive.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, patchwork seawalls, pilings and landfills replaced tide flats with

solid industrial ground. South of Pioneer Square, more than 3,000 acres of tidal wetlands were filled, dramatically reshaping the Duwamish delta. Along the central waterfront, the plank-paved Railroad Avenue, built on pilings over Elliott Bay, became Seattle’s maritime front door, but also, in Mayor John Dore’s 1934 words, “a death trap” and “a menace to the life of all that use it.”

The waterfront’s Depression-era seawall, built from 1934 to 1936, secured the shoreline from Washington Street to Bay Street. Above it, Railroad Avenue was rebuilt as Alaskan Way. Two decades later, the 1953

Alaskan Way Viaduct loomed over the stretch — a postwar icon that Ott calls a “psychological and visual barrier” separating the city from its bay. “The waterfront became fly-over country,” she quips.

Today, with the viaduct gone and the seawall rebuilt

for seismic safety, the waterfront once again is being reimagined. Ott shows that Elliott Bay’s edge is more than a physical boundary. It’s a mirror reflecting Seattle’s shifting priorities.

Documenting its past, she suggests, can illuminate a path forward, bringing long-buried layers into the light. What’s more, “in understanding these layers,” she says, “we are given a deeper connection to this special place.”

WEB EXTRAS

For a narrated 360 degree video on location at the waterfront, click right here.

 

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Published in The Seattle Times online on Sept. 4, 2025
and in PacificNW Magazine of the printed Times on Sept. 7, 2025

110-year-old Rhodes Mansion reflects Seattle retail royalty

By Jean Sherrard

When Seattle department-store magnate Albert Rhodes died unexpectedly on a business trip in 1921, a

life’s work may have been interrupted, but his grieving widow, Harriet, took the helm, dauntlessly proving herself in an otherwise male domain.

Up to that point, their lives might accurately have been described as charmed.

The first of four Wisconsin-born Rhodes brothers to arrive in Puget Sound, Albert settled in Tacoma in 1889 and worked as a traveling salesman. He found a

partner in love as well as in work and civic life when he married Harriet Williams from Dallas, Ore.

As the brothers’ Tacoma stores boomed, Albert opened his own Seattle branch, the Rhodes Company, in the Arcade Building at Second and Union in 1907. Its original 20-foot storefront rapidly expanded, cementing itself as a wildly successful retail force.

For their residence, Albert and Harriet enlisted noted Seattle architect Augustus Warren Gould to design a Mediterranean Revival showcase sporting spectacular

Lake Union views from north Capitol Hill. In 1915, the couple moved in permanently. The Rhodes mansion — popularly dubbed “the castle on the hill” — immediately became celebrated as an architectural jewel.

Still standing on busy 10th Avenue East, the gleaming white terra cotta edifice hosted lively social and civic gatherings, while husband and wife were no less committed to their hundreds of employees.

Lauded for paying the highest department-store wages in the United States, Albert also served as wartime president of the Seattle Chamber of

Commerce, promoting the city’s interests nationwide. He took pride in an unwavering commitment to civic duties. “Every man,” he insisted, “owes public service, without pay or reward, to his community.”

During a 1921 trip to New York City, he was stricken with the “Spanish flu,” which culminated in a fatal heart attack. “No death of recent years,” editorialized The Seattle Times, “has stirred the city so deeply as of this widely known merchant prince.”

Flags across town were lowered to half-mast to mark his passing. Dressed in black for years to come, Harriet

assumed the role of company president, and under her guidance the Rhodes department store expanded exponentially, filling an entire block with 10 floors of merchandising.

Significantly, the booming business remained

committed to the general welfare and equitable treatment of employees. With no children of her own, Harriet reportedly knew most of her staff by name. In return, they affectionately called her “Aunt Hattie.”

In 1944, she died after a trip to New York, staying at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where Albert had breathed his last. Her closest friends suggested that “knowing she was ill, [Harriet] made the journey out of sentiment.”

WEB EXTRAS

To watch our narrated 360 degree video, head over here.

For more spectacular interiors, see below:

Last but not least, Cupid!