Seattle Now & Then: The Ship Canal Bridge, 1960

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THEN: Looking northeast, Harvey Bernard’s cloud-strewn portrait of the incomplete Ship Canal Bridge in October 1960 captures Seattle mid-transformation. The Interstate 5 freeway through Seattle opened in December 1962, and the entire Washington state portion was completed in 1969. (Courtesy, Harvey & Leo Bernard)
NOW: Having helped triangulate Harvey Bernard’s original prospect on a hot, late summer day, Keenan Ingram (left) and Elijah Lev of Seattle anticipate diving into Lake Union to cool off. Seconds later, they did just that. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Sept. 24, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Sept. 27, 2020)

A soaring salute to post-World War II car culture
By Jean Sherrard

World War II didn’t just beget a population boom. It also produced the throaty roar of automobile engines. Along with the proverbial chicken in every pot, a growing middle class aspired to afford a car in every garage.

To accommodate the soaring increase in traffic, the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1956 provided 90 percent funding for a nationwide network of controlled-access interstate highways. The proposed Interstate 5, crossing 1,381 miles between the Canadian and Mexican borders, became one of the jewels in its crown.

This week’s “Then” photo comes from Leo Bernard, whose father, Harvey, moved his young family to Seattle from Minnesota in 1954 to take a job with Boeing. “Photography and mountain climbing became his twin passions,” Leo says, “and we rarely saw him without a camera.”

From a boat deck near the north end of Lake Union, Harvey Bernard captured his Ektachrome transparency of the Lake Washington Ship Canal Bridge under construction in October 1960.

From his vantage, three of seven concrete piers tower above Lake Union, along with a diagonal hash of equilateral steel trusses, providing support for the imposing double-deck bridge. Within a year, its eight-lane wide upper deck and reversible four-lane lower deck would span the 4,429-foot gap between the University District and Capitol Hill. At the time, it was the longest bridge of its kind erected in the Pacific Northwest.

Just west of the piers, the Wayland Mill silo burner squats like an abandoned potbelly stove. The mill produced Bungalow brand cedar shingles for decades before closing after the war. Restaurateur Ivar Haglund purchased the property in 1966 and installed his Salmon House, which still stands today.

To the mill’s right, the nondescript, grey warehouse, built in 1954, was purchased in 1963 by George and Stan Pocock to construct their legendary racing shells. Pocock supplied shells for “The Boys in the Boat,” who rowed them to gold in the 1936 Berlin Olympics, a story featured last March in this column.

In 1989, Seattle-based glass artist Dale Chihuly bought the 11,352 square-foot building, converting it to a combined living space and glass-blowing studio.

For months, the span, when completed, was a bridge to nowhere. The southern reach of the Seattle freeway had become temporarily mired in controversies over labor and design. Thus, according to the encyclopedic tome “Building Washington” by Paul Dorpat and Genevieve McCoy, planners of the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair proposed using the bridge’s empty decks for overflow parking.

The scheme never materialized. But modern motorists are all too familiar with I-5 as a parking lot.


Check out Jean’s 360 degree video including a late summer boat ride – and featuring young Keenan and Elijah. To be posted soon.

Also, here are a few more lovely photos from Harvey Bernard, contributed by his son Leo.

Harvey Bernard with an early but beloved camera in the 1930s.
Harvey Bernard in 1965.

Taken in 1970, says Leo – looks like the Salmon House is still under construction.
From a West Seattle viewpoint, the Seafirst Tower (aka the box the Space Needle came in) under construction, 1968.
Seafirst Tower under construction, 1968.
Seattle skyline from North Beacon Hill.

Union Station after the 1965 earthquake.

More earthquake damage on Alki.
Richard Nixon visited Seattle during his 1968 campaign.
Washington state’s Gov. Dan Evans shaking Nixon’s hand.
Harvey Bernard loved Mount Rainier.
He visited the the mountain many times, says son Leo, who shared a favorite family photo on Rainier. Leo is second from the left, next to mom, with his two sisters and younger brother.

Seattle Now & Then: Miller Park neighborhood, 1955

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THEN: This May 2, 1955, view, looking west from 21st Avenue East along the East John/Thomas street arterial, shows clearing to the right (north) for the expansion of Miller Playfield. A 1949 Buick anchors the left foreground. In the distance at center are the Coryell Court Apartments, featured in the 1992 film “Singles.” (Courtesy Seattle Municipal Archives)
NOW: Andrew Taylor, the informal Mayor of Miller Park for two decades, stands at the same intersection. (jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Sept. 17, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Sept. 20, 2020)

For an ever-changing neighborhood, we ‘single’ out Miller Park
By Clay Eals

These coronaviral days, when distant travel is discouraged, the elements defining our neighborhoods assume extra meaning. We more deeply value our collective, super-local identity even as it undergoes constant, if incremental change.

No exception is Miller Park.

The name may be unfamiliar to some. On the eastern side of Capitol Hill, the neighborhood embodies a trapezoid, bounded north-to-south by East Aloha and Madison streets and west-to-east by 19th and 23rd avenues. Its outskirts include business strips and high-profile hubs of health care (Kaiser Permanente, formerly Group Health), religion and education (St. Joseph Catholic Church and School, Holy Names Academy).

In the glen at its core lies a playground, the initial acreage for which came to the city in 1906 from namesake Mary M. Miller (see clarification below), whose descendants became major local landowners and conservation philanthropists. Next door is Edmund Meany Middle School, named for the University of Washington historian.

In our “Then,” taken May 2, 1955, looking west to the Capitol Hill crest, at right we see land recently cleared to augment the park prior to construction of a nearby community center. Sparse trees punctuate clusters of homes. In the distant center, the John/Thomas street arterial rises to pass a two-story brick building on 19th Avenue that nearly four decades later gained national fame.

Fronted by a communal courtyard, the Coryell Court Apartments, built in 1928, hosted Matt Dillon, Bridget Fonda and other actors playing 20-something love-seekers in Cameron Crowe’s 1992 film “Singles.” While the film widened Seattle’s reputation for grunge music, it also is known for a breathtaking visual finale. Shot from a helicopter, it starts tight on the Coryell building and pulls up to reveal the neighborhood and city.

Nearly 30 years hence, encased by the heavy foliage of mature trees, Miller Park is a mix of single- and multi-family housing. Its residents have reckoned with drug dealing, broadcast towers, affordable housing and today’s influx of transient tents in the park.

Such topics drew Andrew Taylor into the role of nerve center. The now-retired Fred Hutch scientist has lived in the house at the left edge of our “Then” since 1983. Known as the neighborhood’s informal mayor, he launched its newsletter (later a blog) in 1990.

For family reasons, he will move five miles north this fall, but despite the challenges of his “eclectic” soon-to-be former neighborhood, he cheerfully salutes it.

“It’s a quiet, modest oasis,” he says. “It’s ethnically and economically diverse, close to everything, with much activity but still peaceful enough for quiet contemplation.”

In other words, an apt model for our time.


To see Jean Sherrard‘s 360-degree video of the “Now” prospect and compare it with the “Then” photo, and to hear this column read aloud by Clay Eals, check out our Seattle Now & Then 360 version of the column!

Clarification: Jim Rupp of Seattle points out that while Mary Miller donated the initial land for Miller Playfield, the donation was made the family in the name of her son, Pendleton.

Below are two photos, a video link and a Seattle Parks historical illustration, as well as a clipping from The Seattle Times online archive (available via Seattle Public Library) or other online newspaper sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column.

For those interested in more details about Miller Park, the neighborhood association has a current website and a former website.

Here is an uncropped version of our “Then.” (Courtesy Seattle Municipal Archives)
Here is a reverse angle of our “Then” photo, looking east along the John/Thomas arterial. (Courtesy Seattle Municipal Archives)
CLICK PHOTO FOR VIDEO: Andrew Taylor, the informal mayor of Seattle’s Miller Park neighborhood, talks about its characteristics and issues. (14:50, Clay Eals)
The Miller Park page of Seattle Parks’ Don Sherwood illustrated historical files. (Seattle Municipal Archives)
Dec. 9, 1967, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 2.


Seattle Now & Then: The Central Terminal, 1928

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THEN 1: The spire of Gethsemane Lutheran Church peeks out above the new Central Terminal’s tiled roof. On the far right of Asahel Curtis’s 1928 photo, a sliver of a Seattle-Everett Interurban train car can be seen. (Paul Dorpat collection)
THEN 2: Jean’s 2010 repeat featured a still-thriving transit hub, surrounded by new construction.
NOW: The 45-story Hyatt Regency looms over a nearly deserted Eighth Avenue. Around the corner but unseen, the Lutherans remain faithful. For more of Jean’s photos of the Greyhound station, including its 2015 demolition, see below. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Sept. 10, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Sept. 13, 2020)

Greetings, goodbyes, and the growl of Greyhounds no more

By Jean Sherrard

I left home for the first time in the mid-1970s, bound for college on a cross-state bus. My parents stood together at the gates of the bustling Greyhound depot at Eighth and Stewart, but only my mom waved goodbye as if wiping a fogged window.

Just another emotional departure – to be followed a few months later by a joyful reunion – enacted in the charmless station, witness to decades of greetings, farewells and brimming buckets of tears.

Known for the slender, mid-stride canine in its visual brand, Greyhound began with a single 7-seat bus in 1915. The ubiquitous fleet rolled across America’s heartland and into its hearts, mythologized in popular culture as the buzzing locus of accessible romance and adventure.

From the Oscar-bedecked Frank Capra comedy “It Happened One Night” to Paul Simon’s aural anthem “America,” boarding a bus suggested the promise of open roads, unknown vistas and cute meets. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Twenty years before Greyhound acquired it, Seattle’s Central Terminal was erected in 1927 by the Stone and Webster Management Company, a nationwide utilities cartel with fingers in many pies. (Its complex genealogy can be traced directly to today’s Puget Sound Energy.)

While anti-monopoly laws eventually divided the pies into smaller slices, its three-story, brick-clad Seattle structure was an innovation, accommodating motorized cross-country buses and intercity electric trains within a single station.

Its lively inauguration on Sept. 12, 1927, included a parade of progress along Stewart Street, led by a primitive, hand-drawn sled and concluding with “the most modern motor coach.” Bertha Landes, Seattle’s first female mayor and the honorary conductor, rang a trolley bell to herald the Seattle-Everett Interurban car’s virgin trip from the sparkling station.

This confident investment in the future of mixed-use travel had a shelf life of only 11 years. By 1939, buses shouldered out trains and tracks were torn up and smelted down, replaced by gasoline engines and rubber tires.

In 2015, the terminal was demolished, giving way to high-rise development. I have visited the site several times to capture a photographic whiff of those heartfelt arrivals and departures where Greyhounds once growled. That aroma, however, has been dispelled by the winds of change.

The newly completed Hyatt Regency monolith – at 45 stories and 1,260 rooms, Seattle’s largest hotel – surely boasts luxurious interiors and spectacular views of the city. But its glossy, street-level exterior seems uninviting.

A passing mail carrier offers a trenchant critique: “Five years ago, Eighth Avenue was filled with little shops and businesses. Now it’s all glass walls. Did you know that over there was once a bus depot?”


As promised, a few photos from 2010, when the depot was still operating at 8th and Stewart:

Signage along Stewart, looking west.
The shit-colored floors were a distinctive feature
Departures and arrivals…
A bus departs from beneath the steel canopy

Then a melancholy few from 2015, nearing the end of demolition:

Seattle Now & Then: Native American camp, late 1890s, and Benson Waterfront Streetcars, 2005

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THEN1: Pictured just north of today’s Broad Street on the Seattle waterfront by Norwegian photographer Anders Wilse in the late 1890s, Native Americans prepare dugout canoes for their waterborne trek to hop fields in the White and Puyallup river valleys. Queen Anne Hill peeks out at upper left. (Courtesy Museum of History & Industry)
THEN2: One of five George Benson Waterfront Streetcars leaves the Broad Street Station in 2005, just prior to the line’s demise. The 1962 Space Needle anchors the scene at top. (Eric Bell)
NOW: Straddling the two “Then” vantages, our contemporary view shows West Seattle bicyclist and photographer Eric Bell on Pier 70, before the seawall that fronts Seattle Art Museum’s Olympic Sculpture Park. To the right of the outsized human head of “Echo” by Jaume Plensa and below the vertical Pier 70 banner is the site of the former Broad Street station of the Benson streetcars. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Sept. 3, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Sept. 6, 2020)

Waves of waterfront change: canoes to streetcars to sculpture
By Clay Eals

It’s natural to mourn the loss of things from younger days – old homes, favored stores – as if they had “always” been there. Self-centered sentiment can steal our sense that something else existed before we entered the arena.

Case in point: today’s pair of “Thens.”

If you lived here from 15 to 38 years ago, you may gravitate to the “Then” depicting the green-and-yellow glow of a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar leaving its Broad Street station and motoring south (right) to Pioneer Square and the Chinatown-International District.

The rickety streetcars – five total – were themselves nostalgia pieces, built in 1925-1930 in Australia and first operated there. Here, tourists loved them, and locals were proud, none more so than Benson, the pharmacist-turned-city councilman for whom they were named and who championed their transition to Seattle as an attraction for the masses. They were a direct nod to our city’s own streetcar heritage, which screeched to a halt by 1941, eventually overrun by petroleum-powered transit.

But what preceded the Benson streetcars? One answer lies in our earlier “Then,” from the late 1890s, angled more directly north and revealing a temporary Native American camp north of Broad (then Lake) Street, long before the city built a seawall there in the mid-1930s.

Pioneer journalist-historian Thomas Prosch labeled this a “common scene.” Via dugout canoes, Prosch said, Native Americans headed from Canada to the White and Puyallup river valleys, where up to 1,000 received low wages to pick hops, fueling a booming industry.

One century later, this waterfront stretch had evolved into pier-based offices and eateries and a breathtaking park named in 1976 for Myrtle Edwards, another city council member, fronting the northern terminus for the Benson streetcars and their maintenance barn when they commenced in 1982.

Having died in 2004, Benson didn’t witness the 2005 demise of his streetcars, whose barn was razed when Seattle Art Museum built its Olympic Sculpture Park, shown in our “Now.”

Some have strategized to revive the streetcars. But trackage and stations fell victim to the 2019 teardown of the nearby Alaskan Way Viaduct for its replacement by a tunnel. Today, a modern, light-rail connector to parallel the waterfront along First Avenue – which some would like to include two retrofitted Benson cars – is stalled by money woes.

Just as those who remembered the Native American canoes are gone, those of us who recall the Benson streetcars will vanish, and the collective memory of the area will default to Olympic Sculpture Park. For the attractive and lucrative waterfront, however, we surely can forecast relentless waves of change.


To see Jean Sherrard‘s 360-degree video of the “Now” prospect and compare it with the “Then” photo, and to hear this column read aloud by Clay Eals, check out our Seattle Now & Then 360 version of the column!

Below are eight clippings from The Seattle Times online archive (available via Seattle Public Library) and other online newspaper sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column.

Also, check out 18 additional photos, including 13 by West Seattle’s Eric Bell, that were helpful in the preparation of this column. Bell, who worked on the waterfront in 2005, says the failure to retain and incorporate the Benson streetcars was a huge missed opportunity for the city.

May 18, 1980, Seattle Times, page 124.
July 18, 1980, Seattle Times, page 16.
March 13, 1981, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 56.
April 4, 1981, The Oregonian, page 1.
June 16, 1981, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 1.
May 18, 1982, Seattle Times, page 67.
May 30, 1982, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 3.
June 24, 1982, Seattle Times, page 72.
Sanborn plate #62 from 1893, showing the location of our first “Then.” (Courtesy Ron Edge)
A 1935 aerial view of the waterfront from Laidlaw and the Museum of History & Industry. (Courtesy Ron Edge)
A 1935 view of the waterfront seawall under construction. (Courtesy Ron Edge)
Elliott Couden (left), further real-estate agent and civil-rights and heritage activist, stands in 1939 with George Benson, future Seattle City Council member, in front of their rooming house in the Green Lake neighborhood. (Elliott Couden collection)
An anachronistic George Benson Waterfront Streetcar crossing sign remains today along Alaskan Way. (Clay Eals)
A 2005 view of a northbound George Benson Waterfront Streetcar, W2-class car 512 leaving Vine Street. (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a southbound George Benson Waterfront Streetcar. “The writing is on the wall,” says Eric Bell. “The background beckons the end of the line for the streetcars.” (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a southbound George Benson Waterfront Streetcar and the maintenance barn. Seattle Art Museum’s Olympic Sculpture Park now sits on this site. (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a northbound George Benson Waterfront Streetcar. Eric Bell says, “The timber and windows of car 482 complement the glazing of the former Seattle Trade Center.” (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of the interior of a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar. “It’s a non-seasonal day,” says Eric Bell. “Gone are the lunch crowd and tourists.” (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a southbound George Benson Waterfront Streetcar, W2-class car 512 in Pioneer Square, with the Alaskan Way Viaduct in the background. “To this day,” says Eric Bell, “I can still feel the car rumble by me.” (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar at Jackson Street, the southern terminus in the Chinatown-International District. (Eric Bell)
A November 2005 view of two disengaged George Benson Waterfront Streetcars ready for transport. “The advertising,” says Eric Bell, “mocks instead of entices.” (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar, W2-class car 605, zooming along at 25 mph along the waterfront. (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view inside a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar, indicating that the W2-class cars, produced in 1927 in Australia, largely retained their decor until service ended. (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of the car number of a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar. The cars retained their original numbers and 1920s headlight design. (Eric Bell)
A 2005 view of a George Benson Waterfront Streetcar logo, originally from the Melbourne and Metropolitan Tramways Board. (Eric Bell)

Seattle Now & Then: City of Seattle Ambulance, ca 1920

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THEN: Heading southwest along City Hall Park is a city ambulance that our auto informant Bob Carney identifies as a White Motor Company 1-ton truck from the early 1920s. In the background on Fourth Avenue is the Beaux Arts-style King County Courthouse, which topped out in 1916 at a modest five stories. A slice of Smith Tower peeks out upper left. (Courtesy Bert and Elizabeth Prescott)
NOW: Another groundbreaking innovation in Seattle began with the creation of Medic One in 1970. Firefighter/EMT Casey Stockwell stations his truck in precisely the same spot as the city ambulance. Oak trees conceal the 10 additional floors added to the courthouse by 1931. A ball-capped concrete gatepost stands behind the front bumpers in both images. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Aug. 27, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Aug. 30, 2020)

A hearse is a hearse, except when it was an ambulance

By Jean Sherrard

As our pandemic-proscribed summer wanes, we may mourn canceled vacations and neighborhood barbecues, but another singularly American institution, beloved by scavengers, collectors and photo-historians, also has bit the dust – the garage sale.

This week’s “Then” is from an album discovered in West Seattle by Bert Prescott at just such a sale in the 1970s. The collection, dating between 1921 and 1923 and shot by an anonymous photographer, features more than 60 images of commercial and official vehicles, ranging from milk and grocery delivery vans to buses and construction and fire trucks.

This ambulance of “The City of Seattle,” captured on Fourth Avenue near City Hall Park, is both lovely and rare. Serving the City Emergency Hospital, literally a stone’s throw away, the vehicle provides insight into a transitional moment in Seattle medical history.

Along with police headquarters, the city jail and the health and sanitation department, the hospital was crammed into the flatiron Public Safety building (now 400 Yesler), and space was at a premium. A city-owned ambulance was an extravagance soon to be replaced with a more economical solution.

Typically, hospitals of the time contracted with funeral homes for emergency transport, providing a profitable second use for hearses. And it passed muster. Whether injured or deceased, prone human bodies require similar dimensions for delivery.

Jason Engler, an Austin, Texas, funeral director and historian for the National Museum of Funeral History, provides a related piece of undertaker lore. “A hearse would get to the cemetery,” he says, “and no sooner had pallbearers removed the casket than they’d head back out on an ambulance call.”

In trade lingo, they were exchanging their black coats for white ones. What’s more, went a morbid joke, if a patient’s survival seemed dubious, an undertaker might dawdle round the block before reaching the hospital, perhaps instead ending up at the funeral home.

In forward-thinking Seattle, Engler suggests, some citizens seemed to treat the joke seriously. To change the status quo, a mayoral delegation traveled in 1922 to Portland, where an enterprising Frank Shepard ran a successful ambulance service unaffiliated with funeral homes. Might he be persuaded to move north?

Shepard agreed, with conditions. Relocating to Seattle in 1923, he purchased ambulances from Butterworth Funeral Home and negotiated a non-compete agreement: Area funeral homes would stop providing emergency transport if Shepard agreed to stay out of the funeral business.

By 1924, the city of Seattle contracted with Shepard Ambulance to serve its hospitals. Over the decades, the company steadily expanded until 1995, when it merged with American Medical Response (AMR).


Check back soon for our 360 degree video featuring this location.


Seattle Now & Then: a house move, the Magnolia Theatre, 1963, & new book!

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THEN: A house sits mid-move on 34th Avenue West just north of the Magnolia Theatre between June 11 and June 17, 1963, when “It Happened at the World’s Fair” and the Connie Francis vehicle “Follow the Boys” played the second-run house. The theater hit a peak in 1969 as the only place in Seattle to see “Oliver!” in first run, but it closed in 1974 and was razed in 1977. (Ken Baxter / Courtesy Magnolia Historical Society)
NOW: Socially distanced and most with masks down, (from left) Jeff Graham, Tab Melton, Brian Hogan, Gene Willard, Dan Kerlee, Kathy Cunningham, Sherrie Quinton, Mike Musslewhite and editor Monica Wooton from the nearly 70-member team that produced “Magnolia: Midcentury Memories” look southwest in front of Chase Bank, whose previous incarnation, Washington Mutual Savings Bank, opened a branch on the Magnolia Theatre site in 1978. For info on the book’s launch, visit (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Aug. 20, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Aug. 23, 2020)

For Magnolia baby boomers, it happened at the midcentury
By Clay Eals

Grab a giant popcorn. This week’s “Then” premieres a triple feature.

The photo comes from a project that enlisted 60 writers to document baby boomers’ youthful years in the Magnolia neighborhood. Just-released Magnolia: Midcentury Memories is the third coffee-table book assembled this century by volunteers and represented by the Magnolia Historical Society.

With 448 pages and 450-plus photos, the volume dives into everything from military family life at Fort Lawton (now Discovery Park) to peninsula-wide immigrant roots and racist redlining, from mudslides along the Perkins Lane cliffs to the demise of the Interbay garbage dump.

In our “Then,” the marquee points to the photo’s date (mid-June 1963) and our first feature, the Seattle World’s Fair. The book notes that Fort Lawton was considered for the 1962 exposition site and that from the Magnolia Bridge locals could see the eventual fairgrounds take shape.

Among memories of the fair from then-upper-grade students – most who attended Queen Anne High School, which peered over what is now Seattle Center – is that of Cheryl Peterson Bower. In the book, she tells of securing two autographs, for her and her sister, from Elvis Presley, who was at the fair to star in the marquee movie. But the crooner “signed both sides of the paper dead in the middle, making it impossible to share.”

Parked near the marquee is our second feature, a midcentury house mid-move. This symbolizes a time 14 years prior when Magnolians vigorously debated whether 20 homes to the north should be condemned to make way for a combined junior high school and fieldhouse. What The Seattle Times labeled “Seattle’s most explosive community controversy in many years” ended with a go-ahead. Some houses made dramatic treks in 1950-1951 to vacant lots nearby.

“It was quite a sight for a 5-year-old to see her house being driven down the street,” Karin Barter Fielding says in the book. “It was such a big event for the family. I still talk about it.”

Our third feature is the Magnolia Theatre itself. Opening Nov. 25, 1948, with Cary Grant in “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House,” it was the largest commercial building in the shopping district, dubbed “the Village.” Seating 985 people, it became a true community center.

Michael Musselwhite, who worked there 1959-1963 as a teen, writes that a tavern was barred from buying on-screen advertising “because children were usually in attendance” and that changing the marquee each Monday evening took two students, a tall ladder and 2-1/2 hours.

A Magnolia blockbuster, the book uses only the right half of our “Then.” So consider this photo the widescreen version!


To see Jean Sherrard‘s 360-degree video of the “Now” prospect and compare it with the “Then” photo, and to hear this column read aloud by Clay Eals, check out our Seattle Now & Then 360 version of the column!

You can view the Aug. 23, 2020, online Zoom launch of Magnolia: Midcentury Memories by visiting the website of the Magnolia Historical Society. Also, by clicking on their names, you also can view portions of the launch devoted to chapters by authors Brian Hogan (part 1), Brian Hogan (part 2), Skip Kotkins, Whitney Mason, Michael Musselwhite, Greg Shaw (part 1) and Greg Shaw (part 2).

Below are three additional photos, as well as nine clippings from The Seattle Times online archive (available via Seattle Public Library) that were helpful in the preparation of this column. As a bonus, right at the top you will find a nearly five-minute video featuring Monica Wooton, editor of “Magnolia: Midcentury Memories.” Enjoy!

VIDEO: Click photo to see video of Monica Wooton, editor of “Magnolia: Midcentury Memories,” describing the book’s process and product. (Clay Eals)
Cover of “Magnolia: Midcentury Memories”
The Magnolia Theatre marquee shines in 1949. (Courtesy Magnolia Historical Society)
June 11, 1963, Seattle Times, page 17, listing for movies on the marquee in our “Then.”
June 11-17, 1963, an alternate to our “Then” photo, showing the same house being moved. (Courtesy Magnolia Historical Society)
Jan. 12, 1969, Seattle Times, locator graphic from Magnolia Theatre ad.
Jan. 28, 1969, Seattle Times, page 10, ad for exclusive Seattle engagement of “Oliver!”
Jan. 30, 1969, Seattle Times, page 10.
July 20, 1969, Seattle Times, Magnolia Theatre ad after “Oliver!” had won Best Picture at the Oscars.
Nov. 7, 1974, Seattle Times, page 545, announcement of closure.
Dec. 3, 1974, Seattle Times, page 38, closing night for the Magnolia.
July 17, 1977, Seattle Times, page 51, building demolition.
Sept. 8, 1979, Seattle Times, page 17.

Seattle Now & Then: Paul Dorpat, historian without portfolio

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THEN1: A family photo of rootin’-tootin’ 4-year old Paul in his parents’ backyard in Grand Forks, North Dakota. Snapped by his dad in 1942, this portrait is what Paul calls in retrospect, “Saving the World for Democracy.”
THEN2: Promoting and producing the Sky River Rock Festival and Lighter Than Air Fair near Sultan in 1968, the world’s first multi-day, outdoor rock festivals held on a farm, Paul (right) pauses in his duties for a photo with long-time pal novelist Tom Robbins.
THEN3: Around the time Paul’s “Now & Then” column began in The Seattle Times in 1982, Paul pays a visit to his friend and mentor Murray Morgan, writer of “Skid Road,” at Morgan’s cabin on Harstine Island in the South Sound. (Courtesy, Genevieve McCoy)
NOW: Pre-pandemic on the waterfront, Paul Dorpat lobs French fries over his shoulder to an admiring trio of seagulls, while also, perhaps, blessing his beloved city. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Aug. 13, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Aug. 16, 2020)

A colossal contribution, and a blast from Paul Dorpat’s present
By Jean Sherrard

This week we drop in on our “Now & Then” column founder, Paul Dorpat.

For 37 years, his witty wisdom (and wise wit), drawn from deep wells of history – and a vast collection of old photos – provided a weekly fount of delight for thousands of fans. Clay Eals and I take ongoing inspiration from Paul’s legacy, but Dorpat ain’t done yet.

Having recently moved from Wallingford into senior housing near the Pike Place Market, he has overseen the contribution of his extensive archive of historical books and manuscripts, as well as more than 300,000 images, to Seattle Public Library.

“I hope my donation will inspire others to do the same,” Paul says. “When we protect and share our history, we can give our community a depth that’s truly resounding.”

Andrew Harbison, the library’s assistant director of Collections and Access Services, concurs: “We’re thrilled to receive this incredible gift and look forward to making the collection available for the public to see and enjoy.”

But that’s not all.

Along with the rest of us, chafing at the isolation imposed by COVID-19, Dorpat continues to collate his many thousands of hours of documentary film and video, dedicated to making this treasure trove available for future generations of historians and documentarians.

“For me, revisiting the past,” Paul says, “has always been a blast.”


A few more bonbons for friends and fans alike.

Here’s one of my favorites. When Paul and I took a 2005 trip to London and Paris together, we met up with our dear friend and colleague Berangere Lomont (a professional photographer who has through the years served this column as our Paris correspondent). While strolling in the 5th Arr., we did a double take. Paul’s doppelgänger was sitting at a street-side cafe table! The photo op was too good to be missed. Paul sauntered over to the adjoining table and sat down, pretending to examine a menu.

Paul sitting next to his twin in Paris, 2005 (Berangere Lomont)

Berangere took the still and, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh, I pointed the video camera.

More recently, Clay Eals managed to capture a video of Paul feeding gulls on the waterfront (the perfect accompaniment to my still photo used in the column).

Click on photo to see Clay’s video on YouTube.

And in no particular order, a clutch of Paul pix throughout the years.

Paul, baby of the family, accompanied by brothers Dave, Norm and Ted (clockwise from Paul).
Paul with his dad, Rev. Theodore Dorpat, and mom Cherry Dorpat (inset)
Paul in London, 2005
Paul with former roommate Bill Burden and Berangere, Paris 2005.
Paul and Berangere on the Champs Elysees, 2005
Paul with long-time friends Mike and Donna James, 2007. Paul, a registered potentate of the Universal Life church, officiated at Mike and Donna’s wedding.
Paul at Bumbershoot with One Reel’s Norm Langill (plus mime)
Paul and Jean in the Good Shepherd Center’s grotto, posing for ‘Rogue’s Christmas’ PR
Paul with pal Marc Cutler in Bellingham, 2005
Paul signs our book ‘Washington Then and Now’ at Costco, 2007
Paul with historian Alan Stein at the Lakeview Cemetery
Paul at his 70th birthday poses with the late Jef Jaisun, who took photos of Paul at his 40th birthday, on which occasion Dorpat’s beard was removed.
Paul at his 70th stands between Jean’s mom and dad. Howard Lev looms over Paul’s right shoulder
Paul at his 70th, with Ann Folke and Sally Anderson. Eric Lacitis towers upper right.
Paul in Pioneer Square with UW archivist and historian Rich Berner in 2011
Paul at his 75th birthday with this column’s Clay Eals
Paul with Ivar’s President Bob Donegan
Paul performs a pre-prandial prayer at the Lake Union Ivar’s

Stay tuned. More to come…







Seattle Now & Then: ‘Doc’ Maynard’s letters and house, 1850 to post-1905

(click and click again to enlarge photos)

THEN: “Doc” Maynard’s home at 3045 64th Ave. S.W., the oldest structure still standing in Seattle, replaced an earlier Maynard farmhouse that burned in February 1858. This photo, taken after 1905, when the home was moved a block south from Alki Beach, shows later owners, the Hanson and Olson families, ancestors of the late restaurateur Ivar Haglund, who gave the print to this column’s originator, Paul Dorpat. (Paul Dorpat Collection)
NOW: Ken Workman (left), board member and great-great-great-great grandson of Chief Seattle, and other representatives of the Southwest Seattle Historical Society (left) join Maynard descendants (right), including Chris Braaten (second from right), last February in front of the Maynard home, renovated in 2019 by owner Mardy Toepke (center, light shirt). The home will be the focus Aug. 15 of the historical society’s “If These Walls Could Talk” tour, online because of the coronavirus. For details, visit Here are all the IDs: (from left) from the Southwest Seattle Historical Society: Ken Workman, board member and great-great-great-great grandson of Chief Seattle; Phil Hoffman, Alki researcher; Nancy Sorensen, board member; Patty Ahonen, wife of Phil; Judy Bentley, Advisory Council; Rachel Regelein, collection manager and registrar; Marcy Johnsen, Advisory Council; Tasia Williams, curator; Dora-Faye Hendricks, board member; Michael King, executive director; Jen Shaughnessy, Gala Committee; Kerry Korsgaard, board member; Mike Shaughnessy, board member; Kathy Blackwell, board president; (center) Mardy Toepke, building owner and B&B proprietor; Justin O’Dell, Toepke’s friend and Berkshire Hathaway Real Estate agent; (right) Maynard descendants Mike Watson, Karen Watson, Erik Bjodstrup, Victoria Bjodstrup, Brian Bjodstrup, Ann Stenzel, Adam Bjodstrup, John Bjodstrup, Joanne Beyer, David Frost, Mary Braaten, Kai Braaten, Chris Braaten and Jana Hindman. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on Aug. 6, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on Aug. 9, 2020)

The unseen letters of ‘Doc’ Maynard reveal poignancy and pride
By Clay Eals

Talk about destiny.

Chris Braaten entered this world Aug. 14, 1950, inside Maynard Hospital, a long-gone First Hill facility named for Chris’ great-great-great grandfather – the storied Seattle physician and promoter David “Doc” Maynard, who befriended and named our city for Seattle, the Duwamish and Suquamish chief.

The birth merited a Seattle Times blurb quoting Chris’ mother, Margret. “We have a lot of Dr. Maynard’s letters and papers at home,” she said. “I think Chris will get a thrill out of looking them over a few years from now.”

(April 29, 1945, Seattle Times)

Today, Chris has delivered on his mom’s hunch, donating to the Southwest Seattle Historical Society 35 handwritten letters unseen by the public, including 25 by Maynard from 1850 to 1873, the year he died at age 64, and five by his second wife, Catherine.

It’s a priceless, scholarly gift to a fitting repository. The historical society’s Log House Museum stands just east of Maynard’s late-1850s farmsite near Alki Beach.

The letters total 112 pages that once had been slipped between magazine pages in a damp family shed at Seola Beach at the south end of West Seattle.

Chris, of Tucson, began to “look them over” 30 years ago. With a typewriter, he transcribed the earliest 17 of the faint missives. (A niece later transcribed two others. A brother-in-law digitized them all.)

Maynard’s letters addressed his grown children, Henry and Frances, whom he had left and failed to lure to Seattle from the Midwest. In 53 transcribed pages, the gregarious tippler whom “Skid Road” author Murray Morgan said “preached the gospel of Seattle’s certain greatness” waxes at length, with misspellings, about everything from coal mines to Catherine’s motherly instinct.

Throughout are poignant fatherly yearnings. “In you two,” he writes Feb. 26, 1854, “are wraped (sic) my troubles and anxieties & my bitter in these my latter days.”

Maynard also touts his territorial appointment as “agent” for local Native Americans, for whom he sought inter-tribal peace during their wars with settlers on Puget Sound.

There can be no avoiding his privileged promotion of white settlers at Native Americans’ expense. “They will fight,” he writes on Nov. 4, 1855. “There is no reason why they (sho)uld not, but we must conquer them.”

Still, on March 30, 1856, based on business and medical transactions with them, Maynard takes pride in building a “friendly feeling.” On Nov. 28, 1858, he says he must close because “the old Indian chief after whom I named the town of Seattle is here to talk with me.”

The museum will preserve and finish transcribing these unique letters and use them in exhibits and a possible book. As Chris’ mom foretold in 1950, this prospect will give students of Seattle “a thrill.”


To see Jean Sherrard‘s 360-degree video of the “Now” prospect and compare it with the “Then” photo, and to hear this column read aloud by Clay Eals, check out our Seattle Now & Then 360 version of the column!

The “If These Walls Could Talk” tour of the Maynard house, held Saturday, Aug. 15, 2020, was a wholly online experience via Zoom and a fundraiser for the Southwest Seattle Historical Society.

A follow-up Zoom session on the Maynard house, featuring Phil Hoffman, historian, and Mardy Topeke, owner of the house, is set for 7 p.m. Thursday, Nov. 12, 2020, sponsored by the Mukilteo Historical Society.

The Southwest Seattle Historical Society panel was composed of three experts (see the next three photos):

Ken Workman, great-great-great-great grandson of Chief Seattle and member of the Southwest Seattle Historical Society board. (Clay Eals)
Phil Hoffman, Alki historian and Southwest Seattle Historical Society volunteer, (Clay Eals)
King County archivist and Alki historian Greg Lange. (Clay Eals)

Below are seven additional photos, as well as six clippings from The Seattle Times online archive (available via Seattle Public Library) and other online newspaper sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column. As a bonus, you will find a 40-minute video of the Maynard letter-donation ceremony. Enjoy!

Aug. 17, 1950, Seattle Times, page 23.
Chris and wife Pamela Braaten in front of the Maynard house, Dec. 13, 2019 (Clay Eals)
The Maynard descendants (back, from left) Adam Bjodstrup, Chris Braaten, Kai Braaten, Erik Bjodstrup, Brian Bjodstrup, (the rest, from left) Victoria Bjodstrup, Mary Braaten, Ann Stenzel, John Bjodstrup, Joanne Beyer, Karen Watson and Mike Watson on the porch of the Maynard home, Feb. 8, 2020. (Jean Sherrard)
The Maynard descendants (from left) Chris Braaten, Mary Braaten, David Frost, Kai Braaten, Erik Bjodstrup, Mike Watson, Karen Watson, John Bjodstrup and Joanne Beyer on front steps of the Log House Museum of the Southwest Seattle Historical Society, Feb. 8, 2020. (Clay Eals)
Chris Braaten (left), great-great-great grandson of “Doc” Maynard, speaks at the Feb. 8, 2020, ceremony about his donation of original, handwritten letters by “Doc” and his second wife, Catherine. The ceremony was held at the Log House Museum of the Southwest Seattle Historical Society. (Clay Eals)
VIDEO: Click above to see video of the complete ceremony on Feb. 8, 2020, regarding the donation to the Southwest Seattle Historical Society of handwritten letters by “Doc” Maynard and his second wife, Catherine. Run time: 40:55. (Clay Eals)
A “Doc” Maynard family tree assembled by the Maynard descendants. Click twice to enlarge.
A plaque embedded in the sidewalk at 64th Avenue Southwest and Alki Avenue Southwest denoting the Maynard house, the oldest structure still standing in Seattle.
The Maynard house before it was moved one block south in 1905. (Caption by Phil Hoffman)
Nov. 4, 1908, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 67.
Dec. 5, 1908, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 11.
April 27, 1937, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 13.
The Maynard house as it stood in April 1945. (Seattle Times, courtesy of Bob Carney)
April 29, 1945, Seattle Times, page 32.

Seattle Now & Then: Civil Rights Protests at 11th and Pike, 1963 & 2020

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THEN: An estimated 1,000 silent protesters head west on East Pine Street near 11th Avenue on June 15, 1963, bound for what is now Westlake Park. Photographer John Vallentyne captured the mid-march moment. The Congress on Racial Equality (CORE) and the NAACP sponsored the protest. (Courtesy MOHAI)
NOW: Framed by bouquets of lilies at the same intersection, a lone Black Lives Matter protester, hands up, walks toward police lines on Thursday, June 4. The soon-to-be-abandoned East Precinct Station peeks out at top right. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on July 30, 2020
and in the PacificNW Magazine print edition on August 2, 2020)

In civil rights, what has – and hasn’t – changed in 57 years?
By Jean Sherrard

1963, the year of our “Then,” and today, arguably much has changed:

  • The Civil Rights Act of 1964.
  • The Voting Rights Act of 1965.
  • The Fair Housing Act of 1968.
  • School desegregation.

So why do we often feel stuck in quicksand? Protest signs spaced 57 years apart could have been written by the same hand.

Nationally, amid a vision of hope, the summer of 1963 produced profound turmoil:

  • On June 11, Gov. George Wallace stood on the University of Alabama steps, blocking entry to two Black students until the National Guard cleared their path.
  • On June 12, NAACP leader Medgar Evers was assassinated outside his Jackson, Miss., home.
  • On Aug 28, the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom took place at the Lincoln Memorial, culminating with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s indelible “I Have a Dream” speech.
  • On Sept. 15, four young Black girls were killed in a church bombing in Birmingham, Ala.

In Seattle, 1,000 marchers gathered on the hot morning of Saturday, June 15, at Mount Zion Baptist Church at 19th Avenue and East Madison Street and were inspired by the words of Rev. Mance Jackson, pastor of Bethel Christian Methodist Episcopal Church (today’s Curry Temple CME Church at 172 23rd Ave.).

Jackson called for “a plan of action,” demanding fair housing and employment practices for Black citizens, whose 10% jobless rate tripled that of the city overall.

“The time is now or never,” he said. “We declare war on … America’s greatest enemies: discrimination, segregation and racial bigotry. … We will have to sacrifice and suffer. Somebody may even have to go to jail.”

Our “Now” is from Thursday, June 4, 2020, 10 days after the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis police custody convulsed the nation. After days of angry protest, police erected a temporary barricade at 11th Avenue and East Pine Street, separating them from Black Lives Matter demonstrators.

Late in the afternoon, a small group carrying bouquets of lilies and helium balloons pushed to the front of the crowd. A Black protester shouted an obscenity, stripped to his shorts and hopped the barricade, hands aloft. Alone, he advanced toward a line of squad cars.

Behind him, the crowd seemed to catch its breath. Some pleaded for him to turn back and avoid arrest. Others took up a chant: “Hands up, don’t shoot.” Shortly, the protester was arrested and taken into police custody.

In 1963, King challenged us to envision a world in which we can “hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” Then and now, accomplishing that arduous task is our civic duty.


THEN 2: The original caption of this P-I photo, also shot by John Vallentyne, read, “Police Sgt. C.R. Connery chats with Rev. Mance Jackson, urging marchers to tighten ranks to avoid traffic problems.” (courtesy MOHAI)

Also, check out our 360 degree video, narrated by Jean, shot on location at 11th and East Pine.

Seattle Now & Then: Joe DiMaggio at Fort Lawton during WWII, 1944

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THEN: Joe DiMaggio stands along the first-base line in a Fort Lawton uniform in late May 1944, at what is believed to be the original baseball field at the south end of the fort’s Parade Grounds. The photo was first published in The Seattle Times Dec. 13, 1951, after DiMaggio announced his major-league retirement. (Seattle Times, courtesy Mike Bandli)
NOW: Fort Lawton researcher and Magnolia resident Mike Bandli chokes up on a DiMaggio bat (loaned by Dave Eskenazi) while donning a Yankees cap. A meteorite hunter and dealer, Bandli pinpointed what he feels certain is the precise repeat location based on shadows, topography, GPS and a 3D laser (LIDAR) image of the park grounds. In back, Mark Lucas and daughter Stella play kickball. (Jean Sherrard)

(Published in the Seattle Times online on July 23, 2020
and in PacificNW Magazine of the print Times on July 26, 2020)

Joltin’ G.I. Joe DiMiaggio was once on Fort Lawton’s side
By Clay Eals

Where have you gone, big-league baseball stars? Our nation turns pandemic eyes to you. Woo-woo-woo.

This lyric update of Paul Simon’s “Mrs. Robinson” may capture the mood of diamond fans who, because of a season stalled by the coronavirus, have been left with visions of the past.

One such apparition is Joe DiMaggio. Some call him baseball’s best. He also could be the most fabled, not just because Simon enshrined him in song. Joe’s troubled marriage and poignant devotion to second wife Marilyn Monroe, post-divorce, is the stuff of legend.

DiMaggio’s 13-year big-league career – topped by a 56-game hitting streak in 1941, never equaled in the majors – came in New York Yankees pinstripes, after three stellar seasons with the Pacific Coast League San Francisco Seals.

So why, in our “Then,” is Joe in uniform for Fort Lawton, the longtime Army post on Magnolia Bluff that Seattle transformed in 1973 into Discovery Park?

The answer lies in World War II patriotism. Like other stars facing a new draft, DiMaggio enlisted instead. He played in Army Air Forces exhibition games in 1943-1945 to entertain troops in California, Hawaii and New Jersey.

En route to Honolulu in early June 1944, the elegant outfielder played at least two games at Fort Lawton. He arrived May 16, four days after finalization of a divorce from his first wife, movie actress Dorothy Arnold, and soon suited up for the fort.

Coverage of his Seattle stint was cryptic. “A team of soldiers which could probably win the World Series played a baseball game here yesterday, civilians barred,” stated a May 25 blurb by Royal Brougham, Seattle Post-Intelligencer sports editor. “Price of admission to the diamond performance by Joe DiMaggio, … etc., was an Army or Navy uniform. There are times when being a G.I. isn’t so bad.”

The wartime games were not Joe’s sole Seattle stops.

For the PCL Seals in 1933-1935, says historian Dave Eskenazi, he hit .411 (30 for 73) against the Seattle Indians at grassless Civic Field, site of today’s Seattle Center. In 1933, at just 18, he played there in eight games while compiling a 61-game hitting streak, still the second longest such feat in pro baseball history. (The longest: 69 games by Joe Wilhoit of the Western League’s Wichita Jobbers in 1919.)

In retirement, the Yankee Clipper often revisited our city. He lunched with Seattle baseball legend Fred Hutchinson in 1959, coached for the Oakland A’s against the Seattle Pilots in 1969, dedicated the “Hutch” cancer center in 1975, golfed in a 1980 tourney and tossed out first pitches for the Seattle Mariners at the Kingdome in 1978 and 1985.

What’s that you say, local baseball fans? Joltin’ Joe was never far away. Hey-hey-hey.


To see Jean Sherrard‘s 360-degree video of the “Now” prospect and compare it with the “Then” photo, and to hear this column read aloud by Clay Eals, check out our Seattle Now & Then 360 version of the column!

Below are five additional photos, as well as 35 clippings from The Seattle Times online archive (available via Seattle Public Library) and other online newspaper sources that were helpful in the preparation of this column. Also, as a bonus, see the four images at bottom of a signed Fort Lawton ball from 1943-1944!

LIDAR (Light Detection and Ranging) image of Fort Lawton shows the location of the baseball field in the fort’s south parade grounds. (Courtesy Mike Bandli)
A 1936 aerial photo of Fort Lawton shows the location of the baseball field in the fort’s south parade grounds. (Courtesy Mike Bandli)
A 1946 aerial of the Magnolia peninsula, including the ballfield. (Courtesy Ron Edge)
May 5, 1959, Joe DiMaggio has lunch in Seattle with local baseball legend Fred Hutchinson. (George Carkonen, courtesy Dave Eskenazi)
April 1969, prior to an Oakland A’s/Seattle Pilots game at Sicks’ Seattle Stadium are (from left) A’s hitting coach Joe DiMaggio, former Cleveland Indians slugger Jeff Heath, Hall-of-Famer Earl Averill Sr. and Pilots coach and former New York Yankees legend Frank Crosetti. (Dr. Bill Hutchinson, courtesy Dave Eskenazi)
These games took place at Sicks’ Stadium between the Oakland A’s and the Seattle Pilots in 1969, when Joe DiMaggio served as the A’s hitting coach. (
April 26, 1969: Joe DiMaggio receives the Fred Hutchinson Major League Award at Sicks’ Stadium from Seattle restaurateur Bill Gasperetti. See stories below. (Courtesy Dave Eskenazi)
May 13, 1944, Seattle Times, page 12.
May 17, 1944, Seattle Times, page 16.
May 20, 1944, Seattle Times, page 8.
May 21, 1944, Seattle Times, page 24.
May 23, 1944, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Royal Brougham column.
June 8, 1944, Seattle Times, page 11.
June 10, 1944, Wilmington Morning Star.
July 16, 1944, Seattle Times, page 14.
July 24, 1944, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Royal Brougham column.
Sept. 9, 1944, Jackson Advocate.
Nov. 12, 1944, Evening Star, Bob Hope column.
Nov. 30, 1944, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 16.
Dec. 6, 1944, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 167.
Dec. 23, 1944, Wilmington Morning Star.
Dec. 29, 1944, Wilmington Morning Star.
Dec. 31, 1944, Wilmington Morning Star.
Dec. 13, 1951, Seattle Times, page 35.
May 5, 1959, Seattle Times, page 26.
May 8, 1959, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 2.
April 23, 1969, Seattle Times, page 72.
April 27, 1969, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 24.
April 27, 1969, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 25.
April 27, 1969, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 28.
April 27, Seattle Times, page 37.
April 28, 1969, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 42.
July 10, 1969, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 51.
March 5, 1970, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 54.
Sept. 6, 1975, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 1.
Sept. 6, 1975, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 3.
March 30, 1978, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 28.
April 5, 1978, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 47.
April 6, 1978, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 49.
April 6, 1978, Seattle Times, page 18.
July 1, 1980, Seattle Times, page 14, Walter Evans column.
May 11, 1985, Seattle Times, page 17.
May 22, 1985, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, page 50.
Signed baseball used in 1943 or 1944 at Fort Lawton. See red lettering in middle. (Courtesy Dave Eskenazi)
Signed baseball used in 1943 or 1944 at Fort Lawton. (Courtesy Dave Eskenazi)
Signed baseball used in 1943 or 1944 at Fort Lawton. Note signature of local favorite Earl Torgeson. (Courtesy Dave Eskenazi)
Signed baseball used in 1943 or 1944 at Fort Lawton. (Courtesy Dave Eskenazi)

Now & Then here and now