After arriving home, I brought the glass jar to my backyard and dumped its contents out on a picnic table. As suspected, it was mostly invaluable bric-a-brac: an old door hinge, various screws and nails, a broken mechanical pencil, and assorted detritus that was likely from some long-ago workshop. Then I noticed a coin. It was covered with gunk, but after giving it a good spray with the garden hose and wiping it down I realized that I had found the proverbial diamond in the rough.

A quick Google search confirmed that the coin was actually a novelty token from the 1930s that had once been handed out to children visiting the Salt Cafe — an ornate lunch counter that occupied the main floor of the legendary Seattle ferry the MV Kalakala. It’s an eye-catching piece of local history, with the front of the coin featuring an old-time sailor looking out of one of the ship’s porthole windows, while the back shows the iconic ferry out on Elliott Bay with the words “Greater Seattle” etched on top.

One reporter breathlessly declared the Kalakala to be “the most important vessel since Noah’s ark.”

For those unfamiliar with this famous ship, the Kalakala operated from 1935 until its retirement in 1967 and, during its heyday, was one of the city’s most popular attractions. She was a classy ferry with various luxurious amenities, including velvet-upholstered chairs, a double horseshoe lunch counter, and its own eight-piece orchestra. What truly made the Kalakala so unique, though, was its stylish, silver-hulled exterior considered by many to be an art deco masterpiece. In fact, the Kalakala is a Chinook-derived word meaning “flying bird” — a direct reference to its curved and sweeping design.

When it was first unveiled, the Kalakala’s eye-catching appearance quickly gained worldwide recognition, appearing on billboards, photographs, and news-reels all over the world, with one reporter breathlessly declaring it to be “the most important vessel since Noah’s Ark.” Numerous celebrities and politicians of the day had their photographs taken aboard the ferry, and it quickly became a popular attraction for locals and tourists alike.

For most of its lifespan, the Kalakala serviced the Seattle-to-Bremerton route, transporting more than 1 million passengers a year. This included thousands of sailors and yarders who, during World War II, relied on the Kalakala to bring them back and forth to the naval shipyards each day. This, in turn, led to its moniker, “The Workhorse of Puget Sound.”

Photo courtesy of Brad Holden

After the war, the Kalakala continued to serve as a reliable ship, though newer and bigger ferries, such as the Chinook, were starting to be introduced. Additionally, cars became wider in the postwar years, making the Kalakala less efficient as she was able to carry fewer and fewer cars due to their increasing size. The Kalakala soon found itself demoted from the company flagship and, with the arrival of a more efficient ferry fleet, the Kalakala slowly became obsolete. The ferry enjoyed a brief resurgence during the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair in which it drew almost as many visitors as the Space Needle.

As time wore on, though, the Kalakala grew increasingly expensive to operate and was finally retired from service in 1967. It was eventually auctioned off to a seafood processing company and towed to Alaska to be converted into a crab cannery. A few years later it was moved to Kodiak Island, where it continued to operate as a processing plant. A couple decades later, a Seattle businessman spotted the forgotten ship while traveling through Alaska and immediately began formulating a plan to return it to Puget Sound. After several years of complicated financial negotiations, the Kalakala was eventually towed back to Seattle in 1998, with the new owner hoping to restore the famous ferry back to its former glory.

Unfortunately, those dreams were never realized, and the ship continued to deteriorate. Unable to raise the funds required to keep it moored on Lake Union, much less for a restoration, the ship was sold and relocated to Tacoma, where it sat in neglect for another decade. The rusting ship was eventually scrapped in 2015, with all the remaining pieces sold at a very well-attended auction. Local businesses and souvenir hunters snatched up every available part within a matter of hours.

Some of the largest pieces were purchased by the town of Kirkland as the vessel had originally been built at the Kirkland Shipyards, so a direct historical connection existed between the city and the famous ferry. A few years ago, some of these parts were used in a public art piece titled Kalakala in Flight. Designed by local artist Amber Mikluscak, the large-scale artwork can be found at Feriton Spur Park, near the Cross Kirkland Corridor trail.

Several Kalakala parts were also purchased by the owner of Salty’s on Alki Beach. The popular West Seattle eatery managed to acquire the wheelhouse, as well as a massive rudder and crank, and has them on display out in its parking lot. The wheelhouse has been strategically placed so that visitors can stand inside and look across Elliott Bay to downtown Seattle. Additionally, a set of stairs from the Kalakala is currently on display at the Tacoma maritime history museum at the Foss Waterway Seaport. Pieces of the engine, including the crankshaft, can be seen at the King Agriculture Museum in Centralia.

While the physical body of the Kalakala no longer exists, pieces of its rich history continue to pop up, such as the token I recently found. These are a testament to the iconic ship’s lasting legacy, which continues to stir our imagination and prove that it has not yet run out of stories to tell.

Brad Holden by Arthur Mount

Illustration by Arthur Mount

Brad Holden is an amateur historian and is the author of two books: Seattle Prohibition: Bootleggers, Rumrunners and Graft in the Queen City, and Alfred M. Hubbard: Inventor, Bootlegger and Psychedelic Pioneer. Check out his Instagram/seattle_artifacts for more interesting tidbits about Seattle’s history.

The post Pieces of a Ferry: The Story of the Kalakala appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Several years later, as a young 20-something, I would haphazardly stumble across the famous bronze bust of Chief Seattle that sits in Pioneer Square. It wasn’t until much later that I learned both pieces were created by the same artist — a turn-of-the-century sculptor by the name of James when, who created some of the city’s first pieces of public art. In fact, he is often referred to as being “the first sculptor of Seattle,” as he created numerous plaques, statuary, and medallions that can be seen all across the city. He even designed the very first seal for the city of Seattle.

It was a real thrill, then, when I recently acquired one of Wehn’s original medallions that he designed back in 1928 after he was commissioned to create a piece of official insignia for the city’s lamp posts. Wehn cast hundreds of these, which were then used as decorative embellishments on light posts throughout the city. Many of these original medallions were later scrapped in the 1950s and ’60s, during various revitalization efforts, though a few of them managed to escape the scrap heap and will occasionally show up for sale.

I became the proud owner of mine courtesy of a local estate sale. The palm-sized medallion weighs close to a pound, and its beautiful depiction of two intertwined salmon is only enhanced by its century-old patina. When holding one in your hand, you can literally feel its industrial origins, going all the way back to when it was first cast in Wehn’s foundry. Above all, it serves as a physical testament to the artistic endowment that he first established here more than a hundred years ago.

James Wehn first arrived in Seattle as a young boy, when his family moved here in 1889. His father, John Wehn, was an ironworker and was able to find work at a local foundry. A few months after their arrival, the Great Seattle Fire of 1889 wiped out most of the city. Luckily, their house managed to avoid any significant damage and because of the elder Wehn’s profession, he took an active role in the rebuilding of Seattle. This early exposure to the art and skill of blacksmithing, and seeing the architectural beauty that it could create, obviously served as a huge influence for the young boy.

Wehn was 13 years old when he contracted diphtheria and, during a rather lengthy recovery, was given a set of watercolor paints to help him pass the time. He quickly discovered that he had a natural talent for painting and sculpture, which eventually led him to pursuing art as a career. While later attending art school, Wehn also worked with his father at Washington Iron Works, where he learned all the skills involved with foundry work. It is here that his art studies merged with his working knowledge of ironwork, setting him on course to become one of the top metal artists of his time. Wehn moved to Chicago for a couple of years, where he was mentored by a renowned sculptor who taught him how to mold and cast sculptures in bronze. Upon his return to Seattle, in 1905, he opened the city’s first studio that was dedicated to metal as an artistic medium.

For the remainder of his life, Wehn would use this studio to create some of Seattle’s most iconic public art. Much of his work features various historical settlers from the Pacific Northwest, including Henry Yesler, Capt. George Vancouver, and Ezra Meeker. Wehn was especially drawn toward local Native American culture, as seen in many of his most famous pieces. His fascination with local tribes began in his early childhood when he and his brothers would occasionally catch a glimpse of Princess Angeline — the famous daughter of Chief Seattle — walking down the street. In fact, Wehn spent a considerable amount of time visiting local Indian reservations, where he immersed himself in their history and culture, making sketches of the various inhabitants that he would later use as visual references for some of his sculptures.

1973.86_B_207, Washington State Historical Society

His first major project began in 1908, when the city commissioned him to create the statue of Chief Seattle. He spent a total of fi ve years toiling away on that project in order to make it as perfect as possible. While it was the city’s second piece of public art (the first one being the totem pole that was installed in Pioneer Square in 1899), it was the first publicly commissioned art for the city of Seattle. The 6-foot-tall statue was officially unveiled by Chief Seattle’s great-great granddaughter at a very well-attended opening ceremony on Nov. 13, 1912.

During these early years, Wehn developed a friendship with University of Washington professor and historian Edmond S. Meany. Wehn, himself, would subsequently teach art classes at the university and would also establish the Department of Sculpture there in 1919. Due to this work at the collegiate level, Wehn would later be named an Officer of the French Academy of Arts.

His next significant work took place in 1936 when he was commissioned to design the city of Seattle official seal. Additionally, he would prolifically create more than 300 medallions, medals, statuary, and other sculptures, which were mostly used for civic purposes throughout the local region. This includes such notable works as the first state of Washington commemorative medal, which he designed in 1953. He also served for two years on the city’s first Municipal Art Commission.

He remained active well into his twilight years, helping with a restoration of his Chief Seattle statue in preparation for the 1962 World’s Fair. Toward the very end of his life, he would bequeath his entire studio collection to the Washington State Historical Society before passing away in 1973, at the age of 91.

1973.86_B_207, Washington State Historical Society, Tacoma (Wash.)

He left behind an enormous artistic legacy that can be seen in schools, buildings, and cemeteries all throughout the local region, with his work widely celebrated for bridging Seattle’s early civic pride with the region’s Native American heritage. A collection of his work, numbering more than 200 pieces, is on permanent display at the Washington State Historical Society Museum in Tacoma.

The post The First Sculptor of Seattle appeared first on Seattle magazine.

At the time, this was a relatively new concept in which anyone could create and produce their own content, and it would later air in scheduled time slots. As an added bonus, public access was free of any censorship, so virtually anything was allowed. With such a large percentage of eccentric and uninhibited artist types living in the city at the time, it did not take long for some of these people to find their way to this new bastion of creative freedom. Public access TV quickly became a home for the weird, the naked, and the forbidden.

On any given night, channel 29 featured everything from fundamentalist religious sermons to a show called The Bong Hit Championship. You never knew what you were going to find when tuning in, which was a large part of its appeal. It was quite literally the wild frontier of local television, offering a tempting smorgasbord of nudity, political intrigue, oddball entertainment, and paranoid conspiracy theories.

Some of the inhabitants of this televised Island of Misfit Toys included an outlandish televangelist named Rev. Bruce Howard who, when not giving one of his fire-and-brimstone rants, would maniacally laugh to the tune of pre-recorded music. There was also the very peculiar Richard Lee, whose show, Now See It Person to Person: Kurt Cobain Was Murdered, was a one-man campaign to uncover the “conspiracy” behind Cobain’s death. Yet another notorious program was the Mike Hunt Show, which primarily consisted of unedited pornography clips.

Of all the personalities on local public access, though, perhaps one of the most memorable was Shannon Kringen — the colorful pagan woman whose Goddess Kring show featured stream-of-consciousness monologues combined with naked performance art. Kringen recently announced that she had uncovered a large cache of VHS tapes containing all episodes of her show, generating some renewed interest in this bygone era of TV. The discovery of these artifacts led me to reach out to her to learn more about her interesting story.

VHS tapes containing all episodes of Goddess Kring from 1996-2011

Photo by Shannon Kringen

Unsurprisingly, Shannon was raised in a creative and somewhat eccentric environment. Her father was an aspiring comedy writer and folk musician, and her mother was a multimedia artist. As a result, she was exposed to a wide variety of artistic influences while growing up. She tells me that she was quite shy throughout much of her childhood. During her school years, she reports being a quiet and well-behaved student who played on the school tennis team, though she definitely had the family art gene. In her case, she was known for painting shoes in bold and colorful patterns, and in fact, she would later give a pair of these custom-painted shoes to one of her musical idols, Tori Amos, who actually wore them onstage during a concert in Seattle.

Hand-painted shoes by Shannon Kringen

Photos by Shannon Kringen

After high school, she attended the Cornish College of the Arts but dropped out after a couple weeks, as she was scared that she wasn’t extroverted enough to be a good actor. To support herself, she worked a series of different odd jobs, including a stint at the Kinko’s in the University District. She was also a dancer at the Lusty Lady — the since-closed downtown strip club with the iconic marquee sign out front, and was always able to find steady work posing as a live model for local art classes. Such employment was intentional as it helped to force her out of her shell, thus setting the stage for the much more uninhibited character that local TV viewers would soon become acquainted with.

Her public access career started in 1995 after she was surprised to learn that anyone could submit shows to the station. Kringen set up a video recorder inside her cramped Capitol Hill apartment and began filming herself talking into the camera. Initially, her shows were a cathartic form of selftherapy allowing herself to emotionally work through the heartbreak of a romantic break-up. She eventually began inserting artistic elements to her monologues and, before long, she had developed her own unique style of televised performance art that was unlike anything else.

Like the late David Bowie and his famous 1970s alter ego, Ziggy Stardust, the previously bashful Shannon Kringen soon found herself being transformed while on camera into a persona known as Goddess Kring, which became the name of her show. In a 1998 interview with a local reporter, she said, “For me, being a goddess is an exaggeration of certain parts of myself. A more fearless part of me.” She added, “Goddess Kring is like The Wizard of Oz, while Kringen is like the slightly shy person behind the curtain.”

It did not take long for her Goddess Kring show to catch on with local public access aficionados. This was a few years before the advent of e-mail, so Kringen set up a P.O. box as a way for viewers to contact her. “I immediately got both fan mail and hate mail,” she says. It was way more volume than she ever anticipated, and for every letter that called her a “narcissistic attention whore,” she also received plenty of mail praising her for being an inspiration. One guy even wrote in asking her to marry him and come live at his remote cabin in Alaska.

As with other public access programming, part of Goddess Kring’s appeal was that she was often naked while delivering her spoken word. However, her nudity was never profane or perverse; rather, it was simply another ingredient in her artistic repertoire. The first time I remember seeing Kringen’s show, back in the ‘90s, she was delivering a monologue about self-doubt while attired in nothing more than psychedelic body paint. To me, her show was always more of a shamanic performance than anything pornographic.

However, not everybody saw it that way. At some point, complaints began pouring in from local cable customers about some of the more shocking and salacious content on public access. It eventually caught the attention of local officials, sparking widespread debate about censorship, civil liberties, and freedom of speech. One of Washington state’s U.S. senators at the time, Slade Gorton, even weighed in on the matter, exclaiming, “It’s outrageous! No parent wants their kid to be looking for Barney and find a group of naked people jabbering instead.”

Bowing to public pressure, TCI Cable temporarily suspended any public access shows that contained nudity and sex acts. This prompted the American Civil Liberties Union to become involved, and the matter eventually ended up in the courts with one local U.S. District Court judge ruling in favor of public access censorship, stating, “This type of programming wallows in adolescent sexual retardation.”

As a result, some of channel 29’s most controversial shows were pulled from the lineup, and eventually the whole operation was switched to another channel, thus representing the end of an era. Adding to the demise of this golden age of public access TV was the arrival of the internet, which made such programming seem almost irrelevant. After all, why stay up late in the hope of glimpsing something provocative on television when you could be guaranteed to see something even more shocking with just the click of a mouse? Almost overnight, many of Seattle’s public access celebrities were thrown into obscurity. Goddess Kring managed to remain on public access through 2011, though the programming on the new channel didn’t quite pack the same punch that it previously did.

Today, all these years later, Shannon Kringen is pretty much exactly as you would imagine her to be. That is to say, the quirky and colorful personality once known as Goddess Kring is still very much doing her own thing. She continues to financially support herself through a variety of odd jobs, including pet sitting, model work, and most interestingly as a “medical actor” in which she helps nursing students at the University of Washington determine a correct diagnosis by acting through a specific set of symptoms.

Above all, though, she is still very active as an artist. She self-published a book titled aRt, Identity and the Sacred, is an avid photographer, and is currently working on digitizing her VHS tapes in order to make a “Goddess Kring” documentary about her time on public access. One of her more interesting projects has been her foray into the world of “art cars,” bedazzling a 2010 Honda Fit with thousands of rhinestones. She figures she has spent hundreds of hours and over $2,000 in the pursuit of artistically covering her car in eye-catching gemstones. Indeed, just as Kringen once grabbed Seattle’s attention with her naked performance art, she continues to arouse the public’s interest whenever she gets behind the wheel.

Goddess Kring’s ‘Opal Moonstone’: An art car adorned with sparkling rhinestones.

Photo courtesy of Shannon Kringen

Besides her physical art, Shannon continues to live life in an almost improvisational, day-by-day manner, loving each moment as it happens. She hopes that her life’s work helps inspire others and when asked about her overall message to the world, she smiles, and her immediate and confident response recalls the positive affirmations of her Goddess Kring days: “Love yourself and be yourself and have a positive inspirational impact.”.

The post The Performance Art of Goddess Kring appeared first on Seattle magazine.

The real star of the show, though, was the tent itself. Known as “Palais Nostalgie,” the 285-seat spiegeltent is an antique cabaret tent decked out in red-velvet curtains, mirrored walls, and carved wooden booths. Originally used as a traveling pavilion in the early 1900s, it is one of the few surviving such tents in existence. Norm Langill, the creator of Teatro ZinZanni, first encountered one during a trip to the Barcelona Olympics in 1992. He was instantly transformed by the spiegeltent’s mystique, and after learning about their history and how they were being used for dinner cabarets throughout Europe, he deftly managed to acquire one and have it shipped here to Seattle.

Once the tent arrived, Langill decided to create his own European-style dinner cabaret. He was the perfect person to put together such an event given his extensive background in the local entertainment industry. Once described as a “Seattle uber-impresario,” Langill founded the One Reel production company, whose first creative endeavor was putting together a vaudeville show for the 1972 Bumbershoot festival. He then ran Bumbershoot for more than three decades, and was also behind the Summer Nights at the Pier summer concert series, as well as the WOMAD world music festival. Blending his longtime career in show biz with his love for European cabaret and American cirque, Langill created what would become the very first Teatro ZinZanni. As he declared at the time, “This is a whole new concept in live theater for America.”

Langill’s first major task was finding a suitable location that could properly accommodate the grandeur of the spiegeltent. Being the centerpiece of the entire production, the tent has often dictated the show’s direction. In fact, Teatro ZinZanni has moved locations several times, highlighting the fact that spiegeltents were specifically built to be mobile. The show’s first location was on Mercer Street, near the Seattle Center, where it dazzled audiences for a 14-month run. In 2002, they moved to a new site in Belltown and operated there for five years before returning to their original location in 2007.

A decade later, the Mercer Street location was sold to developers, putting the future of the show in jeopardy. By this time, it had developed a pretty dedicated fan base and several local celebrities jumped to Teatro ZinZanni’s support, including members of Pearl Jam, John Richards of KEXP, local chef Tom Douglas, and various Seattle-based business owners. By 2018, the quest for a permanent home appeared to be resolved when Teatro signed a lease for a rather idyllic location at the former Redhook Brewery site in Woodinville. Then the Covid-19 pandemic happened, and the resulting financial woes derailed everything. Once again, Teatro ZinZanni faced an uncertain future.

For most businesses, such financial turbulence and chronic homelessness would represent imminent closure. But Teatro ZinZanni has always marched to the beat of a different drummer. In the early American circuses of the 19th century, if any sort of pandemonium broke out — such as an animal getting loose or the sudden injury of a performer — it was the ringmaster who was in charge of steadying the ship and keeping the show moving forward. As a devotee of old-time circus culture, Langill seems to embody this fortitude. In the case of Teatro ZinZanni, the guiding principle has always been that “the show must go on.”

Indeed, as a testament to its nomadic resilience, Teatro ZinZanni managed to survive the pandemic and resurfaced in 2022 for a brief run in the SoDo neighborhood. Currently, Teatro ZinZanni is enjoying a residency at the luxurious Sanctuary Grand Ballroom in downtown’s Lotte Hotel. The opulent ballroom was originally built as a church in 1910, therefore providing the perfect atmosphere for the show’s flashy theatrics. The spiegeltent — which has since become a cherished mobile artifact — currently sits in temporary storage, though parts of it, such as the mirrored walls, have cleverly been incorporated into the show’s set design, thereby allowing the show to maintain its original ambience.

Kevin Kent combines interactive comedy with drag queen theatrics as “Cookie.”

Filling the Frame Photography, courtesy of Teatro ZinZanni

The current show also features two performers from the original show. Tim Tyler was an early cast member who was recruited to join Teatro ZinZanni after Langill saw him perform at a dinner tent show in Germany. A veteran performer who was once part of a 1970s-era hippie circus group known as “The Mushroom Troop,” Tyler taught himself how to juggle, ride a unicycle and play the ukulele — all of which he incorporates into his various stage acts. In the current show, Tyler’s jovial character can best be described as a surreal maître d,’ welcoming people to the zany world that is Teatro ZinZanni, while also singing and performing his famous mouth-juggling act.

Another original performer is Kevin Kent, who combines interactive comedy with drag queen theatrics, resulting in the memorable stage persona, “Cookie.” He has intermittently performed as this character since the very first Teatro ZinZanni, with an act that involves plucking random people out of the audience and then bringing them onstage to be part of the evening’s entertainment.

Kent tells me that he developed this routine after once having an encounter with a heckler. Rather than having a verbal confrontation, Kent pulled the offender onstage and made them part of the show. Kent’s routine is always in the spirit of good fun, and the audience members are usually willing participants. During an early Teatro ZinZanni performance in 1999, then-Gov. Gary Locke was spotted in the audience and “Cookie” pulled him onstage for some showtime antics, suggestively unbuttoning his shirt while having him wear a Viking helmet, resulting in hearty laughter from the audience. That same laughter can be heard in the current show, especially when somebody is unwittingly pulled on stage.

At this point, Teatro ZinZanni has become a Seattle institution, serving as the city’s own Moulin Rouge. It is unknown if Teatro ZinZanni will remain at the Lotte Hotel or if it will continue to wander the local landscape, perpetually in search of a home. Either way, the famous “Palais Nostalgie” tent is ready for service, and local audiences have proven that they are happy to follow the show wherever it may go.

Brad Holden

Illustration by Arthur Mount

Brad Holden is an amateur historian and is the author of two books: “Seattle Prohibition: Bootleggers, Rumrunners and Graft in the Queen City,” and “Alfred M. Hubbard: Inventor, Bootlegger and Psychedelic Pioneer.” Check out his Instagram page @seattle_artifacts for more interesting tidbits about Seattle’s history.

The post Teatro ZinZanni is Seattle’s Moulin Rouge appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Unfortunately, parts of the indigenous-meets-modern tunnel art were effectively removed during modifications to the bridge in the early 1990s, though the bold and stunning work remains an official city of Seattle landmark.

The creative mind behind those portals was a local architect by the name of Lloyd Lovegren, whose prolific work left an indelible mark on the local landscape. I was first made aware of Lovegren’s work when his great-granddaughter reached out to me. She was preparing to go through some of his old belongings and, hoping to have a local historian on hand, asked if I would be interested in joining her. It was an easy yes for me, though some quick research was in order to learn more about his life’s work.

Born in 1906, Lloyd Lovegren grew up during a time when some of Seattle’s most well-known building projects were underway: the King Street Station that was completed in 1906; the Smith Tower, completed in 1914; and the massive Lake Washington Ship Canal project, which began in 1911. It was an exciting time for the young city, and Lovegren’s future career path was almost certainly influenced by all the architectural changes taking place around him.

Lovegren studied architecture and design at the University of Washington, as well as the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design in New York City. After college, he worked under Joseph S. Cote — the lead architect behind Swedish Hospital. Upon completion of his apprenticeship, Lovegren was hired as a draftsman for the Seattle Parks Department, where he personally designed the Laurelhurst Field House. In the 1930s, he began working as a bridge architect for the Washington State Highway Department. It was during this employment that he designed many important projects, including the famous tunnel portals as well as some additional toll buildings that were once in use on the bridge.

During the 1940s, Lovegren accepted a position in Honolulu, Hawaii, as the head architect for the Pacific Naval Air Bases at Pearl Harbor, and was there during the infamous attack on Dec. 7, 1941. He eventually returned here and worked on some high-profile projects for Washington State University, including Kruegel-McAllister Hall. He also designed Auburn Elementary School.

The Lacey V. Murrow Bridge Construction Project

MOHAI, L. R. Durkee Collection on the Lacey V. Murrow Bridge Construction Project, 2003.30.159

Some of his more interesting work took place when he was hired by famous restaurateur, Victor Bergeron, to design a new chain of Polynesian-themed restaurants called Trader Vic’s. Characterized by colorful rum cocktails, rattan furniture, flaming torches, and brightly colored fabrics that were evocative of the South Pacific, Trader Vic’s helped to usher in the Tiki craze of the 1950s. The project required architectural work, as well as some interior design, so Lovegren recruited the help of his wife, Grace, who was an accomplished wood carver and multimedia artist.

The married couple pooled their talents together in order to design this exciting new dining and drinking establishment, and while not intentional, their collaborative work would help define the aesthetics of Tiki culture. Thanks to their combined efforts, the first Trader Vic’s opened in Denver in 1954, followed by other openings in Chicago, Victoria, B.C., New York City, Havana, and Seattle.

The following decade was perhaps the most prolific era of Lovegren’s career, with several impressive projects including Bellevue’s Overlake Hospital and the Seattle Ferry Terminal, both of which were completed during the 1960s. He was directly involved in the redevelopment of downtown Seattle and was also a consultant for the Portage Bay Viaduct. In 1970, Lovegren established his own architectural firm and continued working until his retirement in the mid-80s. He passed away on July 29, 1989.

Confident that I had a somewhat satisfactory knowledge of Lovegren’s impressive résumé, I felt ready for the task at hand and met his great-granddaughter, Ona Lee Weatherford, to go through some of his treasured belongings. Much of the Lovegren family tree is composed of various creative types and Ona — an accomplished chef, farmer, and homesteader — is no exception.

A warm and welcoming person with a deep love of her familial roots, Ona was the perfect host for such an endeavor as she was able to provide valuable background information on various items, as well as share related family stories. “Lloyd’s work was very present in my life at all times,” she tells me. “I remember seeing his drawings of the original floating bridge designs as a child and it striking awe in me.”

Each we opened box revealed a different chapter from Lovegren’s accomplished life. Some contained old blueprints and a handsome array of architectural tools that had been used for various projects, while other boxes held awards and plaques earned throughout his career. We also uncovered a stunning collection of photographs that collectively told his story — everything from a 3-year-old Lovegren and his parents at the 1909 Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition, to an adult Lovegren proudly standing next to some of his buildings. The most exciting finds were from his work with Trader Vic’s, including some Polynesian-style wood panels that had been hand-carved by Grace.

In talking to Ona, it is clear that Lovegren’s shadow continues to loom large over the family. “My father was named after him, and my son Lloyd is named after them both.” This connection is further boosted by Lovegren’s lasting architectural legacy. She recalls seeing his work during childhood car trips with her family.

“Every time we drove home from spending time with my mother’s family in eastern Washington, we would pass through the portals and felt a deep sense of connection to Washington state as a whole.” Indeed, from the college halls he designed in Pullman to the ferry terminal on Seattle’s waterfront, Lovegren’s legacy is a gift to us all.

The post Tools Of The Trade appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Brad Holden

Illustration by Arthur Mount

Viewers would then be treated to a series of comedy skits that poked fun at local stereotypes and whatever the news stories of the day happened to be. Afterward, all the cast members gathered together onstage and waved to the audience as the credits rolled, at which point the “On Air” sign would be turned off, signaling the wrap of another successful episode. The following week, regional water cooler talk was often a recap of what everyone’s favorite sketches had been: “High Fivin’ White Guys,” “Mind Your Manners with Billy Quan,” and “Ballard Driving Academy,” to name a few. They are comedy classics that people still laugh about to this day. 

The name of the television program was, of course, Almost Live! To this day, the show continues to have a dedicated fan base and serves as a nostalgic symbol of ’90s-era Seattle. The perennial host of Almost Live! was local personality, John Keister, who now lives a quiet, semi-retired life in the Seward Park neighborhood. Carefully stored away in his home is an eclectic assortment of memorabilia from the hit series, including the iconic “On Air” sign that kicked off the start of each and every episode. I recently paid a visit to Keister to hear his story and view some of these cherished relics. 

Keister was born and raised in Seattle and is an alumnus of Franklin High School, just a short distance from where he currently resides. He later attended the University of Washington, where he wrote for the student newspaper. After graduating with a degree in communications, Keister began writing for a weekly alternative newspaper known as the Seattle Sun. In 1979, a small group of renegade writers from the Seattle Sun decided to start their own music publication, leading to the formation of The Rocket, a highly influential magazine devoted to all the great punk and new wave bands of that era, as well as the local music scene. Keister soon joined this new venture and became one of its top writers, penning a popular column that he wrote under the nom de plume, Johnny Renton. 

During his tenure at The Rocket, Keister was also an aspiring stand-up comic, occasionally performing at local comedy venues. While his days were usually spent in front of a typewriter, his evenings often involved telling jokes to an audience with his microphone in hand. It was in these comedy clubs that Keister met such people as Ross Shafer and Bill Nye, both of whom later emerged as important figures in his life. These early contacts, as well as all the writing and comedy, eventually coalesced and contributed to his later success. But first, an unforeseen event was about to dramatically change the course of his life. 

In Keister’s case, destiny arrived in the form of a telephone call. As he recalls, “I got this random call one day while working at The Rocket in which a producer from KING-5 was putting together a music video show called REV and wanted Johnny Renton to be a part of it.” Keister had to explain that Johnny Renton was just a pseudonym, but that he would be willing to appear on the show under his real name. And thus began Keister’s foray into the world of television. 

Several months later, KING-5 had decided to launch another new show called Almost Live! After learning about Keister’s comedy credentials, he was invited onboard. Within two years, he was serving as the show’s host and continued to do so until it ended in the late ’90s. 

Looking back on that serendipitous moment, Keister recalls a movie he recently watched involving the Mars Rover, which he remembered had carried an interplanetary sundial that had been designed by his old friend and former cast mate, Bill Nye. Keister had been the one to bring Nye onto Almost Live!, which is where the “Bill Nye the Science Guy” persona was born. Keister chuckles over the extraordinary chain of events that resulted in Nye’s contraption being placed on a distant planet.

“So I was bouncing around in the comedy clubs with Bill Nye, and then that phone call I got at The Rocket led me to Almost Live!, which led to Bill Nye the Science Guy, which led him to collaborating with NASA, which led to a sundial eventually landing on the surface of Mars.” He shakes his head and laughs over the absurdity of it all.

While discussing the events of his life, he pulls out random items to show me, including an early photograph from his days at The Rocket in which he and a coworker are standing next to a rocket-shaped float that had just been part of the Seafair parade. Behind them is the Comet Tavern on Capitol Hill. He then disappears into a room and walks out holding two framed black-and-white photos of Nirvana in its early days, another memento from his involvement with the local music scene.

In the photo, the young band — which was in the process of recording its breakthrough album, Nevermind – looks blissfully unaware of the huge success that would soon engulf its lives. Keister often used his musical connections from his days at The Rocket to recruit various Seattle musicians to appear on different Almost Live! sketches. This included members of Nirvana. Looking at the photo brings a smile to his face, saying, “Grohl is happy, and Cobain is looking optimistic.”

He also shares a recent photograph of himself and Ross Shafer. Shafer was the original host of Almost Live! back when it first aired in 1984. Two years later, he would exit the show after taking over hosting duties of The Late Show down in Los Angeles, at which point Keister took over the helm in Seattle and captained the ship until the show ended in 1999. It was certainly an unexpected career turn for Keister that all began with that fateful phone call.

As my afternoon with Keister wrapped up, I finally had the opportunity to hold the iconic “On Air” sign. I once had the good fortune of attending a live taping of Almost Live! and still remember the thrill of the sign lighting up, letting us audience members know that things were about to kick off. The memory of it all gives the item a visceral quality, and I half-jokingly comment that it belongs in a museum. Today, the iconic sign now hangs in Keister’s home with a certain degree of prominence. It serves as a proud reminder of his years spent on local television and is, inarguably, a true Seattle artifact.

Brad Holden is an amateur historian and is the author of two books: “Seattle Prohibition: Bootleggers, Rumrunners and Graft in the Queen City,” and “Alfred M. Hubbard: Inventor, Bootlegger and Psychedelic Pioneer.” Check out his Instagram page @seattle_artifacts for more interesting tidbits about Seattle’s history.

The post Artifacts: Reliving Almost Live! appeared first on Seattle magazine.

I first heard the term back in the ’90s when making weekend plans with my friends. One of our Seattle-area apartments would be chosen as the predetermined meeting place that was used for a first round of partying prior to hitting the city’s nightlife. This was always known as our “pre-funk.” But where did this term come from? An old piece of local advertising may finally reveal its origins.

The beginning of this etymological journey begins with a home in the Ravenna neighborhood. Somebody was helping his/her grandfather — a former tavern owner and noted packrat — ready a house for sale, and my name came up as someone who could help with the clearing-out process. I arrived the next day and discovered an amazing inventory of items from his days as a bar owner: an old jukebox, vintage beer signs, and a garage full of antique auto parts. I helped find buyers for some of the big-ticket items, and as payment for my time, they let me keep a wooden crate full of old photos and papers that I had discovered in the attic. I had briefly combed through the contents and was excited to get them home and take a closer look.

Indeed, the crate turned out to be quite the treasure chest with one item in particular grabbing my attention. It was an old paper handbill for a Fat Tuesday event in Pioneer Square. On the back was a hand-drawn illustration of a person I recognized as being Bobby Foster — a local personality from the 1970s. A little research showed the flier was from 1977, the year of Seattle’s first-ever citywide Mardi Gras celebration (previous bashes were generally limited to particular venues). This explained the pen-and-ink drawing on the back, as Foster was one of the primary organizers for that infamous event. I was holding a true piece of Seattle history.     

As it turned out, though, a whole other layer of value was to be found at the top of the handbill, with the seemingly innocuous phrase, “pre-function.” I knew that “pre-funk” was a shortened version of pre-function, which itself was a regional word that had originated somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. But when did pre-function first start being used? And when did it morph into “pre-funk”?

A little online sleuthing revealed that “pre-funk” was listed as Washington state’s top slang word, and that it originated in Seattle in the late 1970s. Further research confirmed that it originally started out in its full form, “pre-function.” Could it therefore be possible that this Fat Tuesday handbill was the first use of the word? I checked various databases of local ads and promotional material from the 1970s and, indeed, this flier is the first written example I could find where the term “pre-function” was ever used. Whoever designed this likely had no idea that they were creating a phrase word that would eventually become part of the local vernacular.

Fat Tuesday flyer. Photo courtesy of the author

As for Seattle’s first citywide Mardi Gras celebration, it was first conceived as a way to give a “midwinter lift” to people’s spirits. This was an exciting time in Seattle’s past. The Kingdome had recently opened, which, in turn, welcomed Seattle to the Seahawks and the Mariners. In addition to the city’s two new sports teams, the popular new stadium also gave a huge boost to nearby Pioneer Square, which had recently been given a major facelift after being designated as an Historic Preservation District. The Mardi Gras celebration was, therefore, intended to be a coronation ceremony of sorts, a party to celebrate a new burst of civic pride, as well as reintroduce everyone to the historic charm of the city’s first neighborhood. 

One of the primary architects of Seattle’s first Mardi Gras was Foster. He had previously worked as a Boeing engineer, but quit his day job when one of his favorite watering holes, the Central Tavern, was put up for sale in the early 1970s. He and another Boeing engineer purchased the derelict tavern for $8,000 and completely refurbished it just after Pioneer Square was designated as an historic district. It soon became one of the city’s top drinking establishments.   

In late 1976, Foster and other Pioneer Square merchants began brainstorming ideas that would eventually form the basis for Seattle’s first Mardi Gras. This was not an event that was traditionally celebrated in the mostly Protestant city, though Foster and others wanted to plan something that could help local businesses during the post-holiday slump, as well as help give the city a late-winter’s boost. 

Other business owners loved the idea and Seattle held its first Mardi Gras in 1977. The weeklong event began on Monday, Feb. 14, and featured a colorful array of attractions designed to draw people in: strolling musicians, puppeteers, clowns, magicians, jugglers, and assorted circus acts that were set up throughout the neighborhood. A large Mexican mariachi band even strolled through the streets. 

The real celebration took place on Saturday the 19th, which was the last day of the event. Attendees were encouraged to dress up in costumes and masks, and a large closing parade was held earlier in the day that started at Pike Place Market and ended at Occidental Park. As afternoon turned to dusk, though, the family-friendly atmosphere of the event slowly dissolved and things started to become a bit more boisterous. It was unseasonably warm that day, with temperatures in the ‘70s, so thousands more people showed up than expected and many began openly drinking in the streets. The rowdy energy of the crowd was further amplified when the nearby Rainier Brewery decided to use the event to film a commercial in which more than a dozen people in giant Rainier beer bottle costumes ran through the streets. Designed to look like the Running of the Bulls in Spain, the so-called “Running of the Beers” elicited loud cheers and applause from thousands of inebriated revelers who had packed the sidewalks.    

Later that night, Seattle police realized that it was woefully understaffed for such an event after free cases of beer appeared on various corners and an already drunk crowd suddenly gained access to ample supplies of free booze. At one point, a group of people tried tipping over a Metro bus full of terrified passengers, and officers also complained of having projectiles thrown at them. On Sunday morning, thousands of empty beer bottles and debris reportedly littered the streets.

Despite the unruly nature of that day, the annual event has managed to survive with several of the neighborhood’s historic buildings now serving as a monument to Bobby Foster and others who helped resurrect Seattle’s oldest neighborhood back in the 1970s. The Kingdome was demolished in 2000, but many establishments, such as the Merchant’s Cafe and the Central Saloon, have survived and continue to operate as popular drinking destinations, especially for sports fans looking for a place to “pre-funk” prior to attending a game at one of the nearby stadiums.

Brad Holden is an amateur historian and is the author of two books: “Seattle Prohibition: Bootleggers, Rumrunners and Graft in the Queen City,” and “Alfred M. Hubbard: Inventor, Bootlegger and Psychedelic Pioneer.” Check out his Instagram page @seattle_artifacts for more interesting tidbits about Seattle’s history.

The post The birth of pre-funk appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Death masks were typically reserved for those with prominent social status, and have been made for everyone from Napoleon Bonaparte to the famous gangster, John Dillinger. Such post-mortem mask making was popular up through the early 20th century, back when the Pacific Northwest was still considered a backwater territory. As such, death masks never quite caught on here. Or did they? A mysterious object recently emerged that may call all this into question.  

A few years ago, a local family purchased a rather curious item that originally came from a Tacoma auction house. It is made of white plaster, looks to be quite old and is carefully housed in a custom wooden crate, indicating it to have some degree of importance. The family first contacted me about it last year, and after I took a vow of secrecy, the object was laid out in front of me. I was then told that I was likely looking at Chief Seattle’s death mask. 

The ramifications of such a thing left me somewhat stunned and certainly stayed with me since that initial viewing. Recently, the family — who wishes to remain anonymous — agreed to allow me to research this item and publish my findings for this article. Photographs of the mask were carefully taken and we decided to measure it [a foot in length and seven inches in width] and weigh it [a sturdy seven pounds] for posterity. Beyond this initial cataloging, though, the family knew very little about its origins. No provenance came with the mask, meaning there was no supporting documentation to help shed any light on what, exactly, it could be. I knew that solving the mystery behind this item was probably going to be a tricky endeavor.

Looking into Chief Seattle

The first logical step seemed to be researching Chief Seattle himself. As most people are aware, our city was named after him. He was the son of a Suquamish father and a Duwamish mother, a lineage that allowed him to maintain affiliation with both tribes. The name Seattle is an Anglicization of the conventional Duwamish spelling, Si’ahl. Other traditional variations of his name include Sealth, Seathl or See-ahth. He died in 1866 at the Suquamish Reservation at Port Madison, where he was laid to rest in the tribal cemetery. One side of his gravestone reads, “Seattle, Chief of the Suquamps and Allied Tribes, Died June 7, 1866. Firm Friend of the Whites, and For Him the City of Seattle was Named by Its Founders.” The other side reads, “Baptismal Name: Noah Sealth, Age probably 80 years.” 

Chief Seattle had converted to Catholicism in the later part of his life and despite being laid to rest with both Catholic and tribal rites, there is nothing online which makes any mention of a death mask ever being made for him. Likewise, a thorough search of the local newspaper archives yielded no results. The absence of any available information was a bit baffling, especially given that the mask bears such a strong resemblance to all known images of the famous chief, including the only known photo of him which was taken by E. M. Sammis, in 1865 — one year before his death. The resemblance can also be seen in various artistic works found throughout the city, such as James Wehn’s two well-known pieces: the famous statue of Chief Seattle standing at downtown Seattle’s Tilikum Place Park, as well as the bronze bust in Pioneer Square.

I realized my hunt for any information would require some reaching out to local experts, and the logical starting point seemed to be the Suquamish Museum. Located near Chief Seattle’s burial spot, it is a wonderfully curated destination dedicated to the traditional ways of the Suquamish tribe. A representative of the museum confirmed that most of the Suquamish tribal members were descendants of Chief Si’ahl, but expressed some initial skepticism. In the end, they reported that they had no record of any death masks ever being made for any of their ancestors. 

Photography by Madeline Holden

My next stop was Seattle’s top natural history institution, the Burke Museum. I reached out to its collections manager, Rebecca Andrews, who serves as the museum’s leading expert on North American indigenous cultures. She also replied that she had never heard of such an item. Yet another dead end. Nobody seemed to know anything, which only deepened the mystery behind it. If this object wasn’t a death mask, then what was it? Did it even have any connection to Chief Seattle? 

I eventually decided to reach out to an old friend whom I knew from the local antiques and picking community. Jack Bennett is a bit of a renaissance man: a multi-talented carpenter, mechanic and antiques restorer, he is also a longtime oddities collector. I first met Jack at an estate sale where he was gleefully loading an assortment of taxiderm animals into the back of his truck. Another chance encounter with him resulted in a fascinating conversation about the collector’s market for human skeletons. I had a hunch that if anyone would have any helpful information for me that it would probably be Jack and, indeed, my hunch proved correct.    

The other Chief Seattle death masks

Right off the bat, Jack announced that he had also once owned a Chief Seattle death mask, immediately triggering even more questions. There were other Chief Seattle death masks? And if so, how many? Why are there no records of any of this? Within minutes of talking to him, though, some of the answers began falling into place. 

As Jack explained, some of the so-called death masks out there are actually sculpted busts that were created as works of art. Some were made when the person was still alive and able to pose as a model, while others were made post-mortem using known images of the person. After taking a look at my photos, he pointed out that the eyes are open, which is something rarely seen in true death masks. Also, some of the features have a very sculpted look. He said that the death mask he previously owned — which looked different from mine — was likely a sculptural study of Chief Seattle, as was this one. Sometimes these pieces were falsely sold as death masks by unscrupulous antiques dealers, which may explain the back story of this artifact.  

While there are still a few unanswered questions, I felt comfortable presenting my findings with the owners of this item and they seemed content with the results. The world of antiquing, picking and collecting often requires due diligence and some rather unorthodox methods of research. It’s detective work and there isn’t always a satisfying answer gift-wrapped and waiting for you at the end. 

But that’s part of what makes the pursuit so fun. I admit that it was a bit disappointing to learn that it likely isn’t what was originally thought. However, the idea of a turn-of-the-century flimflam man selling this as Chief Seattle’s death mask is certainly a great story as well.  

Brad Holden is an amateur historian and is the author of two books: “Seattle Prohibition: Bootleggers, Rumrunners and Graft in the Queen City” and “Alfred M. Hubbard: Inventor, Bootlegger and Psychedelic Pioneer.” Check out his Instagram page @seattle_artifacts, for more interesting tidbits about Seattle’s history.

The post Seattle Artifacts: The Mystery of Chief Seattle’s Death Mask appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Despite their lack of brand-name recognition, they played with the same grit and determination as their professional counterparts. The teams consisted of an eclectic mix of misfits, outcasts and ne’er-do-wells who dutifully played season after season their own, unique version of baseball in which victories were celebrated, losses were mourned and championships were memorialized with impressive trophies.

To some, this hodgepodge assortment of players was nothing more than an adult version of the Bad News Bears, while to others they represented the true spirit of the game. There were many teams with many colorful names, and together they were known as the Derelict League.

I first learned of this quasi-legendary baseball club while talking to the owner of the Eastlake Zoo Tavern. As he nostalgically recalled, the Zoo even had its own team. A name as catchy as the Derelict League certainly invites a lot of questions, and after I asked him more about it, he excused himself to an upstairs storage room and returned a few moments later with a handful of items, including an old, beer-stained jersey.

The front of the garment displayed the bar’s name along with an ogre-looking creature clutching a bat. The knowing smirk on the creature’s face indicated that it was ready to play some serious ball. “This was our team shirt,” he proudly boasted.

After seeing the logo and hearing the name, I was determined to learn more, though to my dismay, I discovered that very little had ever been written about the league.

I eventually achieved a major breakthrough on one of my social media pages. A posting I had made about this baseball collective had apparently made its way through the local grapevine and one member decided to reach out. “Hello,” read the message. “I was the commissioner of the Derelict League.”

John Bixler was the author of that message and served as one of the league’s top “officials,” though such a word proves to be rather nebulous when it comes to this particular brand of baseball. With an impressive mustache and a graying ponytail, Bixler resembles many of his former teammates, all of whom are now well past retirement age. To this day, many of them still regularly meet at a local brewpub to laugh about old times and fret about the current state of things. I recently joined up with this old baseball crew at one of their weekly gatherings, where I was able to learn more about their rather unconventional history.

It all started in 1971. Seattle was a much different town back then. Rent was cheap and enjoying life without a high-paying job was much easier to accomplish. In fact, for many of the league’s founding members, no job at all was even quite feasible. At the time, Seattle had a fairly robust hippie movement with a sizable contingent living aboard a small community of Lake Union houseboats, while many others were centralized in the University District, hanging out at such popular gathering spots as the Blue Moon Tavern.

Over in Queen Anne, where several long-haired occupants shared a large house, plans were put into place to assemble some baseball teams and start playing games. Between tokes, the one thing they all agreed on was that their version would lack the formality of regular baseball. In fact, theirs would lack any rules at all that weren’t deemed completely necessary.

For one, umpires would not be needed as any disagreements on the playfield would simply be settled with a coin toss.  Of top importance, though, was that everyone have a good time; therefore, both men and women were encouraged to play and a full keg of cold beer would be a requirement for each and every game.  As word about this new and unorthodox baseball enterprise spread throughout the city, teams began forming and by summer of that year, the Derelict League was born.

Katherine Fox

At first, teams in the Derelict League would simply show up and play ball at any available field. However, as the number of teams grew and the games became more formalized, they eventually had to be scheduled through the Seattle Parks Department. This helped to shape the league into more of an official entity, which in turn, encouraged a higher degree of competitiveness. Team rivalries often formed, though the league’s countercultural spirit always helped to maintain a nice, mellow simmer on the field. Part of this was likely attributed to an obscure book, “The Zen of Base and Ball,” which became quite popular amongst the different players.

Looking over the roster of team names certainly sheds light on the league’s collective personality: The Blue Moon Nine, The Lynn St. Dogs, The Crabs, The Lowballs and The Fremont Tavern Muff Divers. At some point, an infamous hippie cult group known as the Love Israel Family even decided to form its own team. Several members recall playing a game at the cult’s sprawling Arlington farm where a full-sized baseball diamond had been built in one of the pastures. The Love Israel Family even provided the mandatory keg of game beer, though it insisted on serving everyone, causing a minor kerfuffle as the opposing team wanted to pour its own beers. Peace ultimately prevailed after the cult finally acquiesced and allowed self-pours.

The Derelict League managed to survive for nearly a decade but eventually succumbed to the ravages of adulthood as people married, started families and began careers. In the end, grown-up responsibilities gradually replaced the leisure of baseball, and by everybody’s estimate, the last of the games was played in 1979.

All that remains of the league today is the occasional jersey that emerges from the dark depths of storage, or the stories that are still shared between its surviving members. The city may be a much different place now but certain things remain timeless, and that includes this odd chapter of local baseball history.

Brad Holden is an amateur historian and the author of two books: “Seattle Prohibition: Bootleggers, Rumrunners and Graft in the Queen City” and “Alfred M. Hubbard: Inventor, Bootlegger and Psychedelic Pioneer.” Check out his Instagram page @seattle_artifacts, for more interesting tidbits about Seattle’s history.

The post Seattle Artifacts: The Derelict League appeared first on Seattle magazine.

My first visit there happened after a chance lunch encounter with Marie McCaffrey, the site’s cofounder and executive director.  Always the cordial host, Marie gave me a quick tour of the small space and as soon as we walked into her office my attention was immediately grabbed by an object sitting on her windowsill. It had belonged to Marie’s late husband, who was also one of the site’s cofounders. I was familiar with his story, so seeing the keepsake in its original habitat gave it a visceral quality that made it especially captivating.

It was a trusty old tool that played an important role in producing countless magazine and newspaper articles and several books, as well as planting the seeds for HistoryLink itself. It helped dispense valuable discourse during some of Seattle’s most tumultuous times, changing the course of local politics and influencing the character of the city itself. It was Walt Crowley’s typewriter.

Crowley’s journey as a writer began in the late 1960s, amid the turbulent backdrop of a divided nation. Protests against the Vietnam War were becoming increasingly volatile, a growing civil rights movement was in full swing and there were several high-profile political assassinations. Here in Seattle, a civil rights activist by the name of Aaron Dixon started a local chapter of the Black Panther Party and would later be jailed for “unlawful assembly” at Franklin High School, triggering riots in the city’s Central District.

During this same period, thousands of anti-war protestors shut down I-5; a leftist activist group, whom the local press dubbed “The Seattle Seven,” would face trial for inciting a riot; and members of the Minutemen, a right-wing paramilitary organization, were arrested after the FBI discovered their plans to rob local banks and blow up Redmond City Hall. It was a social landscape that certainly bears a resemblance to the one we live in today.

Brad Holden

Arthur Mount

During this era, Crowley helped kickstart “The Helix,” an underground newspaper intended for Seattle’s growing hippie population. It featured a mishmash of left-leaning politics, underground drug culture and rock music reviews. “The Helix” paved the way for such future alt-weeklies as “The Stranger,” and was published from 1967 through 1970.

Walt’s role at “The Helix” included everything from writing columns to drawing cartoons, with occasional stints as editor. He was known for being eloquent and well-spoken, so would frequently serve as the paper’s spokesperson. Marie still recalls her late husband’s impressive vocabulary, and anytime the local media needed a statement from the city’s hippie contingent, they would often seek out Crowley at the paper’s University District headquarters.

A year later, in 1968, Crowley decided to run for state representative as a candidate of the Peace and Freedom Party. He espoused the values of the so-called New Left, which virulently opposed the war and campaigned for a broad range of social issues such as civil rights, environmentalism, feminism and gay rights. Despite being a representative of what many at the time viewed as liberal extremism, Walt tempered his political beliefs with a hefty dose of moderate pragmatism.

Speaking to reporters at the time, Crowley described himself as, “Not a dogmatist, not a communist, [but] the son of solid citizens, a person who would not dream of burning the American flag.” His campaign slogan was “Community Not Chaos,” and the “Seattle Times” hailed the 21-year-old candidate as a “man of candor and intelligence.”

After his bid for political office proved unsuccessful, he continued working at “The Helix” in various capacities until the paper folded in 1970.  Afterward, Crowley continued to be engaged in various political causes, including helping to defeat Seattle Initiative 13 in 1978, which would have repealed ordinances that prohibited housing and employment discrimination against gays and lesbians.

While Crowley worked tirelessly to promote civil liberties for people of all backgrounds, he was not afraid to reach across the political aisle in search of solutions to various issues. “If you are really serious about social change, you’ve got to work with all people, not just campus revolutionaries,” he once remarked to the “Seattle P-I.”  He organized community conferences that included panels composed of people from all belief systems, ranging from Christian conservatives to anarchists and everyone in between.

As an activist, he believed that direct community involvement was always more effective than shouting about such issues from the sidelines. As he would later comment, “Throwing a rock through a window or yelling ‘pig’ or living in a commune didn’t make any sense to me.”

He cut his long hair, traded his hippie couture for button-up shirts and ties (often of the bow tie variety) and began working as a community coordinator for the City of Seattle’s neighborhood-action division, and later the city’s Office of Policy Planning. He was now an involved bureaucrat.

As the ’70s gave way to the Reagan era of the 1980s, Crowley entered the local media landscape when he began cohosting a local KIRO-TV political debate program called “Point-Counterpoint” with local conservative personality John Carlson. During each episode, the two men would engage in a back-and-forth verbal jousting on various issues of the day. Despite acting as Carlson’s political foil on the show, there was always a large degree of mutual respect between the two men, with Crowley describing Carlson as “attractive, personable, smart, a true believer.”

The duo sparred more than 700 times on the air before the show was canceled in 1993.  Looking back on that time, Carlson would recall that despite their disagreement on virtually everything, things always remained amicable between the two men. “It never decayed into name calling. I enjoyed Walt’s company enormously. He was sharp. We remained friends.”

In 1997, Crowley discussed preparing a Seattle historical encyclopedia to celebrate the upcoming sesquicentennial of the city’s founding. Marie suggested that they publish such a project on the internet and with assistance from Paul Dorpat (who ran “The Helix” with Crowley back in the ’60s), HistoryLink made its online debut on May 1, 1998. It later expanded its content to cover Washington state history.

Sadly, in 2007 – a decade after HistoryLink’s start-up – Crowley passed away after a two-year battle with laryngeal cancer. Tributes from all corners of the social sphere poured in for the man who, through decades of service as a community planner, television commentator, columnist and historian, represented a moderate voice of reason during times of social upheaval.

His typewriter on display at the HistoryLink office now serves as an important symbol of this legacy. Marie points out that while Walt was always an old lefty, he had a profound respect for the establishment when it got things done and wasn’t hesitant to work with people of different beliefs in the interest of reaching reasonable solutions and achieving the greater good.

Indeed, many of Crowley’s compositions that were written on this typewriter carry a timeless wisdom, and his practical approach to problem-solving remains applicable to this day. The question in today’s noisy digital age is: Are we too busy shouting at each other from our social media accounts to bother listening?

The post Seattle Artifacts: A Man of History, Walt Crowley, Influenced Seattle’s Future and Preserved Its Past appeared first on Seattle magazine.