My Dad and I met up last week at the Pike Place Market at Local Color – my favorite coffee house down there because – not only is the coffee and service great – but it’s within eye shot of the mimes, within ear shot of the musicians, and within nose shot of the hearty aroma of baking peroshkys. It’s a great place to grab a table and absorb the energy of the market.
Most of the visitors that walk through this place have no idea the market was once scheduled to be torn down and replaced with hotels and office buildings.
Back in the late 1960s, a local architect named Victor Steinbrueck lead an effort called “Friends of the Market“ which included volunteers that would gather signatures in an attempt to save the market. At age eleven, I became one of those volunteers. Believe me, I would have rather stayed home and watched Let’s Make a Deal, but my parents were involved with this effort and my Mom asked me if I’d like to go downtown and gather signatures. I had no idea what I was getting into, but agreed.
I was just a kid, but loved the market. After growing up in the buttoned-down world of Spokane, moving to Seattle was incredibly exciting because it had all these cool places – including what everybody called the “Public Market.” I loved watching the “hippies” make leather belts and hats. I’d wander through the shops that sold magic tricks, old comics and movie posters. In those days, nobody threw fish, but there were plenty of seafood vendors and the aroma of fresh smoked salmon was intoxicating to me. The homeless and downtrodden were abundant around the area and Mom liked to buy them food – typically from a fried chicken vendor that also sold deep fried gizzards and livers, which I loved to munch on while walking around.
It was around 6:00AM when Mom woke me and my buddy for our day of collecting signatures. It was the first Saturday of the summer and we’d been up most of the night before – too scared to sleep after watching an especially terrifying movie on Channel 7’s Nightmare Theatre. Thankfully the day was sunny and warm so we felt somewhat energized.
Our group met at 1st and Pike. Back then, the market was a fraction of what it is today and I recall most of the neighborhood was run down and sort of scary. Clipboards and petition sheets were distributed. We got instructions to ask people if they were Seattle registered voters. If so, the big question followed: Will you sign this petition to save the Public Market? It seemed easy enough. We hit the streets.
The first few people simply glared at me – a skinny sixth grader with a head of unruly brown hair. An older man staggered slowly past me. “Excuse me Sir.” My squeaky voice barely registered above the street noise. “Are you a Seattle Registered Voter?” He looked at me “Are you a boy or a girl?” he stuttered. Thankfully my buddy didn’t hear that, he was across the street already scoring his first signature. My confidence was shot and I felt like crying until a nice looking couple – about the age of my parents – approached me. “Is that the petition to save the market?” the pretty lady asked taking my clipboard. I nodded and watched my first two “customers” sign my sheet. “Keep up the good work” she added and I felt like a new man. The morning was productive and I managed to fill my page, but it wasn’t easy.
I discovered something interesting about the demographics of Seattle in 1971– the people my parents age (thirty-somethings) were happy to sign the petition. Older people (seventy somethings) thought the market should be torn down. They complained about rats the size of dogs and how it was nothing but an eyesore and fire trap. This always bothered me. Finally, I realized why – these older people were around in 1907 when the market was built. Most of them remember a time before the market. They didn’t see its historical relevance the same way younger generations did. To them, it was about as special as the Alderwood Mall was to me.
The Friends of the Market got over 50,000 signatures – over 10% of registered voters, which got those elected officials to change their tune, so the market was saved.
So, nearly 45 years later, it’s nice to come visit this world famous place and sip a Cubano Americano just feet from the spot where – on one Saturday morning, I grew up a little. Now, my own kids love coming here to enjoy macaroni and cheese, tiny donuts, and dozens of other treats. Donna can’t leave the place without buying some sort of jewelry, and I can still get my chicken gizzards.