One evening last week we were wandering down Ballard Avenue reminiscing about the days when we first moved here back in 1980. We were in our 20s then. I remember Judy saying that Ballard could be really cool if it wasn’t for all the old people.
The old people jokes about Ballard were unending. From the chronically slow drivers with their seatbelts dragging out their doors, to Sven and Ole (Ballard has a Norwegian heritage). A local comic we went to see, though, noted that the old people did NOT live in Ballard; the old people lived in Magnolia. Then with perfect comedic timing added: "their parents live in Ballard!"
Now, in August 2014, Ballard is the coolest place in Seattle…unfortunately, we’re
the old people.
Despite that, we dropped into the very hip Sexton, which is actually pretty raw (at
least compared to the increasingly chiqué
Ballard scene) and the place sent me reeling down memory lane.
On a hot August afternoon in 1980, after three months of working
odd construction jobs while looking for a “real” job, I finally landed a part time
copywriter / photographer gig in the PR department of a big downtown retailer headquartered on Sixth and Pike.
At the time, we were living in a funky little apartment in
Freemont—a far cry from our big old log roadhouse in Gallatin Canyon,
Montana. Judy was working at Fred
Hutchinson Cancer Research Center on Pill Hill and I took her to and from work
every day in our old Willys pickup. So we're in
the truck headed home--all dolled up in our best business attire--when we spot a banner over the Fremont Tavern proclaiming “Free
Peanuts and Dollar Pitchers—It’s Jimmy Carter’s Birthday!”
We pulled a Montana turnabout in the middle of Fremont Avenue, parked the Jeep right in front amidst a bunch of motorcycles,
and strode on in. Judy spotted the
only open table, but it still had a half dozen long-neck Budweiser empties on it
surrounded by a mound of spent peanut shells. There was a big guy in the back playing pinball and I was about to ask him if the table was his. But before I could, he stopped his game, came up to us, and said, “here, let me clear that
for ya.” With one sweep of his arm he indeed cleared
the table . . . onto the floor with a crash. The tough old
bar bottles didn’t break on the peanut-shell cushioned floor, but they did make
quite a racket. No one seemed to notice, though, and I thought, "hey, this is my kind of place." I wasn't sure what to expect next, when the guy says, “What can
I get ya?” Without missing a beat, Judy says, “A pitcher of Bud
and a bucket of peanuts.”
That was that--no drama. We drank our pitcher, ate our peanuts, discussed our future and have never looked back. What a great life we have . . . and it seems to only be getting better.
The Sexton turned out to be somewhat more tame than the old Freemont Tavern. But I couldn't resist ordering some locally distilled whiskey called Come At Me. After a couple of those, it felt just like Montana.
