REVISITING THE PARK | High-rising

A recent TV show depicted a developer in the plusher areas of California tearing down mega-mansions to build even bigger mega-mansions for the ultra-rich. It was amusing to hear actors who were previously quite happy with their dwellings become dismayed to find their neighborhood in upheaval. The disturbance of dump trucks and other heavy equipment was ridiculous, with all the dust and noise.

As the saying goes, love one another, and put up with the building of multiple swimming pools, 19-plus bathrooms and the multiplex home theaters for 40. Sit back and sip some good red from your 5,000-bottle wine cellar and chill.

Not to compare this with the increase in mega-mansions in our area, but we have become oblivious to the roar of dump trucks, the smell of fresh diesel and the clouds of dust wafting unconcernedly through our homes. We’re upgrading our lifestyle, after all. Our homes will be worth much more — we can even sell and afford to move to Pluto!

There was a time way back when I’d be asked if I knew a Realtor; after a bit of thought, I could come up with a couple of names. Nowadays, myriad competing Realtors buy full-page newspaper ads boasting of sales conquests much like the Red Baron with victories of dogfights displayed on his plane. There is no shortage of sales and rapid flips to be made.

A real-life ‘Mayberry’

In the Madison Park of yesteryear, little was done with private homes except maybe to repair a broken stair or swing or perhaps build a new garage door. Glimpsing back, one remembers how slowly life moved.

Most homes were one-story, as many were houseboats pulled to land. Madison Park was largely a rental area, with reasonable rents for the blue-collar worker. In the ‘70s, a migration to the Eastside meant more foot per buck. Some of those folks were sorry to have left and wish they could move back.

We had several gas stations with car repair, grocery stores, a dime store, a hardware store and a shoe-repair shop. The entire Ave shut down around 5 p.m., except for the taverns. It felt like Mayberry of the “Andy Griffith Show.”

One Friday night, we split a tank of gas — 50 cents each; it was expensive at 21 cents a gallon. As the sun set, we ventured west to downtown. The streets were void of cars, and there was not a biker or jogger to be found. It was just quiet and really dark for the lack of streetlights.

The first red, blinking light was at Madison Street and Lake Washington Boulevard. There was a gas station on each corner, one of which stayed open until 7 p.m. There was one mom-and-pop store, but it closed early.

From that intersection to 23rd Avenue and beyond were billboards on each side — some advertising the mildest, flavorful smoke around.

Martin Luther King Jr. Way was Empire Way then and was the second blinking red light. On the southwest corner was the Valley Tavern. We, being 21, entered the small tavern, filled with regulars, smoke and western music on the jukebox. People stared at us like we were aliens — definitely not regulars. No college-aged here; much like at our Broadmoor Tavern, we called the old folks (older than 40) home; however, our taverns were friendlier. We had a quick beer and headed out.

Signs of progress

Halfway up the hill was a dry cleaner with signs on all four corners conveying services. It was even touted in the newspaper and local magazines for its clever advertisements.

Where the Safeway store is now was Birdland, the greatest blues and jazz venue anywhere.

One block west was The Little Record Market, where the latest 45s were sold. I still have “C. C. Rider,” by Chuck Willis. That 45, a half-bottle of gin and I had a final goodbye together before I left for the Army.

West of the Record Market was the Madison Lumber Yard, where neighbors in the Park bought supplies to repair their homes, not in anticipation of selling but for prolonged enjoyment of living in the best community in Seattle.

Farther west was the High Sea Drive-in, a popular burger joint and the only one for miles. The menu consisted of burgers, fish-and-chips and sodas — strawberry sodas with fresh berries, which was labor-intensive to prepare and nonexistent anywhere today.

Friends from Madison Park and Capitol Hill met there to join the many car clubs and show off their cars. We knew all the wait staff, owners and even the police. For those of us drinking coffee, we’d add a little something to soften the coffee nerves.

Farther west was the Madison Hospital, and around 17th Avenue and Madison Street was Bud Fenders’ Supermarket. The Fenders lived in Madison Park; their son went to Garfield High School with us.

Over the hill was the Cottage Café (it later became C.C. Attle’s and is now the Bullitt Center), where the owners served a double-cut of Chateau Brignon for two for $15, cut at the table still sizzling. The patrons in the cocktail lounge caught the aroma, and we all drooled as we watched a big cut of prime be served.

West one block, we’d turn to Pike Street, where we stopped in to the Drum Room, owned by Sol Thal, who lived next door to me in Madison Park. It had a great cocktail lounge.

A better time?

From there were many more mom-and-pops, taverns and businesses. One was Davies Chevrolet, where a friend’s dad worked. When the new ’53 Corvette six-cylinder came out, we tooled the city on a test drive — that car really turned heads. It was much smaller than today’s model and, being only six-cylinder, certainly didn’t have the power.

One store a block west of Broadway was Buzz and Doug’s Hobby Shop that had a large assortment of stick model airplanes.

Around Pike Street and Denny Way, the view of downtown was most impressive. How could it be bigger or better? There was always parking on the street after 6 p.m. or a quarter for three hours in a lot — not so now.

Not to belabor the point of progress, one must carry on and enjoy life made possible by living in the Fountain of Youth that is Madison Park.

RICHARD CARL LEHMAN is a longtime Madison Park resident. To comment on this column, write to MPTimes@nwlink.com.