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In the 1930s, Riverton Heights was a close-knit, modest community wrapped in comforting familiarity — a simplicity infused with resilience during the Great Depression. Neighbors knew each other by name, and everyone looked out for one another.
We kids wore hand-me-downs or overalls; the only visible wealth came from watching Mickey Rooney movies that showcased his fancy clothes. The local general store served as a hub of activity, providing everything from essential food items to farming tools. It’s amusing how similar that general store was to Bert’s IGA and Madison Park Hardware stores.
Many residents of Riverton Heights were farmers, while others were employed in small, locally owned businesses. My dad worked in circulation at the Seattle Star newspaper every weekday and drove a 1930s Buick four-door to deliver bundles of newspapers to newsstands across Seattle.
As a preteen, I was captivated by the world. My friends and I found every car trip thrilling. We accompanied my parents to dig rich, dark soil from Angle Lake for our garden. Later, we enjoyed a perfect picnic. A memorable adventure included taking friends to a dump south of Riverton Heights. During the Depression, you could often see people in need rummaging through the refuse before heading home. They sorted through clothing in the pit below, searching for anything of value. People awkwardly backed up their cars and trailers, with the women driving and the men standing like army sergeants, shouting commands.
Garbage was more relentless back then than it is today. Some people filled “onion” bags, rowed a short distance from shore, tossed them overboard, and watched them sink immediately. In Madison Park, the houseboat community often discarded their waste off the docks. When I started scuba diving in the 1950s, I discovered numerous items, including antiques and old medicine bottles, some with cork tops. One diver found a leather pouch containing 20 $10 double eagle coins.
The demand for the Seattle Dump, also referred to as the Montlake disposal site, Ravenna Dump, Union Bay Dump, and University Dump, was on the rise. Residents from Madison Park drove north past the site of what is now Husky Stadium, where the odor from the dump made it unmistakably noticeable.
There were designated areas for large items, general waste, and items intended for burning. It resembled an oversized version of the dump near Riverton Heights.
One scene that could have easily made it onto America’s Funniest Home Videos featured a car and a small trailer backing up to the edge. The wife gripped the steering wheel tightly while her tall husband directed her with a supposed sense of love and care. Not quite. Everyone watched as he flaunted his machismo. He shouted, “Go right, go left, no, the other left!” while onlookers laughed and looked away. She squeezed between a few cars, but he took control of the wheel, exerting all his effort into it.
When I worked at Stan Sayres, Inc., a Chrysler dealership located at Broadway and Madison (now Whole Foods) in the late 1950s, one of my responsibilities was taking inventory of Rolls-Royce engines for the Slo-Mo 4 hydroplane, as well as Allison and Merlin engines. We exchanged leased space in the basement of the Davis and Hoffman Auto Repair Company to dispose of refuse.
Along with office paper and other waste from the Stan Sayres dealership, we consistently had a full load.
The task was added to a schedule for individuals to take turns driving the large truck to the dump. It was rumored that the chosen person would linger there, hoping to discover a treasure for their home. One day, one of the guys put on his bright white overalls for the trip and was warned, “Just make sure you don’t fall into the fire pit!”
Later, we learned that this employee had been pushing a stack of papers from the truck with a pitchfork when he lost his balance. He took the pitchfork and his papers with him as he flew into the fire pit.
A friend reported never having seen anyone run through fire like that. He escaped with singed eyebrows, a burned hairline, and crispy overalls but didn’t think to look for the pitchfork surrounded by flames. It was brand new.
One garbage disposal technique involved placing debris in old paint cans and tossing them into the fire pit. As the flames heated the cans, the lids would pop loudly and fly off in all directions. If the smell of the dump didn’t bother you, driving on it felt like quicksand as it floated on Lake Washington.
Lake Union became yet another dumping ground for old iceboxes that modern refrigerators had replaced. Residents of houseboats would row out to 40 feet of water and abandon them under the cover of night. Scuba divers could easily find the iceboxes, and it was common to haul them up to the surface and resell them as antiques. Additionally, discarded half-full quart bottles of Everclear were found, still packing quite a punch!
The City of Seattle and the University began closing the landfill in 1965, completing the process in 1971. The area now supports such rich vegetation and wildlife that the University of Washington holds classes on wildlife and landscape architecture, and civil engineers use it as a laboratory.
Karen and her colleagues, all former flight attendants, plan to hike the trails at the Center for Urban Horticulture in May. During a previous visit, she and her friend discovered a fantastic spot for birdwatching. They observed a large crane flying nearby and another bird with a blue head, possibly from the Blue Jay family. This reminded her of the movie Jurassic Park. Additionally, she noticed a pipe emerging from the ground, which might indicate a mechanism for releasing and testing methane gas.