Update: new website and blog!

This is my old site.  I will be posting future material to my new blog: tgheuser.co/recap.  In the months ahead, I will be transferring all my material over to the new site.  It is still a work in progress so please pardon my dust! :) That is all, thanks for visiting!

The Interlaken Apartments: Loss, Redemption, and the Montlake Bridge

On June 27, 1925,  throngs of Seattleites gathered at the Montlake Bridge for its opening ceremony. City officials and community leaders stood upon a "gayly bedecked platform," on the bridge's east tower.  After the speeches, all watched with anticipation as city council president Bertha Landes swung a bottle of "effervescing fluid" toward the pillar beside her only to have their hearts sink as it jarringly clunked against the steel.  Undeterred, she swung again with greater force and achieved the desired effect.  Although unlikely intentional, it was a fitting metaphor for a bridge that voters had rejected not once, but five times.  It also fit the careers of Pennsylvania transplants Robert and Elsie Faris who would most certainly have witnessed it.  They lost everything in Pennsylvania, but their new Interlaken Apartments at 2311-15 24th Ave E (and other Montlake homes), proved they still had the gumption to be in the real estate business.  It was their redemption and they carried it as a standard when they marched across the Montlake Bridge and later back to Pennsylvania from which they coincidentally severed themselves around the same time digging on the Montlake Cut widened the gap between Montlake and the U-District in 1909.

Robert Salmon Faris

Robert was born in September of 1872 in Pittsburgh, PA to Salmon Coles Faris a Presbyterian minister, teacher, and writer and his wife Amanda Hayes also a writer.  Throughout his childhood, Robert and his family often moved between Pennsylvania and Ohio as needed by the church.  In fact, his father was so devoted that many of his colleagues straight-up "thought him wild" and while many admired him for it, it wore on him and his family.  The eldest son Eugene ran away from home at 17 and died in 1893.  The eldest daughter Virginia died just two years before.  And after the late 1880s, Salmon's health declined forcing him to work less and seek a milder climate: first in Tennessee in 1891 and then in Florida in 1892.

Robert Faris circa 1905. Pittsburgh Daily Post

Amanda (Hayes) Faris. Image: Hathi Trust

Salmon Coles Faris. Image: Hathi Trust

Robert endured it all, becoming only more devoted to his work, family, and faith.  He followed his parents' passion for writing and earned a degree in journalism.  He then rejoined them in Tennessee and apprenticed there, until, as they would surely have seen it, God called them to separate destinations.  After Salmon headed to Florida, Robert returned to Pennsylvania to work for the Pittsburgh Times.  He settled in the "holy city" of Wilkinsburg, a Pittsburgh suburb with over a dozen churches that had voted itself dry since 1870.  Therefore, it shouldn't surprise anyone that Robert co-founded the liquor and gambling free Writers' Club there in 1896.

Elsie Ann Wood

Benjamin Wood, circa 1900.  Image: Hathi Trust.

Elsie (Wood) Faris circa 1916. 
Image: Seattle Times.

Meanwhile, Elsie's life  appeared relatively more stable and affluent. She was born in October of 1873 in Salem, NJ to Benjamin F Wood a distinguished public servant, politician, and entrepreneur and his wife Margaret Conover.  In 1861, Benjamin co-founded a real estate firm and incorporated it in the year of Elsie's birth.  His 1900 biography mentions that his son Ben worked with him at the firm.  So maybe Elsie did too--probably as a stenographer or a secretary--where she would have learned a lot about real estate.  At least it would explain how a career journalist with no background in real estate would suddenly start a real estate business.  He did it for love.  However, a different form of love brought these two together.  Patriotism.



Crossing of Paths

Salem, NJ circa 1910. Image: WestJerseyHistory.org

On April 21, 1898, the United States declared war on Spain.  Two months later, Robert joined the fourteenth regiment of the Pennsylvania National Guard at Fort Mott, New Jersey just 6 miles north of Salem.  Salem then decided to honor them with a reception on July 20.  And the day was so hot that 100 soldiers succumbed to heat exhaustion while marching to the reception.  However, perhaps Robert endured it by channeling his father's wild devotion.  A devotion that caught Elsie's eye as she stood among the flag-waving residents gathered along the street, prompting her to greet him at the reception.  She was a local politician's daughter after all, which nearly guarantees she attended.  And so their courtship began until they were wed on October 28, 1899 at the First Presbyterian Church in Salem.  Now as for the war, it ended before Robert could see combat.  He mustered out on February 28, 1899.

Setting up shop

Wilkinsburgh, PA circa 1910.  The red arrow points to 723 Wood Street,
the last location of Faris & Co.  Image: Wilkinsburg Historical Society.

Robert and Elsie chose to start their real estate business in Wilkinsburg.  It made perfect sense too.  Robert's father had worked tirelessly to establish many of the churches around Wilkinsburg as a missionary in the 1860s.  Meaning Robert now had the honor and privilege to build on that work and had two generations of professional connections to depend on.  Finally, it extended the commercial reach of Elsie's family beyond Salem whose real estate expertise in turn ensured a great start.  With that, they founded R.S. Faris and Company in the fall of 1900 with Robert officially at the helm, as conservative traditions dictated back then.  Over the next 6 to 7 years, the business expanded rapidly.  They added new partners and brokered many of the largest transactions in town.  However, their familial foundation, while initially a boon to their business, proved to be a double-edged sword.

Burning a bridge

Image: Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Their parents, the guiding light of their work, all died between 1906 and 1908.  Salmon was the first to pass in March of 1906.  To cope, Robert and his last living brother Paul joined a bowling team two months later.  Soon they were competing weekly and it appears the business may have suffered for it.  Numerous people started suing Robert and Elsie in court between 1907 and 1908, once for $375 (worth $9300 today).  Then the Panic of 1907 hit and they sold their business to Wilkinsburg Real Estate and Trust Company a week later. They generously offered Robert a management position, but it didn't hold.  Instead, Robert took a sales job with Vak Klean, proprietors of the recently invented vacuum cleaner.  They sent him to Seattle and he and Elsie didn't return for 18 years.  So what happened?  Perhaps they felt pressured to make their parents proud and overextended themselves when times were good.  Then when tragedy struck, they were too grief stricken to notice and fix their mistakes before the panic.  This probably left them feeling embarrassed and needing to start over.

A New Life

AYP Exposition Post Card, 1909.

They arrived in October of 1909 and rented a modest apartment at 410 Broadway.  It was a far cry from the 3-story turret-capped home they left behind.  The Alaska Yukon Pacific Exposition was winding down and contractor C.J. Erickson was as eager to start digging the Montlake Cut as the Farises had been to flee Wilkinsburg.  But before Erickson started, the Farises most likely caught the tail end of the exposition.  It no doubt aroused sweet memories of their two-week vacation in St. Louis for the 1904 World's Fair.

Erickson's steam shovel at work in 1910. Image: University of WA.

However, times were tough now and hard work inevitable.  Robert had a hulking, all-metal vacuum to schlep around hilly Seattle.  It really must have sucked.  And to escape it, he (and Elsie) probably turned a longing eye toward local real estate developments.  For instance, by reading in the Seattle Times later that month about the groundbreaking ceremony for the Montlake Cut and how Erickson claimed he'd be done in 4 months.  Egad, if only they were still in real estate, what a development opportunity! (Pauses to laugh hysterically for 30 seconds.) It took 7 years to finish the cut and 9 more to build a bridge across it.  No one was benefiting--except maybe the Farises, unbeknownst to them.  They weren't even settled in yet let alone ready to reap the benefits of a new bridge.  They needed time.  That is, they would cross that bridge when they got to it.

How the Farises got to it

Image: Seattle Times, 1918

After about a year, Robert stopped schlepping vacuums and went from suck to blow.  He switched to selling hair products for Tom Singer & Co at 328 Liberty Building.  It was this gig that unexpected lead him back to real estate.  Tom Singer & Co left 328 Liberty in November of 1912, while Herman Schroeder, a Realtor, moved in.  Yet Seattle city directories say Robert worked at 328 Liberty until 1914.  So maybe Robert took Schroeder's arrival as a sign.  His work as a Realtor wasn't finished.  So he offered to work for Schroeder, thinking maybe after a few good sales, he could go independent with Elsie by his side.  It took multiple attempts, but he finally succeeded in 1920.  As an amusing aside, one of these attempts involved a short-lived partnership with a Realtor named John Booth in 1916.  Booth's recklessness two years later might suggest why it was short-lived.  He nearly drove off the old Latona Bridge and into the Lake Washington Ship Canal.  But hey, at least he had a bridge to drive off of!

Meanwhile back in Montlake, where the Farises now resided, most residents seemed more content to stare at the bridge foundations left by the excavators as if they were obelisks put there to signal their evolution than to actually build a bridge on them.  It was too expensive, so they voted against it year after year.  However, favor slowly grew with each vote.  The Farises probably noticed and it meant a perfectly predictable real estate opportunity sat right in front of them.  They just had to wait until a 60% majority approved the bridge and then buy.  Wait, but why Montlake?  With so few churches, it was nothing like the "holy city" of Wilkinsburg.  However, of those few was the First Presbyterian at 1850 Boyer Ave and maybe Robert vaguely viewed Montlake as a mission like his father would have.  After all, Robert did attend at least one of Reverend Mark Matthews' revivalist sermons as an usher back in 1913.

The Farises make their move

Yellow: properties bought on 8/15/1923.
Red: properties bought prior. Map: Seattle Municipal Archives

Image: San Francisco Chronicle, 1912.

Voters finally approved the bridge in May 1923.  So on August 15 the Farises took out a mortgage on several Montlake properties including 2311-15 24th Ave E.  Amusingly, their seller couldn't possibly have had less in common with them.  He was a frivolous dapper dan with questionable morals from San Francisco named Blinn S. Bryant.  Bryant was the grandson and heir of early pioneers to Washington Territory.  Given the Faris's conservative Christian morals, they probably thought they were doing Montlake a favor.  Too bad they didn't account for what came next.

The city council discovered that the state legislature had ruled in March 1923 that all bonds must be serial.  This meant that the bonds to fund the bridge were technically illegal.  So the council decided it was safer to restructure the bonds accordingly and send the bridge proposal back to the voters.  With the bridge back in limbo, the Farises postponed their building plans until after the vote.  The Following spring, voters approved the modified bridge proposal in a landslide 81%.  There was no turning back.  Construction on the bridge started on July 8, 1924 and Robert received a permit to build the Interlaken Apartments the following January.

The Interlaken Apartments

Image: Seattle Department of Construction & Inspections

Image: Seattle Department of Construction & Inspections

At two stories, four apartments, and two storefronts, it was definitely in line with Robert's epithet as a "Builder of Small Homes." However, it made up for its modest size in character both inside and out.  First the crenellation along the roof-line was unusual.  Its two-tiered Merlons (since removed) hearken back to ancient Persepolis.  They also cleverly emphasize how this is a taller building sandwiched between two smaller ones.  This combined with the stucco facade and curved bay windows bases, really made this building stand out from its shorter brick neighbors.  Otherwise, its earliest occupants were primarily business owners, public servants, and doctors who were active in their church and or local politics..  This gave the building and the Farises a crucial edge of prestige and respect--particularly for what came next.

The National Real Estate Convention

Paul Faris, 1933.
Image: Altoona Tribune.

The National Association of Real Estate Boards chose Seattle for its 20th annual convention in 1927. To ensure it would be the best yet, members of the Seattle Board traveled across the country to promote it.  Robert, the board's legislative committee chairman, volunteered to go to Pennsylvania.  It was the perfect setup.  It allowed him and Elsie to reconnect to their roots and prove themselves under the auspices of promoting the convention.  So on Christmas of 1926, 8 months before the convention, they returned to Pennsylvania.  Robert spoke at some of the meetings of the Altoona Real Estate Board of which, coincidentally, his younger brother and former bowling partner Paul was president.  Robert presented a slide show of Asahel Curtis' Pacific Northwest photography and compared Seattle's architecture and housing types with that of the East.  He likely included some of his own properties too.  The Altoona Board was impressed.  Robert's presentation along with those of other Realtors elsewhere energized Realtors nationwide for the coming convention.

Seattle Times articles about women Realtors. 1927.
Elsie hosts Montlake model home tours (lower right)

When the time came, thousands of Realtors and their families descended on Seattle from all over the country by way of 15 dedicated trains each chaperoned by a Seattle Realtor.  From August 10 to 13, they all converged at the convention's Olympic Hotel headquarters for a slew of workshops and meetings.  Some particularly highlighted the skills and contributions of women in the field which had gone largely unnoticed/ignored in past years.  Otherwise, everyone partied, danced, golfed, attended concerts and plays, and toured the region and its real estate in style.  In the end, Seattle Realtors were reeling with enthusiasm and confidence.  The convention reportedly benefited the Seattle market immensely.  There were even a few high profile 6 and 7 figure purchases.  Yet, much of it was probably a whole lot of ballyhoo.  After all, the economy as a whole was in a massive bubble and near its 1929 breaking point.

However, this wouldn't have mattered much to the Farises because they sold most of their properties before the convention.  So it was more spiritually beneficial than anything else.  An excuse to prove and congratulate themselves--particularly for Elsie since women in the field were finally getting the recognition they deserved.  And with that, they shifted their attention elsewhere.  Robert advocated for a city manager through the Seattle Municipal League and unsuccessfully ran for city council. Elsie continued her leadership role in various women's clubs fostering human companionship, the arts, and intellectual inquiry.

Settling In: Life in and around the Interlaken Apartments

The Farises moved into the Interlaken Apartments shortly after the convention until they bought a nice house in Seward Park in 1930.  Their tenants had quite a bit in common with them.  One was Dr. Julian Givens who like Robert, was a minister's son, pro city manager, and lost his own bid for election to the school board. (go figure!)  He practiced medicine at the Interlaken Apartments from 1933 to 1940.  As a convenient segue, he also sung in one of a series of vaudeville acts directed by his neighbor Ruth Gresham in 1935.  It was the "for men only" part of a county fair style event organized by the Montlake Parent-Teacher Association.  Ruth had been a talented singer, musician, and vaudeville performer since her youth.  As a young adult, she taught music until she met her husband Dr. William Gresham, a dentist in Sprague, Washington around 1920.  Like the Farises, they were members of the First Presbyterian Church.  William practiced dentistry at the Interlaken Apartments from 1930 to 1937 with Ruth as his secretary.  According to their grandchildren, Ruth used to hand carve Disney figurines for William's younger patients.

Ona McDonald circa 1940s.
Image: Seattle Times.

Meanwhile, immediately below the Greshams in the north storefront was Ona McDonald's Grocery.  McDonald was a retired Seattle firefighter and Montlake resident born in Seattle.  He had simply moved his store over from across the street.  He later ran for county commissioner and, like Faris and Givens, he was not successful.  He and his wife moved out in 1933.  A fellow named Hinckel G Stanley moved in a couple years later and opened a Price-Rite grocery.

Finally, the confectionery and delicatessen next door was the black sheep.  It had less in common with the neighbors.  The first owner was Hartley Newsum whose biography states he co-owned a Pioneer Square saloon during the Gold Rush where Metskr Maps is today.  He fell ill in 1927 and sold the business to a Presbyterian named Claude Martin.  The business's briefest owner, M.L. Brown, added alcohol to the menu in 1934.  A couple years later, a mechanic and his younger assistant tried to rob the place, but thankfully a merchant patrolman by the name of Harold Wilder who lived upstairs, caught the men in the act.  Finally, in the year of Robert's death, 1939, a man named Thomas McClanahan turned it into a tavern called DeLuxe.

Life after death

It's a curious coincidence that the Montlake Delicatessen became an all-out tavern the same year Robert died.  Sure, people had been drinking beer and wine here since 1934, but they still called it a delicatessen.  You ate lunch there.  Drinking was just an afterthought.  At least maybe that's how Robert reconciled it to himself after prohibition had failed.  But a full-blown tavern?  He'd probably be damned if he allowed one on his property.  "Over my dead body" he surely would have told Elsie who obviously fulfilled the proclamation, hinting at a possible disagreement between them.  But who knows?  Either way, it jives well with the idea that Robert's past in Pennsylvania meant a lot to him and he wanted to stay connected with it as best he could.  In this case, by prohibiting taverns on his property just like his hometown of Wilkinsburg had done since 1870.  Fun fact: Wilkinsburg remains dry to this day.  As for Elsie, she managed the Interlaken Apartments until March 6, 1947 when she sold it to Russian immigrants Joseph and Rachel Luban for $24,500.  She then rejoined Robert in the afterlife in 1956.

DeLuxe circa 1968.  Image: Seattle Times.

Mark & David Mitchell, 1968
Image: Seattle Times.

Now what about the Interlaken since then? Well, other than becoming considerably worse for wear, it's certainly had its fair share of characters and transformations over the years.  The DeLuxe Tavern, once associated with the DeLuxe on Broadway, was a 30-year institution.  UW students nicknamed it "the library" and an infamous career bank robber Gerard R Peabody owned and managed it until 1968 mostly while in jail.  Thereafter, the straight-laced nightlife hospitality duo Mark and David Mitchell connected it to the building next door, put food back on the table, and classed it up under a new name: Jilly's East.  Jilly's ran until 1984 after its last owner Bill Roe declared bankruptcy.  It transformed into a seedy bar called Bleachers until 1990 when it became a warehouse for the Montlake Bicycle Shop until 2011.

Image: Seattle Times

Image Seattle Times.

After Hinckel Stanley closed his Price-Rite next door in 1939, Mae Brooks, a beauty culturist, ran a salon until 1957.  She had an amusing affair with her electrician who she later married and divorced for extreme miserliness.  When Brooks retired, Jack Yamashita, an active member of the First Hill Lyons Club and his wife Tossie, were the first of a few to run a cleaners here.  Finally, the current occupant Matthew Johnson opened an antique shop here in November 1996.  Antiques have been his lifelong passion.  As a teen, he and his uncle went to garage sales every weekend.  They'd "pull up in his Cadillac--this baby-faced kid and this sort of scruffy-looking hippie guy--and people would basically just give us stuff to get us to go away."

Well, after 20 years now, Matthew still hasn't gone away and people are instead coming to him for his treasures and his stories, including me.  I first met Matt at his shop between 2004 and 2005 and one of my first purchases was an antique cast-iron Dayton oscillating fan.  It still works.  However, like the Farises, I stopped coming in for several years after falling into my own hard times, but eventually popped back in one day in early 2015 looking for vintage postcards.  To my surprise, he remembered me immediately and proceeded to talk my head off.  So I thought I'd tell him a story too.  The one you just finished reading.

2311-15 24th Ave E. November, 2016.

A late 20th / early 21st century Matthew Johnson looks to the future...

1827 Broadway: Johnny "Second Chance" Quinlan

*This is a spin-off story that explores, in greater depth, the life of John Quinlan who plays a supporting role in my story titled 1827 Broadway: A Story of Iron and Blood.

Skagway, Alaska. Circa 1907.

Background

Jerry Quinlan.
Courtesy: Quinlan Family.

There Will Be Blood. Paramount/Miramax Films, 2007.

Johnny "Second Chance" Quinlan, as I like to call him, because of all the chances he gave and received, was born in Port Townsend, Washington on December 1, 1893 or 94. He was orphaned early on and adopted by his step-father Jeremiah Quinlan, but it isn't clear exactly when or where.  One source suggests Jeremiah, or Jerry as most called him, may have adopted John in Skagway, where Jerry had been living since about 1898 and had been the White Pass and Yukon Railroad's conductor ever since it was built that year.  So perhaps it was a scenario similar to the one depicted in the film There Will Be Blood in which the main character Daniel Plainview adopts the boy of a man who died while prospecting for oil.  Perhaps John's father similarly died while prospecting for Gold.  Heck, Jerry and Daniel even look a little bit alike, it must be true!  Comparisons aside, here's an interesting side note.  In October of 1910, Jeremiah sent a letter to the Seattle Times taking offense to an article written about his railroad in that month's issue of Technical World Magazine, but I digress.  That same year, John was going to school while living with Jerry and his step-mother Agnes in Skagway and another source says he worked as a "wiper" basically an engineer's assistant, so he probably worked at his step-father's side.  After about 1914, Jerry's health started to decline and he retired. He died on April 15, 1917 at the age of 56 after being confined to bed at his sister's home for six months.

On to Seattle

WWI Draft Registration Card.

Shortly thereafter, John moved to Spokane, WA where he took up work as an electrician for a couple years as evidenced by his WWI draft registration card.  In 1919, he moved to Seattle where he met and married a local music teacher named Helen Boyd on September 24th that year.  They had their first child Mary the following year. To support his family, John got in the habit of giving failing towing garages a second chance by taking them over and rescuing them. You could even say they were orphans and he was adopting them, much like he was when his step-parents adopted him, hinting at a difficult childhood--especially if he was an orphan in Skagway of all places.

John Quinlan circa 1921

Helen (Boyd) Quilan on her wedding day.

Derailed

In any case, John proved difficult as an adult. He had a short temper and a foul mouth. According to Helen, while she was sick with the Flu in February of 1920, he told her (for reasons unstated) he didn't care whether she got better, stormed out of the house, and didn't return for 3 whole weeks. Thereafter, John frequently referred to Helen as a "yellow dog," told her to "go to hell" or "go jump in the reservoir." (now Cal Anderson Park). Outbursts like these occasionally escalated to outright violence and threats of violence though John denied it in court. That's right, by July of 1923 Helen had had enough and sued John for a divorce and alimony and asked the court for a restraining order and full custody of their daughter Mary. In response, John turned over management of one of his garages (Nagle Place Garage, 1831 Nagle Place) to his brother-in-law Garfield so he could resolve matters with Helen. Ultimately, the court ordered John be restrained from visiting Helen for a time and pay her $80/month alimony. He also couldn't visit his daughter Mary more than one day per week. John, down, but not out, moved into an apartment a block away at 1020 E Denny Way and with the unexpected free time, threw himself into his work.

A Second Chance

Letterhead. Image: Seattle Municipal Archives. Tow truck
or "wrecker" as it was called, parked on Nagle Place with
the reservoir / Cal Anderson in the background.

And over the following year, he cleaned up his act--or so it appeared. So Helen, you guessed it, gave him a second chance in 1924 and allowed him to resume living with her at her parent's house at 124 11th Ave E. They also incorporated the Utitlity Towing and Wrecking service together in February that year and conceived their second child Daniel a few months later. Although, Daniel tragically died of polio at the age of 6 months on November 5, 1925. This event along with a pending lawsuit of $4,000 (worth over $55,000 today) against Utility Towing likely put a lot of stress on John and Helen's reconciliation considering how poorly John managed his own emotions. So it would only be a matter of time before their relationship would break down again, but first there was business to attend to.

Traffic Jam

Image: Seattle Times.

Seattle traffic jam, circa 1925.

That summer, it seems Seattle hit a critical mass of automobiles. Double parking, parking in no parking zones, and parking over the time limit had become an epidemic in Seattle. Part of the problem was the ineffective efforts to curb these activities with ticketing, which drivers routinely ignored. This prompted the city to start calling on towing companies like Utility Towing to remove and impound violators' vehicles until they paid. Meaning, anyone with a tow truck and garage could suddenly reap considerable profits. So within a few days, nearly a hundred cars were towed away, (many by Utility Towing Service no doubt), often just minutes after their drivers stepped out of them. Such that tow trucks had to have been camping out in high traffic areas watching and waiting like vultures. The tow truck drivers probably even competed fiercely with one another over turf. And who could blame them?  Well, the drivers, that's who. They descended upon police headquarters in a deluge of ire forcing Police Chief Severyns to put a moratorium on the practice. It isn't currently clear when exactly the process resumed hereafter.

Moving On Up

However, John Quinlan and other tow company operators must have known that it was only temporary because they all seem to have expanded their operations during this time. Or maybe it was just because the 1920s in general were a time of plenty. Whatever the reason, a mechanic named Martin Cordes from across the street bought 1830 Broadway including its basement unit, 1831 Nagle Place where Utility Towing was.  Martin wanted the whole place to himself and seeing that the Quinlans wanted out of the basement, he set them up in his old 1827 Broadway space. Both parties couldn't have been more satisfied.

1827-1829 Broadway circa 1937. Image: WA State Archives.

With all the extra space, John decided to file additional articles of incorporation alongside the ones he had filed with Helen. It seems he wanted to be more official. He declared himself president and hired an accountant up the street to be his secretary and treasurer, and invited a mechanic buddy of his from Spokane named Harold Lilliequist to be his manager. The pressure was on though, because just days before filing the papers in Olympia, that pending lawsuit was increased from $4000 to a whopping $15,000 (worth over $200,000 today!). Clearly he was not about to let anything get in the way of the life he and Helen had worked so hard to rebuild. Fate had taken their son, but it would take no more. So John doubled down and fate gave them another chance instead. On December 6, 1926, just 5 days after John's 32nd birthday, the plaintiff dropped the charges. By all appearances, the rest of the 1920s were clear sailing.

Black Tuesday

Unfortunately, this good luck only got them so far. It isn't entirely clear how and where things exactly went wrong, but by July of 1930, Utility Towing was out of business. Perhaps they overextended themselves only to fall with the market in 1929 when business would have slumped. Or maybe it was because John had taken to drinking heavily and fell into his old abusive habits. Or maybe it was a combination of the two. However it came to be, they were deeply in debt.  On March 3, 1930 they had mortgaged their towing equipment to Helen's father to secure a $1300 loan from him (worth $18,000 today).  When it seemed they weren't going to be able to repay the loan, Helen's father foreclosed on the mortgage and towed the business away along with it.

Depression

1815-1817 Broadway Circa 1937. Image: WA State Archives

For all those times John called Helen a "yellow dog" he seemed to do a good job of living up to that name himself.  Down and out now, Helen sent him out to the dog house: an apartment at 1815 Broadway.  To escape his woes, he drowned himself in a reservoir of liquor--in a manner of speaking--only to find himself escaping from the law.  John denied the accusation, but according to the arresting police officer, John drunkenly crashed into a parked car at the corner of Olive and Denny Ways.  John and the officer got into scuffle both accusing the other of starting it.  John broke free and fled from the scene towards his apartment.  The officer chased John inside until John locked himself in the bedroom, jumped out the window, slid off the steep roof, and fell to the ground landing himself in the hospital.  And as if it couldn't get any worse, his wife Helen took him to court again on January 12, 1932 seeking a restraining order and alimony--he'd apparently grown violent towards her again.  Parts of the case are missing, but assuming she won it, it like the first time, was a wake up call for John.

Yet Another Chance!

Over the next few years, John cleaned himself up again and regrouped, proving that he could be as much of a smooth talker as he was a trash talker.  In 1935 he moved back in with Helen, her parents, and their daughter Mary and reopened Utility Towing at 1827 Broadway under the auspices of their benevolent patrons the House of Cordes.  However the towing business in general had changed a great deal in his absence.

First off, his competitors (including Cordes Garage now) were way ahead of him.  They had not only managed to weather the market crash in '29, but in most cases, had expanded their operations through prudent management and effective advertising.  The Two ads below are from two super service stations who offered towing services.

Image: Seattle Times, 1926.

Image: Seattle Times, 1931

The question of towing and impounding of vehicles had also become incredibly political.  Debates in city government over whether it should exist and how had been going on for years. Concurrently, the larger towing firms had been cozying up to city officials in order to acquire city towing contracts.  The whole thing turned into a racket.  So John and Helen both wrote letters to the city council on June 3, 1935.

John complained that A-1 Towing, who at the time had a contract with the city, towed a car that was in an accident and auctioned it off in a mere three days(!) before the owner could even make arrangements to remove it from their garage.  In his letter, John wrote:

                   "Have we reached a point in City Government where business men holding city contract  
                    can brow-beat our citizens to the extent that property can be taken from them (stolen?)
                    and no compensation made?" 

For all of John's horrible qualities you had to hand it to him, at least he was an honest businessman and he was right in this instance. 

As was Helen who recalled a time where the city called on their business to clear certain streets on April 6 or "Navy Day." After filing all the proper paper work they were unfairly denied the contract because apparently they didn't rub elbows with people who were close enough to the current city administration.  In her letter Helen wrote:

                   "If toadying to any office seeking political clique is necessary to obtain city business and
                    render service to our citizens, then it is about time this requirement be broadcast and
                    made known to the people."

John's letter to city council. Image: Seattle Municipal Arcives

Helen's letter to city council. Image: Seattle Municipal Arcives

City council heeded their complaints and later that year, discussed a proposal to establish a central city garage and eliminate the profiting on towing and impounding by private companies and their buddies in city administration.  The debate went on for years, but by 1939 its detractors defeated it.  From that point forward the city awarded contracts to private towing companies as before which ultimately went to the duopoly held by Terry and Cordes Garage.  So it would seem these two had the most friends in the city. 

Cordes Terry Towing Service.  Seattle's towing duopoly. 1946. Image: Seattle Times

Coda

However, this was all a moot point for John and Helen who by 1937, had left the business for good.  Perhaps the bigger towing companies, who had fought so hard for private city towing contacts, pushed these rabble-rousers out of the market. Besides, it's not like Utility Towing ever had a good track record anyway. Honestly, ask yourself, would you trust?  A drunken lout like John Quinlan or an upstanding citizen like Walter Cordes?  Whichever way you could spin it, John more or less fell into obscurity thereafter.  One source suggest that he spent the rest of his time at sea, probably as a ship's engineer until his death aboard one in 1949.  Helen returned to her long lost music career and remarried to a man named Arthur Stenvall in 1939.

1827 Broadway: A Prequel of Iron and Blood

*I call this a prequel because it precedes the main story arc of 1827 Broadway: A Story of Iron and Blood set in Seattle. However, this story's position therein makes it more of an interlude since it covers the time between Martin Cordes' arrival in the U.S. and his arrival in Seattle. 

New York City Circa 1880s. Castle Garden Immigration building at center bottom. Image: Library of Congress.

 Arrival

Steamship Westphalia Image: NorwayHeritage.com

 Martin arrived in New York City on September 23, 1879 via the steamship Westphalia. The temperature range that day was between a comfortable 51 to 71 degrees, though it would likely have been a bit cooler on the water coming in.

The sight would have been much different from how we know/imagine it today. Immigrants would not have seen the Statue of Liberty nor would they have disembarked at Ellis Island because neither had been built yet.  Rather they would have disembarked at Castle Garden and seen a New York like the one depicted above. Now unfortunately, after disembarking there, Martin's first decade in the U.S. remains untraceable. It isn't until 1889 that available public records place him at 314 Folsom Street, San Francisco, where he was living with his then recent wife Katherine Hunter. He worked as a machinist at Golden State & Miners' Iron Works, a manufacturer of mining machinery located on 1^st Street between Howard and Folsom (currently a vacant lot). It was just a short walk from their home. It used to be two separate entities that merged in the late 1870s. When originally founded, both were co-operatives in which workers shared profits with the owners.  So it is not surprising Martin ended up there and probably did so fairly early on—assuming it was still a co-operative after the merger. However it played out though, by 1889 he would have been a very skilled machinist perhaps even earning a decent enough wage to settle down and start a family. So that year, he and Katherine had a son and named him August.

1866 view of Golden State's Tower. The Cordes Home would have been to the right out of frame.  Image: Library of Congress.

1899 Sanborn Map. Red circle marks the Cordes home, Red Oval marks where Martin worked.

Strike!

However trouble was afoot. On March 2, 1890, the 300-member Iron Molders' Union, on whose work 700 others depended, including machinists like Martin, went on strike affecting fourteen iron works in the city. Apparently the owners of all these Iron Works were collectively planning to reduce the minimum wage from $3.50 to $2.50 and had started hiring non-union workers in direct violation with union rules. Many of the machinists met that night to discuss the strike and while initially hesitant, for fear of losing their jobs, ultimately chose to endorse it a few days later, but only through financial support. Otherwise, it seems they continued to work whenever work was available. 

 

And so for nearly two years The Molders' Union were gripped in a gut-wrenching standoff with the Engineers and Foundrymen's Association. On numerous occasion mob beatings of non-union “scabs”, who were shipped in from the east, erupted on the streets in broad daylight. By the summertime, tensions were at their highest when, on the night of August 3^rd, 1890, a shower of shotgun fire poured into the apartment windows of some non-union workers. So just imagine the horror of this scene for Martin and his family who would have lived within earshot of it. Their young son August and their second son Otto, who by the way, had just been born 5 days before this event, would likely have woken up screaming and in fear for their lives. 

 

So Martin was obviously in a difficult position. While likely in agreement with his fellow machinists who supported the strikers, he had the well-being and safety of his family to consider now. And so it seems for the good of his family, he and Katherine may have left for nearby Oakland to lay low for a while as evidenced by the Oakland Tribune's announcement of the birth of their third son Walter in March of 1892.  This was about four months after the strike ended in defeat for the Molders.  Either unable or not desiring to return to the Iron Works, Martin and his family moved to nearby San Jose where Martin took up machine work with the San Jose Fruit Packing Company.

False Hopes and Longing for Home 

Drawing of San Jose Fruit Packing Co. Circa 1890s Image: vasonabranch.com

The first several months or so in San Jose was a welcome relief for the Cordes family. The fruit company had just opened their new state of the art facility in 1893 and that spring, demands for their product were coming in from as far away as Copenhagen, Denmark. However, the excitement proved only temporary as global markets crashed that same year and the San Jose Fruit Packing Company's exports dropped by 90% the following year. Furthermore, the credit crunch at the banks meant the company couldn't borrow money to pay their idle workers. They had to issue scrip instead.

So after a year or so of these conditions, it seems Martin was beginning to wonder why he ever left Germany in the first place. He'd likely been hearing about how much more influence the Social Democratic party had recently gained there and how much Germany's industrial economy had grown since he left. He must have also had a sense of pride and nostalgia for his homeland that he wanted to share with his family. So in 1895 they moved to Germany after the birth of a fourth son Martin Jr. Just in case it didn't work out though, Martin became a U.S. citizen before he and his family left.

Hamburg waterfront complete with street car. Circa 1895.

Old Gray Germany, Ain't What She Used To Be

Hamburg-Amerika Line ticket office, circa 1900.
The Cordes' most likely purchased their tickets here.

Other than four more children, Mathias, Herman, Katherine, and Henry, joining the Cordes family while in Germany, their activities there remain unknown. Now not having the time to get too deep into the weeds, it should suffice to say that it was vastly different Germany than it was in Bismarck's time. Large industrial conglomerates were emerging and colluding with government for greater control. Toxic patriotism, militarism, and imperialism were on the rise. Political rivalries intensified and Germany became more isolated going into the 20^th century. Though there really is no way to know, disillusionment with these changes combined with the hardship of yet another economic panic in 1901 may ultimately have been what lead the Cordes family to return to the U.S. in October 1903. Departing yet again via Hamburg to New York City.  
 

Back to the United States

Main Street Auburn, WA from a 1909 issue of The Coast magazine. Image: Hathi Trust.

Borden's Condensed Milk factory. Auburn, WA. Circa 1910.

Not long after their arrival they headed for Auburn, WA a small suburb of Seattle that was booming at the time. In 1902, the Puget Sound Traction, Light & Power company built the Seattle-Tacoma Interurban line passing right through Auburn. This, and the Northern Pacific Rail, made Auburn an excellent shipping locale. Such that it enticed companies like Borden's Condensed Milk of New York to build a new factory there in 1903. So when

Auburn News Circa 1909 from The Coast
magazine Image: Hathi Trust.

Martin arrived late that year, his prior experience with canning machinery in San Jose made him a shoe-in. Henceforth, they enjoyed much greater stability than they had in California and Germany, especially since the panic of 1907 seemed to hardly even phase them. In fact, while still working at Borden's, Martin started a side business in 1909 with his eldest son August. They called it The Auburn News & Stationary Company. 

An Epiphany

Now keep in mind this was Martin's first business venture and for the preceding 20 years he had always worked under the employ of others so one can imagine the profound effect this would have had on him. A new perspective like this could easily have lead him to reflect on it all—his life, his family, and his work. Martin was a machinist, he and his son Walter worked side-by-side at Borden's and the rest of the kids were taking an interest in machinery and probably auto mechanics as well. So Martin, perhaps after paying one of many visits to Seattle via the interurban and seeing all the convergence of machine and automotive talent on Capitol Hill realized something. 

If he could start his own business, why not do so there and join the fray of automotive pioneers where he and his family could work together and each could fully reap the fruits of their labor? Because in retrospect working for the benefit of others clearly wasn't the answer. Rather, “Iron and Blood” was the answer, remember? And with those he could forge his own empire, just like Bismarck. And the fortune and glory would far outstrip any gained from a mere newsstand and machine shop in a cannery. It was no contest. They moved to Seattle in 1912 and never looked back.
 

Seattle waterfront 1912.  Image: National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.