The end of 2002 was a Black Friday of sorts for the Broadway Business Improvement Association (BIA). Amid news of a large organizational debt, the city pulled the plug on the business group's fiscal arm, the Businesses of Broadway (BOB). The executive director's position was eliminated, new board members took over and the BIA faced an uncertain future.The funding assessments were still collected but the city stepped in to make sure that existing contracts were fulfilled. For the most part, this meant the BIA paid for street cleaning services. Shirley Bishop Inc., a professional management company, was brought in to handle administrative details. But the BIA was in limbo. One former board member said at the time that the BIA was on life support.Three years later the BIA remains viable. A large measure of stability has been restored and its relationship to the city has vastly improved. The organization runs largely on the backs of the few volunteers who have been able and willing to put in the time needed to bring the BIA back to health.
Sunday morning was not one of leisure for me. No sleeping in, no lounging about, no sipping coffee while reading the newspaper. An e-mail had been circulating about the neighborhood for weeks and a buzz was stirring. There was a public auction being held on Sunday, Jan. 15 , at the Old Forsyth Hotel in Georgetown. Doors opened for the preview at 9 a.m., and the auction began an hour later.Now to old-timers, the Forsyth Hotel might serve as a point of reference, but to me the auction was taking place at Howard's, that's how I know the building.
Whenever young Bernice Boley had a little money, she'd head over to Vincent's grocery for some penny candy. This was the 1930s, and a handful of hard candy could be had for just one cent. Vincent's was right across the street from Whitworth, where Bernice went to school, and when the last bell rang there'd sometimes be quite a crowd. The tiny store occupied the front room of Mrs. Stella Vincent's house, and it allowed Mrs. Vincent to earn a little extra money at home - no small matter during the Great Depression. The house had two entrances, each with its own porch: a larger public one for the store, and a private one for the family. Inside, Bernice recalls, the store had "glass counters, and things were displayed on shelves. You had to ask for candy at the counter, and they'd put it in a bag for you."
I'd like to discuss point versus no point loans, and the term par pricing. These are common topics with many of my customers.What are "points" and why would I pay them?A "point" is 1percent of the loan amount - for example, $1,000 on a $100,000 loan. The points can be broken down into 1/8ths or .125 percent. This equals $125 for every $100,000. There are different types of points you may pay, but first let's talk about the term "par".What does "par" mean?"Par" is the interest rate that applies when you are expected to pay all the fees at closing. Think of it as the benchmark interest rate. Par is basically neutral. You can lock into a higher or lower rate than par if you want. The decision is yours to make based on your financial needs. Most borrowers are unaware that they can choose their interest rate.
Two years ago, as the news became increasingly filled with stories about United States soldiers in the war in Iraq, a woman called my neurofeedback office saying that she needed help. I'll call her Ana, although this isn't her real name. She has given me permission to tell her story because she wants people to know about the effects of war and about how healing can happen. Ana had been a U.S. Army nurse in Viet Nam. For the 30 years since then, she had suffered from flashbacks, insomnia, and other signs of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). But she said that with the current war on the news, she was feeling these symptoms almost every day.She told me that every time she heard a helicopter, she would cringe, and that sometimes when she thought about the war she would dissociate, losing the present to go into a fog of the past.
"Old Mortality" was the title of a novel by Sir Walter Scott, one of the first bestselling writers, so early he even preceded Dickens. Scott is most famous these days for penning "Ivanhoe," which became a film in the early 1950s starring, I believe, Robert Taylor. I loved the movie - I was about 6 - and wanted to become a jousting knight for a year or two until the fireman bug bit me."Old Mortality" could be a precursor to "Old Yeller" for all I know, a 500-page epic about a Scots terrier who bites the paperboy. I've never read it. But I've been thinking a lot about the title lately mostly, because of my recent trip to Cincinnati.Going back east for me is also time travel, as in going back in time. The main reason for this year's trip was to celebrate my mom's 87th birthday. She is having eye problems, and so, for the first time ever, I was allowed to drive the 1992 Buick Roadmaster she's had since my now-deceased stepfather bought it new 13 years ago.But mortality didn't hop onto my viewfinder because of my mom.
So, in a short time, the nearly 100 people who applied for the Seattle City Council seat left vacant when Jim Compton resigned to accept a teaching position overseas has been whittled down to a manageable number.Applicants who were not known to the council had little chance from the start. Contenders were given only three minutes to sell themselves to the council. That large list was whittled down to 14 last week, and following more lengthy interviews, further reduced to six finalists on Monday, Jan. 23. Safe to say that being known to the council beforehand greatly increased your odds.The list of finalists consists of six women, one of whom is a former councilmember, another of whom served on a former councilmember's staff. Five of the six are minorities. All six are credible candidates. And adding gender and ethnic diversity to the city's legislative body, traditionally a bastion of white maledom, is an admirable goal.But in some respects the council missed an opportunity.
Not so long ago, Jeanne Eaton looked as hot in a bikini as the girls on "The O.C." But her memories of Orange County bear no resemblance to the popular TV show.Jeanne was born in Orange, Calif., on July 22, 1930, the only child of Si and Minnie Eaton. Si was an orange grower who sold his crop to Sunkist. The family home sat on one of his three orchards. Jeanne remembers her father riding up and down between the rows of trees on a horse named Blackie, looking for gophers, inspecting irrigation pipes and examining trees for the slightest sign of blight. In spring the orange blossoms flowered, a sweet scent she will never forget.Although Jeanne was an only child, the house was fully occupied. Her paternal grandparents lived there when Jeanne was little, followed a few years later by a beloved distant relative named Aunt Blanche.Jeanne's mother Minnie was frail. "My mother had a very sad life," she says. Jeanne's maternal grandparents, Danish immigrants, both died of tuberculosis when Minnie was a teenager. Minnie developed the disease herself a few years later.While Jeanne was growing up, Minnie was in and out of a sanitarium in Monrovia. When Minnie was home, her wheeled bed was rolled out onto the lawn, where she could watch young Jeanne roll down the grassy slopes.
Not so long ago, Jeanne Eaton looked as hot in a bikini as the girls on "The O.C." But her memories of Orange County bear no resemblance to the popular TV show.Jeanne was born in Orange, Calif., on July 22, 1930, the only child of Si and Minnie Eaton. Si was an orange grower who sold his crop to Sunkist. The family home sat on one of his three orchards. Jeanne remembers her father riding up and down between the rows of trees on a horse named Blackie, looking for gophers, inspecting irrigation pipes and examining trees for the slightest sign of blight. In spring the orange blossoms flowered, a sweet scent she will never forget.Although Jeanne was an only child, the house was fully occupied. Her paternal grandparents lived there when Jeanne was little, followed a few years later by a beloved distant relative named Aunt Blanche.Jeanne's mother Minnie was frail. "My mother had a very sad life," she says. Jeanne's maternal grandparents, Danish immigrants, both died of tuberculosis when Minnie was a teenager. Minnie developed the disease herself a few years later.While Jeanne was growing up, Minnie was in and out of a sanitarium in Monrovia. When Minnie was home, her wheeled bed was rolled out onto the lawn, where she could watch young Jeanne roll down the grassy slopes.
The people best suited to tend the light at the end of the tunnel are those who have been burned by its flames. Burned, but not blinded.Seattle musician Eric Apoe can seem like a phoenix who's been reborn one too many times. While his wings may have become a bit too charred to allow him the euphoria of flight, they continue to fan the flames, transforming sparks, ashes and smoke into beautiful melodies that both defy and embrace the destructive forces from which they sprang.Apoe may not be a big celebrity in music circles, but he certainly has moved among them over the years-and left his mark along the way. At 53, he's still writing, recording and performing music, in spite of the fact that he's done more than his share of struggling while attempting to navigate his way through the meat-grinder of the music industry.
At a recent family gathering, far-flung relatives with suspicious smiles and too much time on their hands peppered my teenage cousin with questions. "No football, no girlfriend-what do you do with all of your time?""Well, I placed second in the county spelling bee," was his timid reply.Intrigued, I began my own interrogation. Is there a "Millionaire" clause, or is the first answer always the final answer? I learned that the initial reply serves as the official attempt, so swiftness is not advantageous.Next I discovered that, as a stalling strategy, spellers often employ the tactic of asking for the definition or origin of a word. Digging a little deeper, I unearthed the siren's song of modern spelling bees. Why are children across the nation devoting hours each day, feverishly memorizing arcane spellings? For the same reason gym rats are shooting free throws in the Indiana snow: If they practice hard enough, they might one day get to perform on ESPN.
Today we're going to discuss Bush and signs that he's the anti-Christ, how he messed up the monorail deal, why he doesn't care about black people and what he was doing on that grassy knoll.But first let's talk about something more important: the death-wish my son has. He's going to be 15 in April. That's the plan, but I fear he has other ideas, at least subconsciously. He's a skateboarder. This means he jumps onto a thin piece of wood attached to four wheels, and then races at breakneck speeds down streets, ramps, stairs and stair railings.That last maneuver is called grinding, by the way. I think it has something to do with what happens to your private parts when you execute it the wrong way.
"How old are you?" the woman behind the counter asks as I wait for a group of middle-school girls to pick out the candy they want. "Twenty," I reply, wondering why she needs to ask."Oh," the woman says, glancing over to the group of giggling girls. "I thought you were 12." I get that a lot. The braces I've had for two years don't help, but the reason for the mistake most likely has to do with the company I regularly keep: a group of giggling and shrieking middle-school girls.It's true: I am one of those brave souls who spend a considerable amount of time with the wonderful, sweet, rambunctious youth of Magnolia.I work as a teen development leader at the Magnolia Community Center. I also volunteer with Magnolia Mission Youth (a youth ministry); I coach basketball and track at the community center as well.Most of my work involves spending time talking and hanging out with youth. It's one of the most rewarding experiences I've ever had, and one of the most thought-provoking.
Regular travelers of 34th Avenue West on Magnolia have probably noticed some remodeling going on at the corner of Emerson, where the Magnolia Ristorante used to be. The refurbishing has been completed and the eatery has been reopened as Rudy's Place.Because I pass that corner four or five times daily, I've kept an interested eye on the location. When Rudy's Place initially opened, they had crowds out the door. This bears some more investigation, I thought, because a good close-by restaurant is always a benefit to the neighborhood.That's how I met Rudy Finne (sounds like Phinney), 57, the jovial, husky, white-bearded namesake of the place. Finne was born in Ballard and then "moved all the way to Magnolia." He went to Ballard High School and Shoreline Community College, finishing his formal education at Western Washington in Bellingham.He's been in the food service industry since 1964, when he started at the Golden Tides at Shilshole as a dishwasher.
Market forces are in the saddle and Metropolitan Market is in the way. Market forces, as we all know, abhor a vacuum.Enter QFC.The Metropolitan Market-QFC imbroglio isn't about winning over public sentiment; it's about real-estate values.In Queen Anne, even more than most of Seattle, the screw keeps turning.The 2005 median price for a single-family home in Seattle came in at $399,900. Ten years ago a four-bedroom, Queen Anne Craftsman home, completely updated, sitting on a sunny corner lot with open, light-filled rooms and a country kitchen, fetched $339,000.This week $929,000 will get you into a renovated, four-bedroom Craftsman home across from "Little Howe" Park. That deal does include a garage. It should.Last week in this newspaper Christina Cox, one of three property owners of the proposed development site, wrote a guest column about the QFC project. She maintained that "in September 2004, Metropolitan Markets gave notice to ownership that, due to development of other locations, its future plans did not include this site."As if Metropolitan Market couldn't wait to shake Queen Anne's dust off their heels. That's a disingenuous statement at best. The truth is the Metropolitan Market folks say they want to stay but they can't afford to pay the vertical leap in rent.