Bumped His head When He Went To Bed by BJ Neblett

 Been kinda wet here in the great northwest lately, more so than usual. Here's a little something I came up with upon returning to Seattle.

Bumped His Head When He Went To Bed (A Seattle Primer)

BJ Neblett

© 2009, 2022

 Rain poured down the day I arrived. Big deal you say, it rains all the time in Seattle. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Places like Savannah and Miami receive more rain yearly than Seattle. Chicago comes close to matching the Emerald City in annual precipitation. Only most of what falls on the Windy City is white and slushy and requires shoveling. I’ve seen it rain for four days straight in Houston, hard, driving rain that floods the city and makes national headlines. That’s because the inventive Texans cemented in the sides and bottoms of the bayous. The original earthen bayous were designed to absorb as well as channel. Now the water has no place to go but up.

            In 1958, an unusually wet summer dampened my school vacation and washed out nearly a quarter of the Philadelphia Phillies home schedule. Despite the rain, Richie Ashburn had a career-making season, leading the league in several categories. The next year went dry and so did Ashburn and the Phillies. Then he retired.

            The main difference in Seattle, which receives a very average 37 inches per year – the world rainfall average is 36 inches – is the type of rainfall. Natives of Charleston, South Carolina, (50+ inches) can set their watches by the weather. Just about every hot, melting day from May thru September moist air blows in off the Atlantic. The downpour starts about 4 PM and lasts usually less than thirty minutes, a heavy, soaking rainforest-type shower. Then the sun returns and so does the humidity, with a vengeance. Steam rising off the sticky ground can cause Vietnam flashbacks.

            South Florida (more than 60 inches) has much the same routine as Charleston. The same is true for New Orleans. Only Florida gets a break with some cool breezes, not to mention a few hurricanes. The Big Easy just swelters.

            Everyone knows about San Francisco’s (16-32 inches) famous fog. Caught between the mountains and the bay, it makes for perfect temperature inversions. Nights and mornings in ‘Frisco are reminiscent of London. Ironically, because of a shift in the Pacific currents, August can be windy and chilly in the city by the Bay. I believe it was Mark Twain who said the coldest winter he’d ever spent was the summer he spent in San Francisco.

            Seattle is a different animal altogether. Damp would be a better description than rainy. Nestled at the end of a long dog-legged islet, and sandwiched between mountains, King County is the recipient of Pacific Ocean winds tempered by North Pacific Drift, an extension of the warm Japan Current. (As if it’s not enough that we import everything else from Asia.) All of that meteorological mumbo jumbo translates into a mild climate and nearly non-stop coastal breezes which skirt the Sound and pick up plenty of moisture, raining down the dog leg like…well, like…what runs down a dog’s leg.

            Nearly every day you can wake up to overcast skies and a light mist or drizzle. By late morning the front has moved on and the sun coyly reveals itself. It’s great for hangovers, easing you into the pain. I think it’s where Carly Simon came up with the line …clouds in my coffee/.

            Considering the northern latitude, the shy sun doesn’t hang around very long in Seattle. Often not long enough to completely dry things out. In winter, the darkness comes early, like 4 PM early. Children’s lunchboxes have headlamps. Moss and slugs should be the official shrub and animal of the area. Like I said, damp.

            That doesn’t mean the Great Northwest never gets wet. Sometimes it comes down so hard Saint Swithin would feel at home. Some days you feel like building an ark. Overcast and gloomy, it’s the number of days leaving your headlights on in the office parking lot category where Seattle stands out, not total rainfall.

            The natives like it like that. No fooling. The web-footed denizens of the area are proud of their reputation for wet weather. They perpetuate and encourage the stories, and why not? It kept them nice and secluded for decades. Lewis and Clark heard about the rain, turned southwest, and wintered in Oregon.

            Once, if you asked the average American to locate Seattle they’d probably inquire, “Which country?” Seriously, legend has it when DB Cooper parachuted with his stash of cash into the Cascades a high-ranking F.B.I. official asked for a map of Canada. Seattleites enjoyed a peaceful existence of blissful obscurity. It gave them a chance to drink all that coffee.

            Then came the ‘80’s, and Reganomics, and greed is good, and the “me” generation. Somebody spilled the coffee beans. Astute investors in California looked north. Soon they had snatched up every available parcel of the highly undervalued land. Property values and the resultant taxes went through the overcast sky. Locals were not happy. Big Foot sold his holdings and retired to Cabo San Lucas. He runs a beach bar there now.

            By the time the smoke cleared in the ‘90’s the damage had been done; in more ways than one. The rest of the country was wise to the fact that Seattle is a clean, pretty, modern city with friendly citizens and a moderate climate. Not exactly beach weather in the summer, but you won’t freeze your buns off in snow waiting for the Monorail either. Hey, Amazon, Boeing, Nintendo, Bill Gates, and a half million Hippies can’t all be wrong.

            Yes, Hippies. Ok, maybe not half a million, but the largest aggregation since Woodstock.

            You remember the Delphian 60’s and the corybantic 70’s, right? Well, if you do you probably weren’t doing it right. But you know what I mean: long hair, sandals, beads (and that was just the males); blacklight posters, candles, incense; peace, love, and recreational chemicals. In 1977, at the first appearance of lighted dance floors and platform shoes; with thumpus uninteruptus echoing in their foggy brains, the entire Hippie population of the U.S. packed up their VW Microbuses and headed northwest – California was too weird, even for them. When they found they couldn’t go any further they stopped in Seattle. Canada had just kicked out the last U.S. draft dodger and was closed for remodeling.

            You wondered what happened to the Hippies, didn’t you? They’re all here, lock, stock, and New Age bookstores. You don’t have to look too hard either: that bearded guy serving you your double tall skinny mocha; the girl with the pretty blonde hair and large natural melons. The great damp northwest and the counter culture generation are a common-law marriage made in heaven. The area is perfect for them to grow their organic…crops.

            So, the next time someone tells you about rainy Seattle you’ll know better. But don’t let on you are hip to the myth. Just smile, nod your head politely and ask about the coffee.

            And don’t go for the lines about earthquakes either!

 

 

                                                                                                            Seattle, WA

                                                                                                            August, 2009

City Speak by BJ Neblett

I worked as a radio DJ in Seattle during the '90's but lived in Redmond (before it out grew itself) and didn't spend a lot of time in downtown Seattle. Upon my return in 2009, taking up residence in Ballard and having more time on my hands, I finally have the opportunity to discover and explore all of the Emerald City's secrets and treasures. Here is a commentary from some of my first impressions. enjoy.
BJ

City Speak

by BJ Neblett

© 2010

            Walking around town I’ve come to an embarrassing discovery about myself. It seems I am the only person in Seattle without a back pack, cell phone and I-pod. Actually I have a cell phone which spends most of its time in my jeans pocket, and I’ve been carrying the east coast equivalent of the ubiquitous back pack, a black, officious looking briefcase. Still, I remain the only one without something to occupy my ears. This is ok. Part of the fun of urban life is the sound of the city. Having spent some thirty plus years in broadcasting, I suppose sound is as important and natural to me as breathing.

            Sound is what gives a city flavor. Cities speak to you. You can judge a city’s character by the complexity of its language. New York has traffic, and traffic means horns. No one can make a car horn talk the way a New York City cabbie can. Then there are the street performers and sidewalk peddlers. I was partly raised in the heart of South Philadelphia. Along South Street every store has its own pitch man, nattily dressed and pacing like a hungry tiger. Hawking their wares like carnival barkers, they extol the virtues of Big Mike’s Deli Sandwiches – each with a kosher pickle; or a suit from Ben Krass – Store of the Stars. Their precision patter, always at maximum volume, has a lyrical, sing song quality, hypnotizing and enticing.

            Public transportation lends a city its own unique voice. A subway doesn’t sound like a street car which is different from a trolley which will never be mistaken for a monorail. In Philly, the clang of the trolley bell, much like the city itself, tolls with sober authority. San Francisco’s cable car bells have a much happier and friendlier ring. The differences are subtle, but there.

            Unfortunately, it’s not just ambient sounds that people have switched off. We have tuned out each other as well. I blame air-conditioning. Before Freon and other noxious gases, we cooled our homes with clean fresh air. Open windows brought in cool breezes which carried with them more sounds: Mrs. Delmar next door summonsing her errant children; Tony D’Agistino and Bobby McNab arguing politics; Phillies baseball drifting up from the radio at the corner candy store; Tommy and Johnny and little Lisa playing tag. More than just noise, these are the pulse and heartbeat of a city; the sounds I miss the most.

            Once we started closing our windows we began to close important links, links that turn areas into neighborhoods and neighborhoods into communities. We stopped listening to our neighbors and soon stopped talking to them as well.

            Seattle seems to me refreshingly different. Many houses and offices in the eclectic neighborhoods lack air-conditioning, and it shows. Hiking the endless hills and valleys of my adopted home, I get that old sense of community, something I haven’t felt since I was a kid. People do talk to each other here. The other day, while trudging up Yessler Way a man watering his postage stamp lawn smiled and said hell-o. That is one sound badly lacking in cities and towns and villages across America.

            I haven’t quite discovered all of Seattle’s special sounds yet. Perhaps my ears are still functioning on Eastern Time. But I’m listening. I am sure they are out there. And I’ll bet the Emerald City resounds with a distinctive sound track that is as charming and beautiful as the city itself. One just needs to remove the ear buds and turn off the cell phones and take the time to listen.

            You can keep the back packs.

                                                                                                            Seattle, WA

                                                                                                            May, 2010