Safe Harbor
Far from home and family, a newcomer gives guided tours of the city over the phone.
By Roger Brooks
Fifteen hours into my great Seattle adventure, I found my haven. The spot that would serve as my calming refuge and as my father’s window into a city he would never see.
“Just look for the stairs,” said the friendly voice on the other end of the phone. The woman I had traveled to meet, the woman who would soon be my boss, seemed very sure of her instructions. Standing on the corner of First and University, though, all I could see was a giant hammering man and a strip joint. “Just continue down University,” she assured me when I told her there was no stairwell. Sure enough, there, cascading toward the Sound like water, sat the Harbor Steps.
Seattle in spring is a beautiful place, especially if you come from Texas, where the average April high temperature rivals the Emerald City’s warmest summer day. As I descended the stairs, catching glimpses of the blue-green water behind the explosion of cherry blossoms, I knew this was a place I could stay. It was a picture-perfect moment at just the right time of day. Sure, over time, I began to see that the area was in constant need of repair, that too many stones were loose when you stepped on them, that the new fountains never seemed to be on at the same time. Through all of that, though, I always saw the Harbor Steps as my own personal welcome mat. A good first impression means everything.
Just one day before the moving truck pulled out of my Dallas driveway to take me back to those steps, everything changed. My father learned he had terminal cancer. I prepared to turn down the job even as my dad pushed me out the door.
Upon arriving, nothing in Seattle made sense to me. The trees were all different. The flowers bloomed at different times. You could actually recycle your plastics and newspaper in bins on the street. The constant bombardment of new information made me dizzy. But on the Harbor Steps, I found a little piece of home.
Every day, Monday through Friday, I retreated to the steps. On lunch hours I called home to catch up with my parents, learn what the doctor was saying, and hear my father’s voice. Mostly, though, he just wanted me to talk, to show him Seattle from where I sat.
“What’s to see today, Roger?” he asked one afternoon. “Well,” I said, looking toward the Lusty Lady as a Cheshire smile broke over my face. “I see a marquee that reads ‘The Chronicles of Nudia.’” He laughed, marveling that Seattle offered a world-class art museum, a hundred-year-old farmers market, and a peep show, all just a stone’s throw from where I sat. It sounded like his kind of place.
Published: February 2009
