Tag Archives: Seattle history

Time travel on the 48

Whenever I ride the 48 past Massachusetts, I pass the Century House Apartments, where my Grandma Bernice lived for several years during my childhood. This means that roughly 10 times each week, I have a visceral memory of being with a person who loved me well.

I don’t come from a “close” family. The only relatives I spent significant time with growing up were my dad’s parents, who separated when I was very young. Grandpa Marcellus was fun. He taught us to play poker and dominoes, to saddle a horse and bait a hook. He let us ride in the back of his truck and fed us strange treats like horehound candy.

But my grandma, she knew how to love.

Grandma Bernice stayed with our family often. She slept in the basement, on a bed with a sky-blue spread, and we kids always, always slept with her. She played with us—catch and dress-up and paper dolls she made herself—baked with us, listened to us. She had an ability to be present, to treat us like fellow humans instead of “children,” that felt like magic. No matter how long she visited, whenever she announced that she was ready to go home, we would beg her to stay “just one more night.”

Even better than Grandma’s visits were those times—maybe once a month or so—when she would invite one of the older kids to stay at her apartment. For me, there was nothing more coveted, more sacred, than an invitation to spend the night with Grandma.

I don’t remember much about that apartment at 23rd and Massachusetts, other than the rough texture of the cheap carpet and the rather institutional smell of the hallways. I have only snapshots of the time we spent together there. I remember “sewing” on her magical sewing machine. Listening to stories of her childhood with the six sisters she missed so desperately. Brushing my teeth with salt and soda. Watching her remove her wig and re-braid her white hair into two scrawny plaits before climbing into bed next to me. The feeling of her cool fingers as she scratched my back until I fell asleep.

And I remember our walks.

Grandma Bernice didn’t drive. For most of her life, a car was out of the question, an impossible expense. When her own children were young, she transported them on Seattle’s then-trolleys or on foot. Many years later, my dad tried to teach her in his own car, but she found the experience terrifying and abruptly discontinued the lesson.

For my entire childhood, my grandma bused and walked everywhere she went. When I was with her, I bused and walked, too.

Sometimes, on those one-on-one visits, Grandma and I would walk to the store. She would buy ingredients for dinner and maybe a copy of the Enquirer, which she considered evidence that we were living in the End Times. Sometimes, we would walk all the way to Douglass-Truth for story time. Sometimes, we would walk just to walk.

Grandma Bernice was the only adult I knew who really noticed things. As a country girl living in an apartment with no outdoor access, she missed dirt. When she walked, she would gather leaf skeletons and flower petals, which she sometimes used to make art. She would ooh and ahh at people’s gardens—and sometimes sneak a flower or two. (Later, she would press those stolen beauties between the pages of her Bible to preserve them.) Sometimes, she would walk up to a tree and wrap her arms around it in a true embrace. If I listened closely, I could hear her whisper, “Thank you.”

This practice of walking just to walk continued far beyond my grandma’s time at Century House. She walked no matter who she was visiting or where she was living, no matter the conditions. Nothing deterred her—not stormy weather, not heavy traffic, not even repeated purse snatchings.

Even though I cherished my time with Grandma Bernice, I didn’t always cherish those walks. When we walked to get somewhere, I couldn’t match her pace. I’d find myself blocks behind, exhausted and miserable. When we walked just to walk, I quickly grew bored. When could we go back inside and do something?

But somehow, over time, I have become my grandma. Of course I love the bus, but walking is my favorite way to travel. I walk to get places, yes, but I also walk just to walk. To clear my head. To experience the seasons. To notice. Sometimes, I even stop to thank a tree.

Century House Apartments
The Century House apartments, a site of love

A tribute to Seattle’s best bus rider, who was also my friend

On November 19, 2019, my friend, Annie Lamb (known to me always and only as “Mrs. Lamb”), died unexpectedly. Today would have been her 80th birthday.

Annie Louise Cheatham came to Seattle an orphan. Her mother, Nina, died from an infection, which developed after an injury she sustained while washing other people’s laundry. I’m not sure how or when Annie’s father, Hiram, died.

After they lost their mother, Annie and her sister, Margaret, came to Seattle to live with their older brother, who was in the navy. In 1960, she married Thomas Lamb. In 1966, the couple bought a home on Madrona Drive, across the street from a 2 stop.* For the next 53 years, Mrs. Lamb was a 2 rider. She rode the bus everywhere—to shop for groceries and clothes and household items, to take her children to school and appointments, to work, to visit friends and family.

I met Mrs. Lamb in 2005, when I started attending Good Shepherd, the church where she’d been a member since the 60s. Over the 15 years we shared a congregation, I grew to love her. Here are some of the reasons why.

  • She kept it real.
    Mrs. Lamb rarely smiled. She would call you out in a heartbeat. To be honest, she wasn’t particularly nice. But Mrs. Lamb was kind. She showed up at my mother’s funeral when we were little more than acquaintances. She always remembered my children’s birthdays. She knew about Chicklet’s political plans and regularly brought her magazines with articles about female candidates. When my mother-in-law was suffering from a serious illness in 2018, Mrs. Lamb made her a blanket and prayed over it before she wrapped it up for me to send.
  • She became the elder she never had.
    As an orphan, Mrs. Lamb didn’t have anyone to look to for advice or help, to ask about family history or lean on in a crisis. But she became the rock for her own family. She was able to be there for her four children—Michael, Alison, Jason, and Vanessa—well into their adulthood. When they had families of their own, she become a beloved grandma, and, eventually, a great grandma. She and her sister Margaret** kept their connection throughout their lives, acting as co-matriarchs of the ever-expanding Seattle branch of Cheathams.
  • She did what needed to be done.
    Mrs. Lamb was not much for fanfare or attention. She was the person working behind the scenes, making sure things got taken care of. She was a deacon at the church and a member of the altar guild. She sewed the banners that we hung in the sanctuary. She watered the plants and made sure everyone separated their trash correctly. She decorated and cooked for almost every gathering, from big events like the annual Advent tea and Black History Month soul food dinner, to smaller gatherings like baby showers and birthday celebrations. She never expected (or wanted) recognition. She just did her part.
  • She loved the bus.
    Many members of Good Shepherd ride the bus. But Mrs. Lamb chose the bus. She called herself “Metro Annie,” because for her, the bus was more than a means to an end; it was an extension of her community.

    She got to know the drivers and the other riders. When she learned about Bus Driver Appreciation Day, she printed out transit-themed thank-you cards to pass out on the holiday. She looked out for unhoused people who found refuge in bus shelters, often bringing them water, blankets, and other necessities.

    She took care of stops, picking up trash whenever she saw it. In 2006, she organized our congregation to adopt a stop on 23rd Avenue, around the corner from the church. She faithfully picked up litter and emptied the stop’s trash can until Metro removed it—the can, that is—a couple of years later.

    She had an encyclopedic knowledge of buses and could tell you which route to take to get anywhere. She wore comfortable shoes even when she dressed up. Most days, she wore a backpack, in which, among other bus chick essentials, she carried a flare.***
Mrs. Lamb and her sister cleaning Good Shepherd's adopted stop
Mrs. Lamb with her sister and lifelong best friend, Mrs. Margaret Bell, taking care of Good Shepherd’s adopted stop

The 2 isn’t one of my family’s main routes, but pre-COVID, we rode it at least a few times a month. Sometimes, we would run into Mrs. Lamb on our rides, and it was always such a delight to see her in her element—with a shopping cart or a punch bowl or a bag of Christmas play costumes to drop off at the church.

When she joined the ancestors, I knew immediately how she needed to be honored. Just in time for her birthday, that vision become real. Thank you to the family of Beulah Dyer for the inspiration, to Mrs. Lamb’s son Mike for the photos, to Steve Tucker and Jaivier Forward for the beautiful design, and to Dale Cummings at Metro for making it happen.

Rest in peace, Annie Louise Cheatham Lamb. The bus isn’t the same without you.

Eastbound 2 stop, Union at Martin Luther King:

A bus shelter with a mural honoring Annie Lamb
A
A bus shelter with a mural honoring Annie Lamb
A bus shelter with a mural honoring Annie Lamb
A bus shelter with a mural honoring Annie Lamb

***

*Incidentally, this is the same stop where I used to wait to catch the bus home from elementary school in the 80s. There’s a good chance we waited there at the same time at least once.

**Margaret. Bell was an amazing woman as well. She was the sweet to her sister’s salty, and she was also a bus rider. She died in September of 2019 and is missed by many, including me.

***To make herself visible on dark winter evenings

Hear my bus a comin’

If you’ve visited this blog more than a few times, you might already know that I am obsessed with (among many other things) bus shelters, art, and Seattle history. So, I was pretty excited to attend the unveiling of the Jimi Hendrix-themed bus shelter–at the northbound 48 stop at 23rd & Massachusetts–last November. (Yes, November. I’m still catching up, OK?) Unfortunately, thanks to a prolonged illness (and the whole new person in our family thing), I didn’t make the big event. The good news is, there’s a video.

Since the shelter opened, I have zoomed past it on the 48 dozens of times, but I have never had occasion to wait there. That is, until last Friday.

Fellow bus chicks, behold:

Hendrix shelter 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hendrix park 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hendrix park 4

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hendrix shelter 5

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jimi Hendrix Park is just up the hill from the shelter and is currently undergoing a major transformation. The Northwest African American Museum is on the same grounds. Seattle folks: Might be time to hop on Metro’s Heavyweight and pay all three a visit.