THE SEATTLE WORLD’S FAIR 1962

THE SEATTLE WORLD’S FAIR 1962         

  As I drive the freeway into town, the Space Needle comes into view, standing tall like a thermometer measuring the temperature of the city. An exciting symbol of the 1962 World’s Fair, proving our city reached for the stars, exhibiting a glimpse into Century 21. Memories click, like an old View-Master; time and changes touch my heart.

   The Seattle World’s Fair was the event of the season. Diana and I picked the weekend in the middle of September for a final trip to the fair. Our years of experience proved the best days of summer came after school started. We were as close as sisters, having automatic responses to each other’s moods, helping give balance necessary to enjoy the day. Both of us were sixteen years old, so we rode the city bus to the fairgrounds for twenty-five cents each.

   Ready for an exciting day, walking around the fair, we stopped to enjoy music playing at the International Fountain as a watery dance sprayed and swayed. We strolled through exhibits of the future showing Princess telephones and robot maids. Then, we squeezed into the crowded Bubbleator to explore the Food Circus.

   Searching for the perfect lunch, we stopped for pizza and 7-up. The long walk looking for seats surrounded by an unending sea of people, inspired us to take our lunch outside by the International Fountain. Pizza in one hand, 7-up in the other, we walked down the stairway. I turned to say something to Diana, missing the next step. A surprise bouncing fall to the bottom of the stairs, landing full force on my right ankle I heard a loud pop. Pizza balanced on the plate undisturbed. I didn’t lose a drop of the drink. I watched my ankle swell with each beat of my heart, like an inner tube being filled with air.

   Sitting on the step dazed, I was told by someone that there was a nurse’s station down the hallway. I may have been clumsy, but I was unbelievably lucky, falling so close to first aid. Diana and I hobbled down the hallway like the last entrants in a three-legged sack race, my arm around her shoulders while she held the pizza. At the nurse’s station I signed a waiting list. It was not exactly sunshine and cool spray of the fountain, but the chairs were comfortable, and pizza kept my mouth full, muffling pained moans.

   I immediately felt better seeing the nurse in a crisp white uniform, her small hat looking like a Little Lulu comic book crown, but I was in too much pain to laugh. Her soothing hand helped me stand up and take a few steps. She touched my ankle, diagnosing what I’d feared was broken to amazingly be just a bad sprain. She wrapped it like an artist working on a sculpture. Becoming, in my mind, a replica of Florence Nightingale, she gave me a cup of ice to put on the swelling, and recommended I stay off the foot for at least an hour, suggesting we should go see the Canadian Tattoo at Memorial Stadium.

   We were lucky to get tickets, planning to call our parents after finding seats. A great plan with only one flaw; there was no phone inside the stadium. We went to the railing, watching the crowd walk outside near unreachable payphones. Together, we brilliantly decided to write a note to toss down for someone to call Mom. Carefully composing notes, writing, “There is no phone. We need someone to call home.” After dropping several wads of paper, aimed like water balloons, a nice man with a kind heart picked one up and waved.

   Relieved to print our names, Mom’s name, and phone number, we tightly wrapped one thin dime into the note. The message dropped down like a parachute from the heavens. Our hero went to the nearest phone. After what seemed like forever, he returned—waving to us and giving a thumbs-up gesture. No doubt Mom had kept him on the phone with a list of questions like a detective.

   Ready to relax, we enjoyed thrilling performances of Canadians doing spectacular synchronized horse and marching presentations. The Mounties in their bright red uniforms made me think of being rescued by Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, an old favorite television program.

   Tired and limping into the house, we met Mom who congratulated us for being clever. She gave us paper and pens ready to write thank you notes to the man who’d come to our rescue. Mom and our hero exchanged Christmas cards for a number of years, sharing a line or two about new events, and remembering the 1962 World’s Fair phone call.

   Sixty years later, the memory returns like a favorite old postcard read once again.

April Ryan is a Seattle resident with a lifetime of area memories!

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