72 Hours in Seattle to Revive My Dad
Reading time: About 12 minutes.
Before my dad visits me, he listens to my plans and says, “No need to make a fuss over us. We’re just happy to be with you.” I always thought he said this because of Mom. She had health problems but pushed herself to the breaking point whenever we traveled together. I imagined Dad wanted to remind me to keep things chill so she didn’t get sick. But recently, as I shared the itinerary for his and my sister’s weekend visit, he repeated it. My mom has been dead for more than three years now, so either it's habit, or he means it.
Truth be told, Dad does love a good hangout and chat session. I had an open campus in high school and thirty minutes to leave campus to eat. Usually, it was a race across town to Pizza Hut or Taco Bell with nine of my closest pals crammed into my old Pontiac Sunbird. But often, on Mondays, when Dad had the day off, he met me at the curb with a sackful of burritos, and we’d sit in his car, eating and solving the world’s problems.
After my mom died, Dad slumped into old age in a way he hadn’t before. Grief is hard. It carves into you and creates a whole new person from what used to be there. Before Mom died, he went golfing with friends, took her to concerts and plays, and was a beloved minister in the community chapel where he lived in Arizona. After Mom died, his conversations changed from people he had seen to books he had read. Within a year of her death, he resigned from the ministry, moved back to Texas, where I grew up, and started talking about dying.
Sometime in the midst of witnessing all this, I realized “not making a fuss” was not an option. My dad needed to be fussed over, and I needed him to see that he’s still alive and we have lots of memories to make. So, before he and Jessie arrived in February, I made it my mission to saturate him with enriching, life-giving activities. Maybe it would sink in a little that he’s still got it, and life is worth living.
Day One: Mount Rainier Adventure
For our first full day together, I booked an outing with Evergreen Escapes to the winter wonderland known as Mount Rainier. Being around trees always lifts my spirits. I figured it might do the same for Dad’s.
Dad prepared like an A+ student for the nose-hair-freezing temperatures that awaited us on the mountain. He pulled out ski gear from back when we spent spring breaks in Colorado. He had thick gloves and layered up with two pairs of socks, two long-sleeve tops, a sweater, a ski jacket, and “longhandle underwear.” I should have followed his example, but I scoffed at the idea that twenty degrees could phase me. I am, after all, a perimenopausal woman, and one of my superpowers is the ability to become a ball of fire in an instant. Not so on Rainier. While Dad stayed relatively warm and never complained about the arctic wind blowing through us, the meager layers I wear in Seattle when it’s cold doused my perimenopausal flame and turned me into an ice cube.
Even though Dad was a top student in his gear, he was still nervous. We all were. None of us had ever gone snowshoeing before, and it’s been decades since we went skiing. It didn’t help that while we fussed and fiddled with the snowshoe straps to latch them on our feet, a group of boys rolled out of a van in the parking lot, popped on their snowshoes, and darted up the hill in seconds. They made it look like nothing, whereas we looked like newborn colts learning to walk.
It took a few minutes to learn how to place our footing. We took turns spilling into deep snow as we made our way up the trail. During these early moments, Dad seemed lost, overwhelmed. His eyes were far away. I worried he’d hate it and want to quit. But once he got up the trail a little, he stopped to look around. He gasped with wonder at the beauty. It was magical. His eyes came back into focus. All the nervous lines disappeared from the part of his face I could see. In the end, Dad did great. It was me who struggled the most. It was my body that kept us from going the entire distance. But that’s a story for another day.
Day Two: Seattle Glassblowing Class
Since we had already spent so much time in the elements on the first day of their visit, I booked a class at Seattle Glassblowing Studio, just around the corner from where I live, for the second day.
The hot shop inside the studio is the perfect place to spend a February afternoon. It can be cloudy, cold, and drizzly outside, but it's warm inside, where the ovens glow with heat that can melt glass. There’s so much to take in, including artists working nearby on projects that seem impossible. Three hours pass in a blink, and every moment feels memorable.
It can be intimidating, though, and at first, both Dad and Jessie chose the most straightforward projects to work on out of fear they’d mess up or embarrass themselves. Our instructor, Tree--yes, his name is Tree--frowned at this. “You’re only here for today,” he told them. “Let’s have some fun.” He even went so far as to create drawings for Jessie so she could visualize a pink and purple vase with a petal-like opening. Tree was there every step of the way, doing a lot of the heavy lifting and getting out of the way just enough to make her feel like a master artist. He made us all feel that way.
Dad went against Tree’s recommendation for his first project and made something simpler—a bold, blue paperweight covered in clear glass. Once he saw what Jessie did with her purple vase, he took Tree’s advice for his second project and created a flowering bowl in black and gold, a tribute to the colors of our hometown high school football team, The Yellowjackets.
We walked through the art gallery with glittering eyes and newfound respect when the class was over. We held our hands behind our backs in reverence, aware that the slightest wrong move could ruin someone’s work.
Dad broke the silence after a few moments. “My dad worked in a glass factory before he died,” he said in a voice that broke with emotion. He went on to say that Grandpa Albert had helped shape liquified glass into light fixtures in the 60s. “This class,” he continued, pointing back toward the hot shop, “connects me to him in a new way.”
Day 3: Adventures in the City
The first 48 hours of my family’s visit had been physically, mentally, and maybe emotionally strenuous. Dad’s energy at breakfast on the third morning looked like the heavy clouds that weighed down the sky. His eyes squinted to stay open. He leaned forward on the balls of his feet when he walked to protect an ache in his back. He was tired. I wondered if he’d be okay for the busy day ahead and offered to change the schedule, but he would hear none of it. He didn’t want to miss out. I didn’t want him to miss out either, so we made a pact to take it slow. Our first adventure of the day, though, threatened to sap Dad of the little energy he had left.
Monorail Shenanigans
The building where I live is within a stone’s throw of the Space Needle, which is in a park known as Seattle Center. One easy way to get to the heart of downtown if you don’t want to walk is to go to Seattle Center and take the Monorail into town.
The Space Needle and The Monorail were both built for the 1962 World’s Fair. The Monorail is a Mid-Century chrome dreamboat that trundles several stories above ground into the heart of downtown and back. Although the line hasn’t received a significant facelift in its lifetime, it became an official part of our city transportation system a couple of years ago when they installed transit pass readers. To ride, all you have to do is tap the reader with the transit pass and wait for the beep. Or so they say.
I went first to demonstrate how this works for my family. I tapped my card, the reader beeped, and the plexiglass gate opened. Next, my sister went through. Easy peasy. Then it came Dad’s turn.
His card procured the beep, but the gates didn’t open. He shuffled back to the reader and tried again. Nothing. His face melted into frustration and weariness. I looked around for a way to return to his side of the gate, but I couldn’t. Jessie and I were on the entrance side, not the exit, and there was not a path that I could see that would let us out.
Behind me, I heard the Monorail rattling down the guideway, approaching the platform to pick us up.
I was contemplating jumping over the turnstile when I heard, “You just gotta be patient.” It was an attendee who appeared from a dark booth in the corner. It's funny he mentioned patience, though. His voice was anything but. He took my dad’s transit card, tapped it against the reader, and voilá! The plexiglass parted, and Dad was able to join us just in time.
It only took a few minutes to reach our destination, so I was surprised at how chatty and observant Dad was as we made our way to Pike Place Market for lunch. He was practically giddy! Perhaps all the excitement at the turnstile had churned up his adrenaline. Or maybe it was the lure of a meal that rallied him.
Running Drills and Dodging Seagulls at Pike Place Market
Not surprisingly, people crowded every corner of the Market. Even in winter, the hallways feel like a sardine can and smell like it, too.
After wading through crowds to shop, Dad, Jessie, and I lined up along the sidewalk to grab lunch at Piroshky, Piroshky, a deli specializing in Eastern European stuffed sandwiches. They had something for all of us, including several vegan options for me. The line snaked back from the deli about half a block, but it moved fast--almost too fast. The menus posted on poles in line blurred by as we surged forward.
Just as a menu came into focus, a woman near the doorway to the restaurant stepped into the path of pedestrians and yelled, “All those in line for Piroshky, Piroshky! Eyes on me!” In the voice of a seasoned drill sergeant, she gave us instructions on how we would, on her mark, “Go! Go! Go!” into the restaurant. “You will order at the counter!” she bellowed, “Step down to the cash register to pay! Pick up your drinks from the fridge near the exit! And leave! This is not a sit-down restaurant! You will not be allowed to linger!”
Fortunately, I had shared the menu with my family beforehand, so we were ready for our turn to Go! Go! Go! But we were still a little shell-shocked after all that. We followed the sergeant’s instructions and stumbled out of the restaurant with our bagful of piping hot sandwiches to a concrete half-wall across the street.
During summer, vendors selling beaded bracelets, metalwork, and Seattle t-shirts occupy that wall. On this cold, cloudy day, though, it was just us, a thousand tourists squeezing by and seagulls hustling for leftovers. The sandwiches hit the spot and gave us new energy. Sad for the seagulls, though. We ate every crumb. They flew off, plotting our demise.
Gossip and Insider Tips at Lumen Field
Warmed, fed, and ready for the next adventure, we set off to the Stadium District for a tour of Lumen Field, where the Seattle Seahawks play football. My sister is a major football fan. She never misses a game featuring her favorite team, the Denver Broncos. Although it’s not where the Broncos play, I figured she’d like to go behind the scenes of an NFL stadium.
Our guide was a 60-year-old firecracker named Connie. She loves her city and the Seahawks but also loves people who love football, art, or music. Pretty much, she loves everybody. She was welcoming and made the tour enjoyable, even for a sports outsider like me.
On the tour, Connie walked us through the stadium's labyrinth into a VIP suite where the wealthy and the lucky go to watch games and events. She told us how to win tickets to a VIP Suite for a game, but she also clued us in on how to get up close to a favorite player, even if we have the cheap seats. She also suggested getting out of the way when the Seahawks mascot, Blitz, shows up with a t-shirt cannon. He’s not there to share t-shirts. His cannon is loaded with hotdogs!
Connie’s stories were fascinating and fun to listen to. My favorite was how, last summer, when Taylor Swift performed a concert at Lumen Field, Connie saved the artist from a shower of vomit. Just as Taylor was coming to the stage, a drunk guest in the stands above tipped forward to vomit. Connie jumped in front of the guest just in time, saving Taylor Swift from needing a costume change and a complete redo on her hair.
After we wrapped up our time with Connie, it was nearly five o’clock. It was time to head back home. Our day with the Monorail started north of downtown, and by late afternoon, we were south of downtown. We had navigated the city using two forms of mass transit and our own feet. Standing in the parking lot of Lumen Field, we compared notes and discovered that we each had around 14,000 steps. That adds up to about 7 miles.
I gotta give it to Dad. For every excursion, he rose to the occasion. He showed me, if not himself that he’s still full of life. As if to drive home that reality, Dad started walking toward the light rail station when I offered to take an Uber back home.
“I don’t want to take an Uber,” he said. “That means this is all ending. I want to keep going.”
After that, I could only nod. Tears clutched my throat, making it impossible to talk. But inside, I thought, “Mission accomplished.”
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What a great visit, and what a kind, generous and caring gift to bestow on your father. Your writing put us right there with you - a gift to readers, as well!