When I was a little girl car rides with Grandpa were often, and almost always through the same neighborhoods. Rainer Valley , Empire Way; later named Martin Luther king way, Columbia city, all once upon a time called the Garlic Gulch.
We spoke little, as our eyes did the watching. What I suppose Grandpa saw, I never saw at that time.
Driving from Renton to Seattle in silence I saw things of all colors, the ghetto houses, apartments, shacks, and garbage thrown everywhere. The kind of people that lived in those neighborhoods were the kind you saw no where else. It was a world of its own in the old, Garlic Gulch. Poor Immigrants from all over the place thrown together in one small strip of town. I was frightened, I always feared someone would shoot us as we drove through, perhaps when we stopped at a light the car would be hijacked. I wanted Grandpa to go faster, he never would. Same pace, watching in silence.
I suppose he saw something different then me. Sure, he saw all those things, but he had memories of a different time.
When he was a boy a train went from Renton to Seattle through these neighborhoods. Possibly he and his father rode the train into town like we. Yet they had no silence at that time, for Garlic Gulch was the place of their Paisano. The streets lined with meat shops, bakeries, Italian deli’s. It was a grand time and everyone knew everyone.
My grandpa has since passed away and there is no longer car rides into the old neighborhood with my driving partner. Today I go into town with my husband and kids, and now I possibly see what Grandpa saw. Hidden in between other newly arrived immigrant restaurants and shops remains; Remo Borracchini's bakery, Oh boy Oberto’s first shop,Vince's family restaurant, these are a few of the places that filled my grandfathers memories and now are filling mine.