Winding Down An Up-And-Down Career -- Cecil Ivory's Run Elevators At Smith Tower Since 1946

When 19-year-old Cecil Ivory went to work as an elevator operator in the 42-story L. C. Smith Tower in 1946, the 500-foot-tall structure was billed as ``the tallest building West of the Mississippi.''

Elevator operators in the Tower wore swallow-tailed coats and were considered the elite of a proud profession. Ivory, who was born in a log cabin in Edmonds, never expected to work in such luxurious surroundings.

He enjoyed opening the big polished-brass elevator doors, greeting the lawyers and merchant chiefs in their three-piece suits, and deftly maneuvering the power handle on the elevator so the floor of the elevator stopped flush with the floor of the building.

Life on the mechanical yo-yo was so challenging, in fact, that Ivory never sought another job.

On Jan. 1, 1991 - his 65th birthday - the dean of Tower elevator operators will retire.

The Tower, built by Lyman Cornelius Smith, the typewriter king, and dedicated July 4, 1914, no longer comes close to dominating Seattle's skyline. But people still come from all over the world to visit the 35th floor, where they sit on ornately carved furniture from China and walk around the outdoor observation deck.

While a cluster of high-rises to the north has blocked the view of Lake Union, the views to the south, west and east are still spectacular.

Most important to Ivory, the building has the only bank of hand-operated elevators left on the Pacific Coast.

No automation. No Muzak. No pressing buttons or trying to hold the door open for someone scurrying down the hall.

Just real live operators who will respond to your comments on the weather.

Ivory works elevator No. 3 these days, taking off from the Alaska-marble lobby with the painted ceramic Indian heads on the ceiling cove. He's supposed to go only to the 11th floor. But when a passenger mistakenly asked for the 16th floor the other day, Ivory kept going and dropped him off at his destination. He shrugged. Sometimes rules have to be bent.

Ivory has operated every elevator in the building, including the one that hauls freight. He especially enjoyed running the express elevator to the observation deck and Chinese Room ($2 for adults, $1 for youngsters and seniors).

One of the enduring legends connected with the Chinese Room goes like this:

L.C. Smith died before the building was dedicated. But his unmarried daughter was a guest. She sat in the Chinese throne chair and soon afterward found the beau of her dreams. One year later, she was married - in the Chinese room. From that day on, any unmarried woman interested in marriage has only to sit in the chair and a wedding is assured within a year.

``We still have weddings and wedding receptions up there,'' says Ivory. ``People in Seattle still like the building. In a poll a few years ago, the Smith Tower was chosen as Seattle's favorite, over all the new buildings.''

Nobody will ever know for sure how far Ivory has traveled vertically in the past 45 years.

``Somebody estimated a few years ago that I'd been to the moon three or four times,'' says Ivory, a small man with slicked back gray hair and eyeglasses. ``That sounds about right.''

As each passenger steps into his elevator, Ivory asks when they want to get off. If the elevator doesn't line up neatly with the floor outside, he cautions, ``Watch your step.''

``You have to keep practicing until you get it right,'' says Ivory.

Although the Tower's operators no longer wear uniforms - something Ivory regrets - he wouldn't dream of coming to work without a bow tie.

Ivory went through Seattle's two biggest earthquakes - a 7.2 on the Richter scale in the spring of '49 and 6.5 in the spring of '65.

``We've been told to get to the nearest floor and stop the elevator,'' says Ivory. ``The one in '49 was like a bunch of marbles in a jar. It rattled things around. The one in '65 was more like a roller coaster.''

His most famous passenger?

``Al Rosellini (twice Washington's governor) had his law office on the 11th floor. King Broadcasting had a station on the 21st floor, and a lot of personalities used the elevator. Now it's all county offices up to the 11th floor.''

Life hasn't been dull.

Ivory remembers the time a fully clothed dummy was thrown from a window into the street as a prank. He recalls ``human flies'' trying to scale the side of the building and a man who jumped from the 35th floor with a parachute. He was arrested almost as soon as he hit the ground.

Ivory was delighted when the late Ivar Haglund, restaurateur, was granted special permission to fly a salmon windsock from the Tower's flagpole after he bought the building in 1976. A city ordinance permitted only the flying of American flags.

One of the Tower's great mysteries, says Ivory, involved an elevator operator named Elbert Johnson, a very stout man who kept a high-backed chair in his elevator. He would carve another notch in the chair every time he finished a year as an operator.

Then it came time for Johnson to retire. He drew his final paycheck and lumbered off to the building's men's room, where he suffered a fatal heart attack.

That, Ivory said, was a terrible way to go. But the mystery was that Johnson's chair disappeared that day, ``and nobody knows whatever happened to it.''

Jeannie Lalley, who manages the building's elevator crew, says Ivory will be missed when he retires, ``because he's so dependable.''

Milton Bern, who runs the express elevator to the observation deck, describes Ivory as ``a super-nice guy, who even offered me his elevator when he retires, although I'm pretty fond of this one.''

To Larry Rogers, who operated elevators for 26 years and now paints names on many of the Tower's, Ivory is ``just Cecil, that's all; he's always here.''

As his days as an elevator operator wind down, Ivory says, ``It seems to me like I've been on a long journey, and it's finally coming to an end.''