Frederick & Nelson -- For Those Who Remember -- It's Not Just A Store

This is for my husband and for all the other people who grew up somewhere else and can't understand why all the people who grew up here are so upset over the prospect of losing Frederick & Nelson.

"It's just a store," my Pennsylvania-raised husband remarked one evening when I was longingly recalling childhood lunches with my mother at the Paul Bunyan kitchen during the 1950s.

No, it was not just a store. It was an institution, a cold word for cherished places that shape our lives.

The Frederick's I knew and loved had the approachable glamour and warm graciousness of an elegant aunt. With its children's hair salon with child-sized chairs, its child-care "kindergarten," and its huge toy department, it welcomed even lively children with wide eyes and curious hands. Hands that wanted to stroke fine velvets in the yardage department or reach out for big, expensive Steuben bowls, safely tucked behind glass, that reposed on dramatically lit shelves in the crystal department.

For many years, Frederick's possessed a grace and style so distinctive that it stood apart - some would say aloof - from every other department store around. And there were many more stores then.

Long before Nordstrom acquired a reputation for service, Frederick's was setting the standard.

READY TO HELP

I remember my mother bringing her knitting to Frederick's art needlework department. There, a circle of ladies sat intently over their handiwork while a Frederick's employee (I thought of her as The Knitting Lady) stood ready to help with any problems they might encounter. When my mother had problems, she'd simply hand her knitting to The Knitting Lady, who would puzzle over it, then re-knit the section herself.

Buying children's shoes at Frederick's was a back-to-school ritual. Every fall, my mother would take my brother, Paul, and me to the shoe department. We would ask for Miss Mitchell - I think that was her name - who always greeted us as if she had been waiting all year for our return.

Miss Mitchell sat on a leather-seated fitter's chair with a sloped, rubber-tread front and carefully measured our growing feet. Then she'd disappear and, after what seemed like a very long time, reappear with the shiny new Buster Brown shoes we'd wear that year.

GROWING FEET, GROWING UP

But the high point came after we bought the shoes, when Miss Mitchell went to the file where records were kept on regular customers and pulled a card noting which shoes we'd bought the year before, and what size.

Then she'd always comment admiringly on how much our feet had grown, and we would swell with pride.

When we took our excursions to Frederick's, usually we rode the escalators. As they transported us smoothly from floor to floor, my brother and I strained to see beyond the handrails to the luxurious world of lovely things gracing every floor.

Other times, we'd take the elevators. All were run by very chic elevator operators who seemed to be visions of perfect glamour as they perched on their little stools, announcing floors in velvety voices.

I hardly dared hope that I might grow up to be a Frederick's elevator operator; it was every little girl's dream.

Frederick's record department was another rare treat. When we were interested in previewing a record, a salesperson would slit open the album cover and escort us to one of several large, soundproofed rooms with turntables (and plenty of room for packages), where you could listen undisturbed.

Then there was the lending library, where my mother checked out brand new books.

And the children's hair salon, where I got my first professional haircuts from a lanky, dark-haired male stylist who fluttered around, snipping here and there.

A CHRISTMAS TRADITION

It has become a cliche to say that Christmas isn't Christmas without Frederick & Nelson. But it was true. As soon as Thanksgiving passed, we could hardly wait to run downtown and see how Frederick's had outdone itself on Christmas decorations.

Of course, I sat on Santa's lap every year. Judging from the long lines, so did every other child in Seattle.

More fascinating to my brother and me were the animated window displays. I especially remember Santa's workshop, where an elf slowly raised and lowered a tiny hammer while other elves worked with moving saws.

And in the jumble of Christmas images, I seem to recall displays with ballerinas pirouetting, and dancing bears. Wandering minstrels in Olde English dress.

I've read where David Sabey said his family didn't have much money when he was growing up, but when they had enough to buy something special, they always went to Frederick's.

So it was with my family. We didn't get many clothes there unless they were from the bargain basement, known for its value.

Yet, at a time when everyone seemed to be living in ramblers and eating Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner, Frederick's was an elegant home away from home, where a little girl could dream of red velvet dresses with lace collars, and oversized, stuffed rabbits with long, floppy ears. A place to watch miniature trains chugging through craggy landscapes in the toy department, or to peek in on the hushed propriety of the eighth-floor tearoom.

PAUL BUNYAN MEMORIES

Many generations of Seattle girls learned to be ladies at Frederick's tearoom. I remember a few lunches there with my mother, at dainty tables set with white linen and fine silver. But my favorite memories are of the louder, more boisterous Paul Bunyan Kitchen in the basement.

There, I sat at the counter and gazed at hand-painted murals of Paul Bunyan, the giant lumberjack, and his blue ox, Babe.

My brother and I particularly loved one scene that perfectly captured the magical, whimsical side of Frederick's. It showed Paul Bunyan's giant griddle being greased by little kitchen helpers skating on strips of bacon.

Always, we ordered nut-bread sandwiches, made from Frederick's special walnut bread, and Frango milkshakes. From large old fountain glasses, we sipped our milkshakes through white paper straws, trying hard not to make a slurping noise when we reached bottom.

Sometimes a nugget of unblended ice cream remained on the bottom. We'd poke at it with our soggy straws, trying to spear it and gobble it down before our mother could stop us.

Of such small victories are happy children's lunches made.

My brother and I loved the tall counter stools and always tried to spin on them before we were caught. When I was able to climb up on those stools by myself, without my mother's help, I knew I was growing up.

Some might pick the tearoom as their favorite example of Frederick's elegance. I'll take the Ladies Lounge.

It is where it was, on the fifth floor. Aisles of fine china, silver and crystal flanked the aisle to the lounge, a calm corner of deeply padded carpet, elegant love seats, tables and chairs and long, heavy draperies gracefully parted to reveal full, sheer curtains.

Throughout, the light was muted and restful. To the left as you entered was a row of about a dozen mahogany phone booths; on the opposite wall were shelves where packages could be stored.

Beyond the phone booths were writing desks, each with complimentary note paper, envelopes and pens. The restrooms had marble booths; my favorite was a double booth with two toilets side by side, one noticeably lower, to accommodate a mother and daughter.

The ladies lounge is still there. But when I visited it the other day, it had changed almost beyond recognition.

A TARNISHED LADY

Gone were the phone booths, the shelves, the writing desks, the note paper. Gone were the plush carpets, replaced by something thin and soiled. Instead of love seats, there were a few cheap-looking chairs; instead of draperies, slat blinds dangled in front of unwashed windows.

I felt a sudden pang of emptiness. It was the same pang I felt when I saw a 1988 photograph of a huge, inflatable King Kong - a prop for some luggage promotion - being tethered to the exterior of the once-grand emporium.

The most elegant and gracious grande dame of all had been robbed of her dignity and tricked out in a miniskirt by those who didn't appreciate her stately style. It was disgusting. Pathetic.

I stopped shopping at Frederick's about a decade ago. It didn't seem to have what I wanted anymore and the store was not much fun to visit. Once, going to Frederick's had been a highlight of the Christmas season; eventually, I couldn't be bothered to walk across the street from Nordstrom and sift through things I didn't want or wait for sales clerks who never seemed to be working in my section.

I remember avoiding the store when African Americans complained about a lack of affirmative action there. And, when a sales clerk was rude to a friend a few years ago, it seemed clear the old Frederick's was no more. I had no compunction about taking my business elsewhere.

I came back when it looked as if Frederick's was dying. I did almost all my Christmas shopping there. I shopped frantically. As the memories flooded back, I walked the aisles, looking for something - anything - to buy and, just as often, someone to take my money.

But when I compared my memories of Christmases past at Frederick's - the crowded aisles you could barely squeeze through, the masses of shoppers loaded down with innumerable dark-green Frederick's bags - with the empty aisles I walked this year, I knew the grand, beautiful store of my memories was dying.

And no purchase I could make, nothing I could do, could save it.

FREDERICK & NELSON'S HISTORY

-- May 1890: Founded by Nels Nelson and Donald Edward Frederick.

-- June 1929: Sold to Chicago-based Marshall Field & Co.

-- March 1982: Marshall Field & Co. acquired by Batus, a U.S. subsidiary of a British conglomerate, for $362 million.

-- 1985: F&N reportedly lost $13 million.

-- September 1986: Batus sold F&N to Basil Vyzis, Herman Sarkowsky, G. Arthur Henkens and George Lobisser for an estimated $100 million to $250 million.

-- February 1989: David Sabey announces an agreement to purchase the chain for what internal documents later showed was $19 million, plus $16.25 million cash contribution to the company. G.

Arthur Henkens retains a minority inter est and remains president.

-- August 1989: Henkens sells his minority interest to Sabey. Sabey announces that the chain's three senior vice presidents will assume Henkens' duties.

-- September 1991: F&N files for Chapter 11 protection from creditors. Receives short-term financing from Citibank, its principal lender.

-- Yesterday: F&N files court papers say ing it will liquidate starting Feb. 19 unless a new investor can be found.

YOUR MEMORIES

We know you have your own memories of living with Frederick & Nelson. Please send them to us care of:

Frederick's Memories, Scene Section, The Seattle Times P.O. Box 70, Seattle, WA 98111