By Peggy Sturdivant

I cannot explain why I have always wanted to take advantage of Seattle’s participation in the international event whereby parking spaces can be turned into popup parks every year on the third Friday of September. Mine was going to have a strictly literary theme but in the week beforehand I found myself particularly susceptible to people announcing, “I’ve got a column for you.” The column idea was often in the form of a problem to be solved.

Inspired by a very sad tale involving stolen lettuce starts I decided to add an “Ask Peggy” booth to the Ballard Writers park I’d applied to install on 32nd Avenue NW in front The Scoop at Walter’s. My vision was a street version of KING 5’s “Get Jesse” but my husband could only see Peanut’s Lucy in me, and he was the one with the power tools the night beforehand.

I hadn’t thought much beyond creating an outdoor living room plus advice booth. Luckily Ballard writer/poet Carol Levin and her husband George brought their dachshund Uncle Wiggily. While the weather mercifully held for Park(ing) Day we became the Ballard Writers Collective park. Carol had brought boxes of literary journals free for the taking.

I sat at my advice booth, charging Lucy’s rate for her psychiatric help: a nickel. Long before my final take of $1.75 I’d learned that people mostly wanted to talk, and give me advice.

I worked with a fellow writer struggling with the subtitle for her upcoming collection, but had to make a referral to the Levins and the rotating guests in our living room in front of the 61 Metro bus stop. One reader paid a nickel to ask where I live in case I sell tomatoes again. Several people asked for advice on the upcoming mayoral election. But mostly they talked.

Lucille wondered if writing could finally help her find the kindred spirits she doesn’t have in a partner or within her own family. “You hope there is still someone out there.”

Paul Albertson pronounced the gathering an outdoor forum, “dating back to Roman times.” He’s a welder, Ballard High School class of ’75. He recalled how the Ballard Smoke Shop was the place to land your next job along the Ship Canal. While at my booth he told me, “I think it’s fun to share happiness.” Looking at our two parking spaces with rugs, chairs, planters, books and Uncle Wiggily he said, “This is just fun.”

After the morning crowd there was a lull at around 1 p.m. that was explained to us as “naptime.” Then strollers and people with dogs re-emerged, building into a veritable after-school traffic jam. Suddenly it was six deep in front of the ice cream counter on this last Friday of the incredible Seattle summer of 2013.

I had answered questions about lottery tickets and elections, movie recommendations and where to eat lunch. A couple I knew sat down and tasked me for advice on where to buy land as though I was for real. What struck me is that although they already have answers, they were asking me so sincerely.

A mother with a young daughter asked if I only took questions on writing. Assured that I was all-purpose I took a nickel from my Curious George lunchbox and handed it to the daughter so she could pay me the nickel in turn. “Are these diamonds?” she asked me, holding in her palm a sparkly silvery ring that she had just found in the street. I compared it with the wedding ring that my grandfather was able to afford for my grandmother back in 1925. The little girl watched me carefully.

“It’s not diamonds,” I told her. “But it could be very lucky.”

“It’s okay,” the mother told me. “She just found it.”

The day went so fast. Drivers waved and finally gave up on thinking we were a garage sale. More writers revealed themselves. People took the literary journals and introduced dogs to one another. Strangers took photographs.

Then the day on the street was abruptly over, permit expired, the brown chair wheeled back to my house, No Parking signs stacked for return to National Barricade. One exchange lingered the rest of the day and then haunted me all night. It was when Keren sat in front of me, the same young woman who five days earlier had inspired me to take questions after her lettuce starts were stolen. She asked, do you think the City will make zoning changes that allow remaining single-family residences on my street to become four-story multifamily homes?

I would have loved to give her any answer other than yes.

I looked at Keren’s open face, the lightest of freckles that you only notice up really close. Married in Ballard, raising her family in Ballard. Those neighborhood streets between Market and 65th have changed greatly in recent years as 24th NW has changed, with the library moved, Ballard Commons Park opened, QFC become just a ground floor. Her street has changed.

“You buy a house and you have a dream,” she said. “Then it’s not what you invested in.” Her friend Deb stood close by as we both just listened. “It’s shocking.”

“You bought a dream,” she said, and in her face there was sorrow for which I had no advice.

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