New York seemed light years away. I was living in the back room of my mother’s art gallery on Mercer Island when I got a job as a secretary in the Vault, a rock and roll nightclub in Seattle. It was literally underground – in a large basement. It was operated by a jazz saxophonist, Ronnie; it didn’t take long for us to fall into each other’s arms. I also met David Satermo about that time – the Norwegian cabinetmaker who played the violin – my intellectual companion for a couple of years. He let me take over his small apartment on the backside of an apartment building, an insignificant and tiny room with a kitchenette, but he had made it into a charming studio by tearing out a wall and installing floor to ceiling windows looking out over the yard. At that time I started taking cello lessons and sat in my little studio playing arpeggios in the winter watching large snowflakes drifting down in the yard.
The Vault nightclub was a couple of blocks from the famous Seattle Farmers Market. Ronnie sent me there frequently to buy gourmet ingredients for our late night suppers – that is when he wasn’t taking me out for lobster and martinis – our favorite meal at stylish restaurants.