The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red by Ellen Rimbauer

several extra weeks in
    case of a holiday slowdown. ( John will devote himself to the
    house fully when not engaged in his oil business. He has already
    left for a meeting with Douglas Posey, his oil partner, to discuss
    the events of the past week, during which time we were isolated on
    the train.) A packet of photographs awaited us at the Ritz in New
    York upon our arrival there by steamer. Oh, such grandeur! The
    facade is brick, the house contained behind a wrought-iron fence
    and a twin set of stone pillars over which hangs the Rimbauer
    crest. The driveway hosts an island, home to one of the many
    statuettes we purchased in Italy. There must be thirty windows or
    more on the front of the house, a half dozen chimneys rising
    from its myriad of rooftops. The interior pictures, of the Grand
    Stair and the Entry Hall, leave me breathless. Oh, to think of this
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    magni?cent place as my home! I can’t imagine! (But I shall soon
    enough!) In the Parlor, I saw that the suit of armor (from
    England), the brown bear (shot by John in the Swiss Alps) and
    the pipe organ (from Bavaria) are already installed! How impressive
    a sight it is—these souvenirs and treasures from our year
    abroad. I thrill at the thought of taking tea in my Parlor!
    The party—our homecoming and the dedication of the
    house—is to be a lavish affair: local politicians, entertainers,
    friends and businessmen, perhaps three hundred in all. My
    mother has been overseeing much of the preparation in advance
    of our arrival. John sent nearly ?fty cases of champagne from
    France and another several hundred cases of wine, many of which
    will go to the celebration, the rest to be housed in our Wine
    Cellar ( John wants to boast the largest private wine cellar on the
    West Coast). Beef has been shipped from Chicago and Kansas
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    City. Pork from Nebraska. Fresh ?sh is to be delivered from
    dockside on the day of the grand affair. Chocolate from
    Switzerland. Tea from England. Cigars from Cuba. John is leaving
    nothing to chance. This is a party no one in Seattle will ever
    forget.
    And if I have my way—and indeed I will—it is a party we shall
    repeat annually. A party to dwarf any New Year’s Eve event. The
    Rimbauer Party. It shall go down in the society pages for years to
    come. The biggest party in the biggest house.
    I feel myself on track again. I am glad our long journey is
    over.
    Another is just beginning.
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    christmas eve, 1908—seattle
    For two painful weeks, John has denied me a visit to our grand
    home as workers complete the ?nal touches. We shall formally
    move into our home on January the ?fteenth, the day of our
    homecoming party ( John has scheduled our “arrival” with a
    greeting by the staff on that day). After repeated requests on my
    part to tour our new home, so that I might orchestrate the delivery
    of our personal items well in advance of our formal arrival,
    John drove me up Spring Street in his new Cadillac this afternoon,
    a trip I remember well from my ?rst journey here so many
    months ago.
    The city is still in the grips of various stages of the regrade,
    accounting for some very silly sights. Some families have elected
    to challenge in court the city’s right to lower certain streets by as
    much as seventy feet, while ?lling in various gulches that make
    passage nearly impossible. This effort, ongoing now for nearly a
    decade, has been a bitter battle. Those families that have brought
    legal suit against the city have not been required to lower their
    homes, leaving some lots and the houses atop them isolated on
    forty- or ?fty-foot “pinnacles,” earthen towers rising from the
    new street level (muddy as it is). The homes are completely inaccessible,
    leaving the families without residence. It is quite obvious
    that at some point these families will capitulate, but oh what a
    sight in the meantime! It seems as if nearly every building in this
    eastern part of the city is on scaffolding of some kind, and