By JANE LOTTER

I am not one to dwell on the past, but my editors, Susan and Clayton Park, have informed me that this is the History Issue. Recently, they called me into their plush offices in the penthouse of the fabulous Jet City Maven Building, the hub of the Jet City Maven publishing empire. (Oy! The stories I could tell you! It's like a Judith Krantz novel up there!)

Since I'm the only Seattle resident, other than Stan Stapp, who was actually born here, Susan asked if I might share with the Jet City Maven readership a few memories of how Seattle was in the historic days of my childhood, back around 1960.

At least, I believe that's what Susan said to me. Now that I think about it, she may have said, "Jane, you're history."

Well, in the days of my childhood, Seattle was a much smaller town than it is now; there was no freeway, no Space Needle, and no Kingdome. (Jeepers! That last one is gone already, isn't it? They come, they go.)

For recreation, pretty much everybody went sport fishing. When I was eight, I personally reeled in a nine-pound king salmon as big as myself; that night my mother baked it, and I was forced to eat a goodly share of it.

In those days, salmon were ubiquitous (oh, go look it up). My mother routinely served us salmon patties, salmon croquettes, salmon balls, poached salmon, smoked salmon, kippered salmon, canned salmon and salmonberries. In fact, Seattle was exactly like the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, only with salmon.

Years later, when I was a grown-up, I went and lived in New York City for a time and when I got back I told my mother all about eating such sophisticated fare as bagels with cream cheese and lox.

"What exactly is lox?" my mother asked me.

"It's smoked salmon," I replied.

Then we just sat and looked at each other for a while.

Many things were free in Seattle in the 1960s, including most street parking and admission to the Woodland Park Zoo. In those days, you walked right into the zoo, no ticket necessary, just as if your tax dollars had paid for it and you had a perfect right to be there. Once inside, you were encouraged to buy peanuts and popcorn and feed the animals. It sounds odd, and it was. There were bears who actually sat up and begged when they saw a child coming toward them with a bag of salted nuts.

At that time, the zoo's two gorillas were named Bobo and Fifi; I'm not absolutely certain, but I think the zoo keepers were French. Bobo lived in this little room that, nowadays, if it were an apartment on Capitol Hill, would go for $1,500, but back then looked cramped.

There was also a brief period when you could ride on the elephants. That's right. You could not only view the elephants, you could merge with the elephant exhibit, becoming as it were, a vital component of the elephant exhibit. (Many years later, Sharon Stone's husband and the Terrifying Incident of the Komodo Dragon would remind us all that, tragically, animal exhibits and getting-too-close don't mix.)

I have a grainy photo of my sister Barbara and myself sitting with several other intrepid children in a carrier on the back of a huge, tusk-bearing elephant. The elephant, you will recall, is the largest of the land mammals. Whenever I look at that photo I just figure at that particular moment, on that particular day, my mother, who was ordinarily an even-tempered, cautious sort of individual, was temporarily OUT OF HER MIND! Had she no concept of what can happen when a four-ton pachyderm suddenly decides to run amok?!

There were also several things at the zoo that had nothing to do with zoology, but that were a lot of fun. There was a carousel, for example. Today the zoo is scheduled to get another carousel. An antique one, this time. Proving, I suppose, we've come full circle. Ha-ha.

And there were some other rickety rides and souvenir stands selling such curious items as monkey puppets on sticks and Confederate flags.

Above all, there was the ride-on miniature train. I loved the miniature train. It was open to the air and took you on a pretty little excursion part way around the park. The miniature train had the leg room of a clown car, but it also had a wonderful, ineffable charm - especially when the engineer blew the whistle. Forget the monorail. Forget light rail. Just bring back the miniature train, extend it around the city, and our transportation troubles will cease.

But, anyway, that's how Seattle was a long time ago, when children caught salmon as big as themselves and rode bravely on the backs of elephants.

Jane Lotter is a Seattle writer (and Maple Leaf resident) who holds a bachelor's degree in history from the University of Washington; she refuses to let go of it. (