SEATTLE — The symbol of Seattle is, of course, the Space Needle.
But the heart of the place, the very SOUL of Seattle, is Pike Place Market.
And if you go there and make your way through the crowds to Arcade #7, you will come across a force of nature, the one they call the "Queen of the Market."
The one they call "Mama Lina."
I asked her about her nickname.
"Mama Lina... or Auntie Lina. They call me, 'Hey Mama Lina, how you doing today? You alright?' I say, 'Yeah, bring me some food. Filipino food.' I say, 'not American food, Filipino food.'"
Lina Constantino is there seven days a week, sometimes moving boxes, sometimes working the cash register, sometimes placing fruit and vegetables on display at her produce stand.
If you don't see her at first, you will hear her. Her Filipino accent cuts through the din of the market.
“Alright,” she barked out. “Doing just fine. Working alone."
Lina is tiny and mighty.
"Alright!" Lina said as she bagged up some tomatoes and handed them down to a customer. "That's it! $625!”
Lina isn't normally alone at her stand in the market. Her son Donnie is usually there, too.
Donnie wears a Mariners hat and jacket. He was what they called a “banana box baby” back in the day. He slept in a fruit box under the counter while Lina worked.
Today, his banana box has been replaced by a little bed for Lina's tiny dog, Popcorn.
Lina and Donnie, mother and son, are a team.
A young woman orders some fruit. Lina yells up to Donnie, "Give me a big!"
The woman offers Lina a tip.
"What you want to give me a tip?" Lina said. "I'm too old to get a tip!"
I told Donnie that his mom seemed like a market legend.
"That's what I say to her," he explained. "But she says, 'No I'm not, I've just been here too long.'"
Nobody has been at Pike Place Market longer than Lina. Nobody.
She's worked at her stand for 62 years, pretty much non-stop.
A customer hands Lina some bills, and she crumples them in her fist and throws them up to Donnie.
"Thanks, sweetie!" Lina said.
"Monday through Sunday. Seven days a week. The market, to the house, to the church,” Lina said. “Three things I do, and I'm here all the time."
She glances skyward, "Thank you, Lord."
And if you listen closely, amidst the clamor of the market, you can hear this little woman singing. Her lips don't move, but sure enough, as she moves around her produce stand, she hums sweet little songs.
It makes you wonder, "What's she so happy about?"
Kelli Brown works at a produce stand across from Lina.
"She means resilience," Kelli said. "She means endurance. She means joy."
Behind the berries, and the oranges and the avocados, back behind the cash register, are two shrines.
One is to Jesus. Lina is Catholic to the core.
The other shrine is to Elvis Presley.
Even after all these years, the king of Rock 'n Roll makes the Queen of the Market giddy like a school girl.
When I asked her, "Why do you love Elvis so much?' She stammered and stumbled and seemed flummoxed.
"The way he acted," she said. "I mean. uh.. I don't know..."
Lina grew up on a farm in the Philippines. When she was young, an American came. Lina's parents told her to marry this man. His name was Domingo Constantino.
"How old was he?" I asked Lina.
"Fifty-nine,” she answered.
Then she told me that she was 23 years old at the time.
I said, "And your family basically arranged the marriage?"
She nodded in agreement.
"Arranged the marriage," she said.
They flew to Seattle and Lina said that the very day she arrived, her new husband put her to work at his produce stand.
She's been there ever since.
Lina is 84 years old now. When she arrives at the market for work, she pauses twice to rest her legs.
These days, as Lina works at the produce stand, her back barks at her, her legs ache, and she leans on fruit boxes for balance.
We unearthed some old film of her working in the market in 1972, before she was the queen. She is young and strong looking in a sleeveless top, carrying a box of onions on her head, smiling and chattering as she walks.
The contrast is stunning.
Time always wins.
The other day, Lina took time away from her work and the little songs she sings to answer more of my questions.
I asked her why she doesn't take a few days off? "Why not relax a little bit?" I said.
She answered this way: "I don't know how to. I don't know how to relax. If I go home, I do some work again."
Maybe you feel like Lina's life has been somehow lacking. Maybe you feel like it's been too much work and not enough play.
But there is something you don't know about this woman. Something profound.
Her husband Domingo, the one who brought her to Seattle, died in 1980.
I said to Lina, "How long were you married to this man?"
"Until he died," she answered. "I didn't run away for anything. No. I just stick with it. Whatever he said I just followed. I don't answer anything, but in my mind it's not my happiness that I was thinking about, it's my family back home. I want to bring them here, all of it. Ten of them."
"Did you do that?" I asked.
"I did," Lina said as she nodded.
Her brothers Virgillio, Alfredo, Romundo, Felipe Jr. and Rodel. Her sisters Benita, Virgie, Jovita and Carmelita.
Lina brought all of them to the United States.
And not just her brothers and sisters. She brought her parents here as well, and her three nieces as well.
All of them living in America because of Moma Lina and her produce stand at Pike Place Market.
It's stunning.
"Even though I don't have no money, I just saved it,” she said. “Whatever I have money, a little bit, I save it, and I send it to them. Just to come to America. It's not my happiness. I was thinking of them back home, and I did. Thank you Lord. I did all of those things."
Maybe that's why Lina sings her happy little songs. Not for her own happiness, as she says, but for the lives, one by one, that she has changed.
The other day there were balloons outside the market.
A table was put up and a cake was set down on it. When everything was ready, Lina was summoned away from her produce stand.
And as she stood there and a crowd gathered around her, a special guest walked up in a white jump suit with rhinestones and a big collar.
It was Elvis. Filipin Elvis.
He hugged her and then sang to Lina, in celebration of her 84th birthday.
And Lina did the most surprising thing. She looked down as he sang and cried.
Elvis sang Hound Dog and some others. He danced some.
But Lina kept rubbing her eyes and crying.
Maybe the tears were because Elvis still makes her feel all gooey inside.
Maybe.
But maybe it was because, for this woman who has worked so hard, for so long, for so many others, it was tough to process this one bit of happiness that was just for her and no one else.
That's how it is for the true givers of the world. Sometimes it's difficult to receive.
