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Here at Wallyhood, we often write about institutions and landmarks in our neighborhood. This story is about a living icon. If you have spent any time at all in Wallingford, especially near the freeway, you’ve seen him: the trim, steadfastly persistent man with a long beard, sitting in front of now-faded Ukrainian flags. Driving rain or baking summer sun, he sits on his folding chair, waving to the cars lining up to enter the freeway and handing out brochures to those who open their windows. This is R: Ralph Scott Richardson, who was tired of explaining the Rs in his name, and whether he went by “Ralph” or “Scott.” So, he made it easy, and goes by simply “R.” R, who will be 75 in May, can usually be found along the upper part of the southbound I-5 on-ramp on Tuesdays through Saturdays. For a long time—years, actually—I have wondered what his story was. On my way back from the most recent No Kings gathering, I stopped by to ask R if I could chat with him sometime. He graciously agreed—although he did mention he’d rather be speaking to a television station. Ironically, about a week later, KING5 profiled him, scooping Wallyhood in the process. It’s dog-eat-dog out here in the cutthroat world of journalism!

On a recent sunny late morning, I took my notepad and phone recorder to his outpost and sat with him for nearly an hour. He’s had a long, hard life, defined by abuse that eventually drove him away from his childhood home in Arlington, Virginia. The notable link to his early days is the folded, well-worn photo of his family dog Suzie, which he carries in his wallet and is happy to show off. Suzie seems to be one of the few fond memories R has of his early days. He tears up a little when he tells the story of the mail carrier taking Suzie with him on his rounds, then delivering her back home at the end of the day.

After a succession of abusive men living with his mother finally drove R to leave home for good, he made his way west by train. Seattle was not necessarily his destination, and after hitting the end of the east-west rail line, R turned south and traveled to Oregon and northern California. But he returned to Seattle, where he’s been for over 50 years. Much of his time here—39 years—he worked as a home care aide. But he also spent time working for Puget Consumers’ Co-op, and he sold flowers (“Dead flowers for outrageous prices,” as he described it) on a street corner.

Now, his full-time gig is as one face of Ukraine Defense Support, a locally-based 501(c)(3) charity that provides medical and life-saving supplies to Ukraine’s defenders, medics, and frontline volunteers. He has been at this on-ramp for three years. Before that, he spent a year outside the Wallingford QFC. Each day that he is on the job, he and his plastic tote full of gear take two buses from his apartment near Northgate to reach our neighborhood. He brushed aside my comments about the level of commitment to this effort, referencing what the people of Ukraine have had to endure in their four-year war against Putin’s invasion. R is not Ukrainian, but he has embraced the plight of the people as his own. He has other causes that he tries to support when he can, on his very modest income, mentioning PAWS and the Environmental Defense Fund.

As you can imagine, life and times on the street corners and on-ramps are not easy. That on-ramp along 5th Avenue is an active and much-frequented spot. When R first set up shop where he is, the other people who work that strip were not pleased and told him he couldn’t be there. Then they told him he had to sign up to work it every day. On Christmas Eve 2023, someone pepper-sprayed him. He is mostly left alone now. Perhaps longevity counts for something besides Congressional stature.

I asked R if there is anything that Wallyhood Nation might provide for him. Supplies? Assistance? He waved it all away. He hands out brochures provided by Ukraine Defense Support. He does have a few signs and wishes he could print some stickers if they weren’t too expensive. I told him maybe someone in our readership could lend a hand.

I was feeling a little guilty that I had been taking up so much of his time listening to his story and learning who he was. I didn’t see him collect a single dime the entire time I was with him. As I was getting ready to go, I pressed a bill into his hand even as he protested a little. “Hopefully, this buys a few supplies,” I told him. And maybe a little bus fare. We thanked each other, and he gave me a hug as we parted company.

I took a few photos as I walked away. There he remained, sitting and waving at the passers-by.