...but I think I can pretty easily relate to what they're getting at in this video:
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Everyone gets in the holiday spirit around here
Portland bagpiping unicyclist dresses for Christmas
No, it's not my camerawork, though I have seen this guy unicycling around Crystal Springs before. I mean, surely there can't be more than one bagpiping unicyclist in Portland, right?
No, it's not my camerawork, though I have seen this guy unicycling around Crystal Springs before. I mean, surely there can't be more than one bagpiping unicyclist in Portland, right?
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Ghosts and rails in old Albina
I’ve always lived in river and railroad towns. When I was old enough to drive around at night on my own, at home in Ashland, KY, my destination after dark was more often than not the boat docks on the Ohio River. I’d park on the steeply sloped, grooved concrete lot, cradled between the barges which were silent but for the slapping of their wakes and the trains. Both were ferrying coal from the bowels of the nearby mountains to wherever it is the coal goes. Sometimes my friends and I would hop a train for a few hundred yards, never quite brave enough to go much further than that. The bridges towered overhead. Everything was moving someplace else. All of us in that group felt the pull of such motion; three of us live on the West Coast now, and none of us in Ashland.
Even before I was old enough to drive, though, I listened to the sounds of the trains at night—as Paul Simon says, “everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance; everybody believes it’s true.” Then the trains were punctuated by the occasional deep whoosh of pouring steel, both swelling up beneath the cicadas in the distant dark.
Old habits die hard. Here, I keep my bedroom window cracked at night even in winter because I so crave the white noise that assures me someone, somewhere, is up as late as I am. Of course, it’s not coal being ferried here; the closest equivalent is timber, torn, skinned, and neatly stacked on its various modes of transport.
And we know Portland has always been a town of water and steel. The water never fades from view; we wear our bridges like banners, or boutonnieres. Of course, the rails are still there too, but a bit more like a corset underneath the fineries of our downtown. In some spots this is more evident than others. The first few blocks on the east side were literally built up around the train tracks; many streets there (like elsewhere in the downtown area) were initially wooden platforms built up to make the bottomlands navigable and the trains accessible.
A recent walk through the old Albina neighborhoods—my last from Laura Foster’s treasure, Portland Hill Walks—took me through many of the blocks near the Union rail yards, underneath the arches of the Fremont Bridge. It’s not the most graceful neighborhood, but there’s a great sense of the past reigns of rails and river. And there’s plenty to love, even in the buildings that seem ready to bow to the weight of time. This one, at 733 N Russell, bears a scarlet letter, a “U” letting firefighters know that it’s unsafe for them to work in.
There’s also, of course, the White Eagle Saloon, owned by McMenamins and sometimes called one of the most haunted sites in Portland. Most of those ghosts are said to date from the time when the saloon served the hundreds of rail workers housed nearby, providing food, drinks, gambling, and sex.
Across the street is one of the more recognizable ghost signs of the area, an advertisement for Headlight Overalls, a pre-shrunk overall from a denim line designed specifically for the demands of a life on the rails. Here is a link to a blog post showcasing one of Headlight's promotional pay calculator and time books for rail workers.
On the other side of the block is a fragment of another sign, promising credit, gladly given. Back then, you didn’t need credit unless you were living the life of a working man. Today, well, we know how normal it’s become. On my walk, I ran into a man, slightly disheveled but mostly clean, asking me for directions. He said he was from out of town, and wanted to know where to find a convenience store. The man took to my dog, petting him, welcoming the affection my dog gives away so freely; he had the distinct look of someone who had just stumbled into town and could use some conversation. Without even realizing it until I wrote this blog post, I assumed the man had just recently jumped off a boxcar. I don’t know if people still travel that way. A small part of me, though, even knowing the perils of that mode of travel, hopes they do.
Even before I was old enough to drive, though, I listened to the sounds of the trains at night—as Paul Simon says, “everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance; everybody believes it’s true.” Then the trains were punctuated by the occasional deep whoosh of pouring steel, both swelling up beneath the cicadas in the distant dark.
Old habits die hard. Here, I keep my bedroom window cracked at night even in winter because I so crave the white noise that assures me someone, somewhere, is up as late as I am. Of course, it’s not coal being ferried here; the closest equivalent is timber, torn, skinned, and neatly stacked on its various modes of transport.
And we know Portland has always been a town of water and steel. The water never fades from view; we wear our bridges like banners, or boutonnieres. Of course, the rails are still there too, but a bit more like a corset underneath the fineries of our downtown. In some spots this is more evident than others. The first few blocks on the east side were literally built up around the train tracks; many streets there (like elsewhere in the downtown area) were initially wooden platforms built up to make the bottomlands navigable and the trains accessible.
A recent walk through the old Albina neighborhoods—my last from Laura Foster’s treasure, Portland Hill Walks—took me through many of the blocks near the Union rail yards, underneath the arches of the Fremont Bridge. It’s not the most graceful neighborhood, but there’s a great sense of the past reigns of rails and river. And there’s plenty to love, even in the buildings that seem ready to bow to the weight of time. This one, at 733 N Russell, bears a scarlet letter, a “U” letting firefighters know that it’s unsafe for them to work in.
There’s also, of course, the White Eagle Saloon, owned by McMenamins and sometimes called one of the most haunted sites in Portland. Most of those ghosts are said to date from the time when the saloon served the hundreds of rail workers housed nearby, providing food, drinks, gambling, and sex.
Across the street is one of the more recognizable ghost signs of the area, an advertisement for Headlight Overalls, a pre-shrunk overall from a denim line designed specifically for the demands of a life on the rails. Here is a link to a blog post showcasing one of Headlight's promotional pay calculator and time books for rail workers.
On the other side of the block is a fragment of another sign, promising credit, gladly given. Back then, you didn’t need credit unless you were living the life of a working man. Today, well, we know how normal it’s become. On my walk, I ran into a man, slightly disheveled but mostly clean, asking me for directions. He said he was from out of town, and wanted to know where to find a convenience store. The man took to my dog, petting him, welcoming the affection my dog gives away so freely; he had the distinct look of someone who had just stumbled into town and could use some conversation. Without even realizing it until I wrote this blog post, I assumed the man had just recently jumped off a boxcar. I don’t know if people still travel that way. A small part of me, though, even knowing the perils of that mode of travel, hopes they do.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Seasonal riches
We really do live in a breathtakingly beautiful city. So, on this election eve, I'm posting a few photos I've taken over the past two weeks or so in the Sellwood, North Tabor, Rose City Park, and Alameda neighborhoods-- plus one from NW 23rd. Sigh. If only campaigns were so lovely and elegant. (Oh,and as a nod to my daughter: none of these was manipulated--other than a crop of the NW 23rd photo-- after it was taken. The colors are really that stunning.)
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Braaaaiiiiiinnnnnsss...
PDX Zombie Walk 2010. Although these started in Sacramento about ten years ago, they just fit so nicely into the Portland psyche. And besides, there are too many good photo ops to ignore.
OK, so the last one technically may or may not be a zombie, but he's just so stinkin' cute he needed to be appreciated here.
And yes, that is the children's book hero Bunnicula.
Friday, October 22, 2010
An auditorium by any other name...
Last spring I was in Lincoln City, staying at a friend's beach house with some family visiting from West Virginia. One of the days we were there we ventured into town, visiting my daughter's favorite LC store, The Rocking Horse. The Rocking Horse has a prodigious collection of vintage and antique postcards which swallowed a good hour (at least) of my time that day.
I came home with this 25-cent treasure.
As a new-ish Portlander, I had to search for a while before I could figure out what building this actually was. It's certainly not one I remembered seeing before, and I soon discovered why: this building--now known as the Keller Auditorium, a building I'd definitely visited!--had undergone some pretty radical revisions in its century-long life. Here's a picture of it in 1958, ten years before the radical 1968 renovation which transformed it into a bastion of the International style so popular at the time. At that point, pre-1968, it was still known as the Portland Municipal Auditorium.
And here, in case you need a reminder, is what the building was transformed into (this photo taken only a few years after the update). It was also given the new, and more familiar, name The Portland Civic Auditorium. No wonder it was so hard to recognize.
I'm not a great judge of international style architecture; sometimes it strikes me with its elegant restraint, but I generally favor older buildings, like (ahem) them one in the original postcard. I am amused, however, by architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable's description of the building as "a building of unrelieved blandness."
I don't entirely agree, though, as the west-facing wall of windows simply glows when the interior lights are lit, letting passersby have a glimpse at a very glittery world inside while patrons have a wonderful view on the Keller Fountain across the street.
This brings me to the final impetus for compiling this post. A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to go to the Keller for the open OBT company class and technical rehearsal for Sleeping Beauty. Although it really was fascinating to see the inner workings of the ballet, between dance sessions I was distracted enough to snap these two shots on my phone camera. Other than that entrance, it's my humble opinion that the exterior of the building underplays expectations for the interior. The lights alone sparkle with elegance.
Maybe this lighting configuration was a product of the most recent renovation--funded by Ira Keller--in 2000, the one which gained the auditorium its current name. In any case, what a history there is to this place. Thank you, Rocking Horse, for a great treasure hunt!
I came home with this 25-cent treasure.
As a new-ish Portlander, I had to search for a while before I could figure out what building this actually was. It's certainly not one I remembered seeing before, and I soon discovered why: this building--now known as the Keller Auditorium, a building I'd definitely visited!--had undergone some pretty radical revisions in its century-long life. Here's a picture of it in 1958, ten years before the radical 1968 renovation which transformed it into a bastion of the International style so popular at the time. At that point, pre-1968, it was still known as the Portland Municipal Auditorium.
And here, in case you need a reminder, is what the building was transformed into (this photo taken only a few years after the update). It was also given the new, and more familiar, name The Portland Civic Auditorium. No wonder it was so hard to recognize.
I'm not a great judge of international style architecture; sometimes it strikes me with its elegant restraint, but I generally favor older buildings, like (ahem) them one in the original postcard. I am amused, however, by architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable's description of the building as "a building of unrelieved blandness."
I don't entirely agree, though, as the west-facing wall of windows simply glows when the interior lights are lit, letting passersby have a glimpse at a very glittery world inside while patrons have a wonderful view on the Keller Fountain across the street.
This brings me to the final impetus for compiling this post. A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to go to the Keller for the open OBT company class and technical rehearsal for Sleeping Beauty. Although it really was fascinating to see the inner workings of the ballet, between dance sessions I was distracted enough to snap these two shots on my phone camera. Other than that entrance, it's my humble opinion that the exterior of the building underplays expectations for the interior. The lights alone sparkle with elegance.
Maybe this lighting configuration was a product of the most recent renovation--funded by Ira Keller--in 2000, the one which gained the auditorium its current name. In any case, what a history there is to this place. Thank you, Rocking Horse, for a great treasure hunt!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Reed canyon, early fall
The four acre Reed Lake, which takes up a good portion of the canyon, is purportedly "the oldest naturally occurring lake in Portland", though whether or not it's actually natural has been debated over the years. It's all part of a land donation from the erstwhile William Ladd, and there are traces of the former agricultural purposes of the land strewn throughout the Reed campus.
The canyon has at various times held the aquifier for Ladd's cattle, a wildlife refuge, a fish hatchery, two bath houses, and an outdoor swimming pool.
Today, it's an urban oasis, as well as a valuable site for Reedies interested in some hands-on natural resources studies.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Hawthorne Bridge
Sometimes casual internet research turns into a banquet of riches. I'm just going to share the bounty a bit.
Portland's bridges are kind of like a gaggle of siblings in a family you love for taking you in. Each one has its own personality and appeal. The Hawthorne bridge holds the place of the older sister who has a fondness for fine art and music but not a lot of accumulated wealth to show for it. She's aged gracefully, and though her tastes are slightly archaic and out of touch with today's youth, she still resides as the cool, beautiful, and funky aunt whom all the nieces and nephews love. I even have a fondness for the wheelhouse (is that what it should be called?) shown here.
100 years old this year, the Hawthorne Bridge is the "oldest operating vertical lift bridge in the United States." This Multnomah County site also notes that most of the lift system is still original, other than the electrical and control systems, which I'd just as soon have updated every century or so, thank you very much. It replaced two earlier Madison Street bridges.
Here is a picture of some of the men responsible for this beauty.
This link provides a view of the old trolley bus which used to cross the bridge before the Max took over that kind of transportation. It can be seen about midway down the page.
This page provides, amongst other great old views of the waterfront, two WWII-era photos of the bridge, one of which shows a huge ship (it looks too big to be a barge-- one of the Navy's victory ships constructed around here?) passing through.
And finally, although I'm sad to say that I didn't get to go to the recent centennial celebration which had the middle lanes of the bridge covered in grass for a benefit picnic, I did find this contemporary representation of Hawthorne appreciation. See? Even the noisy, restless kids at the table find a lot to love.
So... pass the wine?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Ahavai Shalom cemetery
Located atop a hill full of cemeteries, the Avahai Sholom cemetery is now overseen by the Congregation Neveh Shalom, into which the small former congregation was enveloped in 1961. Congregation Avahai Sholom originated in the Southwest Jewish community in 1869, but finally bowed to the inevitable mid-20th century South Portland civic "progress" which razed hundreds of homes in predominantly Jewish and Italian enclaves.
One surprising bit of trivia: 1980s actress and tragic stalking victim Rebecca Schaeffer is buried here.
Great Northwest, I hardly knew ye...
By now, the demise of the Great Northwest Bookstore in South Portland is familiar news. Owner Phil Wikelund,local bookstore proprietor since 1973 (!!) had found a way to survive with the changing times by moving most of his business online, but that doesn't mean things were easy for him: due to increasing expenses and decreasing profits, he had let his insurance on the building lapse, meaning the May 2 fire was a total loss. Last month, local supporters had a benefit at the Crystal Ballroom to raise funds for the demolition of the 120-yr-old structure.
The bookstore was housed in what is still known as the Fourth Presbyterian Church, it's original intent (though I have come across one source saying it was first referred to as the Christian Fellowship Church, I haven't been able to find that information repeated elsewhere). Early in its life, it housed the South Portland headquarters for a group called "The People's Institute," an organization dedicated to bettering the lives of single mothers and their children from 1912-1915, notably a time of interesting social status for women. Later, before Mr. Wikelund took possession, it housed various different organizations, including the long-term tenant Union Gospel Mission.
But, as many know, The Great Northwest Bookstore wasn't the only resident of the church last spring. The "unofficial poet laureate of Portland," beat poet Walt Curtis, had been living downstairs as well. It's only fitting to include a poem here which he recently recounted to the Willamette Week:
At the edge of the dream there’s a curl of smoke and flame
It’s a love letter sent long ago
The lovers are lost in the phantom of time
Nothing remains except ashes in the rain.
The bookstore was housed in what is still known as the Fourth Presbyterian Church, it's original intent (though I have come across one source saying it was first referred to as the Christian Fellowship Church, I haven't been able to find that information repeated elsewhere). Early in its life, it housed the South Portland headquarters for a group called "The People's Institute," an organization dedicated to bettering the lives of single mothers and their children from 1912-1915, notably a time of interesting social status for women. Later, before Mr. Wikelund took possession, it housed various different organizations, including the long-term tenant Union Gospel Mission.
But, as many know, The Great Northwest Bookstore wasn't the only resident of the church last spring. The "unofficial poet laureate of Portland," beat poet Walt Curtis, had been living downstairs as well. It's only fitting to include a poem here which he recently recounted to the Willamette Week:
At the edge of the dream there’s a curl of smoke and flame
It’s a love letter sent long ago
The lovers are lost in the phantom of time
Nothing remains except ashes in the rain.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Pill Hill
It seems OHSU has been helping to define Portland since its inception, though the triumphant taming of Marquam Hill wasn't immediate.
In fact, the site we all think of now as a bristle block of various forms of towering architecture sitting firmly on its lofty perch was originally purchased site unseen by the Oregon Railroad and Navigation Company in 1880, where they intended to build a depot, rail yard, etc. Granted, this was before email, film, or even easily portable cameras, but perhaps sending someone to visit the site would have been a good idea. I'd love to have heard the dealmaking that went on before that agreement.
However, the strategic error was eventually to our benefit: a surgeon for the company convinced the railroad to donate the land to the determined but unpredictable cabal of medical professionals who were trying their hardest to pull together a viable medical education program in our region. For a history of their spats, sputters, and giant strides forward, click here. Suffice it to say here that
there was a considerable amount of disagreement in the early years as to how to go about creating a medical school.
That donation of "unusable" land, along with a slightly larger donation from the Oregon Journal editor C. S. Jackson's family, provided the groundwork for the mosaic of a medical campus we know today. The Jackson land was a purchase from Phillip Marquam, a noted judge and onetime largest landowner of Multnomah County, State Representative, and owner of the aforementioned railroad company. Marquam's land in turn had been bought from a claim titled to John Donner, brother to the infamous Donner of the California passes. The head spins.
Here is a link to a photo of the some of the first buildings on the campus.
(As a side note, this page provides a fascinating look at the unrealistic hopes of the original Marquam plans for the neighborhood, terrain be damned. Paper streets indeed.)
Today, of course, Marquam Hill is one of the most recognizable features of our city. And there are more than enough, shall we say, mixed feelings about OHSU's construction of the tram to the South Waterfront to carry on the long tradition of controversy over the necessary growth of the endeavor. But where there's a will, there's a way: it may have been a long and painful process, but the determination of the early planners has come to fruition, though probably not in any way they could have conceived. The architectural and engineering feats of OHSU, Dornbecher, the VA Hospital, and more continue to rise and astound.
In fact, the site we all think of now as a bristle block of various forms of towering architecture sitting firmly on its lofty perch was originally purchased site unseen by the Oregon Railroad and Navigation Company in 1880, where they intended to build a depot, rail yard, etc. Granted, this was before email, film, or even easily portable cameras, but perhaps sending someone to visit the site would have been a good idea. I'd love to have heard the dealmaking that went on before that agreement.
However, the strategic error was eventually to our benefit: a surgeon for the company convinced the railroad to donate the land to the determined but unpredictable cabal of medical professionals who were trying their hardest to pull together a viable medical education program in our region. For a history of their spats, sputters, and giant strides forward, click here. Suffice it to say here that
there was a considerable amount of disagreement in the early years as to how to go about creating a medical school.
That donation of "unusable" land, along with a slightly larger donation from the Oregon Journal editor C. S. Jackson's family, provided the groundwork for the mosaic of a medical campus we know today. The Jackson land was a purchase from Phillip Marquam, a noted judge and onetime largest landowner of Multnomah County, State Representative, and owner of the aforementioned railroad company. Marquam's land in turn had been bought from a claim titled to John Donner, brother to the infamous Donner of the California passes. The head spins.
Here is a link to a photo of the some of the first buildings on the campus.
(As a side note, this page provides a fascinating look at the unrealistic hopes of the original Marquam plans for the neighborhood, terrain be damned. Paper streets indeed.)
Today, of course, Marquam Hill is one of the most recognizable features of our city. And there are more than enough, shall we say, mixed feelings about OHSU's construction of the tram to the South Waterfront to carry on the long tradition of controversy over the necessary growth of the endeavor. But where there's a will, there's a way: it may have been a long and painful process, but the determination of the early planners has come to fruition, though probably not in any way they could have conceived. The architectural and engineering feats of OHSU, Dornbecher, the VA Hospital, and more continue to rise and astound.
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