Americans Aren't Nosy, They Just Care About You

Not long ago I was in an airport line, and you know how you get to talking to the other folks in line? Or maybe you don't. If you don't you're probably a Finn. But I digress.

The man next to me in line brought up the fact that Americans stand out in other countries. They talk more, they talk louder, and they talk to strangers. His words were tinged with a quarter cup of derision. Aside from the "loud" observation, I commented that Americans are just so friendly. We enjoy other people, other cultures, other ways of doing things. We see commonality among people. We want to know about folks, and we want them to be interested in us. And so we involve others in our thoughts by striking up conversations. His countenance and mood changed, and he agreed. After all, here we were, two complete strangers having a friendly conversation in a mindless airport line.

That Americans are open and friendly could be attributed to our national heritage of making a go of life in a wild unsettled place. From Pilgrims to pioneers to cow-punchers, we have needed others, we have relied on others. Existence in a vast hostile landscape among ferocious wild animals, battling blizzards or prairie fires or raging rivers hundreds of miles from civilization meant that if and when you met up with another human, they were the historical equivalent of your new BFF. That person who was a stranger a moment before was the one who stood with you against all the bad things that happen in the wilderness.

Life in the "old country" (Europe) was at least somewhat predictable in that everyone knew their place and stuck to it, mostly. Change of job, change of place, change of social status--none of these things were negotiable. You minded your own business and tried not to be noticed. You remembered what yesterday was like, and knew that tomorrow would be the same, or worse. The polar opposite has been the American experience. Not bound by old-world expectations and restrictions of class, opportunity rolled out in front of a anyone willing to take the first step forward.

My theory requires more study, and so I reserve the right to alter this opinion in the future.

Not long ago we and some extended family were lunching at the Tillamook Cheese Factory's cafe. We were talking about a situation near home that had been on the news, and suddenly a woman next to us leaned over to put in her two cents about the incident. We discussed it with her for a minute, and then went back to our own worlds. Par for the course in the US.

While we were in line for ice cream we noticed the folks in front of us were speaking Russian. We later spotted them outside eating their ice cream. C has memorized some Russian phrases. He boldly walked up to the group and began rattling off his limited Russian vocabulary. Some of them spoke English. We ended up talking to them for about ten minutes. The grandpa, who did not speak English, sported an ear-to-ear smile the whole time we talked. Hearing a stranger speak some rudimentary Russian to him was probably the best thing that had happened to him that day. He will go home knowing that Americans are friendly and caring.

On a plane a couple of months ago (Munich to Helsinki) I noticed that the man next to me was reading the same issue of the same magazine--The Economist--that I was, and he was only a page or two ahead of me! How droll! He certainly must have noticed our matching magazines. After all his was only inches from my own. But he retained his focus on his mag, tucked into his own 18" space as if he was surrounded by plexiglass walls.

But the American in me eventually burst forth. I just had to comment on our identical twin magazines. He gave me a quarter smile, acknowledging what to me was comical but to him was completely "so-what," and then slammed down his plexiglass window. End of conversation. His far-northern-European-ness was on full display.

This is not in itself a bad thing; to each his own. It's just foreign to most Americans. We view a reticence to engage as being cold and unfriendly, when perhaps it is not meant to be. We should strive to understand cultures that prefer privacy without expecting them to be like us. At the same time I wish for foreigners to humor us a little, engage us in conversation, and open windows into their culture. Meeting each other halfway makes the world a better place. Americans aren't nosy, they just care about you.

People Are Good

 I regularly hear from a very few in my acquaintance that "people are out to get you," "people are evil," "when you think others are nice, they are just using you," etc. etc. blah blah blah.

Not only is the above blatantly untrue, it says more about the speaker than about those around them. In our house we see the vast vast majority of folks as kind, thoughtful, willing to help, etc. I'm constantly pleased with those I meet whether it's at the grocery, on a hiking trail, or about town. Kind words are spoken, helpful actions are taken, good wishes are received. A few days ago we once again were recipients of "the kindness of strangers," in a specific way.

Our son D has infrequent but regular seizures. By the grace of God he's almost always seated when they happen, which usually protects him from injury. Well, the other day he was walking around the neighborhood while C and I were at the local park with some grandchildren. My phone rang but I didn't recognize the number, so ignored it, plus I was involved w/ the grandies. 30 seconds later it went off again, same number. Mmmm. Then a third time so ok, better answer. It was my next door neighbor L (we usually communicate via email, so I didn't recognize her number).

L quickly spilled that D had fallen in the road, he was injured, ambulance was pulling up. I called to C and we hopped on our bikes and in 3 minutes we were at the scene. By then D was seated on the curb with neighbors and paramedics tending to him. Head injuries bleed a lot and his face was total blood, and there was actually a not-small pool of blood left in the road. D was somewhat coherent so we decided I would drive him to the ER to get checked out, rather than use transport. It looked like stitches were in order, and we needed to make sure there was no head or brain injury. Best I could tell he had a seizure and slammed down face first onto the asphalt.

No one saw the accident. Our neighbor P just happened to look out the window and saw D lying in the road. He ran out and though not all the details are known to me, he got D over to the curb, called 911, stayed w/ him. His wife M ran to our house to get us and actually came inside calling for us but we were at the park. Meanwhile neighbors K across the street and L next door came out to help. When I left the scene to fetch my car, P walked my bike into my garage, and then got some water from his house for D and me. 

D spent 4 hours in the ER being checked out, cleaned up, tended to in every way. He did not need stitches because the main wound was a smash wound, not a laceration. No concussion. PTL.

The next day I went over to thank P and M. A few hours later, P showed up at our door with a bag of pop cans for D to return. Cans here redeem for 10 cents each, and D goes out most mornings to collect them from patrons, and from recycle bins. He was bummed he could not go out to collect the day after his accident. But P sensed that Daniel would be disappointed, and so he donated his collection of cans to him. Yeah. 

People are good, they care, they want to help, they want the best for their neighborhoods and communities. I recognize there are exceptions but refuse to dwell on the negative. Being positive is what God expects of us, and it's what makes us happier, makes us better citizens, and focusing on the positive helps us be "that person" who helps others in times of need.

My Favorite Rose Festival Parade Story

This past June was the umpteenth time I have attended a Rose Festival parade here in Portland. It's a delightful annual event, the Northwest's version of Pasadena's Rose Parade, complete with stunning floral floats, high school marching bands, high school drill teams, graceful umbrella twirlers from Asian sister cities, Boy Scouts respectfully carrying American flags, rodeo queens and princesses astride sleek steeds, Rose Festival princesses, mounted horse brigades, the Wells Fargo clydesdales, and the indispensable pooper scoopers. My favorite is always the "One-More-Time-Around-Marching Band," which is made up of those who in their distant youth were high school band members, baton twirlers and drill-teamers--you can't be too old to join this group which plays one song: "Louie-Louie!" Every parade-goer's wish is that this band will stop their march and play in front of them as they yell out the words and rock to the beat. Di-da-da, di-di, di-da-da, di-di . . .

The swell thing about our parade is that you can show up a few hours beforehand to grab a seat, even though hundreds of thousands attend. Our tradition involves a couple of us arriving downtown by 7 a.m., with chairs and blankets in tow to stake out a spot. The early arrivers ensure a front row space in front of the parking garage where we leave our car. This spot also has bathrooms and a food court under the street, an easy hop down the garage elevator.

The parade doesn't reach our area of seating until about 11:15 a.m., and because the parade route is closed to traffic, children get to play in the street until we see the flashing lights of the police escort. Pre-parade activities have involved bubbles, sidewalk chalk, frisbees, balls, walks along the route to greet friends, a watermelon-chunk toss, and the serenade of a small live ensemble playing jazzed up versions of LDS Primary songs.

More can be said about our wonderful parade, but I am going to tell you my most amusing memory related to the event.

Some years ago we attended with a group of about 30 people, including a family who had a teenage daughter named Mellica. You probably don't know anyone with this unusual name, unless you know this particular gal. She had a boyfriend, and to her younger siblings, the term "boyfriend" carried a weightier meaning than it does to those in the throes of teenage flings.

Mellica's younger siblings got busy with sidewalk chalk drawing a huge pink rose on the pavement in the middle of the street. They added in huge letters, "Mellica loves Ben." She was mortified, yet it was rather harmless as the parade soon passed over the art. But she didn't know about the hovering helicopter carrying a photographer for our local newspaper, The Oregonian.

Lo and behold, the following day in its Sunday morning edition, in living color on the top of the front page, was an aerial shot of the parade route and spectators, and some chalk art. Chalk art of a rose and the inscription, "Mellica loves Ben." Front and center in the largest newspaper in the state.

With her unusual name there was zero chance of wiggling out of this one. She faced the grins and jabs at school the next day. Those of us who used to be teenagers know she probably rated that day as the worst day of her life. Now, when her own kids complain she doesn't understand how mortifying it is to be a teenager, all she has to do is pull out a yellowed front page of The Oregonian. She's got them beat, hands down.

School Days: My Adventures With the Exceptions in an Exceptional School District

Let me begin this post on a positive note: My children attended Beaverton Schools over a 26 year period and received a marvelous education.****  Of course, every school has room for improvement, but most of the teachers are really good, most of the curriculum is strong, and most of the rules and regulations are reasonable.  This post will be about some exceptions to the above.

We had the unusual situation of having children at both ends of the educational spectrum: Talented and Gifted (TAG) and Special Ed.  Thank goodness for both.  Schools have the potential to meet the needs of each.  Over the years TAG services in the lower grades have diminished, fallen by the wayside by the violent slashing of programs.  Yet at the high school level competent students can choose from dozens of AP classes or the IB program, or, they can attend our local community college to earn dual high school / college credit.  Special ed has beefed up over the decades due to the influx of  ADHD and "autistic" children.

Our high schools have students choose their classes for the fall term way early, usually in January or February.  One year my freshman student selected AP Biology in January, and by the time fall term came around 7 months later, was completely disenchanted by the idea.  This student had some struggles that made this situation more than just a whimsy change of mind.  The school had previously declared there would be absolutely no changes made to schedules, but the anxiety produced in my student was extreme.  I calmly explained this to the VP over academics, who reminded me of the policy.  But I did what I had to do: I camped outside her office, vowing not to budge until she gave in to a change.  I really hate to be that way--am not the power-trip type--yet this was critical.  Not even an hour passed when she gave in to my reasonable request, for which I was grateful.

Oh my, when I think of what a loser teacher Miss H. is I want to tell everyone to avoid this "teacher" at all costs.  I found out part way through one school year that she was spending most class periods doing one of two things: reading the assigned novel aloud to the students while stretched out provocatively ON her desk and second, showing Hollywood movies most of the other class periods.  When she found time to actually teach something, I don't know.  In a conversation with her I objected to her methods and she justified her reading aloud by saying she didn't have enough copies of the novel to send home (other classes used bought or library copies).  She has ADHD she said, so she has to lie on the desk.  And the movies?  She justified them by explaining how they related to the curriculum.  One of the movies was "Shrek."  She claimed it showed life in medieval times.  Seriously.  She must have thought I was born yesterday.  I reminded her that she was supposed to actually teach the setting to the students, not show them Hollywood movies.  Long story short, I turned in my complaint and list of movies shown to the principal who promised to take care of it.  I was satisfied.  But guess what.  The next fall my student was assigned to be in Miss H's class again!  Over my dead body, I thought.  I was immediately at the office who gave me a form listing the 4 and only 4 reasons for changing classes (things like if that class conflicted with a student's work schedule and so on).  On the form I added a #5: my student had this teacher last year and will absolutely in no way have her again.  An hour later the office called confirming a change.  It was a relief to win that battle without a skirmish.

One more experience pertains to transportation.  When we first move to our current house the area was quite rural, and the school bus stop was across a country road with no sidewalks or shoulders.  Students were expected to stand out there in the curve of that road, the perfect spot for an inattentive driver to veer off and take them all out in one swoop.  It took one simple phone call to inform the bus depot the students would in the future be standing in a safe spot on the other side of the road.  For the following 4 or 5 years I made calls to the bus depot every fall to have them fine tune the bus stops.  One year it was for my high school student who was expected to walk 1/4 mile down that same narrow country road around the curve with no sidewalk while cars whizzed by.  Another year I had them change the route for good, to come right through the neighborhood so that no student would be out on the main road (traffic was increasing).  Yet another year the path to the elementary school was threatened by development.  I informed the school who knew nothing about it.  They sent their transportation rep with me and two of my neighbors to meet with the county and between the 4 of us we were able to get the path designated as a permanent tract so that our neighborhood children would always have a convenient walk to school.

Moaning and complaining is useless.  I'm a quiet person who has found that speaking out can improve a situation for all.  We don't always get what we want but we often prevail when our request is reasonable. 


****So kill me for saying this.  It's in vogue to be angry at our public schools, to yank children out while proclaiming how ignorant the teachers and admins are, and to claim that sending your kids into that great and spacious building is to ruin their chances for a productive life.  For me to admit the reality of how good our schools are is, in a way, putting my life on the line.

Tanasbourne

I am away from home thus won't have access to my photo collection for another 5 days.  This post will be of interest to those who are or have been residents of the Beaverton / Hillsboro area. 

Who remembers the old Tanasbourne Mall folks??  That dreadful dark dungeon-y bunker-style mall was the only "major" shopping area for miles around back in the day.  Gloomy and creepy, we patronized it out of necessity.   Our tiny local library was in the underground area.  Sunshine Pizza we went to when our kids had a post-season sports party.  I recall the over-priced children's clothing store, and the Chang's that we never ate at until it moved to Cornell Road.

The link below displays some grainy black and white photos of Tanasbourne Mall.   Why the developer thought it was a good idea to create a shopping area that mimicked  an air-raid bunker on the partially-buried lower floor, and had the feel of a haunted abandoned building on the upper, no one will never understand.

Link to the long-defunct Tanasbourne Mall

Tanasbourne Mall's demolition spawned two tragic building mistakes.  It was replaced by the strip mall from H-E-double toothpicks on the same site--an extended row of ugly big-box stores that make even a walker like me drive from one end to the other.  A friendly neighborhood gathering place it is not.  Then across the street another strip-mall center popped up.  That place is a parking nightmare and dangerous for a pedestrian to negotiate.  Worst of all, it is inaccessible from the backside.  There are no store entrances or parking over there.  A huge "Berlin Wall" blocks it off from the thousands of apartments directly behind the wall, so that even those who live only a  quick stroll away feel the need to get into their car, drive out of their complex, go around the side of the mall and then into the mall parking area.   Sheesh, what was Washington County thinking when they approved that??

Sherlock Holmes or Inspector Clouseau?

If you are the type of person who enjoys reading or watching mysteries on TV, you have an idea of how police and detectives work to solve the crime of murder.  We know from writers such as P.D. James (RIP) and Raymond Chandler, and programs such as Midsomer Murders, Law and Order, Ironside and Wallender, that homicide investigators treat everyone as a potential suspect, particularly the person who found the body and the last person to see the victim alive.   The authorities thoroughly interview those persons at their home or the crime scene, then the suspect or witness comes down to the interview room at the station to give an official statement.  Their home, car, and stuff are searched.  Detectives look for inconsistencies in their statements.  They compare statements of various witnesses to paint a picture of the crime, and if those don't jibe with each other, further investigation is done to reveal who is telling the truth.  It's all very detailed, acutely methodical, intensely  thorough.  And then Detective McGarret says, "Book 'em Danno," and the case is wrapped in pretty paper with a frilly bow on top and the investigators slap each other's backs for a job well done.

Hawaii Five-O: "book 'em Danno"

[Note: names have been changed]
Ummm.  The reality is . . . not.   I know personally that it isn't nicely cut and dried.  Because 20 years ago I found my dear neighbor, Lee, deceased in his garage.  And the ensuing investigation into his demise was so vastly different from the fiction above, that I actually found myself thinking stuff like, "aren't they curious how the window got broken, because hello, deceased person in the garage," "do they wonder how today's newspaper got into the house, because hello, deceased person in the garage," and "why haven't they pressed me about why I was snooping in Lee's house, because hello . . . "

Lee had had a drinking problem that resulted in hard falls.  Late afternoon was when he drank to excess.  A couple of times he backed his car out of the driveway, plowed into my mailbox, then drove off, never knowing.  I called his daughter Linda who lived 20 miles away to tell her he was driving drunk, could she take away his keys or something?   She said she would deal with it but if I saw him pull out in the afternoon I should report him immediately as a drunk driver.  Sad.  Whatever Linda said to him worked.  He went out every morning but stayed home after that.

And then that February bitter cold weather set in.  On a Tuesday night I noticed that Lee had left a light on in the front study.  That never happened.   The house was always dark after 8 because he turned in early.  On Thursday morning we woke up to 6" of snow.  I noticed there were no tire tracks leading out from Lee's garage.  Snow had never stopped him before.   The bedroom light was still on.  I phoned Linda to ask if Lee had gone out of town.  A pregnant pause, then: no he had not, and would I please go over to check on him.

At Lee's I knocked, rang the bell, tried the door, circuited the house looking in the windows, called through the windows, banged on the windows.  Nothing.  I reported back to Linda and her thought was the same as mine: Lee has fallen and can't get up.  Would I please break one of the little square panes by the front door and find him.  Done.  My son and I looked through the house, no Lee.  It was getting a little creepy but I knew we must make a second pass.  This time we searched under the beds, in the showers, the closets, the yard.  All that was left was the garage.  I held my breath and opened the door.  And there was Lee, sadly silhouetted in the gloomy winter half-light, lying frozen on the floor.  He appeared to be deceased, but no way was I going to go out there to check.  What if a perp had knocked him on the head and was waiting for another victim?  (I've read too much Agatha Christie).

I called 911.  The paramedics did their duty and headed into the garage.  What I heard one say as they approached Lee was, "Look out for a weapon, Mike!"  As soon as they confirmed Lee was deceased, I broke the shocking news to Linda.  The paramedics called the sheriff which set an investigation in motion.

Deputy Somebody arrived, saw the suspicious broken window and concluded this was a crime scene.  While he waited for a detective, he never asked me for my story of how I found Lee.  Guess it wasn't his job.  But the detective didn't do much more.  Looking back, it was a while before he was told that I had found Lee.  From the get-go he assumed the broken window meant this was a crime scene.  When I heard him discussing a perp breaking the window, I spoke up to say it was me who did that.  He were surprised.  Sheesh, if he had just asked me to tell my story as Barnaby or Ironside would have done, it would have saved brain strain.  Inspector Clouseau???

Then there was the tale of the mysterious newspaper.  The coroner had arrived and determined Lee had been dead possibly several days.  The investigator must have been wracking his brain to figure out how Thursday's newspaper ended up inside Lee's house.  It was me again.  Before entering the house to look for him I grabbed that day's paper from the tube outside and set it in the front room.  So that Lee could read it while recovering from the fall I was sure had occurred.

The questions below went unasked:
When I had last seen Lee
Why I was inside the house
How did I get inside
What did I know about the broken window
Did I know anything about Thursday's paper being inside
Did I see anything odd going on around Lee's house

When someone dies at an unknown time in non-crime situations, the coroner told me they assign the date of death as the day they were found.  The coroner determined that Lee's death was accidental, caused because Lee banged his head very hard on some woodworking equipment in the garage, which cause him to fall and strike his head on the garage floor.  I felt terrible about this, knowing how cold it had been.  If he was conscious he suffered miserably.

Because the death was ruled accidental, the coroner didn't go any further determining the exact time of Lee's accident and the investigator no longer needed to string clues together.  Except that he found Lee's previous day's (Wednesday) paper shoved into the depths of the paper tube, showing he was not able to bring in Wednesday's paper.  From all these clues it wasn't hard for me to figure out that Lee's fall occurred on Tuesday, sometime between 7 a.m. and 4 p.m., but almost certainly early Tuesday morning  Clues:

• The study light had not been burning Monday night but was burning Tuesday night, so fall happened after Monday night
• Wednesday's newspaper was never brought in, so accident happened before Wednesday
• Lee had brought in Tuesday's newspaper, likely early in the morning as was was his habit, so accident happened after that
• Lee might have gone out Tuesday morning as he did every day (either golf or a friend gathering), but no one saw him do so; accident could have happened early Tuesday morning before his normal leaving time or after his return, but again, there was no witness who could attest to Lee's actions that morning, so no helpful clue here
• Lee did not put out his trash can out like he always did about 4 p.m. Tuesday, so accident happened before 4:00
• I had observed the study light on since Tuesday night, so fall had already happened; Lee would have not left that light on all day Tuesday unless he was powerless to turn it off
• Tuesday's newspaper was found in Lee's study by where the light was burning; therefore I believe his fall happened early Tuesday morning, when that light was still needed for him to read his newspaper 
• NOTE: I don't remember whether there was any evidence of Lee's breakfast in the kitchen, so he may or may not have eaten yet that morning

Here's my scenario: Lee had gone out for the paper early Tuesday morning, then read the newspaper by the light in his study.  He left the light on and went to the garage, possibly tripped on something, bumped his head hard, then fell and hit his head; was completely immobilized.  Died.

In defense of our local investigators here, I must say that they do their jobs well, because I've seen them in action at other times solving cases.  And in poor Lee's case if it had turned out to be a crime, I would like to think the investigators eventually would have caught up with the facts.

Those Were the Days: Paper Drives

Back in the day, this ^ is how we raised money for Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, school clubs, ball teams, etc.  They were called "paper drives."  It was a simple time when the concept of recycling was years in the future.  Yesterday's paper was useful for wrapping fish and lining the bird-cage, but the rest?  I'm pretty sure people threw their old newspapers in the garbage.

When it was fundraising time, we kids went around the neighborhood asking people to save up their papers for the next month, and to please tie them in liftable bundles with string.  Then on a Saturday when a parent with a large vehicle was available, we went around to the houses to collect and take them down to a place where they were weighed, and we received a payout according to the poundage.  Some folks were super diligent about saving their papers and had stacks and stacks many feet high waiting in their garage.  We Scouts thought we had hit the jackpot at those homes.

Apparently what killed paper drives as a fund-raiser, was recycling.  Who knew?  Depots were inundated with newspapers that people were glad to get rid of on a weekly basis, and that drove the price for newspaper into the basement.  The last paper drive I can remember was at least 25 years ago.

By the way, when I googled "paper drives," in addition to the photos above,  this "paper drive" came up!  How times have changed ;-)

Portland's Bridges

Portland Oregon is a busy river city spanned by many bridges.  They cross the Willamette River through downtown and a little beyond.   Some are stunningly beautiful, others not so much.  A few carry interstate freeways.  The rest are local, and the newest one carries NO CARS!

Spanning the Willamette, beginning at the north end:

The Gothic-style St. John's Bridge is the loveliest of them all.   Opened in 1931, it links the community of St. John's with the West Hills.   I love the east bridge approach that winds through the neighborhoods; you earn the right to drive across this bridge.

The Fremont Bridge, opened in 1973; it carries Interstate 405.  This one is the grandest and most fun to drive on.  It's huge, it's majestic, and you feel like you're in space, looking down at the city.  Locally  it is known as the "flag bridge."

The Broadway Bridge, painted "Golden Gate red."   It was built in 1913, and opens vertically for tall river traffic.

The Steel Bridge carries bicycles, peds and railroad on the lower level, and cars and light-rail (MAX) on the upper.  A lift bridge, it opened 1912.

The Burnside Bridge is the most well-known and used in downtown and has been operating since 1926. Sometimes Burnside Street is used in a derogatory manner given the number of homeless and drunks who congregate in the area.  But for decades Saturday Market was held under the west end of the bridge, and that was a lot of fun.

Morrison Bridge.  Completed 1958.  This one swings open like the Burnside Bridge above.  You can see the two operator stations there on the deck.

The Hawthorne Bridge, which lifts, opened in 1910.  The red things are the 800,000 pound counterweights that lift the bridge.   It carries about 8000 cyclists a day in addition to road traffic.  At the end of the bridge is an electronic sign saying how many bikes have crossed that day.

Marquam Bridge built 1966 and carries Intersate 5.  Was there a design contest that called for the ugliest, most utilitarian structure imaginable, one without beauty, style, or class?   Actually yes.  It was designed by ODOT, and there was such an outcry about its design that public input was encouraged when the Fremont Bridge was in the planning stage (and what a difference!).  Sadly, this bridge is here to stay for a very long time.    

Tilikum Crossing.  The newest bridge on the Willamette, it's not open for business yet.  It has been interesting to see the building stages--it has been built from each side of the river, and the two parts met in the center a few months ago.  It is unique in that it will carry light rail, streetcar, buses, bikes and pedestrians.  NO CARS.  Completion 2015.

The Ross Island Bridge, built 1926.  This one has the craziest west bridge approach ever.  The first 10 years I lived here it was a white-knuckle sweaty experience learning my way on the approach. Signs are yelling at you "Turn here!!"   "Turn there!!"  "Get in this lane right now!!"  "Move to this other lane but only for 42 feet!!"  They should put up a sign that says, "Good luck folks."

The current Sellwood Bridge, the furthest south of the Portland-area bridges.  Notice it does not lift nor does it allow large ships underneath, because that kind of river traffic stops at the Port of Portland further upstream.  Built in 1925, it is being replaced as we speak by the bridge in the photo further down.  The two-lane bridge carries way too much traffic and has been in a deteriorating condition for 30 years or more.  And, it has a little 3-foot sidewalk for bikes and peds, which on a busy span like this, makes you feel like you're Nik Wallenda on a tightrope.

New:

The Interstate Bridge spans the Columbia River between Portland Oregon and Vancouver Washington.  I believe it is the ONLY lift-bridge left in whole United States that carries an Interstate Highway--I-5.  Beware of getting caught near here during a lift; it will add an hour to your trip.  A multi-state/multi-agency commission recently studied the issue of this bridge replacement.  The question was, what to replace this aging bridge with, what would be the cost, and who would pay?   The commission went down in flames because nobody could answer any of those questions.  So we're stuck.  Even if I live to be a hundred, that won't be long enough for my mortal eyes to behold a replacement bridge here.

Build It, and They Will Come!

sections of the Waterhouse Trail pass through green space between backyards of homes (trail seen in upper right)

That phrase, "build it, and they will come" around here usually refers to new roadways, and people use it to justify why a new route should not be built, because we all know that new roads fuel urban sprawl.  In a delightfully positive way, that phrase today refers to a magnificent conglomeration of walking / biking trails that have been and continue to be developed right here in Washington County Oregon.  And if you build a new walking / cycling trail around here, people will come.  In droves!

new bridge over Bronson Creek; it's actually 3x as long as it looks because it bends to the right

The section nearest our house opened a few weeks ago.  I was delighted to see a spankin' new 200-foot long bridge now crossing Bronson Creek.  When my children were small, we sometimes explored that area.  Even in summer we got wet, muddy feet.  The other night at dusk I could hear the trill of red-wing blackbirds as I leaned over the bridge rail.  A great blue heron, some mallards, and a flock of Canada geese flew overhead.

This trail is heavily used.  I passed strolling families, lovey couples, dudes wearing headphones, and runners and cyclists passed me.  These photos are not the greatest because I was out exploring at sunset.

several small playgrounds are integrated into the trail system

a large community garden uses space underneath the power lines

the trail skirts the Avamere care home

two photos of the pedestrian crossing over West Union Road; pedestrians push a button to activate a flashing light, stopping cars--yay!**  love this feature--no more death-wish-dashing across high-speed roads!

in this photo I'm standing at the junction of  the main trail (north-south), and this one above that heads west; when you head west, you formerly had to walk on narrow West Union Road to pass the Mad Greek Deli--so dangerous; now the trail goes behind the Mad Greek and crosses 185th (with a stoplight) to Bethany Pond

another bridge across an unnamed creek

the trail-builders cut through this huge berm behind Bethany Meadows apartments, to extend the trail north to meet the Pirate Park trail; once you hit Pirate Park you can continue to North Bethany, or you can go east to the Multnomah County line, or west to Sunset Hwy

**I had an amusing experience pertaining to these lighted pedestrian crossings.  The feasibility of installing more of these crossings was discussed at a county meeting I attended.  The majority of our 5 County Commissioners are all for facilitating non-motorized transportation across the county.  But one is most definitely not on board.  His comment (paraphrased here), "We can't have these crossings popping up all over--they slow down traffic!"   You should have heard the clapping and the "yeahs!!!" that ensued from the public in attendance.  He is under the mistaken impression that improving transportation means "moving cars,"  when it actually means, "moving people."

A Horrible Crime in My Childhood Neighborhood

me on the front lawn of our brand new house, 1968

I don't make a habit of living in sketchy high-crime neighborhoods. Yet twice in my life I have lived just around the corner from a scene of triple-murder. Yeah. The first of them was random--that was mighty scary. The second was a family deliberately targeted, so we had no fear for our personal selves that day. Both times the murders occurred in orderly nice neighborhoods full of children and families and people who went to work every day.

I wrote about the second murder here, here, and here. And now the first:

This one occurred on November 29, 1972 during my freshman year of college when I attended nearby College of the Canyons in Valencia California. My family lived in a planned community with a variety of homes among parks, a shopping area, and a clubhouse with pool and tennis courts, all of which were within walking distance on paseos (very wide curvy sidewalks that were not cut by streets).

The day of the murder I finished my morning classes about 10:50 a.m. My friend Emily was riding with me in my Mom's forest green Dodge Dart sedan, which I had borrowed for the day. We drove down Rotella St. near our houses at 11:10. I vividly remember looking at the clock. After dropping Emily I went home to my empty house through the unlocked front door--we never locked our doors during daytime.

I hadn't been home but 5 or 10 minutes when my Mom called from her work at Sierra Vista Junior High out in Saugus. She was frantic, and instructed me to lock the doors and stay inside until I heard from her again. There had been a murder in the neighborhood and the suspect was at large. Yikes.

That morning Mrs. G, who lived on Rotella, had invited a neighbor's son to play with her 3-year-old son. She and the 2 boys were out on her driveway when a young Black man--Robert Grigsby, age 17--pursued them into her house, grabbed a knife from Mrs. G's kitchen, chased the three into the back bedroom and slew them all. About that time Mrs. K, mother of the other boy, came down to find out why Mrs. G was not answering her phone, and walked in on the murder scene. Mrs. K was slashed by Grigsby, who then took off.

from my 1972 high school yearbook

The police were called and then the word swept to every corner of the Santa Clarita Valley. As mentioned above, I drove past Mrs. G's house on Rotella at 11:10, the exact time later determined that the murders occurred. I probably got home at 11:15, and by 11:25 my Mom was calling me from her work eight miles away to tell me of the murders. The word of the crime spread that fast. Our area was still partly rural, not heavily populated, and it seemed we knew everyone else, or at least knew of them, so one phone call became 10, and 10 became a hundred, and so on.

My friend Emily also got a call from her Mom. Emily called me to say she was too afraid to stay home alone and wanted to run to my house. I implored her to stay home with the doors locked but she was willing to risk being out and about with a murderer on the loose, rather than be home alone. She made it over. I recall that by noon, less than an hour since the murder, Mom called to say the perp had been caught down by the river, a few blocks north of our house.

The perp was, is, mentally ill and had exhibited alarming aggressive behavior previously. His brother was well-known at my high school, but I had not known this kid--perhaps he wasn't a regular attender. There's plenty of unanswered questions about that dreadful day, and virtually zero about it on the internet. I don't even know if he's still incarcerated but can hope that he never sees the light of day.

It has always creeped me out that our house was unlocked. If Grigsby had walked a few more blocks and seen me go into my house, he could have come in after me. Or he might have been waiting for me inside . . . I did not know the victims personally, yet will always remember them as innocents whose paths tragically crossed with a psychopath. 

2022 UPDATE

Farewell to the Trees! (on Bethany Blvd.)

Bethany Blvd.--related previous posts are here,  here,  here, and here  The progress of the construction has now  completely changed the look of the road. West side trees are mostly gone now, and the bigger, older east side trees are about half gone. Sadly, the Cooper's giant Sequoias are now downed trunks and huge stumps, which my grandson Eli so enthusiastically enjoyed this afternoon:

 

Most days sheriff deputies are sitting out on this stretch sometimes in cars, mostly on motorcycles, for the purpose of slowing drivers. We talked to one motorcycle officer today who said someone was ticketed for going 52 through the 25 mph construction zone. Plenty of the people he pulls over say, "I didn't know this was a construction zone." Haha. Huge orange and white barriers and  barrels and giant construction machines can only mean one thing. And don't forget the signs warning people it is a construction zone, and the 25 mph signs.

Anyway, we had fun checking things out today. Oh yeah--the sheriff deputy let Eli work his radar gun. He clocked someone going a little over 25, but no major speeders. Eli is wearing his gold deputy sheriff badge in the photos.

Bethany's Evolution

This is a very local post about the changes to the main road that runs through our area. When we moved here in 1984 it was called 158th Ave. and looked like this [looking south]:

1984:

Same vantage point in 2011:

A few hundred feet north on the road was this lovely farm. The only thing left of the farm now is the big old country house which is hidden in the trees on the left. The rest of the farm was subdivided over 25 years ago.

1984:

So by about mid-90s the whole length of 158th had been built out, and the name of the road was changed to Bethany Blvd., signifying that the road no longer dead-ended near our house, but continued north to an historic area called Bethany (settled pre-1870), which was being expanded to accommodate thousands of new residents.

So it came to look like this by 2011:

The problem though, is this section of Bethany Blvd. is extremely substandard. It was built around 1920 as a dirt/gravel road, then pavement was thrown on in the early 80s without any improvement. Narrow and lined with ditches, it has inconvenient and dangerous hills and curves and very short sight-distances. And no sidewalks on many stretches. I've written about this before here, here, and here and my participation on a citizens' committee to make sure the improvements the county wants to make are appropriate for the neighborhood.

The 2-year construction of a brand new Bethany Blvd. began 4 weeks ago. Utilities were moved during the past 2 weeks, street trees are partly removed and continue to be cut. And last week fences were taken out and the new road cuts are now being made.

Now we see these signs everywhere:

 

And machinery:

Sorry about the darkness. The sun is so low in the sky this time of year and it begins setting about 3:00 in the afternoon.

Next November (blog-post month)  I'll have some pretty nice pictures to show of our road. So looking forward to improvements.