Giant Sleepover in Chicago

Did anyone out there know that O'Hare airport in Chicago routinely sponsors a giant sleepover in the basement of one of their terminals?  Neither did I. Until I was forced to join in one stormy summer night.

My son Steven and I were flying from PDX (Portland) to AMM (Amman Jordan) in the summer of 2007, with a 2-hour layover in Chicago. Summer t-storms are common enough around the country; I should have known better than to book a flight with a layover in Chicago, the home of snarly, delayed air traffic. But there we were, strapped into our seats on the PDX tarmac, going nowhere. "Weather near Chicago" caused air traffic to back up around the country. Our flight wasn't even allowed to take off until it was known it would have clearance to land in Chicago.

We were delayed over 1.5 hours, and finally our plane headed for O'Hare; I knew that making our connection would be like finding the Holy Grail. Once in O'Hare we dashed for the train that would take us several terminals away to our Amman-bound flight. My heart fell as we raced off the train only to see up ahead that the gate area was empty. We had missed our flight.

But wait, there was the plane out the window--it wasn't too late after all. The lone gate agent saw us coming and steeled herself for what she had to do. The plane's door was closed and she would not open it. Period. We pleaded and begged and she was ice cold. Others arrived breathless at the gate, only to be shut down also. And then our plane took off without us. Eventually there were over 15 of us who were told that we had 2 choices: we could be put on standby for tomorrow night's flight--there was only one flight per day to Amman. OR, we could pay $300 for a flight to Heathrow to become standby passengers on the Heathrow to Amman flight. Seriously, did they think we were idiots?

I was the first to say we'd take our chances in Chicago, and so Steven and I were put at the top of the list for the next night's flight. By now it was after midnight. And then, one of the employees casually mentioned that O'Hare had cots and pillows and blankets for stranded people in the basement of one of the terminals, but she wasn't sure which one. A few stranded passengers headed for $350 / night hotels, but we cheapo Walkers spent 40 minutes wandering and finally discovered the location of this massive sleepover, and when we did, we joined about a hundred other sleepers and a couple of armed guards, in a basement corner of O'Hare. The only thing missing was Netflix and popcorn.

We were shooed out about 5 a.m. and were allowed to take our blanket and pillow anywhere we could find a quiet corner. Later on we took the El into Chicago, ate a breakfast roll reclining on some adirondack chairs on the front lawn of Sears Tower, explored the theatre district, ate a late lunch at Hard Rock Cafe, and then did some digging at the Newberry Library. And then it was back to O'Hare to make sure we were first in the standby line.

Chicago's fantastic transit system carried us from the airport and around the city

We made it on that night's flight and that was when I realized the truth about the previous  night. Because we were so late getting to O'Hare, our seats had been given away to standby passengers. And this night, we were taking seats from passengers who would soon be arriving begging to make their flight. I wonder if the numbers ever catch up. Are there desperate late-arrivers every night of the year? And nightly standby passengers to fill the seats of the seriously delayed? Who knows?

The Ultimate Boogie Man

In October 1962 a staggering, distressing international event occurred. The Soviet Union, under Premier Nikita Khrushchev, set up missiles in Cuba that were directed toward the US. The Cold War was hot. And hot could get hotter, sizzling enough to burn large swaths of America right off the map with nuclear weapons. The Cuban Missile Crisis was scarier to me than the boogie-man and the witch who lived under my bed.

There was much more to it than a barely eight-year-old could understand, yet I was aware of the perilous spot our country was in because my parents discussed national and world issues at the dinner table, purposely within earshot of us kids. They never chatted in hushed tones in our presence. I believe they did the right thing but I was frightened. For me, the two most unnerving aspects of the crisis were:

1.  Everybody and their neighbors (and their aunts-uncles-cousins) were stocking up at the grocery stores, preparing for war. Families were mobbing Hughes Market where we shopped, hurrying out with multiple, heaping tottering grocery carts, cramming the goods in their station wagons only to go home and hunker down to wait for the bombs to fall. My family? My folks did their normal amount of shopping. It concerned me that we were the only ones who weren't stocking up. My folks assured me that President Kennedy would not lead us into war; we needed to trust him and not panic. I was panicking.If war broke out and we initially survived, we would die anyway from slow starvation.  Would it have killed them to have a few extra cans of pork n beans on hand?

2.  Balboa Blvd. School held frequent bomb drills, and emergency warnings regularly appeared on TV, saying "This is just a test. If this were a real emergency you would be instructed to go to your nearest air raid shelter . . ." etc. I didn't know where an air raid shelter was--there certainly weren't any around our neighborhood. At school we were told (and a note was sent home to our parents) that in case war was declared all students would be sent home immediately. My friend Denise Brader assured my Mom that when that happened she would take me home with her because she lived near the school. Mom gave me a stern look and stated that I was to come straight home in a hurry. Do not pass go and do not collect $200, basically. And don't stop to play either. And oh, the bomb drills. When the air-raid sirens blared we were to drop to our hands and knees under our desks, and cover our heads with our arms.

Well, my folks turned out to be right on. The USSR backed down, we avoided war, and life soon returned to normal. My childhood will forever be defined by as "before" the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the "after." The before was an pleasant innocent childhood. The after ended up being the assassination of President Kennedy, the fearful possibility of nuclear war, race riots in Watts and the words seige--bombing--offensive applied to places like Hue, Da Nang, Khe-Sanh and Hanoi during the Vietnam War, but those are stories for another day.

This One's For You George (or, The Exploding Whale)

thar she blows!!

Last Sunday a well-known Oregonian passed away. If I mentioned his name you would not recognize it, because his fame did not make himself a household name. But if I tell you what he did, you will laugh and nod your head and say pitifully, "oh yeah--that poor guy."

I'm referring to the 1970 Adventure of the Exploding Whale. And George Thornton was the man responsible. George was 84 at his death last week. In 1970 he was an Oregon Department of Transportation [ODOT] highway engineer, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because all of his associates had conveniently ditched town for deer-hunting season, you could say he drew the short straw. And this straw was downright stunted. George was given the job of removing a deceased 8-ton beached sperm whale from the lovely south coast town of Florence Oregon.

You are probably wondering why an ODOT highway engineer, of all people, was given the job of removing a dead whale from a public beach. Back in 1913 Oregon beaches were declared to be state highways, that's why.

The beached whale was a tourist curiosity for about 2.5 days. Then it deteriorated into a rancid reeky rotting carcass, so ol' George was called in to take charge. The carcass could not be buried, for the tides would uncover it. . . could not be dragged to sea as it was already decaying. . . could not be burned because yikes, can you imagine the aroma of burning rancid whale?

But never fear, for George had a great idea--dynamite the thing! It would take only a half ton of explosives to do the job. And once the carcass was blown to smithereens, the seagulls, crabs and other hungry sea scavengers would dispose of the leftovers in no time. Problem solved . . . mmmmm.

November 12 1970 was the big day. Spectators were kept at a quarter-mile distance on the surrounding dunes when the plunger was pushed. I won't say too much more because this video tells it all. Let's just say that the ODOT crew, the spectators, and the news media went home that day plastered with foul, putrid bits of dead whale all over their clothes. And one spectator struggled to explain to his insurance company why he  needed a new car. When humor writer Dave Barry first heard this story in 1990, he said it was the funniest story he had ever heard (and he hears lots of funny stuff).

Poor beleaguered George Thornton never lived down the incident. Every November on the anniversary somebody from somewhere contacted him for comment, and he could only say that his method was effective and the media ruined his life, basically.  May you rest in blissful peace, George.

A couple of related links:

http://theexplodingwhale.com

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/11/01/242347861/man-behind-oregons-famous-exploding-whale-dies

Only in PDX

 Multnomah Falls mostly encased in ice

In yesterday's post I mentioned the ice storms that occasionally occur in the PDX (Portland) area. Here's an amusing story about one of those storms.

Some years ago we had a bitter ice storm one evening. We were gazing out the front window marveling at the shiny blacktop coated with ice, and the plants and trees that were being encrusted as the tiny slivers of ice fell. I noticed something very odd. A pickup truck parked in front of the uphill neighbor's seemed to be almost imperceptibly sliding down the hill. It was moving only a fraction of an inch at a time, but moving it was.

The pickup belonged to some new neighbors, who were so new we didn't have their phone number. But somehow we had to let them know that their vehicle was in trouble, and in a position to cause mayhem on our street.  Craig volunteered to go up the hill and across the street. But wait, there was an ice storm, so how was he going to get there?  It was impossible to walk, so he did the next best thing. He crawled up the hill. And across the street, and to their door.

By then the pickup's movements were more apparent and something had to be done before it careened down the hill. The resident got a long rope and crawled under the pickup, then tied the rope to the axle. He made his way back to the garage, and tied the other end to the heavy-duty garage door track. And that stopped the truck from sliding down the hill.

On a related note, not in the same winter, a downtown resident standing on his balcony caught the mayhem on the street after an ice storm.  This video is 4 minutes long--watch until the 2:45 point.

2 photographs of the beauty created by an ice storm; I stole these off the internet so they may or may not be taken locally, but the effect of ice is the same anywhere

The Great Flood of 1996

 it did seem kinda rainy in 1996

flooded farmland south of Portland

Seems like only yesterday . . .

The year 1995 closed with a gale when on December 13, our area was hit with a hurricane of sorts. Schools closed, trees crashed, cars were crushed, and roofs were launched, never to be seen again. We couldn't know there was more drama just around the corner in the form of a 100-year flood.

Almost twice as much rain as normal fell that winter, and in January 1996 the mountain snowpack was above average. In late January low lying areas such as ours (we're at 242 feet) were hit with a decent snowfall--meaning about four inches over our usual dusting. The snow never had a chance to melt. We were plunged into a deep freeze when temps sunk into the teens, the wind kicked up to gale force, and we heartily wished we had wintered in Florida. It was so bitter outside that I just had to get out of Dodge . . . actually, I left town for a family wedding that was to be held February 3 in balmy Southern California.

That very day, February 3, one of Portland's notorious ice storms paralyzed the city for 3 days. You haven't seen chaos until you've been here during an ice storm. The fear (and reality) is that you will be stuck wherever  you are when the ice starts falling, so you've got to drop what you're doing to get where really want to be for the next few days. Because once you get there, you're going to be trapped for the duration. So, everyone ditches work and errands to rush to their desired destination. Only, while they're en route, the roads become un-driveable because they're, um, coated with sheets of ice.   Portlanders take leave of their senses at times like this. They abandon their cars on the freeways, highways, and byways. And somehow, I guess they skate home on the ice. And of course they can't get back to their cars until the ice melts at which time no one can navigate the roads because of all the abandoned cars parked topsy turvy. But I digress . . .

So we have the greater Portland area stuck in a deep freeze until the morning of February 6, when a "pineapple express" air mass migrated into the area bringing a deluge and temperatures in the 60s. The lows were well above freezing in the mountains forcing instant snow melt. Over the next few days 7" of rain poured in my area, 11" on Mt. Hood, and 20" on Saddle Mountain near the coast. The rain joined with the speedy snowmelt swelled creeks and rivers to immediate, raging flood stage.

Suddenly Portland was in danger of water spilling over the sea-wall into downtown. The river rose 14 feet in a few days (the Willamette River crested at 30 feet on Feb. 9) and the  mayor called for volunteers to build a flood wall to keep the water out of the city. It was successful, only because the water topped the seawall by only a few inches. Houseboats were ripped from their moorings and off they raced down the Willamette towards the Columbia. Furniture, full-grown trees, and miscellaneous debris floated through the city on its way to the sea. Landslides blocked roads.

Portland's flood wall consisting of plywood, visqueen and sandbags--it worked!

I knew nothing of the flooding until I flew in from California early on the morning of February 6, and my husband didn't show up to bring me home from PDX (cheers to the pre-light rail days). I called him repeatedly from the pay-phone (cheers to our pre-cell phone days) but he was never home.  I finally got smart and turned on my walkman, only to find PDX was in the throes of a major flood. After a couple of hours Craig was finally home. He had tried every route possible to get to the airport but all roads were closed by slides or flood damage. Buses were running from the airport on a few routes, so my best choice was to take one downtown and figure out what to do from there. Once downtown I changed to a bus heading for Beaverton, hoping there would be one open road, and there was, but only going west. Craig picked me up at the Beaverton bus depot a good 4 hours after my plane landed.

The focus was on downtown PDX, until one reporter got smart enough to investigate outlying areas. Poor Vernonia in the Coast Range suffered a lot. There was everything from furniture to firewood stuck high in the tree branches, attesting to how high the water had flowed. Schools were destroyed, then rebuilt.*  Even worse, Tillamook was ruined and hundreds of dairy cattle drowned. Unaffected farmers in the dairy co-op each donated a cow to those who were wiped out, to give them a fresh start.

The flooding Willamette River

a canoe on Interstate-5 in SW Washington

NW Oregon and SW Washington had been caught in the throes of a perfect storm of heavy snowpack, an ice storm, then a deluge of tropical rain. Chances of a repeat in my lifetime are remote. "Old-timers" still bring up the flood of '96 once in a while. A "newbie" was recently asked if she worried that the creek 8' below her house would flood her place. Of course she wasn't--the creek is waaay down the hill. But she hadn't witnessed the great flood of '96 . . . and how could she ever imagine the terrible possibilities?


*And in 2007 Vernonia had another 100 year flood that destroyed the rebuilt buildings. Their schools have now been replaced on high ground.

Coolest State Flags

I declare the most attractive and effective flags to be the colorful and simple. When a banner is flown high up on a pole, tiny figures, words, and scenery drawn seemingly with a number 2 pencil are completely lost to our sight. At worst they look like aberrations in the fabric. In my opinion the flags pictured here make the boldest proclamations about their states. They are simple, striking, and convey a symbolic message and enthusiasm for their state:


Arizona--Don't you get a yearn for Arizona when you see their flag?  The warm sunny colors convey the wide open desert, the blue reminds us of the mountains and cooler areas. The star mimics a setting sun and the whole thing emanates a wild west feel.

Alaska--"The simple flag of the last frontier."   The Alaska flag goes together with the state song. "Eight stars of gold on a field of blue . . . The blue of the sea, the evening sky, the bear, the dipper, and shining bright: the great north star with it's steady light, o'er land and sea, a beacon bright . . . " which by the way, beats Oregon's languid state song by a mile. The long nights way up north give the stars greater prominence than we enjoy in the lower 48. And again, less is more.

Alaska State Song


California--My all-time favorite flag!  The grizzly says it all.  California was a wild place back in the day. The last grizzly in Southern Cal was killed in 1879 just a few miles from where I grew up (I have no memory of that event . . .). The flag was raised at Sonoma in 1846, declaring California separate from Mexico as The Bear Flag Republic. A two-year war occurred to make that a reality and voila, California became the 35th US state.

Montana--This is an exception to the rule that flags should not sport intricate pictures that are impossible to see from a distance. The bright colors and relative simplicity of the tableau makes it easy on the eyes. Love the Bitterroots and the Great Falls of the Missouri in the sketch.

New Mexico--Another flag from a sunny state that found a unique way to represent the sun, using a native American symbol. The colors represent the original Spanish explorers and settlement. New Mexico's heritage is displayed using only two colors and one symbol. Amazing.

Oklahoma--The shield of the Osage warrior bedecked with a peace pipe, an olive branch, and eagle feathers pays homage to Oklahoma's heavy native American beginnings. Set on a stunning blue background, there is no other flag like it.

Texas--Nothing says "the Lone Star State" like . . . a lone star on their flag. Dating from the days of independent Texas, the flag was Texas's symbol on becoming a state in 1845. The lone star represents solidarity in standing up against Mexico.

Washington--Old white guys glorified on a state flag don't usually cut it, but this vibrant flag honoring ol' George is pretty as a picture. The deep emerald green signifies Washington's predominant color, and, balanced out by the yellow of eastern Washington wheat fields, and azure blue reminding of us sea and sound, is stunning.

And now, the worst: There is not a duller state flag anywhere, than that from my home state. Even if you magnify the seal, it's not easy to see what is portrayed (if I squint a Conestoga wagon pops up and maybe a clipper ship . . .).  And 20 feet up on a flag pole, forget it. The beaver on the backside is a nice touch, but flown up the pole, you would swear someone spilled a jar of mustard on the flag.  About five years ago The Oregonian newspaper solicited designs for a new state flag, but the legislature did not get on board, and now that issue is dead in the water. Yeah, about as dead as our dull state flag.

You Can Bend But Never Break Me . . .

Do you have a "theme song" for your life?  Or do you ever break out in an appropriate song for whatever situation you are in?  Words to music speak to me and tie into my memories almost as much as do scents or aromas, and visuals.

If there had to be a theme song for my life, in 2013 it would be I Am Woman by Helen Reddy. That song thrilled me in1972 when she belted it out for the first time, and that hasn't changed. Not because I am out crusading for women's rights or have even seen the need to do that in a long time. The words of the song just happen to fit right now for a different reason. And pardon me if this post has a whiny or melodramatic tone to it.

My original surgery was in January, then back in March when I had surgery #two out of three this year, it was a tough time. I knew what I wanted and hoped the end of the story would be. But there was no way to know at that moment what was possible.  My foot was in ghastly condition with a transplanted fat chunk of my arm sitting on top of the cavity that had exposed my tendons and other internal goodies we should never see.

One of the medical residents made a habit of popping into my hospital room once or twice a day to take a quick look at my foot. One day he suddenly broke into a story about his friend who had led an active outdoor life, until he was partially paralyzed in an accident. The friend missed his former activities deeply, but eventually found new ones within his abilities, and was now leading a content and happy life. I looked at the dude speechless. When he returned later I asked if he had been trying to tell me something. Yes, he had.

And yes that was frightening.  And yes every single person has to make an adjustment in their physical expectations sometime, in some way, even if it's just the aging process that pares down the body's range of action.

But that could not, would not happen to me. Not now. Not yet. Somehow I would claw my way back to my active outdoor life. Hence the words to the song . . . You can bend but never break me, cause it only serves to make me more determined to achieve my final goal.  And I'll come back even stronger.  Not a novice any longer, cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul . . . If I have to, I can do anything! . . . If I have to, I can face anything!

Looking back I give some credit to that medical resident with motivating me to confront the options, then go after rehabilitation aggressively,  fully expecting the best outcome.  Cause I've heard it all before, when I've been down there on the floor.  And no one's ever gonna keep down again. . .

And yay, being back to normal life is the greatest blessing ever!

last week's trip to Lost Lake--that's Mt. Hood to the south

Hiking again: on the peak of Chinidere Mountain near Mt. Hood; from here we could see Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Washington, all Pac NW volcanic peaks