August 29, 2005

• My Hometown

  
  

   

  
  

  When I was eight we moved to the west side.  It was still a suburb of Portland, Oregon but the small, run-down, city blocks I rode my bike to school on were replaced with one, long, sprawl of undeveloped land between the river and highway 43, which took us past Marylhurst college to downtown Portland.  Last year I came full-circle and bought a house two blocks from where one of our family businesses was, very near the neighborhood I was born in.  I had come from Lake Oswego.  Nothing much has changed over here on the east side, at least not in these parts.  On the other hand, West Linn, and Lake Oswego, in particular, is no place I want to be.  The people who have come from other parts and made it into a foreign land ruined it for me.

  
  

   

  
  

  In the new neighborhood, my mother approved of the children so we were able to come and go as we pleased.  Now we rode a school bus and our new friends lived a long ways on bike.  The few houses on our street were surrounded by forest so there were tree forts, underground forts, everyone had a fort.  Long afternoons were spent shimmying over fallen trees, across streams, swimming in the polluted Willamette River. This time of year we’d pick blackberries along our secret trail to the river.  My best friend lived across the street but she went to a private Catholic school in Lake Oswego, the next town over.  We’d sleep in my brother’s tent in the backyard and sneak out at night, going for long walks to the college.  She called it a hobo-hike because we’d tie a bandana to a stick, in order to carry midnight snacks.

  
  

   

  
  

  The nuns were the only other walkers in those days; two-by-two in their habits, they’d make the processional, just past our house and then turn around to go back to Marylhurst.  Now our old street is laden with bikers and joggers, and our berry-picking path is gated. 

  
  

   

  
  

  West Linn was made up of farmers and mill workers in those days so while I was playing Baroque music with the Recorder Society, my friends were at the bowling alley.  But that’s what’s great about Portland, it’s a good mix. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Every Saturday morning we’d drive to Lake Oswego, to shop.  My parents frowned on the nouveau riche living in Dunthorpe and around the lake, and the kids at my school said L.O. kids were all on drugs.  I noticed L.O. boys were cuter and the girls had nicer clothes. 

  
  

   

  
  

  My routine was to go to the library for a couple hours, replenishing the week’s supply.  They had a brand new library and it was never easy to leave.  But I’d go have a coke at the drugstore counter and read magazines for an hour.  My sister got a job at the theater so then I started going to the movies every week.  It was a rich life for a dreamer.

  
  

   

  
  

  Once I was old enough to take the bus into Portland, my best friend and I would spend every Saturday trying on clothes.  We each babysat and that’s where our money went.  In those days Portland had a store called Bergs and I can still remember the smell of the oatmeal-honey soap we’d get.  We’d go up to the tenth floor at Meier and Frank, to the soda fountain, and sit at the counter with our milkshakes. 

  
  

   

  
  

  The core of downtown hasn’t changed all that much.  I suspect it still looks like the provincial town it used to be.  But with all the new blood from California and the east, we have a city that boasts a happenin’ music and literary scene with skiing and surfing an hour away.  I’m still here because of the land.  I haven’t found a blackberry patch yet, that’s not been sprayed, but I’m down at the river again, only on the east side.

  • 6:24 pm
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